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If there’s one thing Jamie knows well, it’s momentum, the way his body carries forward on the pitch, the unbelievable strength it takes to stop and pivot the second it becomes necessary, and the pain of colliding with the hard, unyielding ground when saving the play means making the self-sacrifice. He should have known, then, the exact point between letting Roy and Keeley sit down with him with their bottles of champagne, between drinking until he felt weightless and unstoppable, between holding them close on either side as they helped him into the Uber, letting them bring him to his doorstep, letting them into his home, at which point he’d arrived at the edge so as not to blow past it.
Roy’s breath is hot on the back of his neck, and Keeley’s tongue is in his mouth, and he’s so far past the point of over the edge, he’s a limp, broken mess at the bottom of the canyon. Still, he hitches Keeley’s leg up around his hip, presses his hardness to the damp lace between her thighs. Roy’s arm warps firm around Jamie’s waist, his broad, thick fingers twining with Jamie’s own as they ruck Keeley’s skirt farther up her hips, find the waistband of her panties, and tug.
Getting them off means lowering Keeley’s leg, and Jamie absolutely cannot do that. Instead, he slides them down enough to bare her center and pushes two fingers inside. Keeley gasps and pushes up on her toes. She’s backed up against the wall, and she uses the leverage to arch her back and fuck herself deeper on his fingers. Roy’s hand is there seconds later, palm spread wide to keep her dress hiked up while his thumb traces tight circles around her clit.
“Jesus Christ,” Keeley groans, husky and thick with need, and Jamie’s missed that sound. “Can someone please put their fucking cock in me?”
Jamie glances over his shoulder, deferring to Roy. He doesn’t expect how close it puts them, how his nose brushes Roy’s with the motion, how his breath falls harsh and wanton across Jamie’s lips. He doesn’t expect Roy to kiss him, either, but he does, goes in rough with teeth that pull and bite. Jamie feels like he’s being devoured, but fuck, he wants Roy to consume him. Keeley keens, high and needy, and clenches around his fingers. Roy rocks against Jamie, his hard length a tease against the swell of Jamie’s ass. Jamie’s whole head is cotton wool and fuzz, like a telly with poor reception. He wants to make words happen but can’t. Fuck, all he can do is rock back into Roy, curl his fingers inside Keeley’s pussy, and feel too big for his body.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Roy coaxes. His hand leaves Keeley and moves instead to grab the waistband of Jamie’s joggers and tug them down his thighs. His cock springs free, and Keeley’s hand is on him faster than seems possible, though Jamie knows that’s just the way his head gets sometimes, when the sex is so fucking good time moves thick and syrupy, like honey. Roy’s hand joins hers after the first few strokes, then they’re both working him, touching and exploring, each mindful to leave the other enough room so they can both be greedy.
From behind, Roy presses his thumb into one of the dimples at Jamie’s back, rubs indulgent circles that make Jamie boneless. He presses Keeley closer to the wall as his arms become uncooperative in holding her on her tiptoes. It traps his cock tight against her belly, leaves no room to stroke him. He feels someone’s thumb rub circles around his head, run through the fluid leaking from his tip, and if he had more of his wits about him, he might be able to say whose. As it is, all he can do is whine and shove his face in Keeley’s neck, where the smell of her orchid and coconut shampoo is strongest.
“Have you got condoms?” Roy asks, thick and gravelly in a way Jamie’s only ever imagined.
“Fuck,” Jamie groans, squeezes his eyes shut, and begs his brain to get back online. “Bedside table, top drawer.”
It’s almost a sin when Roy pulls away, when his warmth disappears from Jamie’s back. Jamie whines for the loss, and Keeley shushes him sweetly, cards her fingers through his hair and kisses his temple. Jamie’s hips rock against her, desperate for it, and Keeley lets him, moves with him, driving him to a frenzy. He needs it like air, the entering, the being entered. Needs to satisfy an emptiness inside him, begging to be full.
“You two getting your asses over here or not?”
Roy’s voice is enough to ground him momentarily. He pulls his face from Keeley’s neck and turns to watch as Roy takes two condoms from the box. He’s taken his shirt off, undone his belt and pulled down his zipper, so the v of his open jeans frames the bulge in his pants like a masterpiece. Jamie’s mouth waters looking at him, at the thick dark hair on his chest, the strength of his muscles, and the flesh around his hips with just enough softness, he can imagine the feel of it molding around his fingers.
“Come on, Jamie,” Keeley whispers. She takes her leg back, shimmies the rest of the way out of her underwear, and leads Jamie by the hand to his bed.
Her shove forward is only a suggestion, but Jamie throws himself into it, crawls across his bed on his hands and knees, so his eyes are flush with Roy’s navel and when he gazes up at the other man, it’s done through his lashes.
“Fuck,” Roy grunts, mouth open, eyes wild.
“Let me suck you,” Jamie says, almost begs.
Roy’s cock twitches in his pants. “Fuck.”
He twines his fingers through Jamie’s hair, and Jamie takes it as an invitation, balances on one hand while he uses the other to drag Roy’d jeans and pants down his thighs, then he’s taking him into his mouth. He’s overeager, gags as Roy’s head nudges the back of his throat, and it’s been so long since he’s had someone’s cock in his mouth, he should pull off and go slower. But Roy groans, so broken and reverent, his grip a vice in Jamie’s hair, and Jamie can’t stop, not even to breathe. He takes Roy so deep his eyes water, so his jaw aches, so the mess of Jamie’s saliva and his precum run down Jamie’s chin. Roy’s hips stutter and Jamie goes slack, wills himself to be still as stone, hoping Roy takes the hint.
“Fuck me,” Roy groans, which Jamie takes to mean he does. He expects Roy to start thrusting the second he catches on, but he surprises Jamie by leaning in close and whispering “tap my thigh if it’s too much, and we’ll stop.” Then, an added, “I mean it, Jamie,” as if Jamie would blow past any limits he had if Roy wanted, which to be fair, might be true.
Jamie hums his assent, with the delicious side-effect of Roy’s hands tugging hard in his hair. Jamie lets Roy use him, keeps his muscles slacks, all of him open, to take everything Roy has to give. Roy starts slowly at first, little thrusts to build an awareness of what Jamie can take. Then, he’s thrusting deep, so deep Jamie’s fingers dig into the bedsheets, and he’s tempted – so tempted – to tap out, but he wants to take it more than he wants to feel safe right now. And anyway, he does feel safe with Roy, and with Keeley watching them, trusts Roy to give it to him hard and relentless, but for Jamie’s own good.
Roy doesn’t fuck his mouth fast. It’s torturously slow, every long, deep glide to the back of his throat an exercise in patience, in endurance. He fucks his mouth like a marathon. Jamie is so hard, he feels the blood in his cock stronger than his heartbeat. He wants to touch himself but doesn’t dare, not with every ounce of concentration focused on staying pliant to meet Roy’s demands.
It’s Roy who taps out first, pulls himself from Jamie’s mouth with a ragged, unsteady breath. He braces the flat of one hand against the edge of the mattress like he’s gathering himself, sways into Jamie’s space, and presses a discordantly chaste kiss to the crown of his head.
“You did fucking amazing,” Roy tells him, and the welling of pride in Jamie’s chest fills him uncomfortably like a dam about to break.
“You’re so fucking sexy,” Keeley agrees. “Both of you. On your own. Together, like that.”
The hitch in her breathing catches Jamie’s attention. He looks over and watches her with heavy-lidded eyes as she works her hand between her legs, her dress gone, exposing soft tits with pink, pebbled nipples, one she tugs between her thumb and forefinger with her other hand.
“You want some help with that?” Roy asks, and it’s teasing and sardonic, which only makes Jamie hotter. He feels the flush of his arousal creep up his back to tingle across his scalp and the phantom memory of Roy’s hands in his hair.
“As long as you promise not to fight each other for it,” Keeley says, the same mock seriousness in her tone. “Gotta make the decision all civil-like. Maybe ro-sham-bo.”
Roy catches himself halfway through a laugh. “I’m not fucking– I’m not playing some kids’ game to decide who gets to fuck you.”
“Dibs,” Jamie says, like he hasn’t heard Roy at all.
“No fucking dibs, either,” he says.
Keeley hums and purses her lips. Her fingers still stroke idly between her pussy lips, occasionally rubbing over the pert nub of her clit, and Jamie can’t take his eyes away. “I like dibs,” she agrees. “I think Jamie gets it.”
Keeley crooks her finger, and like a fish on a hook, she pulls Jamie forward. He crawls to join her, rests himself between her spread legs, and worries her collar bone between his lips and teeth in a way he prays leaves a mark. His hips are too low to be flush with her pussy, but he feels the slick heat of her rub up against his abs as she rocks her hips in searching circles.
Jamie starts when a finger traces low on his spine, draws a path down between his cheeks and presses just firm enough to slip between, but not enough to spread him open. The angle is wrong to be Keeley, and when a wide knuckle bends to push against his puckered hole, his hips jerk and a whine escapes him in response.
“Jamie can fuck that sweet cunt of yours,” Roy agrees, the filthy words sweet from his mouth like syrup. “And while he does, I get his ass.”
Jamie’s body tightens again, and Roy’s knuckle backs off. “If that’s what you want, Jamie.”
And it’s so fucking beautiful that he checks, that he reads Jamie’s body like an open book, but still asks, just in case. Jamie can’t control his neck to lift his head, can’t look over his shoulder, all of his limbs disconnected from his brain, both light and heavy at once. He turns his face, nuzzles Keely’s neck, and begs, “fuck, please, Roy.”
From there, Jamie is more of a marionette on a string than an active participant. Keeley takes the condom Roy passes her and tears into the package with her teeth. Roy’s fingers are slick and demanding, spreading him open and breaching him firm and focused, singleminded in a way that keeps Jamie’s erection painfully stiff, even through the burn. Keeley pumps him, too, plays double duty with Roy in keeping him hard. When Roy is three fingers deep, Keeley takes the condom from the wrapper and slides it down Jamie’s shaft, then takes him inside her in one, deep thrust. Roy follows close behind, pressing in with one slow but relentless push of his hips until his pelvis is flush with Jamie’s ass.
From there, they fuck him, Roy and Keeley’s momentum both leaving him caught up in their maelstrom, along for the ride. Roy changes the angle of his hips fractionally thrust after thrust until he finds that tiny bundle of nerves that whites out Jamie’s vision. The feel of Roy inside him, the grip of Keeley’s pussy tight around his cock, is all so much, there’s unbearable pressure and heat behind his eyes. He sobs into Keeley’s shoulder, and she kisses his temple, smooths back his hair.
“Good tears?” Roy checks on his next thrust in, tracing his nose across the shell of Jamie’s ear, so the touchpoint is more intimate than Jamie can stand. He gasps in a ragged breath and whimpers – fucking whimpers – “so fucking good.”
When he cums, time stands frozen. He feels the way Roy and Keeley move against him, the heat and spasms of their own releases, but his mind is somewhere else, floating in some secondary space where everything is bright, and white, and so good it hurts, and moans ring like bells in his ears.
He’s always slow to come down when the orgasm hits him this way, and he kicks himself for losing his control. He knows what they’ll want next, for him to get up, and give them their space to pick up their clothes and make their retreat. Never mind the fact that they’re in his house. Any bed Roy and Keeley fall into is Roy and Keeley’s bed, and he’s just a passenger, a one-time special guest.
And that’s the crash, the sacrifice play he’d been too caught up to avoid but that he knew was coming. This pain in his chest, the way it crushes, like he’s trying to breathe, but every attempt is aborted by the elephant on his chest. This hurts worse than eating shit on the pitch. This time, it’s his heart that’s bruised.
“I’ll get up in a minute,” he promises, but even his lips are heavy and uncoordinated.
“The fuck you will,” Roy grumbles. He’s fallen onto his side, and his arm wraps tight around Jamie’s waist like a stuffed animal, his nose pressed tight to the nape of Jamie’s neck, breathing him in. The condom is gone, obviously dealt with at some point during Jamie’s initial fog. He feels Roy soft and warm against his thigh.
“Jamie, this is your room,” Keeley tells him. She brackets him in on his other side, shimmied up high in the pillows so his eyes are level with her chest. She plays with the hair swept across his forehead, and he can’t help but close his eyes and relax into her.
“I know,” Jame says. “I just thought you’d want a minute is all.”
The mattress shifts, and Jamie opens his eyes. She’s shuffled down to stare at him, hard and level. Across his waist, Roy’s arm is stiff.
“Why would we want a minute?” Keeley asks.
Her tone makes him squirm. There’s something accusatory there, except Jamie doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, and doesn’t have the wherewithal to figure it out. “Don’t know,” he says. “Just figured that since I’m the third, you’d all want your privacy.”
“Shut up,” Keeley says, and it’s stern enough to shock his eyes back up to meet hers from where he let them fall, downcast. “You’re not the third. You’re our third. Jamie, you know how that’s different, right?”
Jamie doesn’t answer, and in the silence, Keeley’s ice melts. Her eyes are wet, and it hurts Jamie to look into them directly, shining that bright.
“Oh, Jamie,” Keeley sighs. It’s pitying. Jamie’s own throat is clogged. He wants to tell her not to feel sorry for him, but he can’t. He can’t even get enough control over his limbs to wriggle out from under her gaze.
Roy’s teeth sink into the meat of his shoulder, and the quick sting of pain is grounding. “We fucking like you, dipshit.”
“Roy,” Keeley protests, but Roy just scoffs.
“Sorry if that’s not fucking eloquent enough,” he says. “I just had some of the best sex of my life and I’m buzzed on a Wednesday, which is too fucking drunk at this age, and I just want us all to go the fuck to sleep and do all this touchy-feely bullshit in the morning.”
“There’s touchy-feely bullshit?” Jamie asks, surprising even himself with having found his voice.
Roy’s sigh is a hot puff of air against his neck. “Yes, there’s bullshit, alright,” he says. “Now, can we fucking sleep?”
“I hog the covers,” Jamie admits.
“I know,” Keeley replies. “That’s why you’re in the middle. Goodnight, Jamie.”
“Night, Keeley,” Jamie whispers. She settles in beside him, hair tickling his chest, the orchid-coconut smell of her in his nose. Jamie takes his time to revel in it, the feeling of being boxed in by two of the people who mean the most to him in the world. He isn’t sure how long he lies there, being present in it. The silence feels heavy, the hush of the crowd before the first whistle blows.
“Goodnight, Roy,” Jamie hums soft into the night.
“Fucking hell,” Roy replies.