Bookended (3 page)

Ogden needs prompting, but not guidance, in slicking up his fingers, and then he’s there, right there, a third warm body, close enough that Fletcher could tilt sideways in his seat and be able to kiss him, bite his lips. Fletcher can hear Ogden’s breathing, the long exhale when Fletcher reaches with both hands to spread Julian’s ass cheeks and expose him. Ogden is trembling. He reaches out, unsure, with his dry hand, running it down the arced expanse of Julian’s back.

“He’s not your boyfriend,” Fletcher bites out, and it hits him that
at this late fucking point
he’s jealous. “Don’t
pet
him. He doesn’t want little butterfly kisses, he wants you to fuck him senseless.”

Fletcher clenches in sympathy at the sight of Ogden clumsily,
rudely
, plunging his first finger into Julian’s hole, no warning, no hesitance, all the finesse of ripping away a Band-Aid. But then Julian moans, loud and shameless, and his body arches and his spine stretches and his shoulders roll in their joints and his ass thrusts back and Ogden falls on him, fucking him with that single finger like it’s the only thing he understands anymore.

“More,” Fletcher orders, his voice cracking at the sight of Julian’s body writhing, the sound of Julian’s gasps and groans, Julian’s fists curling into the couch cushions. He runs a hand through Julian’s hair, compulsive and quick. “More. Give him more.”

Ogden looks to Fletcher briefly, then back to Julian, working a second shaky finger and biting his lip in concentration.

It’s not enough. Keeping one hand on Julian’s head, sweeping his thumb around the rim of Julian’s ear, Fletcher thrusts the fingers of his other hand into his own mouth, toying his tongue over them. He closes his eyes at the sensation, bucks his hips, almost loses himself—then removes them, reaches over to thrust the first two into Julian’s hole in a press of muscle and warm lube and spit and Ogden’s knuckles.

“
Fuck
,” Julian hisses. His fingers stretch and curl as he pants into the cushions. Sweat pricks up on his neck. Fletcher and Ogden’s fingers work inside him, no cooperation or rhythm, just feverish movement.

Fletcher wishes Julian could see himself right now, flushed, bright with the sheen of sweat, body trembling and arching over Fletcher’s lap. He brushes at the hair behind his ear. “Good,” he praises, nearly whispering. “You’re so good, Julian. Do you want to be fucked?”

“Yes!” he cries out as Fletcher curls his fingers inside him, stroking with the pads of his fingertips. Fletcher leans down to place a kiss on the nape of his neck. He tastes salty.

“You heard him,” Fletcher says to Ogden. Then, still stroking, he turns to Julian and says, “That’s it, that’s it,” except the words are meaningless encouragement, just nice gentle sounds. He feels Ogden’s fingers slip free, then hears the sound of a condom packet. He keeps up a firm pace in Julian, watching the pink-red on his upturned cheek.

He withdraws his fingers almost automatically when the blunt head of Ogden’s long cock nudges against his knuckles, impatient. Julian moans “Oh God!” and it’s fear and abandonment and relief as Ogden slowly, surely, presses his cock inside, lets out a long growl that seems to dip in tenor with—that
follows
his inward stroke.

Fletcher watches Julian’s back arch, opening himself, exposing himself, greeting Ogden, his whole body saying
Yes, more
.

“Harder,” Fletcher orders, through his teeth. He wants to see Julian used to exhaustion. Ogden’s face scrunches up in intense concentration, the color high on his cheeks.

“I can’t...!” he gasps, but he’s doing it already, gripping Julian round the hips and pounding himself forward. The sound of flesh slapping flesh drives Fletcher wild. He reaches to Julian’s far nipple and
twists
.

“Louder, Julian,” he says, voice shaking, and he doesn’t touch his cock, because he can’t come yet, not yet, he’s waiting for something.

Julian, obedient,
filthy
Julian, sobs out a string of, “
Fuckyesmorepleasefuckfuckfuck
.”

Turning from Julian, Fletcher finds Ogden puffing through his nose, pupils blown. Looking at Fletcher like he wants approval. So Fletcher lowers his eyelids, smug, daring him, and Ogden collapses forward, digging his fingernails into the skin of Julian’s shoulders for balance, and crushes his mouth against Fletcher’s in a thorough, enthusiastic kiss, his tongue lashing against Fletcher’s own.

He tastes of coffee and skin, and he pants against Fletcher’s mouth, forehead tipping, and just like that, his thrusting becomes erratic until he drives forward three more times, deep and disjointed, and comes without a cry. Julian, underneath him, makes an impatient noise.

For a minute there, it’s all panting, a half-conscious sense of “what now?” with Julian slumped across Fletcher’s lap, trembling with adrenaline and Fletcher fisting his own cock out of pure frustration and Ogden peeling and tying his condom, holding the knot by his thumb and forefinger like it’s distasteful.

And then Ogden collapses back, panting still, and runs a hand through the sweat on his mostly-hairless chest. His ribs appear and disappear with his breathing. One of his long legs dangles off the side of the couch, the other bent up at the knee and resting sideways against the cushions. His cock, soft but still swollen, a little red and shiny with lube, rests against his belly, pointing up to his tattoo, which stretches out black across the tautness of his belly:
STARVING HYSTERICAL NAKED.

A smile creeps across Fletcher’s mouth. He looks fucking
edible
.

“My turn,” Fletcher says. He gives Julian’s ass a quick spank as a signal to get off his lap and then leans forward on his knees, covering Ogden’s body with his own. He bites across Ogden’s collarbone, his neck, his left pectoral and nipple, leaving a path of bite marks that meanders from his neck down to the undulating tattoo across his heaving belly.

Julian, loitering at the head of the couch, half-seats himself on the armrest propping up Ogden’s head and reaches, almost casually, for one of the long-forgotten water bottles. He chugs half of it down in one breath—God, the sight of that long throat working, extended, his bobbing Adam’s apple! Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, uncharacteristically undignified, he raises an eyebrow in Fletcher’s direction. In question.

How selfish is
he
?

“I have an idea,” Fletcher says, stroking his hands up Ogden’s inner thighs, taking him by the knees and parting his legs. “How about I fuck you while Julian gets his cock down your throat? That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? Both of us at once?” He says it offhand, like suggesting they put in a DVD. His cock throbs, watching Ogden’s face change as he pictures it, morphing from languid pleasure to something curious and fearful.

Julian, just hearing it suggested, strokes up the length of his cock, casting Fletcher a smoldering stare that’s meant just for him. Fletcher swallows past a dry mouth.

“Do you want that?” he asks, tearing his eyes from Julian, wanting to hear it, gripping Ogden’s knees again and pushing them back so his legs are bent up over his chest, so his hole is exposed.

Ogden’s eyes are dark, narrowed with arousal. “Yeah,” he says, and his gaze is moving greedily from Fletcher’s face to Julian’s and back again, his mouth propped up in a crooked, pleased little smirk. “Yeah, I want that.”

“Hold your knees up,” Fletcher directs him, letting go. “Yeah, like that. Just like that.”

Julian doesn’t move at first, choosing instead to watch as Fletcher slicks up his fingers and begins to work Ogden open. He’s tight and nervous, and Fletcher has to coax him to relax, has to talk him down from the tension, past Ogden’s twisting body and bitten-back sounds of desire as Fletcher’s fingers begin to curl and twist inside him—

Then Julian is standing, his hand is on Ogden’s face, is smoothing over his cheek, is thumbing his lower lip, is touching his chin and his jaw and his lips, is turning his face.

“Oh,” Fletcher breathes, as Julian, holding Ogden’s chin in one hand and his cock in the other, nudges his cockhead against Ogden’s slightly parted lips.

“
Open
,” Julian grits out and, still clutching Ogden under the jaw, feeds him the first inch of his cock. Fletcher catches glimpses of Ogden’s tongue thrusting out over his lower lip, bathing the underside of Julian’s shaft to strangled sounds of approval.

“Oh,
yeah
,” Fletcher amends. Ogden’s legs tremble with the effort of holding them up, but even so, his hips are moving in time to Fletcher’s fingers, his head bobbing enthusiastically but shallowly over the end of Julian’s cock. Fletcher’s own need is searing through him, like the crackling of electricity under his skin. He becomes hyperaware of his straining cock, the close, clenching heat of Ogden’s hole around his fingers, the sound of Ogden’s mouth slurping wet over Julian’s cock, the telltale gasps of Julian trying to suppress the noises of his own arousal.

Before he even has time to think of what he’s doing, to second-guess himself, he’s rolling a condom down his cock, running his lube-smeared hand across the slick surface of it. Ogden gasps, that familiar mixture of relief and disappointment, when Fletcher’s fingers slip free. “Okay?” Fletcher asks as he positions himself, guiding Ogden to rest his calves on his shoulders. Ogden actually gives him a thumbs-up. Fletcher flicks his eyes up to Julian. He doesn’t repeat himself, but it’s there in his expression, the little tilt of his head.

Julian’s eyes are only half open, his cheeks flushed pink. “Just do it, Fletcher,” he orders.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Fletcher replies, cheerful, and sheaths himself inside Ogden in one long, smooth stroke. Ogden’s body arches underneath him, half a moan escaping his throat, smothered by Julian’s cock.

“Mm,” Julian praises as the force of Fletcher’s first staggering thrusts jolts Ogden’s body, knocking that saliva-slick mouth deeper over his cock. “You like that, don’t you?” he asks, his pupils flickering quickly to make eye contact with Fletcher and back again. He grabs a fistful of Ogden’s hair, slowly drives his hips forward,
deeper
. “How much you think he can take, Fletcher?”

Fletcher groans, pushing forward and feeling the stretch and resistance of the muscles in Ogden’s thighs as he leans into them. He can’t find his voice to answer, and it doesn’t really matter anyway; all he can think about is the smell of Ogden’s fresh sweat, damp on the underside of his knee, and the way Julian’s dark head bends in abandon and Ogden moves underneath him, to meet him, to encourage him deeper, and there’s no finesse in it, but that doesn’t matter either.

He bites the side of Ogden’s knee, tugging at the skin with his teeth, runs his hands down his long thighs and up again, watches Julian’s mouth as he pants and chews his lip red. Drool is running down Ogden’s chin, his jaw straining desperately for more, Julian’s balls slapping his chin to the rhythm of his thrusting.

Julian plants one foot on the couch for leverage.

Fletcher reaches down to Ogden’s sides, finds his arms, and pins them. The feeling of those small, bony wrists twisting under his palms, the heat of being deep inside him—

“Doesn’t he feel so good inside you?” Julian taunts, “Does it hurt?”

Convulsing, Fletcher comes, moaning out “Oh God” in surrender.

As Fletcher’s twitching through his aftershocks, nuzzling Ogden’s calf lazily, Julian pulls back and rests the tip of his cock against the cushion of Ogden’s lips as his mouth opens and closes under it, gasping for air. He pumps himself frantically until he comes, spurting in a streak across Ogden’s mouth and cheek with an imperious groan.

“Swallow,” he directs, stroking himself one last time, and when Ogden does, gulping wide-eyed, he drops to his knees beside the couch abruptly and kisses and licks away the come spattered across Ogden’s skin with that deliberate tenderness of his. Fletcher watches, allowing himself an easy, exhausted smile.

W
HEN
they’ve all caught their breaths, Julian offers Ogden use of his shower. Ogden smiles and shakes his head: “I think I’m clean enough to get home anyway, thanks.”

Julian looks mildly suspicious, but shrugs with a cheerful “Suit yourself!” and breezes out to use it himself.

When Fletcher hears the water running, he stoops to collect his wallet from his trousers, balled up on the floor. Returning to his seat next to an already half-dressed Ogden, he passes over a few crumpled notes. “Should cover cab fare home,” he explains.

“Thanks,” Ogden replies, pocketing them, and bends to tie his sneakers. It gives Fletcher a very nice flashback of Julian’s hands meticulously untying his laces, stroking his ankles. “So maybe you two’ll give me a call sometime?”

Fletcher blinks, looks to Ogden like he’s surprised he’s still there.

“My number,” Ogden says, smiling patiently, and holds out an orange ticket stub, scrawled over with black ballpoint.

Fletcher’s hands, resting on his bare knees, curl and tighten, but he reaches for the stub anyway. “Yeah,” he says, a little distracted, “thanks.” And then, more sincerely, “For everything, I mean.”

Ogden smiles wistfully a moment and then stands. He strides across the living room, scooping up his scarf and draping it around his shoulders in a large, grand movement. “You two,” he starts, arranging the ends, “Julian said you’re his boss, that you’re fucking, but it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

Fletcher tilts his head to the ceiling in an expression of thoughtfulness. “Who knows,” he replies, at length. “Maybe. It’s never really been up to me.”

“D
ID
he leave his number?” Julian asks as Fletcher hands him a fresh pair of socks the next morning. His hair is mussed, a healthy glow warm across his cheeks.

Fletcher turns to the closet and flicks through the hangers to find a shirt. “Yeah,” he replies, selecting one. “Wrote it down in your organizer for you. You know, if you want.”

“Ugh,” Julian complains, but he’s smiling indulgently. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. Messes with my system. Also, your handwriting’s shit.”