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His chest shakes gently with laughter, his eyes softening. “I get it trimmed.”
“Once a year?”
“Twice.”
I smile back at him, my hand sliding from his forearm to his fingers. I link my middle one with his, something we used to do under tables or when people weren’t looking. It became a comfort, an action we’d take when watching a movie together or even while he helped me study. I never thought I’d do it again.
“Noah,” Beck says gruffly, his fingers still gripping my chin.
“Beck,” I reply, our faces inching closer, like two magnets drawn toward each other.
He scratches his nails through my beard, sending goosebumps skittering across my flesh. “I wish I didn’t want to kiss you.”
A sponge lodges in my throat, clogging it up. I attempt to inhale, but my lungs won’t work.
“Tell me why I want to. Tell me why, after all this time, after you broke my goddamn heart, I still want to kiss you.”
“We can’t.” I whimper.
“I know.” But his head tilts anyway, mouth so dangerously close I can feel the energy of it as if his lips are already on mine.
“Do it.”
Both Beck and I freeze, Quinn’s voice ringing out and dancing around like sparks of fire through the gym.
“Kiss each other,” she says, voice steady and sure, not at all like how it should be walking in on me in this position with a man I told her only yesterday I didn’t have feelings for, yet still do.
Beck’s hand drops away from my face, and I turn my head to look at my wife, dressed in a short yellow sundress, hair slightly mussed, skin flushed from the warmth outside.
Quinn’s footsteps are soft as she approaches us. I still have Beck’s middle finger locked in mine, and I swear he isn’t breathing as he stares at her. He’s most likely waiting for her to yell “Psych!” before lunging at us. It’s what many people would have done, but Quinn has always been different, more understanding and kind than I deserve.
“Kiss each other,” she says again when she stops only a foot from us.
“Sunshine,” I mutter, drawing her eyes to mine. This close, I expect to see anger or sadness within her gaze, but instead, her pupils are blown. I take in the rest of her, nipples hard against the fabric of her dress, the breasts I love so much free from the confines of her bra she must have removed back in the room. My wife is turned on by this.
Heat builds in my gut, and some of the fear that had taken residence there dissipates.
“It’s okay.” She grabs my free hand and holds it before looking over at Beck. A silent conversation passes between them, and if I didn’t know any better, I would think they’ve known each other for longer than a few days, like their souls are just as entwined as mine and Beck’s have always been.
Dangerous ideas I’ve tried to shut down creep into my thoughts. But it wasn’t just after the breathing exercise yesterday, when I realized I liked seeing Beck touch Quinn. It was also today, when he helped me get her off. We worked together perfectly, in sync with her, all three of us on the same wavelength. It pissed me off that he gave Quinn something I hadn’t been able to, but I wasn’t angry that he helped or that Quinn was looking at him when she came. No…
I liked that part. I liked it too much, so much that I’ve been struggling to keep thoughts about what else the three of us could do together at bay. And if I’m reading Quinn correctly, those are thoughts she’s been having, too.
Beck looks at me, his pupils blown now as well, making his eyes near black. He steps in closer once more, and Quinn squeezes my hand, a light pulse to remind me she’s there.
I shouldn’t want to kiss Beck at all, but fuck me, I do. And it only turns me on more that Quinn is asking me to.
Beck drops his grip on my finger, and before I can react, he finds the band of my gym shorts and yanks me the rest of the way to him. My naked chest presses into his T-shirt clad one, and his lips mold to mine. I continue to grip Quinn’s hand, the other wrapping around Beck to steady myself as our mouths come together like a long-lost puzzle piece.
I moan at the familiar yet foreign sensation. We’re not teens anymore; far from it. He’s more powerful than he was before, and I taste both desperation and anger toward me in every slide of his lips and scrape of his beard.
His fingers dig into my hip as he thrusts forward, his lengthening cock bumping against mine. We both moan, my mouth parting enough for his tongue to slip in. The minty and sweet taste of him tells me he still sucks on the same brand of peppermint.
He dominates the kiss, showing me that he’s the one in charge here. I don’t mind it one bit. I forgot how much I used to crave it—his dominance, his care, the way he’d take the weight of the world off my shoulders when we were together.
His tongue massages and strokes mine, and he groans like a starved man every time he tastes me. The burn of our beards is a reminder of what’s so different about this kiss…and what’s missing from it.
I pull away from Beck, our short breaths mingling. His half smile returns, and he licks his lips as if to savor me for a moment longer. My dick kicks against his, my skin burning hot because I know he felt that. He doesn’t offer any cocky comment, though; instead, he squeezes my hip.
