Three Read online

  Three

  MMF Bisexual Menage Romance

  Chloe Lynn Ellis

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Also by Chloe Lynn Ellis

  About the Author

  Three

  Three © Chloe Lynn Ellis 2018

  Edited by Elizabeth Peters

  Cover design by Resplendent Media

  All rights reserved. No part of this story may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied within critical reviews and articles.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  The author has asserted her rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.

  This book contains sexually explicit content which is suitable only for mature readers.

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  (His Private Party is a follow-up to His: An MMF Bisexual Holiday Romance)

  1

  Johnny

  The minute we walk in the door, Matt strips his shirt off. We showered at the firehouse, of course, but I still get a whiff of smoke as he pulls it over his head. Hand to God, that shit gets in your fucking pores after a blaze like we had today. One thing I gotta say about our career choice—it’s definitely killed some of my appreciation for the Fourth of July.

  “What do you want to bet it was fireworks?” I ask, following him inside and tossing my gear bag on the couch.

  Matt gives me a look, and I snatch it right back up. He’s such a stickler for keeping our place nice, but even though it’s fun to bitch and moan about it sometimes, I admit I don’t mind that our bachelor pad actually feels like a home, thanks to him.

  Of course, wherever Matt is has always felt like home to me.

  “No bet,” Matt said, sounding tired but still tossing me a smile. “This close to the Fourth? Gotta be. And no way was that apartment complex up to code.”

  He stretches, the ridges of his hard abs unfurling like an accordion and the smooth curves that define his shoulders and arms mesmerizing me for a second. He goes through what I’m pretty sure is one of the yoga sequences he’s been insisting we add to our workouts lately, and I blink, looking away.

  I must be tired. I’ve had years of practice making myself not notice him like that.

  “Fucking New Hampshire,” I say, tossing my gear bag from hand to hand as I bounce on my toes and let adrenaline and exhaustion duke it out inside me. “Not even a half-hour drive over the border and any idiot can pick up as many fireworks as they want. You wanna know what I think? I think it’s a fucking miracle that no one died today. Every floor we cleared, that’s what I’m thinking—this is a miracle—you know? A call like that, and not even a single ambulance? Someone’s watching over Boston today, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Yep,” Matt says, his lips twitching with humor as he rolls his shoulders a few more times and then scoops his shirt up. “Don’t know if you noticed, but I was actually there, too, Johnny. But hey, feel free to recap it for me while I get the laundry started. Just in case I missed anything.”

  He winks, and I grin, following him back to the laundry room.

  “Fuck off,” I say, figuring he must’ve undone the top button of his jeans already, too, the way they’re starting to ride low on his hips. Low enough that I can see the two dimples on either side of his spine, just above the curve of his ass.

  Not that I’m looking, of course.

  Fuck.

  “And when you say idiots,” Matt asked, looking over his shoulder at me and making me jerk my eyes up fast. “I assume you’re including us?”

  “That was a long time ago,” I say, smirking because I know exactly what he’s referring to. “Besides, we didn’t actually end up buying any fireworks, so no.”

  We both laugh, and I reach down to adjust myself, happy to have a legitimate excuse. Because even without the fireworks, that had been a memorable trip, all right. Plenty of women go crazy over double-dating a couple of firefighters, that’s for damn sure, and there have been more than a couple wild nights where things got heated up fast and we’d both find ourselves in the same hotel room with our dates, but back then? We’d just graduated high school, Matty’s home life had just imploded, and we’d fucked off to New Hampshire ready to do something stupid.

  Instead, we’d both done a girl named Cindy.

  Matt starts up the washing machine the minute we step into the laundry room, and I hop up to sit on the dryer.

  “We really gotta do laundry now?” I whine, because it sounds horrifically boring even though I know him well enough to guess that the answer will be yes. “I’m tired as shit.”

  Matt laughs, rolling his eyes. “You should be tired as shit,” he corrects me, holding out a hand and gesturing imperiously.

  I know what he wants, and I strip off my shirt and toss it to him. He’s got some magic formula he uses in the wash to actually get the smoke smell out of all our stuff, and I’m more than happy to let him boss me around a little if it means I don’t have to deal with laundry. Besides, taking care of it makes him happy, the weirdo. I’m not gonna say he’s got a little OCD action going on, but then again, I’m not going to say he doesn’t, either, you know?

  “I am tired,” I insist, because it’s true. I can feel every goddamn minute of the last 24-hour shift in my bones. My muscles are like jelly. I mean, you know, jelly that’s sort of buzzing and wired and makes me feel like I’m bouncing off the walls, but still, jelly, for sure.

  “Pants, too,” Matt says, killing me as he strips off his. “And toss whatever’s in your gear bag in with this load, too.”

  I want to whine, but I also want other things I can’t have, so I just book it out of the room and grab my bag so I can give him what he wants. I bounce on my toes once I’ve handed it over, looking over Matty’s shoulder as I tense and release my fingers, trying to burn off some of the electricity I can’t seem to ever really run out of, even now, when I really am exhausted.

  I’ve always been this way—some part of me always on, some wheel always spinning at a crazy speed inside me. Matt operates at a slower pace most of the time, which sort of balances me out… but I like to think that my hyperactivity is good for him, too. Keeps him on his toes, you know? Otherwise he’d turn into a big homebody.

  “Will it do any good to ask you to settle down?” Matt asks, stifling a yawn.

  I grin, not bothering to answer since clearly that’s a rhetorical question, and then I rest my chin on Matt’s shoulder just to irritate h
im.

  He hip bumps me away, snorting. “Back off, buddy. We both know you’ll be too damn amped to give me any peace for a while, so let me just take care of business here, yeah?”

  I roll my eyes just for show. Matty is such a nester. And yeah, I know, I know, he’s also a hundred percent right about me. My mouth goes a mile a minute during the best of times, and even faster when I’m coming down off a rush like today. But what he doesn’t know? I’ve gotta keep myself busy right now. Keep my mind on the danger we made it through during the call today, or giving him shit about his homemaking skills, or anything I can latch onto at all… just so I can avoid the danger that simmers right here, under the surface of our friendship, every fucking moment of my life.

  Sue me, but yes, I’m gonna keep right on prattling on about the fire and the stupidity of reckless people and anything else I can come up with if it will distract me from staring at my best friend’s cut body and thinking about things that would ruin a lifetime of friendship if he were ever to catch on. There’d been a time when I’d figured I’d end up eventually telling him I was bi, but I kept putting it off and putting it off—because high school wasn’t the most accepting place for guys who were into guys, you know?—and since I liked girls, too, it had been pretty easy to fly under the radar.

  Then his dad had come out, and the backlash from that? I shudder. All I can say is thank God I decided to keep it under wraps, because even if I can’t say I agree with how things have gone down between Matt and his father, choosing between a lifetime of repressed feelings or not having Matty in my life at all is a no-brainer.

  “Aw, A/C too much for you?” Matt teases, reaching out to pinch my side.

  I make a big show of flinching away from the minor sting, rubbing at the spot as I flip him the bird. Secretly, I’m thankful he thinks that’s why I shuddered and isn’t going to press me on it, though.

  Bringing up Matt’s estrangement from his dad in any way, shape, or form is something I generally avoid at all costs. Not because Matt would get mad about it, but because he’d shut down and pretend he was mad… as if I didn’t know him well enough to see that it was just a way to hide how bad his father’s betrayal still hurt him, even all these years later.

  Not that I would call his father leaving the family because the guy had finally decided to be true to himself a betrayal, of course, but that opinion was another thing I’d learned to keep to myself.

  “A/C is a fucking godsend,” I say, not just to steer clear of sensitive subjects, but because it’s the middle of the summer and that statement is nothing more than God’s honest truth.

  “Amen,” Matt says, yawning again.

  I pick up a spray bottle and put it back down, then find a stray clothespin and start snapping it open and closed a few thousand times. Matty glares at me, so I grin and do it a few more times before tossing it onto a shelf.

  He’s loading soap or whatever into the machine, standing there in just the green four-leaf-clover boxer briefs that say “Rub for Luck” that an ex-girlfriend gave him as a gag gift last St. Paddy’s Day, and that reminds me that he wanted my pants, too.

  I strip them off and pull my phone out of the back pocket before handing them over.

  “Wanna play some Dead Trigger?” I ask, swiping my phone open since I clearly need a better distraction than anything I’ve come up with so far. I’ve known Matty practically since birth—basically grew up at his house until that went to shit when his parents split, and then been roommates in one place or another in the eight years since—and stripping down in front of each other is nothing. Still, for whatever reason, I’m having more trouble than usual repressing certain things today.

  Matt yawns again, shaking his head at my offer to kill some zombies together. “What I want to do is tidy up the house—”

  My turn to snort, because hello, as if he ever lets it get untidy.

  “—and then get some damn rest,” he finishes, lips twitching as he ignores my interruption.

  “We can rest when we’re dead,” I quip, even though a little of my adrenaline is starting to wear off and hitting the sack is actually starting to sound appealing. I still need to burn off some excess energy—I’d just toss and turn if I tried to go to bed right now—but there’s no doubt that the day’s starting to catch up with me now that we’re finally home.

  Matty drops the lid on the washer as it starts to agitate, and I trail after him, back toward the living room. Normally, he’s the one trying to talk me into sitting still long enough to play some video game or other, so I figure if I get the zombie hunting game started I can probably convince him to join in and keep me company until I settle down enough to get the sleep my body needs. But just as I finally get it pulled up, my phone goes and dies.

  “Shit,” I mutter, tossing it onto the couch and flopping down after it, disrupting the color-coordinated throw pillow display Matt keeps there.

  He laughs, grinning down at me as he picks one up off the floor and throws it onto my lap. “How about you just head to bed?”

  “You head to bed,” I throw back, like I’m twelve or something and he just insulted me. I grab the remote off the coffee table. “Let’s watch something.”

  “Oh my God,” Matt says, shaking his head as he leaves me there and goes into the kitchen. “I don’t know how I put up with you.”

  “It’s because you love me,” I holler after him, clicking on the TV. “You’re my brother from another mother.”

  Which is really what he should be, even though I’m feeling far less brotherly about him today than I usually manage.

  I don’t know what’s gotten into me, other than maybe the combination of all the adrenaline from the big fire today and the fact that it’s been about a hundred years since I’ve gotten laid.

  Matt yells back a creative insult that I ignore and then says something about us needing to pick up groceries, which I also ignore. Instead, I speed-click through some preset stations, looking for something to help me wind down.

  {Click} Nope…

  {Click} Definitely not…

  {Click} Boring…

  {Click} Even more boring…

  {Click} And, hello.

  My finger freezes on the remote, my free hand drifting down to my lap as the porn channel I’ve accidentally landed on catches my attention. I mean, how could it not, right?

  I lower the volume, throwing a guilty glance in the direction of the kitchen. Not like we both don’t watch porn—and this station is in Spanish, even, so obviously it’s one of Matty’s presets—but after the kind of thoughts that have been plaguing me since we got home, for some reason I feel weirdly self-conscious about him hearing it.

  The curvy woman on-screen runs her hands over a gorgeous pair of breasts, and my cock swells under my hand. If this is what I’m gonna do to unwind, I know I need to take it back to my own room, but I mean… doesn’t hurt to watch a minute or two here on the big screen, right?

  “You want a beer to mellow you out?” Matt calls from the kitchen.

  “Sure,” I say, already feeling pretty distracted. And the video I’ve landed on is definitely the right kind of distraction right now, since it seems to be just your straightforward (ha! “straight”) guy-girl action, perfect for getting my mind off the place it’s been trying to go.

  I flex my hand over my stiffening cock, throwing one arm over the back of the couch as I lean back and take it in. It’s nothing special, really, just those mouthwatering tits barely contained in a skimpy nightgown, the woman looking horny as all hell as she watches a buff dude in overalls lying under a sink. He’s definitely not bad, either—flexing every last bit of muscle that the camera can see as he goes to work—but this isn’t the time for my mind to go there.

  Doing the plumber.

  House call.

  Clean my pipes, Big Daddy.

  I snicker, entertaining myself by coming up with possible titles as the action starts to heat up.

  “Her leg... is potatoes?” I mumble u
nder my breath, pretty sure my limited Spanish is letting me down with that translation.

  There’d been a time when I’d actually gotten almost decent with the language. Matt and his dad, Santi, used to speak it at their house all the time, and since I was there as close to 24/7 as they’d put up with me, I picked up a bit over the years. Of course, that shit is use-it-or-lose-it, and, since Matt decided to toss the language out along with his relationship with his father, I’ve basically lost it.

  Not that I really need to keep up with the onscreen dialogue to follow along with what’s happening between the plumber and the housewife, of course.

  “She’s saying she wants him to clean her pipes, bro.”

  Matt’s voice behind me startles the crap out of me, and I nearly jump out of my seat.

  “Jesus, buddy, what the hell?” I blurt, my heart pounding a mile a minute. I yank my hand off my dick like I’ve been burned, but Matt just grins, shaking his head as he hands me the beer he promised.

  “Not my fault you’re butchering the language,” he says, his eyes drifting back to the screen.

  “A little warning next time?” I say, even though out of the two of us, I seem to be the only one rattled by him catching me like this. “Besides, I thought you didn’t—”

  I snap my mouth closed just in time. I may have lost most of my Spanish skills, but he’d spoken it daily for the first eighteen years of his life. Of course he remembers it.