Mirror Image - An Erotic Novella

Twins' mix-up sparks a steamy threesome & public tease.

Mirror Image - Mirror Image - An Erotic Novella

---

Chapter 1: The Mistake That Ignited Everything

The hallway carried the sharp tang of lemongrass takeout and the heavier undercurrent of Ryan’s post-gym sweat—musky, masculine, intoxicating. He was still buzzing from deadlifts, hoodie slung over one shoulder, keys jangling like a warning, when he spotted *her* from behind. The silhouette was unmistakable: petite frame he could lift with one arm, dark hair brushing just past delicate shoulders, hips swaying in those tiny cherry-print sleep shorts that rode high on smooth thighs. Carrie’s text glowed on his screen: *Running late, grab takeout?* His cock stirred at the memory of her bent over the kitchen counter last night. He didn’t think. He *acted*.

His arm snaked around the slim waist, palm flattening possessively over warm skin. “Missed you, babe,” he growled low against an ear, inhaling coconut shampoo and faint arousal. “You smell like you’re already wet for me.” His hand drifted lower—slow, deliberate—fingertips slipping beneath the shorts’ hem, tracing the lace edge of panties that clung damply to hidden heat.

A sharp, breathy gasp. A whirlwind spin. Eyes—enormous, hazel, framed by lashes that fluttered like trapped butterflies—locked onto his. Cheeks flushed a deep, edible crimson. Lips parted on a trembling exhale that ghosted over Ryan’s mouth.

Corey.

Ryan’s fingers froze, knuckles grazing the soft, forbidden swell where thigh met ass. The Thai food bag slipped from his grip, splattering noodles and sauce across the tile in a fragrant, chaotic mess. “Corey—*fuck*—I thought—” His voice cracked like a teenager’s. Cock still half-hard in his sweats, he bolted into the apartment, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled and his heart thundered in his ears.

Carrie arrived twenty minutes later to find Ryan pacing the kitchen, face buried in massive hands, repeating “I groped your brother” like a mantra of doom. She doubled over laughing—sharp, delighted—until tears streaked her cheeks. Then she yanked Corey into a hug, burying her nose in the stolen gym shirt that smelled of Ryan’s sweat and her twin’s softer, sweeter skin.

---

The “anger” lasted exactly forty-three hours—long enough for Carrie to savor the tension coiling in Ryan’s jaw every time Corey was near.

Corey flopped onto their couch that evening, legs tucked beneath him, recounting the hallway in a breathless rush: the wet slap of food hitting tile, the way Ryan’s thick fingers had *lingered* a heartbeat too long on the curve of his ass, the raw hunger flashing in those dark eyes before panic took over. Carrie’s laughter faded into something darker, more curious. She traced a thumb over Corey’s plump lower lip, felt the shiver.

“He couldn’t stop staring at dinner,” she murmured, voice husky. “Every time you bent for the remote, his gaze traced your spine like he was already buried inside you, imagining how tight you’d feel.”

Corey’s flush traveled down his throat, nipples peaking against the thin fabric of Ryan’s shirt. He was no stranger to eyes—hungry glances on sidewalks, lingering stares in coffee shops, the way men and women alike devoured him with their gazes. Their mother’s genes had gifted them both razor-sharp cheekbones and legs that went on forever; Carrie wore hers like a challenge, Corey like a whispered invitation.

That night, Carrie raided her closet with predatory intent. She laid out the arsenal on the bed: a black lace nightie so sheer it was more suggestion than clothing, nipples darkening the fabric like secrets; pale pink cotton panties with a tiny satin bow perched perfectly above the dimples at the base of his spine, framing the heart-shaped perfection of his ass.

“Put these on,” she commanded, voice velvet laced with steel. “Let’s test how long Ryan’s restraint lasts when he’s half-dreaming of *you*.”

They waited until Ryan’s snores settled into a deep, rhythmic growl. Carrie melted into the hallway shadows, door cracked just enough for moonlight to spill across the rumpled sheets like liquid silver.

Corey slipped beneath the covers, heart hammering. The nightie whispered over his head, lace kissing sensitive collarbones, dragging across nipples until they ached like bruises. The panties hugged his hips, the bow a teasing promise against his skin. The mattress sighed under his weight. Ryan stirred—his arm, heavy and furnace-hot, draped across Corey’s waist as if it had always belonged there. His thumb traced lazy, possessive circles over the lace trim, then slipped beneath to find bare skin *scorching* with need.

Corey’s breath fractured into a soft whimper. Ryan’s cock—thick, rigid, pulsing—pressed insistently against the cleft of his ass through thin cotton, a promise and a threat. Ryan’s eyes cracked open—slow, feral, pupils blown wide with sleep and raw lust. His grip tightened, fingers digging into hipbone hard enough to leave marks.

“Carrie?” he rasped, voice gravel and smoke, hips rolling once—slow, deliberate—grinding his length along the lace-trapped crease. Corey arched back instinctively, ass pressing *into* the hardness, a needy sound escaping his throat.

Corey shook his head, just once, lashes fluttering.

Ryan’s exhale was a guttural “*Fuck,*” vibrating against Corey’s throat as his hand slid lower, cupping the curve of one cheek, thumb brushing the satin bow. Corey’s cock leaked against the panties, a wet spot blooming. The air thickened with tension—electric, unbearable.

Carrie stepped from the shadows, pulse thundering between her thighs, her own arousal slicking her inner thighs. “Experiment concluded,” she said, voice dripping honey and heat. “Now we *feast*.”

What followed was a blur of mouths and hands and shattered restraint: Ryan’s tongue devouring Corey’s mouth while Carrie watched, fingers buried in her twin’s hair; Corey straddling Ryan’s face, grinding down as Ryan sucked and speared with filthy precision; Carrie riding Ryan’s cock while Corey knelt between them, licking where they joined until all three shattered in a symphony of moans and clenching heat.

They collapsed at dawn—Ryan in the center, Corey’s cheek pressed to the steady thrum of his heart, Carrie’s fingers laced through her twin’s, their mingled sweat and release cooling on fevered skin. Carrie kissed them both—slow, filthy promises—then whispered she’d return by eight, leaving Ryan with twelve hours and a fantasy *pulsing* in his veins.

---

He rose without waking Corey, dressed in compression shorts that outlined every vein and ridge of his cock, a sleeveless shirt stretched obscene across his pecs. He left the home gym door cracked three inches—*bait*.

The workout was foreplay: pull-ups with lats flaring like wings, sweat tracing the deep groove of his spine, dripping onto the mat in rhythmic plinks. Bench presses: chest heaving, nipples hard against fabric, grunts low and animal as 275 pounds rose and fell. He *felt* Corey’s gaze like a physical touch—the soft creak of floorboards, the hush of breath held in anticipation.

“Enjoying the show?” Ryan’s voice was gravel and lust, turning to pin Corey in the doorway.

Corey stepped inside, barefoot, drowning in Ryan’s oversized tee—collar slipping off one shoulder, hem brushing the tops of his thighs, tenting slightly at the front. Ryan looped a resistance band around slender wrists, hooked it high on the pull-up bar. The shirt rode up, baring the flushed head of Corey’s cock, already leaking a pearl of precome.

“Spot me,” Ryan commanded.

Corey straddled the bench, knees trembling. Ryan’s hips *thrust* with each rep, grinding his rigid length against Corey’s ass through thin layers. The friction was maddening—Corey’s whimpers growing desperate. Then Ryan flipped him onto his back—mouth *ravenous* between his thighs, tongue spearing deep into tight heat until Corey sobbed, hips bucking, cock painting the leather with streaks of precome. Ryan took him there—slow, relentless—mirror reflecting every inch disappearing into clenching velvet, every shudder, every broken moan as Corey came untouched, spilling across his own stomach while Ryan followed with a roar, buried deep.

They showered in steam and shared breath, Ryan’s hands mapping every inch of Corey’s body like sacred territory. Dinner was Corey in nothing but the checkered apron—flour dusting his cheek like starlight, wrists bound with a soft kitchen towel, cock hard and dripping beneath the fabric, ass peeking with every bend over the stove. Ryan’s hand threaded through his hair, thumb tracing his lower lip smeared with tomato sauce. He snapped the photo.

*Dinner’s almost ready. Bring wine. And that strap-on you mentioned.*

---

8:05 p.m.

The door opened on a hinge of *promise*. Carrie stepped inside, wine bottle cool against her palm, black case swinging like a threat. The kitchen smelled of garlic, basil, and the thick musk of earlier sins—sex and sweat lingering in the air.

Corey *crawled* to her across warm hardwood—apron dragging, eyes luminous with submission, lips parted on a soft, needy whine. His cock bobbed beneath the fabric, a dark wet spot blooming where he leaked with every movement. Ryan leaned against the counter, shirtless, sweatpants slung low, his own cock straining visibly, watching with dark, reverent eyes.

Carrie set the wine down untouched. Crooked a finger.

“Dessert first,” she whispered, voice a blade wrapped in silk. She unzipped the case; the strap-on gleamed—thick, black, veined like Ryan’s own. Corey’s breath hitched audibly. Ryan’s cock jerked against his abs.

She circled them like a predator, directing with whispers and touches: Corey on his knees, mouth stretched around Ryan while Carrie took him from behind; Ryan pinned to the counter, Corey riding him reverse while Carrie claimed his mouth. They moved until the kitchen echoed with slick sounds and shattered cries, collapsing finally in a heap on the floor, limbs entwined, breaths syncing.

The night unfolded like a fever dream—slow, deliberate, *endless*.

---

Chapter 2: Public Tease – The Park After Dark**


A week later, Corey stayed over again. Carrie was out of town for a three-day work conference in Chicago, leaving Ryan and Corey alone in the apartment with nothing but time, tension, and a mischievous glint in Ryan’s eye. He’d scored an ounce of premium indica from a gym buddy—“top-shelf, melts your inhibitions like butter,” the guy had promised with a wink. Ryan stashed it in the freezer, waiting for the perfect night.

It arrived on a humid Friday evening, the city humming below their balcony like a living thing. They sparked up as dusk bled into indigo—first joint passed back and forth, smoke curling lazy in the warm air. Corey’s hits were smaller, more tentative; it didn’t take much for his petite frame to go soft and pliant, eyes glazing over with that sweet, floaty high. Laughter bubb’t easy: silly stories from the gym, Corey giggling about the time Ryan deadlifted 500 and the whole room stopped to stare.

Ryan watched him melt against the railing, crop top riding up to expose a strip of smooth stomach, tiny shorts hugging the curve of his ass. The high stripped away the last of Corey’s shyness; he leaned into Ryan’s side, cheek pressed to a hard pec, hand wandering idly over Ryan’s thigh.

“Ever wanted to put on a *real* show?” Ryan murmured, lips brushing the shell of Corey’s ear, voice low and rough from the smoke. His hand slid under the crop top, thumb circling a nipple until it peaked hard and sensitive. Corey’s breath hitched, cock twitching visibly in his shorts. “Make everyone in the city jealous they can’t touch what’s mine? Watch them *ache* for it?”

Corey’s glazed eyes flicked up, pupils blown wide. “Where?” The word came out breathy, needy.

Ryan’s grin was wolfish, predatory. “Riverside Park. After dark. The main loop by the fountain—always packed with night runners, dog walkers, couples on dates, late-night strollers. String lights, mist from the water, shadows everywhere. We’ll make them *burn*.”

They dressed for maximum impact, the high making every fabric choice feel electric:

- **Corey:** Tiny black running shorts—spandex, high-cut, riding up with every step to flash the lower curve of his ass. A cropped white tank, loose enough to slip off one shoulder, hem barely grazing his navel. No underwear; the outline of his cock was a soft, teasing bulge. Hair tousled just-so, lips glossy from a quick swipe of balm. Bare feet slipped into sleek white sneakers.

- **Ryan:** Gray sweatpants, thin and worn, slung low enough to show the deep V of his obliques and the *thick* outline of his cock swinging heavy with every stride. A black tank top clung to his pumped chest like a second skin, nipples visible through the fabric. Sneakers, no socks. He smelled like clean sweat and that woody cologne that drove Corey wild.

They slipped out into the night, Uber ride charged with anticipation—hands brushing thighs, Ryan’s fingers dipping just under Corey’s waistband to tease the cleft of his ass. The driver kept glancing in the rearview, flushing when Corey caught his eye and blew a slow, sultry kiss.

---

Riverside Park at 10:30 p.m. was a living pulse: joggers in neon slicing through the paths, couples tangled on blankets under string lights, groups of friends laughing around picnic tables, dog walkers with leashed shadows trotting beside them. The central fountain glowed turquoise, mist cooling the humid air, water cascading in rhythmic sheets that muffled sounds just enough for plausible deniability. Benches dotted the loop, some in open light, others half-shielded by weeping willows—*perfect* for spectacle.

Ryan scouted like a general: a wrought-iron bench partially hidden by willow branches but *visible* from three angles—the main jogging path, the fountain plaza, and a cluster of picnic tables 50 feet away. Close enough for details, far enough for safety. He led Corey there by the hand, thumb stroking his knuckles.

“Sit,” Ryan commanded softly, voice a rumble that vibrated through Corey’s chest. Corey obeyed, thighs spreading instinctively on the bench, shorts riding higher. Ryan straddled behind him—chest to back, arms caging him in like a throne. From a distance, it looked innocent: boyfriends cuddling under the lights. Up close? Ryan’s hand slid under the crop top, palm flat against Corey’s stomach, thumb circling a nipple with slow, deliberate pressure until it peaked hard and aching. Corey’s head fell back against Ryan’s shoulder, lips parting on a soft, muffled moan masked by the fountain’s rush.

Ryan’s eyes scanned the crowd, directing the show with whispers and subtle commands:

1. **The Joggers (First Wave):** A group of four college guys in neon tanks pounded past, slowing instinctively. Ryan pinched Corey’s nipple—hard. Corey arched, tank riding up to bare his midriff, a sliver of skin glowing under the lights. “Smile at them,” Ryan growled. Corey’s glazed eyes found the leader—a tall blond with a jaw like chiseled stone. He bit his lip, blew a slow kiss, then traced a finger down his own exposed stomach. The group stumbled, one guy nearly colliding with a trash can, all four staring back with open hunger.

2. **The Couple on the Bench:** Twenty feet away, a heterosexual pair in their thirties—her in a sundress, him in khakis—whispered heatedly. Ryan’s hand dipped lower, palming Corey’s cock through the shorts, stroking slow and firm. Corey ground back against Ryan’s hardness, a whimper escaping. “Arch for them. Show them your ass.” Corey obeyed, back bowing dramatically, shorts creeping up to flash the lower curve of one cheek. The woman gasped audibly, hand flying to her mouth; her partner’s jaw clenched, hand tightening on her thigh, eyes locked on Corey’s body like he was starving.

3. **The Dog Walker:** A fit dad-type in running gear paused to let his golden retriever sniff a bush. Ryan nipped Corey’s earlobe. “Wave. Lick your lips.” Corey lifted a hand, waved coyly, then dragged his tongue slow across his lower lip. The man froze, leash slack, dog tugging forgotten. His gaze raked over Corey’s spread thighs, the obvious bulge, the way Ryan’s massive hand owned him.

The tension built like a storm—jealousy thick in the air, whispers spreading. Phones angled discreetly; a few bold souls lingered, pretending to check maps or tie shoes. Ryan fed off it, cock throbbing against Corey’s ass.

But the *real* spark ignited when Ryan spotted them: a gay couple on a nearby bench, half-lit by the fountain’s glow.

- **Marcus:** About 50, handsome in that silver-fox way—salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, sharp jawline shadowed with stubble, broad shoulders filling out a fitted navy polo that strained across his chest. Fit from years of disciplined runs and tennis; he exuded quiet, authoritative confidence, legs crossed, one arm draped possessively over the back of the bench, fingers idly tracing the seam of Luka’s tank.

- **Luka:** Probably 25, a cute blonde just a smidge taller than Corey—maybe 5'6"—with a swimmer’s lean, defined build that made Corey’s mouth water on sight. Shoulders broader than Corey’s delicate frame, arms corded with nice, subtle muscle from endless pool laps; chest pushing against his light-gray tank top with decent pec definition—nothing like Jack’s (or Ryan’s) raw bulk, but *enough* to scream “twink-with-muscle” perfection. His abs were faintly visible when he shifted, a subtle six-pack earned from flip-turns and sprints. Pale skin glowed under the string lights, a light sheen of sweat from the humid night. He sat close to Marcus, head occasionally resting on the older man’s shoulder, but his bright blue eyes were already locked on Corey, wide and hungry, lips parted in unconscious want.

Ryan’s grin turned wicked, predatory. He leaned in, lips brushing Corey’s ear. “See the blonde? Luka—he’s staring like he wants to pin you down and *own* you. And his daddy’s letting him watch. Time to make him *work* for it. Make him feel like a god while you play the pretty little prize.”

He whispered detailed instructions, hand still teasing Corey’s nipple under the crop top—pinching, rolling, making it throb. “Stand up slow. Walk to the fitness stations—the pull-up bars are right in their direct line of sight, 30 feet away. Act like you’re stretching, all innocent. Reach for the lowest bar—tiptoes, ass out. When he bites, lay it on *thick*. Touch him. Praise him. Make him flex and curl like he’s the biggest stud in the park. Turn him alpha, then let him treat you like his girl. I’ll watch every second.”

Corey rose on wobbly, high-fueled legs, the indica making him bold, fluid, *electric*. He sauntered to the outdoor gym area—three pull-up bars of varying heights under a canopy of warm string lights, the metal still sun-warm from the day. The lowest bar hung at 7 feet; even on tiptoes, Corey’s fingers barely grazed it. He stretched dramatically—arms overhead, back arching, crop top riding up to expose his entire smooth midriff and the dimples above his ass, shorts dipping low enough to flash the top of his crack and the faint outline of his hardening cock. He “jumped” for a pull-up—fingers slipping, body dangling helplessly for a delicious second, thighs flexing, ass clenching before he dropped back with a breathy giggle that carried on the mist.

Luka’s eyes went saucer-wide. Marcus chuckled low, a deep rumble, murmuring something like “Go on, boy—show him what you’ve got” while giving Luka’s thigh a possessive squeeze.

Corey looked right at them, biting his plump lower lip in exaggerated innocence. “Think you could show me how it’s done? I’m *way* too short… my arms are like noodles.” He flexed his own slender bicep playfully—soft, undefined, the perfect contrast—then pouted. “Please? I bet you’re super strong.”

Luka was up in a flash—eager, alpha energy crackling like static. He stripped off his tank in one smooth motion, tossing it to Marcus with a cocky grin. His torso was a swimmer’s dream: lean but carved, pecs firm and dusted with faint blonde hair, nipples pink and peaked from the cool mist, abs rippling subtly with every breath. Marcus caught the shirt, draped it over his lap, eyes gleaming with vicarious pride and a hint of arousal as he adjusted himself.

Luka positioned himself at the middle bar (perfect 6'6" height for him), gripped wide, and *exploded* into pull-ups—smooth, controlled, powerful. 1… 5… 10… lats flaring like wings under golden skin, biceps bulging with each rep—veins popping along his forearms, triceps horseshoeing beautifully. Sweat beaded and trickled down his spine, pooling at the waistband of his low-slung joggers. He grunted softly on the harder reps—15… 18… 22—dropping finally with a flex, chest heaving, pecs bouncing slightly. The string lights caught every droplet, making him glisten like a statue come to life.

Corey clapped like a fanboy, eyes wide and adoring, stepping *close*—close enough to smell Luka’s clean sweat and chlorine afterglow. “Oh my *god*, you’re so *strong*! Look at those arms—way bigger and harder than mine.” He reached out tentatively, then bolder, tracing trembling fingers down Luka’s bicep as it flexed. “Feel how they pop? Mine are nothing… see?” He guided Luka’s hand to his own soft upper arm, then down to his waist, letting the twink’s palm splay over his bare stomach. Luka’s breath hitched, fingers flexing instinctively.

Emboldened, Corey purred, “Your chest is *insane*—all that definition from swimming? I could never get pecs like these.” He pressed closer, hands wandering “innocently” over Luka’s sweat-slick pecs, thumbs brushing nipples until they hardened. Luka groaned softly, chest puffing under the praise, alpha mode fully activated. “Bet you curl *heavy* too. Show me? I wanna see you be all big and manly.”

Marcus leaned forward on the bench, smirking, clearly enjoying the show—his hand now openly palming the growing bulge in his shorts.

Luka grabbed the nearby dumbbells—20-pounders painted faded red, light for him but perfect for flexing. He started curls: slow, deliberate, biceps peaking into hard balls with each rep. 1… 8… 12 per arm, grunting low, veins throbbing. Corey hovered like a groupie, one hand on Luka’s shoulder for “balance,” the other tracing the pumped muscle. “You’re so *alpha*… look at you owning those weights. I bet you could lift *me* easy—carry me around like your pretty little girlfriend.” He batted his lashes, voice dripping honey and filth. “I’d let you. I’d be so good for you—spot you, cheer you on, *anything*.”

Luka’s curls faltered on the last rep, face flushed crimson with arousal and ego. He dropped the weights with a clank, flexing both arms in a double biceps pose—peaks sharp, sweat dripping. “Yeah? You like that, baby?” His voice dropped an octave, hand sliding to Corey’s lower back, pulling him flush. Corey melted against him, ass pressing into Luka’s thigh, letting the taller twink tower just enough to feel dominant. “I could toss you around the pool… or the bedroom.”

Corey whimpered theatrically, hands roaming Luka’s abs. “Mmm, promise? You’re so much stronger than me… I’d feel so *safe*.” He guided Luka’s hand lower, letting it cup the curve of his ass through the shorts—squeezing once. Luka groaned, hips jerking forward, his own cock now visibly hard in his joggers.

The crowd thickened—joggers slowing, phones out, whispers buzzing. Marcus laughed outright, pulling Luka back by the waistband with a firm tug. “Easy, pup. He’s just borrowing you for the show.” But his eyes sparkled with heat, free hand adjusting his obvious erection. “Damn good form, though. Keep curling those 20s—you’ll catch the big boys someday.”

Ryan stepped from the shadows then, towering behind Corey like a wall of muscle, arm wrapping possessive around his waist, fingers splaying over the spot Luka had just touched. His voice was a low growl laced with amusement: “Show’s over, boys. Nice pump, Luka—those 20s look heavy on you. Corey’s got a real trainer at home who curls 50s for warm-up.” He flexed his own massive bicep casually, making Luka’s look boyish in comparison. Corey blew them a final kiss, wiggling fingers. “Thanks for the demo, big guy! You made me feel so *small* and pretty.”

Luka flushed deeper, stepping back to Marcus, who pulled him onto his lap with a possessive grin, nipping the blonde’s ear. “Come on, alpha—let’s go home and put that energy to use.”

Corey giggled, leaning into Ryan as they walked away, ass swaying extra for the couple’s benefit. Ryan’s hand dipped lower, squeezing. “You little tease. Made him feel like a king, huh? Bet he’s gonna fuck Marcus senseless thinking about you.”

---

“Stand,” Ryan ordered back at their bench. They rose, Ryan pulling Corey flush against him for a moment—hips grinding once, twice—before leading him onto the main path. “Walk slow. Let them watch your ass sway.”

They strolled the looping trail hand-in-hand, Ryan’s palm possessive on Corey’s lower back, fingers dipping just under the waistband to trace the top of his cleft. Joggers veered closer; a cluster of women on a night walk giggled and stared; the gay couple followed at a distance, Luka stealing glances.

At a shadowed curve—willows thicker, light dappled—Ryan pinned Corey against a broad oak trunk. Hidden from direct view but *silhouetted* for anyone on the path, the fountain’s glow backlighting them like a stage.

“On your knees,” Ryan growled, voice rough with smoke and need.

Corey sank gracefully, high making him bold. He tugged Ryan’s sweats down just enough to free his cock—thick, veined, already leaking. Corey took him deep—slow, worshipful—throat working around the head, cheeks hollowing. Ryan’s hand tangled in his hair, guiding with gentle tugs, hips rolling shallow. Muffled moans vibrated against skin; the wet sounds barely covered by water.

Passersby slowed: a pair of runners pretended to stretch nearby, eyes wide; a woman with earbuds pulled one out, biting her lip; the college guys from earlier circled back, lingering at the path’s edge, one whispering “Holy fuck” under his breath. Even Luka and Marcus paused at the trail’s fork, Marcus’s arm around the blonde’s shoulders, both watching with dark fascination.

Ryan pulled out before finishing, cock glistening, hauling Corey up for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss—tongues tangling, sharing the taste. “Tell me who watched hardest,” he demanded against Corey’s lips.

“The blond jogger,” Corey panted. “And Luka—he hasn’t stopped staring since the pull-ups. Bet he’s hard thinking about lifting me.”

Ryan grinned, tucking himself away. “Good. Home. Now. Gonna fuck you on the balcony while you recount every stare—make you come harder from the memory.”

They Ubered back, hands roaming shamelessly—Corey straddling Ryan’s lap in the backseat, grinding slow, driver flushed crimson in the mirror. The night ended with Corey bent over the balcony railing, city lights sprawling below like a sea of jealous eyes, Ryan pounding into him relentlessly as Corey gasped out details: “Luka flexed for me… Marcus watched him touch me… the woman in the sundress—she squeezed her thighs together… the gay couple—one touched himself watching us…”

Corey came untouched, spilling over the railing with a shattered cry; Ryan followed, buried deep, growling possession into his neck.

---

The End

*(Jack texts Corey the next morning: “Heard you put on quite the show. My turn soon?”)