Sticks, Tricks, and Dicks – Part 9

Everyone in this story is 18+.

The Uber dropped me outside Chris’s building a little after eleven. Downtown Chicago was quiet for a Friday, just the occasional drunk laugh echoing off the glass towers and the wind whipping off the lake. Chris buzzed me up on the first ring.

Twenty-third floor. The elevator doors slid open straight into his apartment, because of course Chris had the kind of money that buys private elevator access. The place was all dark wood, floor-to-ceiling windows, and the faint scent of his cologne mixed with whatever expensive candle he’d lit. City lights glittered behind him like someone spilled a box of diamonds across black velvet.

He was waiting in the doorway in nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants, barefoot, hair still damp from his own shower. The man was just turning 40 in a month and looked better than most guys half his age.

“Get over here, kid,” he growled, and the second the door clicked shut he had me pinned against it, mouth on mine, hands already yanking my hoodie over my head.

“Missed you,” I managed between kisses, tasting the faint bite of whiskey on his tongue.

“Not as much as I missed you,” he said, teeth scraping my neck. “Flight good?”

“Long. Season starts for real next week, first home game’s Tuesday. Coach has us on curfew like monks.”

“Then we better make tonight count.”

He walked me backward down the hallway, mouths barely breaking contact, shedding clothes the whole way. My T-shirt, his sweats, my jeans kicked off somewhere near the kitchen island. By the time we hit his bedroom I was down to boxer-briefs and he was gloriously naked, thick cock already hard and curving up against his abs.

The bed was huge. He pushed me down onto it, crawled over me like he owned every inch of me (which, honestly, he still kind of did).

“Been thinking about this mouth all week,” he said, voice rough, guiding me down his body until my lips brushed the head of his dick. I took him deep on the first try, no teasing, just the way he likes it. He groaned, fingers threading through my hair, hips rocking slow while I worked him with tongue and suction until his thighs started to shake.

“Fuck, Grayson… up here.”

He hauled me up, flipped us so fast the room spun, and then his mouth was on me, swallowing my cock to the root in one slick slide. I shouted something incoherent, back arching off the bed. Chris knew exactly how to wreck me, tongue swirling the head, hand stroking what he couldn’t fit, the other rolling my balls until I was leaking on his tongue.

We didn’t last long after that. He pushed my thighs up, licked a hot stripe over my hole until I was begging, then slicked himself and slid home in one slow, relentless push. Bare, just like always. The stretch burned perfect, and then he was moving, deep, steady strokes that lit every nerve on fire.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and I did, hazel on brown, the city glowing behind his shoulder while he fucked me like he was trying to brand himself inside me one last time. I came first, untouched, shooting across my own chest with his name on my lips. He followed seconds later, buried deep, pulsing hot inside me, forehead pressed to mine while we both shook.

After, we lay tangled in the sheets, city lights striping across our skin. Chris traced lazy circles on my hip, the way he always does when he’s thinking too hard.

“There’s this college reunion thing in a couple weeks,” he said eventually.

“You should go,” I said immediately. “Get drunk with the guys who knew you when you had a shitty mustache phase.”

He laughed softly. “I burned all evidence of that era.”

“Bet that guy Nate still has pictures.” I nudged him. “He’s gonna be there, right? Dude was crazy hot.

He pinched my side. “Yeah, I think so. I haven’t talked with him for years. I don’t think I have the time though.”

“Go anyway,” I said, rolling onto my stomach so I could see his face better. “Might be good to remember who you were before spreadsheets and private elevators.”

He studied me for a long second, then nodded. “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

Silence settled, comfortable but heavy. I took a breath.

“There’s something else.”

Chris’s hand stilled on my skin. “Jake?”

“Yeah.” I swallowed. “Canada happened. Like… all of Canada happened. And this guy showed up, his old best friend, total asshole, and Jake finally cut him out for good. And now it’s just…  starting to get real.”

Chris listened, eyes steady, no jealousy flickering, just quiet attention.

“I’m in love with him,” I said, the words out before I could overthink them. “Didn’t expect it to hit this hard, but it did.”

Chris exhaled slow, then brushed my hair back from my forehead. “Good. You deserve that, kid.”

I searched his face. “You’re not… pissed?”

“That you’re happy? Never.” He paused. “I told you from day one, live. You’re doing it.”

I bit my lip. “Do you think he’s gonna be mad about tonight? About us still doing this?”

Chris shook his head. “From everything you’ve told me, Jake doesn’t strike me as the jealous type. You two seem pretty aligned on the whole honesty-over-monogamy thing.” His mouth curved into a slow, filthy smile. “Hell, he told you he thinks I’m hot. Kid might get hard just knowing I’m still inside you right now.”

I laughed, heat flashing through me again. “Jesus, Chris. But yeah. Could be.”

“Speaking of,” he said, rolling onto his side to face me fully, “I can fly out Tuesday morning. I wouldn’t miss your first college game ever. Then, let me take you both to dinner that night. Somewhere nice. I want to meet him properly, no hockey gear, no chaos. Just us.”

My pulse kicked. “You sure?”

“Positive.” His grin turned wicked. “And if the vibe’s right… maybe we see how he feels about sharing.”

I groaned, half from the mental image, half from how fast my body responded even after everything we’d just done.

“Yeah,” I said, voice rough. “I’ll talk to him.”

Chris leaned in, kissed me slow and deep, tasting both of us on my tongue.

“Tell him the invitation comes with zero pressure,” he whispered against my lips. “But if he says yes… I’m booking a room with a king bed and a bottle of champagne with three names on it.”

I laughed into his mouth, heart racing for a whole new reason.

◆◆◆

Back on campus, Sunday morning, I let myself into Jake’s room with the spare key he’d slipped me weeks ago. He was already up, leaning back against his headboard in boxershorts, hair a mess, scrolling TikTok with the volume too loud. The second he saw me he tossed the phone aside and grinned, giving me a huge bear hug that made my heart sink a little.

“Welcome home, traveler. Tell me Chicago treated you right.”

We eventually disentangled, as I flopped onto his bed beside him. “It did. Really, really well.”

He bumped my shoulder. “Meaning you and Chris finally got the weekend you’ve both been circling for months.”

“Yeah,” I said, no point dancing around it. “We fucked. A lot. And it was perfect.”

Jake’s grin softened into something warm and open. “Good. I’m glad.”

I searched his face for any flicker of hurt or jealousy and found none. Just that steady blue gaze I’d fallen for.

“You’re really okay with it?”

“Gray.” He turned to face me fully, knees knocking mine. “I knew the second you told me you were flying out that you two were gonna end up in bed. That’s never been a secret between us. And honestly? I love that we don’t have to pretend otherwise.”

He took my hand, thumb tracing my knuckles like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“I don’t need you to be only mine in every possible way,” he said quietly. “I just need you to be mine in the ways that matter: come back to me, tell me the truth, let me be the one you call when everything’s good or everything’s falling apart. The rest? We’re young. Bodies are gonna do what bodies do. As long as we keep talking like this, I’m happy.”

I exhaled, long and shaky, relief flooding every corner of me.

“I really love you,” I said, the words slipping out simple and true.

Jake’s smile went soft around the edges. “Love you too. And I love that we’re honest enough to say shit like ‘yeah, I got railed in a penthouse last night and it was awesome’ without it turning into drama.”

I laughed, leaning my forehead against his. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Your ridiculous,” he corrected, then kissed me slow, lazy, morning-sweet.

When we pulled apart he was still smiling. “So how was he?”

“Same Chris. Intense. Perfect aim. Still calls me kid while he’s balls-deep.”

Jake barked a laugh. “God, I need to meet this man properly.”

“Funny you say that.” I bit my lip. “He wants to take us both to dinner Tuesday night after the home opener. Said he’s been dying to finally sit across a table from the guy who stole my heart.”

Jake’s eyebrows shot up, delighted. “Dinner with the infamous step-uncle? Hell yes, I’m in.”

“There’s a part two,” I said, heat creeping up my neck. “He booked a place downtown, super nice. And he said, zero pressure, but if the vibe’s good… the hotel suite upstairs has a king bed and a bottle of champagne with three names on it.”

Jake went very still for half a second, then let out a low, appreciative whistle.

“Well, damn,” he said, voice rough with interest. “Guess we better win Tuesday, then.”

I laughed, shoving his shoulder. “That’s exactly what I said.”

He caught my wrist, tugged me in until I was half on top of him. “Seriously, though. I’m in. For dinner, for whatever happens after, for all of it. As long as it’s us choosing it together.”

“Together,” I echoed, kissing him again.

An hour later we were on fresh ice for another practice skate, just the two of us, music echoing off the empty rafters. Jake stole the puck on a breakaway, deked me out of my jock, and roofed it top-shelf. He spun around grinning huge.

“Tuesday night,” he called, skating backward, “I’m wearing that tight black button-down. The one that makes my ass look criminal.”

I laughed so hard I almost ate the boards.

This was gonna be one hell of a season.

◆◆◆

The steakhouse Chris picked was one of those dark-wood, low-light places downtown where the waiters wear ties and the wine list is thicker than my playbook. We’d showered fast at the rink, changed in the locker room, and Ubered straight over. Our team had just smoked Northern Michigan 6–2 in the home opener, and the high still buzzed under my skin.

Jake walked in first, black button-down stretched across his shoulders, sleeves rolled just enough to show forearms still pink from the ice. I was right behind him in a charcoal Henley that Chris once told me made my eyes look dangerous. Chris was already at the table, standing when he saw us, looking unfairly good in a navy blazer, white shirt open at the collar, that little bit of silver starting at his temples catching the candlelight.

He pulled Jake into a quick, firm hug first, one of those one-armed man hugs that somehow still managed to linger, then did the same to me, his hand sliding down my back a second longer than strictly necessary.

“Congratulations, boys,” he said, voice low and warm. “Watched every second. You two were electric.”

We slid into the half-circle booth, Chris in the middle, Jake on his left, me on his right. Close enough that thighs brushed under the table from the start.

Jake grinned, still riding the win. “Felt good out there. Grayson set me up for two goals like he was reading my mind.”

“Team’s stacked this year,” I said, cutting into my steak. “I’m not even the best player on my own line anymore. There’s this freshman from Minnesota who’s a fucking wizard. Honestly? It’s humbling. But it’s also the most fun I’ve ever had on ice.”

Chris’s knee pressed against mine under the table, steady, reassuring. “That’s when you know you’re somewhere real. When you have to fight for every inch.”

Jake’s foot hooked lightly around my ankle on the other side, playful. “He pretends he’s chill about it, but he’s been watching film until three a.m. like a psycho.”

I laughed, bumping Chris’s shoulder. “Takes one to know one.”

The wine flowed, red, rich, expensive, and the conversation slid easy. Chris asked Jake about growing up in Iowa, Jake asked Chris about the London trip he and I took that summer, and somehow we were all laughing about the time I tried to order room-service fish and chips in my terrible British accent.

At some point Chris’s hand found my thigh under the table, thumb tracing idle circles. Jake noticed, because of course he did, and instead of pulling away, he let his own hand rest on Chris’s knee, casual but deliberate. The air between us almost electric.

Chris cleared his throat, voice a little rougher. “I really like the this. The honesty thing. I’m… new to this version of it. After the divorce I figured I’d just be single for a while. Ex-wife’s already seeing someone great, which is perfect for her. I’ve had a few Grindr nights, a couple Tinder dates, nothing that stuck. First time I’ve been openly bi in public since ever, and it feels… good. Free.”

He looked between us, brown eyes steady. “Watching you two navigate this without pretending to be something you’re not, it’s making me braver, I think.”

Jake’s fingers squeezed Chris’s knee lightly. “Same page here. Monogamy’s never felt like the only way to love someone right. Just the honest way.”

“Exactly,” I said, and my hand covered Chris’s on my thigh, linking us all under the tablecloth like some secret circuit.

Chris’s smile turned slow, a little dangerous. “So we’re all agreed. Bodies can wander. Hearts stay where we put them.”

Jake’s foot slid higher up my calf. Chris’s thumb pressed a little harder into my leg. My pulse was suddenly loud in my ears.

The waiter offered dessert menus. Chris didn’t even open his.

“Bring the dark-chocolate tart,” he told the guy, “three spoons.”

A minute later the plate arrived: one perfect rectangle of glossy ganache, a dollop of crème fraîche, a few curls of orange zest. It looked obscene in the candlelight.

Chris cut the first bite, slow, sexy, then held the fork out toward Jake.

Jake leaned in without hesitation, lips closing around the tines, eyes locked on Chris the whole time. A tiny smear of chocolate stayed at the corner of his mouth. Chris reached over, thumb brushing it away, lingering half a second longer than necessary.

“My turn,” I said, voice rougher than I meant.

Chris speared another piece, brought it to my mouth. I took it, tongue catching the edge of the fork, tasting bitter cocoa and the faint salt of his skin. Jake watched us like he was memorizing the play.

We kept going like that: one fork, three mouths, passing the bite around the small circle of candlelight. Chris fed Jake again, then me, then let Jake steal the fork and feed him back. Every time metal touched lip the air got heavier, warmer. A curl of crème fraîche clung to Chris’s lower lip; Jake reached without thinking and wiped it with his thumb, then, instead of pulling away, sucked the thumb clean, slow, eyes never leaving Chris’s.

The plate was almost empty.

Chris set the fork down, the soft clink loud in the sudden quiet.

“Still hungry?” he asked, voice low, barely above the music.

Jake’s knee pressed against Chris’s under the table. Mine pressed the other side. None of us moved to break the contact.

Chris signaled for the check.

The waiter set down the leather billfold, and Chris signed it without even glancing at the total. He rose from his seat, fastening his blazer in one fluid motion.
“Feel like joining me for dessert back at the hotel?” he asked, his voice warm and undeniably seductive.

Jake and I exchanged a glance. “Should we?”