Page 64 of Puck You Both

I give Patrick’s cock my full attention, my head bobbing back and forth, rhythmic and diligent. Then something moves at the edge of my vision, and I look over mid-suck.

Wall's shirt is coming off. One hand, collar to crown, gone.

I pull off Patrick with a sound the whole floor probably hears. Coordination just leaves me. Wall's bare to the waist over there, huge, an old scar on his collarbone I want the story of, and I'm staring with my mouth open like I've never seen a man before.

His hand settles flat on the front of his jeans and presses down.

I know that move. I've seen before, through the office door at Frank's, and I've mentally replayed it nine hundred times since. In all nine hundred replays, I got to see what happens under that palm. Now the jeans are staying on, the belt's staying on, and his face is doing absolutely nothing at all.

"He's—" I start.

"I know," Patrick says, and tips my chin back toward his cock.

I go back down, but my focus is split. Half of my is savoring the intoxicating taste of Patrick’s pre-cum. The other half is six feet to the left, dressed from the waist down.

Patrick reads me inside a minute. It’s one of his many talents. He pulls me off his cock, hauls me up onto the bed with that easy strength that empties my brain, and lays me out on my back against the pillows. Then he reaches for the nightstand, where a bottle of lube is already out, cap loose. I’ve been so preoccupied with anticipation I hadn’t even noticed.

"You staged the nightstand," I say.

"Quiet."

"You staged the whole room, you—"

The click of the cap shuts me up. He kneels between my thighs and pushes them wide with his knees, and whatever I was about to call him dissolves, because now there's a slick shape pressing against my hole, cold for a second, his fingertip circling, teasing. And then the tip of one finger presses inside and the word is gone forever.

He opens me up the way he does everything, patient, and oh so thorough. Immune to my opinions on the pace. One finger, deep, curling, while I complain at the ceiling. More lube, cold again, then warm, and a second finger works in alongside the first. The stretch pulls a long sound out of me. He knows exactly where to press and how long to stay there, and my cock is leaking a wet trail onto my stomach. I grab two fists of the comforter and hang on.

That's when he starts talking, low, even.

Not to me.

"Watch his hands," Patrick says.

About me.

"He grabs on when he wants to last."

Oh no.

"He gets quiet right before—" his fingers curl, pressing directly against my prostate, and my back comes off the mattress "—there."

I'm being narrated.

He's inside me and reading me out loud to my audience, calm and accurate. It should be humiliating, but my cock is leaking on my stomach about it. So apparently it's the hottest thing that's ever happened to me.

Being watched I knew about. Being watched I've wanted so long it's basically canon.

Nobody warned me about being described.

"Third's the one he begs on," Patrick says, and gives me the third.

I beg.

Instantly, shamelessly, please and his name and please again, and somewhere underneath my own noise I hear it. Denim creaking. The chair taking weight differently. When I force my eyes open, Wall's hand isn't flat anymore. It's moving, slow, and he’s gripping the massive bulge in his jeans, jaw tight, chest heaving.

Jeans. Still. On.

"Patrick." My voice comes out wrecked. "He's holding back on us."