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When Dorian says I want, if Basil doesn’t jump at the opportunity, then Henry will.
Or sometimes, on what is quickly becoming a not-so-rare occasion, they both find a way to give him what he wants, together.
It’s a little strange, their arrangement, in that some weekends Dorian will come to Henry’s covered in love marks and dewy eyed with pleasure, but he’ll shy away when Henry leans in to kiss him, complaining that he’s sensitive and well used, like Henry can’t recognise the flirt of Basil’s teeth against his breastbone.
But Henry sends him away in much the same condition, though perhaps he’s a little more bruised across the knees, with his perfect hair mussed and his perfect jaw sore. Dorian seems to like to come to him to make Henry angry with jealousy, begging for punishment, like he doesn’t arch his back and hiss beautifully into the pain.
So Dorian says, “I want to see what it’s like… being with someone.” and Basil and Henry lock eyes, and realise that there’s no getting out of sharing this, together.
Basil hurries them along from his studio to his upstairs with Dorian’s arm linked in his, their steps synchronised together in a kind of anticipatory glee. Basil’s estate is rather modest, but there’s so many billowing windows and long, melancholy hallways that they seem to make Dorian shine golden and curious and excited, and Basil is no less beautiful next to him, with the darkness of his hair in a sheen, his neck slender and nicked with the dot of Basil’s very kissable beauty marks.
Henry is still unfortunately staring at him when Basil sits Dorian on the edge of his bed and kisses him.
Basil is the one who takes Dorian’s clothes off, though he unwraps him like a present, all eager fingers and shaky anticipation. Dorian seems to squirm worse with each garment that is removed from him, like he expected to do this clothed and clandestine, like Basil wasn’t intent on stripping Dorian down bare from the moment he laid his eyes on him.
But Basil murmurs, “It’s alright,” and Henry wonders where he should find himself, if he can’t stop wanting to run his hand down Basil’s back while Dorian lies naked and heavy lidded and pink while they take him apart. He just can’t stop looking, and Basil doesn’t seem to notice, kneeling down to kiss above Dorian’s naval with his eyes turned up, a smile curled at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll give you anything you need. Anything at all. How perfect you are, Dorian.”
“Where’s Harry?” Dorian breathes, and his decision is made in the quick flitting search of Dorian’s eyes before they find him. He presses a knee into the softness of Basil’s bed at Dorian’s side and cups a hand around Dorian’s cheek to tilt him up into a kiss.
Henry’s job becomes kissing Dorian breathless while Basil gets him rid of the rest of his clothes, Henry’s ears hot and hands restless at the sound of Basil’s soothing encouragements that are pressed against each bit of bare skin that gets revealed until there’s none of him left to hide.
Basil strips next then, by himself, and Henry is overcome with a jealousy that he doesn’t know where to aim, and so he points it at everyone and dips his head to keep Dorian interested, his fingers finding their way between Dorian’s thighs to stroke his quickly hardening cock.
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it, Harry?” Dorian says against his mouth, and Henry’s agreement comes in a quick nod and a harder kiss.
When Basil is finally as naked as Dorian, Henry pulls away, and takes to the edge of the bed to sit and watch, as Basil lays Dorian on his back like he might serve a meal off the boy. They kiss more, longer, and Henry lets them if only because it’s Dorian’s first time, and Christ, it’s Dorian’s first time, what a thing to witness.
Not his first time being touched, or pleasured, even with men, since both Henry and Basil have done their spare share of corrupting him in the past few months. Basil wouldn’t consider it that, obviously, but what else might Henry call the gradual way Dorian’s poor throat has familiarised around him with time, or how confident his hands have gotten, how quieter Dorian’s requests for permission before he climbs gracefully into Henry’s lap and says, I want, I want, I want.
So, they kiss, and Dorian ruts against Basil, his hips moving, flushed down his lovely chest, his nipples pink and stiff. Basil isn’t entirely too much older than Dorian, but he is just a touch larger, perhaps half a head, with a thicker waist, though Basil is rail thin and sinewy and gorgeous. Henry always wonders if perhaps seeing them together will be enough to kill his lingering desire for Basil’s body when something like Dorian’s perfection is available, but the hunger that blindsides him as Basil clutches at Dorian’s waist and hips as their cocks slide between them once again dashes any hopes he has of escaping that particular fantasy.
“Basil,” Dorian says, so sweetly, as Basil’s mouth travels down his neck, to his shoulder. “Basil, what next?”
“Won’t you be patient?” Basil says, all breath, and kisses the apex of Dorian’s throat, the bobbing of Dorian’s sweet Adam’s Apple. They roll, and Dorian ends astride Basil’s hips. “We’ve time. You’ll love it.”
He takes a handful of the boy’s behind and Dorian gasps, his head falling between his shoulders, a cast of golden hair curtaining Basil’s no doubt absolutely devoted glance. He tends to look like that in bed.
Dorian squirms. “Will it hurt? Thinking about it makes it seem terribly painful, but also—” his voice goes curiously light. “Wonderfully exciting.”
“It won’t,” Henry says languidly. Dorian’s head drops into the crook of Basil’s shoulder with a gasp, and Henry must assume Basil is touching him again. “Basil can take you.”
“I want to,” Basil says on a shuddering breath. “Would that be alright, Dorian? Would you like to be inside of me?”
Dorian sits back with a gasp, like he’s coming up from water, his eyes wide, his hands on Basil’s thighs. “I thought, I mean—I suppose I had assumed—”
“See what it’s like,” Henry purrs. “Basil is wonderful inside.”
Basil colors but puts his hands over Dorian’s on his thighs. “I’ll lead you through it. Don’t worry.”
“Alright,” Dorian says, but seems just as pleased and eager as he was before, rushing everything along with a gasp, and a curve of his back, and another, breathless, “What next?”
What next is the salve of oil Basil procures, full enough to have Henry quietly pleased with how Basil’s apparent drought of sexual partners, and Dorian knelt between Basil’s spread legs, bent to the knee, a finger dripping with oil. A couple drops hit Basil’s sheets, hopefully leave an oily stain that reminds Basil forever of Dorian’s set mouth and nervous excitement.
Henry gets listless, and finds himself wanting to move closer, perhaps, to draw Basil’s head into his lap. To stroke Basil’s raven hair and touch the flush on his cheeks, but he takes to the plush armchair at Basil’s bedside instead, more comfortable observing than listening to his own impulses.
“It’s alright,” Basil says, with his attention fixed solely on Dorian, his arms languidly posed above his head. “Use just one of your fingers.”
“Pick your favorite,” Henry says, and Basil cuts him a glare.
“Just…” Dorian says, and Henry watches one of his slim fingers disappear between Basil’s legs, and prod shortly. “Inside?”
“Yes,” Basil answers, and then Dorian seems to slide in, as Basil shudders, and repeats, slightly more affected, “Yes.”
Henry is uncomfortably warm, and it isn’t getting much better. They make such a picture, Dorian and Basil, with Dorian knelt between Basil’s legs, naked, his lips open curiously, and eyes pinned to the spot where they meet. From here, Henry can even fixate on the dot of moles on Basil’s waist he used to trace idly with his fingers, and his hand twitches, impulses once again overriding his basic common sense.
Dorian seems hesitant, but his cock twitches with interest, bare, against his thigh, and Henry adjusts his quickly stiffening cock without a thought, stomach clenching at the casual touch.
Basil takes Dorian’s fingers marvelously, with a calm, even voice, guiding Dorian as he needs to go. “That’s it, Dorian, move for me if you will,” and “Oh, it’s alright, no you haven’t hurt me, that was a good response,” and then, when Henry is starting to reach the end of his patience, “One more, Dorain, sweet boy—yes, yes, three is fine, three is good—ah, Dorian, my Dorian—”
“A chatty little bedfellow, aren’t we?” Henry remarks, head rolling on his shoulder, but neither Basil nor Dorian seems to hear. Basil is too busy throwing his head back, winding his fingers in his own sheets, and Dorian presses a hand lengthwise to Basil’s soft stomach, pressing in, unconsciously mimicking what Basil likes when he’s being prepared. They’re coming together perfectly naturally, and Henry is aroused and angry and glad he’s too far away to act on it.
“How is he?” Henry asks, prying his eyes away from Basil’s pleasure slack mouth and arched brow with more difficulty than he’s comfortable with.
“Indescribable,” Dorian murmurs, fingers moving slowly, but surely, confidence gained in Basil’s squirming pleasure. “Before you two I didn’t even consider what a man might be like inside—that it was even possible. But Basil is tight and warm, and he makes the most delightfully beautiful sounds.”
“Don’t say that,” Basil breathes, a leg twitching. “It’s—too much.”
“He’s perfect, isn’t he?” Henry says. He wants to reach out and touch, to run his fingers over Basil’s quivering mouth and taught throat, but instead pushes some of his hair away from his own face. “Tight like a vice. He’s like a virgin, every time.”
Dorian always looks curious when Henry or Basil reference any measure of their history, though Henry is sure Basil won’t say anything to the boy about it. Henry isn’t inclined to do so himself for some reason he can’t name. Perhaps it's because he knows that his time with Basil is one of the remaining things he hasn’t given to Dorian’s over curious grabs for more, more. Dorian doesn’t ask, so Henry doesn’t offer.
But Dorian does pull his fingers away from Basil and beg, breathily, “Can I now, Basil?”
“Yes,” Basil breathes, and reaches down to set a hand atop Dorian’s. The contrast of Dorian’s perfect skin against Basil’s, full of knicks and age marks, always makes Henry’s stomach fill with something like an electric current.
Dorian holds Basil’s hips while he slides inside, and Henry watches Dorian’s face, his mouth dropping open on a shaky gasp, eyes snapping shut in pleasure. Henry almost shivers when Dorian breathes out, over excitable, “Oh, Christ, Basil.”
“You’re performing wonderfully, darling boy,” Basil says, his voice forced into control when he’s no doubt trembling with need. “Keep going.”
“You’ll be alright?” Dorian asks.
“More than.” Basil perches his legs around Basil’s waist, able to tug him closer. “Continue, before you make me beg.”
Dorian looks like he wants to, deeply, and sincerely, but there’s an edge of frustration in him too, his hands squeezing tighter on Basil’s waist. “Harry,” Dorian says, and his voice is much darker, needier, than Henry thinks he’s ever heard it before. “Come here.”
“I’m rather enjoying the outsider’s perspective,” Henry says, although something in his tone doesn’t match the gentle playfulness he means.
“Well, enjoy it from beside me,” Dorian huffs. He turns, and his gaze pins Henry in place, beautiful and open. It narrows the room down to just Dorian and himself. “I need you here as well.”
And perhaps Henry hasn’t given the boy enough credit, with his scheming and his long lines of thinking and his desperate, almost unnatural greed. Because Dorian wouldn’t have asked them both, together, if he expected any less, and Henry is standing before he can consider it, and crossing his way to Basil’s bed.
“Kiss me again,” Dorian says, and Henry stoops, and is met immediately with a quick hot press of Dorian’s tongue, spit slick and sweet and moaning against him, and Henry grabs him by the face and kisses him like he might if he cared a little less about looking perfectly put together in front of his friends.
“Ah,” Dorian moans, and shakes beneath him. He pulls away but stays close, enough to feel Henry’s breath against his mouth, and whispers, “Basil tightens, when you kiss me like that.”
From the bed, Basil makes a deliriously aroused whimper of denial, and Henry can’t fight his crooked smile, or the glance he gives to Basil, his tongue that he drags out across Dorian’s precious cupid’s bow. Basil looks like an emergency of need.
Henry leans away, but stays at Dorian’s side, supported by his arm, glancing down the line of Basil’s sweating body. “Go ahead then,” Henry says, playing at detached. “Basil is waiting for you, Dorian.”
“Yes, Harry,” Dorian says, and then he’s moving again, drawing Basil to him by the hips, and sliding inside smoothly with a low moan, a bead of sweat traveling the delicate curve of his arm.
They’re both beautiful, distractingly so, uncomfortably so, and Henry can’t help but reach out and draw his finger down the curve of Basil’s knee, towards the bone of his ankle, just to watch him twitch. He’s not expecting Basil to groan, and writhe, and Dorian to hunch over him, as though Henry’s touch alone is a chain reaction of pleasure. It’s heady, and feels significant, the kind of euphoria that brings.
Dorian begins to move then, a shallow thrust on a soft whine of pleasure, his teeth gritted. His hips move in jolting shudders, Dorian’s shoulders and back shifting in sinuous but uncontrolled motions. Basil squirms underneath him, but Dorian is too eager, too fast, too much at once. He’s overeager, drunk off a bit of pleasure and losing himself to it.
“Dorian,” Henry says, once, and Dorian huffs, but seems not to hear him. Henry pushes himself onto his knees, reaching out, and lays a hand on Dorian’s shoulder, delicious creamy skin underneath his fingers, and Dorian stills with a gasp, glancing Henry’s way.
Henry leans close enough that he can murmur, and only Dorian can hear him. “Look at Basil, Dorian,” Henry says, and Dorian’s attention shifts back to Basil, underneath him, panting and sweating and confused. “Isn’t he lovely?”
“Lovely?” Dorian repeats quietly. “Y-yes, he rather is.”
“Isn’t he? Were you thinking about him at all just now? While you were moving?”
Dorian’s head tips towards him, hiding his face in shame. “I can’t… say I was.”
“What a shame,” Henry murmurs, and reaches out, fingers this time wrapping around Basil’s thigh, his thumb squeezing in a mite too tight. The tension leaks out of Basil and concentrates there instead, his leg muscles going taught in the expectation of pain. Henry soothes it over with his thumb playfully. “He might not be as beautiful as you, but you’ve a lovely man spread out in front of you, trembling and bare, and you’re only concerned with the immediacy of whatever is wrapped around that handsome little cock.”
“I don’t know any better,” Dorian says, with a blush. Henry kisses him on the shoulder.
“That’s alright. That’s what Basil and I are here for, aren’t we? To show you.”
“Harry?” Basil asks, his voice apprehensive and appealing, high in the way it gets when he’s aroused and breathless. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching,” Henry says. “It’s hardly fair to let the boy fumble about alone.” He kisses Dorian’s ear, the lovely pink shell, and says, “Slide in slowly, like a hot bath. Watch what happens to Basil’s face. His lovely mouth, his eyes.”
“Yes, Harry,” Dorian breathes. He pushes forward again with a slow, wonderfully languid movement, and Basil shudders with his whole body, lips pressing and eyes holding on Dorian until he’s flushed, when they move to the ceiling and flutter closed.
“Oh,” Dorian says, hunger and awe in his voice. He goes to pull back, and Henry puts a hand on the small of his back, holding him in, pressed flush against Basil’s hips. “Why?” Dorian breathes, and his head drops back against Henry’s shoulder. “I want to move—I want—”
“I know,” Henry says. He moves his hand around to Dorian’s stomach and lets it sit there. Basil is watching them curiously, open mouthed but silent. “I’ll let you, won’t I? Even though you know I love to tease you. But stay here. And—” Henry presses tight up against him, hips against Dorian’s bare behind, and moves his body just so. “Grind.”
Dorian follows, unconvinced, but he finds the motion Henry wants eventually, a quick angle of his hips that ruts his cock as deeply into Basil as possible. Henry leans down and watches Basil from over Dorian’s shoulder, senses full of the salt of Dorian’s sweat, the heat against his nose and mouth, and Basil starts to tremble, his hands winding above his head again, his bottom lip quivering with each of his uncontrolled sighs. He looks divine and untouchable like that, with his hair spread and his gaze cloudy and wandering. Each time it lands on Henry, he suddenly finds breathing conscious, his heart a quick vibration and a spark of heat in his blood.
Dorian seems to realise that pleasuring Basil isn’t far from chasing his own need as his breath slowly becomes a string of long, messy notes low in his throat, his hands sliding up to Basil’s waist.
“Do you like this, Basil?” Dorian asks, and Basil nods, swallowing, like he’s gathering his breath.
“I do,” he manages. “It’s—it’s been a very long time since someone took me like this.”
Henry can’t imagine anyone fucking Basil like this other than himself. Basil liked to be romanced before they laid together, and despite Henry’s apprehension and general unwillingness to draw out their time together, he always found himself drawn into a more indulgent mood with Basil laughing sweetly against his mouth. He often got lost trying to find what pleased Basil most with the least. The tease of his teeth, or a bit of his nails, a rough grab and then a soothing pet.
The last time he fucked Basil, they went wonderfully slow, and Henry still remembers the curves of Basil in his hands, Basil’s fingers linked between Henry’s over his stomach, Henry’s nose skating along the curve of Basil’s neck. Henry has slept with men that would make Aphrodite proud, but they never compared to the familiar warmth—the unfortunate, brilliant safety—of Basil in his bed.
“A good thing Dorian is learning properly, then,” Henry says, his hands still on Dorian’s waist, guiding him through it. He allows Dorian to pull out just the tiniest bit, before he can press inside again. “We can’t have Dorian treating you like some rented thing, can we? Selfishly using you as an outlet without seeing what it’s like to make a man’s toes curl.”
“Let Dorian—oh—do what he wants, H-Harry.”
“Listen to him,” Henry chuckles, with a kiss to Dorian’s shoulder. “Hardly able to get a few words out.”
“You’re so—” Basil starts, his voice broken when Henry pulls Dorian back to thrust into Basil rougher.
Henry whispers, “Harder now.”
“So—”
“Harry.”
“Harder, Dorian, until he can’t even speak.”
“Awful,” Basil gasps, almost a sob, and Henry frees Dorian’s hips for the boy to fold at the waist, to press against Basil, and pump his hips so hard the frame of the bed shakes. “Oh, oh, you’re ruining me, you’re both—I can’t possibly—I’m—ah, ah—”
Dorian pants while he fucks, deep, quick breaths, and his hips move quick, stopping to grind on every few particularly hard thrusts. He’s beautiful, the muscles of his back moving, his spine curving, the enticing roundness of his testicles against Basil’s behind.
Henry, sat back, is at the perfect place to watch Basil cling to Dorian’s shoulders, and then his waist, and then the boy’s backside, seemingly urging him faster, words finally lost. Words save for Dorian, my Dorian, sweet boy, lovely boy, oh God, and sometimes, when Dorian is particularly cruel, Harry, Harry, please, Harry.
Henry touches himself but doesn’t draw his cock out from his clothes. He doesn’t want the distraction of looking away when what’s in front of him is like a vision sent to tempt him the worst.
Henry rubs his cock through his trousers but can’t bring himself to remove his cock from his underthings, like holding out gives him that much more room to focus on Dorian’s sweet noises and Basil’s mounting cries.
It’s a woefully short period before Dorian is gasping, “I’m coming, I’m coming, oh god, Basil please—” and Basil meets him with a, “That’s fine, that’s wonderful perfect, Dorian, I can take it inside of me, that’s it—”
Dorian pushes in tight, close, when he comes, his knees tucked up against Basil’s hips, Basil’s legs around his waist, and he positively wails when he comes, a broken, needy sound, and Henry watches with fixed interest as he seems to shudder his way through his first orgasm not from a hand, or a mouth, but the simple act of filling Basil with come, held tight and breathless.
Dorian’s skin is glistening with sweat when he pulls out, his thighs trembling, jolting with leftover sensation as his cock slides against Basil’s thigh when he settles. Something about the two of them, stacked close and uncaring, sweaty and sated feels strange to look in upon, like the splatters of paint on the floor around an easel. The main event is over, and Henry is still possessed, for some reason, to join them, to stay close, to make this glorious moment—the de-virginizing of one Dorian Gray, how momentous—last.
But Basil and Dorian begin to kiss again, mouths sticky and sweet against each other, Basil purring contentedly into Dorian’s mouth. Basil has always loved to cling after sex, never before and never during, so Henry is struck, like a vibrating string, with a terrible pang of melancholy. Basil’s hands run up Dorian’s shoulder blades lightly, and Dorian’s bones shift, like wings ready to sprout from his back.
He realises with a start that Basil is murmuring against Dorian’s mouth, the same platitudes as earlier, but his voice is unbearably sweet. Into Dorian’s ear he breathes, “My sweet boy, you did so well. That felt wonderful, didn’t it? Don’t I make you feel wonderful?”
“I would have you every day,” Dorian says sweetly, though his voice is rough with use. Underneath him, Basil breathes out shakily, and he pulls Dorian impossible closer. “I’d be a fool to give you up.”
Henry’s nose wrinkles, only because Basil used to be his to comfort, to push away when Basil started to annoy him with his clinging kisses and his desperate bids for more. Henry always wanted a fuck and a cigarette, and then perhaps a good book. Basil was insistent on being kept.
Dorian’s “Thank you, Basil,” makes the other man’s toes curl, and Henry pushes himself off of Basil’s mattress with a twist of his mouth.
“Cuddling,” Henry sniffs, pausing for a moment to right the clothes Dorian wrinkled. “You two will come get me when something more interesting happens, I hope.” His leave is done in a hurry, again in search of something to smoke. Perhaps that will make him feel better, a bit of a burning throat.
He smokes in Basil’s garden because it is far away from the bedroom, and he picks flowers and tears the petals away with nimble fingers. He hopes, in his absence, that Dorian and Basil are touching each other like nervous youths after a tussle. It gives his absence some necessity, because he’s never been the young and innocent type.
He isn’t expecting, some time later, to hear the door to the garden open, and to glance over his shoulder to find Dorian standing there, back in an undershirt, but with one of Basil’s sheets pulled around his shoulders. He looks lovely like that, swaddled and sunlit, though evening is carefully approaching. He’s the same brilliant color as the flowers at Henry’s back.
“Not one for the afterglow, Harry?” Dorian asks, and comes and joins Henry at the seat he’s occupied. He sits with his knees drawn up under his chin, like a child, and he looks impossibly young swallowed by his own undershirt with a fresh, pleased face.
“Not typically,” Henry says. “Have you tucked Basil away to sleep?” It comes out more bitter than he intends, and Henry sweeps the destroyed flowers off of the seat self-consciously.
Dorian watches him quietly for a moment, features outlined with open curiosity. His eyes track over Henry’s throat, down between his legs. “You’re a very fascinating man, Harry. Confusing as well, but I think I like that.”
“I’m not certain whether I should find myself flattered or concerned by what you say, Dorian. You do play so roughly with your things.”
“Interesting,” Dorian says, and presses the side of himself against Henry, his head rested on the curve of Henry’s shoulder. “I remember once Basil saying the same about you.”
Henry laughs. “I suppose then that you’ve learned from the best.”
“Have I?” Dorian asks curiously. “Funny, that Basil would say that about you, when I don’t feel it much. Am I one of your things, Harry?”
Henry spins a flower between his fingers. “Would you like to be?”
Dorian sits up with a sniff, a finger tapped consideringly against his knee. “I don’t much think I would like to be anyone’s thing. I like to collect too much to find myself hoarded.” He turns his gaze wholly on Henry, his eyes clear and focused. “What do you keep, Harry? If not me.”
“Knowledge,” Henry says, and reaches out, traces Dorian’s jaw with a finger. “Experience. Hard not to, for a man of my age.”
“Please, you’re hardly the old, out of commission untouchable you make yourself to be. It suits you, as it does some.”
“You only think so because you don’t look a day over a man a decade your younger. Gracefully aged only remains graceful within a certain window.” He strokes one of Dorian’s ear lobes with his thumb, and watches Dorian’s eyes flutter, the wind sweeping mussed curls across his forehead. “Would you like to hear what else I keep, then?”
“I would.”
“Darling boys,” Henry says, and tugs on Dorian’s ear. “Sweet creatures which I treat most cruelly. Who give me themselves like a gift, because only I know just how to ruin a good man.”
“Mmm. Like Basil?”
Henry’s laugh surprises even himself, and seems to startle Dorian into a small smile, leaning his cheek into Henry’s hand. “I don’t keep Basil, Dorian.”
“Not anymore, I’m sure,” Dorian says. Henry’s heart settles a bit, and he pulls away from Dorian to try and keep it to himself. Dorian doesn’t seem put off by it, resting a cheek on his folded knees instead.
It’s true, if slightly painful. He doesn’t keep Basil anymore, because Basil wanted to keep Henry in return. Henry finds he very much agrees with Dorian that he likes collecting too much to be pinned to a board for inspection himself. Dorian keeps too much, though, his interests shifting and folding. Malleable as youth, indiscriminate. Henry would like, really, to find one thing and keep it indefinitely, to never lose his interest or its charm. Everything else he likes to ruin and send right back where it came from, like putting a wind up doll at the edge of a cliff and seeing if it stops before it plunges over the edge.
Dorian’s consideration sharpens across his face again. “Why is that?”
“Oh, please,” Henry sighs. “Leave me out of your experiments, Dorian, I beg. They’re amusing from the outside, but much more frightening from under your machinations, I’m sure.”
“That’s what this is to you then?” Dorian asks, smiling innocently. He drops one of his legs to rest his bare foot upon the ground, and his soft cock becomes visible, sitting just against his thigh. Again, like a posed statue of a Grecian lover, like a rival for Adonis. “Just another experiment?”
“Isn’t it?” Henry laughs. “Basil will be heartbroken when you move onto the next, but he’ll recover, surely. He certainly loves you enough.”
Doian’s face twists curiously. “What do you mean?”
It’s a slip, one Henry catches immediately, though guiltily he hopes it might divert Dorian’s attention away from him. And maybe because if he knows, then Dorian will stop putting himself in the place of a younger Henry for an older Basil, and Basil might stop looking at him the exact same way.
“Nothing,” Henry says languidly. He gestures towards Dorian’s cock with his cigarette. “Had enough? Or here to find another hole to bury yourself in.” He gives Dorian a winding grin. “I’m certainly not above offering.”
“Another time,” Dorian says, and stands, stretches, his lithe body on display, a quick shake of his head to dislodge his curls. “Basil was distracted by a thought he had earlier and has set out with his paints. He’s terribly boring when he’s painting, Harry. Won’t you come with me to distract him?”
“In a moment,” Henry says, and Dorian grins, and passes by with a quick squeeze to Henry’s shoulder.
Henry watches him as he goes, wondering idly what it might be like to kiss the divots in his back with Basil’s fingers in his hair, or sit Dorian in his lap while Basil shoves his cock past the boy's lips. He wonders a bit, too, what it might be like to kiss the curve of Dorian’s cheek in the morning, the corner of his mouth, to curl up with Basil in his duvets while Dorian reads next to them by candle light. The thought is distracting, and dangerous, and Henry wonders, like a Christian might imagine the eyes of God upon himself, where his wife is, and what she might be doing. He resigns himself to going back inside and finding some way to escape Basil unscathed.
Halfway to the door, he’s already made a story up about some dinner, and hopes his excuse will hold. For Basil’s sake, if not his own.