The Trio - Beau Maxwell
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
blurb: You, Beau, and Dean have always been a trio, but Dean doesn’t know that you and Beau have been sneaking around behind his back.
warnings: 18+ mdni, explicit sexual content, established secret relationship, sneaking around, teasing under a blanket, oral sex, unprotected sex
꒰১taglist໒꒱ @chrismattnick
Pt 2 Here!
Dean liked to act like the three of you had become friends by accident.
He said it all the time, usually when he was sprawled across a booth or stealing food off your plate like he had earned the right by suffering through your company.
“You two just showed up one day,” he would say, pointing a fry between you and Beau like he was making a case in court. “And now I can’t get rid of either of you.”
The truth was, Dean had done most of the inviting.
He was the one who had started dragging you along after class, calling your name across campus without caring who turned to look. He was the one who waved Beau over whenever he spotted him, like Briar had personally assigned him the role of collecting loud, attractive athletes and forcing them into the same social circle.
And Beau had fit in too easily.
He fit beside Dean at crowded tables, laughing at his jokes, tossing in comments that made Dean groan and shove at his shoulder. He fit beside you too, in quieter ways Dean should have noticed sooner. His knee finding yours under diner tables. His hand brushing your lower back when he slipped behind you in a crowded hallway. His eyes cutting toward you when someone said something stupid, waiting for your reaction before he let himself laugh.
It had been easy at first.
A look here. A touch there. A kiss stolen in the hallway while Dean argued with someone outside a classroom and didn’t think to turn around.
Then easy turned into something harder to ignore.
And that was where things started to slip.
“Why do you always give him your pickle?” Dean asked one afternoon, his voice muffled around a mouthful of fries.
You looked up from your plate.
Beau didn’t.
He just reached across the diner table, took the pickle spear from beside your sandwich, and dropped it onto his own plate like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“She doesn’t like them,” he said.
Dean paused.
The fry in his hand lowered slightly.
You felt Beau’s foot nudge yours under the table, almost lazy, like he knew exactly what he had done and still couldn’t be bothered to look guilty about it.
Dean’s eyes moved from Beau to you.
“You don’t like pickles?”
“No,” you said.
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
Dean frowned like this was a personal betrayal. “We’ve been friends for months.”
“You never asked.”
“I shouldn’t have to ask. I notice things.”
Beau finally glanced up, mouth twitching. “Clearly.”
Dean threw a fry at him.
It landed on Beau’s sweatshirt. He picked it off without looking and ate it.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, but Dean caught that too. His gaze sharpened for half a second, then drifted down to where your foot had moved beneath the table.
Beau’s knee was still touching yours.
Neither of you moved away.
Dean leaned back slowly, suspicion starting to settle over his face.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing face.”
Dean pointed at you, then at Beau. “You’re both being weird.”
Beau took a sip of his drink. “You say that every time we hang out.”
“Because every time we hang out, you’re weird.”
“That sounds like a you problem.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Dean turned on you immediately. “Oh, so you’re on his side now?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You laughed.”
“It was funny.”
“I know I’m funny. That’s not the point.”
Beau’s knee pressed against yours a little firmer, hidden under the table. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to remind you he was there. Just enough to make you look down at your plate instead of at him.
Dean was still talking, offended now about loyalty and diner etiquette and how no one appreciated the emotional labor of being the best person in the group. Beau listened with the easy patience of someone who didn’t have to prove he belonged anywhere.
But when Dean leaned sideways to flag down the waitress, Beau’s hand dipped under the table.
His fingers brushed yours for barely a second, then they were gone.
You kept your face forward, your eyes on the salt shaker, but your chest had gone warm.
Dean turned back around with a satisfied nod. “More fries are coming.”
“Thank God,” Beau said. “Thought you were gonna start eating napkins.”
“You joke, but I’ve considered it.”
Beau looked at you then, openly enough that anyone could have seen it if they were paying attention. His eyes dipped to your mouth for less than a second before lifting again. Nothing obvious. Nothing you could accuse him of.
When you glanced over, he was watching Beau with narrowed eyes.
Beau looked back at him with an expression so innocent it was almost offensive.
“What?” Beau asked.
Dean stared another beat.
Then he shook his head and reached for the ketchup. “Nothing.”
By movie night, Dean had apparently decided the best way to deal with his suspicions was to make them everyone else’s problem.
He invited you both over with no real plan, then acted annoyed when you arrived at the same time.
“Convenient,” he said from the doorway, looking between you and Beau.
You tightened your grip on the bag of snacks you had brought. “We walked from the same side of campus.”
Beau lifted the six-pack in his hand. “Do you want this or not?”
Dean stepped back immediately. “Come in."
Dean had already claimed the larger couch by the time you got into the living room. He was stretched out from one armrest to the other, socked feet propped up, remote on his stomach, popcorn bowl tucked against his side like someone might steal it.
You stopped in front of him.
Dean looked up.
“What?”
“You’re hogging the couch.”
“I was here before you.”
“This is your place.”
“Exactly.”
Beau didn’t say anything. He just moved past you and dropped onto the smaller couch, leaving barely enough room beside him. When he looked up at you, there was nothing smug on his face, nothing obvious enough for Dean to notice. Just the faintest lift of his brow.
Your stomach pulled tight.
You sat beside him because there was nowhere else to sit. At least, that was what you told yourself when your thigh pressed against his.
Dean smirked from across the room. “Look at that. Cozy.”
Beau leaned back, arm stretched along the cushion behind you. Not around you. Not quite. He glanced over at Dean, then at the way he’d taken up the entire couch.
“You’re really not gonna move?” Beau asked.
Dean didn’t even look at him. “Nope.”
You pulled the blanket over your lap, settling deeper into the cushions while Dean started the movie. The room went dim except for the glow of the television. For a while, it was normal. Dean made comments. Beau answered when he felt like it. You ate popcorn out of the bowl Dean eventually passed over only because he wanted the chips Beau had brought.
Then Beau’s hand settled on your knee beneath the blanket.
You kept your eyes on the screen.
It wasn’t the first time he had touched you with someone else in the room. It probably wouldn’t be the last. That was the worst part, how used to it you had become. How your body recognized the weight of his palm before your mind had time to warn you to behave.
His hand stayed there for a few minutes. Warm. Still. Innocent enough.
Dean was laughing at something on-screen, stretched across the other couch like he had forgotten either of you existed.
Beau’s fingers shifted, enough to slide from your knee to the inside of your thigh.
You drew in a careful breath through your nose.
His face didn’t change. He watched the movie like he hadn’t moved at all, like his hand wasn’t hidden under the blanket, like his thumb wasn’t beginning to stroke slow, absent lines over the fabric of your yoga pants.
Your fingers curled around the edge of the blanket.
Dean snorted. “That guy is definitely dying.”
No one answered.
Beau’s hand moved higher.
Your body went still before you could help it. His palm rested high between your thighs, over the soft stretch of fabric, close enough that heat climbed your neck. He didn’t do more than that. He didn’t need to. He just stayed there, thumb moving once, barely, like a private joke he knew you couldn’t react to.
You turned your head a fraction.
Beau’s eyes stayed on the television.
The corner of his mouth moved.
Dean suddenly shifted on the other couch. “Why is everyone so quiet?”
You reached for a chip from the bowl on the table, mostly to have something to do with your hand. “We’re watching the movie.”
“You never watch the movie.”
“You yell if we talk.”
“I yell when people talk during important scenes.”
Beau’s thumb went still.
Dean looked between you. His eyes paused on the blanket, then on your face. For one awful second, you wondered if he could see the shape of Beau’s arm beneath it.
But then he grabbed the remote and rewound ten seconds. “You both missed the best part.”
You almost laughed from nerves alone.
Beau’s hand stayed exactly where it was.
The next ten minutes stretched so thin you could barely follow the movie. Dean stayed occupied, loudly invested in the death of some side character he had decided deserved better. Beau remained calm beside you, his shoulder pressed to yours, his hand hidden and steady and far too comfortable.
When Dean finally stood, you felt your whole body loosen with relief.
“I’m getting more popcorn,” he announced.
“Pause it,” you said too quickly.
Dean paused and looked at you. “You care now?”
“I was being polite.”
“Sureee.”
“Go make popcorn.”
Dean stared at you a second longer, then took the bowl and disappeared toward the kitchen.
The second he was gone, you grabbed Beau’s wrist under the blanket.
He turned his head then, slow and almost lazy, but his eyes were darker than they had been before.
You meant to tell him to stop.
You meant to remind him Dean was ten feet away and nosy and way too pleased with himself whenever he thought he had figured something out.
Instead, Beau leaned in and kissed you.
It was quiet, but it wasn’t soft. His mouth caught yours like he had been waiting through the entire movie, like every small touch under the blanket had only made him less patient. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, then slid to his sweatshirt, pulling without meaning to.
He smiled against your mouth.
A cabinet shut in the kitchen.
You broke away first, breath catching as you turned back toward the television. Beau leaned back beside you, his hand finally leaving your lap, though he took his time with that too.
Dean came back a moment later with the popcorn bowl refilled and a suspicious look already forming.
He stopped behind the bigger couch, neither of you moved. The movie was still paused on the screen.
Dean’s gaze shifted from Beau’s face to yours, then down to the blanket, which had slipped crookedly across both of your laps.
“What did I miss?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Beau said.
You closed your eyes for half a second.
Dean’s mouth slowly curved.
“Right.”
By Friday, you were starting to think Dean knew something.
Not everything, if he knew everything, he would have made a speech by now. Dean Di Laurentis did not keep good material to himself. He would have cornered you between classes or walked into the dining hall wearing a grin big enough to ruin your life.
But he knew enough to watch.
He watched when Beau handed you a drink without asking what you wanted.
He watched when you took Beau’s hoodie from the back of a chair and put it on like it was yours.
He watched when Beau stood behind you in the kitchen at the party later that week, reaching over your head for a bottle and letting his fingers brush your hip on the way back.
You stepped away before Dean turned around fully.
Beau didn’t.
At the pregame, it was worse.
Dean had decided, with no permission from anyone, that the night was going to start at his place. Logan showed up first, already grinning, carrying a bottle tucked under one arm and a bag of pretzels in the other. Beau arrived ten minutes later. You arrived two minutes after that, which Dean noticed because of course he did.
“Unbelievable,” he said as soon as he opened the door.
You stepped inside. “Hello to you too.”
Dean looked past you at Beau, who had come up the walkway behind you. “You two coordinate this?”
Beau held up both hands. “I walked.”
“So did she.”
“Lots of people walk, Dean.”
Dean didn’t move from the doorway.
Logan appeared behind him, peering over his shoulder. “Are we blocking the door for some reason?”
Dean stepped back, still staring. “I’m observing.”
“You’re being weird,” you said.
“I am never weird. I’m intuitive.”
Beau passed him and brushed his hand against your back as he moved by, so quick you almost convinced yourself it hadn’t happened.
You turned toward the kitchen before your face could give you away.
For the next hour, the house filled slowly. A few guys drifted in and out. Someone turned music on, then turned it louder when Dean complained it wasn’t the right kind of loud. Logan opened the pretzels and immediately spilled some on the floor. Dean shouted at him, Logan shouted back, and Beau leaned against the counter beside you with an expression that said he was enjoying this more than he should.
You tried to keep space between you.
Beau kept ruining it.
Not in big ways. Nothing obvious enough to call him out over. He stood close when you reached for a cup. His fingers touched yours when he passed you the bottle. He lowered his head once to say something near your ear, something about Dean looking like he was one bad song away from throwing everyone out of his own pregame.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
Dean’s head snapped up from across the kitchen.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you said.
“You keep saying nothing.”
“Maybe you keep asking at weird times.”
Dean’s eyes narrowed.
Beau lifted his cup to hide his smile.
You shot him a look that should have warned him to behave.
He looked pleased instead.
That was the thing about Beau. Everyone thought his charm was accidental because he wore it so easily. They thought he smiled like that at everyone, touched everyone with the same careless warmth, made everyone feel like they were the only person in the room for a second.
And maybe he did, sometimes.
But not like this.
Not with his fingers finding the hem of your sweatshirt when no one was looking. Not with his eyes lingering on your mouth when he thought you might let him get away with it. Not with the quiet impatience that had been building all night, wrapped beneath every normal joke and casual glance.
You could feel it from across the room.
You could feel it when he wasn’t touching you.
That was why you almost missed Dean opening the cabinet and swearing.
“How are we out?”
Logan looked up from the couch, pretzels balanced on his chest. “Out of what?”
“Everything that matters.”
Dean started pulling bottles from the cabinet. “There’s half a bottle of vodka, one beer, and something Garrett left here that smells horrible.”
Logan sat up. “So we’re making a store run?”
“We?” Dean repeated.
Logan grinned. “I have good taste.”
Dean looked around the room, already annoyed by the inconvenience of his own party. His eyes landed on Beau.
For one terrifying second, you thought he was going to ask him to go.
Beau must have thought the same thing because he pushed off the counter slightly.
Dean pointed at him before he could speak. “You stay.”
Beau paused. “I stay?”
“Someone has to make sure these idiots don’t drink the weird Garrett bottle.”
Logan scooped a handful of pretzels into his mouth and followed him toward the door. “Are we getting chips too?”
Dean’s voice carried from the hallway. “We have chips.”
“Not the good ones.”
“You ate the good ones.”
“That sounds like a reason to buy more.”
You stayed where you were, cup in hand, heart already beginning to beat too hard for how normal you were trying to look.
Dean stopped at the doorway and turned back, gaze moving between you and Beau.
“Do not let anyone touch the tequila,” he said.
Beau leaned back against the counter. “Got it.”
“I mean it.”
Dean stared at him.
Beau stared back.
For a second, neither of them said anything.
Then Logan grabbed Dean by the shoulders and physically turned him toward the door. “The alcohol dude.”
Dean pointed back into the room as Logan dragged him out. “Nobody gets the tequila.”
The door shut behind them.
The house did not go quiet. There was still music playing low in the living room. Someone laughed upstairs. A couple of guys were arguing in the next room about whether they needed ice.
But the kitchen felt different anyway.
Smaller. Warmer.
You set your cup down on the counter.
Beau did not move right away. He stayed where he was, one hand curled loosely around his drink, eyes on you in a way he had not let himself look all night.
“You’re supposed to be guarding the tequila,” you said.
Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
Beau looked toward the cabinet, then back at you. “It’ll be okay.”
“Dean’s going to notice.”
Beau glanced toward the front door, then back at you. “Dean notices everything except the thing directly in front of him.”
“He’s been staring at us all night.”
“Then we’re already screwed.”
Beau set his cup beside yours. “Might as well make it worth it.”
You should have told him no.
You should have pointed out that Dean and Logan were only going to the store, that they could forget something and come back in five minutes, that half the team was still somewhere in the house and the two of you were not nearly as subtle as you liked to believe.
Instead, you looked at the hallway.
Then at the stairs.
Beau noticed, of course he noticed.
His expression changed, not into a grin exactly, but something quieter and more certain. He pushed away from the counter and crossed the kitchen, slow enough that you had time to stop him and close enough that you knew you wouldn’t.
When he reached you, he didn’t kiss you immediately.
He just stood in front of you, close enough that his sweatshirt brushed yours, and lowered his head slightly.
“Upstairs?” he asked.
Your hand found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric.
From somewhere outside, Logan’s laugh carried faintly through the window as he and Dean headed down the sidewalk.
You looked at Beau, at the mouth you had been trying not to stare at all night, at the face you had been pretending was only your friend’s friend.
Then you nodded.
“Upstairs.”
You both scramble, slipping into the guest room, a space that feels like a second home since you three spend so much time here, and the second the door shuts, Beau has you pinned against it. You're both laughing softly between deep, hungry kisses, the thrill of the risk adding a sharp edge to the desire. There is a sweetness to it, the feeling of finally being alone after hours of pretending to be just friends.
Breathless, you reach down, your hands fumbling with the hem of his shirt. You try to tug it up, wanting to get him out of his clothes and feel his skin against yours as quickly as possible. You're desperate to please him, to give him everything he's been craving while you played the part of just friends downstairs.
Beau lets out a soft, amused huff and catches your wrists, gently pinning them against the door for a moment. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his expression sweet and devastatingly attentive.
"Slow down, baby," he murmurs, his thumb grazing your cheek. "I've been waiting all night for this. I'm not letting you rush through it. I want to take my time with every single inch of you."
He lets go of your wrists and reaches for the bottom of your oversized sweatshirt. He lifts it slowly, his eyes tracking the movement as he pulls the fabric over your head and tosses it carelessly onto a nearby chair. His gaze lingers on your skin, warm and appreciative, making you feel like the only woman in the world. Next, his hands slide down to the waistband of your leggings. He peels them down your legs with a slow, deliberate precision, his fingers brushing against your thighs, until you step out of them.
You reach for him then, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside. You slide his jeans down, your hands shaking slightly with anticipation, and help him push them past his hips. He stays in his boxers for a moment, keeping the pace slow just as he promised.
Beau doesn't rush. He guides you to the bed, gently pushing you back onto the mattress. He looms over you for a second, his eyes dark with affection and heat, before he begins to descend. He kisses your jaw, then your collarbone, and then he works his way down your torso. He leaves a trail of soft, lingering kisses across your chest, then moving down to your stomach. His breath is hot against your skin, making you arch your back and moan.
He reaches down and slides your panties off your hips, tossing them aside. He settles between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open. When his tongue first hits your clit, you let out a loud, unrestrained cry. Downstairs, the music is thumping and the bass is vibrating through the floor, providing the perfect cover. You don't bother hiding your moans, letting them echo in the room as Beau laps at you.
He uses his tongue in long, slow strokes, swirling around your center before flicking faster against the most sensitive spot. While he continues to eat you out, he slides one finger deep inside you, then a second, stretching you gently. He curls his fingers upward, hitting your G-spot with a rhythmic pressure that matches the movement of his mouth. He takes his time, listening to the way your breath hitches and the way you call his name.
After a while, Beau pulls away. You blink up at him, your chest heaving, as he stands up at the edge of the bed. You watch him, your eyes tracing the lines of his body, as he slowly pushes his boxers down. He kicks them away, revealing that he is already fully hard, pulsing and ready for you.
He leans back down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, and he shifts his focus to your throat. He kisses along your neck, his lips hot and demanding. He begins to nibble and bite, sucking the sensitive skin of your shoulder and neck, leaving dark marks that will be impossible to hide tomorrow.
Beau shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He doesn't just plunge in. He rests the head of his cock against your opening, looking directly into your eyes.
"You okay?" he whispers, his voice thick with need but still incredibly careful. "You comfortable, baby?"
You nod frantically, pulling him down. "Please, Beau. Now."
He eases inside you slowly, a long, sliding motion that fills you completely. He lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he feels your walls tighten around him. He stays still for a heartbeat, making sure you're adjusted, before he begins to move.
He moves with a steady, rhythmic pace, his hands framing your face or gripping your hips to pull you deeper into him. Every thrust is intentional, every touch affectionate. He whispers how much he loves you, how much he's wanted this, his voice a low murmur against your ear.
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him in as deep as he can go. The friction is electric. Beau's pace quickens, his breaths becoming ragged, his movements becoming more urgent as he feels you tightening around him. He kisses you deeply, his tongue dancing with yours as he drives into you, his hips slapping against yours with a wet, rhythmic sound.
You can feel the build-up starting again, a tight coil of pleasure in your gut that mirrors the intensity in his movements. Beau's eyes are locked on yours, his expression one of pure devotion and hunger. He pushes deeper, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust, making you cry out his name over and over.
You both hit the peak at the same time. You cry out, your body shaking with a powerful, crashing orgasm, while Beau groans loudly, his muscles locking as he pumps his cum deep inside you. The world narrows down to just the two of you, the heat of your bodies and the shared release.
Beau stayed over you, breathing hard against your neck, his body heavy and warm in a way that made the rest of the world feel far away. Your fingers were still tangled at the back of his hair. His mouth brushed your shoulder once, soft and almost absent, like he needed that last small piece of you before he could bring himself back to the room.
Downstairs, the music was still going. Someone shouted over it. Someone else laughed. The bass kept thudding through the floor, steady enough that it almost covered the sound of Beau’s breath slowly evening out.
Almost.
He lifted his head just enough to look at you, his face flushed, his hair messy from your hands.
“You good?” he murmured.
You nodded, still trying to catch your breath. “Yeah.”
His mouth curved, tired and sweet. “Yeah?”
You opened your mouth to answer.
The door swung open.
Beau reacted before you did.
“Shit.”
He moved so fast the mattress dipped beneath him, one arm shooting out to grab the sheet while the other shifted instinctively in front of you. You made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a squeak, yanking the sheet up to your chest as Beau twisted beside you, half covering you with his body, half fighting with the blanket.
Dean stood in the doorway, Logan right behind him.
For one horrible second, nobody spoke.
Logan blinked once, then he turned around immediately.
“Nope,” he said, already heading back down the hall. “I did not need to see that.”
“Logan,” Dean said, without looking away.
“No. I’m gone. I was never here.”
His footsteps disappeared toward the stairs with impressive speed.
Dean stayed exactly where he was.
You clutched the sheet tighter, your face burning so hot you were sure you had stopped looking like a person. Beau had managed to drag the blanket over his lap, but his hair was a wreck, his chest was bare, and the flush across his neck made it painfully obvious what had just happened.
“Dean,” Beau snapped.
Dean was still staring.
Not angry or horrified. Just completely, unnervingly still.
Your stomach dropped.
You had imagined this a dozen times in little flashes whenever Beau’s hand lingered too long in public or whenever Dean turned around a second too late. Dean yelling. Dean getting pissed. Dean looking between you like you had both betrayed him somehow.
Instead, his mouth twitched.
Then he pointed at the two of you and burst out laughing.
“I fucking knew it.”
You froze.
Beau stared at him. “What?”
“I knew it.” Dean stepped into the room, looking far too pleased with himself. “I knew it. Oh my God, this is the best day of my life.”
“Get out,” Beau said.
Dean ignored him completely. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting for one of you to slip up?”
You pulled the sheet higher. “Why are you laughing?”
“Because I knew it!”
“Why aren’t you mad?” you asked.
That seemed to catch him for half a second.
Dean looked at you, then at Beau, then back at you again. The amusement was still there, but it softened around the edges.
“Mad?” he said. “Why would I be mad?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Beau’s jaw flexed. “Because you’re Dean.”
Dean scoffed. “Rude.”
“You walked in without knocking.”
Dean waved that off, still grinning. “Okay, yeah, awful timing on my part. But mad? No. You two are just terrible at hiding things.”
You stared at him. “We are not.”
“Oh, I love this for you guys.”
You blinked. “You do?”
“Yeah.” Dean leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, suddenly acting like this was a perfectly normal conversation to have while you were sitting naked under a sheet. “It’s gross, obviously. Deeply upsetting for me personally. But kind of sweet.”
Beau dragged a hand over his face. “I’m begging you to leave.”
“In a second.”
“No. Now.”
Dean held up a hand. “Fine. I’ll go.” He took one step back into the hall, then paused like a thought had just occurred to him. “Although, next time, if this is a group thing, I wouldn’t be opposed to an invite.”
Beau’s face went completely flat.
“Fuck off.”
Dean burst out laughing, already backing away from the door with one hand raised in surrender.
“Dean.”
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving.”
He pulled the door shut, but not before calling through the gap, “Lock it this time, geniuses.”
Then the door clicked closed.
For one second, the room was silent.
You and Beau stared at each other, both of you still half tangled in the sheet, his hair wrecked, your face hot, the panic slowly draining into something ridiculous.
Then you started laughing.
Beau dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a groan, but you could feel his smile against your skin.
“I hate him,” he muttered.
“No, you don’t.”
Beau leaned in, brushing one last kiss against your mouth as Dean’s laughter echoed somewhere down the hall.
