SWNOVELS Dukes of Madness: Chapter 23
Nick walks past me while I’m sitting at the kitchen counter, reading an essay on body dysmorphia. It’s not homework—or at least not the kind I’ll get any academic credit for. I’ve always been aware that a big part of being Duchess is patching up wounds, stitching the Dukes back together. It’s the way it’s always been, someone pre-med in the tower to clean up the injuries from the fights. A woman who’ll nurture and heal.
As it happens, my Dukes’ biggest wounds aren’t the kind I can stitch.
I’m absorbed in the material until I see Nick’s bare chest crossing my periphery.
I turn just in time to see him enter the bathroom.
It’s bizarre living with Nick these days. I was used to being the prisoner he babysat, and then the prisoner he owned. I was just beginning to get comfortable with the thought of living with someone I hate, always aware of his movements, listening, watching.
Ever since that night in the crypt, things are different.
I know it’s not just me. He’s stopped glaring at the others when they mention taking me somewhere. He doesn’t follow me to classes. He watches me while we’re home, but it’s not with that suffocating, dogged intensity that always vaguely made me feel like I’d never left the Crane Motel. We orbit around each other, and if talking needs to be done, then we do it. Without resentment. Without anger. Without bitterness.
Something is missing, and I’m pretty sure we left it on the Barons’ mausoleum steps. He was willing to die for me. I was willing to save him. Whether I like it or not, that means something.
An agreement was made in blood.
I can’t stop watching him, tracking his movements, spying on him through the tiny sliver of bathroom door he’s left ajar. Leaning back, I see that he’s at the sink, a shirtless swath of inked back muscles, peering into the mirror. There’s this feeling I get in my chest when he’s around. It’s complicated and twisty, but it’s edged with an odd thrill, as if I’ve met someone new.
And I don’t hate him.
None of that changes the fact that Nick is an insufferable asshole. A hot asshole, but still… an asshole. I haven’t forgotten who he’s been, but I can’t deny who he’s become.
Closing the textbook, I suddenly hear water running. Not the shower. Definitely the sink. Slowly, I slide off the stool and walk over to the bathroom door. He’s studying his face in the mirror, twisting and turning his neck, checking out his beard.
“What are you doing?” I blurt.
He checks his reflection again and tugs at the thick hair. “Shaving this off.”
“Oh,” I say. “Why?”
“Well,” his eyes flick to mine. “I didn’t grow it intentionally.”
Right. He grew it because he was locked in the cage.
“So it doesn’t really feel like me,” he continues, running his fingers under the water. The sink is almost full. “It’s just a by-product of a situation that I let get out of control.” Again, our eyes meet in the mirror. “Obviously it got out of control before the situation at Daniel’s house, but… you know what I mean.”
I do, except…
“Huh.”
He turns. “What?”
Shrugging, I answer, “I don’t know. It sounds like maybe, along with the hair on your face, you’ve had a little emotional growth.”
He groans, and it startles me. “You really need to lay off Sy’s psych books.”
I gawk at him, but don’t leave. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Nick groan like that before. Outside of sex. Just because he’s annoyed at something. It’s so… human. I settle against the door frame. “I figured you were keeping it.”
“Why do you care?” he strokes his chin. It’s grown to the point where it’s soft. I clearly remember from that night in the party room when I kissed him. Suddenly, his eyes dart to mine. “You like it?”
I roll my eyes. “It’s a pretty well known fact that beards make a man exponentially more attractive.”
His responding smirk is almost enough to make me groan. “Then I definitely should shave it. Nick Bruin can’t get prettier. Men and women would just start orgasming on sight.”
I snort.
He lifts his shoulders. “Just stating the facts, Little Bird. I didn’t give myself that nickname.”
“No, I’m sure you would have gone for something way more modest.”
I watch as he fills his palm with a thick layer of shaving cream, and then dips his razor in the water. His eyebrow raises and our gazes meet in the mirror. “Wait.” He pauses, lather inches from his face. “Do you like it?”
Like a deer caught in headlights, I freeze, completely unable to answer. I wasn’t lying before. Beards on men are universally hot, and it’s doing him a lot of favors. Like this, he looks gruff and manly, a touch haggard, like he’s someone who’s been through a lot. There’s an honesty and authenticity to it that Remy’s taught me to appreciate in people.
And I sort of hate it.
Part of it is the reminder of how it came to be. I don’t regret locking Nick in that cage, but that doesn’t mean I’m proud of it. I was shown a part of myself—the viper part—that I’m learning to be careful about embracing. It was a means to an end. An eye for an eye.
The other part of me just misses his face.
It’s not like I spent two years around this man and never noticed how attractive he is. Some nights, it was the only bright thing in my life. Looking at him, appreciating the lines of his face and how it’d shift with his smirks. In a world as ugly as ours, it’s nice to see something pretty. Nick Bruin is, without a doubt, a piece of art. He’s already covered it up with Remy’s ink and all that South Side stoicism. The beard is just another layer for him to hide behind.
My cheeks heat as I look away, unable to bear his reaction. “It’s better without.”
There’s a long moment of stillness, and then the rustle of water. “Alright.”
When I look back up, Nick is lathering his face. His eyes are fixed attentively to the task in the mirror, but I can see a satisfied glint in his eyes that makes my insides wither in embarrassment. I don’t know why I stay, my feet glued to the floor as I look on, but it’s possibly because I’m interested in seeing it stripped away, revealing the real Nick Bruin beneath.
When he lifts the razor, there’s a twitch in his wrist. He shakes it out, but it makes me straighten, mouth pressing into a grim line. “Is that still… from the shocks?”
“It’s nothing,” he says, flexing his fist. “It hardly ever happens anymore.”
Suddenly I realize why he’s kept the beard all this time.
I give a full-bodied sigh, stepping up to snatch the razor. “Turn around and keep your mouth shut.”
I’m already regretting it when he obeys, leaning back against the sink, his torso a long, muscled, inked curve as he stares down at me. “You gonna clean me up, Little Bird?”
I scowl, grabbing his chin to wrench it sideways. “Stop calling me that.” I make the first sweep with the razor down his cheek, leaning around him to dunk it into the water.
“Little Moth doesn’t have the same ring to it,” he answers, gaze dropping to my chest. “Although, I think I get it. Papery wings. Drawn to bright flames. Nocturnal.” His eyes spark and he smiles with the half of his mouth that won’t pull at the cheek I’m shaving. “Remember when you used to stay up all night? Back at the motel?” I hum noncommittally, dragging the razor over his jaw. “I had a hell of a time finding places to get you food from. Everything that was worth half a shit closed at eleven, so I used to drive farther and farther out to find you something new.”
I frown, half in concentration, half in memory. Some of the first things they took out of my room were the microwave and fridge. “How thoughtful of you. Stop looking at my tits.” I give his chin a flick and he finally raises it.
“Candy and soda were easy,” he murmurs, throat shifting beneath the razor. “Lots of twenty-four-hour gas stations.”
Pausing, I dip the razor and say, “I know what you’re doing, Nick.” I was probably the first person he ever had to really take care of. The first person he had to feed. The first woman he ever had to buy tampons for. The first victim he ever had to make sure stayed alive. “You did your best for me back then. Mostly.” I give him a significant look, remembering last Christmas. “I get it. That doesn’t make you a hero.”
He blinks, blue eyes dark in the anemic light of the bathroom. “I know that.”
“But,” I add, dipping down to get beneath his chin, “thank you.”
I’m getting better at that.
Thanking him.
I shake it off of me like something sad and nettled, dipping the razor to start on his other side. When his hand settles on my hip, I don’t even flinch, the motion feeling so casual and contained that it lacks urgency.
And then he says, “What would you say if I told you I wanted to kiss you?”
I drag the razor down, feeling the texture of the hair as I sever it. “I’d say I have a razor blade to your throat,” I mutter, focused on the task. “So tread carefully.”
“I’d let you cut me,” Nick says. In a moment of whiplash, he adds. “You shouldn’t have shown Remy the skull.”
I raise my eyes to his, trying to find the connection there. There was a moment with Remy where I considered deflecting, but it didn’t last particularly long. “I need to be honest with him. As honest as I can be. He understands.”
Nick hums, moving so I can get his other cheek. “He didn’t have anything to say about it? A memory?”
“Nothing.” Bitterly, I remember the words that spilled from his mouth when he saw Leticia’s skull. “He said she was beautiful.”
Nick watches me, those blue eyes searching, plundering, calculating. Eventually, he snorts. “You’re jealous? Of a skull.”
“Am not.”
“You can’t bullshit me, Little Bird. I’m a younger sibling, too.” His thumb moves on my hip, a gentle, soothing gesture, and when he speaks, it’s in a quiet timbre. “She could never have held a fucking candle to you.”
The razor stops and I try—I really do—not to look into his eyes. But I fail. It doesn’t mean so much. Nick never knew her in life and isn’t the kind of guy who’d appreciate her in death. Nevertheless, it settles something inside of me to hear it. Never before has anyone preferred me over Leticia Lucia.
Clearing my throat, I get back to business, trying to shake it off. “A candle was never the kind of fire I was worried about.”
Nick’s thumb keeps moving, a slow circuit against my hip. “So you knew, then? About Lionel’s stockpile.”
“Of course I knew.” I dunk the razor once more, returning to his sideburn. “Leticia knew.” Suddenly, I wonder, “How do you know? I doubt even the Counts do. Maybe Perez.”
He hums deep in his throat. “I have my ways. It does make me wonder if she—”
I know when the words cut off, Nick’s thumb going still, that he’s holding something back for my sake. Annoyed, I tell him, “You can say it.”
I already know, anyway.
“Leticia probably was the target,” he says, eyes sliding away as I turn his head. “Tate was too clean, too inconsequential, and if what the Baron King told us was right—if we’re fighting outside of our weight class…”
“Then this is King shit.” I nod, having already worked that out. “And Tate and Remy were probably just collateral damage.”
“Exactly.”
I can tell his mind is working in overdrive when he doesn’t try to sneak a glimpse of my tits as I dip the razor again. “You want to know who her enemies were, don’t you?”
His thumb begins moving against me again. “None are as obvious as you.”
“I didn’t—”
Nick rolls his eyes. “I know. I’m just saying. Who could hate Leticia as much as you did?”
“No one.” I scoff, moving toward his mouth. “Not possible.”
In a careful murmur, lips tucked in for me, he asks, “Could your dad have done it?”
Leticia’s been gone for more than two years. Of course I’d considered this. “The thing you have to understand about my father is that he treasures an investment. Leticia was his biggest. He molded her, shaped her into what he needed her to be.” Sighing, I lean closer, careful around his philtrum. “It’s why Perez is still in line for his Kingship. It’s not that he’s the best, or the smartest, or the strongest. It’s that my dad’s already invested in him.”
“And Perez needed her,” he gives me a significant look, “or you, to cement his position, so it probably wasn’t him.”
I agree. “Perez isn’t smart enough to hide all this. He’s good at taking people. Abducting them. Hiding them. But covering up a double murder?” Shaking my head, I give the corner of his mouth a slow swipe of the blade.
“Remy ran,” he says, eyes going distant. “He wouldn’t have run from some peon like Perez.”
“Especially after watching his friend get murdered,” I wager.
Nick grows quiet as I finish up, scanning every inch of his face for anything I’ve missed. When I grab the towel, using it to clean away the shaving cream and revealing the skin beneath, I step back, gesturing to the mirror.
“Well?”
He seems to snap out of some deep, dark hole in his mind, twisting to look at his reflection. Raising a hand, he rubs over the angle of his jaw. “You tell me,” he says, meeting my gaze through the mirror. “You like it like this?”
I shift uncomfortably. “I don’t see why my opinion should matter.”
He dips his chin, fixing me with a dark look. “Little Bird, your opinion is the only one that matters.”
I feel the blood rush to my face, not comprehending how he can just say things like that. I know he wants me. Nick is the least subtle man I know when it comes to wanting my attention. It’s just the bluntness of it. The lack of fear. The complete absence of shame.
“My opinion?” I toss the towel at him, trying to play off the tension. “Your face is the only good thing about you.”
He catches the towel, eyes flashing in delight. Bouncing a finger at me, he says, “See, I know you’re telling yourself that’s an insult, but we both know it’s a compliment.”
Turning on my heel, I stride out of the bathroom with fiery cheeks.
With enough lube, I’ve learned that getting them off is easy. Sometimes it’s hard work and my hands are killing me by the time it’s finished, but I won’t deny there’s a strange satisfaction when it finally breaks free, loose, and slippery.
“Gotcha,” I say, grinning down at the collection of clock pieces. It took me a few days, but I finally got the whole section apart. I just need to sand, clean and oil it, then put it back together.
I gather the brass pieces in my hands and carry them back down to the loft, where I left my cleaning supplies.
“Take that, fuckface.” Nick’s voice carries up from the living room. “Twenty. Beat that.”
“The only thing you’re beating is your dick,” Remy says, “at night, in your room, alone.”
Sy’s soft laugh carries up to me. “Burn. Good one, Rem.”
The sound of palms slapping echoes off the high ceilings. I roll my eyes, determined to ignore it.
“What are you laughing at?” Nick asks, voice breathless. “You only got to seventeen.”
“I have twenty pounds of muscle mass on you, little brother,” Sy replies. “Which just means I’m lifting that much more weight than you.”
I finish sorting the hardware, and as a reward, allow myself a peek downstairs. They’re standing around the pull-up bar installed between two beams, which I’ve been using off and on as a makeshift clothesline. The three of them are in various stages of undress. Nick and Remy are shirtless—as always. Sy has on a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and the neck cut out. I’ve learned pull-up contests, along with push-ups, sit-ups, and how fast one can run a mile, are a common occurrence between the guys. I knew they were competitive, it’s their whole thing, but now that they’re all getting along better it’s reached a new level. I never know when a spontaneous contest is going to happen, but so far, it’s been at the gym, passing an empty playground, and once in the parking lot on campus.
This morning, they competed over who finished breakfast first.
Boys.
“He’s got you there. Sy is one swole motherfucker.” Remy has his hair pulled back out of his face with one of my elastic ties, and I think I might like it—the unobstructed sight of his green eyes as his grin spreads. “Although if I was working off that much sexual tension, I’d probably be ripped, too.”
Sy’s easy grin snaps away, leaving a scowl. “Shut up.”
“Nah,” Nick says, frowning at his brother’s obscene muscles, “I’m man enough to admit that the only extra weight you have on me is your cock.”
“I said shut up,” Sy repeats, slamming his fist into Nick’s bicep. If it hurts, Nick doesn’t show it, just giving his brother a mocking smirk.
“Huh.” Remy’s forehead creases pensively. “Do you think a cock weighs more when it’s hard, or is it the same amount when it’s soft?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Nick asks, taking a swing at Sy but missing when he darts out of the way.
“Cocks,” Remy stresses, eyebrows lifting. “Isn’t that what we were just talking about?”
“My dick weighs the same all the time,” Sy says, arms crossing over his chest.
“How do you know?” Nick asks, dropping his fighting stance. “Have you weighed it?”
Sy’s head jerks back. “What? No.”
“Oh my god,” Remy adds, laughing. “You have. Hey, no judgment here. You would all fucking shudder at the experiments I’d do on my cock if it looked like yours.”
The tips of Sy’s ear turn a sudden glowing red. “No, I haven’t fucking weighed it! I just know.”
“There’s a way to solve this, you know,” Remy offers, gesturing toward the kitchen. “We have a food scale.”
“Fuck, no!” Sy insists. “We are not weighing dicks.”
“Why? Afraid you won’t live up to the hype?” God, Nick is amazing at trash talk, but he’s even better at goading his brother. “Or maybe you’re just too afraid of comparing and realizing that your dick isn’t as big of a fucking deal as you think it is.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m not doing—”
Something clicks in my head.
“Wait!” I shout, hopping up. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for. “I think Nick’s right.”
Three pairs of eyes swing to me.
“Of course you do, Little Bird. I’m always right.” Nick grins smugly as I walk down the stairs, Archie at my feet. “But what am I right about this time? Exactly.”
“That Sy’s dick isn’t that big of a deal.” I walk over to them and get hit by their warm, sweaty scent. “And he shouldn’t be ashamed of being different, because everyone is different.”
Sy spins and levels me with a hard look. “Are you seriously suggesting I pull out my cock and weigh it on a kitchen scale to prove some feel-good, body image bullshit?”
“God, no.” I hold up my hands. “Please do not put your dicks on the kitchen scale. I use that to weigh out my smoothie powder.” Carefully, I suggest, “But maybe it’s time we destigmatized Sy’s difference.”
“Have you been reading my psych books again?” he asks, advancing on me with curled fists. “I told you to fucking stop!”
This is dangerous territory. For one, I’m not actually a psych major, and even if I were, it’s not like I’d be qualified to diagnose anything. But every night I go to bed with Sy. Every night I slide between his sheets. Every night I touch him, hand shifting under his blankets as he digs his head back into the pillow. He’s gotten better at kissing me before and during, even if they usually do come upon me abruptly, like he’s remembering something he’s forgotten. And the kisses… they’re electric, energized, charged with the same tension I feel beneath my palm when I stroke him into a shuddering mess.
But we’ve just hit this wall.
He’ll almost never let me look at it, during.
Slowly, I start, “Penile dysmorphic disorder is—”
Laughter bursts from Remy and Nick’s mouths, try as they might to push it down, and Sy erupts with a loud, “No!”
Annoyed, I cross my arms. “You have a fucking issue, Sy!”
“And it won’t stop reading my goddamn textbooks!” Sy turns on his heel and storms toward his room.
I hold my hand up to Remy and Nick, indicating I want them to wait for a second and follow him. When I get to his room, he’s tearing off his shirt, muscles rippling beneath his warm, tawny skin.
I keep my voice low, soft. “Sy.”
“I’m not doing this.” He rummages through his drawer, looking for a clean shirt. His back muscles ripple, making the tribal tattoo move in sync. “I’m not going to be put on display in front of those asshats just so they can make fun of me.”
“No one is making fun of you.” He gives me a hard look. “Okay, well, they’re always going to mess with you, that’s just how you are together, but I really think they’d want to help if they knew how.”
“Talking about my freak of a dick isn’t going to help.” He slams the dresser drawer shut. “Where do you think this came from, Lavinia? You think it just sprung up out of thin air? I’m sick of people talking about it!”
“They’ve already seen it.”
“Not like—” He lowers his voice, hissing, “Not like that.”
Exhaling a measured breath, I say, “Your hangups with this are holding you back, and you know it as well as I do. I’m not saying you should be swinging it around all the time. I’m just saying you shouldn’t hate it, and this could be a way to make you see that it’s not so bad.” When all he does is plant his palms on the dresser, fuming, I decide to try a different tack. “Please?” I step behind him and rest a hand on his hip, watching the touch crest through his muscles. “I’ll make it worth your while,” I add, breathing against his tattoo. Dirty tactics, for sure. “And you won’t look stupid. I’ll make sure of it.”
He turns, eyebrow raised. “Really.”
The skepticism in his voice borders on derision, but I still say, “I promise.”
Sy has this thing about image that’s annoying but pretty normal. He wants everyone to know he’s the best. At school, at fighting.
At sex.
I know he relents when he huffs, this big exhalation that makes his shoulders contract. “Goddamn it.”
I grab his hand, pulling a very reluctant Duke back to the common room. Nick sits on one end of the couch, while Remy leans against the other, teasing Archie with a string.
“Sit,” I tell Sy, pointing to the middle seat. He squeezes in between them, and I face them from the opposite side of the coffee table.
“What’s the plan, Little Bird?” Nick cups his crotch. “Need me to show Sy how a confident man regards his cock?”
Fucking obnoxious asshole.
But… “Honestly, that’s exactly what I want you to do—”
Before I get the entire sentence out, Nick stands, pushing his shorts and then boxers over his hips. “Like this?”
I spend way too long gaping at it, staring at the trail of hair, the flaccid cock, the tattooed knuckles covering his balls when he cups them in a palm. “Yes.” I swallow, dragging my eyes away from his body. “Just like that.”
I’ve been living with three guys for a while now, and I’ve been at the gym enough to have some pretty serious dick-flashing under my belt. Sometimes I wonder if this is just what living with guys is like, or if it’s a West End thing.
Nick kicks off his shorts and Remy, apparently not ready to be outdone, rises. “Vinny, your boy is an artist. A few classes on the human form, and you get used to dicks being in your face for hours.”
“What about tits?” Nick asks, voice completely serious. “And pussy?”
Remy sniffs. “Nah. I mean, we all pretend we’re cool with it, but I had a half-chub the whole time.” He gives me a cocky grin and thumbs at the button on his jeans. “Thank god you’re not the model in my class, Vin. I wouldn’t have been able to make it.”
“Thanks?” I say, staring at the golden hair and tattoos that travel under his belly button to the darker thatch above his cock. It swings casually between his legs as he steps out of his pant legs.
They’re both standing, their dicks at Sy’s eye level. He looks like he’s about to explode, but I catch his eye and give him a small nod. “Your turn.”
“I know.”
He doesn’t move.
“Don’t be ashamed.”
“I’m not!”
Yet still, no movement. Not an inch. I raise an eyebrow, and finally he grunts, quickly standing and yanking down his joggers. His cock springs out, and yeah, okay. Seeing it like this, next to the others, the difference is noticeable. Even unaroused he’s got a few inches on the others and some girth, to boot.
“Stop looking,” he hisses to the room and sits back down. Remy and Nick do the same.
“So, I think the best way to handle this,” I start, walking around the table. Archie darts between my feet and I look down, trying not to trip. When I glance up again, the three of them are watching me closely. My eyes dart down and I freeze. “What the fuck?” I look away for five seconds and all three of them have grown at least twice the size as before. I eye the cocks pointed at me like three missiles locked and loaded.
“Stop acting surprised that you get us hard,” Nick says, threading his fingers behind his head, putting everything on display. “And if we’re going to compare, Sy may be the biggest, but I think I’m the hardest.”
“I’ve got this wicked curve,” Remy says, running his narrow fingers down his length. “Hits all the right spots, doesn’t it, Vinny?”
“I, uh…” Fuck. This may be harder—more difficult than I thought. “The whole point is that we’re not comparing.” My face feels as hot as Sy’s ears look. “You should say something nice about Sy’s dick.”
Remy takes this easily in stride. “Well, it’s fucking enormous.”
Sy covers his eyes with his hands. “Jesus Christ.”
“Okay.” I gesture to Remy. “But that’s not really a compliment. It’s an observation.”
Remy frowns. “To a guy, that’s a compliment.”
Sighing, I ask, “Anything else?”
Remy seems to really give this thought, glancing down into Sy’s lap. “I mean… look, it’s a magnificent dick. I don’t know why he’s so wound up about it. If I had a dick like that, I’d be naked twenty-four-seven showing that thing off.”
Nick snorts. “You already do that.”
Remy’s still staring, head tilted in consideration. “Is your dad hung like that? Because goddamn, your mom must—”
“Actually,” Nick cuts in, scowling, “he gets it from my mom’s side. Which is kind of unfair, if you ask me.” To me, he adds, “Not that my dick isn’t ‘magnificent’, too.”
I ignore his wink. “There, see? That’s a compliment. I bet all kinds of guys wish they had your dick. You should be proud of it.”
Sy grinds out, “Yeah, I’ll be marching in a parade any day now.”
“Nick,” I prompt, giving him a look. “Tell him. It’s not bad, right?”
Nick leans back into the couch, knees spread, balls heavy between his thighs. “You’re wasting your breath. Our mom is literally a fucking pro at making men feel great about their dicks, and this one is like a brick wall.”
Leveling me with a look, Remy puts his hand on his cock, adding, “You know, if anything, you should be making Nick and I feel better about our pork swords. You’re touching Sy’s on a nightly basis. Nick and I settle for scraps.”
Nick looks away and very pointedly doesn’t say anything. He shouldn’t. I’ve never touched his cock outside of coercion, bribery, extortion, or outright force.
Squeezing his shaft, Remy goes on, “Sy keeps bitching about girls not being down to get impaled on that thing, but here’s the truth. He’s the only one out of the three of us who’s never had his masculinity called into question on the basis of dick size. That’s, like, kinda privilege if you think about—ow, you shitheel! Don’t slap me when I have my dick out!”
Sy, who looks one sideways comment from slapping Remy upside the head a second time, says to me, “Are we done yet?”
But Nick barrels over him. “Everyone knows it’s not the size that dictates your manliness, anyway.” I know the second I see that sharp glint in his eye that the following words are going to annoy the shit out of me. I’m not wrong. “It’s how long you can last. And I can definitely last longer than you two.”
“You wish,” Remy bursts, clearly outraged. “Foreplay is my thing. Bring it.”
I look at Sy, and he’s staring down at his hands. The hands that are covering his dick—or some of it. His hands are huge, but… well, his dick is bigger.
Now that I think about it, Nick might be a genius. Sy’s gotten really good at holding his orgasm back—not that they’d know—and this might be just the thing to inspire some confidence. Outlasting them.
Winning.
“You in, man?” Nick asks Sy. “Or are you afraid…”
“I’m not afraid,” he snaps back. “That’s just the dumbest fucking challenge since that time Remy dared us to hang under the railroad trestle while the train was passing.”
“Wait—you what?” I hold up my hands. “On second thought, I don’t even want to know.” Exhaling, I drop to the couch opposite them, tilting my head as I watch Sy. “I think you should.”
His lip pulls up in bafflement. “You want us to jack off together?”
“‘Want’ is a really strong word,” I say, and it’s difficult to make eye contact with them instead of staring at their crotches, but I think I do a passable job. “Just… consider it a lesson. Or a test.”
“A test.” Sy’s eyes perk up. A test, of course, is another version of a challenge. God. These Dukes.
“A test where, regardless of how well you do, you get an orgasm at the end.” Since they all look willing, but not exactly enthused, I add, “And in the spirit of competition, why don’t I sweeten the pot?” At once, their eyes all fly to mine, interest piqued. “I’ll go to bed every night this week with whoever lasts longest.”
The muscle at the back of Sy’s jaw pulses, and I’m afraid this is pushing him too far. Sy is going to fucking kill himself trying to outlast the other two, but this is what he needs. Something to win. I just know it.
“So…” Sy’s eyes narrow. “How does this work? Are you going to… use your hand, or—”
“No!” I burst, eyes narrowed. “You’re going to use your own hands!”
“The rules need to be very clear,” Nick says, his cock already giving an excited twitch. “Things tend to go sideways when they aren’t established up front.”
Remy nods. “No one wants jizz going sideways, Vinny.”
“The rules are that you jerk off,” I say, settling in. Since these are bears and I’m the viper, I very clearly see all the ways in which this can be manipulated. “And you have to jerk off. No stalling. Your hands have to move faster than you blink. If your free hand isn’t on your dick, it needs to be at your side. No pinching to distract yourself.”
“Fine.” Nick manspreads, fisting his cock nice and slow, wrist twisting at the tip. Remy follows him, looking just as relaxed as he leans his head back, staring at me through his blond fan of eyelashes. Sy, however, is sandwiched between them with a surly expression, giving his dick a slow, short stroke.
The problem here isn’t balancing my premature ejaculator with the other two.
It’s Nick.
In no universe am I ready to sleep in his bed, let alone do anything else in it. Maybe we’ve reached a point in our relationship where I don’t want him dead, but that’s hardly naked cuddling territory, and from the dark, heavy-lidded way he watches me as he lazily fists his cock, that’s exactly the kind of thing he’d be looking for.
So I guess I’ll need to work things in Sy’s favor.
I did promise, didn’t I?
I unzip my hoodie, revealing the tight, thin tank I wore to bed last night. The cool air hits my skin, eliciting a shiver. I ignore it, tossing the hoodie aside to cross my arms, pushing my tits together.
Nick’s eyes jump right to my chest, fist going still. “You’re not wearing a bra.”
“No.”
“That’s not fair.”
I shrug. “You’re blinking. Better get that hand moving.”
Remy leans into the corner of the couch and lifts his chin. “Let’s see that tattoo.”
Slowly, I drag my fingertips over the moth, just above my breasts. We had a second session last night, and it’s still tender, so I tug the collar of the tank down carefully, far enough to expose the tattoo, and coincidentally, the top swell of my tits.
Remy grins and picks up his pace, sliding his hand down his length. I watch him expand, thickening in his palm, and feel heat burn between my legs. Remy wasn’t kidding before. His cock does hit all the right places, and it’s impossible to look at him, miles and miles of tattooed, wiry flesh, and not imagine the way he’d feel beneath me if I went to straddle him right now.
“She’s playing you,” Nick says, seemingly unaffected by my cleavage.
Except the fact his cock gives a sudden surge of pre-cum.
I tug my top a little lower, and Nick visibly bites down on a shudder, his blue eyes locked to the skin. Beside him, his brother is doing the same. Staring. Tongue sweeping a wet circuit over his bottom lip. Cock weeping with thin, sticky fluid.
“Play me all you want, Vin. I don’t give a shit.” Remy, on the other hand, doesn’t even try to hide his excitement. “Play with yourself, too. I don’t know about these two, but I can take it.”
Nick shoots him a sudden, hot glare. “Shut the fuck up!”
Remy grins, wide and loose. “That’s my girl.”
The tank top comes off easily, sliding over my heavy breasts, and I watch, enraptured, as Nick’s chest caves with an exhale that doesn’t seem to end.
He rakes his lip through his teeth, groaning. “Fuck, that’s so dirty, Little Bird.”
It’d be a lie to say some of the tingling between my legs wasn’t due to the power of it. The way Remy begins sweating, thighs flexing up into his fist as I skate my fingertips over the swell of my breast. How Nick is so tense that the tendons in his arm barely shift as his hands work his cock, eyes watching me pinch a nipple. That Sy—this bulging bear of a fighter—can look so lost and desperate as my thighs slowly part.
Their gazes on me, a vast vista of green and blue, are so tangible that I swear I can feel them caress me with their minds.
I lean my head back, mouth parted as I massage my breasts. “Come on, Nick…”
His jaw clenches, the apples of his cheek blotched with red. “Don’t—don’t—don’t fucking talk to me.” The ember in my belly flares into an instant inferno, because he never said please, but this?
This is begging.
I wet my lips, spread my thighs, and raise my hips. “Don’t you want to come for me, Nick? Right here?” I run a fingernail down the valley between my breasts, writhing, and Nick’s face flashes with something akin to rapture. “Don’t you want to cover me? Don’t you want to make me taste—”
“Goddamnit!” he growls, shooting upright just as his cock begins pulsing, thick ribbons of cum spilling over his fist. “Fuck!”
Remy snorts a laugh. “Shit, dude, you never had a chance. You’ve been backed up for weeks. Don’t even try to lie.”
Nick falls back onto the couch, breathless as he scowls at me. “Whatever. One day, you’re going to come to bed with me, and it’s not going to be because I beat these two fucknuggets in some stupid-ass game.”
I give him a bland, humorless smile. “Keep dreaming.” Then I turn my gaze on Remy, who’s still looking all loose and smoldering. This is going to be a problem. I doubt Remy’s ever had a quick jerk in his life. He’s the sort of guy who’d indulge in it. Take his time. Draw it out.
Leaning back, I push my fingers into my mouth, swirling my tongue around them and pull them back out, slick and wet.
“What are you doing with those, Vin?” Remy asks, licking his lips.
“You’re the one that said I should play with myself,” I tell him, spreading my legs and shifting aside my panties. “Just giving you what you asked for.”
My first touch hits like a flame being lit. I got pretty good at taking care of my own needs in those tiny hotel rooms, and unlike these boys, I thought I had a certain level of control over my body. Until I see the three of them… Nick’s chest heaving, his hands sticky with his own cum. Remy’s eyes laser focused, darting between my tits and pussy, and Sy… well, for once he doesn’t look tense and pissed off, but I do recognize the expression. It’s the same one he has before any competition. He’s here to win.
That’s my Duke.
Always a victor.
Rubbing my fingers over my folds, I raise my gaze to Remy’s. “You remember the first time you used me as a canvas?”
His eyes wander over my skin. “I’ll never forget.”
“You got me off, too.”
“You did what?” Nick shouts. “When did this happen?”
Remy’s lips twitch, and I push one finger inside, then another. My fingers are small, nothing like their cocks, and for a second I almost cave, considering telling Remy to flatten me on the table and get this over with.
“I fucked her with my marker. The thick one.” He shrugs. “I just needed to see what our girl could take.”
Nick leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She liked it, didn’t she?”
“He made it good for me,” I confess. Remy always makes it good for me. Like right now, our eyes hold, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. I can tell by the way his forearm tenses and the tremor in his abs that he’s a lot closer than he’s giving away.
He turns his head to Sy and studies him for a moment, then says, “You gonna cave?”
“Nope,” Sy replies with a tense shake of the head.
“Okay.” He lifts his chin at me. “Gimme a taste of those pretty fingers, and I’ll get this over with.”
I look over at Sy to see what he thinks. It’s not exactly a violation of any of the rules. He gives the slightest nod, and I pull my fingers out of my throbbing pussy and lean forward. Remy meets me halfway, his hand furiously jerking his cock, tip blistering red. He grabs my outstretched hand and shoves my fingers in his mouth, groaning around them as he sucks away the taste of me. It only lasts a few seconds before he jolts back, sinking into the couch with a deep, gritted whine. His brows crush together as his cock pulses with the first wave of cum, dribbling down his knuckles.
“Fuck, Vinny.” Breathlessly, he wrings the last of his orgasm from his shaft, squeezing. “Nectar of the fucking gods—”
A growl rips through the room, followed by Sy’s release. His thighs flex, pushing his hips into his fist as he erupts, eyes locked onto the head of his cock as it surges cum onto his fist, his thighs, his belly. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, assessing the mess. He looks between his friends. “I won, right?” He made it, barely, but the small, vicious grin on his mouth tells me that’s enough.
Nick rolls his eyes. “I guess so.”
“Good job, bro,” Remy says, holding up his hand for a high-five.
Sy ducks away, glaring at the cum dripping from Remy’s hand.
“Oh, right,” Remy says, giving his palm a frown. “Not to be picky or anything, but is there a prize for second place?”
“You sucked her fingers!” Nick shouts, throwing his hands wide. “That’s your consolation prize.”
“That was a negotiation.”
I feel the argument ramping up, which hardly seems fair. All three of them got orgasms, and I’m sitting here fucking burning with need, clit throbbing. “Stop!” I bark, and the words are out of my mouth before I really have a chance to consider them. “Everyone gets a prize.”
They do?
I do.
“For being good sports,” I elaborate, my eyes glued to their cocks. I’m not sure when the sight of a dick became appealing to me. Last month, I was thinking about how weird they are, and now I’m practically vibrating with the urge to feel one.
“Yeah?” Remy asks. “Like what?”
“Like this.”
Sy’s the first one I go to, rounding the coffee table to drop to my knees between his legs. I look up into stunned blue eyes, his mouth parted in surprise when I reach for him. He’s still thick and hot, not quite flaccid, cum running down the shaft.
I should probably look him in the eye when I guide him to my mouth. Guys like that. Sexy. Sultry. Instead, I get lost in the curiosity of it, sliding my lips over the swollen head and tasting the slickness. It’s not the first or even second time I’ve had him in my mouth, but it’s the first time I savor it, thighs pressing together as I work my tongue against his head. Sy hisses, his hand coming to rest on my scalp—not pushing, just touching—and when his hips jerk upward, I get the sense it’s involuntary.
“Christ, Vinny,” Remy breathes, his voice dropping an octave. “You look so good when you have that thing in your mouth.”
It’s not a blow job, though. It’s just a taste, and when I ease away, Sy is gaping at me openly. “Good job, big bear,” I say, feeling my cheeks flame as I turn to the man at his side.
Remy’s sprawled back in the corner of the couch, cock resting in a pool of cum against his inner thigh. When I move between his legs, he spreads them, head leaned back on the cushions as his eyes flash excitedly. He’s the one to grab his cock—impatient, greedy—sweeping it over the pool of cum on his thigh before guiding my mouth to it, palm warm against my neck.
“That’s our good girl,” he rumbles as I sink down, taking it into my mouth. He twitches in my mouth, his dick making an attempt at surging back to life. I’m almost tempted to draw him out, build him up again to feel the hardness of it.
Almost, but that’s not what this is about.
I lick Remy clean, lingering on the tip, and he shudders, legs seizing like he’s being electrocuted. Oversensitive, probably.
Reluctantly, I release him.
One prize left.
The one I’m dreading.
Nick watches me intensely as I pass his brother to approach him, my stomach doing flips. I could deny him, turn away and let the three of them bicker about the way things are—two of them being my Dukes while the other is just a glorified guard dog.
But I don’t.
I settle on my knees before him, wary but resolved as I look into his blazing blue eyes. His cock, flaccid a moment ago, is already thick and ready. He wants this. He wants me. That’s never been put into question. Maybe that’s part of the problem. It’s both the most and least attractive thing about him, and I’m completely at a loss to reconcile it. It’s thrilling to be wanted so completely, but dangerous, just like that day in the crypt. Nick is the human equivalent of a partially loaded revolver pointed at my temple, and every rejection is a pull of the trigger. If I wasn’t made to be loved, then I definitely wasn’t made to give it back.
He loves me so much—how can I ever return that kind of affection?
One kiss at a time, maybe.
“It won’t bite, Little Bird,” he says quietly, and I realize I’ve been staring at his cock while lost in my thoughts.
His words are light, joking, but there’s a tight coil of tension running through his muscles. Everything is hard. His abs, his biceps, his shoulders, his jaw…
Everything except his eyes.
There’s a softness there I’m not used to seeing, something cautious and already defeated, as if he’s expecting me to turn away.
I hold his gaze when I reach for him, so I see the way his expression collapses when I wrap my fingers around his cock. His forehead pinches in rapture, jaw going slack as he tracks the way I pitch forward, bringing him to my mouth.
I kiss it.
It’s wet and slow, my lips pressed to the soft flesh like it’s another mouth, tongue swirling out to catch the slickness of his release, finding it salty and still warm.
“Fucking hell, Little Bird,” he breathes, voice full of awe as he reaches out, sweeping the pad of his thumb against the corner of my mouth. His eyes are zeroed in on the place where we meet, the head of his cock snug between my lips, and I think I see something in him break to have this: me, touching his cock, through no machinations, no manipulations.
Just because I want to.
A strong surge of precum meets my tongue, and I kiss it away, taking it into myself. It’s gentle, sincere, and I can tell he understands that it’s the best I can give him. At least for now.
I pull away, and his fingertips drag across my face, skating over the stickiness of him on my lips. His eyes hold something steady and assured, and when he lets me go without the demand for more, I see it for what it is.
A promise.