“Don't,” Troy said. But he said it into the pillow, so it came out soft, and he didn't mean it.
“I'll say whatever I want.” Rafael's hands slipped under the lace, peeling it down just enough to expose Troy fully. “You want this or not?”
“Yes.” Troy's voice had gone ragged already. “Yeah, I want it, come on, stop making me wait.”
Rafael took his time anyway. He worked Troy open slowly and thoroughly with slick fingers, and I watched Troy push back against his hand, watched his knuckles go white where they gripped the sheets, heard the sounds he made graduate from low and controlled to less controlled, needier. A broken little sound that he muffled against the mattress. A sharper sound when Rafael found the right angle, a sound that Troy tried to swallow and couldn't quite manage.
I wanted to be the one pulling those sounds out of him. The thought arrived fully formed and I couldn't push it away. Wanted my fingers inside him instead of Rafael's. Wanted to be the one learning what made him arch his back and grip the sheets and make those desperate little noises.
“There it is,” Rafael said, satisfied.
“Don't gloat,” Troy managed through gritted teeth. “Just fucking?—”
“Just fucking what?”
A pause where I watched Troy fight himself, watched resistance and need war in the line of his shoulders.
“Please,” he said finally. The word came out rough and a little wrecked, like it cost him to say it. “Please, Raf. I need it.”
Rafael said words too low to hear. Then he positioned himself, and I watched the moment he pushed in, watched Troy's spine curve downward and his head drop and his mouth fall open, and the sound Troy made then was not muffled, was not controlled, was a low open “fuck” that he didn't bother trying to hide.
My hand was on my cock before I had time to decide anything about it.
I pressed the heel of my palm against myself through my jeans, jaw clenched, trying to tell myself this was just pressure, this was just taking the edge off, this wasn't what it was. My cock didn't care what I was telling myself. It was hard and hadbeen hard since the first sound I'd heard climbing the stairs, and the pressure I was putting on it through the denim was barely anything at all.
Rafael started moving and the bed frame hit the wall once, twice, finding a rhythm, and Troy made a sound with each thrust that was low and rhythmic and devastatingly good. He'd pushed himself up onto his hands now, head hanging between his shoulders, hair falling forward, the lace still sitting askew at his hips where Rafael had pulled it aside. The lamp caught the curve of his back, the flex of his arms, the way his whole body moved with the force of it.
This was my stepson. The boy I'd raised. The man I'd spent years trying not to want. And he was on his hands and knees in the room down the hall getting fucked by someone else and I was standing here hard as stone watching it happen.
“That's it,” Rafael said. His voice had gotten rougher, some of the easy charm burned off by friction. “Yeah, just like that.”
“Harder,” Troy said. Not asking. Telling, his voice already starting to fray at the edges.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, come on, don't hold back, I can take it.”
Rafael gave him what he asked for, hips snapping forward with real intent now, and Troy bit out a curse and pushed back to meet it and the sound they made together was filthy and rhythmic and went straight through the wall and straight through me. I was stroking myself through my jeans properly now, not pretending otherwise, one hand braced on the wall beside the door and the other working myself in slow strokes while shame burned in my chest and did absolutely nothing to make me stop.
“Harder,” Troy said again, and his voice had come completely apart now, all the careful control stripped away. “Raf, I swear to god?—”
“Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to fuck me like you mean it, come on, please?—”
Rafael drove forward hard enough that Troy's arms buckled, catching himself with his elbows, face dropping toward the pillow, and the sound Troy made then was a long broken moan that he didn't bother muffling at all, loud and genuine and laced with desperation. I stroked myself faster and tried to swallow the sound that wanted to come out of me in response.
The jealousy was a physical thing. Sitting in my throat, hot and corrosive, completely unreasonable given every fact of the situation. This was Troy's life. His body. His choices. I had no claim on any of it, no right to feel anything except maybe embarrassment at myself for standing here at all.
But I felt it anyway. The grinding specific misery of watching someone give to someone else what you wanted them to give to you. Watching Troy be open and desperate and asking for things in ways he'd never ask for anything from me. Watching him let someone in.
My cock was painful in my hand now. I'd gotten it out without registering doing it, jeans pushed down just enough, and I was stroking myself in my own hallway outside my stepson's barely-closed door, and some distant part of me acknowledged this was a new low, and the rest of me didn't care.
Rafael reached forward and fisted a hand in Troy's hair, pulling his head back, and Troy's mouth fell open and the noise he made was broken and raw.
“Yeah, yeah, like that?—”
“Fuck,” Rafael said, and it wasn't performance, just the genuine admission of a man who couldn't stop staring. His free hand ran down the length of Troy's spine and hooked under the waistband of the lace, not pulling it off, just stretching it back and letting it snap against his skin. Troy made a sharp sound atthe sting of it. “Been thinking about these since you took your jeans off. Can't get my head straight.”
