Tag Team (15 page)

“Sir?” he called out. The only response was the echo of his own voice.

At some point his shorts must have fallen down around his ankles, and he stumbled when he tried to take a step. Strong hands caught him before he could fall, and he cried out when he was lifted off his feet and set down on the window seat. The heated flesh of his back pressed against the cool glass at the same moment his cock was surrounded in a warm, wet mouth.

“Who—” Mason’s word caught in his throat when his entire length was engulfed, a throat tightening around the flared head as they swallowed. Mason’s hands landed in soft, silky strands, and he curled them into fists, his hips instinctively snapping. The strong hands that held him, blunt nails digging into the tender flesh of his hips, halted his movements.

A strange noise—half moan of pleasure, half cry of frustration from his vain attempt to thrust—worked its way out of Mason. His heart hammered in his chest, breath coming in short pants. He could only hold on to the hair tangled in his fists and react to the overwhelming stimulation.

Mason felt a vibrating sensation against his cock, much like that of when Charles would hum when blowing him, but he couldn’t hear any sound over the rush of blood roaring in his ears and his own strangled cries. The vibration set off a chain of events Mason was powerless to control. His head fell back, back arched. He was aware of his muscles tightening, as if he were a wind-up toy, each stroke of that wet heat like a turn of the key, coiling the spring. No sight, no sound of his lover, made the feel of his hands, the slide of his tongue, the scrape of teeth that much more acute. Mason stepped toward the edge, his breath held as his body readied itself for the plunge.

Nothing.

All stimulation was gone. No hands on his hips, no rhythmic slide of tongue, no tight throat clamping down on his cock head, no soft strands against his palms, only a twinge of pain from where his own nails dug into the meaty flesh.

Mason sucked in a harsh breath and stepped back from the edge, trembling. “Sir?”

Silence.

He opened his eyes and winced at the harsh, bright sunlight streaming in through the window behind him, the entire room glowing, and yet Mason still felt the darkness, black and silent, deep within him. Blinking rapidly Mason tried to focus on something, anything but the brilliant glowing light that was just as complete as the darkness had been. Where the hell was he? He shifted, trying to get his bearings. His hands curled in the cushion beneath his ass, his legs held together by the shorts pooled around his ankles. The window seat. He was still sitting in the window seat, his cock aching and throbbing, straining and curling up toward his stomach.

Charles.

Charles had been in the darkness. He’d been humming against Mason’s cock, bringing him rapidly to the edge of bliss and then…. Mason blinked again, but it did no good. He couldn’t see or hear him. He was gone. Mason no longer felt his presence; he was gone, blinked away by the wash of light, leaving Mason aching and longing for his touch. The cold black began to smother him, choking him and crushing the heart in his chest. But just as the weight of it began to crush him, powerful hands landed on his waist and spun Mason. He yelped, flailing to find purchase, and a loud “oomph” was ripped from him when he landed on his elbows and knees. The sound cut off when the hair on the back of his head was grabbed and his face pushed into the cushion. Mason turned his head and gasped as his shorts were roughly pulled past his feet.

Mason could barely make out the outline of a man behind him. It wasn’t a shadow, only a slight variation to the light, brighter, as if the light was distorting the features by emitting from within the man himself.

The powerful hand on the back of Mason’s head stayed firm, not allowing Mason to lift it even a millimeter, but the one on his lower back was soft, a thumb gently brushing back and forth over the small birthmark Mason had a couple inches above the crack of his ass. A favorite spot. Gregory had always returned to that area over and over with fingers, lips, and tongue. The darkness inside Mason receded, along with the sadness and shock, when warm lips pressed against the small discoloration, and he knew it was him. Could feel him, smell him.

In sharp contrast to the rough position he was held in, Mason’s crease was teased lovingly. Gentle fingers probed at him, stretched him, and when his lover’s cock entered him it was with a sigh, rather than a shout. Each press was measured, each pull painstakingly slow. Over and over and over the movement was repeated until Mason thought he’d go mad. It was just enough stimulation to renew Mason’s need to come with a vengeance, but never quite enough to push him to the edge and shove him over. He needed more, needed it harder or faster or… more. He needed more before insanity overwhelmed him.

More friction.

Something.

Just more.

Mason tried reaching for his cock, but invisible bonds held his wrists. He tried to call out, to beg and plead, but his screams were silent. He was stuck, held in limbo as his body was loved. The only thing he could do was rock at the same slow-moving pace his lover set.

T
HANK
fuck!
was the first cohesive thought that entered Rig’s brain upon waking and feeling a hard dick poking insistently at the crack of his ass. He yawned and stretched, soft hair tickling between his shoulder blades with the movement. Rig hadn’t been all that upset when Mason had followed him and Bobby back to their bungalow, even though Mason had totally cockblocked him, but he had to admit, he’d nearly lost his shit when Mason had crawled between him and Bobby on the couch and they’d snuggled together all through two sitcoms and the news. The fucking late show had finally done Rig in, and he’d fallen asleep. He barely remembered stumbling into the spare room, shucking off his clothes, pulling back the covers and face-planting on the mattress.

Rig also didn’t remember Bobby crawling into bed with him, but he must have, as evident by the warm breath on Rig’s back and the tap, tap, tap of a wet-tipped cock head. With a happy hum, Rig wrapped a fist around his dick, pulling his length in full tip-to-base pulls in the same slow rhythm Bobby set. He’d give Bobby a minute more, let him think he was going to actually get lucky. But after the hell Rig had survived the day before, he deserved to be the one doing the banging. At least that was his plan for all of about five hard pulls.

“That’s it,” Rig moaned and pushed back against Bobby, encouraging him to move faster. He wasn’t going to last long. They must have been going at for a while, and obviously his dick had been awake long before he had, his balls already drawing up close to his body. Bobby didn’t speed up to meet Rig’s harder thrusts, didn’t touch Rig, didn’t speak, and just continued to poke at Rig with that same slow motion.

Fuck that. He
would not
be denied this time.

In one deft movement, Rig rolled and pinned Bobby beneath him, shoving Bobby’s arms up over his head, and humped hard, hissing when their hard cocks came in contract. “I said harder,” he snarled and snapped his hips.

“Sir!” Bobby cried out.

Rig was rutting, rushing toward orgasm, and it took a few seconds before cognitive thought made its way through the haze of lust and sleep. It wasn’t Bobby’s voice, it was Mason’s, but it was too late; Rig was already coming by the time realization set in. He groaned pitifully as he tried reining it in, losing all friction and stimulation as he rolled and cried out as his head hit the nightstand, and seconds later the breath was knocked out of him as his back slammed against the hardwood floor. To add insult to injury, his cock continued to pulse and shot one last blast of cum that landed on Rig’s wheezing chest.

A light came on, and Mason’s horrified face peeked over the edge of the mattress. “Oh. My. God. I am so sorry, Rig,” Mason deplored. “I was dreaming, and I’m pretty sure I was fucking or rather being fucked because…. Oh shit! I am so sorry. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

Rig tried to respond, let Mason know he was fine and to calm down, but Rig was still having a little bit of difficulty getting air back into his lungs, so he just waved a hand toward Mason, hoping the message got through.

“What the hell happened?” Bobby demanded, coming around the end of the bed, hands on his hip and scowling down at Rig.

Rig sent him a message too in the form of a lone standing middle finger.

“I am so sorry,” Mason stammered again, his face beet red, the color reaching all the way up to his ears.

What the hell was Mason apologizing for? Okay, so yeah, the man had been humping against him when he’d woke, but he was the one who had slammed the poor guy into the mattress and blew his nut all over Mason’s chest. Rig shook his head. “Don’t,” he gasped out, finally catching his breath. “I’m fine.”

Rig held out a hand toward Bobby and allowed his partner to help him to his feet. “Ow! Fuck! Ow!” Rig’s hand rubbed across the back of his head coming away wet. A queasy sensation rolled Rig’s gut when he looked down at his hand, his palm covered in blood and the room began to spin.

“Shit! Sit down before you fall down,” Bobby ordered and grabbed Rig’s arm and encouraged him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Dazed, Rig followed his instruction without hesitation and grabbed the back of his head again.

“Let me look,” Bobby muttered and pried Rig’s hand away. “Mason, could you grab me a towel, please,” he added as he examined Rig’s wound.

Mason jumped from the bed and hurried out the door without a word. “Where the hell did he come from?” Rig grumbled. “I thought that was you poking me in the ass.” He winced when Bobby poked at the cut.

“He woke to a nightmare while we were still on the couch, and I brought him to bed with me,” Bobby explained. “And how the hell did you get us confused?”

“I was sleeping and it was dark,” Rig said defensively. “And I was horny. Which is all your fucking fault,” he snarled, then turned and swatted Bobby’s hand away. “Stop it. That hurts.”

“Stop being a baby,” Bobby chastised.

“Here ya go,” Mason yelled, coming back through the door with an armful of towels.

“One is plenty,” Bobby chuckled and took one from the top of the stack. “This big old growly bear only has a little nick.” Bobby pressed the towel to the back of Rig’s head, holding pressure against the wound.

Rig looked down at his hand again, held it toward Bobby, and arched a brow.

Bobby waved it off. “Head wounds always bleed easily.”

“Can I get you anything, Rig? Maybe an ice pack? Aspirin? Drink of water?”

Mason looked so grief stricken Rig instantly had the urge to ease the man, even lie a little to do it. “I’m fine, Mason, honest. Bobby’s right, it’s just a little nick. It doesn’t even hurt,” he assured him.
Much.

Mason clutched the towels to him, worrying his bottom lip with teeth. His cheeks were still colored, and he wouldn’t meet Rig’s eyes. “Are you sure?” he asked hesitantly.

Rig pulled himself to his feet, gritting his teeth when the room tilted, but he pushed past the sensation and cupped Mason’s chin with his clean hand and tilted his head back until Mason met his eyes. “Honest. I’m fine,” he promised. A second wave of nausea rolled through him, and he dropped his hand. “Bobby, you want to come clean this crap out of my hair?” Without waiting for a response he stepped past Mason and made his way to the bathroom on unsteady legs.

They say be careful what you wish for, and Rig now understood exactly what
they
meant. He’d wanted to get off so goddamn bad, and he’d gotten his wish. Next time he’d make sure to wish for a pleasurable O because the one he just got had to have been the singularly most painful orgasm ever. The only thing that kept him putting one step in front of the other, instead of crawling back into bed, was his greater need to shower, and get some coffee and an ice pack, because damn…. Ow.

Chapter 14

R
IG
and Bobby had gone back to their place to shower and grab clean clothes. After a quick shower of his own, Mason dressed in a pair of blue-and-yellow flowered swim trunks and a yellow tank. They were going to make breakfast together, then spend some time lounging on the beach. He’d heard them come back moments ago, but he continued to fuss with his hair, brushed his teeth, rubbed lotion into his hands, cleaned up the bathroom counter, checked his image for the hundredth time in the mirror, and kept finding shit to putz with.

“You can’t avoid them forever, you dork. You invited them back,” he told his reflection.

Mason fussed with his hair again. Christ, he was embarrassed and just couldn’t seem to find the courage to open that fucking bathroom door. He planted his hands on the counter and hung his head, hiding from the accusing eyes.
I humped Rig in my sleep and I think I might have blown a load all over the poor man, too
. How the hell was he going to meet the man’s eyes? He couldn’t even look at himself. Mason shook his head in disgust. That wasn’t even the worst of it. He’d caused Rig to fall out of bed and crack his head wide open.