Double Blind (41 page)

Randy sighed and reached up to touch Ethan’s hand, but didn’t look at him. “I’m trying to go there with you, Slick. I’ve been there with you, if you care to remember.” He bit his lip and forced the rest out. “I really want to go there with you again. Now.” The last lash of nerves gripped him, and he shoved them away. “With them.”

Ethan digested this, still stroking Randy’s face. “So this is your long way of saying you want to switch and take the submissive role. Which means you want me to be dominant. And you want to do this with Mitch and Sam.”

So nice and simple when Ethan said it. And yet still terrifying. “Yes.”

Ethan’s fingers tightened on Randy’s chin and tipped it back so that he either had to look at Slick or shut his eyes. Randy didn’t shut his eyes.

“What’s your safe word?” Ethan asked.

“Cactus,” Randy said, “but—”

“Take off your shirt, Randy, and go into the living room.”

And this, here—this was the really hard part, the part that Randy could not have explained if his life depended on it. Not out loud. Because what held him up was always this: The Look. Mitch always fucked it up. Mitch could never quite get rid of his dad telling him he was a fat little faggot. Mitch could never sweep all his guilt and shame aside and take control. But with Sam he could. Or Sam just wasn’t aware of all the complexities. Or didn’t care. It was very possible Sam was too in love with sliding under, with surrendering. He loved being done to. So did Randy, actually, but he could so rarely get there, because he always got hung up on this part.

The Look.

Crabtree had it. Shit, Crabtree had The Look from across a room. Hard and strong and determined. Complete self-possession, complete control. He looked at you, told you he wanted you, and there was this huge space, like his great big arms extended, and you could go in there and let it all out. That was why it was hot. That was why Randy was always happy to be the gangster’s piece on the side. It was the only place really he could let go like that.

But he wanted that with Slick. They’d stumbled into it a few times, but that might have been an accident. Could they do it now? Here? With Mitch and Sam? Was this absolutely stupid, to start with a group? Randy didn’t know.

And then Randy made his eyes meet Ethan’s, and he went still.

Ethan had it. He absolutely, totally had it.

He had the control. He had the conviction. Randy tried to push at it, because how,
how
could he have it when Ethan had been the guy with a gun under his front seat just a few days ago, who kept melting down? But then, actually, that made sense. The guy who could drive down to Vegas and so single-mindedly lose all his money and then gird his loins to go out and blow his brains out
was
in control. And he was in control now too. He barely knew what the roles were, but he was an ace, the ace of aces. He had Randy’s chin in his hand, and he was figuring it out. He had it completely figured. He was waiting for Randy to catch up, actually.

Holy shit.

Ethan’s fingers tightened, and so did his jaw. His eyes were dark and dangerous. “Take off your shirt, Randy, and go to the living room.” He leaned forward, boring those eyes into Randy. “
Now
.”

Like a bolt of lightning finding its way in through a crack in the walls, the word ran down through Randy, hitting the magic spot, and he felt himself go soft, almost as soft as Sam. He felt himself unhook, felt the panic try to take him over, but then Ethan was taking hold of his arm and leading him to his feet, raising his arms above his head, and taking hold of the hem of his shirt. Randy felt panic as the fabric closed over his face, but it was only there a moment and then it was gone, and Ethan was looking at him. As Randy stared back, he felt arms go around him, not Ethan’s arms but the arms of his control. He felt them expand, and he felt the space form: bigger, closer, warmer, and stronger than anything else had ever been, with anyone. Ever.

Ethan smiled, brushed a kiss over Randy’s mouth, then reached up gently to draw down the hands which were still hovering over Randy’s head. “Come,” he said, and because he had been commanded, Randy went.

It got
harder for Randy when they joined the others.

Sam was on the floor, sitting on the blanket, and because Randy and Ethan had taken so long, Mitch had kept his husband warmed up. Sam really liked being teased, so Mitch still had him mostly dressed, but his pants were undone, and he was toying with Sam’s cock a little. Mitch looked up when Randy and Ethan came over, and Randy lost some of his sensual spell when he saw Mitch take in his shirtless state. He realized that he might end up being submissive to Mitch, too, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to try that again after so long.

Ethan, who had no idea any of this was of concern, led Randy forward. When Mitch withdrew and sat on the couch to watch, Ethan just accepted it, stepping into role of ringmaster as if he’d been born to it. He arranged Randy across from Sam on the floor. Sam looked surprised, too, but didn’t say anything, especially when Ethan put a hand on top of his head; with that touch, Sam shut his eyes and went pliant.

And then Salomé bounded out from between the couch and the chair onto Sam’s legs, looking up at Randy, ready to play.

That was a mood killer.

Ethan laughed and scooped up the kitten. “Daisy,” he called, and Randy watched man and two cats disappear down into the hall. Mitch rose and followed.

Sam and Randy were alone.

Sam, whose eyes had opened again, looked sleepily at Randy, then smiled.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said, though it was clear he wasn’t objecting at all.

“Slick’s full of surprises,” Randy agreed.

“You like him,” Sam said.

Randy nodded.

“Me too,” Sam said, and then they just sat there, waiting. Because this time, that was the game, and Sam, no dummy, had already figured it out. Other nights it would have been Randy talking dirty to him. It would have started already. But not tonight. Not unless Ethan directed them to.

Sam’s foot turned sideways and his sock rubbed against Randy’s hip. Randy looked up at him again and caught Sam’s grin.

“I’ve missed you, Randy,” Sam said.

Randy reached over and massaged Sam’s foot. “Missed you, too, Peaches.”

And that was how it started. Because that was the thing about being a switch, at least for Randy—take away that control for more than a minute, and he picked it back up again. He kept up his massage, absently at first, but the next thing he knew his hand was traveling to Sam’s ankle, his finger teasing under the edge of his sock. Then the sock was peeling off, and he took Sam’s bare foot in hand, massaging again, but now he was watching Sam’s eyes, watching them go dark and soft, watching him fall into the space Randy was making. Randy claimed it, making love to Sam’s foot with his hands, drawing him into pleasure, making him gasp, making his pink, semi-hard cock lengthen and darken until it was red and swollen and bobbing a little as the blood filled it fuller and fuller. He felt his own dick respond in kind. He just sat there, massaging, loving the feel of the control he had over Sam, loving the way Sam gave it so easily. Loving Sam.

Cool, firm hands came down on Randy’s shoulders, and he stopped. Then the hands tightened, and he felt the invitation to slide away, to move back into the arms that had opened for him. When he paused, unsure, the hands tightened, and then they were sliding down his arms and moving his hands for him, long, slim, beautiful hands over his rough ones, and then Ethan embraced him from behind and whispered in his ear.

“Lean forward,” he said, his voice full of quiet command, “and take him in your mouth.” His hands tightened on Randy’s wrists. “But pay attention to my hands, and do what they tell you to do.”

The space didn’t just open for him: it swallowed him up. But it took the space he’d made for Sam too. It took it all. And Randy went. Fuck yes, he went.

He moved slowly, like a dream, sliding up Sam’s legs, guided first by Ethan’s hands and then moving on his own. His eyes met Sam’s, briefly, and then, as he lifted onto his knees and shifted over Sam’s erection, he shut his eyes and bent his head to swirl his tongue around the tip. He heard Sam gasp, and he smiled and took him in deeper, and then deeper, sliding over to brace his hands on the insides of Sam’s thighs, holding him open.
Yes.
He sucked Sam deep inside his mouth, into his throat, and he hummed, making Sam gasp and moan, and he started to let himself slide into his work, letting pleasuring Sam consume him.

But then, before he could drift away, he felt Ethan’s hands.

They were on his hips now, and they were nudging him, directing Randy’s whole body to go between Sam’s legs, to wedge his knee into the space there. So he went, not letting go of Sam, but aware now of both men. It was he who shivered when Ethan’s hands reached around him and undid his fly, he whose rhythm stuttered when those same hands pulled his waistband down until it was nudging at his knees. When the short slap came against his backside, he lifted first one knee and then the other until Ethan had gotten his jeans down all the way to his ankles, where they remained. But Randy’s knees were nudged farther apart, and then farther, and then so far Randy almost lost his balance—until those hands left him and drew Sam’s bare foot and his stocking foot against each side, to brace him. Randy paused, uncertain.

A hand came down—Ethan’s, he knew by the touch, by the way he pressed—and pushed Randy back to his task. Randy shut his eyes and let himself be led.

Then he felt those hands on his backside, pulling him open. Then he felt Ethan’s tongue swirl against his skin, and he moaned.

He knew one wicked beautiful moment of awareness, of being able to imagine what a fucking glorious sight they must be, Sam half-dressed, Randy’s mouth on him, Randy spread open and moaning, bucking helplessly into Ethan’s elegant, gorgeous mouth as he made love to Randy’s ass. He had the picture of it in his head, and that more than anything sent him over, sent him headlong into lust and pleasure and sensation. He sucked greedily at Sam, who was gasping in great, high-pitched sighs and breathy moans, pushing his hips off the floor and driving himself deeper into Randy’s throat. Ethan, satisfied that Randy was properly spreading himself now, let go of his ass with one hand and took hold of his balls, gently milking them as he first breathed hard against Randy’s anus and then began to worm his tongue inside, forcing it open. Randy began to hum again against Sam’s cock, but it was involuntary now, purring his pleasure as he opened himself even farther for Ethan, letting him in, urging him deeper, begging him with his body to claim him more, do to more, anything, just more, and more, and more.

And then abruptly he was pulled back. Ethan took hold of his shoulders and drew him back off of Sam, making him kneel. Later he would lie in bed and think about what happened next, trying to figure out how they’d done it, if it had been telepathy or hand signals or what, but all he knew then was that suddenly Mitch was there, hauling Sam up in that way he had that was almost but not quite rough. Then Sam was naked and kneeling and coming at Randy’s cock with his mouth as Mitch lubed his fingers. Mitch slipped a finger inside of his husband as Sam closed his lips around Randy; Sam’s moan reverberated against Randy’s cock and made him moan too.

“Holy shit,” Randy whispered, just before Ethan turned Randy’s face toward his own and kissed him hard.

It was, in every way, an orgy: everything in excess, in its purest form. Sex. Touch. Thrusts. Mouths. Hands, fucking hell, it felt like there were thirty of them. Sam’s hands. Ethan’s hands. Randy’s hands. And then—it happened so fast that Randy didn’t realize until it was over, but then it was Mitch behind him: Mitch touching his stomach, Mitch bending down to breathe hot and lusty in his ear. How the hell Mitch and Ethan had switched places Randy had no idea, but they had, and suddenly it was Mitch’s fingers coming at him, slick and insistent, his other hand sliding down to take Randy’s cock in hand.