Page 138 of Puck You Both

"Years. Before either of you." My throat works around the rest. "I don't hand this over. I never want to. Now I want to."

Behind me, Theo makes a sound that starts as a whimper and somehow lands as speech. "Ohhh. Welcome to the dark side, the lighting's better—"

"Theo…"

"I'm helping!” he says it with pure delight. “I'm going to help so much."

Wall holds my eyes a moment longer. Then he stands me up by the hips and goes.

He crosses to the equipment corner, and comes back dragging the trainers' big blue stretching mats, one under each arm. I watch, motionless, as he carries them out the gate, and lays them flat, edge to edge, squared to the paint of my crease.

My net.

The patch of ice I've defended my whole adult life, and he's building a bed in it.

Something in my chest comes loose. I let it go.

Theo waggles his brows. "This is why we keep him."

Wall straightens, takes a small zippered pouch from his jacket, and sets it on the mat. Lube. A condom. I look at it, then at him. "You brought that to a midnight skate?" I ask, even though he didn’t know where he was going.

"I plan," he answers anyway, shameless.

The laugh that pulls out of me turns into wanting before it finishes being a laugh.

"Skates off," Wall says. "Carpet for prep. Then the crease."

Theo’s next breath comes out shaky. "I'm going to pass out."

My fingers fumble the laces. Around me, Theo and Wall are doing no better, and there's a full minute of swearing, and hopping, and one near-miss between a blade and Theo's jeans before all six skates stand in a drunken row under the bench.

Then, my jeans are gone, and the runner is rough under my knees, and Theo's mouth is on me.

He starts at the base of my spine and takes the long way down, left to right, and back again, hands spreading me open, breath arriving first so I feel exactly where his tongue will land before it does.

The first slow lick over my hole empties my head completely. The sound I make is obscene, and the arena hands it back to me from the cheap seats.

"There he is," Theo says against my skin, reverent and filthy at once. "The man behind the man."

He goes back to work, his tongue circling, pressing, opening me slowly, with a patience he spends on nothing else in his life. I grip the bench pad. Somewhere ahead of me, wood creaks—Wall, sitting down on the bench.

To watch.

He doesn't touch me. Forearms on his knees, he sits where I can see him if I lift my head, gaze moving between my face and what Theo's mouth is doing to me.

I've experienced this exact level of attention before, but it was different. Because every other time, I had the luxury of hiding behind doing. But there’s nothing to hide behind anymore, and from this side of things, undone myself, loud, held open, it's very nearly too much.

"Look at me," Wall says, quiet.

I look at him. Theo's tongue pushes into me. I keep looking, and let my face show him all of it.

"Good," Wall says.

The word goes through me like current.

Theo's fingers replace his mouth, slick and careful, and he narrates the whole operation—how I sound, and what exactly he plans to think about now every time he watches me stand in this building in full gear. It should be ridiculous, but it’s dismantling me instead. Then his fingers crook, find my prostate with ease that folds my arms out from under me, and what leaves my mouth stops resembling words.

"More of that," Theo says, awed.