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Jesse’s briefs hung halfway down his ass, his cock still hard and angry, trapped beneath the elastic band. Even as Roark dug bruising fingers into his jaw, Jesse couldn’t stop looking at me, his eyes clinging to mine as if I could free him, not from two-hundred-and-thirty pounds of cursing Irish anger, but from the pent-up torment I’d unleashed in him.

I stood in a state of suspension, my back against the wall beside the window, my palms pressed flat on the tiles. Could I help him? Should I interfere? Maybe I could talk them down?

No, they were beyond reasoning, their eyes wild with the need to fight and fuck. There weren’t any serious injuries that I could tell, but if I stepped in and accidentally got a hit to the face, oh man, they would both lose their ever-loving minds. As small as the bathroom was, I might get hit in the face anyway.

They crashed to the floor at my feet. Jesse ended up on his back, his thighs trapped beneath Roark’s leg, and his head pinned to the tiles by the shackle of Roark’s fingers around his throat. With their feet by the door, their heads lay directly beneath me, thrashing around, Jesse head-butting, and Roark dodging every strike.

My fingers ached to push Roark off of him, but I couldn’t take sides, and as crazed as Jesse looked, he really did need restraining. His hair stood up in every direction as if he’d just fucked me raw. Which he hadn’t, but my God, he wanted to.

My chest squeezed tightly, choking my breaths as Jesse scraped his heels across the floor, trying and failing to find leverage. His hands shoved at Roark’s face, not even close to unbalancing the man. Roark had thirty pounds and four inches on Jesse, and I’d taught Roark how to fight on the ground. Jesse didn’t stand a chance.

Jesse bucked, gritting his teeth, his eyes locked on mine, and his cock straining against the band of his briefs. “Evie, goddammit. Please?”

I didn’t understand the question, but I knew the answer. He needed relief, and he needed it…not yesterday. Not two months ago. He’d needed it for two fucking years.

I climbed around Roark and dropped to my knees behind him, my hand resting on the powerful leg he pinned against Jesse’s thighs.

Roark looked back at me, his eyes narrowing. Then he did the last thing Jesse would’ve ever expected.

In one sweeping movement, he slid off Jesse’s legs. Wrapped a hand around the base of Jesse’s erection. Leaned over those startled copper eyes. Then, with his other hand around Jesse’s throat, he planted a full-on, open-mouth kiss on Jesse’s lips.

I froze, locked in a terrible, beautiful, mind-blowing fantasy. My fantasy.

Jesse punched his hips toward the ceiling, as if to knock away Roark’s hand, but his thrusts only managed to stroke his cock within the clench of Roark’s grip.

He shouted against Roark’s mouth, his words garbled and biting with fury. “Get…off me! Motherfu— Arrrgh! I…killlll you.”

Roark needed affection, needed to give and receive love, regardless of gender. Affection was his vice in a way, the reason he’d adjusted his vows when he found himself alone in a bunker, without the love of his friends and family. When all he had was me.

Threesomes had been around longer than the Bible. It had nothing to do with gender preference. In some cultures, it was an art, a way to wind down and escape the hardships of life. Or in our case, an expression of something much more.

But some men couldn’t bend their minds around omnisexuality. Would Jesse be able to see past another man touching his cock, kissing his mouth, violating him? Was that what this was? A violation?

I would’ve stopped Roark, except Jesse appeared to be kissing him back, his tongue clashing and whipping against Roark’s, desperately, begrudgingly. Consensual wasn’t the word I would’ve used. Not with the way Jesse held onto Roark’s shoulders, pushing, no, pulling…wait, definitely pushing. But his mouth worked beneath Roark’s kiss, lips meeting lips, his muffled voice anguished, despite the frantic drive of his cock within the tight curl of Roark’s fingers.

The scent rolling off them ripened the air with sweat, the musk of testosterone, and the raw exquisiteness of male desire. The smacking of their lips and the deeply-growled grunts in their throats was so arousing and potent I had to press my fingers deep inside myself to ease the painful clenching.

With Roark bent over Jesse’s upper body and out of my way, my gaze locked on his hand and the blood-filled erection gripped between his fingers. It was right there, aching, ready.

I reacted on impulse. Sliding beneath Roark’s arm with my feet toward their heads, I aligned my body along the length of Jesse’s in a sideways sixty-nine. I bent a leg over Jesse’s chest and wrapped my wet fingers around Roark’s fist. A silent request. Let me have it.