She said, "Is it necessary that I choose just one of you boys?"
They exchanged looks, and that which was unspoken was given a voice.
"I have a room at the Hotel St. Jacques. Come with me." She looped her arm through theirs, steering them down the street.
"You boys never done this? She chuckled at their faces. "Ooh la la, we can have a lot of fun."
In the hotel room, she kissed Tad first, slowly. She pulled away with a smirk, and then turned to Bill whose mouth was open, Adam's apple bobbing. Tad watched them kiss and wondered if Bill could taste the bourbon he'd drunk earlier. Bill hadn't drunk since that night when he'd babbled about talking beasts and singing sands. Bill leaned forward and she pulled away with a laugh.
Tad took her mouth and drank in the smoky flavor of Bill's cigar. It was intoxicating. His hands found her hips, and pulled her closer. He watched as Bill closed the distance, placing his hands just above his own. Bill moved his lips to her neck, sucking. Tad relaxed into her mouth, but then a callused thumb stroked up and down the edge of his palm, he gasped, and his fingers dug into her hips, causing a breathy moan. He shoved his tongue deeper into her mouth, desperate for more.
"Let us go to the bedroom," she said.
They nodded and she took them each by the hand, leading them into the next room.
She kneeled down between them, her hands tugging at the buckle on Bill's pants, pulling them down. His pants became a puddle on the floor, and he stepped out of them. His uncut cock was half hard; she licked it, a slow wet swipe. Tad had never seen anything so arousing. He shoved his pants off, and wrapped a hand about his dick.
"Non," said the woman, and removed his hand, replacing it with her mouth. Tad shuddered at the warm, wet, heat. He looked up and met Bill's eyes, whose pupils were dilated and his chest heaving as if he'd run a mile. She released his dick with a wet plop, and rose.
Turning back to Bill, she pushed him onto the bed, straddling him. She smirked and said something in French, and started unbuttoning her shirt. Tad didn't bother with his buttons, just grabbed the lapels and yanked it over his head.
He didn't know what to do but stand at the foot of the bed. His dick was hard, semen beading at the tip. She leaned forward, and he climbed onto the bed. Kneeling, he pressed his dick into the crease of her ass, and softly rolled his hips.
She turned her head to Tad, and nodded at the dresser. "Get that bottle." He plucked it from the nightstand. It was heavy, glass, with some writing on it.
"Pour some on your fingers." The substance was slippery and cold, and the bottle slipped from his hand. The girl laughed softly and he flushed.
"Put your fingers in," she said. And he gawked, sputtering. Did she mean…? "Do it," she insisted. He pressed his fingers into her ass.
She arched up, "Oui, oui, another."
A second finger joined the first. "Now your penis," she ordered. And trembling, he gripped her cheeks, spreading them.
Tad braced himself above the two bodies and moved slowly, pushing in; he'd never done this before. Her ass clenched about his dick and it felt amazing. He locked eyes with Bill as he started rocking. The woman moaned and threw her hair back, murmuring in French. One of Bill's hands moved from the woman's ass, and slid to Tad's wrist, where the tendons were taut. Tad shuddered, and he pushed his hands deeper into the bed. The hand stroked up Tad's arm, a hot, callused circle on sensitive skin, and back down. Tad's hips sped up, pushing the woman further and further onto Bill's dick.
The hand grew bolder, moving up, and up, past the elbow, squeezing the defined muscles, tracing the scar he'd gotten Kuwait when a local had pulled a knife on him, up to the neck, and Tad's head lolled, pressing into the palm. The thumb stroked over his cheek, trailing to this lips. He closed his eyes and takes it into his mouth. Sucking on the tip, tongue exploring the whorls, a faint taste of nicotine from earlier cigars.
Below him the woman bounced between their bodies. Bill pushed her to him, and he responses, thrusting her back. He sucked the thumb into his mouth, licking the knuckles, before grazing his teeth over the skin. Bill's bitten nails scraped at his jaw. The woman is writhing, and babbling nonsense. Bill's hand tightened at Tad's neck as he came, and Tad quickly followed.
Tad pulled out and slid over.
"Mon Dieu," the woman said rolling off of Bill. "That was amazing."
She fell asleep, boneless between them. Tad propped himself up and gazed across the barrier at his friend. Bill's arm lay across her stomach: pale against her darker skin.
God, he wanted to touch him again. Nervously, he rubbed his thumb over his fingers, and then, ever so slowly, reached over and gently stroked the hair on Bill's arm. Bill's eyes followed the hand, as Tad trailed his fingertips up and down, his spent cock pressed into the woman's hip.
The brushing turned into a caress. And then Tad was leaning forward, crossing the line. Bill turned his head. And Tad's hand dropped. He fell back against the cushions, staring up at the ceiling.
Bill reached across her and gripped Tad's hand, moving it to rest over her heart. His eyes on Tad, he cupped the woman's cheek, the other hand squeezing Tad's, and placed a kiss against her lax lips. Tad moved forward, cupping the woman's left cheek, and kissing her.
"This is how it has to be," Bill's words were hushed, and his breathe hot on the base of Tad's neck, "this is how it has to be, for us to be together."
He moves their entwined fingers to her stomach.
"Can we do this again?" Tad's whisper sounds loud in his ears and he grimaces. The silence goes on forever and Tad feels prickling behind his eyes. He is a fool.
"March." And the hand tightens around his.
Tad shifted closer to the woman, curling around her. There may not be talking beasts or singing sands but at this moment, Bill scooted closer, throwing a leg over her hip, and Tad smiled and knew he was in paradise.
And they lay there; two lovers separated by a third.
Tad returns to that hotel in March. The air is cool and there's a biting wind, but he can't keep the smile from his face. He knows he must look like an idiot as he strolls into the Hotel St. Jacques. He wonders whom they might pick up this time. It doesn't matter: a blond with pink cheeks, a brunette with big boobs, its all the same to him: a means to an end. He's waited months.
He checks into the hotel, and is informed that his companion has not yet arrived. The lady at the front desk asks him if he needs anything. And he smiles and requests a bottle of bourbon.
"The best you have." And he flashes a smile. "And a pack of Cuban cigars."
The room is the same as before and he goes to the bedroom. He sits on the bed, then falls back, a cocky American grin on his face, settling into the pillows. And waits.