Broken Pieces

Page 92

Tristan grabbed his hips and thrust one more time before his cock jerked inside Josiah as he emptied himself, too.
Arms and legs weak, Josiah collapsed, half on the couch, one leg over Mateo. A few beats went by before Mateo’s arm wrapped around him. Then Tristan went down beside him, his arm around Josiah, too.
He had to be falling off the couch, or maybe not since he lay on his side, making as much room as he could. Josiah was too drained to look. All he knew was they were his. Both of them were his. After this, he swore he wouldn’t give either of them up, no matter what it took. That was the last thing he remembered before he closed his eyes and his world went black.
Chapter Ten
Mateo
When Mateo’s eyes slid open, the room was dark. Light from outside enabled him to make out the two figures in front of him. Josiah and Tristan. Holy fuck, how in the hell had this happened? Not that he hadn’t enjoyed it—probably more than he should have—but damn... He’d shared Josiah. No, Tristan had shared Josiah with him. This was their home and their couch. They lay like this together every night; Mateo was the extra.
He fisted the hand that rested on Josiah, trying to calm the need to claim him, not just share him.
Mateo let his fingers ghost over Josiah’s shoulder, some of the tension leaking from him with the touch. Could Josiah feel the roughness of his calloused fingers against his skin? In his sleep, did he know it was Mateo touching him, or did he think it was Tristan?
Josiah didn’t move, his breathing deep and even, telling him he probably didn’t feel shit. He’d come so hard, Mateo doubted he’d feel much of anything for a while.
Warm skin brushed against the back of his hand before sliding down Josiah’s spine. Spontaneous heat flared inside him as he saw Tristan’s hand float up Josiah’s back and drift over his hand again.
His cock hardened against Josiah’s thigh, a foreign voice asking silent questions in the back of his head: Will he touch me again...? Do I want him to...?
It wasn’t as though he’d been a saint since he lost Josiah. He’d fucked men. Not a lot of them, but those had been quick, thirty-minute ways to get off. He’d never craved the touch of another man after it was gone, except with Josiah. So why did he want it from Tristan? From the suit who gave Josiah all the shit he never could?
Tristan pushed to his feet. Teo watched the man’s firm, naked body move toward the chair, grabbing a blanket off the back before coming toward them again.
When he got close enough, Mateo noticed his cock was half hard, too. As much as that drew his attention, he also couldn’t stop concentrating on the rest of Tristan as he straightened out the blanket. As he laid it over Mateo and Josiah. Over his man and Mateo, as though he was taking care of both of them. No one in his life had ever laid a blanket over him while he slept. No one except Josiah.
“Wait.” Mateo slowly untangled himself from Josiah and stood.
“Top of the stairs, first door on the left. I’ll be right there.” Tristan grabbed his underwear and pulled them on before walking to another room. Mateo grabbed his pants and did the same, quietly making his way up the stairs while wondering what the fuck he was doing.
He opened the door, found the switch on the wall and turned it on, realizing Tristan sent him to his office. It was clean as hell, nothing out of place. No papers were out, giving the impression he didn’t use it very often, though Teo somehow knew that wasn’t true.
Mateo walked over to the tall window and looked out at the city below. At all the lights in the Golden Gate Bridge in the background, thinking everything looked a whole lot different from up here.
“Whiskey?” Tristan asked from behind him.
“Yeah.” Mateo didn’t turn around when he replied.
“I thought so.” He heard the clank of glass against glass before Tristan stepped up next to him.
They both swallowed down the dark, brown liquid before Tristan filled their glasses again.
“Will he wake up with you gone?” Mateo asked, not sure why he thought it better for them to talk alone.
“No. I don’t sleep well. He’s used to me slipping out of bed.” Tristan leaned against the opposite side of the large window from him.
“He never slept when I was gone. Guess that’s because he was always wonderin’ if I was dead somewhere.” He didn’t have to worry about shit like that here.
Tristan ran a hand over his short, dark hair before drinking the rest of his second glass of whiskey. He didn’t flinch as it went down, setting the glass aside before crossing his arms over his bare chest. Mateo watched the movement, taking in the bend of all his muscles, the dark hair on his chest, trying to figure out how in the fuck Tristan looked just as put together standing there in his underwear as he did in a suit. Wondering why he liked it...