MB Saucy Side: Not a Boat (Kent and Ferro Version) (Patreon)

Ferro slides your pants down your thighs—you shimmy a little to help him get the fabric over your knees, raising your legs up from the bed so he can strip them off completely. Once the task is accomplished, Ferro carelessly tosses your clothes to the other side of the bedroom, too absorbed staring at your body revealed form to notice where they land.

“I will touch you with my mind,” he murmurs.

You’re tempted to make a joke about that seeming to be more Gray’s talent until you realize that Ferro is quoting a poem.

“Touch you and touch and touch until you . . .”

Contrary to his words, Ferro’s hands remain distant from your bared skin, clenched at his side in a frustrating show of restraint. You bite your lower lip and attempt to look tempting, smugly noting Ferro’s dry swallow. Alas, he seems determined to finish the poem before fulfilling his promise to touch you.

“Give me suddenly a smile,” Ferro quotes, “shyly obscene.”

“E. E. Cummings.”

Your head turns on the pillow to find the second voice. Leaning nonchalantly against the bedroom door, Kent smirks back at you. He looks exactly as he did the very first morning you two met: which is to say, he’s wearing nothing but a towel.

Oh.

So you’re having one of those dreams again.

“Cummings seemed like the appropriate poet for the moment,” Ferro drawls, completely unphased by his best friend’s presence.

Kent’s lets out a low “hmm” of amused agreement, his eyes remaining fixated on you. He takes a step closer, the towel sliding off his lean hips then vanishing the way objects do in dreams once they’re no longer necessary. Another step, and your breath hitches with anticipation as he looms over you.

Kent reaches out, his fingertips caressing the line of your collarbone. He’s hardly touching you, and yet you can feel shockwaves from the contact all the way down to your curling toes.

“Beautiful,” Kent murmurs. “Perfect.” He leans down and captures your mouth with his own, his tongue sliding in and his teeth dragging your lower lip. The kiss lasts until you begin feeling heady from a lack of oxygen.

“Mine,” Kent announces with a pointed glare at Ferro.

Even in dreams, Kent doesn’t like sharing his toys.

Ferro rolls his eyes. “I was here first,” he points out. Unlike Kent, he’s still clothed; Ferro is always the shy one when you have dreams like this, whereas Kent wouldn’t know modesty if it kidnapped his dogs.

“Gentlemen, please!” you exclaim, spreading wide your arms. “My imagination has enough room for you both.”

Unfortunately, your imagination also knows Ferro and Kent well enough that even their dream counterparts are never fully at ease with each other’s presence.

. . . But a little competition isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Kent dedicates himself your lips, hungry and consuming as he tries to lay claim to all of your attention. He lays down beside you, hands cupping behind your head and his short nails raking over your scalp in rhythm with the demanding push and retreat of his tongue. His expression—worshipful and greedy—is all you can see.

Kent isn’t, however, all that you can feel.

Ferro is more patient, taking his time to explore the rest of your body. His lips press first against your inner ankles, light and teasing kisses gradually climbing higher until he becomes fascinated with the inner crook of your knees. You’ve never really paid attention to the area, an oversight which only serves to heighten the soft skin’s sensitivity to touch. His thumbs rub circles that send a jolt of electricity up your spine and make your back arch. With a pleased laugh, Ferro grips behind your lower thighs and props your hips off the mattress.

“Be gentle,” Kent warns.

“I’m always gentle,” Ferro counters.

You glance downwards to see Ferro’s expression. His lips curve in an impish, lopsided smile when your eyes lock, and then—abruptly, without warning—he lifts your legs up further in the air and gives your ass a light smack.

“I’m usually gentle,” Ferro amends, chuckling.

You giggle as well, the mood instantly changing from charged to playful. Wanting to tease back, you wiggle against Ferro’s hips and elicit an approving groan.

“Have mercy, babe,” Ferro pleads.

Kent’s chest rumbles with a growl, jealous of the easy intimacy between you and Ferro, and his lips reclaim yours. His behavior is a bit caveman, but Kent’s kiss is soft and tender enough to make you forget all needing to divide your attention equally. Kent props himself up on his elbows above you, his lips and tongue and teeth laying utter claim to your focus.

“Alright, that’s enough.” Ferro’s tone is a little testy. “It’s my turn on the top deck, Kenzie.”

“Not a boat,” Kent grumbles against your lips, but he does reluctantly break away to silently seek your preference.

You gather just enough wherewithal to dazedly nod. Fair’s fair, after all.

* * * *

* * * *

The next morning, Nick eyes you knowingly over the rim of his coffee mug.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

You stiffen. Nick used to overhear your nightmares when you were a child, but only because they were particularly vivid. Most dreams, your brother doesn’t see. He probably didn’t see this one either.

That’s right. Be optimistic! You’re just being paranoid.

“You’re not being paranoid,” Nick says bluntly. “But don’t worry—I headed to Gray’s before witnessing anything that would scar me for life.”

You groan and rest your forehead on the kitchen table, avoiding eye contact.

Nick chuckles. “One of these days, you might actually want to ask one of them out on a date. Seems to me like you at least owe Kent and Glitch dinner for services rendered.”

“I hate you,” you say without lifting your head.

“But you love . . .” Nick begins before falling silent. “If it helps you feel even, you can look at my internet browsing history.”

“I want nothing less,” you reply. “Let’s just pretend this never happened.”

“Of course,” Nick says, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

You sigh. “One last joke, and then this conversation is over.”

“Deal.” Nick cracks his knuckles as if winding up for a pitch. “Hey, Button?”

“Yes, Nick?” you answer dutifully, hating your life.

“Good luck choosing a captain.”