Page 85 of Shipwrecked

“Jules?” Mathieu says.

“Hm?”

“You’re lovely.”

“Er.”

“But, if you talk like that, I’m going to get hard again, and I don’t have the energy.”

“Oh.” I wake up a little more. Mathieu’s cock is resting against my thigh. It’s plumped up a little. “Okay.”

“First time between the thighs?” I ask, changing the subject.

“First time between the thighs with a guy’s balls resting on my cock.”

Mathieu chuckles.

I stop myself from commenting that Mathieu has nice balls too. I got to feel for myself when lubing them up.

The conversation peters out. In the quiet, I run over every aspect I can concretely recall of last night. Start to finish, it had all just…worked.

“My first relationship was with a guy called Leo,” I say, not even sure Mathieu and Cillian are still awake. “We were classmates in secondary school. I think I was sixteen? Seventeen, maybe? We were friends first, spent a billion hours together, so we were close before we started going out. He’s the nicest guy I’ve ever met. Really kind.” I reach down to Mathieu’s arm around my waist. I idly trace his thumb. “But when things were physical, we didn’t click. At all. He was so nice, so, so nice, even in bed, and I just couldn’t get into it. He’d constantly check, Was that okay? Is this okay? You first. It would jerk me out of it every time.”

I remember vividly the moment I realised I had to end it. Failed attempt number whatever, and Leo was genuinely upset.

“We stayed friends. Leo’s actually engaged now, and his boyfriend’s as nice as he is.”

Mathieu’s thumb moves under my grip, rubbing my stomach. He’s listening.

“You guys just… It works. I feel de-stressed.” Even now, exposing my guts, I’m not afraid.

“We work for you in bed and out of it?” Mathieu asks.

I nod.

“So…boyfriend material.”

“Mathieu,” Cillian warns.

“It’s okay, Cillian,” I say. “That’s actually what I’m trying to get at.”

“Oui, yes, boyfriends,” Mathieu replies instantly. The enthusiasm in his voice is flattering, as are the kisses that pepper my cheeks. Mathieu lets out a sound halfway between a laugh and a giggle. I smile.

“You must learn French,” he says. “My parents don’t have any English.”

“I’ll learn.”

Mathieu settles back down, humming to himself. As if we coordinated it, we look at Cillian at the same time. His expression is level, bar a slight bit of tension in his mouth. When our eyes meet, there’s a flare of something I can’t read.

“I don’t know how it would work exactly, but what about you?” I ask.

Cillian looks between the two of us. “Neither of you are pissed off at me?”

I vaguely remember him saying something similar last night, though I’m not sure if I imagined it or not. “I’m not,” I say.

Mathieu takes a little longer. Cillian’s eyes slide to him.

“You are very chill most of the time,” Mathieu says, “but intense in bed. The contrast is good.”