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"Now you guys kiss!"
The girl is wicked hot and laughing as she says it; she's got a tongue piercing, which Cliff had been finding so fucking sexy when she slipped it into his mouth not two minutes previously.
Now she's looking between him and Roz, grinning and pointing back and forth. The party's hopping, loud; nevertheless Roz's eyebrows shoot up from where he's setting up beer pong, and he flashes them both a hazy grin.
"Us? No way," Cliff says quickly. "No homo. We don't do that."
"Gutted," the girl coos, still teasing. "Guess I'm not gonna flash you both my tits then…"
That gets Roz's attention. "Now that is tragedy. Marly, you fuckin' killjoy, get over here."
Cliff reconsiders. Hey, if Roz is up for it… just harmless, meaningless fun… and it's pretty dark here, all flashing lights and pounding bass.
The next thing he knows, Roz's lips are mashing against his, smelling of beer and cologne, scratchy with stubble. No tongue, just warm dry pressure as the girl hoots and whistles, and someone else shouts, Hey dude, what the fuck!
Roz releases him and spins back to the girl expectantly, leaving Cliff's mouth tingling.
The girl beams at them and lifts her t-shirt, revealing an impressive pair of tattooed tits in skimpy, stretchy red lace. Roz scowls in appreciation and makes a chef's kiss sign with his fingers. He seems not at all bothered. Gotta love Europeans. Though Russia isn't in Europe? …whatever. Roz is ice cool about it.
The girl locks back onto Cliff and sways in close. "Like what you see…?"
"Hell yeah," Cliff says, grinning, and steers her away from Roz into a darker corner of the party. And if he notices how markedly different her mouth feels to Roz's, it's probably just because of that tongue piercing.
Over the next few weeks, whenever he hooks up with a chick in public, Cliff finds himself clocking if Roz is around too. Not that he wants a repeat performance. No homo, obviously. But once, when Cliff draws back from kissing a different girl, he catches Roz's gaze for a moment before they both look quickly away. The moment seems to blaze in the darkness. Weird.
Things come to a head when they're in a bar, with three party girls who shake their hair and dance right up on them, then invite themselves back to the team's hotel.
"Sure," Roz says, with that slow sexy grin of his that makes every girl in the vicinity instantly melt. "Let's take this back to ours…"
There's a little fooling around in the taxi, before it becomes apparent that two of the girls – especially the one in Cliff's arms – are way too intoxicated. It’s not what they’re into. They tip the driver heavily and send them safely on their way.
It leaves the girl who'd been shoving her tongue down Roz's throat. She looks between them and grins. "And then there was one… Nightcap?"
"Sure," Roz says, flashing that smile at her again. It makes something in Cliff's belly melt too.
In the hotel elevator, she presses the Stop button and they all look at each other. "You know," she says breathlessly, biting her lip, "I always had this fantasy…"
…which is how Cliff winds up going back to Ilya Rozanov's hotel room for the first time.
She's kissing them both, stroking them both, stumbling a little as they all fall on the bed.
Cliff and Roz don't kiss, obviously. But their hands bump occasionally as they strip, and Cliff can't help but be aware of Roz's hard dick right there, massive and flushed, catching his attention even when there's a naked chick writhing between them.
He can't help but stay aware of the noises Roz makes, soft grunts and gasps, as she blows them one after another; and of the look in Roz's eyes, hungry and glazed, when she pushes him back on the bed and rides him cowgirl-style.
The noise Roz makes when he comes seems to sidle right into the back of Cliff's head and make a fire there.
The next day is kinda weird, kinda not. They have practice in the afternoon and Roz high-fives Cliff with a knowing smirk; the next time they all get drunk together, they trash talk about making out sloppy style in the name of tail. The rest of the guys hoot and jeer, massively jealous. It's awesome, they're famous athletes with girls throwing themselves at their feet; so they had a devil’s threesome, who fucking cares? They're legends!
Besides, it’s not like they kissed or anything. They didn’t DP her. Their dicks never even touched.
Cliff definitely would have noticed if their dicks touched.
Roz pauses in the next city, in the next sports bar, giving Cliff the slow curious side-eye he's been favoring recently. "Hey, uh. You wanna split, just us? Go out properly, get shots and stuff?"
"Sure," Cliff says.
"We could, uh," Roz says, and rubs his nose. Leans closer, lowering his voice. "Find someone. If you want. Whatever."
A low smolder kicks up in Cliff's chest, interest flaring. He plays it cool. "Whatever, yeah. Sounds hot."
But that night they don't find anyone. Well; they find girls who have zero interest in each other, or in sharing. And it's hot, still, making out with one girl, going back with another, but Cliff can't deny a weird pang at not getting exactly what he'd set out for.
It's just because it had been so hot, how excited the girl had gotten with both of them. Fulfilling her wildest fantasy. That’s all.
The next few nights pass without incident, and then one Friday night Cliff looks down at his phone – there's a text from Rozy: Found someone.
Cliff's chest tightens. What?
Rozy: room 132
Cliff takes a bottle of cold champagne just in case, and arrives at door 132 to the sounds of a party inside.
"Heyyyy, you made it," Roz drawls, and Cliff grins at him before looking over his shoulder to the room beyond. There are two hot girls, already slightly dishevelled, dancing with their arms around each other.
"Nice," Cliff says, and goes to introduce himself. They already know who he is. They're already stripping off. They've got a bottle of tequila and extremely knowing grins.
The rest of the night passes in a blur of body shots and pounding music, licking salt off tanned bellies and sucking lime juice from lipsticked mouths. The girls kiss each other too, it's awesome. And always, always, right there, is Roz. Big and warm and so fucking sexy, and he won't stop kissing the girls, their necks, their ears, making them squirm and laugh breathlessly. One girl gets her hand in the front of Cliff's shirt and drags him in to kiss her neck on the other side. Roz's fingers brush over Cliff's; they're both exploring the tiny bikini this chick's stripped down to, that's all. His hand feels huge in comparison to hers.
Cliff draws back from her neck and finds himself looking straight at Roz. A haze of heat rises.
"Go on," she urges, and it's Roz who leans in, smiling that sexy smile as he kisses Cliff open-mouthed. Not holding back. Kinda homo. His lips are softer than Cliff remembers—the absurdly well-preserved memory of last time floods over him, brusk and perfunctory by comparison, whereas this is lush and almost lazy, and Roz’s mouth is wet this time. Roz tastes like salt and lime, and musk and smoke, and the smell of his cologne is dizzying even with the girl right there, smelling like flowers and bright candy. Roz sucks Cliff's tongue and Cliff gets really fucking hard all of a sudden.
"Jesus," he mutters, when Roz pulls back, but Roz is already kissing the chick again; Cliff can see his tongue going in. Cliff watches, his own mouth hanging open.
"Forget about me?" the other girl demands, reappearing from the bathroom. She's taken her top off and her tits are phenomenal. It's a wild, wild night; anything goes. One of the girls sucks Cliff's dick; he looks up to see Roz is going down on the other one, got her spread out on the couch, her heel running up and down his spine. He's really going for it. His eyes are closed as he eats pussy like it's his last meal. He's so fucking hot. His shoulders are huge.
The girl giving Cliff head pulls away and starts putting on a condom, then pulls him down onto the floor and crawls on top. She's so hot with her shiny hair and perfect body, bouncing up and down on him, but he still finds he's looking across at Roz more often than not. Just because it's so insane, this crazy night, seeing his bro bring a hot girl to a noisy fucking orgasm, and then another one, her hands twisting in his hair. By the time Roz is putting on his own condom and lowering himself on top of her, Cliff's almost ready to nut. It's so hot, watching his ass move, the noises of fucking, the noises the girls are making. Roz's breath, heaving. Roz's eyes flick across to Cliff and they wordlessly synchronise, fucking with a shared rhythm, watching the other pair go at it, drowning in the girls' sexy little moans.
It's so fucking hot when Roz comes, Cliff follows straight after.
By mutual accord they don't talk about that night much. A few swigs during Never Have I Ever, some crows of knowing laughter, Roz tapping the side of his nose and declaring a gentleman never tells, amidst shouts and leers that he's no fucking gentleman.
They don't talk about it alone either.
And then—something changes.
Shane Hollander comes on the scene.
Cliff isn't sure when it happens, only that it has happened; Roz’s roving gaze switches onto Hollander and never comes back. It doesn’t matter. It’s nothing major. But Cliff notices Roz no longer looks at him in the same way; the slow curious side-eye has diminished to nothing.
He doesn’t miss it, he tells himself. That whole thing was weird anyway.
Roz gets really pissed when Hollander dates Rose Landry, something hard and hollow coming in his expression every time they catch a puff piece on the news.
Roz still fucks women, but hella less frequently, so far as Cliff can see. Doesn’t even seem to be losing it over that Jane girl in Montreal any more. And it’s been a long time since he suggested to Cliff that they go out together and find someone.
Not that Cliff’s tracking this shit or anything.
Hollander doesn't seem to return whatever it is that Roz is putting out there. Though, once he splits with Landry, their professional chemistry spikes again; they play hard on the ice and snipe and sneer the rest of the time, eyes glittering. But their famous rivalry seems just that, overall. Hollander's determined to beat Roz in every field, at at every opportunity. Sparks fly, and sometimes there's a spring in Roz's step that Cliff doesn't comment on.
No point asking what Roz sees in Hollander—he’s a fucking legend. Top of his league. And so fucking hot, actually. Cliff can admit that.
That still doesn’t prepare him for looping back to the shower room in Tampa after an All Stars game, looking for his watch – it had a broken link for a while, but now it’s fucking missing from his wrist, a conspicuous bare patch – to find Roz has Hollander backed against a locker, one hand on his throat, the other pinning his wrist above his head. So close they look like they’re fighting, like Roz is roughing him up, but Hollander isn’t fighting back.
And in the slow millisecond that unfolds between one lurching heartbeat and the next, Cliff notices several things at once: that on Hollander’s captured hand, the fingers are curled, not clawed; that Hollander’s ankle is hooked around Roz’s calf; that Roz’s hip is angled, almost slumping against him, not a fighting stance at all. And that’s all the warning he gets before Roz kisses him, and Hollander visibly melts for one incredibly long hot second before shoving back at him and hissing, “Not here, Jesus, are you fucking insane? What if someone—”
Which is the point that Cliff finally makes an involuntary slow-motion noise of surprise and they both whip round, springing back from each other.
Hollander’s face is flushed. “Fuck fuck fuck—”
“No, is okay," Roz says quickly, though his eyes are also black, fight-or-flight flaring. "Marly’s cool,” and he's got a restraining hand on Hollander’s chest like he’s stopping him from swinging for him.
The look in Hollander’s eyes, Cliff feels a genuine spike of adrenaline. Cliff’s technically bigger, but Hollander is built, and right now it’s like he’d attack him without a qualm and bury the body.
“You—" Hollander’s panting, and his black eyes have a scary laser focus. “You didn’t fucking see anything, okay? Okay?”
“Okay,” Cliff says quickly, raising his hands.
“Yeah, okay,” Roz says again, slapping Hollander’s chest. “Settle down. Marly’s—we go back. He's cool.”
“Settle down?!” Hollander hisses, rounding on Roz. “What the fuck did you say to me? So he’s cool, that’s fucking lucky, but it could’ve been anyone, that could’ve been fucking it.”
“I know. But it wasn’t,” Roz says, too casual now.
“How many times do I have to fucking tell you? Don’t fucking kiss me at work—”
Jesus fucking stone-cold christ they're a couple.
This is a couple fight.
This is not an accident or a mistake or spur of the moment impulse, or whatever the fuck that warped electrical charge had been going on between him and Roz, all that time ago—this is a real secret thing.
“Do you wanna get a beer?” Roz asks him, the next afternoon. Low voiced, like he used to sound.
Cliff ignores how his heart starts pounding. "Sure."
They get a beer, sit at the bar, safely apart where no one will overhear. They drink in silence until the bottles are almost empty. Now they're here, Roz seems not to know what to say.
Eventually Cliff gives in. "Okay Rozy, hit me. What’s up?"
Roz picks the edge of his beer bottle label. "What you saw," he says carefully, precisely, without looking at him. "It cannot go anywhere."
Cliff feels mildly offended. "C'mon, I know that!"
Roz gives him a grateful look. "Yeah?"
"Swear to god," Cliff insists.
"Not even joke. Shane will freak."
"My lips are sealed."
"Okay. Okay," Roz says, and blows out a huge breath. "Fuck. Thanks."
He sounds so earnest, Cliff gets intrigued. Fuck, had Hollander sent him? He signals for another two beers, takes a deep swig. Then asks casually, “So what is actually going on?"
Roz shakes his head. "If I tell you I have to kill you."
Cliff laughs. "Alright, I get it, you're a scary soviet asshole."
Roz smirks and nods.
"How long, then?” Cliff tries, a moment later. He's still just… intrigued.
“Long,” Roz says, getting a faraway look in his eyes.
Cliff blows out his own breath. "Crazy. Under everyone’s noses.”
"Uh huh."
"Is it serious?" he asks, before he can stop himself, then answers his own question: "Fuckin’ must be, you’re risking a lot."
"Everything," Roz agrees.
"Huh. Pretty intense." He's starting to feel the beer making his body feel warm, relaxed despite the subject matter. Which is the only reason he can find to explain his next words, nudging Roz in the ribs as he says: "So what’s Holzy like in the sack, then?"
He expects to be shut down, groaned to fuck off. Instead Roz gives him a fleeting grin that's almost predatory. "Wild. Best I ever have."
"No way!" Cliff knows that can’t be true. There’s no way Hollander’s giving Roz a better time on the regular than all those crazy nights they spent together. No fucking way.
"Way."
"Whatever, I'll believe that when I see it," Cliff teases, because watching a frustrated blush spread across Roz's cheekbones feels like a fucking victory. "He comes off as such a prude, man. Don't deny it."
"He is not prude," Roz says firmly, eyes gleaming.
"Yeah, right.” He feels hot under the collar now, picturing it. That energy Roz used to bring to fucking a chick, but with Hollander?! He takes another cooling swig of beer. And which way round did they do it, anyway? He couldn’t imagining either of them… receiving. Maybe they just did other stuff. But that didn’t seem wild. “Whatever you say…"
Much later that night, past midnight, when Cliff's brushing his teeth, his phone suddenly buzzes.
You alone?
Yeah, Cliff taps back, one-handed as he finishes up with the toothbrush.
There's a long pause, and then he’s getting a Snapchat notification from Rozy.
He stares for a long moment before the picture resolves into—this is porn. Not just any porn. Gay fucking porn, Roz is sending him gay porn now, what the actual fuck? That is very, very homo.
He realises exactly what he’s staring at: the angle cuts off his head, making him technically anonymous, but it’s unmistakable. That’s Shane Hollander’s bare back, arching as he takes Ilya’s dick, Ilya’s thumb holding him open, half in, thick, shiny, other hand presumably on his phone.
Wild, he hears Roz say, in his mind. Smug as all hell.
Jesus christ. Jesus fucking christ, does Hollander even know Roz has sent this pic?
Cliff flares red hot all over; dirty and guilty and hella turned on, all at once.
Ok you win, he texts back, fingers clumsy. That's pretty fucking wild.
The pic’s gone again, but it’s handily emblazoned across the back of Cliff’s eyelids, probably permanently. That arch. The back dimples. Roz’s bare dick – and this thing between them must be pretty fucking serious if he’s hitting it raw, given Cliff knows Roz usually suits up for one night stands, and this is like, gay anal – christ.
Get a good look?
And he's showing it off to Cliff. On purpose.
Cliff swipes his tongue over his lower lip, unaccountably nervous. Types: No actually, I barely caught that.
Roz's reply comes quicker this time. More?
Yeah.
It’s a tightly cropped, closer shot this time, less of Shane’s back; just his muscular rounded ass framed, slippery-shiny, dark red hole stretched around Roz’s cock; he's all the way in now.
Pure porn. Cliff feels like all the air has gone from the room.
Does he know you’re sending this?
Of course.
Holy shit. The idea that Hollander knows… he feels better and worse at once. He feels insane.
Cliff swallows hard. It's crazy this must be going on in the same hotel he's in right now. He wonders if Shane is making a lot of noise or keeping silent.
Cliff would probably make a lot of noise with something that big inside him.
Dizzy now, he taps out a reply. That’s fucking hot.
Yeah
Is Roz texting him mid-fuck? Suddenly that's all Cliff cares about.
Are you still going?
Yeah.
Prove it.
A 4-second video is the filthiest thing he’s ever seen. The noises, the shaky camera, the unmistakable slide of Roz's dick, fuck.
Jesus.
There's no reply for a while.
Maybe he’s shot his load. Maybe even now they're tangled up together, laughing and sated.
Cliff feels not at all sated.
Then another pic comes through, this time of the whole slick length of Roz’s cock, just the tip pushed into Shane’s ass, his hand wrapped around it for scale. Thumb against a fat vein, gleaming. Fuck, Roz has sent him an honest-to-god dick pic. And Cliff's mouth is watering.
Cliff's typing again before he can stop himself. Can’t believe he can take that whole thing.
He loves it, comes the instant reply.
Room for one more? Jk!
He sends it before he can lose his nerve, and then there's a pause that feels like a lifetime.
Then, from Roz: want me to ask?
This is crossing a line surely.
But Roz has already crossed a hundred lines tonight.
Sure, Cliff types, then deletes it again. Now is not the time for half-hearted enthusiasm. Hell yeah if he’s up for it.
He's up for it. You wanna come watch me destroy his hole?
Yeah.
Or you wanna put it in as well?
Holy shit, again. Whatever you guys want, Cliff types, swallowing again. This can't be happening.
1254
His room number. No: their room number.
Jesus christ is he actually going to do this?
Come quick, Roz texts. He is very horny.
He likes the idea?
Is his idea.
Fuck.
The corridor seems long. Cliff's fully dressed and hard as a rock, heart pounding, feeling like he’s about to have a stroke. He checks a bunch of times, up and down, over his shoulder, for other people. But it’s two in the morning, there’s no one else.
As he knocks, he wonders if they’ve finished already.
Roz opens the door almost immediately, a towel wrapped around his waist. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his hair wild. He’s got scratches over his shoulders.
Fuck, those scratches are from Hollander.
Cliff wonders how many other scratches he's attributed to girls, over the years, that have actually been from Hollander.
"You cool?" Roz's gaze is too knowing.
"Yeah. You?"
"Yeah," Roz grins, welcoming him in and closing the door behind him. "But I tell you who is not cool. My poor buddy Hollander, he misses my dick very bad."
Involuntarily, Cliff's gaze flicks down. Fuck, they really have pressed pause for him. That's intense. There's a familiar bulge beneath Roz's towel. He wants to touch it. He doesn’t know the rules.
"Sorry to keep him waiting," Cliff croaks.
Roz gives him one of his sexy, dark smiles. "He’s got nowhere else to be."
Cliff follows him right into the bedroom, his mouth going dry. Fuck, what a sight. Shane Hollander is face-down on his belly on the bed and he’s—-he’s got a purple plug in his ass. Fuck. Roz wasn't kidding. They’re fucking hardcore.
Seeing the dimples in real life is making Cliff crazy, as is hearing the ragged catch to Hollander’s breathing.
“You okay, baby,” Roz is saying, crossing to him and speaking in a low voice. “That plug keeping your ass nice and full for me?” He strokes his ass, then looks back at Cliff. “Look who I found.”
Hollander makes a whiny, needy noise and turns his head, and Cliff stops breathing for a moment. Hollander’s eyes are black, glinting, his face glazed. He locks eyes with Cliff, openly groans at the sight of him watching. He looks almost feral, animalistic.
Roz chuckles, though it sounds forced. “Ready to let him watch me pull it out?”
"Yeah," Hollander gasps, and then moans again as Roz makes good on his word. The plug is a big teardrop shape, and Hollander’s rim clings to it as he withdraws, clenching after.
"Look at your poor hole, so empty," Roz chides, tracing the slick skin with one fingertip as Hollander shivers and twitches. "Ready for me to fill you up again—while Marly watches how good you take it?"
"Mm, yeah, p—please,” Hollander says, breathless. Cliff finds his own breathing is just as compromised as Roz drops his towel and gets on the bed, leans down to line himself up. He is huge. And the practiced, proprietary way Roz is handling Hollander makes Cliff feel like he could faint any minute. He steps closer.
Neither of them has touched him. Is that weird? Fuck, this whole night is so weird.
"Do you think he’s hard too?" Roz murmurs, and Hollander's eyes flick open again, skewering Cliff.
“Are you?”
“So fucking hard,” Cliff breathes.
"Thought you would be," Roz says, nodding at him, a hungry sort of impatience creeping into his tone. "You gonna get it out, then, show us? Not just free show for you," and then, when Cliff complies, his eyes darken with satisfaction. "Just like I remember," he says, which is another of those comments that burns its way straight into the back of Cliff's mind.
Cliff feels even more insane. "You been checking me out," he manages.
"Now and then," Roz says, without remorse, turning his attention back to Hollander. "Told you he’s hung."
Cliff strokes himself, trying to calm down, appease the chaotic heat blazing inside him.
"Come stand by me," Roz says, his voice giving away how turned on he is again. "Watch how good his asshole takes my dick. Better view than on phone, huh?"
It’s better in every way. Cliff strokes himself, can’t stop it, staring down as Roz tugs Hollander's hips up and starts fucking him right there in front of him, slow at first, almost leisurely. Hollander does take it all but not without a lot of stifled noises, knees sliding wide, his back arching to take Roz deeper again.
"That’s it, baby," Roz purrs. "Yeah. Fuck, Marly, look at it, are you watching?"
"Yeah," Cliff grits out.
The sound of his voice seems to make Hollander move faster, backing himself up on Roz’s cock, moving himself on it. Desperate.
"That’s it, work yourself on it, show Marly how much you love my dick, what a slut you are for it…"
Trash talking in the softest, most velvety voice Cliff has ever heard.
"You think watching us is gonna make him come?"
"Hope so," Hollander says, his voice as ragged as his breathing.
"You think I should help him out?"
"Yeah," Hollander says immediately, and Cliff bites back a groan when Roz looks at him. He’s so fucking handsome.
"Want me to?"
"Uh huh," Cliff says, not trusting his voice at all, and then he's swearing under his breath as Roz reaches for him, his big hand replacing Cliff’s around his dick. So fucking sure of himself, too.
"Good?" Roz demands, stroking and squeezing.
"So fucking good," Cliff breathes, his balls drawing up at the simple pressure of Roz's fingers, Roz's hand.
"Shane," Roz says, "Shane, he’s so hard, I think he’s gonna shoot his load first, where do you want it? All over your ass while I fuck you?"
"No," Hollander—Shane pants, giving Cliff a hazy whiplash sensation despite the rapidly building pleasure as Roz strokes him, confident, almost rough. It takes a moment to decode, fuck, does Shane actually not want this, have they got this wrong somehow?
"No? Where then? On your face?"
"In my mouth," Shane slurs.
Roz's lip curls like he’s disgusted, but his eyes are bright. "So damn filthy, aren't you? You want to suck his dick while I’m fucking you."
"Yeah," Shane moans, and Cliff's dick jumps in Roz's hand.
Roz grins at him. "I think you like this idea," he says to Cliff.
"Uh, yeah…"
"Get up then," Roz says to Shane.
Somehow watching Shane Hollander struggle to his hands and knees without Roz even pulling out is one of the hottest things Cliff's ever seen. Which given the last hour, is saying a lot.
"Go on," Roz says, directing him now too.
Cliff's more than happy to follow this kind of order. He kneels at the other end of the bed, feeling almost foolish, fully dressed with his hard dick out, until Shane looks directly up at him with his pretty mouth and flushed face and half-crazed expression.
"You want it?" Cliff tries, trying to dress up the genuine incredulous question as dirty talk. He wants to touch Shane's face. He doesn't know if he's allowed.
"Yeah, give it to me," Shane whispers, then just takes matters into his own hands, rocks forward and sucks the straining head of Cliff's cock into his mouth. Cliff still doesn’t know where to put his hands. He's overly aware of Roz watching, his eyes glittering with arousal as Shane's wet mouth starts working on him.
Cliff's gonna be lucky if he lasts thirty seconds like this.
“He has good mouth," Roz tells him.
Understatement. Shane’s mouth is greedy and sweet at once, sucking lusciously, balanced on all fours, one hand sneaking up to fondle Cliff's sac. Hefting and kneading, playing with his balls. It's incredibly fucking gay of him, and he looks out-of-his-mind happy about it, eyes closed, lips mobile, sucking and bobbing his head.
"So good," Cliff agrees, and then Shane's freezing as Roz suddenly slams deep. Rocking him and dragging him back by his hips—fuck that's hot.
Cliff can’t see as clearly where Roz is fucking him but he can feel it, the jarring jolting slide of Shane’s mouth, taking him deeper now, wet and sloppy. Incredibly, the rough treatment seems to get Shane going even more. He looks like his true purpose in life is to suck and fuck at the same time, the rougher the better, and he's so freaking uninhibited about it.
Best I ever had. Roz's voice, again.
Fuck, Cliff's not gonna last long. Not with Shane choking eagerly on his dick as Roz slams into him, over and over. It's sublime and dirty as fuck, and then Roz starts smacking his ass as well, open handed slaps that make his ass jiggle and turn pink, and that’s it—Cliff's gonna come.
He tries to warn him, but Shane swallows him down regardless. Cliff finds himself fucking Shane's mouth in time with Roz pounding his ass.
"Ah yeah, fuck, Marly, look at him take it," Roz growls, sounding close himself.
Cliff tries to look where he’s being directed but he’s gone, Shane's opening up for them so beautifully, letting them work him between them, shoving in tandem, taking it, taking it—
Cliff bites his fist as he comes, unloading hot, long pulses into Shane's mouth and watching dazedly as he swallows and whimpers around him.
“Fuck,” Roz says, speeding up, hips slapping Shane’s ass loudly with every stroke, and then he’s coming as well, chest shaking, muscles bulging. Pure porn again, as he spills in Shane’s ass, punishingly deep.
The room goes silent but for panting and Shane's soft, hot noises as he lets Cliff's cock slide from his mouth. The rush of breath from three athletes' exertion sounds almost like flowing water. It seems like Shane's subsiding as well, though does that mean he—?
“He finished when you come in his mouth,” Roz tells him, still breathing hard. “Wild, huh?”
He's got to give him that. "Yeah, pretty fucking wild."
Between them, Shane makes another contented noise.
It’s a half hour later and everyone’s had a shower, Roz and Shane together, Cliff on his own. He pulls on his clothes again in a daze, then kind of wishes he hadn't, because that definitely signals he's going to leave now, and for a weird moment he doesn't want to.
Back in the main hotel room, Shane is wrapped in a bathrobe and looks like he just scored a hat trick blindfolded. He's glowing.
Cliff stares at him, then looks around for Roz—or maybe Ilya, he guesses, after all that—who's still in a towel, hair damp and curly. He wordlessly passes Shane a can of something from the minibar. They look domestic as all hell.
Fuck, there’s no way this can’t be awkward. Better just get out of here. Work out what the fuck he’s done later.
Ilya raises his eyebrows at him when he spots Cliff is dressed. “You are going?”
“Should, yeah.”
Ilya turns his mouth down, but nods. "Was fun though, yes?"
"For sure," Cliff says.
"And… is your secret too now," Ilya says, and Shane suddenly looks very direct. "We are all sworn to secrecy."
Jesus, is it possible this is all just a tactic to implicate him too, after catching them together? Give him as much to lose as them? The thought is chilling.
"I swear," Cliff says. Then, kinda offended— “Uh, but you know I wouldn’t have told anyone anyway, right? You didn’t have to…”
Ilya looks at him like he’s insane. “Is not why I do this. Idiot."
His bluntness is weirdly reassuring. “Okay, cool," Cliff says, nodding.
“That was incredibly fucking hot,” Shane confirms, sprawling down in a hotel chair, popping his cold can with a soft carbonated sound.
Cliff feels better. “Yeah?”
Shane raises his eyebrows as he drinks, nodding. There’s nothing but satisfaction in his eyes.
“Okay, great. Uh. Walk me out?”
Ilya walks him to the door, then pauses before opening it.
Cliff waits for a cue.
Ilya purses his lips. “Is going to be weird now?” Then tilts his head and answers his own question. “A little, probably.”
“Probably,” Cliff echoes. "At first."
Ilya gives a smug little shrug. "I'll take it. Was fucking hot. Friendship can take the hit."
Cliff laughs out loud. "Asshole."
"So it is said."
He wonders suddenly if Ilya will kiss him. Rough and sweet like he does with Shane, before the shower, after the shower. Seems Ilya can't get enough of kissing Shane.
Against his better judgement, Cliff's gaze drops momentarily to Ilya's lips. Still a little puffy from how much he's been kissing Shane.
Ilya doesn’t, though. He holds up a fist instead.
Cliff snorts and bumps it. “So yeah," he says, because he's got to say something. "You win. You guys are pretty wild."
"Told you so."
"Noted," Cliff laughs. "So that's, uh, you proved your point, I guess. Say no more?”
Ilya rubs his nose. “Sure, as you say. No more.”
"And yeah. Look. Your secret is wicked safe with me," Cliff says, and Ilya looks like he's going to say something else, but doesn't.
"G'night, Marly."
"Later, Roz."
Cliff steals back to his own hotel room, mind racing. Images of Shane’s generous mouth and arched back, his reddened ass, his stretched hole—how he took them both so eagerly, how he radiated control even as he let them do all that to him.
Is his idea—yeah, Roz, you bet.
Wild, that actually is the only word for it. Cliff feels like this because how else could he feel? He's just had a hardcore gay threesome and he's not even gay, he doesn't know what he is.
He's probably… something.
Shane—Holzy, he corrects himself, putting their first names firmly back on a shelf in his mind, closing the door. Holzy seems pretty gay. Roz, too, though maybe Roz just likes attractive people, given he was definitely not faking those boners with all those women.
It strikes Cliff that he's seen Roz's O-face three different times now, which seems like a lot for a bro, even a great outrageous European bro like Rozy. And he's been kissed by him on two occasions, both of which he remembers in stunning crisp detail—not tonight, obviously.
He wouldn't have… minded, if Roz wanted to kiss him tonight.
Yeah okay, whatever. In this dreamlike state, anything goes apparently.
He wonders again, then, if they just did it to make him complicit in their secret, and his stomach twists. He doesn’t think that seems right.
He’s exhausted. He goes to bed, trying to enjoy the afterglow, but his mind keeps wandering. He wonders if they’re kissing right now. Asleep already, or lying awake. Sharing what they thought of him, with each other. Fucking about it, even.
About a quarter hour later, in bed, in the dark, his phone suddenly buzzes with the Snapchat notification again.
His heart rate spikes.
He turns over the screen, braced for—he doesn’t know what. A lecture, another plea for secrecy? More porn?
Instead, it’s a selfie, taken by Roz, the phone held above their heads. Hollander’s tucked in close against his chest, bleary-eyed and looking like he’s about to fall asleep. Roz’s hair is even more disordered. They’re both topless. They’re not smiling except the very corners of their mouths, a matching sexy little tilt. They’re a paired menace. And their hungry look is directed at him.
Had another idea, the caption reads, and Cliff stares at the picture until it winks out of existence again, trying to commit every detail to memory.
Fuck, Cliff realizes. He’s locked in. He doesn't know what this is but there is no power on earth that will stop him from snapping his own quick selfie: topless but clearly in bed, his good side, hair rumpled, shadow of an incredulous grin. He looks fucked. And stacked. It's a good picture.
Hit me, he captions it, and sends it off into the ether. For the next ten seconds, Roz and Holzy will have visible proof of how much they've rocked his world.
Tomorrow, comes the reply, and a thrill shivers through him. He feels like he's fastening himself into a rollercoaster cart, right at the top of a loop.
Totally, he sends back, before lying down, shaking his head, grinning for real.
It’s pretty fucking homo. But… apparently, he can live with that.