Heartbreaker, a Hearstopper Story - Ch. 20

Gay Cuckold, Gay Erotica, +18, Cheating, Voyeur

Charlie’s bedroom in Whitstable was dark except for the glow of his phone screen. The window was cracked open, letting in the cool Kent night, and somewhere beyond the rooftops the sea murmured against the shingle in its endless rhythm. But it might as well have been sealed shut for all the good it was doing.

His body was a furnace. Heat radiated off Charlie in waves, his skin flushed and burning from his chest to his scalp, sweat prickling along his hairline and pooling in the hollow of his throat. His T-shirt was already soaking at the collar and clinging to his back and he was genuinely surprised there wasn’t steam rising off him, because his internal temperature seemed to have abandoned any pretence of being regulated by a functioning human nervous system. He was sitting upright in bed, back pressed against the headboard. His hands were trembling. The duvet was on the floor.

He couldn’t remember kicking it off.

He couldn’t remember anything from any point of his life before two minutes ago. It was as if his brain had finally short-circuited and died, every memory, every thought, every scrap of identity that wasn’t directly related to the six-inch screen glowing in his shaking hands wiped clean and replaced by a singlereality.

It was happening.

It wasn’t in his head, in the dark theatre where he’d staged this scene a thousand times before, casting different actors, adjusting the lighting, rewinding and replaying his favourite parts. It wasn’t happening in the breathless retelling of a phone call with Beto, filling in the gaps with his imagination, constructing his own version of events

It was real. It was the actual reality, happening right now, on his phone, transmitted through God knew how many satellites and cables and signal towers from a bedroom in California to a bedroom in Kent, and Charlie could see the slight grain of the camera, could hear the ambient hum of whatever room they were in, could make out a water bottle on the nightstand and a pair of trainers kicked into the corner and all the mundane details that no fantasy ever bothered to include.

Nick and Jet were on his screen. Half-dressed. Together. Nick had kissed Jet and turned to the camera and said what colour without even looking at Charlie, and Charlie had whispered green and now —

On his screen, three thousand miles away, Nick turned back to Jet.

The kiss was hungrier this time. Nick’s hand slid from Jet’s chin to the back of his head, fingers threading into that dark hair, gripping, tilting Jet’s head to the angle he wanted. Jet followed the direction without resistance, his body bending to Nick’s hand, and their mouths met with an urgency that hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago. Maybe the exploration was over. Maybe, Charlie thought, his mind racing ahead of the image, it had never been exploration at all. Maybe they’d been doing this for a while. Maybe this wasn’t the first kiss tonight, just the first one in front of the camera.

Charlie’s mind flooded with possibilities. How long had Nick been in that room before he’d sent the link? Had he planned this? Had he sought Jet out specifically — perfect Jet, with those pale blue eyes and that bloody magnificent arse that Charlie had been fantasising about since the first time he’d walked into Roosters? Had Nick walked up to him after a shift and said I need to ask you something and had Jet said yes before the question was even finished? Or had it been accidental, a look across the locker room while they were changing, a casual touch while passing a tray that lingered a beat too long, a smile that seemed simple enough on the surface but had carried just enough charge to pull them both toward that bedroom, that kiss, that moment?

Charlie didn’t know if he wanted to know. His mind split down the middle. One half craved the details, every single one, from what Jet had been wearing when Nick first suggested it to the exact words Nick had used to what song had been playing on the drive over. The other half ached for the mystery. Wanted the not-knowing. Wanted Nick to keep that part sealed away, a room in his life that belonged only to him and Jet, a door Charlie would never open, and wanted the ache of standing outside it, imagining what was behind it, burning with the gorgeous uncertainty of never being sure.

Jet’s hands landed flat on Nick’s chest, fingers spreading across his pecs, and Charlie watched Jet’s thumbs brush over Nick’s nipples and heard the rough sound Nick made in response, a sound Charlie knew intimately, vibrating through the tiny phone speaker, travelling straight down his spine, settling at the base of his cock like a lit match. Charlie’s hands gripped the mattress on either side of his thighs. Both of them, flat against the sheets, fingers digging into the fabric. His cock was already straining against his boxers, desperate, with an urgency that was almost embarrassing. He pressed down harder, knuckles whitening, anchoring himself to the bed like a man anchored himself to a lifeboat, because he knew, with absolute certainty, that if he so much as grazed himself through the fabric right now, it would be over. Finished before the first act was through.

Charlie was not letting that end in seconds. He’d been wanting that since he was sixteen years old, he’d buried it, and dug it up and buried it again, lied and schemed and manipulated, nearly destroyed the most important relationship of his life for. It was happening, finally, and Charlie Spring was going to watch every single second of it if it was the last thing he ever did.

Jet’s hands were exploring Nick’s chest with the same fascination a tourist encountered a beautiful landscape for the first time. His fingers traced the Nick’s abs, dipped into the grooves between them, skimmed along the waistband of Nick’s joggers where the fabric sat dangerously low. Nick let him look, let him touch, and Charlie recognised something in the way Nick held himself, the slight squaring of his shoulders, the almost imperceptible tilt of his chin, the way he angled his body toward the light. He was showing off for the camera. For Charlie. Letting Charlie see every reaction Jet had to his body, every widening of those pale blue eyes, every involuntary intake of breath, because Nick understood now that Charlie’s desire lived in the watching, and Nick was giving him everything to watch.

The jealousy arrived like a wrecking ball and Charlie let it come, roll through him without resistance, without the old reflexive shame that used to chase it like a shadow. Jet’s hands on Nick’s body. Those golden pecs that Charlie had fallen asleep against a thousand times, that he’d pressed his face into when the world got too loud, that he’d licked and kissed and bitten and claimed as his own territory — Jet was touching them. Jet’s thumbs were circling Nick’s nipples and Nick was letting him, was tilting his chest into the contact, and Charlie could see the goosebumps rising across Nick’s skin from three thousand miles away.

Mine, something in Charlie’s chest snarled. That’s mine. Those are my hands’ territory. That body comes home to me.

And right behind it, tangled so tightly into the possessiveness that the two feelings shared a pulse: Yes. Yes. Keep going. Touch him more. Take what’s mine and let me watch you do it.

There it was. The thing that had lived in Charlie’s dark for years. The wire that crossed jealousy into desire, the short circuit that turned he’s mine into show me he’s not. And Charlie felt no desperate post-mortem waiting in the wings. Just pure, acceptance, just finally stopping the fight against the thing that made him burn and let it be what it was: his. Part of him. As real and as valid as the colour of his eyes or the sound of his laugh or the way he took his tea. He didn’t need to fix it or explain it or apologise for it. He just needed someone brave enough to meet him there.

And Nick had.

Nick had given him permission to burn, and that permission, the gift of being fully known and fully wanted anyway, was hotter than anything happening on the screen.

On screen, Jet’s mouth left Nick’s and travelled along his jaw, pressing kisses into the stubble there. Nick groaned, a guttural sound that the phone speaker distorted into something even rougher, and tipped his head back to give Jet better access. The line of his throat stretched and Jet took the invitation, his lips finding the curve of Nick’s neck, kissing along the tendon, and then — he bit down.

Charlie’s stomach clenched. It would mark, a bruise on Nick’s throat, dark against gold, visible above the collar of whatever shirt Nick wore. A mark that Jet had put there. Jet’s teeth on Charlie’s boyfriend’s skin, Jet’s mouth claiming territory that belonged to Charlie. Charlie hated him for it, a bright and irrational hatred that lasted exactly half a second before flipping inside out and becoming gratitude so fierce it burned. Thank you, Charlie thought, staring at the place where Jet’s mouth met Nick’s neck. Thank you for marking him. Thank you for leaving evidence. Thank you for taking him.

And then his mind went somewhere even darker, even hotter, somewhere that made his cock throb so hard against his boxers he had to bite down on his own lip to keep quiet. People would see that mark. Tomorrow, the day after, however long it took to fade. Harp would see it over breakfast. The lads at Roosters would see it in the locker room. And they would know it wasn’t Charlie’s.Someone else had done that. Someone else had bitten down on Nick Nelson’s throat hard enough to bruise, because Charlie was on the other side of the world, and the implication of that would hang in the air like smoke for anyone smart enough to read it.

They’ll know, Charlie thought. They’ll look at that bruise and they’ll know someone else had him. They’ll know and they’ll wonder if I know. They’ll wonder what kind of boyfriend lets that happen.

His cock pulsed so violently he saw white at the edges of his vision.

Jet didn’t know what he was doing to Charlie. He just kept going, his mouth moving lower, trailing down from Nick’s neck to his collarbone, then lower still, lips pressing into the heavy curve of Nick’s right pec, lingering there, tasting the skin, his tongue tracing the edge of the muscle. His hands never stopped moving, palms kneading the thick swell of Nick’s chest, fingers pressing into the dense muscle, squeezing, shaping, as if trying to convince himself that a body like this could actually be real. He crouched lower. His mouth found the Nick’s abs and his tongue followed it downward, slow and wet, painting a line from the base of Nick’s sternum to the ridge of his hip, and Charlie watched Nick’s stomach clench involuntarily, his sculpted muscles tightening under Jet’s mouth, and thought: yes. This is what he deserves.

Because Nick did deserve this. Nick deserved to be worshipped, had always deserved it, and Charlie had known this long before the kink had a name. It was there in the way strangers stared at Nick in the street, the way entire rooms rearranged their attention when he walked in, the way people’s hands found excuses to touch his arms, his shoulders, his chest, as if proximity to that body was a privilege they couldn’t resist reaching for. Nick was something extraordinary, not just beautiful but generous with his beauty, carrying it without vanity, offering it without conditions, completely unaware of the effect he had on the world around him even as that world rearranged itself to get closer. A body like Nick’s wasn’t meant to belong to one person. It was meant to be seen, admired, touched, tasted, and the fact that it came home to Charlie every night, that all that golden perfection chose him, the skinny English lit student with the dark curls and the complicated brain, was a miracle Charlie had never got over and never would.

Jet was on his knees now, hands gripping Nick’s hips, mouth pressed to the flat plane of Nick’s lower stomach, just above the waistband of his joggers. He looked up at Nick eyes and the expression on his face was something close to reverence, the look of a man kneeling before something sacred, and Charlie’s cock pulsed so hard against his boxers that he gasped out loud in his empty bedroom.

Nick’s joggers were tenting obscenely. Charlie could see the heavy outline of him straining against the grey fabric, the sheer size of it distorting the front of his joggers into something almost cartoonish. Nick had been hard since the first kiss. Maybe before. Maybe he’d been hard since he pressed send on that link, knowing what was coming, knowing Charlie would be watching. Jet’s hands found the waistband. His fingers hooked into the elastic and he looked up at Nick once, a silent question, and Nick gave the smallest nod. Jet pulled the joggers down in one smooth motion, and Nick’s cock sprang free, already fully hard, curving upward toward his stomach with obscene confidence. No underwear, because of course not, because Nick Nelson did not believe in containing that beast and frankly the beast did not deserve containment. It deserved an open sky and a standing ovation.

Had it always been that big? That thick, that hard, that aggressively, almost absurdly present? He’d seen Nick’s cock a thousand times, in his hand, in his mouth, inside him, soft in the morning and hard at night and every state in between, and yet the image on his screen seemed to belong to a different scale entirely. The days apart were rewriting his memories, exaggerating the dimensions, or — and this was the thought that made Charlie’s fingernails dig crescents into his own thighs — Nick was harder than Charlie had ever seen him? Harder because it wasn’t Charlie down there. Harder because it was someone new, someone different, someone whose mouth and hands were unfamiliar territory, and the novelty of it had pushed Nick’s body past the limits Charlie thought he knew.

Was that possible? Could someone else make Nick harder than Charlie could?

The jealousy and the arousal collided so violently Charlie’s vision blurred.

Jet was frozen. He was on his knees, Nick’s joggers pooled around his ankles, and he was staring at Nick’s cock with an expression that Charlie recognised because he’d worn it himself the first time Nick had dropped his trousers — eyes wide, lips parted, lower jaw hanging slightly open as if the muscles in his face had simply given up trying to maintain composure.His yes were clouded, glazed with a desire so raw it was almost indecent, and a thin strand of spit glistened on his lower lip as if his mouth had started watering before his brain had even processed what it was looking at.

“Shit,” Jet breathed. “Look at that.”

Nick snickered, and the sound was confident and dripping with something Charlie had never heard from him before.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s pretty big, isn’t it?”

He sounded cocky, unapologetically cocky, a smirk in his voice that matched the one on his face, and Charlie’s brain snagged on it — was that part of the show? A performance for the camera, for Charlie, because Nick knew the exhibitionism turned them both on? Or was that the real Nick, the one who had always known exactly what he was packing and had simply never been given permission to be arrogant about it until now?

“It’s fucking huge, Brit,” Jet said again, and his voice had gone thick, almost slurred, as if Nick’s cock had taken his ability to form sentences at full capacity.

Without waiting for permission, without asking, as if it was his right, as if Nick’s cock had always belonged to him and he was simply claiming what was his, Jet raised his hand and closed his fingers around the shaft. Charlie bit down on his lip so hard he tasted copper. The whimper escaped anyway, into the dark of his bedroom, and Nick heard it. His head turned toward the camera, just for a second, finding the lens with a flash of something heated and knowing, before they were back on Jet.

“Jesus,” Jet murmured, staring at his own hand. “I can’t even close my fist around it.”

He started stroking. Very slow, his grip adjusting to the girth of it, sliding all the way up to the swollen head before dragging all the way back down to the base. When he returned to the tip, he gathered the slick bead of pre-come waiting there and brought it back with him on the downstroke, using it to glide smoother, wetter, hotter. The sound of it, that Charlie knew so well from his own hand, from his own bed, from a thousand nights wrapped around that same cock, came through the phone speaker and filled the room.

Nick let out one of those rough, guttural groans, his head tipping back, his abs clenching, his hips shifting forward into Jet’s fist, and Charlie couldn’t take it anymore. His hand flew to his boxers, pressing hard against the outline of himself through the fabric, and the contact was so overwhelming after holding back for so long that his hips bucked up off the mattress and a sound left his mouth that he couldn’t have controlled if his life depended on it. His fingers curled around himself through the cotton, gripping, squeezing, and the jealousy that ripped through him, that it was Jet’s hand on Nick’s cock right now, Jet’s fingers wrapped around that thickness, Jet feeling the heat and the weight and the pulse of it, not Charlie, because Charlie was three thousand miles away gripping himself through his boxers like a desperate, pathetic, aching ghost—

He yanked his hand away, gasping, and pressed both palms flat against the mattress.

Not yet. Not fucking yet.

“Think you can take it?” Nick asked, looking down at Jet with that new confidence that made Charlie’s stomach flip.

“I can try,” Jet said, his hand never stopping its maddening rhythm on Nick’s cock. “Can I try?”

Nick turned to the camera. “What do you think, Char? Still green?”

“Y-yeah,” Charlie stammered. His voice sounded wrecked, barely human. He paused, swallowed hard, tried to scrape together enough composure to form a complete sentence. “Yeah. I’m good. Green.”

Nick beamed at the camera, a real, gorgeous Nick smile, and somehow that was more devastating than any of it, the normalcy of it, the love in it, beaming at Charlie while another man stroked his cock, and turned back to Jet.

“You heard him,” Nick said.

But Jet didn’t move. He stayed on his knees, hand wrapped around Nick’s shaft, and his pale blue eyes lifted to the camera. To Charlie. Those eyes found the lens with a directness that made Charlie physically jolt upright in his bed, his back slamming against the headboard, because Jet was looking at him.

“Can I, Charlie?” Jet asked.

Charlie’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t expected Jet to include him, to acknowledge him, to reach through the screen and pull him into the room with nothing more than his name and a question.

“Can I suck your boyfriend’s cock?”

“Yes,” Charlie said. He was breathing so hard the word barely made it out.

“You want me to suck him?”

Charlie could hear it now, the teasing, the playfulness curling underneath the desire. He was teasing Charlie. The fucking bastard was on his knees with Nick’s cock in his hand and he was teasing Charlie, drawing it out, making him beg for it, and Charlie wanted to reach through the screen and slap that smirk right off his stupidly beautiful face. But Charlie also, really, desperately, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, wanted Jet to suck Nick’s cock.

That part won.

“I do,” Charlie said. His voice had dropped into something unrecognisable. “Do it. Please. Suck my boyfriend’s cock

Jet leaned in and took Nick’s cock into his mouth like he’d been waiting all night for it.

He opened wide and sank down fast, lips stretching tight around the thick head before sliding lower in one greedy motion. His throat fluttered as he swallowed around the length, taking Nick deeper than Charlie managed on the first try. One hand braced on Nick’s thigh, the other wrapped firmly around the base, squeezing in rhythm with the wet pull of his mouth. Nick let out a long, shuddering “yessss“ that was equal parts laugh and moan, his head falling back, his hand finding the back of Jet’s head. Jet kept going. Swallowing and swallowing, his jaw stretched wide, his throat working, taking more of Nick than Charlie would have thought physically possible. The shaft disappeared between those swollen lips inch by inch, and Charlie watched from his bed in Kent with his fists clenched in the sheets and his heart hammering in his ears, wondering when Jet would stop, when the gag reflex would kick in, when the size of what he was attempting would force him to pull back.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t gag. He kept going, throat opening, eyes watering, his pale blue irises disappearing behind fluttering lids, until his nose pressed flat against Nick’s crotch and there was nothing left. Every inch of Nick was buried in Jet’s throat, and the sound Jet made, muffled hum of satisfaction that vibrated through Nick’s entire body, was the most obscene thing Charlie had ever heard.

“Oh fuck,” Nick breathed. “Oh — fuck.”

Then Jet started moving.

He pulled back until just the head remained between his lips, swollen and glistening, and then sank forward again, all the way, his throat swallowing around the shaft. Again. And again. Finding a pattern that was slow at first, deliberate, savouring, and then faster, wetter, the slick sounds filling the room and pouring through Charlie’s phone speaker with an intimacy that made it feel like the walls of his bedroom had dissolved and he was kneeling right there on that floor.

“Oh God,” Nick groaned, his fingers tightening in Jet’s hair. “Oh God, yes. That’s — fuck — that’s so good.”

His abs were clenching and releasing with every pass of Jet’s mouth.

“Don’t stop — Jesus — don’t fucking stop —”

His voice cracked on the last word and his free hand scrabbled behind him, finding the edge of the dresser, gripping it, knuckles going white, because his legs were trembling, actually trembling, those massive rugby-built legs shaking beneath him as if the foundation they’d always provided was no longer a thing he could rely on.

“So good,” he gasped. “Oh fuck, that’s so — yes — oh my God —”

His whole body was coiled so tight with pleasure it looked like it might snap, every muscle carved into agony under the golden skin, his head thrown back, tendons in his neck straining.

“Keep going — fuck — don’t stop, don’t you dare stop —”

Jet pulled off for a second, just long enough to catch his breath, a string of spit connecting his swollen lower lip to the head of Nick’s cock, and looked up at him with those devastating blue eyes.

“You like that, Brit?” he asked, so fucking cocky.

“Fuck yeah, don’t sto—oh fuck—”

The rest of the sentence dissolved into nothing because Jet had already swallowed him again, deeper this time, faster, one hand gripping the base of Nick’s cock, the other wrapped around the back of Nick’s thigh, pulling him forward, and Nick’s legs buckled. His grip on the dresser was the only thing keeping him upright. His head was thrown back, throat exposed, that bite mark dark and visible, and the sounds coming out of him were barely words anymore.

Charlie had stopped breathing. Or maybe he was breathing too fast, he couldn’t tell anymore, couldn’t feel anything beyond the screen in his hands and the inferno raging behind his ribs. His mouth was watering. Actually, literally watering, saliva pooling under his tongue, because his body was responding to the image of Nick’s cock disappearing into Jet’s throat as if it were Charlie’s own mouth being filled, and the phantom sensation was so vivid he could almost taste it. He swallowed hard, then again, and his whole body clenched involuntarily, his hole tightening around nothing, aching, empty, desperate to be filled the way Jet’s mouth was being filled, and the absence of Nick inside him was suddenly the most terrible form of torture Charlie had ever experienced.

His hips had started moving without his permission. Small shifts against the mattress, his body grinding upward into empty air, seeking friction his hands refused to provide. His cock was leaking steadily now, a damp patch spreading through his boxers, and every involuntary roll of his hips dragged the wet fabric across the head and sent a spike of pleasure so sharp it made his teeth clench. His fingers were cramping from gripping the sheets. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to touch himself, to wrap his hand around his cock and match the rhythm of Jet’s mouth on screen, and it was taking every ounce of discipline Charlie possessed to keep his hands where they were.

A strangled moan tore itself from somewhere deep in his chest and spilled into the quiet of his bedroom before he could catch it and Nick’s eyes snapped to the camera. For a second, surprise flickered across his face and he looked like had been so thoroughly consumed by the mouth on his cock that he’d forgotten there was an audience. Then the surprise melted into something else. Something warmer, a slow smile spreading across his flushed face as his gaze locked onto the lens and stayed there.

“You seeing this, Char?” Nick said, his voice rough and wrecked but aimed directly at the camera, directly at Charlie. “Fuck, his mouth is — oh God — his mouth is incredible. You should —” He broke off as Jet did something with his tongue that made his entire body jerk. “Jesus. You should feel this, Charlie. He’s so — fuck — so good. So fucking good at this.”

Charlie whimpered, the sound punched out of him, and he didn’t care anymore, didn’t care if the whole house heard. Nick’s hand tightened in Jet’s hair. Then his posture changed, his shoulders squared, his spine straightening and his hips tilting forward, and Charlie recognised the change instantly because he’d felt it a hundred times himself. Nick was done being serviced. Nick was taking over.

He gripped Jet’s head with both hands and rolled his hips forward. Slow at first. A single, controlled thrust that pushed his cock deep into Jet’s throat and held it there for a beat, two beats, before pulling back. Jet’s hands flew to Nick’s thighs, gripping the muscle, steadying himself, but he didn’t pull away. He took it. Nick thrusted again. Deeper. Finding a rhythm that was entirely his own, his hips snapping forward with power that belonged on a rugby pitch, and Jet knelt there and let Nick use his mouth with the as if he had been built for exactly this moment.

“Oh fuck, Charlie,” Nick groaned, his eyes still on the camera, still on Charlie, even as his hips drove forward again and again. “This is — you have no idea — fuck — his throat is so tight, Char, so fucking tight, I can’t — I don’t want to stop —”

His rhythm stuttered for a second as Jet swallowed around him and Nick’s whole body shuddered.

“I’m not gonna stop, okay? I’m gonna keep — oh God — keep going until — yes, fuck, take that cock — Charlie, are you watching? Tell me you’re watching.”

“I’m watching,” Charlie whispered to the empty room, his voice broken and reverent. “I’m watching, Nicky. Don’t stop.”

“This is what you wanted, Char?”

“Yes, Nicky, yes,”

“Oh fuuuuuck,” Nick groaned, and then suddenly he pulled away from Jet, stepping back so fast that Jet swayed forward on his knees, mouth open, chasing what was no longer there.

Nick’s back hit the dresser with a jolt that rattled whatever was sitting on top of it, and he stood there, chest heaving, one hand gripping the edge behind him, his cock jutting obscenely in front of him, slick and shining with Jet’s spit, catching the warm light. His face was extraordinary. Flushed from his chest to his hairline, eyes glazed, every feature twisted into an expression of delicious, almost agonised pleasure, as if the intensity of what Jet’s mouth had been doing had overwhelmed the part of his brain that knew how to stand upright. He looked wrecked. He looked like a man who had just discovered something about himself and didn’t know what to do with the information.

“Gonna fuck him now, okay, Char?” Nick said. His voice had gone shaky, almost tentative, the cockiness from earlier replaced by something more vulnerable, as if the pleasure had caught him off guard, as if he hadn’t expected to like it this much and the reality of how good it felt had knocked something loose inside him. “Still green, right? We’re still good?”

“Still green,” Charlie said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Charlie’s voice was steady now, steady in a way the rest of him wasn’t, because this was the one thing he was sure of. “Fuck him for me, Nicky. I want to watch you fuck him.”

Nick looked into the camera. Three thousand miles collapsed into nothing. The pixels and the satellites and the ocean between them dissolved, and for one suspended, infinite second it was just Nick’s eyes and Charlie’s eyes, locked together through a lens, and Charlie had never felt so close to him. Not in bed, not in the cove, not in any of the thousand moments of physical intimacy they’d shared. This was closer. This was Nick standing naked and hard and trembling in a room with another man and choosing, freely, to look at Charlie. To check in with Charlie. To make sure that what they were building together could hold the weight of what came next.

It could. Charlie had never been more certain of anything.

“I love you,” Charlie whispered.

Nick’s expression cracked into something so tender it almost didn’t belong on the face of a man with an hard-on that could be seen from space.

“I love you too, Char,” he said. “So fucking much.”

Charlie scrambled off the bed so fast he nearly faceplanted onto the carpet. His legs were jelly, barely functional, the same way Nick’s had been trembling against that dresser minutes ago, and he staggered the three steps to his desk, grabbed his laptop, and lurched back to the bed with absolutely no grace because his higher brain functions had been entirely rerouted to his cock. It was so bloody hard at this point that every step sent a jolt through him that bordered on cruel.

He flipped the laptop open and jabbed the power button. The screen glowed to life with agonising slowness, the loading wheel spinning, spinning, the Westbridge logo wallpaper appearing pixel by pixel as if his ancient laptop had decided that tonight, of all nights, was the perfect time to perform a system update. Charlie kept one eye on the laptop and one on his phone, where Nick was moving across the room toward Jet, who was still on his knees, looking thoroughly destroyed. Nick reached down and offered Jet his hand. Charlie watched Nick’s free hand settle on Jet’s waist, steadying him, and something about the gentleness of the gesture made Charlie’s stomach clench with a jealousy so sharp it took his breath. That was Nick’s kindness. Charlie’s kindness. The same hands that held Charlie after nightmares were holding Jet’s waist, and Charlie hated it and loved it and his cock throbbed its approval against his boxers without consulting the rest of him.

The laptop had loaded. Charlie opened the browser. His fingers were shaking so badly he mistyped the URL twice. He needed to find the streaming link from his messages, but — how the fuck did you access your text messages from a laptop? He’d done it before, months ago, some iCloud thing he’d set up and immediately forgotten about, and now he was stabbing at settings and menus while on his phone screen Nick hooked one massive arm under Jet’s knees, the other behind his back, and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing at all. Jet let out a surprised laugh, his arms looping around Nick’s neck, and Nick carried him to the bed with a care that made Charlie’s throat tighten, lowering him onto the dark sheets gently, almost reverently, the way you laid down something precious.

Charlie’s cock pulsed. His fingers fumbled at the keyboard.

Nick stepped back from the bed and crossed to the camera. His face filled the phone screen again, close and golden and flushed, and he lifted the phone, or whatever it was mounted on, a tripod maybe, and carried it toward the bed.

“Gonna take you closer, okay?” Nick said to the lens. His voice was thick, but warm. “Gonna give you the best seat.”

The angle shifted, swung, stabilised. Suddenly Charlie could see the bed from above and to the side — Jet lying on his back, legs parted, chest rising and falling rapidly, pale blue eyes staring up at Nick with an expression that was half anticipation, half adoration. Nick moved into frame, positioning himself between Jet’s thighs, and —

The laptop finally cooperated. The browser found the link. The streaming player loaded, buffered for two excruciating seconds of black screen during which Charlie genuinely thought his heart might stop, and then exploded into full, high-definition clarity across thirteen inches of screen.

Nick was already fucking Jet.

Charlie thought his heart was going to give out. His chest was seizing, his vision tunnelling, his entire cardiovascular system staging a revolt against the image now filling his laptop screen in merciless, high-definition detail. Had Nick prepped him? Had he used lube? Charlie’s eyes scanned the frame desperately, searching for evidence, a bottle on the nightstand, a torn wrapper on the sheets, and found nothing. Fuck. Was he wearing a condom? He hadn’t with Beto, had gone bare in Houston, and the memory of that detail had fuelled more of Charlie’s late-night sessions than he would ever admit. Please, Charlie thought, and the prayer was directed at no deity he’d ever been introduced to. Please let him be bare. Please let there be nothing between them.

On screen, Nick rolled his hips forward and Jet’s entire body arched off the mattress, and there was no wrapper on the sheets and no latex catching the light and Charlie made a sound into the dark of his bedroom that he would deny to his dying day.

Nick found his rhythm. Slow at first, his hips drawing back and pressing forward with a patience that was almost cruel, giving Jet time to adjust to the size of what was inside him. His body covered Jet’s completely, golden and enormous, every muscle in his back shifting and flexing with each thrust, his broad shoulders blocking the camera’s view of Jet’s face so that all Charlie could see was the dark hair spread across the pillow and the lean, tanned legs hooked over Nick’s shoulders, ankles crossing behind his neck, pulling him deeper.

The sounds were devastating. The slick sound of skin meeting skin. Jet’s breathing, stuttered, the breathing of someone being stretched to their limit and choosing to stay there. Nick’s low grunts, steady as a metronome, each one punched out of him on the forward thrust. Nick’s pace increased. The patience burned off, replaced by something more urgent, his hips snapping forward harder, faster, the bed frame creaking beneath them. His hands gripped Jet’s thighs where they pressed against his shoulders, fingers digging into the tanned muscle, using the leverage to drive himself deeper. The grunts grew rougher, louder, torn from somewhere primal in his chest, and Charlie could see the sweat beginning to gather along the valley of Nick’s spine, could see the muscles in his arse clench and release with each powerful thrust.

Beneath him, Jet was transforming. The tension in his body, the rigidity of those first few thrusts, the bitten lip, the white-knuckled grip on the sheets, was dissolving, melting, replaced by something looser and more desperate. His mouth fell open. His head tipped back into the pillow. A moan escaped him, long and unguarded, rising in pitch as Nick drove into him again, and his body began to move with Nick rather than bracing against him, his hips tilting upward to meet each thrust, his back arching into a curve that seemed to offer every inch of himself.

“Oh fuck,” Jet gasped. “Oh — fuck, Brit — right there — don’t stop —”

Nick didn’t stop. He shifted his angle, just slightly, and whatever the adjustment did to the geometry of what was happening inside Jet’s body turned the gasps into a continuous, wrecked moan that filled the room and poured through Charlie’s laptop speakers and made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Jet’s hands flew from the sheets to Nick’s back, nails raking down the broad expanse of muscle, leaving pink trails that Charlie could see even through the stream, and his legs tightened around Nick’s neck as his whole body contorted beneath that golden weight, surrendering.

Then, Nick turned his head toward the camera, and his eyes were dark and wild and barely focused, but he found the lens anyway, found Charlie, and the words came spilling out of him like something uncaged.

“Fuck, Char — he feel so — his hole is so tight, love, so fucking tight I can barely — oh God —” His hips snapped forward and Jet cried out beneath him and Nick’s face twisted with pleasure so intense it looked like agony. “He’s so warm inside, Charlie, so warm and wet and he’s just — he’s taking all of it, every fucking inch, you should see how his hole stretches around me —”

His rhythm didn’t falter, didn’t slow, even as the words tumbled out of him in a filthy stream, his mouth running ahead of his brain, saying things Charlie suspected Nick didn’t even know he was capable of saying.

“Gonna fuck him until he can’t walk, Char — gonna breed this hole — fuck — gonna fill him up so deep he’ll feel me for days —” He drove forward hard enough to make Jet’s whole body jolt up the bed and the headboard knocked against the wall with a dull thud. “Gonna give you a show, love— gonna give you — oh fuck, oh fuck — the best fucking show of your life —”

His eyes were locked on the camera now, locked on Charlie, and even through the screen, even through the pixels and the distance and the slight lag of the stream, the connection between them was so charged Charlie could feel it in his teeth.

“Is that what you wanted, love?” Nick asked, his voice dropping into almost dangerous. He punctuated the question with a thrust so deep that Jet’s moan cracked in half. “Huh? Watching me fuck this arse?” Yeah? You like that, Char?”

“Yes,” Charlie whispered to the love of his life, cock straining, heart breaking and mending at the same time. “Yes, Nicky. I like that. I fucking love it.”

His hand slid inside his boxers and wrapped around himself and the first contact was so overwhelming that his entire body seized, his hips jerking off the mattress, his vision whiting out at the edges. He was so hard it hurt, so slick with pre-come that his hand glided without resistance, and for one terrifying second he was certain it was over, that the single stroke had been enough to finish him right there. It wasn’t. Barely. He hovered on the precipice, trembling, teeth clenched, and then the wave receded just enough for him to breathe, and he started moving his hand, slowly, matching nothing, following no rhythm except the desperate, stuttering pace his body demanded.

On the laptop, Nick had stopped forming sentences. The words that had been pouring out of him, the filthy commentary, the check-ins with Charlie, the comparisons and promises, had dissolved into fragments, half-thoughts that broke apart before they could land. “So good — fuck — can’t — gonna — oh God — Charlie — yes —” His hips were driving forward with a implacable, almost punishing rhythm, the bed frame slamming against the wall in a steady beat, and his face had gone slack with a pleasure so total it had wiped everything else away.

Jet matched him.

“Harder,” he gasped, his nails dragging down Nick’s back, his legs tightening around Nick’s neck. “Fuck me harder, Brit — I can take it — give it to me —”

Nick obeyed, his hips snapping forward with a force that shoved Jet up the bed, and Jet cried out, loud and sharp and shameless.

“Deeper — oh fuck — deeper, please, I need — I need all of it — fuck, you’re so big — don’t stop, don’t you dare fucking stop —”

Charlie’s hand was moving faster now, his grip tight, his wrist twisting at the top of each stroke, but it wasn’t fucking enough. His body wanted more. His hole was clenching around nothing, pulsing in time with each thrust he watched on screen, and the emptiness of it was maddening, this aching, desperate vacancy where Nick should have been, where Nick’s cock should have been filling him the way it was filling Jet, stretching him open, hitting that spot that made his vision go white.

He reached down with his free hand, past his balls, and pressed two fingers against himself. The pressure alone sent a shudder through his entire body. He pushed inside, slowly, his body yielding immediately because it was so desperate for something, anything, that resistance wasn’t an option. His fingers slid deep and he curled them, searching for the angle, searching for the spot, and —

It still wasn’t enough. His fingers were too short, the angle awkward and wrong, his wrist cramping against the mattress. He couldn’t reach deep enough, couldn’t stretch himself wide enough, couldn’t replicate even a fraction of what Nick’s cock felt like inside him. On screen, Jet was taking every inch of Nick with his head thrown back and his mouth open on a continuous moan, and Charlie’s body screamed with jealousy because Jet had what Charlie needed and Charlie was lying alone in a dark bedroom with two inadequate fingers and a hand on his cock and it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, nothing would ever be enough except Nick.

It happened gradually, so gradually that Charlie didn’t notice the shift until it had already completed itself. Nick had been talking to Charlie. Turning to the camera between thrusts, keeping Charlie tethered to the room with his voice Small anchors thrown across the ocean, each one pulling Charlie closer, keeping him inside the scene.

Then the gaps between the anchors started stretching.

Nick’s head turned to the camera less often. His eyes stayed on Jet longer. The commentary thinned. “Fuck, Char, he’s —” became just “Fuck —” became just the grunting, wordless sounds as if his brain had stopped producing language. Charlie watched Nick’s awareness of the camera flicker and dim like a signal losing strength. Nick thrust deep into Jet and Jet grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him, hard, pulling Nick down against him, and Nick kissed back with a hunger that had nothing performative in it, nothing staged, his hand sliding under Jet’s back, pulling their bodies flush, and Charlie realised with a jolt that ran through him like electricity that Nick had forgotten he was there.

Nick knew the camera was on, he knew Charlie was watching. But the knowledge had moved from the front of his mind to somewhere deeper, somewhere background. Nick was no longer performing for Charlie. Nick was fucking Jet because he wanted to fuck Jet, and the pleasure of it had consumed him so completely that Charlie had become the audience he no longer needed to play to.

That was what Charlie had craved since the beginning. The exclusion. The proof that what was happening in that bed was real, that it existed independently of Charlie’s gaze, that Nick’s desire for Jet didn’t require Charlie’s permission to sustain itself. Nick was lost. Gone. Buried in Jet’s body and Jet’s mouth and the sounds Jet was making and the heat between them, and Charlie was watching from the outside, pressing his face against the glass of a room he’d chosen not to enter.

His hand moved faster on his cock. His fingers pushed deeper inside himself. It still wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. And that was the point.

It was Jet who brought Charlie back to the bed.

Nick was gone, lost somewhere beyond the reach of cameras and oceans, his face buried in Jet’s neck, his body moving with a rhythm that had become almost mechanical in its intensity, as if his hips were operating independently of any conscious thought. He wasn’t talking to anyone anymore. He was just fucking, pure and absolute, and the sounds coming out of him were barely human. But Jet wasn’t gone. Jet was right there, present and paying attention despite the cock inside him and the two-hundred-plus pounds of rugby player pinning him to the mattress. His eyes, glazed and wet with pleasure, drifted from Nick’s face to the camera, and something flickered behind them, some awareness, a clever understanding of exactly who was on the other side of that lens and exactly what they needed to hear.

“You watching, Charlie?” Jet asked. “You see this? You see what — oh fuck — what your boyfriend’s doing to me?”

The question cut through the room, through the stream, through the three thousand miles of dark water, and landed in Charlie’s bedroom like a blade. His hand stuttered on his cock.

Charlie couldn’t answer. Couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

“He’s so deep, Charlie,” Jet said, and his voice had dropped into something intimate, as if he and Charlie were sharing a secret that Nick was too far gone to hear. “So deep I can — God — I can feel him in my stomach. You ever — fuck — you ever feel him like this?”

Charlie whimpered. His fingers curled inside himself, searching, desperate.

“I’m gonna want this forever, you know that?” Jet’s eyes were burning through the screen, and his mouth curved into a smile that was half ecstasy, half challenge. “This cock — oh God, right there — this cock is mine now, Charlie. You hear me?”

“Yes,” Charlie breathed. His hand was a blur on his cock.

“I’m gonna steal it from you,” Jet said, and Nick drove into him so hard the headboard slammed against the wall and Jet’s words fractured into a moan before he pieced them back together, breathless, grinning, devastating. “I’m gonna steal this cock and — fuck, Brit, harder — and you’re never getting it back. It’s mine. Say it, Charlie. Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” Charlie heard himself say, and the words tasted like fire and honey and the most beautiful lie he’d ever told. “His cock’s yours, Jet. Take it. It’s yours.”

“Gonna make him forget you,” Jet whispered, and Nick’s rhythm was faltering now, his thrusts growing erratic, his groans climbing toward something that sounded like the edge. “Gonna make him — oh fuck, I’m close — gonna make him come so hard he forgets your name.”

Charlie’s fingers weren’t enough. His hand wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. He was drowning in it, the jealousy and the arousal and the love and the loss all crashing together into a single, towering wave that was going to break over him any second now, and he couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to stop it, because on the other side of that wave was something he’d been chasing his entire life and he was finally, finally close enough to touch it.

“Please,” Charlie whispered to Jet, to Nick, to whatever cruel and generous force had built him this way. “Please, take his cock from me. Please.”

“Fuck, Brit,” Jet moaned, his head falling back against the pillow. “Fuck, Brit, you’re gonna make me —”

“Don’t call him that,” Charlie half said, half moaned. “Call him Nick. His name is Nick.”

Because that wasn’t Brit on the screen. Brit was a character, the cocky grin and the tiny red trunks and the lap dances and the flexing — a version Nick had invented for punters and strangers and people who would never know the real him. The man fucking Jet right now was Nick. Charlie’s Nick. Charlie’s boyfriend, the love of his life, the boy who made him tea and held his hand through panic attacks and kissed his forehead every night before sleep. And in this moment, he wasn’t Charlie’s. He was Jet’s. Completely, utterly, devastatingly Jet’s.

“Nick — oh God, Nick —”

The sound of it nearly stopped Charlie’s heart. A different voice saying Nick’s real name, the same two syllables Charlie whispered in the dark every night, except now they were spilling from Jet’s mouth, soaked in pleasure, shaped by someone else’s tongue, and the devastation of hearing his name — their name, the most intimate word in Charlie’s vocabulary — claimed by another person was so acute, so exquisitely painful, that Charlie’s vision went white around the edges and his cock pulsed so hard in his fist he nearly came right there.

Charlie’s fingers pushed deeper inside himself, curling, searching, and found nothing. His body clenched around them, but the stretch was wrong, too narrow, too shallow, his own slender fingers a cruel joke next to what he could see on screen, where Nick’s cock was splitting Jet open with every thrust, filling him so completely that Jet’s face had gone slack with it, mouth hanging open, eyes rolling back.

Charlie wanted Nick inside him so badly it felt like dying. Wanted to be there, in that bed, underneath that body, wanted Nick’s weight pinning him down and Nick’s mouth on his neck and Nick’s cock buried so deep inside him that they stopped being two separate people. He wanted to shove Jet off the bed and take his place and wrap his legs around Nick’s waist and pull him in and never let go. And at the exact same time, with the exact same intensity, pulsing through the exact same nerve endings — he never wanted Nick to fuck him again.

He wanted Nick’s cock and he wanted to be denied Nick’s cock. He wanted to be the one moaning Nick’s name and he wanted to lie here alone in his dark bedroom, three thousand miles away, listening to someone else moan it. He wanted Nick to come home and hold him and make love to him, and he wanted Nick to never touch him again, to only ever fuck other men from now on, to give every thrust and every groan and every shuddering orgasm to someone who wasn’t Charlie while Charlie watched and ached and burned.

Nick was close. Charlie could see it in the way his rhythm fractured, the powerful thrusts breaking apart into something erratic, desperate, his hips stuttering forward with an urgency that had abandoned all pretence of control. His back was drenched with sweat, the golden skin glistening under the warm light. He looked almost supernatural. More than human. A creature sculpted from light and muscle and divine want, and Charlie stared at him and his eyes filled with tears and he thought: this is what he is. This is what he’s always been.

A god. The old kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that walked among mortals and took what they wanted and burned so bright that the people who loved them were grateful just to stand close enough to feel the heat. Nick deserved this. Deserved to be worshipped, deserved every mouth and every hand and hole and every body that wanted to offer itself to him, and Charlie would let them, every single one, now and forever, an endless procession of beautiful men kneeling at Nick’s altar, and Charlie would watch from wherever Nick wanted him, grateful beyond measure to be the one who got to witness it.

Nick grabbed Jet’s face with both hands and kissed him. It was messy, graceless, all teeth and tongue and desperation because was about to come apart and needed something to hold onto. Jet kissed him back just as fiercely, his hands clawing at Nick’s shoulders, his body arching up off the mattress to press every available inch of skin against Nick’s, and their moans tangled together into a singlesound that filled the room and poured through Charlie’s speakers.

“Nick — Nick — I’m gonna —” Jet’s voice shattered.

“Me too — fuck — me too —”

Nick drove forward one final tim, a violent thrust, his entire body behind it, and three things happened at once.

The headboard slammed against the wall with a crack that echoed through the speakers. A basketball on the shelf above the bed, perched close on the edge, jumped from the impact and rolled. It tumbled off the shelf and struck the nightstand, and the water bottle sitting on top of it toppled and hit the tripod base with a crack. The camera tilted. The image on Charlie’s laptop blurred into a smear of golden light and dark sheets and skin, and then the stream went sideways, the frame filling with carpet and the leg of the nightstand, and then —

Black.

The screen went dark. The connection icon spun once, twice, and disappeared. A loading wheel appeared in the centre of Charlie’s laptop, circling uselessly, and then a message in small white text:

Charlie stared at the black screen. The room in California was gone. Nick was gone. Jet was gone. The sounds, all of it, severed in an instant, replaced by the absolutes ilence of a bedroom in Whitstable.

He was alone, and Nick hadn’t noticed.

That was what did it. The camera had fallen and the stream had died and Nick hadn’t stopped, hadn’t paused, hadn’t looked up — because he was coming inside Jet, because Jet was coming beneath him, because the two of them were having the most intense orgasm of their lives and Charlie’s absence from the screen hadn’t registered, hadn’t mattered, hadn’t even flickered across Nick’s consciousness. The show had ended, but the sex hadn’t, and the sex didn’t need Charlie.

He was alone. Shut out. Cut off. The door to that room in California had slammed closed and Charlie was standing on the wrong side of it, and Nick was in there, somewhere beyond the black screen, still inside Jet, still coming, still making those sounds that Charlie would never hear, and Charlie wasn’t there and Nick didn’t know and Nick didn’t care because the pleasure had swallowed him whole and there was no room left in it for Charlie Spring.

The orgasm hit him without warning.

It ripped through him from the base of his spine to the crown of his skull, so violent his back arched clean off the mattress and his mouth opened on a silent scream. His cock pulsed in his fist, spilling hot over his fingers, his stomach, his T-shirt, his hole clenching hard around his own inadequate fingers, and the pleasure was so intertwined with the anguish of exclusion that Charlie couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. He came and came and came, wave after wave, each one triggered by the same devastating thought — they’re still going and I’m not there, they’re still going and they don’t need me, they’re still going and the screen is black and I’m alone and this is what I wanted, this is exactly what I wanted — until his body had nothing left to give and he collapsed against the mattress, gasping, shaking, tears and come cooling on his skin in equal measure.

The laptop screen stayed dark. The room stayed silent. Charlie lay there in the wreckage of himself, and felt, beneath the aftershocks, beneath the trembling, beneath the tears, something that he almost didn’t recognise because it had been so long since he’d felt it without shame attached. Satisfaction. Deep, bone-level satisfaction. The satisfaction of a hunger that had finally, after years of secrecy and denial and self-destruction, been fed. It hadn’t been perfect, it hadn’t been clean, but it was fed. And the relief of that was so enormous it made everything else, the mess on his stomach, the ache in his wrist, the black screen glowing faintly in the dark, feel very, very small.

After an eternity later, his phone buzzed.

Nick. A text, three words.

what color, love?

Charlie started laughing.

—

If you’re reading this with your phone screen brightness turned all the way down and your door locked, I’m not judging. I was in the same position writing it. Chapter 18 was the scene I’ve been building toward since Charlie first asked Nick about open relationships a million years ago. No closets, no secrets, and no manipulation, just three beautiful guys, a dodgy Wi-Fi connection, and a basketball that chose the worst possible moment to discover gravity. I hope it was worth the wait. I hope it left you as wrecked as it left Charlie.

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