He Won Me in a Poker Game, But His Best Friend Wanted Me Too

The whiskey bottle stood empty beside three chipped glasses, amber residue catching the lamplight. I reshuffled the deck for what felt like the tenth time, cards sticking to my fingers as the cheap laminate table wobbled beneath our elbows. Alex's radiator hissed like it resented our presence, turning the cramped living room into a humid box that smelled of tobacco and the ghost of someone's takeout.

Quinn swept another pot toward his side of the table, plastic chips clacking. "Read 'em and weep," he said, though no one had asked. His grin cut sideways, sharp enough that I felt it along my collarbone. He stacked winnings with the same precision he used when tuning his motorcycle—measured, certain, already bored with the outcome.

Alex shifted beside me on the sagging couch. His knee nudged mine once, then settled there, warm through denim. The contact felt deliberate, a private signal amid Quinn's theatrical dominance. I didn't move away. Instead I dealt another hand, watching Quinn watch my fingers instead of the cards. The neck of my tank top had slipped lower during the night; his gaze kept dipping to the shadow there, as if he could will the fabric to fall further.

"Your deal's getting sloppy," Quinn observed, though he sounded pleased. He raised blind before seeing his cards, a habit that should have annoyed me but instead prickled heat low in my stomach. Everything about him operated on assumption—he assumed he'd win, assumed I wouldn't object, assumed the cramped space between us belonged to him.

Alex's leg pressed harder against mine. When I glanced over, he was studying his cards with fake concentration, but the corner of his mouth twitched. We'd known each other since secondary school; that twitch meant he was holding something back. Usually it meant he was about to say something cutting. Tonight it felt different—like we were both waiting to see how far Quinn would push before the room's tension snapped.

The radiator clanked. Outside, someone's television bled through thin walls. I rearranged my cards, noting the sweat forming along my spine, wondering whether it came from the heat or from the way two sets of eyes kept finding me instead of their hands.

Quinn's fingers moved over the cards with practiced efficiency, but his attention stayed fixed on my chest as I leaned forward to ante up. The movement made my tank top gap further; I didn't adjust it. Instead I met his stare directly, watching his pupils dilate as he dealt three cards face-down with deliberate slowness.

"Let's make this interesting," he said, pushing his entire stack into the pot. The pile towered precariously, plastic chips sliding against each other. "Everything on the table."

My hand was garbage—seven high, mismatched suits. I moved to fold, but Alex's knee pressed harder against mine. When I looked over, he'd matched Quinn's bet without checking his cards, his chips clicking as they hit the pile. His eyes found mine, holding a question I couldn't quite read but felt in my throat.

"Call," Alex said quietly, though the word seemed to expand in the humid air between us.

Quinn's smile sharpened. "Big moves, Alex. Didn't know you had it in you." He dealt the remaining cards, his thumbnail catching on my index finger as he passed me my final card. The touch lingered deliberately.

I studied my worthless hand, aware of both men watching me instead of their own cards. The radiator's hiss filled the silence as I arranged and rearranged the same terrible combination. My pulse thudded in my ears, louder than the traffic outside, louder than the neighbor's television bleeding through the walls.

"Well?" Quinn prompted, drumming his fingers beside the pot. His other hand rested near my elbow, close enough that I could feel heat radiating from his skin. "Show us what you've got."

I laid my cards face-up, exposing the pathetic spread. Seven high, nothing matching, a hand that should have been folded immediately. The admission felt like shedding clothing—vulnerable, deliberate, exposing something beyond the cards themselves.

Quinn's laugh came low and satisfied as he revealed his straight. But his victory felt secondary to the way Alex's hand had moved to rest on my thigh, fingers spreading wide across denim. The game had ended several moves ago; we were playing something else now, with different rules I hadn't learned yet.

"Guess that makes me the winner," Quinn said, though his attention had shifted to Alex's hand on my leg. His tongue touched his bottom lip. "Question is—what exactly have I won?"

Quinn leaned back in his chair, the cheap wood creaking beneath him. His eyes moved between Alex's hand on my thigh and my face, calculating. "Seems a shame to end things here," he said, voice dropping lower. "When the night's just getting interesting."

Alex's fingers tightened against my leg, a warning or a claim—I couldn't tell. The radiator hissed again, filling the silence while Quinn studied us both.

"One more hand," Quinn continued, gathering the cards with practiced efficiency. "Just me and Alex. Winner takes... something better than chips."

My throat felt dry despite the whiskey. "What exactly?"

Quinn's smile turned sharp. "You." He shuffled, the sound rhythmic and deliberate. "Winner gets kissed. Properly. Right here." His gaze flicked to my mouth. "Unless you're scared."

The word hung between us like a challenge thrown down on concrete. Alex's hand left my thigh; he sat forward, elbows on the table. "Deal," he said quietly, not looking at me.

Quinn's eyebrows raised slightly—he hadn't expected Alex to accept so easily. But he recovered quickly, dealing two hands with the same theatrical flair. Five cards each, face down, the snap of cardboard against laminate echoing in the humid room.

I watched them pick up their cards, studied the way Alex's jaw tightened as he arranged his hand, noticed how Quinn's confidence never wavered even when his expression shifted. They were both playing for something beyond the game now, something that had been building all night in the spaces between glances and the weight of knees pressing together under tables.

Alex discarded two cards. Quinn took three. The radiator clanked. Outside, a car alarm started wailing then cut off abruptly. Neither man looked away from their cards.

"Show," Quinn said, laying down three kings and a pair of sevens. His voice carried that same satisfied edge, like he'd already won regardless of what Alex held.

Alex revealed his hand slowly—four queens and a ten. The room went still.

Quinn's smile didn't falter, but something shifted behind his eyes. "Well," he said, standing and pushing back his chair. "A bet's a bet."

He looked at me expectantly, arms loose at his sides, waiting. The space between us felt charged, electric. Alex sat motionless beside me, his breathing shallow, watching my face instead of Quinn's.

I stood on unsteady legs, aware of both men tracking my movement. The floor seemed to tilt slightly—whether from whiskey or anticipation, I couldn't tell. When I stepped closer to Quinn, I caught the scent of motor oil and cigarettes that clung to his clothes, sharp and masculine.

His hands found my hips as I rose on my toes, pulling me flush against him. The kiss wasn't gentle—he took what he'd won, mouth hard against mine, tasting of whiskey and victory. One hand moved to the small of my back, pressing me closer until I could feel his arousal through denim.

When he finally released me, my lips felt swollen, sensitive. But the game wasn't over. I turned to Alex, saw the dark intensity in his eyes, the way his hands had clenched into fists on the table.

This kiss was different—slower, questioning. Alex's mouth moved against mine like he was asking permission for something larger than this moment, something that had been building between us for years. His hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb stroking my cheek as he deepened the kiss, gentle but possessive in a way that made my knees weak.

When I pulled back, both men were breathing harder. The air between us crackled with new possibilities, boundaries redrawn in the space of two kisses. Quinn's eyes had gone dark; Alex's hand still rested against my face, thumb brushing my lower lip.

"Interesting," Quinn murmured, voice rough. "Very interesting indeed."

Alex’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away from Quinn. He nodded once, sharp, and pulled his chair closer to the table. The scrape of wood on linoleum felt louder than it should have. Quinn grinned, already shuffling, the cards snapping between his fingers like he was trying to make them sing. He was showing off. He always did. And Alex let him, sitting still as stone, elbows on the table, eyes locked on Quinn’s hands like he could see through the backs of the cards.

I sat back, knees pressed together, the heat of both kisses still pulsing in my lips. My tank strap had slipped down my shoulder again; I didn’t fix it. I watched Alex’s fingers tap once against the table, then go still. He only did that when he was calculating risk. Quinn’s mouth twitched at the corner—he saw it too. He dealt fast, five cards each, no flair this time. Just function. The last card slid across to Alex with a soft hiss.

They didn’t look at me. Not once. Quinn picked up his hand, fanned it wide, expressionless. Alex lifted his cards one at a time, thumb edging each corner like he was afraid of what he’d find. The silence stretched. I could hear the fridge humming in the kitchen, the wet click of Quinn’s tongue against his teeth. My own breath felt too loud.

Quinn discarded three. Alex took two. The cards hit the table with soft snaps. Neither of them blinked. I realized I was holding mine, nails digging into my palms. I didn’t know who I wanted to win. I didn’t know what winning would mean, not really. Just that the air felt thinner now, like the room had been tipped on its side and we were all sliding toward something.

Quinn’s tongue touched his lower lip again. Alex’s shoulders rose and fell, once, slow. He laid his cards down first. Four jacks. His voice was flat. “That’s mine.”

Quinn exhaled through his nose. He didn’t speak. Just spread his hand. King high straight. Spades. He tapped the king once, like a signature, then sat back in his chair, arms crossed, waiting.

I looked at Alex. His eyes were on the cards, not me. His mouth had gone tight, the muscle in his cheek jumping. He didn’t argue. He just nodded, once, and pushed back from the table. The silence that followed felt like a held note, vibrating just under the skin.

Quinn turned to me, slow. His smile wasn’t sharp now. It was something else—curious, maybe. Hungry. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The dare was still alive, pulsing between us like a current. And I was still sitting there, strap slipping further, heart ticking faster, unsure whether I wanted to be won or whether I already had been.

Quinn’s fingers drummed once on the table, then stilled. He looked at me, not the cards. His grin widened, slow and deliberate, like he was letting the moment stretch just to feel it snap. “Guess that’s me,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. He didn’t move. Just waited.

I stood. My thighs brushed the edge of the table, and the chips shifted, some clinking to the floor. I didn’t look at Alex. I couldn’t. I leaned forward, one hand braced on the laminate, the other reaching for Quinn’s shoulder. He met me halfway, mouth already open, already sure. The kiss was hard, almost punitive—his teeth scraped my lower lip, his tongue pushing in without ceremony. He tasted like cheap whiskey and nicotine, sharp and hot, and he took the kiss like he’d taken the pot: without apology. His hand came up to grip the back of my neck, thumb pressing just under my jaw, holding me there until I felt the first flicker of heat low in my stomach. Then he let go, just as fast, lips lingering like a threat.

I pulled back barely an inch, breathing hard, and turned.

Alex hadn’t moved. His hands were flat on the table, knuckles white. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his mouth was slightly open, like he’d been about to speak and thought better of it. I didn’t ask. I just leaned in, slower this time, and kissed him.

It was different. Softer. His lips were dry, tentative for half a second, and then he made a small sound in his throat and kissed me back like he was trying not to break something. His hand came up to my face, fingers trembling just slightly against my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. He didn’t push, didn’t take—he asked. And I answered, opening for him, letting the kiss stretch out long and warm and aching. It tasted like regret and want and something older, something we’d never named. When I finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine for a second longer, like he wasn’t ready to let go.

The room was quiet except for our breathing. Quinn watched, elbows on the table now, fingers steepled under his chin. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, tracking the way Alex’s thumb still rested against my jaw, the way I hadn’t moved away.

No one spoke. The air felt thick, humid with what we’d just done, what we hadn’t said. The cards lay forgotten between us, the king of spades face-up, staring.

Quinn stood first, the legs of his chair scraping back hard enough to make the table jump. His hand found mine, fingers closing rough and warm, pulling me up before I could decide if I was ready. His other palm settled at the base of my spine, thumb slipping under the hem of my tank top to trace slow circles against bare skin. The touch was casual, proprietary, like he’d already mapped this territory and decided it was his.

“Let’s take this somewhere softer,” he said, voice low, meant only for me even though Alex was right there. His breath brushed my ear, and I felt the shiver travel straight down my spine to where his thumb kept drawing those deliberate circles.

I didn’t answer. I just let him pull me a step away from the table, my hip brushing his, the heat of him bleeding through denim and cotton. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat, in my wrists, between my legs. I didn’t look back at Alex. I couldn’t. But I heard him push his chair back, slower, controlled. The sound of it felt final, like a door closing somewhere inside my chest.

Quinn led me toward the hallway, his hand never leaving my back, guiding me like he already knew the way my body moved. The apartment was dark past the living room, the hallway lit only by the orange spill of streetlights through the blinds. My bare feet stuck slightly to the wood floor, every step feeling too loud. Behind us, Alex’s footsteps followed, not hurrying, not hanging back. Just there. Present. Watching.

At the threshold to Quinn’s room, I stopped. Quinn’s hand pressed gently, urging me forward, but I hesitated, suddenly aware of how thin my tank top was, how my nipples had hardened against the cotton, how the air felt cooler against the damp strip of skin where Quinn’s thumb had been. I turned.

Alex was closer than I expected. His eyes flicked from Quinn’s hand on my back to my face, and for a second, something raw flickered across his expression—something that looked almost like pain. Then it was gone, replaced by that same unreadable calm. He didn’t reach for me. He didn’t speak. He just looked at me like he was waiting for me to decide what happened next.

Quinn’s fingers tightened slightly at my waist, not rough, just enough to remind me he was still there, still winning. His mouth brushed my temple, a ghost of a kiss, or maybe just breath. “You coming?” he murmured, and the double meaning hung there, thick and obvious.

I stepped forward. The room was darker than the hallway, the bed unmade, sheets twisted like someone had already been sleeping there. Quinn pulled me inside, and Alex followed, closing the door behind him with a soft click that felt like the end of something I hadn’t realized had a beginning.

Quinn’s hands found my hips and turned me, the backs of my knees hitting the mattress so I sat down hard. The sheets were cool against my thighs, smelled like him—detergent and sweat and something metallic, like coins. He didn’t give me time to adjust. His mouth was on mine again, slower this time, deliberate, like he was learning the shape of me. His tongue pushed past my lips, not asking, just taking, and I let him. I let him because the room was spinning slightly, because Alex was somewhere behind me in the dark, because I wanted to see how far this would go before it broke.

Quinn’s fingers slid under the hem of my tank top, knuckles dragging up my ribs. He didn’t pause at the clasp of my bra—just pushed the whole thing up in one motion, my breasts spilling free. The air was sharp against my skin, and I arched without meaning to. He made a low sound in his throat, almost a laugh, and dipped his head. His mouth closed over my nipple, hot and wet, tongue flicking hard enough to make my back bow. I felt the scrape of his teeth, the suction, the way he pulled like he was trying to draw something out of me. My hands went to his hair, not sure if I meant to push him away or hold him there.

Behind me, Alex hadn’t moved. I could feel him still, the way the air changed when he breathed. I wanted to look at him, wanted to see what his face was doing, but Quinn’s hand was already moving down, palming between my legs over the denim, pressing hard enough that I felt the seam bite. I made a sound, not quite a word, and Quinn answered by popping the button of my jeans, dragging the zipper down like he was opening a gift he already knew was his.

He pushed me back until I was lying flat, legs hanging off the edge of the bed. My jeans were tugged down roughly, one ankle catching so he had to yank twice. The fabric scraped my skin, left it stinging. I heard them hit the floor somewhere. Then his hands were on my knees, spreading them, his thumbs tracing the inside of my thighs like he was measuring how far I’d open for him. I felt the cool air hit me, the thin barrier of my underwear the only thing left. He didn’t remove it. Just pressed his thumb there, right there, and rubbed once, slow, watching my face.

I turned my head to the side, breathing hard, and saw Alex. He’d stepped closer, finally. The moonlight caught the line of his jaw, the way his mouth was parted just slightly. His eyes weren’t on my face. They were lower, fixed on Quinn’s hand between my legs, on the way my hips had started to rock without permission. His own hands were clenched at his sides, like he was holding something back. I wanted to say his name, wanted to reach for him, but Quinn chose that moment to hook my underwear to the side and slide one finger into me, sudden and slick, and what came out of my mouth wasn’t a name at all.

Quinn’s finger crooked inside me, a slow, deliberate curl that made my thighs tense around his wrist. I was wet enough that the sound of it—slick, obscene—filled the quiet room. He didn’t rush. Just watched my face while he did it again, adding a second finger, stretching me open like he was testing how much I could take. My back arched off the mattress, hips rolling up to meet him, and I felt the first flutter of something building low in my belly, sharp and urgent.

But it was Alex’s gaze I felt most. He hadn’t moved closer, but the air shifted when he exhaled, a warm gust against my bare shoulder. I turned my head toward him, eyes half-lidded, and saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed. His hands were still fisted at his sides, knuckles pale. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to stop looking like he was watching something he wasn’t allowed to want.

Quinn’s mouth found my neck again, teeth grazing the tendon just beneath my jaw, and I gasped, the sound catching in my throat. He pulled his fingers out slowly, almost all the way, then pushed back in hard enough to rock me up the bed. My tank top was still bunched under my arms, bra tangled in the straps, and he yanked both over my head in one motion, leaving me naked from the waist up. The moonlight painted silver across my skin, and I saw Alex’s eyes track the shift of my breasts as I breathed, the way my nipples had tightened to stiff peaks.

Quinn sat back just enough to drag my underwear down my legs, the fabric catching briefly on my ankle before he tossed it aside. I was completely bare now, legs spread wide, Quinn kneeling between them. He didn’t undress yet—just looked at me, slow and clinical, like he was deciding where to start. His thumb brushed over my clit once, twice, and I jerked, a whimper escaping before I could stop it.

Behind me, Alex made a sound—low, almost pained. I turned my head again, met his eyes. They were darker than I’d ever seen them, pupils blown wide. He still hadn’t touched me, but I could feel the heat of him, the way his body leaned forward just slightly, like he was fighting the urge to close the distance.

Quinn leaned down, mouth brushing the inside of my thigh, and I felt the scrape of stubble, the wet heat of his tongue as he licked a slow stripe upward. My hips bucked involuntarily, and he laughed again, that same low, satisfied sound. He didn’t linger—just rose up over me, one hand going to his belt, the other bracing beside my head. The buckle clinked loudly in the quiet, the zipper dragging down like a warning.

I reached out blindly, fingers brushing Alex’s thigh. He flinched at the contact, then stepped closer, close enough that I could wrap my hand around the back of his knee, dig my nails in. He was still fully dressed, jeans rough against my knuckles, but I felt the tension in his leg, the way he leaned into my touch even as he held himself back.

Quinn’s cock sprang free, hot and heavy in his fist, and he stroked himself once, twice, eyes locked between my legs. He didn’t ask. Just guided the head to my entrance, pressed forward slow enough to make me feel every inch. I was wet enough that he slid in easily, but thick enough that I still felt the stretch, the burn of it, my body adjusting around him. My fingers tightened on Alex’s leg, and he made that sound again, a quiet exhale that might’ve been my name.

Quinn bottomed out, hips flush against mine, and paused. The room was silent except for our breathing—mine ragged, Alex’s shallow, Quinn’s steady and controlled. I felt pinned between them, split open and watched, and I couldn’t tell if I wanted to close my legs or spread them wider.

Then Quinn started to move. Slow at first, almost gentle, but building fast, each thrust rocking me up the bed. My hand slipped from Alex’s leg, reaching up instead, fingers curling into the hem of his shirt. He looked down at me, eyes flicking from my face to where Quinn was fucking me, to the way my breasts shifted with every thrust. I tugged weakly, a silent plea, and he hesitated—just a second—before he knelt.

Quinn’s fingers hooked under the waistband of my jeans and tugged, the denim dragging over my hips, my ass, the backs of my thighs. I lifted automatically, letting him strip them off, the fabric catching briefly at my ankles before he yanked them free. The room felt colder suddenly, or maybe it was just the exposure—my bare legs dangling off the edge of the bed, Quinn kneeling between them like he belonged there.

His hands slid up my calves, rough palms catching on the fine hair, then higher, over my knees, pushing my thighs apart without asking. I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t. My breath was coming in short, shallow pulls, and I felt dizzy, like I’d stood up too fast. But I was sitting. Sitting and watching Quinn’s face as he looked at me, looked between my legs, like he was deciding how much of me he wanted to take first.

Then Alex’s hands were on my shoulders.

I hadn’t heard him move, hadn’t felt him approach, but suddenly he was behind me, his chest warm against my back, his palms sliding down over my collarbones like he was touching something fragile. His thumbs brushed the hollows just above my breasts, slow, deliberate circles that made my skin prickle. Not sexual, not exactly—more like he was grounding me. Or himself.

Quinn’s fingers dug into my thighs, spreading me wider. I felt the air shift as he leaned in, his breath hot against the inside of my knee, then higher. My head fell back slightly, resting against Alex’s shoulder, and he didn’t flinch. Just kept touching me, steady and soft, like he was trying to remind me he was still there.

Quinn’s mouth found the crease where my thigh met my hip, teeth grazing the skin, not quite a bite. I jerked, and Alex’s hands tightened slightly, not to hold me down—just to hold me. Quinn laughed again, that same low sound, and dragged his tongue up the seam of me, over the cotton of my underwear, already damp. I whimpered, embarrassed and turned on and too aware of everything: the way my legs were shaking, the way Alex’s breathing had gone shallow against my neck, the way Quinn’s stubble scratched the inside of my thigh as he mouthed at me through the fabric.

I reached back without thinking, fingers finding Alex’s hip, curling into the denim. He didn’t move away. Just let me grip him, let me anchor myself to the solid warmth of his body while Quinn hooked a finger under the edge of my underwear and pulled it aside.

The first touch was bare skin—his tongue, hot and flat, dragging up the center of me. I gasped, hips bucking, and Alex’s hand slid up to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there, thumb brushing my pulse. I could feel how fast it was racing. I could feel everything.

Quinn’s tongue circled my clit, slow at first, then faster, his hands holding my thighs open when I tried to close them. I was wet enough that I could hear it—slick, obscene sounds filling the room, mixing with my breathing and Alex’s, ragged and close to my ear.

I turned my head slightly, cheek brushing the stubble along Alex’s jaw. He didn’t kiss me, didn’t speak. Just held me, his hand sliding down to cover my heart, like he wanted to feel it beating out of my chest. And it was. It really was.

Quinn rose up from between my legs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes still fixed on the wet shine he’d left on my skin. He yanked his shirt over his head in one motion, the cotton catching on his shoulder before it fell to the floor. Then he was on me, palms flat to my sternum, pushing me back until I lay flat on the mattress. The bed dipped under his weight as he crawled up my body, knees nudging my thighs apart again, mouth already lowering to my breast.

He didn’t tease. He took the nipple between his teeth and tugged, hard enough that I arched off the bed, a sharp sound catching in my throat. His hand came up to cup the other breast, thumb flicking the nipple in quick, impatient strokes, like he was trying to see how fast he could make me react. I felt the pull of it everywhere—my spine, my hips, the ache between my legs that hadn’t eased since his mouth was last there.

Behind me, Alex shifted. I hadn’t realized how tightly I’d been holding his hand until his fingers loosened, sliding through mine again, slower this time. His other hand came up to my hair, stroking it back from my forehead in a rhythm that didn’t match the way Quinn was moving over me. It was steady, almost meditative, like he was trying to keep me tethered to something while Quinn tried to burn the rest down.

Quinn switched breasts, mouth hot and wet, tongue circling before he sucked hard enough to leave a mark. I whimpered, hips lifting instinctively, searching for friction. He laughed against my skin, the vibration sending a jolt through me, and then he bit down again, softer this time, testing. My fingers tightened around Alex’s, and he squeezed back, a silent answer to something I hadn’t asked.

I could feel Quinn’s cock against my thigh, hard and heavy, the head slick already. He rocked against me once, not pushing inside, just letting me feel how ready he was, how little patience he had left. His hand slid down my stomach, fingers splayed wide, then lower, parting me again like he was checking if I was still wet. I was. I hadn’t stopped.

He groaned when he felt it, the sound muffled against my breast, and then he moved up, mouth finding my neck, my jaw, my ear. “You want it again?” he asked, voice rough, not waiting for an answer before he shifted his hips and started to push in.

But I turned my head, just slightly, toward Alex. His eyes were on me, not on Quinn, not on where our bodies were about to join. Just on my face. His thumb brushed my cheekbone, slow, like he was memorizing the shape of it. I felt Quinn sink deeper, the stretch of it making my breath stutter, but I didn’t close my eyes. I kept them on Alex, on the way his mouth parted just enough to match my inhale, on the way his hand in mine didn’t flinch even when Quinn started to move.

And then Quinn’s mouth was on mine, hard and tasting like me, and I lost the rhythm of Alex’s breathing, lost the thread of his gaze, lost everything but the way Quinn was fucking me—deep, deliberate, like he was trying to make me forget anyone else was in the room.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Not with Alex’s fingers still laced through mine, not with the way his other hand kept stroking my hair, even as my head rocked against the pillow with every thrust.

Quinn’s hips snapped forward once more, hard enough to shove me up the mattress, then stilled. He pulled out just as abruptly, the sudden emptiness making me clench around nothing. I made a sound—half protest, half whimper—but he was already moving down my body, mouth dragging over sweat-slick skin, teeth grazing my ribs, my navel, the sharp jut of my hipbone. He didn’t speak. Just shoved my thighs apart again and lowered his head like he was starving.

His tongue found me instantly, no teasing this time, just firm, steady pressure directly on my clit. I jerked, hips lifting off the bed, but his forearm came down across my pelvis, holding me in place. He licked me like he was trying to prove something—fast, relentless, the flat of his tongue dragging up and down before he circled the tip around the sensitive bundle of nerves until my legs started to shake. Two fingers pushed inside me without warning, curling upward, finding the spot that made my back arch and my breath catch in my throat.

Above me, Alex shifted. He hadn’t let go of my hand, but now he leaned in, his mouth brushing mine—soft, tentative, like he was asking if this was still okay. I turned my head toward him, eyes half-lidded, and kissed him back. It wasn’t hungry like Quinn’s kisses had been. It was slow, deliberate, his lips moving against mine like we had all the time in the world. His tongue slipped into my mouth just as Quinn curled his fingers again, and I moaned into Alex’s mouth, the sound swallowed between us.

Alex’s free hand came up to cradle my jaw, thumb stroking my cheekbone in slow circles. He didn’t try to touch anywhere else—just held my face like I was something fragile, something he didn’t want to break. His body was a warm line along my side, solid and steady, anchoring me while Quinn worked me open with his mouth and hand, pushing me higher, faster, until I was panting into Alex’s mouth, my fingers tightening around his like I was afraid I’d float away.

Quinn added a third finger, stretching me wider, his tongue never slowing. I could feel the orgasm building low in my belly, coiling tighter with every flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers. My hips tried to buck, but his arm held me down, pinning me to the mattress while he took what he wanted from my body. And I let him. I let him because Alex was kissing me like I was something worth waiting for, like I wasn’t just a body being used but a person being seen.

I came hard, thighs clamping around Quinn’s head, a broken sound tearing from my throat into Alex’s mouth. My whole body convulsed, inner muscles clenching around Quinn’s fingers as he kept licking me through it, drawing it out until I was trembling, oversensitive and breathless. Alex didn’t pull away. He just kept kissing me, softer now, swallowing every gasp, every shudder, his hand still cradling my face like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.

When Quinn finally lifted his head, his mouth was wet, chin shining in the low light. He wiped it with the back of his hand again, eyes dark and unreadable. But I didn’t look at him long. I turned back to Alex, pressed my forehead to his, and breathed.

Quinn’s hand closed around my wrist, tugging without ceremony. I let him roll me over, belly to mattress, then haul my hips up until I was on all fours. The sheet scraped my nipples; cool air hit the wet stripe he’d left between my legs and I shivered. He leaned in, chest to my back, mouth at my ear.

“I’m going to fuck you like this,” he said, voice low, almost amused, “so you can’t pretend you’re anywhere else.” His palm slid down my spine, pressing until my shoulders dropped and my back arched. I felt him shift behind me, jeans shoved down, the blunt head of his cock nudging my entrance once, twice, teasing the slick skin.

I started to turn my head, instinct, looking for Alex—needing the anchor of his eyes—but Quinn’s hand came to the back of my neck, holding me in place. “Stay right there,” he muttered, and pushed in an inch, enough to make me gasp, then stopped.

A shadow moved in front of me. Alex had knelt on the mattress, jeans still on, the fly strained open, cock in his fist. He wasn’t stroking, just holding himself, the tip already wet. His other hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth, asking without words. The room tilted; Quinn’s grip tightened at my hips, ready to drive forward, but everything narrowed to Alex’s eyes—dark, steady, almost worried.

I opened my mouth, tongue touching my lower lip. That was all the answer he needed. He shifted closer, knees sliding wide so my forearms rested between them, and guided himself to my lips. The first taste was salt and skin and the faint bitterness of pre-come. I took the head slowly, cheeks hollowing, letting him feel every inch I gave him. His breath hitched; his fingers threaded into my hair, not pulling, just holding, tracing my scalp like he was mapping the shape of me.

Behind me Quinn groaned and sank deeper, one long thrust until his hips met my ass. The sound I made was muffled around Alex, vibration traveling straight into him; his thighs tensed under my palms. Quinn started to move—hard, steady strokes that rocked me forward each time, forcing Alex farther into my mouth. I relaxed my jaw, let them find the rhythm they wanted: Quinn snapping his hips, Alex rocking gently counter, so I was never empty, never still.

Quinn’s hand slid from my hip around to my clit, two fingers circling rough and fast, like he was tuning me to the same relentless pace. The pressure built sharp and sudden; I whimpered, the sound swallowed by Alex’s cock. He felt it, murmured my name once—soft, broken—and his thumb stroked my cheek again, wiping the wetness that had spilled. I looked up at him, eyes watering, and he looked back like he was seeing something he’d waited years to witness.

Quinn’s fingers pressed harder, his thrusts shortening, angled exactly where I needed. My legs started to shake; Alex’s grip tightened just enough to steady me, not choke, never choke. The orgasm caught me off guard, rolling up from my clit through my spine, clamping me around Quinn, making me swallow around Alex. Both men cursed—Quinn guttural and triumphant, Alex hushed, reverent—then stilled, pulsing into me from either end, filling me with heat I could taste and feel and nowhere else to put it but hold it, shuddering, until the last aftershock passed.

When Quinn pulled out he did it fast, air cold on my sweat-slick skin. Alex eased away just as careful, tucking himself back into his jeans, eyes never leaving mine. I collapsed forward, forehead to the mattress, breathing in the mix of sex and cotton and the faint citrus of Alex’s cologne. Two sets of hands found me—one rough, one gentle—turning me onto my side, arranging limbs, pulling a sheet up. I didn’t know whose arm slid under my neck, whose palm settled on my hip, only that I was held between them, open, used, and somehow still whole.