maybe i'm crazy but dadbod!frank langdon is such a yummy thought okay... thinking about sucking him off, his big hands guiding your head up and down his length while your nose brushes into his thick bush with each bob of your head. you had spent a while before this just kissing down his chest, licking up and down his happy trail, your hands brushing along the thick of his belly.
he can't fully understand why you're so obsessed with him like thisâhe himself was a little insecure of the weight he had put on in the time since tanner and penny had been born, but to you, he was only getting sexier by the day. he always catches the hungry look in your eye and the way it'll spring up over the simplest of thingsâhis arm resting over the swell of his belly, the way that his happy trail will peek out from under his worn pitt museum t-shirt (that he absolutely refuses to toss)âit all drives you crazy. the more he notices it, the more confident he getsâwhich means he slowly starts to forgo wearing a shirt around the house.
your hands grip and squeeze at the meat of his thighs as you continue to work your mouth on him, his groans and whispers of praise and satisfaction only egging you on. he pulls you off of him for a moment, smirking at your soft whine of protest, easily handling you into a different position. "wanna have my share, too," he mutters as he adjusts his face in between your thighs, laying you across him so that your mouth can find his dick again, your chest pressing into his tummy.
both of you end up finishing like this, him filling your mouth and covering your face and his pelvis with white, hot, thick spurts as he groans your name, the sound vibrating through your core, only making you roll your hips on his face even faster.
once he's helped clean both of you off, you're curled back in bed again, head resting on his stomach as his fingers card through your hair. it's a matter of minutes before you're both dozing off. the last thing you hear before you drift off is the sound of his peaceful snores, the rise and fall of his chest and belly lulling you to sleep.
the moment the bedroom door clicked shut, frank was on you, his body pinning yours against the hard wood of the door before you could even register the movement. his mouth was a desperate, hungry thing, claiming yours with a ferocity that spoke of sixteen hours of an overwhelmingly sterile emergency department and endless beeping monitors. it wasn't your lips he was after for long, though. with a decisive grunt, you were being tossed onto the bed; his blue eyes, wild and glinting in the dim light, fixated on the collar of your cotton t-shirt. he didn't even bother waiting for you to pull it all the way off. one of his large, calloused hands pushed the material up to your collarbone, the roughness of his palm grazing your already pebbling nipple before cupping one of your breasts.
he wasted no time. his mouth latched onto one of your breasts, his tongue swirling around the peak before flicking it a few times. finally, he sucked. the suction was immediate and overwhelming, a deep, pulling pressure that seemed to draw the very air from your lungs. he groaned, the noise muffled by your flesh, his eyes closing with the comfort of having his mouth occupied. his tongue was a firm, wet velvet against your sensitive flesh, swirling and flicking with an expertise that, if you were standing, would have made your knees buckle.
his other hand moved to your back, pressing you closer, focusing more of your breast into his greedy mouth. you could feel the slight brush of his evening stubble against your soft skin, a delicious friction that heightened every sensation. your fingers instinctively found their way into his thick, luscious, dark hair, your nails scraping against his scalp as you held him to you, tugging slightly. he moaned again, the sound a low, vibrating hum of pure satisfaction that shot straight to your core, making you grind your hips against nothing but air. he released your nipple with a wet pop, a breathy chuckle escaping him as he let the string of saliva that was connecting his mouth to your skin slacken and drip between you. you whined as he panted for a moment, catching his breath. the sound; the tone of his name passing through your lips; makes him smirk, his face nothing but pure want as he dove back down to fixate onto your other tit, giving it the same worshipful, demanding attention.
this was his obsession; his solace. the world outside this room, with its emergencies and its impossible demands, melted away until there was only thisâthe taste of your skin, the weight of your tit in his palm, the sound of your breathing going ragged. his mouth was relentless, alternating between soft, lapping kisses, and hard, sucking pulls that made your head fall back and your moans take the shape of his name. he would take as much of you as he could into his mouth, his cheeks hollowing with the effort, before pulling back to lavish attention on the peak with just the tip of his tongue. "that's it, baby," he'd murmur, his voice muffled against you. "so fucking perfect for me."
your hips began to rock of their own accord once again, seeking a friction you couldn't findâthough finally, he seemed to understand. he shifted his position so his thigh was pressed firmly between your legs. the new pressure was a welcome relief, and you rode his leg as he continued his salivary worship, the tightening of your grip in his hair making him groan.
time seemed to stretch and warp, each minute an eternity of exquisite sensation. he was lost in itâin you. his eyes were shut as though he was meditating on the very taste of you. he lavished attention on the sensitive underside of your breasts, his tongue tracing the heavy curve before returning to your nipples, now swollen and dark from his attention. he nipped at them with his teethânot so gently, eitherâsending sharp, electric jolts through you that made you cry out. "frank," you breathed, the name a prayer; a plea on your lips. he looked up at you then, his lips glistening, his eyes hazy with a lust so profound it could be mistaken for idealization. "my baby," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "so good for me, taste so good." he dove back in once more, his sucking becoming more urgent; more demanding, as if he were trying to draw out your very soul through your skin. you could feel the heat building low in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that wound tighter with every pull of his mouth; every grind of your hips against his leg; every whispered praise that fell from his lips. the world narrowed this single point of contact, to the wet heat of his mouth and the overwhelming, all-consuming pleasure that was frank.
---
a/n at the bottom this time lol hello!!! surprise everyone i still remember how to write! i apologize for the insane amount of semicolons and run-on sentences, i am trying to reduce the amount of em-dashes i use because it seems as though They are going to get me. i missed you guys a lot!!!! but as fun as this was, this is not a permanent return to writing for me. i just recently got into the pitt and frank langdon is one of the many characters that has me #hornedup! with that being said my inbox is technically open and i'd love to yap it up whenever i'm free (though y'all know i'm busy as hell) because i miss you giys so so soso so much. okay this is getting long (i.e., the dick of jack abbot) so i'm going to close this by tagging a few moots that are fans of the pitt bc why not (and because i obviously don't have a taglist for the show because this is my first time writing for it)? okay byeeeeeeee love you all mwah mwah mwah <3333
random tags off the top of my head please don't be mad if i missed you: @cha11engers @voidsuites @roryheartz @pedaltothepetal @peachyparkerr @pittsick @dumbbandpoetic @musingsofheaven @scariffs
hear me out! nerd!patrick whos actually a perv and once he gets to be with the girl he has a crush on he fucks her stupid
nerdy!patrick who is oh so quiet--soft-spoken in class and quick to avert his eyes away from yours, speckled green trapped behind fingerprinted glasses. the lenses are thicker than you thought; you notice when you're close to him. and patrick doesn't realize that so many girls aim to get closer to him: dropping their pens strategically near his desk, asking him for the notes. random text messages that he looks at quizzically, unsure of how anybody got his number--he only gives it out to his closest friends. he always sits at the very front of the classroom. always has a clicky black pen and smears of ink on his arm because he prefers to handwrite his notes instead of type them out--it helps him pay attention more.
his professors love him enough to break their sworn promise at the beginning of the semester: I do not give out A+s. but everyone sees the perfect marks on his papers and the long-winded notes of praise on the midterm. women professors love him the most because he reminds them of the men they've always wanted in their lives. handsome and tall and freckled and hanging on to their every word. mesmerizingly intelligent and humble, so messy yet put-together.
its spectacular how unaware he is of his perfection and the constant flitting of girls' eyes up and down his body goes unnoticed by him. maybe he just has a girlfriend? it's what many girls have posited yet hoped and prayed it wasn't true and that maybe alongside that they were his perfect type.
and maybe patrick seems like the innocent type, but really, it's just nerves and an unwillingness to embarass himself. he honestly has to adhere his eyes to the confines of his spiral bound red notebook to keep himself from running his eyes over your legs in that tennis skirt of yours, your tits loose in the tank top you threw on without a bra this morning.
while it should be a blessing that it's getting hotter outside, he sort of resents it because god he has a crush on you and its hard to hide his boners and he's more apt to growing this insane blush on his cheeks that creeps down his neck when he's already overheating.
every single monday and wednesday he promises himself he will ask you for your number--there can't be any pretext--he's the student who knows everything so it's not like he can bother you for lecture notes--but he never follows through. the end of the semester creeps towards him, a strange, bitter reminder that you'd probably forget about him.
so he asks for it in the second-to-last class, just before the professor begins class. its so strange to see patrick near the back of the classroom, spinning a pencil through his deft fingers--so everyone is looking at him. he's quiet when he asks you, almost too much so.
"can i get your number?" his eyes meet yours and you see their depth for the first time, although still hidden behind square black frames.
you shrug and act cool and you feel the hot laser-focus of the other girls' stares on your back.
you feel dumb admitting it to him, the smartest in the class, but you do anyway, aiming to get something in the books with him before the semester ends and he's off to wherever he calls home for the summer.
"would you mind helping me study for this class? i have no idea where to start."
and patrick had every intent of helping you; he made a study outline and flashcards and came over to your house with the textbook you'd barely skimmed past the first chapter.
but your pointed questions and strong eye contact made it hard for him, made him stumble on his words and gnaw on your pencil eraser before apologizing profusely.
"are you nervous?" you leaned forward and took the pencil from his mouth.
"i mean--sure." he admitted. yes, he was, obviously.
the test was tomorrow, on wednesday. you had asked him to help you study and he felt really bad but he also had a fucking boner and your room was unbearably hot. his temples were wet with sweat, the kind that lingered.
"do you want to study or should we focus on something else?" you meant it earnestly, in the most innocuous of ways, and patrick should have been more respectful in his response but his dick was straining against his shorts and your hand was on his knee.
the depth of his puppy-dog eyes boring into you made the blow of his response a little less severe.
"i really wanna fuck you."
you looked away instincively and patrick thought he fucked up but then you perched yourself on his lap and tugged on the hem of his heather grey t-shirt. watching him peel it off was mesmerizing--the tautness of his muscles and the peppering of chest hair. the happy trail that forced you to see his cock pressing against his shorts--was he on the tennis team? he looked too strong for tennis: too unlike the scrawnier boys she had seen running laps around the track last fall.
god he's hot--but the way he was looking at you was with more lust, more fervor, more obsession. he had been waiting for this for months and he didn't have a ton of experience but he knew how to tug your bottom lop into his mouth and swipe his tongue through your teeth to pry you open for him. he knew his hands were big and strong and how to press them against your ass, wrap them around your waist, guide you against him. he groaned into your mouth and laid you down on your bed. spit in his hand and into your mouth and pushed your panties to the side. he wanted it to be like this--rushed--to prove something to himself, that he could do the spur-of-the-moment, that he needed you so bad even one more minute was a century too long for him.
he plunged his fingers inside you, forehead pressed against yours. curling them, he let you push his shorts down just past his ass to free his cock. you were so wet and he told you that and you felt the loose smirk against your neck as he licked your skin and pushed himself inside you. the sweetness of his general demeanor, the nervous lack of eye contact, and the stuttering of his questions to you made you think he would fuck you slowly. he didn't. he asked if it was okay and he made sure you said yes, yes it was--but then he fucked you hard and deep, snapping his hips and lifting your own, hands dug into the flesh of your ass so he could plunge himself inside you the way he'd dreamt about it, cock in his fist, chest heaving so hard he thought he would fucking pass out.
his hair was plastered to his forehead and he grunted into your neck, your mouth, the cotton of your pillowcase.
"fuck me--" he plead, seemingly begging you, although he was in complete control. "you like that?" he taunted. you didn't know he had it in him--this cockiness you'd seen mostly in fraternity boys.
and maybe before you had had this trance over patrick, but that was long gone as you could barely mutter a word from beneath him. you were all gasps and a flurry of grabbing hands, wanting to find purchase on his ass, his hair, the silver chain around his neck. you were being loud and you knew it but god you didn't care. patrick pushed his fingers into your mouth regardless, slowing his thrusts because he was about to cum and he could tell you were too.
synopsis: when tashi duncan sends a dinner invitation, nobody declines. that includes you, her former flame and best friend, and your husband, patrick. a very awkward reunion over dinner ensues when past feelings resurface.
tags: 18+ mdni, features artashi/patashi/artrick (& all of them x reader), brief breast/nipple play, f!receiving oral, foreplay & lots of making out, dom!tashi through most of it, bratty!reader, everybody wants to fuck each other, mostly tashi x reader bc i'm yuripilled
wordcount: 9.2k words
notes: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY! was very glad to be able to revisit these evil bisexual idiots. dynamics are a lot harder to write when it's a foursome buttt this is what you get take it or leave it :P & iâd like to apologise for edging you with the last scene but iâm sure iâll circle back to this eventually so they can all fuck nasty in peace <3 i have drafts for a few more flashbacks that didnât make the final cut bc this has been in my drafts for months so if you want any of those maybe iâll clean them up and post them at some point. all of this taking place at dinner and i dont mention food once... alright
VALENTINEâS DAY at a place like this is either very romantic or a very bad idea. There is no in-between.
The restaurant you find yourself at is polished within an inch of its life: floors gleaming, glasses so thin youâre already nervous to hold them wrong, and candles flickering in little gold halos in front of couples that make them look more in love than they probably are.
You wonder distantly if thatâs the point.
Youâre acutely aware of your husbandâs hand resting on the small of your back as the hostess leads you through a maze of white tablecloths. Heâs dressed up for once in a rented two piece suit. The tie you picked out for him rests in the passenger seat of his Honda CR-V, hastily torn off before you exited the car because âIâm not a fucking priss, babe. This makes me look stupid.â
Not a priss, he said, right before leading you into a restaurant that neither of you can afford to dine in with a couple that neither of you should be seeing.
âBreathe,â Patrick murmurs into your ear.
You donât realise you havenât been until you try. Your chest feels tight, like youâve just spent twenty minutes running laps instead of sitting in your car to hype yourself up. It was your idea to say yes, so you refuse to let him know youâre panicking to avoid some petty jab about being a pussy over dinner.
You could have declined. You could have laughed and told Tashi you had plans. You could have pretended that spending Valentineâs Day with your husbandâs ex-girlfriendâwho is also your ex-girlfriendâand your own ex-boyfriendâwho is now her husbandâwasnât some kind of elaborate emotional suicide mission.
Instead, youâre here, ready to face the guillotine. And isnât this about to be a shitshow?
You see them immediately. Theyâre settled in a corner booth that somehow manages to feel both intimate and exposed to all the eyes in the room. Art Donaldson is not what you remember from college. He looks like he belongs here now, in a navy suit with a crisp collar and posture so straight you have to force yourself to stand taller to match it.
It hurts to look at him, akin to the way itâd feel to press on an old bruise to check if it still hurts.
It does, your brain adds helpfully.
Tashi sits next to him. You almost laugh, because of course she looks like that. Youâve seen her on magazines, TV screens, every social media platform you own, but the severe cut of her hair now makes your footsteps falter. She looks older. More mature than the young prodigy you used to giggle with in her dorm bed. Her dress is dark with an elegant cut, and you catch a glimpse of those long legs beneath the table, the strap of her heel glinting under the cloth.Â
For a second, youâre seventeen again, standing across the net from her and trying not to flinch when she smiles like she already knows exactly how the match is going to play out. You hate that your stomach still flips.Â
The most notable thing about them allâeven if you have to squint to see it from this distanceâis the matching wedding bands on their hands. You twist your own subconsciously. Itâs a beautiful ring. Patrick managed to convince his father into giving it to him somehow. It still doesnât feel like itâs enough to scream married couple when your husband is glancing around the room to eye the cleavage of the women you pass.
You force a smile on your face. Itâs fine. Heâs fine. Youâre fine.
Art looks up at first, his smile faltering when his eyes find the pair of you. The crack in the polish lasts a microsecond before he rises to his feet to offer you a greeting. âHey.â
Patrickâs hand tightens against your back as you stop in front of the table.Â
âHey,â you echo, forcing something light into your voice. âHappy Valentineâs.â
Tashiâs mouth curves into something thatâs not quite a smile. âBold choice,â she says. âA double date.â
You laugh, because what the hell else are you supposed to do? âYour idea.â
âYes,â she says smoothly. âIt was.â
You sit. Patrick pulls your chair out for you, and you canât remember the last time heâs done that without being prompted. You know heâs auditioning for Husband of the Year purely because of your company, but it makes your heart stutter nonetheless. Art waits until youâre both settled before taking his seat again.
Two married couples. Four people who have, at various points in their lives, slept in each otherâs beds; whispered promises; thrown rackets and said things that canât be unsaid.Â
The waiter appears and Tashi orders two bottles of wine. Something redâyou donât recognise the name, only that it sounds fancy enough that it has to be excessive (and way too expensive for your bank account.) But you have a feeling youâre going to need it.Â
The first ten minutes are polite. Too polite.
âHowâs the tour?â Art asks Patrick.
âFine,â he shrugs dismissively. âNothing glamorous. Mostly challengers. You know.â
The word lingers between you all. Challengers. While Tashi has managed to make a household name out of Donaldson, your husband is still playing challengers. You almost snort.
Tashiâs gaze flicks to you, sharp but curious. âAnd you?â
âCoaching some juniors,â you say. âPlaying some smaller events when I feel like it.â
You donât mention itâs because you canât afford it consistently. For the most part, rent falls on you when Patrick is halfway across the country. Coaching keeps you both afloat.Â
Thereâs the faintest twitch in her jaw. She doesnât say it aloud, but you know why: youâre coaching of your own volition while itâs the path that the universe thrust unfairly upon her. Your stomach twists guiltily.Â
She tilts her head slightly. âNot playing seriously?â The words are mild, but the implication isnât.
You force yourself to hold her gaze. âDepends what you mean by serious.â
âI heard you had a good run last spring,â Art says, stepping in the way he used to when things got too heated. You manage a grateful smile in his direction. âCharleston?â
Heâs been paying attention. You donât know how to feel about that.Â
âSemis,â you confirm. âI lost, though.â
Tashiâs fingers tighten around her glass and your stomach sinks. God, you hate that you still want her approval.
âTo who?â Patrick asks, though you know he knows the answerâheâd been there, after all. He just wants to hear you say it. You donât give him the satisfaction.
âTough draw,â you say instead. Tashiâs mouth curves slightly and you know she can see right through you. âEveryone played well.â
Art offers you a reassuring smile. It almost makes up for the scoff Tashi is biting back. The waiter arrives with the wine, sparing you from elaborating any further. You practically gulp down your first glass.
By the time youâve all started on the second, the edges of restraint begin to blur, polished facades falling away. Art has loosened his tie, posture softened. Tashiâs shoulders have grown less rigid, one arm draped along the back of the booth behind her. Patrickâs hand rests loosely over your knee, thumb ghosting along the bone absently as he recounts some disastrous afterparty in Cincinnati. His version of events is so dramatic you wonder if he even remembers you were there to know otherwise.
You arenât really listening, anyways. Youâre focused on the way Art is looking at you. His expression is hard to readânot quite longing, nor regret. Itâs something softer you canât quite put your finger on.
Whatever it is makes you feel uncomfortable enough to remember the last time he was in your dorm all those years ago. You can picture it perfectly.
APRIL 8TH, 2007
Your room feels too crowded to have an argument in.
It barely feels big enough for the two of you when things are good. When Art would sit cross-legged on your bed with his back against the wall, trainers kicked off, explaining some minute adjustment to your backhand while you pretended to listen. When youâd steal his hoodie and argue it fit you better. When youâd both pretend you werenât exhausted from practice just to stretch the night out a little longer.Â
âHow is she?â You ask. You didnât mean to open with that, but there it is.
He sighs, standing in front of your desk. The distance between you feels cavernous. âRehab started yesterday.â
âI know.â
Of course you know. Everyone does. It was all around campus, and all over the tennis network. Commentators were using words like devastating and tragic and career-altering. You can still hear the sound it made before she tumbled to the floor when you close your eyes, that piercing scream ringing out over the court.
âSheâs in pain,â he continues. âTheyâre saying at least nine months minimum before she can even think about competing.â
Nine months. Thatâs a lifetime in sports.
âAnd?â You prompt.
âAnd sheâs not taking it well.â
You almost laugh at that. No shit. Tashi had been built on momentum. She was always moving, always doing something, and now she canât even walk without crutches.
âIâve been over there most nights.â
âI know,â you repeat.
âYou know?â
âIâm not stupid, Art.â
He shifts his weight, defensive already. You hate that you can already see it coming. âYou havenât been answering my texts,â he deflects.
You lift your gaze to him. âYouâve been busy.â
âThatâs not fair.â
You let out a slow breath through your nose. âWhat part?â
He frowns. âI canât just disappear on her because youâre feeling insecure.â
There it was. âInsecure?â You repeat incredulously.
âYes. Insecure!â
You stand up quickly. âThatâs what you think this is?â
âI think youâre making this about you.â Your chest tightens at the accusation. âHer career just imploded,â he continues, voice raising slightly. âShe might never come back the same. And youâre upset that Iâm helping her?â
âIâm not upset that youâre helping her.â
âYou couldâve fooled me.â
âIâm upset that itâs like Iâm not even there anymore!â
âWhat?â
âYou act like it, Art.â
âThatâs not trueââ
âYes it is!â
âYouâre imagining things.â
You hate that phrase. You have to fight the urge to just storm out of your own dorm at those words alone. âI watched you at the hospital,â you continue quietly. His mouth presses into a thin line. âYou didnât even realise Iâd left.â
He looks away. âI thought you went to call your coach.â
âYeah, I did. After I left.â
Art exhales sharply. âShe was coming out of anesthesia.â
âI know.â
âShe was scared.â
âI know.â
âShe asked for me.â
âAnd you went,â you finish.
âWhat did you want me to do?â He asks, frustrated. âIgnore her?â
âNo.â
âThen what?â
âI donât know! Just⊠just remember that Iâm there, maybe?â It sounds childish even to your own ears, words smaller than they felt. You want to tell him heâs been a bad boyfriend for months. That heâs not as committed to this as you are, and his priorities lie elsewhere. But in your anguish, all you can do is sound like a toddler throwing a tantrum about not getting enough attention.
Art runs a hand through his hair, agitation creeping into his voice. âYouâre acting like this is some sort of love triangle.â
âIsnât it?â You stare at him.
âNo!â He denies instantly, eyes flashing.
âIt always has been, I thinkââ
âThatâs bullshit.â
âIs it?â You challenge. âBecause from where Iâm standing, it looks like youâve been waiting for an excuse.â
âAn excuse for what?â
âTo go back. Patrickâs out of the picture. Why the fuck not?â
His expression hardens. âI was never with her. And he has nothing to do with this.â
Never with her. Not officially, sure, but youâve seen the way they move around each other since starting at Stanford. There has always been something simmering beneath the surface, but Tashi was with Patrick, and Art struck up a relationship with you shortly after. But youâd be blind not to recognise thereâs unfinished business there following the Junior Open.
âIâm not in love with her,â he adds.
You hold his gaze. âSay it again.â
âIâm not in love with her.â
âYouâre lying,â you laugh, an ugly and bitter sound, shaking your head. âNo. No, Iâm losing you both. Oh my god.â You drag your hands over your face in frustration. You refuse to let him see you cry, but you can feel it building up.Â
âWhat?â
âYou think this is about jealousy? Iâm not that shallow, Art,â you say. âShe hasnât spoken to me since the surgery. She looks at me like I broke her knee myself.â
âThatâs not true.â
âIt is.â
Youâd gone to see her once, bringing flowers after her surgery. You remember trying to sit at the edge of her hospital bed like you used to sit on the floor of her dorm, legs tangled, talking about rankings and dreams and futures together. Sheâd barely uttered a word to you the entire time. The resentment had been suffocating.
âI canât compete with an ACL tear, Art,â you say bitterly.
âYouâre not competing.â
âI am! Iâm always competing with her.â
âYouâre twisting this because you want me to choose!â
âYes.â Itâs embarrassing to admit, but you are. Denying it would be futile. You love Tashi, maybe even more than he does, but you canât put yourself through this any longer.
âIâm not doing that,â Art says, shaking his head. Your heart sinks, even though you expected that answer. âIâm not abandoning her.â
âIâm not asking you to abandon her.â
âYou are.â
âNo. No, Iâm just asking you to tell me I matter more!â
âYou do.â
âThen prove it for once!â
He falls silent. You can practically see the walls forming behind his eyes. The compartmentalizing and logic, trying to figure out a way to escape this conversation with both of you.
âYou donât trust me,â he says finally, and you hesitate, because you donât know anymore. You want to trust him, but wanting can only go so far when heâs proven time and time again that she comes first. âThatâs it.â
âThatâs not it,â you say, trying desperately to salvage the results of an ultimatum you gave him.
âI canât do this.â
âSo- so, what? Youâre breaking up with me, then?â
âIâm saying if you think so little of meââ
âThis isnât about thinking little of you,â you cut in. âBut I know you, Art. And I know that if she was the one asking you to choose her right now, you would.â He doesnât answer and you feel something inside you give way. âI canât be second.â
âYouâre not.â
âI am.â
âYouâre not.â
âThen I will be. As soon as she asks.â
Silence swallows the room. Distantly, you hear someone laughing down the hallway, a door slamming, and life going on outside your room while youâre stuck going in circles with this conversation.
âI love you,â he says suddenly, like that could still fix it.
âI know.â Thatâs the worst part. You know he loves you. You also know he loves her, and the difference between those two loves is about to ruin everything.
âMaybe this is just bad timing,â he offers.
You stare at him in disbelief. As if timing is why Tashi got injured on the court. As if timing hadnât just exposed every crack that had been forming in your relationship for months.
âYeah,â you force out. âMaybe.â
Art turns towards the door. You see him pause, and for a second you think he might come back. Might close the distance and kiss you and promise something concrete, and finally just choose you for once in his life. But he doesnât.
His hand rests on the doorway. âI never meant to hurt you,â he says meekly.
âI know.â
Art leaves anyway, the door clicking shut behind him. In the quiet of your too-small dorm room, youâre left to realise that Tashiâs injury hadnât just torn her ACL. It had torn straight through the middle of you and Art, too.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
The memory dissolves like the sugar at the bottom of your wine glass. You down the rest of it. Art is still looking at you the same way he used to when he was trying to read your mind. You wonder what he sees now.Â
Regret? Guilt? Longing?
âGod.â Patrick leans forward suddenly. âRemember when we were Fire and Ice?â
Art groans immediately, his gaze falling away from you. His cheeks flush in embarrassment. âDonât.â
Tashiâs mouth curves upwards. âI liked it.â
âOf course you did,â Patrick says, ego stroked.
âIt was juvenile,â Art says.
âUh, no. It was cool,â Patrick corrects.Â
You watch them fall back into that old rhythm like muscle memory. For a moment, they donât look like two grown men with mortgages and press obligations and complicated wives. Theyâre just like two boys in locker rooms, convincing themselves the world isnât ready to see how they play.
âYou guys were insufferable. The entire junior circuit hated you,â you chip in.
âThe girls loved us!â Patrick protests.
âYou loved the attention,â Tashi says.
âYou ate it up, too,â you say, shaking your head at her. âThe two of them orbiting you like idiots.â
Patrick grins. âWe werenât orbitingââ
âYes, you were,â you and Tashi say at the same time. It earns a shared look between you, instinctive, the kind that used to happen across nets or over dorm beds. You swallow thickly. Art notices. His smile fades slightly.
âUS juniors,â your husband continues obliviously. âThat final was brutal.â
Tashiâs gaze shifts to you. âYou almost had me.âÂ
Almost. Like almost means shit in tennis. You remember the heat of it: screaming crowds, your legs trembling in the third set, the look of determination on her face opposite you.
âYou broke me in the second. That was light work for you,â you say, injecting lightness into your voice.
âYou let up,â she counters.
âNo, I didnât.â
âYes, you did. You always got in your head playing me. You could beat anyone else, but every time I was across that net, you doubled under the pressure.â
Your chest tightens, and you force out a quiet laugh. âYouâve always thought that.â
âBecause itâs true.â
Art clears his throat gently, sparing you. âI liked the afterparty.â
Patrick laughs loudly. âGod, what a night.â
You remember it too vividly. Tashiâs blue dress on the dance floor, fingers brushing against yours, two sets of eyes following your every move.Â
âYou two were practically chest-bumping over her,â you say, and you hate how bitter it comes out. You clear your throat, continuing lightly, âIt was embarrassing to watch.â
âCompetition,â Patrick smirks over the rim of his glass.
âIt wasnât like that,â Art says, rubbing the back of his neck.
His wife arches an amused brow. âNo?â
He hesitates, and Patrick laughs again. âIt was exactly like that.â Thereâs a beat of silence between you all, the memory hanging between you, before he braces his elbows on the table. âRemember what happened when we went back to the hotel?â
âYeah. You knocked over an ice machine,â Art rolls his eyes.
Patrick waves a dismissive hand. âIrrelevant. I mean after.â
Your pulse ticks faster. âWha happened after?â
Art closes his eyes briefly, because he knows where this is going. Youâd made an excuse on the walk back from the beach. âI donât want to be a part of your ego boost of a two-man, Tashi,â youâd laughed, shoving her up the path. âIâm too tired for that.â
âWe kissed,â Patrick grins, lazy and unbothered. Artâs cheeks flush faintly red and Tashi catches your eye over the table.
âYou what?â You say, feigning mild surprise.
Patric rolls his eyes. âDonât act shocked. I bet she told you the morning after.â
âIâm not shocked,â you reply. âI just donât think Iâve ever heard you admit it.â
Art exhales. âIt wasnât planned.â
Tashiâs lip twitches. âNothing about that night was planned.â
âYou didnât seem mad about it,â Patrick says, looking at her.
âIt was stupid,â Art adds.Â
âAnd then you all went to sleep?â You ask. Tashi stifles a snort into her wine glass.
âYeah,â Patrick affirms.
You lean back into the booth. âThatâs not what happened.â
Both men look at you, puzzled. Patrickâs hand squeezes your knee questioningly. âWhat do you mean?â
âI went to her room,â Tashi clarifies. She doesnât look at either of them, gaze fixed on you.
Art blinks. âHer room?â
âWhat, to brag?â Patrick laughs uncertainly.
You shake your head. âShe said she couldnât sleep. Said the adrenaline wouldnât come down.â
âWhat does that mean?â Artâs throat bobs. Patrickâs expression shifts from confusion to dawning comprehension.
âArt,â Tashi presses, sending him an amused look.
âWhat?â
SEPTEMBER 10TH, 2006
By the time the knock finally came, youâd half-convinced yourself she wasnât going to show. Too busy with her new entertainment for the night while you were left to huff and puff over your loss alone, your second-place trophy glinting mockingly where it sat on the hotel dresser.
You recognise the two deliberate taps to your door immediately, shooting up out of bed like you havenât been agonising over it for the last hour.Â
âHi,â you say, trying not to sound breathless.
âHi.â She leans against the doorway instead of walking in immediately. âCan I come in?â That part is new. Usually, she doesnât ask. You step aside anyway.
She walks in slowly, eyes flicking curiously over the space. It feels like sheâs already been here before. She has, sort ofâdifferent hotels, different rooms, the same agonisingly familiar pattern. By the end of the tournament, sheâd always ended up in your bed at least once.Â
âYou played well,â she says, like she hadnât told you the same thing hours ago. She runs a lazy finger over your finalist trophy and you groan, slumping onto your bed petulantly. Youâve tried not to look at it since you got back.
âYou played better,â you shoot back.
âI know.âÂ
The lack of smugness almost makes it worse. She slips off her shoes and picks up your trophy to inspect, probably with the intention of getting a rise out of you, before perching on the edge of the dresser.
âHow was your fan club?â You cross your arms.
Her mouth twitches. âExhausting.â
âPoor you,â you say, lip jutting out in faux-pity. âIt must be so hard having every boy in a ten mile radius in love with you.â
Tashi laughs. âThey were arguing by the end of it.â
âOver you?â You huff a laugh despite yourself. Her amusement is infectious, regardless of how petty youâre feeling.
âObviously.â
âAnd?â You study her face carefully.
âAnd what?â
âDid you have a good time?â
She doesnât answer right away. She pushes off the dresser to sit on the edge of the bed instead, trophy abandoned, her palms smoothing over her thighs absentmindedly. Your eyes are drawn to the movement before you can stop them, fingers itching to reach out and touch that smooth skin yourself.
âWe went back to their room,â she says. There it isâthe thing sheâd really come here to rile you up with.
âI assumed.â A beat of silence passes before you finally give in, pressing for more. âAnd?â
âYou want details?â She tilts her head playfully.
âNo.â
A small smile graces her lips. âThey kissed me.â You nod once. âBoth of them,â she adds. Your jaw tightens in a way that might be imperceptible to anyone else, but she knows you too well not to notice. âThat bothers you,â she observes.
âNo, it doesnât,â you deny instantly. It does. A little. But not in the way it might have months ago.
âOh, it so does.â
âDoes not,â you insist. âYouâre here now, arenât you?â
âYes,â she agrees. âI am.â
Thatâs always been the unspoken rule between you. Whatever happens in publicâthe flirting, the rivalries on court, the boys trying to get into either of your pantsâit doesnât follow you through the door unless she wants it to.Â
âDid you have fun?âÂ
âA little.â
âOnly a little?â
âYou know how much fun I have with you.â Her fingers find your jaw, thumb smoothing out the slight jut of your lip. âDonât pout.â
âIâm notââ You start to argue, then give a reluctant huff. âYou made me wait.â
âI was busy.â
âYeah, I know.â
She laughs at the petulance in your tone. âDonât roll your eyes at me. It was worth the wait, wasnât it?â
âIt will be if you kiss me already.â
She catches that hopeful lilt in your voice like a hook, and her smirk softens into something more tender. A second later, she crawls to straddle you, one leg on either side of your thighs. You suck in a sharp breath, fingers finally curling into the soft flesh of her thighs. And finally, finally, her mouth slots against yours.
You melt instantly. You always do. The whimper into her unbearably soft lips is undignified, her tongue sliding over your bottom lip before your brain can even catch up. Itâs still maddeningly slow, and you make a quiet sound of protest when she pulls back to murmur:
âYou really are jealous. I can feel it.â
The tease in her voice makes heat pool low in your belly. âTashi,â you groan into the space between kisses, half-exasperated and half-desperate. You try to draw her back in for more, and she relents enough to bite playfully at your lip.
âThat wasnât a denial.â
Any witty protest is undermined by the gasp that her palming at your tits over your pyjama top draws out. Your hands slide up from her thighs to grip the back of the jacket she still hasnât taken off.
âWhy do you taste like tobacco?â
âPatrick smokes. They both do, actually.â
âUgh. Gross.â
âJealous,â she taunts again.
âMânot jealous,â you manage as she kisses her way along your jaw.Â
âYouâre kissing me like you want to eat me.â
âI do.â
She pauses, breath hot by your ear as she debates whether to take that literally or not. Then she leans back, unzipping her jacket to reveal no shirt underneath, just a skimpy little bralette that does nothing to conceal the way her nipples are hard with arousal. Your brows knit together.
âWhy are youâ no shirt?â You say eloquently, too starstruck by the sight of her breasts in your face to speak properly for a moment. âWas thatââ
âFor them?â She interjects, smirking down at you. You nod. âGod, no. For you.â
Your stomach twists in a way that shouldnât feel so appealing. She shrugs the jacket off, guiding your hands up to cup her breasts.
âYou want to eat me, huh?â She teases. Another shaky nod is all you can muster. âWords. You were so good with them earlier.â
You donât have it in you to glare at her right now. âYeah. I do. Can I?â The way her breath hitches when you pinch her nipple over the thin fabric is more satisfying than it has any right to be.Â
âHow bad do you want it?â
You bite back a groan of frustration. Your brain is already fogged over, but you manage to make an attempt to sound less wanton than you actually feel. âPlease, Tashi.â
She tsks softly, right on the playful side of condescending. âYou can do better than that.â
A huff of impatience, and you fight the urge to pinch her nipple harder just to be a brat. Disobedience never gets you anywhere when sheâs in a mood like this. The deal is whoever wins is in charge, and Tashi wins more often than not.
Not that you mind.
âPlease, I need it,â you say, eyes shining pitifully up at her. âIâve been thinking about it all day. You looked so hot on court. And at the afterparty, in that dress⊠fuck.âÂ
âWere you thinking about it when I was with them?â She presses.
âYes. God, yes.â Your head thumps against her chest, mouthing at the stiff peak of her nipple over her bralette. âThe last two hours have been torture. I thought youâd stay with them all night.â
She arches into you with a sharp inhale, fingers finding the back of your neck as you suck harder. By the time you pull back, the fabric is stained dark with saliva.
âThought about it,â she says, just to see the look of offence on your pretty face. âIâm joking. Take it off for me.â
You obey without hesitation, fingers slipping beneath the underband of her bra to drag it up and over her head. Itâs barely hit the floor by the time your face is pressed against her again, a sigh of longing slipping past your lips as they drag up over her breasts.
âYouâre so beautiful.â
She seems pleased by the complimentânot in a smug way, either. A girlish sort of bashfulness thatâs quickly quashed as her hand guides your head down to kiss her abdomen. âHow about you show me how beautiful you think I am?â
You smile against her, nose nuzzling against her soft skin. âYeah? Can I?â
She slides off your lap to stand, and you have to stop yourself from reaching for her. Instead, your fingers curl back into the sheets, waiting as her fingers hook into her shorts. She eases them down slowly, enough to make your mouth water and your thighs clench together in anticipation. When she steps out of them, her panties follow, an even more agonisingly slow drag down her legs until they hit the floor.
You lick your lips.
âLay back.â
âHuh?â You reply, dazed.
âLay back,â she repeats, amusement lacing her voice.
You scramble back to do as asked, hastily adjusting a pillow for your head as you settle against the mattress. You feel it dip before you see her above you, swinging a leg over your torso as she comes to straddle your chest. Youâre granted with the sight of her sweet cunt, already shining with arousal. You feel like a dog inhaling the scent so eagerly, lashes fluttering, but she only grins down at you.
âThis is supposed to be my reward for winning, but something tells me you enjoy it just as much.â
âUh huh,â you hum in affirmation.Â
And sheâs absolutely rightâyou have no issue with losing every match if this is what you get. She shifts up higher, her knees braced on either side of your head, sinking down onto your face. Your eyes flutter shut, a muffled moan pressed against her when your mouth latches onto her. Sheâs always tasted divine. Good hygiene and diet, you imagine, or maybe youâre just so tragically in love with her that every part of her is like nectar.
âFuck. There we go,â she sighs softly as you lap up into her.Â
It should be a little humiliating just laying there, nose nudging at her swollen clit as she rolls her hips against your tongue. Once upon a time she was concerned about her supple thighs suffocating you when she took her perch above you, but Tashi quickly learned you were right where you wanted to be.
Your hands come up instinctively to hold onto her, but she smacks them away like one would discipline a dog. âNo. You gave up today.â
âI didnâtââ You try to argue, though itâs hard with your face smothered in arousal and the folds of her cunt pressing against your lips every time you open your mouth.
âYes, you did. Any time you lose your footing against me, you give up.â
Her hips shift again and you latch onto her clit, alternating between flicking your tongue and sucking as if that might make her disappointment in you fade away. It lasts about all of two minutes before another thought occurs to her.
âItâs your forehand holding you back. You roll it in when you should be driving through it. Youâre not losing because youâre worse,â she says. Youâre actually a little offended that sheâs coherent enough to speak through her pleasure when youâre currently worshipping her pussy to the best of your ability. âYouâre losing because youâre passive.â
Somehow, that jab digs its heels into your chest, and you have a feeling sheâs talking about more than just the final today. Your head falls back against the pillow to breathe again, panting up at her.Â
â... Are we still talking about tennis?â You ask, breathless.
She blinks down at you, caught off guard by the question. âWeâre always talking about tennis,â she dismisses, right before her cunt hits your face again.
FEBRUARY 14TH, 2019
ââShe used to call it sitting on her throne after she won,â you recall, laughing as you lean back into the booth. The memory warms your chest in a way the wine hasnât quite managed to yet.
For a second, itâs just you and Tashi again. Not this table, not the wedding rings, not the years in between and the unanswered texts. Just her rolling her eyes at you while you both know sheâs pleased to be talking about your time together again.
Next to you, Patrick is looking between you both with his brows drawn together, confusion sitting awkwardly on his face. Artâs expression is almost identical as he shifts uncomfortably.
âWait, what are you talking about?â He says.
Patrick gives a short laugh beside you, though it sounds a little forced. âIs this an inside joke? Youâve lost me. Her throne?â
You glance between them, then back at Tashi. Thereâs a split second where you debate downplaying it to keep things neat and digestible⊠but the wine is doing its job. And so is the way sheâs looking at youâdark eyes amused, a little daring, and itâs enough to push you over the edge.
âWhat? You guys didnât know?â
Patrickâs confusion deepens. âKnow what?â
Tashi leans back, completely at ease as her arm drapes back behind her husband again. âThat I went to her room,â she says mildly.
Art frowns. âYeah, you said that part.â
âAnd stayed,â she adds.
Thereâs a stretch of confused silence before you see the moment it clicks for them both. âStayed,â Patrick repeats.
Art blinks. âYou meanââ
âUse your words, Art,â Tashi says, lifting a brow.
âYou⊠didnât just talk,â he says stupidly, his throat bobbing.
You snort into your glass. âGod, no. She might have left you both high and dry, but I got laid.â
Patrick barks out a laugh, sharp and disbelieving. The thought of you, his wife, having a sexual history with his ex-girlfriend is both as baffling as it is thrilling. âNo fucking way.â
âWhat? Is that surprising?â You glance over at him.
âYes,â he answers immediately. âYes, absolutely it is.â
Art is still processing, trying to figure out the timeline of it all. If you were sleeping with Tashi, and then Tashi dated Patrick, and you dated Art⊠the entire thing is confusing. âYou guysââ he gestures vaguely between you both, ââthat was⊠a thing?â
âOn and off,â Tashi shrugs, lips curving up.
âMore on than off,â you add, unable to help yourself.
She shoots you a look. âDonât exaggerate.â
âIâm not!â
Patrick leans back in his seat, dragging a hand over his mouth in a poor attempt to hide his grin. âThatâs crazy.â
âYou never said anything,â Art says.
You shrug lightly. âYou never asked.â
âThatâs notââ He stops himself, shaking his head. âI feel like thatâs something you mention.â
âWhy?â You counter. âYou guys were busy with your own thing.â
Thereâs a flicker of something between him and Patrick, easy to miss if you werenât looking for it, but you are. You share a look with Tashi over the table.
âWe didnât have a thing,â Patrick denies, though his mouth is twitching.
âSure,â Tashi hums.
âWe didnât,â Art says, shooting her a look.
âOkay,â she says, clearly not believing him in the slightest.
âYou shared hotel rooms for years,â you laugh.
âBecause we were touring together,â Patrick says. âIt was cheaper.â
âAnd?â You press, brow raised.
âAnd nothing.â
Tashi lets out a soft, knowing laugh. âRight.â
âNothing happened,â Art denies again, jaw tightening just slightly. You almost feel bad, but the way he canât meet anybodyâs gazeâPatrickâs least of allâis just too endearing for your tipsy mind.
âDidnât say it did,â Tashi replies smoothly.
Neither of you push it further. You donât need to. The implication hangs there the same way the rest of your history together does: unresolved. Instead, you take another sip of wine, letting the tension settle into something playful again.
âAnyway,â you say lightly, âthe point isââ
âThat you ditched us,â Patrick cuts in, pointing a finger at Tashi good-naturedly.
Tashi just smirks. âI upgraded,â she replies haughtily, lifting her chin.
You choke on a laugh while Art shakes his head like he doesnât know whether to chuckle or be annoyed. âThatâs unbelievable,â he says.
âYou survived.â
âBarely,â Patrick mutters. This time, you catch the faint edge of something beneath the humour. You donât think itâs anger. More like curiosity. Heâs always been more open-minded towards that sort of thing, and you have no doubt he would have gotten off to that knowledge if heâd been told sooner. Then he just laughs, shaking his head. âJesus. My wife and my exââ
âYour wife and your ex thatâs also your friendâs wife,â you correct sweetly.
âEx-friend,â Tashi chips in.
âYouâre making this worse,â he bemoans.
Finally, Art joins in on the laughter. âThis is a lot.â
âWelcome to the table,â you jest.
The laughter doesnât die down right away. Patrickâs raucous as always, and a nearby couple glances over in mild irritation, but none of you care enough to quiet down. For all your anxieties about tonight, youâre glad it got to this point where the past isnât a sharp, fragile thing to be danced around. Now you can joke about it without feeling hollow inside.
Some time later, another round of drinks appearsâthis time something stronger, in four little glasses. You donât remember anyone explicitly ordering it, but Tashi thanks the waiter like she did.
âShots?â Patrick says, already reaching.
âAbsolutely not,â Art replies immediately.
âYes,â Tashi counters at the same time, and he looks surprised. You have a feeling itâs unlike her new polished self, the Tashi on all the billboards and sports magazines, but he doesnât comment on it.
âOh, come on. Just one,â you say.
âYou too?â He says, sending you a betrayed look.
âDonât be a bore.â You nudge the glass towards him, and he relents with a sigh.
âPatrickâs a bad influence on you.â
Tashi watches the exchange in amusement, then lifts her own glass. âTo terrible decisions.â
âTo terrible decisions,â you echo.
Patrickâs glass clinks against yours before he downs it. The burn hits fast, and you wince, sputtering out a laugh as you set the glass down. Patrick coughs dramatically at your side.
âJesusâwhat the hell is that?â
âExpensive,â Tashi says lightly.
âOf course.â
She leans back, stretching slightly, then glances around like sheâs just remembered where she is. âThis place is boring.â
âItâs Valentineâs Day,â you laugh.
âExactly.â
Patrick nods immediately in drunken agreement. âToo polite in here. Everybody looks like they have sticks up their asses.â
âItâs a restaurant,â Art points out.
âAnd weâre done with it,â Tashi decides, rising to her feet before anyone can argue.
âWe are?â You blink up at her.
âWith the restaurant? Yes. With the night? No.â
âWhat does that mean?â Patrick says.
She picks up her wine glass, tipping her head back to gulp down the rest of it. âLetâs go somewhere more interesting.â
âLike where?â Art replies warily.
Mischief sparks in her brown eyes. âWhere do you think?â
The journey to her hotel room doesnât take long. Across the street, up the elevator, all of you cramped together and giggling. You cling to Artâs arm as you stumble down the hall on their floor, and you donât even realise itâs not your husband until Tashi laughs at you. She doesnât seem to mind, though. Just loops her arm through yours and tells Patrick to hurry up as he lags behind.
When you get into the room, you make a beeline for the arm chair, slumping down with a sigh. âTake my shoes off for me.â
âTake them off yourself,â Patrick groans, collapsing onto the bed.Â
Art and Tashi are a little more dignified, not that youâre surprised. Art shrugs off his jacket to hang up while she takes off her heels next to him.
âThereâs wine in the fridge if you want any,â she offers.
âI think Iâd die,â you lament, leaning forward to clumsily unbuckle your heels. It takes a moment to get them off before you stretch out your legs, wiggling your toes. Patrickâs face down in a pillow now, a silence falling over the room. Then you sit up suddenly. âDo it for me.â
âDo what?â Art says, peeling his tie off.
âRecreate it.â
âBe a bit more specific, babe,â Tashi indulges with a laugh. The pet name makes your heart stutter.
âThe⊠the hotel thing. The three of you.â
Patrick lifts his head, intrigued. âWhat do you mean?â
âLike, when I wasnât there. Pretend Iâm not here and itâs the night of the Junior Open.â
âWell, we just drank shitty beer and sat around the floor,â Art says, a little uncertain, though heâs smiling over at you with flushed cheeks.
âNo. No, not that part,â you say, waving a hand. âThe kissing part. You said you all made out.â
âWhat? No,â he laughs.
âYou donât have to,â you shrug, though your tone suggests otherwise. âJust thought itâd be funny.â
Tashi watches you. She knows you well enough to hear what youâre not sayingâthat itâs not just curiosity, not just a joke. âFunny,â she echoes, amused.
Patrick swings his legs off the bed, sitting up fully now. âCâmon, man. For old timeâs sake.â Nobody seems surprised that heâs up for it without question.
âThis is a terrible idea,â Tashi snorts.
âEverything tonight has been a terrible idea,â you point out, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. âAre you going to give me a show or not?â
She seems amused by your drunken confidence. Art looks to her questioninglyâa lap dog, even nowâbefore she nods. âYou heard the woman. Give her a show.â
She moves to sit on the bed, patting either side of her. Art hesitates, but just like in 2006, as soon as Patrick moves heâs right there with him. Both of them bracket her sides, hands in their laps, the smell of alcohol heavy on their breaths. Tashi glances between them both, before her gaze settles back on you.
Suddenly, it feels a lot more real when theyâre all in front of you. You exhale heavily, forcing yourself to maintain eye contact. âIt was like this?â
âMmm. They were both so desperate.â
âWhoâd you kiss first?â You canât help but ask.
Tashi smiles, turning her head. Patrick leans in slightly, breath ghosting over hers, but she turns before their lips can meet. Her mouth finds Artâs instead. He kisses the same way you rememberâa little tentative at first, before his confidence builds and his hand finds her thigh, his kisses growing more fervent.
When she finally breaks apart and turns to Patrick, you find yourself unsettingly okay with it. A part of you thought you would have been jealous. Youâve been married to Patrick for four years, dating for even longer, and yet now your stomach is twisting with arousal at the thought of him kissing her.
He doesnât ask for permission. As soon as her head turns, his mouth is on hers. Heâs hungrier than Art, not just because they havenât kissed in years. Itâs how he always kisses. Sex with Patrick always feels like some all-consuming kind of lust, and your brain feels foggy watching Tashi shudder when his tongue shamelessly slides against hers.
You find your gaze flicking curiously towards Art for his reaction. He doesnât seem as off balance as you would have thought, though that might be the alcohol talking. Heâs just as enraptured by the sight of the pair of them devouring each other, his hand still squeezing Tashiâs thigh.Â
A string of saliva connects them when they break apart, and you wet your own lips. âSo this is it? You just made both of them take turns kissing you?â
Art turns pink before she can reply. âDo you really think Iâm that boring?â She laughs. She leans back, head tilted ever so slightly to expose her neck. And while she makes eye contact with you, Art and Patrick lean in, kissing along opposite sides of her neck.Â
Itâs not shockingânothing about tonight has been shocking, reallyâbut it makes the wetness building up between your legs worse. The part that really undoes you is Tashiâs eyes staying on you. It feels like this isnât just a reenactment for your benefit. Itâs like youâre part of it, even from across the room. Always part of it, even back then.
A quiet exhale escapes her when Artâs grip tightens on her thigh, thumb pressing in unconsciously under the slit of her dress, while Patrickâs hand slides higher along her arm, fingers curling at her shoulder. They donât look at each other, but theyâre aware of each other. You can see it in the way they move: careful not to collide, but not exactly avoiding it either.
âShit,â you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.
Tashiâs mouth curves faintly at the sound. âYouâre looking between them like itâs a match,â she says.
âFeels like one,â you swallow thickly.
She huffs a quiet laugh, breath hitching slightly as Patrickâs mouth presses just under her jaw, teeth grazing boldly. âAnd whoâs winning?â
Your gaze flicks between the three of them, slower now to take it all in properly. âYou.â
âAlways,â she replies.Â
Her hands lift to find their jaws, guiding them back upwards. Your breath catches, fingers curling into the plush arm of your chair when their mouths meet together. All three of them. Itâs a strange sight, all of them alternating between lips and tongues, but it makes your heart beat rapidly in your chest nonetheless.
You arenât sure how long it goes on for before she leans back again.
âYou know what to do,â she prompts both men.
Art blushes furiously, ready to protest. âTashiââ
âArt.â
His complaint dies on his tongue. Patrick is smirking, though you arenât sure why until it becomes clear what you know what to do means. He leans across her, where Art hesitates for a moment before he does the same. Your jaw almost drops when they kiss, and Tashi grins at the delight in your eyes.Â
Youâve never been blind about Patrickâs attraction towards men. Heâs ogled them shamelessly for years, and youâve always had your suspicions about how close he was with Art. Tashi made more than enough jokes at Stanford about teenage boys sharing beds during their formative years turning out a certain way.
Itâs a different thing entirely to see him making out with a man. Especially when that man is Art, whoâs still a furious shade of red but melting into the kiss. Itâs drunk and sloppy, but it might be the single greatest thing youâve ever seen.Â
You donât realise Tashiâs talking to you until she says your name. Dazed, you manage a, âHuh?â
âI said donât you feel left out?â She repeats.
âWellââ You swallow, shifting a little so your thighs press together. âIâm having fun watching.â
âYouâd have a lot more fun kissing me.â
It takes you aback, but youâre nodding your head eagerly before you can really process it. You almost trip on your discarded heels in your haste to get up. Tashi slides back from between the two men, ignoring their questioning look.Â
âYou look nice tonight,â you offer clumsily when you sit next to her, tongue feeling thick in your mouth.
âNice?â She laughs, hand settling on your knee to give it a comforting squeeze. âYou used to call me beautiful.â
âWell, you were. I meanâ you are,â you correct yourself.
âDonât get shy on me now. You were so confident ordering us around,â she teases.
âSheâs always like that,â Patrick chips in. Artâs panting against his jaw, pressing kisses every now and then while trying to keep his gaze on the pair of you. âSo bossy but as soon as she gets a little attention, she doesnât know what to do with herself.â
âI donât need you to tell me that,â Tashi snorts. He rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to catch Artâs mouth again.
âYouâre beautiful,â you repeat, softer now, as she cups your jaw with her other hand. Her expression shifts slightly into that bashfulness youâve missed so much. It boosts your confidence enough for you to lean in first, closing the distance like youâve done a hundred times before.
Itâs soft at first, slipping back into something that feels like it never really went away. You hear Patrick make a low, amused down somewhere behind you, but itâs distant. Everything is, except the way Tashiâs hand slides to the back of your neck, steadying you.
âYou see? Wasnât that hard,â she murmurs against your lips.
You huff out a quiet laugh, breath catching. âShut up.â
She smiles into the next kiss, a little sharper this time, more like the version of her that thrived on pushing you. It pulls a soft, involuntary sound from your throat before you can stop it. The hand on your jaw tips it gently to the side so she can kiss her way along your cheek and to your ear. When your eyes open, youâre met with the sight of Art in the same position, your husbandâs mouth sliding down his neck while one hand works at the top few buttons of his shirt.
âDo you miss him?â She breathes, low in your ear.
âMmm?â
âArt. Do you miss him? Miss kissing him?â she continues, biting the lobe of your ear playfully. âMiss fucking him?â
âYeah,â you sigh, shivering when she licks a stripe down your neck.
âInvite him over, then. Iâm sure he misses kissing you, too. I know I did.â
You call his name, but it comes out more of a moan than anything when Tashi sucks against your neck. She stifles a laugh. âArt,â you repeat, a little louder. He looks towards you, pupils blown wide. Whether itâs from arousal or the alcohol, you canât tell. âCome here. I want to kiss you.â
Art obeys, despite Patrickâs groan of protest, though your husband follows him across the bed. Tashi continues to lavish your neck with attention while Art leans in with that same hesitance before melting into you. Your drunken mind deduces that he tastes better than Patrick. Not that Patrick tastes bad, but youâre used to kissing someone who tastes of tobacco, not just wine and traces of mint.Â
âMan, this is like a wet dream,â Patrick sighs.
âWe should probably stop while weâre ahead,â Art adds half-heartedly, though he doesnât stop kissing you.
âYeah? You want to stop?â Tashi reaches across, fingers sliding between his legs to palm his bulge. His breath hitches against your mouth.
âNo. No, Iâm just sayingâŠâ
âStop talking. Donât ruin this for me,â Patrick says.
So Art doesnât. Clothes start to come off in pieces, entirely uncoordinated. Youâre half-laughing and half-serious in a way that only happens when thereâs too much history and too much alcohol in the room. Patrick tugs at the hem of your dress like heâs done a hundred times before, a bit distracted, his attention splitting between the three of you.Â
Tashi doesnât hesitate, though. She moves between all of you the way she always has, slipping her hands under fabric, pushing shirts off shoulders and guiding more than asking.Â
You catch yourself laughing at somethingânothing, reallyâas Patrick loses his balance trying to step out of his shoes, collapsing half on top of you and mouthing at your shoulder instead of getting up again.Â
âGod, weâre a mess,â you say, breathless. âI really want to fuck you, though.â
âYou fuck him all the time,â Tashi says with an eye roll, her fingers currently making quick work of Artâs belt.
âNo. No, I mean all of you.â
And sheâs about to take you up on that offer when her phone buzzes where it was discarded near the head of the bed. Tashi freezes, brows furrowing slightly. âHold onââ She says, already reaching for it.
âDonât tell me youâre taking a call right now,â Patrick groans against your shoulder.
âItâs probably important,â Art adds, though you can tell by his frown and the bulge in his pants heâs just as disappointed as Patrick.
Tashi looks at the screen, her expression shifting. âOh my god.â
âWhat?â You ask, sitting up a little straighter and shoving Patrick off. He collapses into Art instead.
She turns the phone around without a word. Itâs a photo, bright and blurry, taken by someone with too much enthusiasm. A card smeared in glitter and doodled hearts, with a grinning little brunette holding it up to the camera. Scribbled across the front, it reads:
HAPPY VALENTINEâS DAY MOM!
For a second, everyone is quiet. Then you laugh, not because itâs funnyâthough you suppose it is, in a wayâbut because the contrast is so absurd it knocks the air right out of you. Patrick follows a second later, loud and incredulous.
âAre you serious? Right now? This is why we havenât had kids,â he laments. You smack his arm, but youâre still laughing.
âThatâsâshit. Thatâs timing,â Art exhales his own laugh.
âI told her Iâd call her before bed,â Tashi huffs, but sheâs smiling down at the screen when she turns it back to her.
âWell, thatâs one way to kill the mood,â Art says, glancing around at the half-undressed state of all of you.Â
âSpeak for yourself,â Patrick mutters, adjusting himself shamelessly.
âNo, I think thatâs pretty definitive,â you laugh, tugging the straps of your dress back up. Your heart is still hammering in your chest.
âProbably for the best.â Tashi meets your eyes, something warm flickering there again. Thereâs a quiet agreement in the room, unspoken but shared. The tension doesnât disappear entirely, but at least none of you are groping each other anymore.
âI need water,â Patrick declares.
âSame,â Art says, and the pair of them shove at each other on their way to the fridge, sporting matching tents in their slacks.
You watch them, lips curving up faintly while Tashi texts her mom back. Some things change, some things donât.
âHey,â you say lightly, looking back at her. âTell her I said happy Valentineâs.â
Tashi glances up at you, a smile tugging at her mouth. âIâm not sure how to explain who you are, but I will.â
The night ends less explosively than it might have had things continued. But when Tashi settles back next to you, phone extended to show you the picture again while Art and Patrick bicker behind you, you donât think youâd change a thing.
