Random Acts of Love (Random #5) (3 page)

“Sure—”
Click
. No chance to say anything else, which was probably just fine, because what would I say? Thanks for talking me through rubbing one off? Can’t wait to see you so you can give me an orgasm? When you come home let’s fuck?

Okay, I could say all of those.

The unspoken
I love you
rattled around in my head for the rest of the day.

I couldn’t wait to say it to his face. Soon.

* * *

“It’s your lucky day!” I exclaimed as I strode back into Trevor’s bedroom, buck naked, carrying a cup of Joe’s favorite coffee. I’d sprinkled the cinnamon on and pulled the shot of espresso exactly the way he liked it, using that new machine his mom had given him for Christmas. He was home, home, home for the summer and Trevor and I were reveling in having our threesome back together. 

Joe was spread-eagled on the bed, hogging more than his fair share, with Trevor as physically far away as possible, precariously balanced on the edge of the queen-size bed. If I sneezed, Trevor would fall off.

“Where’s mine?” Trevor asked quietly, the sound a groan more than a whine.

“It’s coming next,” I assured him, setting the little cup of espresso on the end table next to Joe, whose nose twitched as—I hoped—the aroma would awaken him.

Trevor turned over and caught a good look at me, his eyes roaming up and down my body like a scanner. “Sam and Amy home?”

“Nope,” I crowed.

“Good,” Trevor mumbled. “Because you’re showing more skin than an eighteen-piece segment in a Centipede movie.”

“You sure do know how to sweet talk a woman,” I cracked, striking a model’s pose. “I’m so glad I remind you of a horror flick where people are forced to eat each other’s shit.”

Joe snorted. Ah. He was alive. My eyes took him in, the tan flannel sheets wrapped around his thighs like something out of an oil panting in the Museum of Fine Arts. Sculpted muscles peppered with dark hair, the contours so fine I could drive a miniature Lamborghini on them.

One made out of my tongue.

His hair was mussed and his face looked so innocent until he grabbed my wrist and pulled me on top of him with a devilish grin, the incongruity of my soft curves with his hard, carved muscle making me enjoy him all the more. 

“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled into my neck, tongue flicking my earlobe.

I reached for what I knew would be there—one long, hard pole of throbbing flesh.

“I never would have guessed.” Whatever words came next vanished in seconds as my brain became irrelevant (not the first time that’d ever happened) and my body became a playground for two adorable, and increasingly ravenous, men in the bed with me. A twinge of something—guilt? confusion? questioning?—flitted through my head as I wondered how my life had changed so much in just under two years.

I killed that doubting voice off like smashing a mouse with a shovel on the front porch.

And then—

Bzzzz.

Joe’s hand froze, resting perfectly between my thighs, my clit a beacon beeping and beeping for him to come, come, come in to home port.

“Don’t answer it,” I whispered, the lead ball in my stomach growing suddenly, as if lead could be inflated. I knew exactly who—not what—the helium was.

“Dude, ignore it,” Trevor chimed in behind me, with his hand in a slick, hot place so full of want I couldn’t stand it.

Ignoring us, Joe stuck his arm out and fumbled blindly for his phone, ever-present on the nightstand.

“Let me guess,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm and everything that was dripping elsewhere dried up. “Mommy Dearest.” I knew I should keep my mouth shut. Trevor’s sigh was one of commiseration with just a hint of exasperation. Walking the line between the two was incredibly hard (as was Trev). Joe moved away, gently nudging me off him, the slide from heat to cold separation making my gut tighten, my throat thick with something dangerously close to shame. 

As if I’d said nothing, Joe turned away and read the text, then typed back, finger fucking his phone. Curling into Trevor’s heat, I pulled the covers over me, needing a defense. Being this vulnerable took courage, I knew, and leaning in to Trevor meant putting my feelings in place. While naked. And slick. And warming back up.

“Fuck,” Joe muttered. And not the good kind of fuck. Not the Darla sandwich kind of
fuck
, where my hair fell into my eyes and sweat made my waves curl up and stick to my temples, my body so loved that I couldn’t—and didn’t want to—see straight, blood coursing through me faster than the speed of cock. 

Squared.

No. Joe’s
fuck
was the sound of all wetness going to dry, the sound of Trevor’s erection deflating, the sound of a lead balloon never getting off the ground because Joanne Ross had decided that she needed her
widdle pweshus Joey
to help her decide between whether to bleach her asshole bashful or blush, and which organic, slave-free, fair-trade, reclaimed beet juice would be best.

“Fuck,” I said into Trevor’s armpit, my word muffled but heard, Joe’s fingers tapping faster, with a staccato I could feel throughout my body, anywhere but on places I needed those fingers to touch.

“I have to go,” he said. Surprise. His mother was like the other woman he couldn’t have sex with, which made you wonder what the fuck good it was following the woman’s commands, because if you’re going to let a woman run your life, shouldn’t you be getting some regular pussy out of it? 

At least, that’s how I assumed this whole male-female dynamic worked. Not that I had a whole lot of experience. Just a whole lot of men. The two weren’t really the same, oddly enough. 

“Why do you have to go? Every time she calls you jump up like she’s your boss. You can say no. You can delay. You can do lots of things that don’t involve saying ‘Yes ma’am how high?’ when she calls,” Trevor said in a tone of disgust. 

“Like you have room to talk.”

“My mom is nothing like yours, Joe. Not any more. She’s loosened way up.”

“Then you’re lucky.”

“He’s got a point, though, Joe. Your mom is—”

“And I really don’t want to hear any more about it,” he said to me.

Ouch.

“Trevor can give his opinion and I can’t?” I asked, incredulous and hurt.

“Yes.” Yanking on his pants, he dressed fast and was almost out the door before I could recover.

“Is that because I have a pussy or because you’re an asshole?”

“Both,” was his final word as the door clicked shut. Ten seconds later, as I still stared at it, jaw open and Trevor massaging my shoulders in empathy, I started to say something a few times but never could find the right words.

And now Joe was gone, off to meet his mom because...

Damn.

I hadn’t even bothered to ask why Joe’s mom needed him. Sitting up with the sheet around my waist, Trevor snuggled next to me in a decidedly non-sexual way, I let myself think deeply. Floating in that mental space where you just let your thoughts come as they are, without pretense, denial, or deflection, I let it all pour over me. If I couldn’t be safe in feeling whatever popped into my heart at any given time with Trevor right there, pressed against me so hard he might as well have been doing a t-shirt decal transfer on my thigh, then what good was being in a relationship? 

The only thing missing was Joe.

Who I’d just alienated.

Why hadn’t I asked him why his mom needed him? So caught up in my own anger about his mom’s never-ending intrusions, I’d lost sight of what was most important: Joe himself. How I related to him. This relationship shit was hard. Way hard. Better than...well, I’d never had a real relationship, so harder than...nothing. Everything. Whatever I’d imagined a long(ish) term commitment to look like, it had never had six eyes.

And two cocks.

And infinite opportunities to fuck up.

Trying to make sense of being in a relationship with two men at the same time, one of whom was hundreds of miles away most of the time, was like trying to stuff a wet noodle into a little cocktail straw. First of all, it’s very hard, and second of all (and most important): why do you want to? What’s the point?

I knew why I enjoyed being with Joe and Trevor. I was certain that the direction this was going in was one I wanted to explore and remained committed to taking to its natural conclusion, whatever that may be. But that was the sticking point: what was the “natural”
anything
about this? Where was the Oprah show about Ohio girls who chase Boston musicians and snare two of them and end up riding a frozen Sybian in the dark, or in relationships where the words “Reddi Whip” have two meanings? 

Talk shows never featured authors about dating books where who picks up the check is the last fucking problem...more like who gets the back door.

And about that—I wasn’t really into that. Neither guy was pushing, but sometimes I felt guilty for not being willing to do that...much. Two guys at once. DP. The big double you know what. We’d done it on the beach at Eden and watched some pornos about it and I’d come close—real close—but then backed off. I’d get skittish. Worried. None of those words really captured the all-out terror assault that infused me the second I reached flesh tolerance and needed to be unentered immediately. Like now.

Like rightthefucknow.

How hard could it be? The women in those YouPorn videos looked like they were having the time of their lives, but then again, they also did that snowball stuff and let guys blow their wads all over their faces and smear it in like it was some Lush cosmetic, as if jizz were equivalent to organic coconut sea cucumber splash made by slave-free factories in LEED-certified buildings. Nobody was paying $21 for a little tube of Crazy Eddy’s blown wad with a little dick cheese thrown in, you know?

How trustworthy, exactly, was the only data set I had for how a woman liked (or didn’t) to be doubly penetrated?

Not. Not one bit. Besides, in the YouPorn videos the women had breasts like Air Sharks were shoved under their nipples, and where Botox was injected like insulin at a diabetes convention. Puh-leeze. As if that were remotely real.  

If God intended for nipples to point up he’d have made them like penises.

The thought of two penises in place of my fun bags made me wonder what the hell was happening with my mind. Six months ago I’d been minding my own business on the highway back home, headed to the trailer to hang with Mama and watch
Oddities
and gawk at some three-headed squirrel or a live woman who ate barbed wire.

And now
I
was the oddity.

“Darla?” Trevor muttered, sleepy and cute, his blonde hair a pile of adorableness on top of a muscled pole of masculine fire. Sex wasn’t what he wanted, though. I knew exactly what was about to come out of his mouth next. 

“Mmm?” I asked.

“Are you getting up to get coffee by any chance?”

“Is that your passive-aggressive way of asking me to make you some coffee?”

“Not aggressive.” His hand slid under the covers and traveled along the thigh in search of nothing in particular. Just touching because, well, he could. I was there and he was warm and content, both of us processing Joe’s unexpected departure. And then his fingers marched slowly up, from muscle to softer flesh, an intrepid journey rife with promise and intent. His face was inches from my breast, but he soon took care of that small distance and made the gap between them disappear as a familiar warmth spread through me, my body seasoned by many months of getting to know him. 

Coffee would have to wait, I surmised, as that lop-sided grin turned to the warm press of lips against mine.

I kissed him and he met my tongue with a languid grace, hands caressing my back, urgency building between the heat of our mouths, tongues loving faster, the pace no longer friendly and explorative, but urgent and needy. He reached for the bedside drawer and without a word being passed between us, we protected each other with common sense and a keen understanding. He reached up for my breasts and as his thumbs grazed my nipples I centered myself over him. 

Straddling him and looking down over him, I kissed him again, fingers intertwined with his, hips finding a pattern that dipped and curved at the same time, all while tightening as I pulled away, stroking him without a hand but with the sheer intensity of my core. Loud sighs escaped my mouth, sounds all too common in my lovemaking with Trevor, words and moans I wanted to share just as much with Joe.  

These sounds were a language that needed to be spoken in this moment, and I sat taller, exposing myself to him in the light, my hair spilling down over my front in big bushy ringlets, uncontrolled and untamed like all the rest of me, body and heart. Trevor played with the end of one curl as he entered me and I took him in, our movements so natural that the unremarkable nature of what we shared seemed damn near holy. 

I loved the open feeling of being on top, how my hands could roam over the hair across his chest, the sprinkling thickening and narrowing where our bodies met. Closing my eyes, I took him in again, imagining our flesh together, envisioning a powerful coil inside that milked him, his tip touching a part of me only one other man could, all to elicit a release that pleased me.  

Our pleasure, between the three of us, was always paramount. With one on one the same held true, and I was both grateful and prideful about that, knowing my men worked just as hard to make sure I was fulfilled as I did to blow their minds.

The rough and ready orgasm that lit up my arms, legs, breasts, nub—hell,
everything
pounded into me in a rush I wasn’t quite ready for. Judging by Trevor’s gasp and the hard pull of his fingers digging into my ass, he wasn’t, either. Sex these days was like that—it seemed slow and sultry until something fierce and wondrous was suddenly just there, as if called by an unexpected force that built between us.

Tipping my head down, our foreheads rested against each other as the kinetic thrust of so much energy made me come, hard and fast, pounding against his base as he pumped up hard, hips working to give as good as he got. His cock stroked inside me as if the friction itself were pulling layered climaxes out of me, like peeling love from me in waves that made it regenerate within. My body panted with the effort to enjoy what Trevor did to me while being conscious of what I was giving him, too.