“Hot enough for you?”

Dylan met Jevon’s gaze across the table and countered it with a cheeky wink. “Just about.”

Jevon smirked and went back to whatever he was doing under the table that was making Rhys squirm in his seat.

Dylan shoved his last bite of scotch-bonnet-laced curry into his mouth and flopped back in his seat, invigorated by the chilli heat spiking his blood, the cold beer washing it down, and Angelo’s hand resting innocently on his thigh while his little finger brushed his cock with evil, feather-light strokes.

The sensation was driving Dylan slowly and deliciously mad. He sucked in a breath and replayed the afternoon he’d spent with Rhys and Harry—two brothers who were alike only in their dark good looks and deceptively gentle hands. Despite clearly knowing all about Dylan’s current predicament, Harry had said nothing, but Rhys hadn’t been quite so kind. “Stop being a prick. There’s no reason you can’t pick up your work and move it down here. Whatever reason you don’t want to do that has nothing to do with mud and horses.”

He had a point . . . kind of. But what did that actually mean? Dylan’s job was more than a nine-to-five—had been since he’d left the banking world behind to work in community debt relief—but he was tired. Running Romford’s sole advice centre had been a bigger challenge than he’d ever anticipated, and Dylan didn’t have much left to give.

“So get off the damn treadmill. For you, as much as Angelo . . . he ain’t the only one needs looking after.”

Rich coming from Rhys when he was giving up a job as a flight paramedic to work in Europe’s refugee camps with Jevon, but he was a hard man to ignore when he had something to say.

Dylan had known other men like that too, and he wondered what time it was in Poland—

“Hey.” Angelo nudged Dylan. “You okay?”

“Hmm?”

Angelo stared at him. “You’re miles away.”

“Am I?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not.” Dylan hauled himself back into the present. The curry detritus had been cleared away and Emma, who’d joined them at the last possible moment, had dumped an overflowing plate of mince pies on the table. The scent of spiced fruit reached Dylan, and with it came the first hint of festive cheer he’d felt since he’d packed up work for the holidays.

He squeezed Angelo’s hand. “Sorry. Was just thinking.”

“About what?”

The worry in Angelo’s earnest gaze broke Dylan’s heart. “About how I told you we were done angsting for the day, and I meant it.” He plucked a pie from the plate and shoved it in Angelo’s sinful mouth. “Get your crimpers round that and pour me some rum.”

For once, Angelo did as he was told, and the rum flowed. Emma disappeared, and eventually, Harry dragged Joe away.

“Behave,” he warned as he pushed Joe towards the stairs. “Christmas Eve is Joe’s only day off all year, so I’m gonna need your help tomorrow.”

Dylan laughed. “Hungover or not, how much help do you seriously think I’m going to be?”

“Enough help to get the breakfast on.”

Fair enough. Dylan would take cooking breakfast for a dozen people over shovelling shit any day of the week.

Harry and Joe disappeared. Rhys tipped the last of his drink down his throat and manoeuvred himself to his feet. “As pervy as I am, I’m not up for listening to my little brother get busy. You guys want to come back to the bungalow with us?”

Dylan glanced at Angelo and was greeted by rum-lively eyes and a big smile. “You wanna?”

Angelo grinned. “I could go for a couple more, but we should probably take it to the chalet, if Rhys doesn’t mind hopping over the mud. The horses don’t rest when there’s lights on in the bungalow.”

It was as good a reason as any to take the party back to the chalet. There was no rum left, but there was vodka, and warm cans of Lidl lemonade.

They sat around the tiny living room and shot the shit. Well, Dylan and Jevon did. Rhys seemed preoccupied with burying his face in Jevon’s neck, and Angelo had found a new place to hide his hand.

Desire rippled through Dylan, amping up with every graze of Angelo’s elegant fingers along his cock. He bent his knee further, shielding his crotch from view, but Jevon smirked at him anyway.

“I thought this might be weird,” Jevon said.

Dylan suppressed a pleasurable shudder. “What would?”

“Being here, lit and cosy with you two. I know you don’t play around with Rhys anymore, but I still figured it could be awkward if we were ever all alone together.”

Dylan couldn’t imagine Jevon ever being awkward about anything, but he considered the point and realised it was one he’d never given much thought to before. Rhys was a friend, but they’d rarely seen him outside of the club until their real lives had revealed themselves to be coincidentally entwined. And Jevon? He was brand new—to Dylan, at least. “I don’t feel awkward, but that doesn’t mean you can’t. We’d get it.” Dylan nudged Angelo. “Right?”

“Hmm?” Angelo blinked. “What are we talking about?”

“We’re talking about Jevon feeling weird about us all fucking before he met Rhys.”

“Oh.”

Dylan waited, but Angelo had nothing more, apparently too drunk and horny to articulate anything sensible. Another rush sluiced through Dylan. Happy, drunk, and horny Angelo was his favourite.

But he fought all thoughts of what might happen when he finally got Angelo alone and turned Jevon’s words over again. “We don’t get weird about playing—with Rhys or anyone else—because it’s an intrinsic part of our relationship. We met at the club and built on what we found there. Rhys was part of that, so being around him is a slice of our normal, even if our friendship has moved on.”

“Makes sense,” Jevon said. “But I wasn’t really thinking about it like that. I’m not jealous, man. It’s just, I’m still learning about fancying fellas, so I was more worried about getting wood in the corner thinking about it.”

Dylan burst out laughing, the booze and easy companionship unravelling another knot of tension in his chest. “Don’t be shy about that. We love that shit.”

“It’s true,” Rhys spoke up for the first time in a while. “And we should probably go if you don’t want to see these two put on a show. Angie’s got that look going on.”

Jevon’s gaze was more curious than anything, and he made no move to get off the armchair he and Rhys were reclining on. He slid his hand absently along Rhys’s thigh. “I don’t mind if they don’t?”

Dylan didn’t mind, and he had absolute confidence Angelo didn’t either. He turned away from Rhys’s obvious surprise and pulled Angelo on top of him for the real kiss he’d been craving since the last one they’d shared at the clinic, when Dylan’s brain had been turned so inside out by Angelo’s graceful dancing, he’d barely been able to speak.

Their lips met, and love and desire wove together, creating a melting pot that was set to boil over any moment if Dylan didn’t get a grip on his tenuous self-control. Because when it came to Angelo, he’d never had much. Every time they touched, the very first time came rushing back to him, that rollercoaster night in the club when Dylan had chased oblivion and instead found his heart.

Fuck, I love him.

I want him.

I need him.

Like the resting Dom in Angelo had heard Dylan’s call, Angelo came to life. His gently exploring hand disappeared, and he crawled over Dylan on the couch, his arousal clear through his worn-soft sweatpants. He kissed Dylan again, harder this time—searching . . . questioning. Are we gonna do this? Here? With them?

Dylan didn’t know the answers, but when he forced himself to glance over Angelo’s shoulder, he found Rhys and Jevon were engrossed in each other—demanding lips and wandering hands. Jevon seemed dominant, but it was hard to tell with Rhys restricted by his strapped ankle.

Thrusting his hips to catch some beautiful friction, Dylan brought his lips to Angelo’s ear. “Bedroom,” he whispered. “But leave the door open.”

Jevon didn’t appear a man easily led, even after a night on the rum, but putting some distance between them with an open invitation seemed a safe compromise with the filthy orgy playing out in Dylan’s brain.

Angelo’s too, if the reluctant glance he tossed over his shoulder as they slipped out of the room was anything to go by.

In the bedroom, he threw Dylan down. “Strip.”

“Yes, sir.” The term was playful and not one they often used when they occasionally dabbled in BDSM, but combined with the thrill of being watched, it dripped throatily off Dylan’s tongue.

Angelo’s eyes darkened in response. He helped Dylan undress and tossed the clothes aside, shedding only his own T-shirt to add to the mix. “On your knees.”

Dylan obeyed and lowered his chest to the mattress, leaving himself open to Angelo’s mercy.

Or not. Angelo was the king of edging, and as his tongue swept over Dylan’s hole, light and teasing, Dylan knew he was in for a hell of a ride. He chanced a glance up and met Rhys’s sultry gaze.

Game on, motherfucker.

“Harder,” Dylan gritted out. “Fuck me harder.”

Angelo grabbed Dylan’s hair and pushed his face into the mattress. “Quiet.”

As if that would ever happen, but he said it anyway because Dylan fighting back, squirming out of his hold so he didn’t miss a moment of Jevon riding Rhys, lit Angelo on fire. He held Dylan firm a few moments longer, then set him free, fucking him with abandon while the party was just getting started in the other room.

Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it had been going for hours and Angelo had been too wrapped up in Dylan to notice. Either way, he knew Rhys’s come face well enough to guess he was about to blow. Angelo fucked Dylan harder and tracked Jevon’s muscular back as he rolled his sensual hips. Rhys’s head was thrown back, his eyes screwed shut, but their hands, like Angelo’s and Dylan’s, were tightly clasped, like they couldn’t let go, even if they wanted to.

Years ago, watching loved-up couples fuck each other’s brains out had scratched Angelo’s soul, but he adored it now, sucked up the warmth and mixed it with the burning love he carried for Dylan. Sex was sex, but love was love—there was nothing like it.

“Angelo.”

Dylan’s desperate plea broke through the pound-shop poet in Angelo’s brain. He squeezed Dylan’s hand ever tighter and gave into the pleasure building inside him. Heat coiled in his belly, tighter and tighter, and blood roared in his ears as Dylan unravelled, his guttural cries loud enough to pull Rhys out of his Jevon-induced trance.

Rhys met Angelo’s gaze and thrust up into Jevon, catching Jevon off guard. Jevon’s groan was fucking beautiful, and combined with the ecstasy in Rhys’s face and the wonder of being inside Dylan, Angelo was undone.

He lost his rhythm as he jammed his hips forward, and the coil in his gut snapped, tipping him over the edge. A ragged moan escaped him and he toppled over, landing on Dylan’s sweaty back as his cock pulsed his release. “Shit.”

“Fuck, yeah.” Dylan convulsed one last time, then stilled, his fingers wrapped tightly around Angelo’s. “I love you.”

Angelo had eyes for only Dylan, but instinct told him it was all over in the other room too.

Smirking, he gently pulled out and rolled Dylan over, falling in love with his flushed, blissed-out face for the thousandth time. “I love you. Do you think we should shut the door?”

Dylan sniggered. “Nah. They’ll figure it out.”

Just as well because Angelo didn’t plan on letting Dylan out of his arms anytime soon. He retrieved the duvet from the floor and threw it over them, then, despite plans to bang Dylan all night long, passed the fuck out.