This Loving Will Save Me (This Love Isn't Crazy)

Wout bends down at the tug of Sarah’s hand as she pulls him into a kiss. It’s such an easy movement now, as simple as breathing. When he hit his growth spurt at nineteen, there had been lots of weird cricks in his neck, tweaks in his back as they’d learned how to navigate his changing body. It still amazes him that she had even bothered to give him the time of day back when they were both teenagers, when he was short and had a mouth full of braces and no one knew whether or not he would ever make it in the cutthroat world of cyclocross racing.

Sometimes, it still amazes him that she’s his wife, that she ever agreed to marry him and start a family together. Wout knows the comments they make about him and his collection of second and third place finishes, but really, his marriage is proof he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

Case in point, he’s enjoying a morning coffee with a soft morning sunlight pouring through the windows of his quiet house. The air is filled with the scent of fresh toast and poached eggs. Sarah looks soft and sleepy. Her hair is pulled up and back into a messy bun. She’s wearing one of his shirts, and it hangs long on her, down to mid- thigh.

Wout leans in to kiss her again — she’s too beautiful for him to resist — but she stops him with a hand on his chest and tilts her head towards the kitchen table. Sarah murmurs, “Not here.” she tilts her chin up, and Wout turns his head to look over his shoulder.

Mathieu is still where they left him. He watches the two of them with clear blue eyes from over the kitchen table. His jaw works, like he wants to say something, but he’s otherwise immobile. It makes sense, since Wout and Sarah tied him to the chair earlier.

Sarah continues, “He wanted to watch, right? We should give him something to watch.” Her eyes sparkle, bright and mischievous. Wout grins back. He checks that the stove is off and the food is settled onto the counters.

Once he’s more certain he isn’t going to burn his house down, he lifts Sarah into his arms. She giggles, a warm sound that reminds him of being sixteen, and wraps her legs around his waist. It’s a showy move, one that they don’t do often. Wout isn’t going to be winning any competitions for upper body strength anytime soon and nothing kills the mood like tripping over a toy and both of them crashing to the ground.

They do have an audience this morning and, well, Wout isn’t above showing off a little bit. Especially when they have Mathieu’s undivided attention.

Her arms are thrown over Wout’s shoulders. Wout gives her a soft, lingering kiss before carrying her to the kitchen table. Once they get there, he sets her down so that she’s sitting on top of it, right in front of Mathieu’s greedy eyes.

Mathieu is almost entirely naked, only wearing a tight pair of plain white boxer briefs that are tenting obscenely over the bulge of his hardening cock. From this closer vantage point, Wout can observe the way Mathieu’s arms and chest flex underneath the restriction of the rope.

Wout feels his mouth fill with saliva, a sharp stab of desire lancing through his chest. The way he wants Mathieu is different from the way he wants Sarah. That’s why he didn’t recognize it at first. It wasn’t that same kind of overwhelming tenderness, that softness in the center of his chest. They were harsher, laced with the adrenaline spike of competition. Both a desire to be closer, to know him as intimately in every part of his life as on their bikes, and a desire to be far away, to never have to meet Mathieu’s gaze head on and feel that confusing and uncertain spark between them.

Since then, Wout has grown to accept the messiness, that complex tangle of emotions. Mathieu is as much a part of him as Sarah is. No matter how much he tried to deny it, Mathieu has been braided into the fabric of Wout’s life.

Even with Sarah in front of him and beneath him, Wout thinks about kissing Mathieu and tasting his moans. He wants to. But Mathieu had wanted to watch, had wanted to be forced to watch.

That’s the what, of course, and not the why; Wout isn’t sure Mathieu could even fully articulate the why. A pretty blush chased its way down his neck when he asked for it, though, and that’s always a sure sign it was something he’d thought about for a while. Sarah had been the one to wheedle the details out of him. She’d done it with a ruthless efficiency and a benevolent smile. Wout hadn’t thought he could be any more in love with her, but he was wrong.

He’d known Mathieu liked being restrained, held down or tied up, at the mercy of whatever they wanted to do to his helpless body. They’d already had plenty of fun with that one. Wout hadn’t really known that Mathieu liked to watch, much less watch the two of them together. At the beginning of their tentative relationship, Wout had felt self-conscious every time he kissed Sarah when Mathieu was in the same room. It might feel like a slap in the face, being reminded at every turn that Wout was married, that Wout and Sarah had something that preceded Mathieu’s involvement in it. But Mathew never seemed bothered. He would carry on as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Eventually, Wout stopped worrying about it.

Sarah pokes at his shoulder, getting his attention. When Wout looks at her, she raises one eyebrow at him, like she knows exactly where his mind had been. He grins back, apologetic. This is her plan. He’s just here to follow her lead.

Wout kisses her again. This time, instead of making it quick and easy, he draws it out into something filthy, with lots of tongue. They’re putting on a show here, even if it’s only an audience of one. Mathieu makes a soft, whimpering noise. Wout kisses Sarah deeper. His hands slide under the hem of her (his own) shirt, feeling the warm, bare skin underneath.

Sarah hums, pleased, as Wout cups her breast. Her arms wrap around Wout’s shoulders. She pulls him closer. Wout knows the map of her body, knows exactly how to get her to squirm. He knows the jokes about old married couples, the idea that familiarity breeds contempt. It’s never been true for him. At least not when it comes to her. Familiarity has only managed to breed more love, more adoration.

It’s not so different with Mathieu. Years and years of racing against each other, and the rush Wout gets on the bike is still the same. The same head-spinning joy when he wins and the same soul-crushing agony when he loses.

Wout blinks his eyes open as Sarah pulls away. She licks at her bottom lip. Wout just bit it. He wants to bite it again. She pushes down on Wout’s shoulders, a clear signal, and he folds to his knees, careful not to slam them against the tiled floor.

Mathieu lets out a disappointed whine as Wout lets Sarah’s shirt fall, hiding her breasts from view again. Sarah shoots him an annoyed look, not so different from the one she uses on the boys when they’re misbehaving.

Mathieu quiets immediately. Wout ducks his head to hide his smirk.

When Sarah turns her attention back to him, Wout tilts his head in question. She nods. Wout places his hands on the outside of her knees and slides them up her bare thighs. She’s not wearing any bottoms. His fingers find the edge of her underwear. She shivers at the touch.

Wout eases the panties down and over her legs. He leans in so he can breathe in the familiar scent of her. Dark and musky. At one point in his life, he heard that smell is the sense most strongly tied to memory. It’s easy to believe that while he’s nestled between her thighs.

He flicks his tongue out to taste her, and she groans. Her fingers tangle in his hair. Since they don’t have to go anywhere or do anything today, he’s left it loose and messy, free from gel. Wout lets his eyes drift closed, ready to lose himself in the moment, but they spring open when he hears Mathieu say, “I want— please.”

Wout turns to look at him. Mathieu is straining against the ropes around his arms and chest. His muscles pull against the restriction. He cranes his neck, showing off the long line of it, to get a better view of the space between Sarah’s legs. The angle is all wrong for it, though.

Sarah narrows her eyes. “Did I say you could talk?” she asks.

Her grip on Wout’s hair tightens. This is one of the parameters they’d originally set. Mathieu had mumbled something about wanting to be ignored, for the two of them to act like he wasn’t there, while he turned bright red. Generally, Wout was the more lenient of the two of them. If Mathieu changed his mind and wanted to talk halfway through, Wout would roll with it. Sarah, on the other had, is much better about enforcing discipline. She has an unerring ability to tell exactly when Mathieu wanted it and when he didn’t.

Like now, for instance. Mathieu shuts his mouth. His teeth click together. He nods. If Wout knew how that trick worked, he would be using it all the time.

Sarah turns back to Wout and smiles. Her eyes spark, sharp and knowing. “Now where were we?” she asks.

Wout grins back. She runs a hand from his hair to his chin. Her palm cups his cheek, and he closes his eyes as he leans into the touch. He has to leave for training camp again in two weeks. He wants to soak up every tiny bit of her physical affection while he can, this taste of a normal and boring life.

The rhythm of professional cycling has become familiar and well-trodden for the two of them. Wout races. Wout trains. And sometimes in the middle of that, he gets to spend time with his family, too. He’s not overly eager for his eventual retirement, but he can admit that the thought of a life where he lives at home more often than not has its appeal.

And then there’s Mathieu.

Back before they’d worked things out, when the most Wout had shared with Mathieu was a few awkward, stilted conversations every year, Wout had felt an odd apprehension at the pit of his stomach at the thought of retirement. For a long time, he could tell himself it was just the fear of losing racing. Despite all the frustration and pain and the difficult trade-offs, it was something he loved. But he couldn’t lie to himself as he chased Mathieu through mud and over sand, feeling that burn in his lungs and his legs and loving every minute of it.

Now Mathieu is a fixture, a permanent part of Wout’s life, even more than he was before. Wout glances in his direction over the curve of Sarah’s thigh. Mathieu meets his gaze, though his eyes have a bright, watery sheen, the kind he gets when he’s really turned on. Wout thinks about taking him apart, about wrecking him. That’s what their relationship has always been about- pushing each other to their limits.

Sarah’s hand cups Wout’s chin, guiding his eyes back toward her. It’s a gentle correction. Wout still winces internally. He prides himself on his ability to focus, after all. She sighs as he kisses the inside of her thigh in apology.

Her body relaxes underneath his touch. It’s not a surrender, but it is a sign of trust. She knows he can make her feel good. He takes a deep breath, losing himself once again in the dark, musky smell of her wetness. And for all of her outward composure, she is wet. Wout runs his fingers over the slit, soaking them, before he follows with his lips and tongue. He closes his eyes and presses in closer. He lightly nips at her clit, enough to earn himself a shiver. Her legs tighten around his head. To be honest, he loves this part of it best, when the rest of his worries fall away and he can lose himself in the sensation of getting his wife off.

Wout presses his tongue inside her. She rolls her hips up to meet him. He can tell how she wants things on any given day by her reactions. Today, she’s feeling lazy and relaxed. Slow, unhurried. Not the frantic, desperate rush after too long apart, but the comfortable, easy touch of an extended amount of time together. He keeps his touch light, almost teasing, at first.

She melts into it and lets out a soft sigh. He loves that he can do this, that he knows how to make her feel good. It’s not enough of an apology for how much he’s asked her to sacrifice for his career, but it’s more than nothing.

After a few minutes, Sarah tugs at his hair, a sure sign she’s ready and eager for more. He ramps up the pace and the pressure. Her body tenses underneath his touch. Her breath quickens. Wout adds his fingers, sliding them inside as he puts his mouth on her clit. He doesn’t rush, though, keeping the rhythm measured and even. They have plenty of time. Her wetness coats his chin and cheeks. Not for the first time, he thinks he could die happy here, nestled between her legs.

Before long, she falls apart beneath him. A small, easy orgasm, the kind that will leave her wanting more. He works her through it anyway. When she catches her breath again, she lets go of the death grip on his hair.

After that, he pulls back a bit, licking his lips to keep the taste of her on his tongue. He gets to his feet, pushing upwards so he can press kisses to the knobs of her hips. Her hands stroke his back as he explores her belly and sides, the softness of them.

She’s still wearing his shirt. He pushes the hem up to expose more of her skin to his mouth. “Love you,” she says as he kisses his way over her ribs. Her voice is hazy, a bit unfocused, sex-drunk. Wout loves the sound of it. He loves being the cause of it.

He continues his journey upwards. The shirt gets shoved into Sarah’s armpits as he reveals her breasts. She isn’t wearing a bra — she never does when they’re not planning on leaving the house - so Wout has unobstructed access once the shirt is out of the way. He takes full advantage and mouths at the underside of one, then traces the curve of it with his lips and tongue.

When he gets his teeth on a nipple, Sarah shudders beneath him. A whine fills the air. Not from Sarah, but from Mathieu.

Wout turns his head to the side. Mathieu is breaking heavily now, in short, sharp breaths that make the broad expanse of his chest heave up and down. “Please,” he says. “I can’t–” His voice cracks on the last syllable. His face is twisted up in that same agonized expression he wears when he’s destroyed himself for a race. For years, Wout would see it in his mind’s eye during every training session, knowing that if he worked hard enough, if he made himself better and stronger, he could force Mathieu to that place. He could win it from Mathieu.

Sarah sits up and turns her head to face Mathieu as well. She’s shaken off most of the post-orgasm haze, and there’s a sharpness to her expression that Wout always associates with Georges trying to wander off in the wrong direction or Jerome trying to put something into his mouth that he shouldn’t. “You’re being selfish right now,” she says. Her tone isn’t mean, but even the mild disapproval in her voice makes Mathieu flinch. She continues, “Wout hasn’t even come yet.” She’s right. Wout’s cock is hard in his boxers and sweats, though there isn’t any urgency there. He wants to keep touching her more than he needs to get off.

Mathieu croaks out a, “Sorry.” His eyes flick over to Wout, and he licks his lips, leaving them wet. “But it’s– I–”

Sarah shakes her head. “If it’s too difficult for you,” she says, “Wout and I could go upstairs, finish what we started in the bedroom, while you can stay down here by yourself.” She reaches into Wout’s pants to cup his hard cock. Her hands coax a hiss from Wout’s mouth.

Wout doesn’t think she’d actually go through with the threat, but even the implication has Mathieu shaking his head in protest. “No. Please. Don’t,” he begs.

Sarah raises her eyebrows. “All right. If you promise to be good, you can watch as Wout fucks me right here.”

“But–” Mathieu whines, the pitch of his voice climbing upwards. “I just–”

Sarah nudges Wout back, much to Wout’s annoyance. He doesn’t think it’s fair that he get punished for Mathieu’s misbehavior. She makes a gesture to the floor. Years of co-habitation have taught him that this means she wants him to pick up whatever was dropped there. In this case, it’s her panties. He grabs them off the floor and places them into her gesturing hand. She smiles at him and gives him a pat on the arm. “Thank you,” she says, sweetly, to him.

Wout tries not to look too smug about the praise. Judging by the dark, annoyed glare Mathieu shoots at him, he’s not entirely successful.

Sarah clears her throat. Mathieu’s eyes snap back to her. “You’re having so much trouble behaving. I think maybe you could use some help.” She takes her panties — still damp with her wetness — and shoves them into Mathieu’s slack-jawed mouth.

Mathieu had already been flushed pink and sweaty. As Sarah gags him with her underwear, his cheeks go bright red, and his nostrils flare, but he doesn’t resist. He could probably spit them out if he wanted to. He doesn’t. Instead, he sucks in rough, panting breaths through his nose. He shivers. It looks like his whole body is vibrating.

Wout wants to bite him. He wants to taste Mathieu’s desperation.

“There,” Sarah says. “Isn’t that better?” She gives Mathieu one last pat on the check.

Mathieu’s eyes have glazed over a bit, but he still manages to nod in response.

“Good boy,” Sarah says. She rewards him with an approving smile.

Then she grabs a fistful of Wout’s shirt and yanks him closer. Wout stumbles forward, catching himself before he topples them both over. His cock ends up pressed between her legs. Even through layers of clothing, Wout can feel how wet and how warm she is. His hips twitch forward, chasing after more friction.

Wout forces himself back into stillness. It takes all of the careful bodily discipline he’s developed over a decade of being a professional athlete to do so.

Sarah pets his hair as he leans down to kiss her again. He can feel her smile against his lips. “Make it look good,” she murmurs, not loud enough for Mathieu to hear. Her other hand reaches between their bodies to tug Wout’s sweats and boxers just low enough to free his cock.

Wout chuckles under his breath. He peeks in Mathieu’s direction out of the corner of his eyes. Mathieu’s face isn’t quite so red anymore. His breath is somewhat more even. A line of drool leaks from the corner of his mouth around the makeshift gag. He stares at them both, eyes wide and unblinking.

Sarah lays back again, showily throwing one leg over Wout’s shoulder. She’s been doing yoga classes while Georges is at school, and she’s proud of what it’s done to her flexibility. “Fuck me,” she tells him.

She is so beautiful like this: hair falling out of her bun and sticking to her neck and forehead, eyes half-lidded with arousal, the collar of the t-shirt sliding down over one shoulder, exposing the angles of her collarbones to the morning light coming through the windows. He hopes – he knows – Mathieu is appreciating the view just as much as he is.

Wout has never considered filming himself having sex. He thinks it would make him feel more self-conscious than anything else. He already spends too much of his life being photographed and filmed, forced to know his angles and what his face looks like during both the best and worst moments of his life. He has seen his fair share of porn, though, and well, all that time being posed in front of cameras had to pay off when performing for a live audience, right?

He lines his lips up with Sarah’s and finally, finally slides into her. They let out matching groans. She is wet and tight and hot around him. He feels like he’s been hard for hours, and the sudden rush of pleasure leaves him feeling light-headed and dizzy.

Mathieu makes a muffled, almost desperate, noise around his gag. Wout wonders what he sees when he watches them together like this. Mathieu always looks fond when Wout is in the living room, playing with the boys or when Sarah is at her desk, paying off their monthly bills or when they’re watching the latest Disney movie on the TV and Sarah falls asleep on Wout’s shoulder. They’ve carved out space for Mathieu in their lives, and yet, he still likes the reminder of what life looks like without him.

Wout doesn’t think he’ll ever quite understand it, but maybe he doesn’t have to. He leans over, Pushing Sarah’s leg up over her head, and kisses her. She moans softly into his mouth as he slides in deeper.

They don’t do it like this often, out in the open. Even when the kids are with their grandparents — like they are today — it never seems worth the effort. There’s prep and supplies to worry about beforehand, then cleanup of the common areas afterward. Easier to deal with all those complications. When Wout and Sarah were younger, still teenagers as desperately horny as they were in love, they would sneak around, dodging parents and siblings, finding any place they could be alone together. More often than not, that would be a cramped backseat or one of their bedrooms, someplace private and hidden away.

Wout can’t say he’s not enjoying the novelty, though. It feels like they’re breaking the rules to fuck out here where they eat their separate breakfasts and their joint dinners. He rolls his hips again, and Sarah digs her fingers into his shoulders.

“Is this good enough?” he murmurs into her ear. He is holding himself up, keeping his weight from resting on hers. She could take it. Easily. But this way, Mathieu has a clear view of the place where they’re joined.

Sarah laughs a soft, tiny laugh. She shifts her hips up to meet his, rocking in time with his thrusts. She knows his body better than anyone else in the world, for all his coach scrutinizes his power numbers and Mathieu can read his form in half a glance. She was by his side as he grew out of his clothes every two months and when he tore open his leg and when he was on top of the world in yellow and green for three weeks in July. He kisses her again, sliding their lips together, swallowing down her moans. He can feel Mathieu’s eyes on them. His focus and attention has always had a heavy, tangible weight. It makes Wout’s skin prickle. He fucks Sarah deeper. He gives Mathieu something to watch. She arches her back, seeking more heat, more friction. Wout gives it to her. His skin feels too tight. The pleasure is making his fingers tingle. Mathieu lets out a muffled whimper, choked, and the sound of it is matched by his chair scraping across the tiled floor as he strains against his bonds. Wout can’t blame him. Sarah must be the most gorgeous thing in the entire world right now.

“Yeah,” she whispers against Wout’s lips. Her voice has gone fuzzy. Wout’s the one who got her there, the one who is making her feel good. He’s going to make her come again while Mathieu watches, while Mathieu can do nothing but watch.

Wout shifts his weight so that he can find Sarah’s clit with his fingers. He doesn’t bother with teasing this time. He feels close to tipping over himself, and he wants her to get there first. She tenses beneath him. Her whole body clenches. Wout grits his teeth, holds himself back from the brink, pulls out every trick in the book, working her over with his hand and his cock. Mathieu moans from somewhere deep inside his chest, stifled and reedy.

Sarah throws her head back when she comes. It makes a soft thank when it hits the table. She lets out a soft gasp. It’s just tightness and heat as Wout fucks her through it. She shivers and shakes. Her fingernails leave indents in the back of his neck.

Wout’s vision goes blurry at the corners as the pleasure chases its way up his spine. He comes with a groan, emptying himself deep inside her. He doesn’t collapse onto her, even as the orgasm steals some of the strength from his body. He manages to catch himself on his forearms. Sarah pets his hair as he catches his breath. Her smile is warm and her eyes are bright.

“Mmm, that was good,” she says. She looks so entirely calm and relaxed, emptied of the stress that hangs over her from managing all their day-to-day affairs. She gives Wout a nudge. “Though I think you have one last thing to take care of.” She flicks her eyes in Mathieu’s direction.

Mathieu is still staring at them. Wout wonders if he’s looked away or blinked once since they started. A string of increasingly desperate whimpers emerges from Mathieu’s throat. A fine sheen of sweat coats his neck and chest. There’s a damp patch soaked through the front of his boxers, made all the more obvious by the white fabric. He looks like he’s teetering on the edge. All it would take is a strong breeze to push him over.

Wout kisses Sarah’s cheek as he pulls out. She gives him a radiant smile and a pat on the shoulder. Mathieu’s eyes get even wider as Wout rearranges his chair, pulling it back from the table far enough that Wout can slide into the space between his legs. From this angle, Wout can see Mathieu’s hands clench and unclench where they’re tied behind his back.

His muscles strain beautifully against the rope. It’s incredible to watch, like there’s some terrible, beautiful, animal thing under his skin trying to get out.

Wout says, “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” and folds to his knees again. He presses a kiss to the inside of Mathieu’s knee, much in the same way he kissed the inside of Sarah’s knee earlier. He can still taste her on his tongue. Mathieu groans like he’s dying.

The first time Wout did this, they’d been at Mathieu’s place, just the two of them. Mathieu had been skittish because he didn’t quite trust Sarah’s insistence that she was fine with this, and Wout had been a ball of nerves because he had never sucked another man’s cock before. Wout is still pretty sure he was terrible at it at the time — too much teeth and discovering all sorts of things about his gag relax — but Mathieu still moaned and tried to yank Wout’s hair by the roots when he came, so Wout is still proud of his performance.

Wout won’t have to put in half as much this time given how worked up Mathieu is. He doesn’t bother working the boxers down or freeing Mathieu’s cock. Instead, he puts his mouth on the wet patch, soaking it further with his saliva.

Mathieu’s hips twitch forward as he tries to get more. Wout uses his hands to force them into stillness. The fabric tastes mostly like cotton, but Wout still chases after the hints of salty pre-come with his tongue. He can hear Sarah shifting above him, legs swinging over the edge of the table as she joins them.

“You’ve been so good for us,” she says. Wout glances up in time to see her pluck the panties from Mathieu’s mouth. She drops them onto the floor again at Wout’s side.

“Please,” Mathieu chokes out. His voice has a raspy tinge. His heavy breaths are loud in the otherwise quiet room. He leans his head forward, begging for contact. Sarah obliges him with a kiss.

“You can come now,” Sarah says. “We want you to.” Mathieu lets out a keening wail, and the boxers get even wetter as spills inside them. Wout keeps up the attention with his mouth, savoring that taste until Mathieu is hissing with oversensitivity.

Wout pulls back and stands up. He licks his lips. They must be swollen and red by now, an obvious sign of what they’ve been up to. Sarah has already hopped off the table to circle Mathieu’s chair. Her smaller fingers make quick work of the knots. Wout helps her loosen the ropes.

As soon as Mathieu is free he slumps to the side, crashing into Wout’s arms. “Fuck,” he slurs out. Wout kisses his neck, buries his nose in Mathieu’s shoulder. It had felt strange to have Mathieu in the room and not be allowed to do this. Mathieu continues, “You’re both so fucking hot together.”

Sarah pets his hair, and with that same unerring instinct of hers, says, “And you belong to us. Both of us.”

Mathieu leans into her touch like a cat. Wout has seen so many different smiles from Mathieu over the years — frozen, rictus grins when he’s uncomfortable; stiff, tight, barely-curled lips when taking selfies with fans; beaming and joyous from the top step. The one he’s wearing right now has to be Wout’s favorite: soft-edged and dopey, too happy to be self-conscious of how much teeth he’s showing. “Yeah,” Mathieu says, “I do.”