The air in the room thickened, heavy with the scent of desire and the raw, unfiltered tension crackling between the three men.
Kael's soft moans, punctuated by the slick sound of his hand stroking his cock, were a siren's call, pulling Rhys and Corvin into his orbit. Corvin's lips devoured Kael's in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue, a hungry edge to it that spoke of pent-up frustration and need.
Kael groaned into Corvin's mouth, his free hand gripping Corvin's thigh, nails digging in as he arched into the kiss.
Rhys watched, his breath catching, cock straining painfully against his loose grey pants. The sight of Corvin and Kael locked together—Kael's naked body writhing, Corvin's hand working himself with deliberate strokes—set his blood on fire.
His earlier resolve to talk, to explain, burned away under the heat of their display. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice a low growl, as he shifted closer, the bed creaking under his weight.
