"Yours," he says, the word scraped out.
"Cole." I don't look away from Dante. "Get over here."
Cole rounds the counter. His hand presses into my lower back. The three of us fill the space between the counter and the stove, garlic and olive oil still sharp in the air.
I unbutton Dante's jeans and push them low enough. My hand closes around him, the barbells warm under my palm, and his head drops back.
Half-naked, he stands in the kitchen with his throat working and his hands open at his sides while I touch him like I know exactly what belongs to me.
I trace each barbell. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. My fingers map the metal the way they've mapped it every time since the first time, but different now.
On the counter. In the kitchen. With the lights on.
My hand stays there until his breath breaks.
"Maya." His voice breaks. "Please."
I look at Cole. He's watching my hand on Dante, his eyes dark, his breath shallow. His gaze flicks from my grip to Dante's face, then back to me. The dishes are still in the sink.
"Both of you," I say. "Right here."
The playfulness arrives without announcement. Cole grins, the real grin, the one that breaks through the management, and pulls his shirt off.
Dante adjusts his jeans lower and lifts me off the counter. My legs wrap around his waist, the barbells pressing against me through the thin fabric of my underwear, the sensation sharp and familiar. He sets me on the edge of the table, the same table, six inches from where it started.
Cole is behind him, mouth on his shoulder, palms on his hips. Dante's breath catches with my mouth in front of him and Cole's hands on his hips.
My underwear comes off. Behind Dante's back, Cole tears a condom wrapper and passes it forward. Dante rolls it on without breaking eye contact with me. His mouth lands on my throat. Cole's hands reach around Dante's sides and close over my breasts, and the laugh that comes out of me is unexpected, real, the absurdity of six hands trying to coordinate in a space designed for chopping onions.
"This is logistically complicated," Cole says, his mouth against Dante's neck, his hands on me.
"You're a forward. Figure it out."
He does. They both do.
Dante pushes into me and the barbells do what they always do, the ridged pressure that changes everything, and I make the sound I always make. This time, I'm watching his face while Cole presses against his back. Dante's mouth parts. His eyes go dark. Both hands tighten on my hips.
Cole's hands slide down from my breasts, around Dante's hip, finding the space between us. His fingers find my clit while Dante moves, and the coordination is imperfect, fumbled, human. His finger slips. Dante adjusts. I laugh again, and the laugh turns into a gasp as they find the rhythm on a kitchen table beside cooling pasta.
"Harder," I say to Dante.
His hips snap. The barbells drag on the thrust. My hands grip the table edge.
Cole's mouth is on Dante's ear, his hand working me in steady circles. Dante's face is in my neck, his breathing ragged, his body caught between the two of us, the woman in front and the man behind.
I come first. My hand grips Dante's hair, pulling his face up so he watches me. The orgasm rolls through me, and I hold his eyes the entire time. He sees everything. My face, my body, my fingers in his hair, me undone on the table in the kitchen with his body inside mine and his piercing pressed against every nerve.
Dante follows. His forehead drops to my shoulder. The sound he makes is quiet, broken, grateful. Cole's hand is on the back of his neck.
The grip holds.
Against Dante's back, Cole finishes, his mouth muffling the sound against Dante's shoulder. Three people in a kitchen. Three bodies in a space too small for the scale of what they feel.
The room goes quiet around our breathing.
Dante's forehead is still on my shoulder. My fingers in his hair. Cole pressed against both of us, his arms around Dante, his hand lacing through mine on the table edge.
"The table moved again," Cole says against Dante's skin.
