When he pulls back, Oliver is already kneeling beside us, slick on his fingers, cock hard against his belly. He throws a leg over my hips and drops onto me in one devastating motion that punches the air from my lungs.
“Oh fuck,” I choke out as Oliver cackles, his hands planting themselves on my chest as he rolls his hips.
Nothing about Oliver is passive. He rides me like he’s pulling me apart from the inside, thighs flexing, head thrown back, every sound loud enough to reach the club below. He takes everything I give and demands more, clenching around me until I’m seeing stars, nails leaving crescents in my chest through my shirt.
Lorenzo’s hand moves from my wrists to the back of Oliver’s neck, squeezing once, and Oliver comes so hard his whole body locks up, his cock pulsing untouched between us, ropes of it landing across my shirt and my chin. The clench of him around me drags my orgasm out of me like it was pulled by force, my hips stuttering up into him as I come with a groan that scrapes my throat raw.
Oliver collapses forward onto my chest, panting, his forehead pressed against my collarbone. Lorenzo’s hand moves from Oliver’s neck to my hair, his fingers sliding through the curls, and I realize with a distant kind of horror that my eyes are stinging with unshed tears.
Fuck.
Lorenzo takes care of the cleanup, a warm cloth appearing from somewhere, Oliver rolling off me with a satisfied groan while Lorenzo wipes us down. Nobody asks me how I’m feeling. Nobody tries to talk about what just happened. Lorenzo doesn’t even ask as he produces a clean shirt, both him and Oliver twisting around as I change into it, the new collar coming up just high enough to cover my scars.
Oliver just tucks himself against my left side with his face pressed into my neck and Lorenzo settles on my right, one arm draped across my waist.
My hand drifts up to the scar on my neck. The cotton of my collar is damp with sweat, the raised skin underneath apermanent record of a bond that nearly killed me. I trace the edge of it with my fingertip while Oliver’s breathing evens out against my throat, Lorenzo’s thumb making slow passes across my hip bone.
Something is missing from this. The thought surfaces before I can stop it and I resent it immediately because nothing should be missing. Two beautiful people just took me apart and put me back together with more care than I’ve been shown in years.
“Rest, sweetheart. You don’t need to figure out anything tonight.”
I open my mouth to protest, Oliver scooting closer on my side. “If we’re going to be talking, we’re fucking again. Maybe Lorenzo can fuck you? I want to watch that.” His words trail off into a snore and I’m instantly jealous of his ability to pass out like that.
Lorenzo purrs against my cheek. “We’ve got you, Wilson. Promise.”
Something about those words feels like they encompass more than just tonight but I refuse to read into it.
4
Wilson
I step from the bedroom into the hallway that links it to the kitchen the next morning after getting dressed, noting the single window, the lock, and the front door’s deadbolt I could pick in under four seconds. A second door near the kitchen hides the staircase back down to the club, and if the main exits are blocked, I can slip out a fire escape through the bathroom window.
I catalogue all of this in the seconds it takes to cross from the bathroom to the kitchen counter, my bare feet silent on the hardwood. Oliver and Lorenzo lie tangled together in the space I just vacated. Oliver let out a soft grunt when I slid free from under his arm but didn’t wake. Lorenzo didn’t shift at all, though I know he sensed the mattress move and chose to let me go.
The kitchen is small and immaculate, which screams pure Lorenzo. Mugs are hung on hooks by size, a knife block withevery handle facing the same way. The only sign of Oliver is a glitter-speckled hand towel draped over the faucet and a sticky note on the fridge, slanting aggressively to the right:buy more eggs you animal.
Morning light presses through the window above the sink. I stand in it, letting the warmth hit my face while my brain runs through the standard post-sleep inventory. Neck scar: covered, shirt on, collar high. Body: sore in places that feel earned. Hands: steady for once. Head: quiet.
That last one is the problem because my head is never quiet. Avoiding that thought process, I turn my attention to my phone, tapping it awake and scrolling past three spam emails and a weather alert until the voicemail icon blinks. Though, there’s one message, received at 7:48 AM—from that 212 number that’s been my employer for the last four months that catches my attention.
Formeremployer, apparently.
I press play and hold the phone to my ear. The voice on the other end is clipped, reading from the same script she’s delivered a dozen times this week: “Mr. Ashford, this message is to confirm the termination of your employment effective immediately. Following a routine background review, concerns have been raised regarding your prior affiliation with the Hearthstone Omega Center, which is currently the subject of an ongoing federal investigation. Your final paycheck will be mailed to the address on file. If you have questions regarding your benefits—”
I pull the phone away and dial back. It rings twice.
“Human Resources, this is Dana.”
“This is Wilson Ashford. I just got your voicemail.”
There’s a pause and then a soft clatter of keyboard keys. “Yes, Mr. Ashford. As stated in the message, your employment has been—”
“I heard what the message said. I’m calling because there’s context you’re missing. I worked at Hearthstone in their care program, yes, but I was—”
“Mr. Ashford, the decision has been finalized by—”
“If you’d let me finish a sentence, I can explain that I was working against the organization from the inside. I helped an Omega escape an abusive—”
