Page 77 of Kitty Season
“Best pillows you’ll ever find,” he agrees, then slides his hand over my shoulder and squeezes my pec. “Though I suspect these not so bitty titties would be a close second.”
It’s my turn to laugh, and it’s dorky and loud, and enough to have one of Quinn’s eyes pop open. “You’re still here.” When Troye said it, it was like a testosterone shot straight into my balls. With Quinn, it’s dopamine to the heart … and another shot of T.
My hard dick throbs and I helplessly thrust into Quinn’s stomach. Behind me. Troye does the same and before anyone can speak the stillness we found through the night is replaced by writhing, and moaning. Quinn slips her hand down the front of my sleep shorts, and I reach back to do the same to Troye’s. Like what Quinn would have found in mine, a delicious wet patch provides all I need for my fingers to glide up and down, in smooth effortless strokes.
“My boys,” Quinn moans, rubbing my dick against her clit. “I want you both so bad.”
“Me too. Fuck.” Troye bucks behind me, fucking into my fist, and Quinn swipes her hand over my tip. Arching my back, my head comes to rest on Troye’s as I come. It’s so unexpected, so intense I convulse between them, wave after wave of cum coating Quinn’s hand and stomach.
“I’m right there with you, big fella.” Troye’s hips punch into my fist and between my ass cheeks, the thin fabric between us doing little to block the sensation of him brushing over my hole. “Quinn,” he grunts. “Touch our girl, Skip. Bring her undone.”
His words shatter the bubble of delirium I was existing in and I follow his command with renewed vigor and determination.
Quinn, and the damn nighty I will think of during every jack-off session for the rest of my life, shift, her thighs parting to accept my shaking touch. The first caress of her soaked pussy is again, locked away for those lonely nights, and I can’t stop myself from withdrawing them for a beat, just to taste her juices. I’m not sure if that’s a done thing, because, shock horror, I don’treally know what I’m doing. But I am a quick study. Watching her face as I swipe my tongue over my finger, and that tiny spot of pulse I see throbbing in her neck when I touch her once again, tells me all I need to know. She likes two fingers. Loves the pads of my index and middle, and goes feral when I press down and shake her clit from side to side. I ache to replicate this movement with my tongue and hope to all hell I have another chance to do so.
I’m lost to her pants and whines, to Troye’s gasps and grunts, and feel my dick thickening already. “I’m hard again. God, you two will be the death of me.” My choked out words have more of an effect than I think they will. Troye grips my ass and pushes so deep I’m sure the fat tip of him breeches me as he comes. And Quinn, Quinn bucks her hips and calls my name, “Brady, Brady, Brady.” As she returns my favor, coating my hand in her wetness.
The scenethat played out our first morning in bed together, is repeated for the next two weeks. We wake in a different configuration each time, and we don’t always have sex. But we are always entwined. Always touching.
And it’s not just when we’re in bed. As soon as classes finish, we find each other through the sea of faceless bodies, and it’s the same after practice and games. Games that we win. With Troye back in action after his forced one match rest, we’ve sailed through the semis of the Frozen Four championship exhausted, but undefeated—hence the no sex some nights. Never Troye’s or my rule and have our first game against Ohio tonight.
Turns out we all like being around each other. That’s better than wanting to kill each other. What else is there to talk about? Other than that muttered genius from a half asleep Troye, a promise of exclusivity, and an unfulfilled agreement that any two of us can be together should the mood strike and the third not be available, what we are has never been discussed. But this is what I know in my heart of hearts. She is mine and his. He is hers and mine. And I am theirs.
They only need to ask.
It’s a mind-boggling turn of events that I could never have foreseen. How long we can keep this secret life going is anyone’s guess, but I swear on the hair of my long lost Poppy, that I will do whatever it takes to keep both Troye and Quinn in my life.
To keep us as a ‘we’.
Having said that, I’m currently, actively, trying to ignore him. We’re at practice, and he’s singing and covertly smiling at me in a way I could never have imagined a few weeks ago. Today’s ill-advised and poorly executed number, “You know I’m all about that Basse, ‘bout that Basse, no trouble.” The pronunciation of Bass as Basse goes unnoticed by the team busy cursing at him to shut the hell up, but I hear it.
Loud and clear.
In a bid to appease my ever-suffering mom, I’ve agreed to have dinner with my parents at least once a week. The first two weeks I made it twice, last week once, and after tonight, well, maybe next week it’ll be zero times.
Why? To put it simply, it’s not an enjoyable experience.
Long ago, in a time before my boobs came in and hockey boys came to reign supreme, Dad and I could sit and talk stats for hours after, our chats lasting long after we’d finished eating. Now, meal times are a race to the finish. Merely two people shoving food in as quick as they can while participating in the lamest conversations you could imagine. “How’s school? How’s work?” Coming up a nauseating number of times.
During all this, Mom’s been trying her best to smooth the rough edges, whipping out stories of odd cases she’s working on, or the latest office gossip, but even her enthusiasm is beginning to wane.
I’m supposed to drive over today after my shift ends, but I’ve just had a text from Troye, asking me to join the team at O’Reilly’s.
Dinner with an over-controlling, patronizing father, or drinks at a bar then tipsy sex with my boys?
Hmm. That’s a tough one.
I’m about to message Mom and cancel, when the memory of the drive home from the hospital slaps me sideways. I really am such a brat. I should be grateful my parents care enough to be overprotective. Imagine if they were like Troye’s.
It’s an easy thing to say, but an impossible thing to do. I can’t imagine being scared, alone and hungry. Of growing up being made to feel nothing more than a burden to be shifted or disposed of when the mood strikes. How that trauma must cling to your soul. Not for the life of me.
It’s no wonder why Troye runs from emotions, thinks so little of himself, and why Dad’s original dressing down of him hurt so bad. How could it not when the ones that are supposed to love and keep you safe, rejected you first.
Shit. Now I’m back to being angry at Dad.
“Hmm, hmm. I’d hate to interrupt whatever your latest meltdown is about, but can I please have my order?”
I blink myself free from my daydream and stare into the eyes of Professor Plum. Of course. I’m too depressed to pull out a smart-ass quip about her age, so I just be professional instead. “Sorry, Professor. Let me just grab that for you.” Shuffling to my left, I take the apple cinnamon muffin from Mika, the barista who hates me, and fill a to-go cup with drip coffee; the one hot beverage I’m now allowed to dispense. When I hand it to Plum, she almost looks disappointed.
