Page 63 of Puck You Both

Patrick sighs before he even looks over. "Theodore?"

"Amendment.” I point to Wall. “He should take his shirt off. For morale."

Wall's mouth twitches, barely, there and gone, and I want to frame it. Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose. "Noted."

"Noted like it'll happen? Or noted like the suggestion box is a shredder—"

"Theodore." Except now there's a smile buried somewhere under my name, and this is what I wanted. Exactly this, both of them in one room being themselves at each other while I sit in the middle of it, about to shake apart.

Wall crosses to the chair. Before he sits, he grabs the backrest and drags the whole thing four inches to the left.

I freeze.

Patrick freezes.

The chair he spent twenty minutes positioning now lives four inches to the left, and Wall settles into it, plants his forearms, gives us a face with nothing on it, and I genuinely can't tell whether he fixed the angle or just needed to win something before the night starts.

Either way, I'm obsessed.

Patrick's left eye twitches once, and he lets it go with a quiet "Fine," addressed to no one.

The chair takes Wall's weight without a sound. He sits the way you'd sit for a passport photo, spine straight, hands on the armrests, knees square. If I had to bet, and I'd bet everything I own, that stillness isn't calmness.

Calm men lean back.

Patrick watches him one moment longer. Then he turns to me, and everything in his face changes temperature. "Come here."

I'm moving before he finishes.

He meets me at the edge of the bed, takes my jaw in one hand, and kisses me slowly, like he always does when he wants me stupid, and it works, like it always works. Except tonight, there's an extra heartbeat in the room and I can feel it on my skin. My whole left side prickles with it, and I make a sound into Patrick's mouth that I'd be embarrassed about if embarrassment were something I did.

Patrick pulls my shirt over my head. I get one second to miss his mouth before his palm lands flat on my chest and pushes, and I go down onto my elbows, and he strips the rest off me with zero ceremony.

I'm hard already. Obviously. I've been half hard since Patrick knocked on my door, and fully hard since Wall knocked on his, and now I'm naked, in front of the man who’s been colonizing my mind for a month.

Wall’s eyes travel down my body and stop exactly where I want them. And even though the want is strong, my nerves win over and I run my mouth, because that’s how I cope. "You're staring."

His eyes never leave my cock when he says, without missing a beat, “Isn’t that the point?”

Heat shoots straight through me, because yes. Yes, it is.

Patrick's hand closes around my cock and my head drops back. He strokes me exactly twice—umm, cruel—then lets go to pull his own shirt off, and I sit up and grab his belt, because if I don't get my hands on somebody in the next five seconds we’re going to have a problem.

I take my time with the buckle. On purpose. Leather sliding through the loops nice and slow while I tip my head and look at the chair.

Wall's hands are flat on the armrests. His chest is moving faster than a sitting man's should.

Perfect.

Patrick's clothes hit the floor, and then he's naked. I lose my own thread completely, because look at him. Wide everywhere. Shoulders that fill doorways. A chest I've bitten and still don't feel done with, dark hair dusted across it and trailing down his stomach. Those arms, thick and corded, the ones the internet keeps fangirling about. The internet doesn't know the half of what those hands can do. Heavy thighs. Narrow hips. And his cock, already hard and flushed, thick enough that my mouth waters on sight, curving up like it's asking for me.

I could stare at this man for hours. Not tonight, though. Tonight I have better plans.

I slide off the bed, onto my knees in front of him, and take him in my mouth, because I want to. And because I want Wall to watch me do it. Both equally true. I've never claimed to be complicated.

I angle myself so the chair gets everything. My tongue flat up the underside, the way that makes Patrick's stomach jump, then deep, slow, letting my eyes drift sideways. Patrick's fingers slide into my hair, his breathing going uneven above me.

And from the chair comes nothing. Nothing at all. The man watches like breathing is optional, and somehow the silence is hotter than noise would be. I can feel his attention on my skin like sun rays.