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"Yeah," Booker mutters, apropos of nothing, palm breaking the loose hold he's had on Joe's throat since Nicky first twisted into position beneath them.
Now, he widens his stance behind Joe to snare their knees together, and sweeps it down his stomach, pressing on the patch of skin just below his belly button, as if he could conceivably feel them there. His other palm curls around the obscene cut of Joe's hip bone, scritching blunt nails through thick hair and enjoying the minute trembles each drag across sensitive skin elicits.
It takes him several minutes to glance up from watching Joe's full cock bob with each thrust and smear wetness that barely misses glancing off the back of Booker's hand. The delicate slide of Joe's tongue along his bottom lip, even from the side, distracts Booker enough that he presses down more firmly on his belly than he meant to and allows himself to square his own hips before his next thrust up, the angle shifting, sinking somehow obscenely deeper, face pushing into the sweaty nape of Joe's neck to muffle his moan.
In between two gunshot-grunts, Joe hums his approval, as if Booker were asking him. As if it weren't bloody obvious what he wants. As if his spine didn't just arch like a bow tensing for the next pluck.
The room is a mess. Plastered with magazine cut-outs left from the previous residents, the yellowed wallpaper barely peeks out from underneath. Neon lights from across the street swim through the partially closed mucky window, the only light source in the room, in the entire flat, empty but for them.
Booker doesn't need to see much more than he already does, though. Doesn't need to lock eyes with Nicky to know there's smugness there. Or see Joe in full daylight to admire the slickness of his skin, sweat and come and spit and lubricant across tensed muscles, the tackiness catching on swirls of hair, puckered nipples straining needily for a mouth or two.
Sight, tonight, isn't necessary.
And, if Booker wants to feel the full girth of how satisfyingly stuffed they're making him, he could slide his fingers lower, down to where Joe's pierced open, skin likely blushing from the strain of taking both of them, soon to be gaping and stickily brimming over. Could slip another finger in, making space between Nicky's cock and his. Could push his entire hand inside, then, at last, salivating for the briefest of looks at how hungrily Joe would pull them in with greedy squeeze after greedy squeeze.
Heat punches through his gut, spreading hotly like boiling water, twisting his face up, and he braces his knees in the give of the mattress to screw his hips in at the same time as Nicky. Joe's panting wetly, hips humping up at nothing, a hitching upwards roll that drags him off at the same time that Booker pulls back, ensuring that the thrust back inside a moment later impales him to the root. And each time Booker bottoms out, a thin noise puffs out of Joe, raspy and painfully soft as he reflexively clamps down.
Nicky, the lazy bastard, doesn't have to do much more than lie there, watching, Joe's palms balanced on his chest.
Booker, for his part, could wrap a hand around the base of Joe's needy cock, jack him a few times, jerk more clear liquid through the tender slit. But the rhythm they've got is gearing up to fuck the come out of him all on its own, so Booker grips both hips at the same time he feels Nicky finally pushing up, Joe's grunts rising higher.
The peeling wallpaper dances in a breeze from the cracked window, and Booker spares only a thought for anyone walking in the street below.