17. Raging Boner

17

RAGING BONER

CANNON

Breathing lightly between parted lips, I step off the stool that feels like a jail cell encasing my large frame.

As if my senses have been short-circuited, a deep need to instill my memory…our memory, in Sophia's mind urges my every movement forward. I stand next to Oliver, whose body has gone still on the stool he's sitting on. For a man who screams dominance, he's awfully silent when my shoulder bumps into his. Using his compliance as a distraction, I move my hand gently down the back of his neck. The stoic expression he's wearing is seriously startling. He's a vault. Oblivious to the sensation that has overtaken my entire fucking body. I curve my fingers around the back of his neck, turning my wrist slightly, compelling him to look me in the eye.

It's when our eyes lock that his resolve seems to ebb.

Finally , I think to myself.

His emotions have always been hard to read. It's what got us into this ten-year battle in the first place. Mine are worn on my sleeve, his are bundled up tightly beneath the mask he wears like armor.

I fight back, restraining myself from fondling his marble-hard nipples that stand erect by my powerful touch. They're a sight for sore eyes, a sign of his body reacting to my touch.

If I know Sophia like I think I do, seeing me and him together turns her on. I'd cast a vote, claiming she enjoys it almost as much as she enjoys our undivided attention on her. It's why he's the focus of my attention. Oliver Collins exemplifies composure. Sure, he's a hoot to be around. The life of the party. Always the first one of us to accept a dare and follow through with it. In the bedroom, behind closed doors, he's forceful, unrestrained. Free to give up the contempt that our everyday life brings. He seeks to own his lovers. Demanding whatever it is that brings him pleasure while giving it back tenfold.

My best friend has possessed my body from the very first time I sprang an erection. He's held power over me for years. Power that I, too, crave. Power that I would chase into the night. Power that I aim to take a sliver of back. The man that I am today is a far cry from the confused boy I was when Oliver strolled into my life. He awakened desires that I never knew resided in me, though his attraction to the same sex seemed to go dormant during our rumbling-in-the-sheets hiatus. I didn't lie when I told him I didn't let another man fuck me. It's the truth. Oliver is the only man who has possessed me in that way.

Me screwing men? Now, that's a topic that warrants attention. While I love Oliver to take control, I developed a taste for it myself. I've been the top, caging men in, devouring them in Oliver's absence. He has a thing or two to learn about the man I grew into, including my desires, because as much as I love having him back where he belongs, buried in my heart and hole, I long to sink into his just as much.

High on post-show endorphins with a full stomach and a raging boner, I slide my unoccupied hand down Oliver's taut stomach. It hovers over the hardness at his core for a fleeting second, then settles on his inner thigh. My hand is firm as I apply a small amount of pressure, cupping his leg. I lean down, my mouth hovering over the shell of his ear.

"You cooked. We clean." I tilt my head, motioning to a shell-shocked Sophia. "I hope you're not tired because we're going to suck you off until your legs give out as a thank-you for preparing us this delicious, nutritious soup. Then, I'm going to fill your mouth with my nutritious seed." The pad of my thumb finds the middle of his bottom lip. I drag it down a little, exposing his teeth. "I've been dreaming about this mouth sucking my cock for days."

Acceptance radiates on his face as Oliver beams in approval at my plan. Both of our glances rake back toward Sophia. At the end of the day, this only works if she's comfortable. She's our number one, our center in the storm of sexual tension in our lives. Something intense flares through the kitchen, an electricity as vigorous and eager as a summer storm.

"Let's get these dishes washed so we can drown our boy in our cum."

"Keep up the dirty talk, and you'll have to mop the floor, Cannon. I swear I'm about five seconds from doing unheard of things with this fancy water sprayer." Sophia's body aches to be touched. I can see it in the precarious flame burning in her eyes and hear it in the strained tone of desire in her voice.

"Don't spark an idea you're not going to see through, Fireball. Get to cleaning, you two. Looks like we're going to make twice the mess afterward." The sense of Oliver's excitement drives us both into the kitchen.

We don't load the dishwasher. There isn't a reason why, and we don't discuss it beforehand. Sophia washes the dishes, then hands them to me to dry. It's not as if we're stalling, trying to prolong our chores, because we know the prize waiting for us at the end. We can feel him seductively peering at us with longing in each glare. Without saying it, I think we want Oliver to suffer a little bit.

As he watches us intently, assessing us as we move in tandem around the kitchen, it's evident that he's burning to take control. The fight that he's waging to remain seated, separated from us behind the island, flares across his face as Sophia and I take our time, drifting through the kitchen on a cloud, knowing that we're finally in charge. Oliver is at our mercy.

The torture continues as Sophia slides past my front, in search of the drawer housing the hand towels. Her ass rubs against my throbbing cock. It takes every ounce of willpower I can muster not to rip her clothes off and impale her with my rod right here in the kitchen, where anyone can walk in and see.

Music. We need music as a diversion. Jesus Christ. I don't think music can even defuse my need to be buried in them.

I thought music was my soulmate for so long. Then, I met Sophia, and Oliver came to his senses. The thought of adding music, my aphrodisiac, to this moment might have me nutting in my pants before I even have one of them naked.

Ignoring my throbbing cock, I unlock my phone, open my app, then hit play, all the while begging the universe that the song I chose works as a diversion. Machine Gun Kelly's "Kiss Kiss" bellows from my phone speaker. Thank fuck the mood in the atmosphere shifts from boning to jamming.

Sophia surprises me, grabbing the wooden salt shaker from the counter. She starts to sing into it, using it as her own personal microphone. Her tone is off and she stumbles over a few lyrics, but the look of happiness radiating in her eyes and the wide smile on her face are infectious. She moves, prancing along the tiles, not giving two shits that she looks like a talent-show reject. Ignoring my rock-hard shaft pulsating in my pants, I pick up a freshly washed soup ladle and its matching spatula, accepting that I, too, am going to look like a fool and follow her beat. My makeshift drumsticks pound against the edge of the countertop.

Powerless to our stupidity, Oliver pushes his stool away from the island. He gives a what the fuck shrug of his shoulders, then leans into his signature stance. In a blink, he joins us in the most idiotic performance of our lives.

The three of us are jamming hard-core, oblivious to anything outside of this moment, when the suite door swings wide, and Mazen stumbles in. With tense shoulders, he saunters over to us, seemingly enraged. It's not the time or place to inquire what's got him so bent out of shape. I can only guess it has something to do with the private investigator he hired to tail Caddell. As the main point of contact, he excused himself to handle business and asked us to keep Sophia occupied.

Sophia dances over to him, the wealth of red hair she had piled high on her head now cascading over her shoulders. Not missing a beat, Mazen's brows flicker a little, his stern expression softening at the sight of our girl enjoying herself. The hard line of his jaw relaxes a little when he accepts this minute of reprieve, our pocket of happiness, for what it is. An escape from the drama that has become our everyday lives. If we don't latch on to these moments when we get them, we'll go crazy.

A deep laugh floats from his lungs, its sound is rich and throaty. Then, he runs into the living room, jumps on the couch in a wide stance, and plays the meanest air guitar known to man.

This is the Mazen we grew up with. The carefree dude who wanted everyone to have a good time. He used to be a lot like Oliver. They shared a humor that edged on evil. It wasn't until after his sister's passing that he withdrew, becoming serious.

When the song comes to an end, laughter thunders from our lungs. Silence befalls a few moments later, we're brought back to reality. The one where we're three best friends who are falling head over heels for our live-in tattoo artist. The wide-eyed innocence Sophia gives off wafts around the three of us. She beckons us toward her, and we're like moths to a flame. Emerald eyes, full of magnetism, motion us closer, like the crook of her index finger, but her hand never moves.

As if a rubber band snaps, the tension in the air, along with our inhibition, flies out the window.

It's Mazen who gets to her first. Their push-and-pull is magnetic. It's almost as if they're privy to a secret that's shared only between them, and now, I know why. We sit in silence for a beat, watching as Mazen ravishes her mouth. The barrier of their hidden relationship has vanished, putting Oliver and me on an equal playing field once more.

For a split second, I almost take back my comment, feeling a smidge jealous as I watch their explosive harmony. There's nothing feral about their exchange. It's not driven by sex. It's guided by something much, much deeper—perhaps something that can threaten us all.

What if she loves him and only likes me and Oliver for sex? Are we just a distraction?

A soft moan flows from Sophia's lips like warm honey as their lips part. I watch in awe as his jellyfish-tattooed hand moves to her jawline.

Though his voice is nothing but a whisper, I hear him loud and clear. "I'm not in the place I need to be in when I finally get to sink into you again, Rosella. This has everything to do with me, nothing to do with you. Do you understand that?"

I'm not alone in the sudden curiosity that locks my shoulders in place. My body feels as if it were being doused half in fire and the other in ice.

Don't ruin this, Maz.

We've only all just accepted that this could work. Inferiority or not, I'm still all in, knowing that we really could work, the four of us, together. We haven't discussed it as thoroughly as we need to, especially being in the public eye, but the feelings are there. I know we've all sensed this pull.

Sophia is our tether.

Cautiously, she nods her understanding before he continues, "I'm going to sit down. Right over there." Mazen motions to a chair behind him. "I'm going to watch my best friends make you come on their faces so many times that they won't need to moisturize for a week. Then, when you don't feel like you can come anymore, you three can go to your bedroom, and you'll let them fill your tight hole with their nut."

The emphasis he puts on their pulls me from my jealous stupor. He's telling us without having to spell it out that he knows we share her heart and body, and he's on board with it.

There's no denying the disappointment on Sophia's face, even with the prospect of him directing the scene that will end with her full of a mixture of my and Oliver's cum. It's a brief bunch of her brows that has me noticing her impatience toward him giving in and joining us fully. The other night, poolside, he shared her with us. We took turns lapping her up, our fingers brushing as we finger-fucked her until she was wetter than the pool we swam in. When she begged to be filled by our dicks, Mazen dipped then too.

I think there's more going on than he's willing to admit. At first, I thought it was the group thing he wasn't interested in. Now, I think it has more to do with their past. Oliver told me he had a sinking suspicion that Mazen is the father of the son she still refuses to tell us about. I see the way Maz looks at her. I can feel the desire he has rolling off him like steam. With the information we know now, it makes more sense. Caddell mailed the birth certificate specifically to Mazen, not to me or Oliver or, hell, even Murphy.

If I've learned anything in my time circling this globe, it's that leaving things unsaid is almost as bad as confronting them head-on. This isn't the time or place for that conversation. I store it in a box in my mind and slam the door shut.

"My sister is out. Could be back at any time. You want her to just storm in and see them with me? Anyone can walk in." Sophia defiantly crosses her arms over her chest.

Getting caught has never been an issue before. It certainly wasn't when we all lapped her up poolside.

She feels rejected.

"It's the middle of the night, Rosella. No one is walking in tonight except Lacey, and I have a hard time believing that anything could make her blush. I dare someone else to come in here and see you … what's ours …"

Her eyes gloss over at his statement.

"They wouldn't live to see the sunrise tomorrow. I promise you that."

"Pussy is my favorite meal of the day." Oliver leans forward, caressing her shoulders. "Couch. Now."

Her body arches toward him. "Yes, sir."

A tormented groan leaves Mazen's mouth.

"He asked for a show, Oliver." I take his hand in my own, guiding him to where Sophia now lies. "Make her cry for her release."