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Kincaid’s cell rang ten seconds after he switched it on, walking through the arrivals terminal at O’Hare. JM calling.

“Very subtle,” Kincaid said, answering. It was, comparatively speaking – most mobsters of his acquaintance would have just come out and said you’re in my territory, I have eyes on you right now.

“My friends deserve a little consideration,” Marcone said.

“Friends,” Kincaid said thoughtfully. “Is this a synonym for ‘means to an end’ that I haven’t heard before?”

“If you like,” Marcone said easily. “Speaking of, you’re free tonight.”

“. . . Yes?” said Kincaid, because at least one of them knew what a question mark was for.

“You could join us,” Marcone said neutrally.

Kincaid felt the grin slowly stretch across his face. Gentleman Johnny was making a booty call. Some days, it was just good to be alive.

He whistled into the phone, because Dresden’s habit of poking at Marcone was infectious. “Hot damn. You calling in a ringer? Having trouble keeping our boy satisfied on your own?”

“No,” Marcone said, clipped. “I do, however, have no problem drawing on outside resources to meet particular needs.”

Kincaid was still grinning. Mostly you poked Marcone and he noticed and made a little checkmark in his head, and never blinked. But once in a while you poked him and he went frosty and executive on your ass. Dresden seemed to be the key factor that would kick him into an actual snit – either fucking with Marcone about him or actually being him could do it.

“Yeah,” Kincaid said, “I still want to tap that. Where?”

“My place,” Marcone said. “Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.” And he hung up.

Kincaid tucked his phone away, whistling. The day was looking up, with the prospect of getting some tonight. Some of Dresden to scratch the persistent itch that’d been building up again over the past three months, and some entertainment.

Because yeah, Kincaid wanted to tap that. But Marcone? Marcone wanted to put a fucking ring on it.

*

He was on time. Dresden was late.

It was an interesting fifteen minutes sipping drinks with Marcone in his palatial living room. Neither of them were really small talk people. They covered Ivy’s status (excellent), Marcone’s most recent shipment of semi-automatic weapons (mouth-watering), and a bit of supernatural gossip about the sweet little piece Lara Raith was eating these days (boring) in less than ten minutes.

‘So,” Kincaid said. “Dresden living here?”

Marcone’s lips compressed perceptibly. Ha, that was a sore point. “Not yet.”

“Man,” Kincaid said, laughing. “He still playing coy with you? Does he let you kiss his cheek after you take him out for a drive in your buggy, at least?” The whole thing was hilarious, since they all three had up close and personal knowledge of just how coy Dresden wasn’t, under it all. When you got him on his knees, anyway, with one guy to hold him still and another guy to fuck the contrary prude out of him. And enough stamina between them to keep it going until Dresden forgot his own name. After that, he wasn’t coy; after that, he’d do anything. It was no wonder Marcone needed a little backup here.

“Coy is not the word I’d use, no,” Marcone said. He steepled his fingers like he was contemplating a quarterly budget projection. His smile was self-satisfied in the extreme, his eyes lazily pleased. This was a guy getting all he could handle, and then some more.

According to the rumor mill, Marcone had been laying siege to Castle Dresden for months. It was entertaining to imagine: Dresden protesting way too much, Marcone convinced he was so fucking suave – ha, property damage in direct proportion to the amount of banging they were doing. Entertaining to think about, yep. But Kincaid was also kind of glad he’d been elsewhere.

He wasn’t jealous, exactly. He liked Dresden, four days out of five, and wanted to fuck him all the time. He didn’t have any urge to take the guy home and feed him until he decided to stay, though, which by all accounts was Marcone’s strategy. But Kincaid didn’t feel like that about anybody, and sometimes when he caught a flash of the deep, amoral, ruthless, howling thing that Marcone had for Dresden . . . well. You didn’t always have to want someone in particular to want someone.

He wondered if Dresden knew just what he was playing with here. Probably not. If he did, he’d have moved in by now or, more sensibly, done a runner to the other side of the globe. Possibly in a different dimension.

A door slammed somewhere in the house. Marcone put his drink down, sitting up straight.

Dresden’s voice proceeded him into the room. “Sooo,” he said brightly. “How attached were you to that stupid boat? Oh, hey!” he stopped in the doorway, staring. “Kincaid. I didn’t know you were in town.”

Interestinger and interestinger. “Just for a few days,” Kincaid said. “You look good, Dresden.”

He really did. Kincaid didn’t think he’d ever seen him in jeans that actually fit before. Dresden was legs all the way up to here. Kincaid had been thinking about those legs wrapped around his waist for years, and actually getting to do it definitely hadn’t made it stop.

“Excuse me,” Marcone said. “What boat?”

Dresden had gone faintly red in the face. Kincaid could practically hear him thinking, I had a threesome! Gah! He jerked his eyes away from Kincaid with a visible effort. “You know, the stupid one,” he said vaguely. “With the mermaid up front. . . . Um. Former mermaid. Former front.”

Marcone made a pained sound.

“Hey hey,” Dresden said. “I didn’t exactly have any options. You had a sudden water nymph problem. They were running away from the tanker explosion. True story!” He paused and delivered a look to Marcone like an assault rifle would deliver a bullet, penitent and belligerent all mixed up. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Marcone crossed the room and set his hands at Dresden’s waist. He turned them in a neat two-step and pulled Dresden’s head down for a kiss. “You will make it up to me,” Kincaid heard him murmur.

“I guess,” Dresden said, husky and a little breathless. “You know I’m good for it.” He cut Kincaid a look, the color high on his ridiculous cheekbones.

“In fact,” Marcone said, following his glance, “you can make it up to me right now.” Kincaid had the strong impression that Marcone was revising his strategy as they spoke, running on gut and improv. It’d worked spectacularly for him three months ago, anyway.

“What do you want?” Dresden was playing wary reluctance as best he could, but there was no way to disguise how he was wetting his mouth and leaning into Marcone.

“I want you to take us both at the same time,” Marcone said plainly.

Dresden jerked like he’d been electrocuted. The breath rushed out of him and his eyes went glassy. Kincaid was a few seconds behind him, but when he caught up he shot straight from anticipation on low simmer to yeah, right now would be good thanks.

Marcone was watching Dresden’s face, the corners of his mouth turning up. “Thought so,” he murmured, smug.

Kincaid knew an opening when he saw one; he left his drink and came up behind Dresden, hemming him in. The guy was tall, sure, but most of the time he didn’t seem to know how to use it.

Kincaid put his hands on Dresden, deliberately crowding him. Marcone flashed a look to him past Dresden’s shoulder, a friendly little bulletin. You’re in my territory, I’m watching you right now. Kincaid almost laughed. Christ. Marcone didn’t need a ringer here, he needed professional help.

“I don’t know,” Dresden said. The rough edge to his voice really undercut the hard-to-get routine.

Marcone hummed thoughtfully. “That boat cost me two point two million dollars,” he said. “I’m giving you a chance to work that off right now, in one night. I think I’m being very generous.” He tucked one hand into Dresden’s back pocket.

Kincaid leaned around Dresden to watch. This was way better than cable.

“Fuck you, I’m not your – your whore,” Dresden snapped. He was seething, Marcone was smiling, and Kincaid was doing a mental countdown until they started ripping each other’s clothes off.

“People don’t pay that much for whores,” Marcone said sweetly. “Not worth it. So there are only two options here: either you’re the most expensive piece in the world tonight, or you’re . . . something else. Up to you.”

Dresden was bright red, eyes locked on Marcone’s. “John . . .” he sounded like a guy fighting a desperate rearguard battle, and losing, and knowing it.

“Yes?” Marcone stroked down his back once, not quite a soothing gesture.

Dresden sucked in a deep breath, went to say something, stopped himself, and exhaled. “How do we do this?”

Marcone could run an operation like a pro, surprise surprise. He hustled Dresden upstairs and into a quick shower, then got him stretched out between them on a bed the size of a small lake. Kincaid unwrapped Dresden’s towel, letting his gun calluses drag over the heat-flushed skin of his hips. Dresden was already hard and keyed up; he twitched under Kincaid’s hands, quivering beneath the skin.

“Settle down,” Marcone murmured. He slid an arm behind Dresden’s head, a bottle in his other hand. Kincaid got distracted for a minute, watching Marcone slowly shotgun whiskey, the messy trickle at the corner of Dresden’s mouth, the muscles in his throat moving as he swallowed.

Christ, Marcone was an intense motherfucker. If he could be the one to personally give Dresden air to breathe, he probably would.

“Oh yeah, I’ll just take a nap, shall I?” Dresden said when Marcone let him talk again.

“Hmm.” Marcone ran a hand down Dresden’s chest, watched him twitch, and grimaced. “Kincaid,” he said coolly. “Make him come.”

“No problem,” Kincaid said, and jerked Dresden once, dry. Dresden yelped, his teeth clacking audibly together. “What do you like?” Kincaid asked. “. . . Besides the obvious?”

“Um,” Dresden said, looking like he might be insulted just at the question. Fuck, but he was touchy in weird places.

“He likes to be bitten,” Marcone said helpfully. “Right over the muscle – yes, there. Now spread his legs as far as you can, and hold him.” Kincaid did, forcing Dresden’s thighs wide with his shoulders and biting again at the hollow of his hip.

“I hate you,” Dresden said, breathless. Kincaid didn’t know if he was pissed because Marcone was pointing out his buttons, or because Marcone knew where they all were to start with.

“Hold him still when you suck him,” Marcone said. “And make it fast.” Kincaid grinned, forcing Dresden flat to the bed with a forearm across his hipbones. Then he went for it, sliding Dresden’s dick as deep as he could. It was always a rush, with a man or a woman, getting his mouth on them where they were tender and vulnerable. Kincaid closed his eyes, enjoying Dresden’s struggles, the pulse beating palpably in his dick, the taste of him. This really wasn’t going to take long.

“. . . Change of plans,” Marcone said, suddenly right in Kincaid’s face. “Excuse me a moment.” Kincaid backed off to give him room. Marcone opened his mouth over Dresden’s dick, but instead of sucking him in, he set his teeth against the fragile skin and ran them all the way down, precise and delicate. Dresden moved violently, suppressing it in the same moment so he bucked and froze. “That’s it,” Marcone said, and jerked him twice, fast and wetly loud. Dresden came hard and messy, right into Marcone’s waiting hand.

“Nice,” Kincaid said appreciatively.

Marcone sat back, fastidiously wiping up with a tissue. “As you were, Mister Kincaid,” he said. “Carry on.”

“Thanks,” Kincaid said, not bothering to hide his eye roll. “You alive there, Dresden?”

“So much hate,” Dresden said dreamily. “So so much.”

“You people need so much help,” Kincaid said honestly. “Where’s the slick, Marcone?”

Dresden started waking up again when Kincaid got three fingers in him. Marcone had been completely right about this – he was dopily relaxed with afterglow, transparently not in control of his opening and closing hands, his legs pushing into a long stretch. He was becoming more alert by the second, though, his eyes flicking between them and a feverish flush rising on his skin.

“How?” Kincaid asked Marcone, who clearly had a plan. He probably had a flow chart.

“One of us should fuck him first,” Marcone said. “And then we’ll see. Harry? A preference?”

Dresden’s pupils expanded as he looked between them, and he licked his lips, indecisive. It was a surprise when he reached for Kincaid, still not speaking.

Marcone didn’t look put out by that, or even like he thought Dresden was messing with him. He smiled instead, genuinely pleased as if Dresden had figured out the right answer to a difficult question.

Then Kincaid stopped caring about Marcone, because Dresden was right there, asking for it. Three months ago Dresden had looked shocked every time someone got their dick into him, like he couldn’t understand what was happening or why he liked it so much. That apparently hadn’t changed, not even with whatever he and Marcone had been doing this whole time.

Kincaid went in hard and rough, just to watch Dresden’s eyes go wide, then slowed down and enjoyed the hitch in Dresden’s breath, the way he moved restlessly though he hadn’t even managed to get hard again yet, the slick sounds they were making.

“God damn, Dresden, anyone ever told you you’re a hot piece of ass?” Kincaid said.

Dresden blinked, hiding his eyes. But he couldn’t hide the heat in his face, the secretive smile. Marcone chuckled warmly, running an affectionate hand over Dresden’s mussed hair. Dresden looked at him, biting down on his lower lip and worrying at it. Marcone was kneeling by his shoulder, watching them fuck and jerking himself in a loose fist. He looked as pleased as a cat in a creamery.

Christ. Kincaid had always known the inside of Marcone’s head was a weird place, but this was just ridiculous. Marcone wanted to matter to Dresden more than gravity, he wanted to serve up whatever remained of his soul on a silver platter if that was what it would take to tie Dresden to him, but he was also getting off on Dresden fucking another guy right in front of him. Maybe it did piss him off, though – maybe that was why he got off on it. Who could tell?

Dresden came alive under Marcone’s eyes. He twisted, one foot sliding up Kincaid’s back, and his dick started taking an interest. Well all righty then, a good show it would be.

They fucked for a long time, working to warm Dresden up for the main event. Dresden was bendy, and surprisingly strong for such a skinny guy. They shifted across the bed, adjusting and refining, until Dresden was pretzeled up under him, knees practically at his shoulders so Kincaid could come at him from odd, shallow angles, stretching him open on his dick. They were both starting to sweat. Kincaid bent on impulse, curious, and kissed Dresden on the mouth. Dresden met him halfway, all teeth and aggression even as he took Kincaid’s dick so sweetly.

Marcone was waiting, lips pressed flat, when Kincaid pushed back up onto his hands.

“You tapping in?” Kincaid asked, unsympathetic to any snit over lines he’d just crossed. If Marcone had wanted rules, he should have made rules. Assuming these two could ever get a rule out of committee, anyway.

Marcone blinked once, putting it away, whatever it was. “I think so, yes,” he said. “On your back, if you don’t mind.”

Dresden followed him over in a scramble, straddling him and saying “ah” when he got Kincaid’s dick into him again. He leaned back on his hands, taking it as deep as he could. Kincaid jostled him in a slow grind from below until Dresden’s eyes closed, his head tipping back.

Marcone knelt up behind Dresden, briefly touching Kincaid’s knees enough to make room for himself. It was an odd moment. This wasn’t about him and Marcone. Hell, there wasn’t a him and Marcone, except maybe in that they had a certain affinity in pragmatism. It was just that three months ago Kincaid had been Marcone’s in to Dresden for some obscure reason. But that was all Marcone had needed, apparently, just a foot in the door.

“Would it do any good if I told you to relax?” Marcone asked, running a hand down Dresden’s bicep.

“You know I do my best not to listen to you,” Dresden said, laughing with a touch of nerves. “Come on, just—“ he cut off on a hissed breath as Marcone worked a finger into him, alongside Kincaid’s dick. Dresden’s face went slack for a minute like he wasn’t really there, even as the rest of his body knotted up. Then he came back to himself on a long sigh, and the tension in his shoulders and arms eased.

Marcone gave him another finger, just like that. Dresden took it like a pro, swaying forward and catching himself on his hands. Kincaid gritted his teeth, not moving. The slip slip of Marcone’s two fingers against his dick was a slow, tickling tease.

Marcone took his time with three, letting the third fingertip linger and linger, then pushing in all at once. Dresden barked out an inarticulate sound, back bowing.

“Okay, okay,” he said, jaw flexed. “Enough fucking around.”

“Is that so?” Marcone asked, not deviating for a second from his easy rhythm.

“I’m done waiting,” Dresden flashed over his shoulder, eyes narrowed.

Marcone inhaled sharply through his nose. For once, he did not look inclined to argue up to Dresden’s down.

“Lean forward,” he said, working in closer. “And breathe out.”

“Talk talk talk,” Dresden bitched. “Seems to me the only action I’m getting ain’t coming from you.”

And then Marcone pushed in; Kincaid could see the power it took from the way his whole body flexed. Dresden shut right up. His left hand skidded on the comforter and he tilted lopsidedly onto an elbow. His mouth was open, his eyes squeezed shut. Kincaid thought he saw a hint of dampness at their corners. But Dresden’s dick was still hot and hard, pressed between them.

“Wait,” Dresden said suddenly, speaking too loud. Marcone froze, halfway in, his hands clenching on Dresden’s arms.

“Harry?”

“Shut up,” Dresden snapped roughly. He turned his face away from both of them, breathing unevenly into the comforter next to Kincaid’s shoulder. He shivered hard, all the way down his long body, and goose bumps popped up on his skin.

“I can—“ Marcone began, easing back carefully.

Dresden erupted up onto his hands. “Don’t move,” he barked. “I am moving right now. You are not moving. You got that?”

“. . . Ah,” Marcone said, commendably composed. “In the interests of future planning, then, I should point out I’ve got about five minutes here before I start getting muscle cramps.”

“Well, deal with it.” Dresden dropped his chin and shook his head hard. The motion traveled down his body and he sucked in a shocked breath, quivering around them.

The pressure was intense for Kincaid, though not enough to get him off on its own. It was a persistent, endless torment, winding him tighter and tighter without hope of release.

Dresden stayed still between them for a long time, propped on his hands and breathing. The tension kept flickering in and out of his face, and his eyes were distant, turned far inward. Kincaid did his best to relax, and watched Marcone silently fall apart without moving a muscle.

“All right,” Dresden said finally. “You can move.”

Marcone did, swallowing an audible sound of relief. He slid easily deeper. The hard part was over, and the two of them had slicked Dresden wetter than a girl.

“Wait,” Dresden said again, suddenly. Marcone froze, breathing in with care.

Kincaid squinted at Dresden, puzzled. He didn’t look distressed. Well, he hadn’t looked distressed before, exactly. But he was smiling faintly to himself now, a curious furrow between his eyebrows.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. There Dresden went, poking at Marcone again just to see what he’d do, and what he wouldn’t.

“He’s playing with you,” Kincaid informed Marcone, because Dresden was fucking with his orgasm, too, and also the two of them were starting to give him a headache.

“I was beginning to think that, yes,” Marcone said. He smiled, apparently forgetting for a second that Kincaid could still see him, even if Dresden couldn’t. “Shall we?”

“About goddamn time,” Kincaid grumbled. “On three.”

“You assholes, I’m going to—“ Dresden began. Then Marcone pushed all the way in and Kincaid pulled out, and his sentence fractured into a shout.

It was fucking amazing after that. Marcone got his weight settled, sitting with his legs tucked over Kincaid’s. Dresden braced himself between them, swaying from one to the other as they fucked him. They moved opposite each other at first. Dresden liked that – he was streaming sweat, dripping blood from where he’d bitten into his lip.

Then one of them got him just right and he jerked, weight dropping unexpectedly back against Marcone. They lost the rhythm, and the two of them pushed in together.

Dresden said something, incoherent and emphatic and very loud. They did it again, and he just went crazy. Kincaid had seen him do sex kitten before – he’d made him do sex kitten before. This wasn’t that. Dresden’s face was transformed, almost frightening. He moved violently on them, jolting himself too hard. He pressed back into Marcone, neck arched, then dropped forward, pounding his fists into Kincaid’s chest.

He froze up when he came, locking down into some place of unknowable intensity betrayed only by the micro movements in his still face.

Kincaid came after, surprised, fucking hard into him through his own spreading wetness until it was all over.

He almost blacked out, it was so good. Christ, but that hadn’t happened to him in decades.

There was movement over him. Dresden made an inarticulate questioning sound, and then a deeper noise of alarm. His weight shifted away, and Kincaid curled up a little, trying to protect his wet, sensitive dick from the sudden blast of cold air.

He rolled onto his side, blinking his eyes open. Marcone had Dresden on his back; he was pressing Dresden’s thighs apart like he’d told Kincaid to do earlier.

“Two point two million,” he said. “And I haven’t gotten mine yet.”

“Go for it, asshole,” Dresden said, chin jerking up. “I can take it.”

Marcone did. Kincaid didn’t know what Dresden was feeling at this point, but it was big, whatever it was. Dresden snarled at Marcone, clawing at his back hard enough to leave marks. Marcone bared his teeth right back, nailing him to the bed, rocking it hard into the wall. Dresden’s dick was soft on his belly, but he was saying, “oh, oh,” in time with Marcone’s hips.

Marcone reached between them and caught Dresden’s dick. Dresden yowled for real that time, trying to curl away. He kicked out, then grabbed Marcone by the hair.

“Ow, don’t you dare, ow,” he said.

“Shh.” Marcone slowed down. And he wasn’t trying to get Dresden hard again, if he even could. “Shh,” he kept saying. And Dresden hushed. His grip on Marcone’s hair turned into a hand curled at the back of his neck. Marcone leaned in, eye-to-eye, breathing fast while he pushed into Dresden and held his dick. Not jerking him, just cradling him in the palm of his hand, soft and vulnerable – painfully sensitive, too, Kincaid would bet.

Marcone came like that. And Dresden never looked away.

Kincaid dozed, briefly. The room was silent for a while, except for Marcone and Dresden’s breathing. Then there were hushed sounds of movement, a murmured conversation.

“. . . what you wanted?” Marcone was saying quietly.

Dresden said something, too soft to understand, and there was the sound of skin on skin. Then, “seriously, it was a really ugly boat.”

Kincaid opened his eyes. They were lying together, foreheads touching, breathing the same air. Dresden was laughing soundlessly, one long arm flung across Marcone. Hot damn. Though come to think of it, they would likely be even more irritating if they actually got all . . . coupley.

In either case, this was definitely his exit cue.

“Well, this was fun,” Kincaid said, rolling up onto his knees. “We should do it again sometime.”

Dresden let out a quiet, pathetic whimper.

Kincaid leaned down, tucked a finger under his chin, and kissed him. Slowly and thoroughly. He hadn’t gotten this old by denying his impulses.

“You have my number,” he said, withdrawing.

Dresden cut a quick look to Marcone, eyes laughing. “I do,” he said. “See you around, Kincaid.”

“Definitely,” Kincaid said. “Marcone.” They nodded to each other. Enough said.