Chapter 15: Masquerade Games
The mask was a stupid thing, a strip of black satin with silver filigree that did nothing to hide his face. Matthew adjusted it for the tenth time, the tie digging into his hair. The Italian Embassy’s ballroom swirled around him, a kaleidoscope of sequined gowns, dark tuxedos, and more elaborate masks—feathered, bejeweled, sinister. The air was warm, thick with perfume, champagne bubbles, and the low, multi-lingual hum of diplomatic ritual.
He clung to the periphery, a cold flute of prosecco sweating in his hand. He’d been avoiding this all week. Avoiding the DEA annex where Brandon worked. Avoiding Arturo’s knowing glances in the embassy hallway. He’d conducted meetings, written reports, and gone home to sterile video calls with Conrad, all while feeling like a man waiting for a trap to spring.
“You look like you’re planning a jailbreak.”
Laura appeared at his elbow, resplendent in a cobalt blue dress, her mask a simple, elegant silver half-face. She sipped her drink, her eyes sharp and amused above the rim.
“I’m weighing the viability of the fire exit,” Matthew muttered.
“Too obvious. You’d cause a scene. The trick is to develop a sudden, convincing gastrointestinal emergency.” She leaned in. “Though, given the company, maybe you already have one. I saw your Mr. Weber glowering by the canapés. He looks like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with his mind.”
Matthew followed her discreet gaze. Brandon stood alone near a towering floral arrangement, his mask a plain black domino that did little to soften the severe line of his jaw. He held a tumbler of something amber, not champagne. He wasn’t mingling. He was a statue of contained tension in a room of easy motion.
“He’s not my Mr. Weber,” Matthew said, the lie automatic.
“Sure. And I’m the Queen of England.” Laura patted his arm. “The sexual energy between you two at the Fourth of July thing could’ve powered a small suburb. Now it just looks like someone died. What happened?”
“Panama.”
“Ah.” Laura’s expression shifted from teasing to gentle concern. “The plot thickens. And then there’s the charming Arturo, who has been circling you all evening like a very well-dressed shark. You’re the messy little reef everyone wants to claim.”
As if summoned, Matthew felt a familiar presence. He didn’t need to turn to know Arturo was nearby. He could sense him, a change in the atmospheric pressure. When he finally glanced, Arturo was leaning against a gilded pillar, talking animatedly to a junior French trade attaché. He wore a blood-red mask that matched his pocket square, and his smile was a weapon. He didn’t look at Matthew, but his entire posture was a broadcast, a performance just for him.
Matthew’s stomach churned. “I need air.”
He set his glass on a passing waiter’s tray and shouldered his way toward a set of French doors that opened onto a stone terrace. The cooler night air was a relief. The terrace was dotted with a few other escapees, their cigarette tips glowing like fireflies. He walked to the far balustrade, overlooking a manicured garden, and gripped the cold stone.
The sounds of the ball faded to a murmur. He breathed in the scent of jasmine and distant traffic.
He wasn’t alone for long.
He heard the measured footsteps on stone before he saw him. The familiar, silent approach. Brandon came to stand beside him, not too close. He placed his glass on the balustrade. Up close, Matthew could see the fatigue etched around his eyes, the tight set of his mouth beneath the simple mask.
For a full minute, neither spoke. The distant city glittered.
“I’ve been avoiding you,” Brandon said finally, his voice low and rough.
“I noticed.”
“I needed to think.”
“And what did you think?” Matthew asked, staring straight ahead.
Brandon shifted his weight. “I thought about walking away. For good. It’s the smart move. The only move.” He paused, the words fighting their way out. “But I can’t. I keep thinking about Panama. The shower. The way you… the way it felt before it all went to shit. I can’t get it out of my head.”
Matthew turned to look at him then. The raw confession in Brandon’s voice was a physical ache. “Brandon…”
“I’m not good at this,” Brandon interrupted, his gaze fixed on the garden below. “Talking. Feelings. I spent twenty years building a life that made sense. Wife, kids, job. And now it’s all… this. You. And I’m terrified. But I’m more terrified of letting it go.” He finally looked at Matthew, his eyes stark behind the mask. “I’m not ready to let it go.”
The vulnerability was shocking, coming from him. It was a crack in the armor, and Matthew felt a surge of something perilously close to hope. He remembered the weight of him, the surprising softness of his touch. The loss of it had left a void the frantic, empty encounters with Arturo could never fill.
“Conrad is still coming,” Matthew said, because he had to. “It’s… we’re trying. I don’t know what that means.”
Brandon’s jaw tightened. “I know. And I hate it. But I’m telling you I’m here. That I want to be here. However fucked up and impossible that is.”
He reached out then, his hand covering Matthew’s on the cold stone. The touch was electric, a jolt of pure, undiluted connection. It was nothing like the calculated grazes from Arturo. This was a claim, desperate and real. Matthew’s fingers curled under his.
It was at that exact moment, from the shadowed doorway back to the ballroom, that Matthew sensed the shift. He felt the weight of a gaze.
Arturo stood framed in the light, his red mask making him look like a watching demon. He held two fresh flutes of champagne. He wasn’t smiling. His eyes, visible above the mask, traveled slowly from Matthew’s face, down to their joined hands on the balustrade, and back up. His expression was one of intense, hungry curiosity.
Brandon, sensing the intrusion, dropped Matthew’s hand as if it were hot iron. He took a step back, his posture snapping back into rigid professionalism, the vulnerability vanishing as if it had never been.
Arturo sauntered over, the click of his shoes on stone deliberate. “There you are,” he said, his voice light, conversational. He handed a flute to Matthew, ignoring Brandon completely. “They’re pouring a very nice Franciacorta. I thought you might need rescuing from the diplomatic small talk.” His eyes flicked to Brandon. “Agent Weber. I didn’t see you there. Enjoying the party?”
Brandon gave a terse nod. “It’s an event.”
“Indeed.” Arturo took a sip, his gaze lingering on Brandon. “You look tense. You should have a drink. It’s a party, not a surveillance operation.” He turned his attention back to Matthew, a sly smile playing on his lips. “Of course, sometimes the most interesting things happen in the shadows, no?”
The subtext was a scream. Matthew’s heart hammered against his ribs. He felt pinned between the two of them—Brandon’s stormy, repressed longing and Arturo’s razor-edged gamesmanship.
“We were just getting some air,” Matthew said, his voice too tight.
“Of course. It’s stifling in there.” Arturo moved to stand on Matthew’s other side, mirroring Brandon’s position, creating a strange, tense triangle. He looked out at the garden. “It’s a beautiful night for secrets.”
Brandon’s silence was volcanic. Matthew could feel the heat of his anger and shame radiating across the space between them.
Arturo leaned in closer to Matthew, his shoulder brushing Matthew’s arm. He spoke just loudly enough for Brandon to hear. “I was thinking about our conversation the other night, jefe. About shared understandings. It seems the opportunity might be… ripening.” He let his eyes drift meaningfully toward Brandon.
Brandon stiffened. “What’s he talking about, Matthew?”
“Nothing,” Matthew said quickly. “It’s nothing.”
Arturo’s smile didn’t waver, but his eyes cooled. He shrugged, a fluid, dismissive motion. “If you say so.” He drained his champagne. “The Ambassador is about to give a painfully long speech. I, for one, require another drink before enduring it.” He gave a mock salute with his empty flute. “Gentlemen.”
The word hung in the cool air between them, a gauntlet thrown. Arturo disappeared back into the glittering throng, leaving a vacuum of silence on the terrace. Brandon stared at the space where he’d been, his breath a faint cloud in the night air.
He turned to Matthew, his eyes narrow slits behind the domino mask. “What shared understanding?”
“It’s not what you think.” Matthew’s voice sounded thin, defensive. He hated it.
“He was in your apartment.” It wasn’t a question. Brandon’s jaw worked. “The night we got back. I drove by. Saw his car. I told myself it was work.” A sharp, pained laugh escaped him. “Stupid.”
The confession of surveillance should have felt invasive. Instead, it felt like a hemorrhage of truth. “Brandon, listen to me.”
“No. You listen.” Brandon took a step closer, his voice dropping to a raw, urgent whisper. “You asked me to be honest on this terrace. That’s what this is. I am so fucking jealous I can taste it. Of him. Of your ex on a screen. Of anyone who gets to touch you without feeling like they’re committing a crime.” He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging his mask slightly. “And I know I have no right. I’m the one who can’t go public. I’m the fucking problem. But seeing him look at you like that… seeing him know…”
He trailed off, the admission stripping him bare. Matthew saw the man from the Panama shower, all wounded pride and desperate need. The careful DEA agent was gone. This was just Brandon, exposed.
“Nothing happened with Arturo that meant anything,” Matthew said, which was both true and a profound lie. “It was just… noise. To fill the silence after you left.”
Brandon absorbed this, his gaze searching Matthew’s face. “And does it work? Does the noise help?”
“No.” The answer was immediate, absolute. “It just makes the quiet worse when it comes back.”
They stood like that for a long moment, the distant music from the ballroom swelling into a waltz. The mask gave them a strange liberty; they could stare without the full weight of their titles, their histories. Matthew saw the conflict warring in Brandon’s eyes—fear, desire, a weary, burning hope.
“Come back inside with me,” Matthew said softly, an offering.
Brandon gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. “Okay.”
The ballroom was a different creature upon their return. The Italian Ambassador’s speech had concluded, and the formal atmosphere had fractured into something looser, warmer. The chamber orchestra switched to a livelier tempo. Couples moved onto the parquet floor, a swirl of color and motion beneath the chandeliers.
Waiters circulated with fresh bottles, filling glasses without asking. Matthew took another flute, the bubbles sharp and stinging on his tongue. Brandon refused, keeping his post by a pillar, but his eyes tracked Matthew through the crowd.
Then, through the haze of champagne and masks, he was there. Brandon’s hand, firm on his elbow, turning him.
Without a word, Brandon pulled him onto the edge of the dance floor. It wasn’t graceful. It was all blunt intention. He placed one hand on Matthew’s waist, the other clasping his hand, holding them in a stiff, formal frame. They moved, a halting approximation of the waltz.
“I don’t really dance,” Brandon muttered, his body rigid.
“It’s fine,” Matthew said, his throat tight. The heat of Brandon’s hand bled through his tuxedo jacket.
As they turned, Matthew saw Arturo watching from the sidelines, a fresh glass in hand. He was leaning against the grand piano, a portrait of amused predation. He raised his glass in a tiny, ironic toast.
Then the music swelled, and the crowd pressed closer. The anonymity of the masks, the flow of champagne, the sheer improbability of holding Brandon Weber in public—it coalesced into a dizzying rush. Brandon’s rigid posture softened a fraction, his arm tightening, pulling Matthew just an inch closer.
That’s when he felt it.
Another presence, slotting in behind him. A second set of arms encircled his waist, hands splaying flat against his stomach. The scent of sandalwood cut through the floral perfume of the room.
Arturo.
Matthew froze, but Arturo’s body moved with the music, pressing flush against his back. Brandon’s eyes widened over Matthew’s shoulder, his step faltering. Arturo’s lips found the exposed skin at the nape of Matthew’s neck. The kiss was hot, open-mouthed, a blatant claim.
A shudder wracked Matthew’s frame. The shock melted, liquefied by champagne and the surreal pageantry of it all. Brandon’s grip on his hand tightened, a vise. He wasn’t pulling away. He was staring, hypnotized, at the man attached to Matthew’s back.
Matthew turned his head slightly, and his lips met Brandon’s.
It was not gentle. It was a collision of pent-up everything—Panama’ betrayal, the lonely weeks, the terrace confession. Brandon kissed back with a desperate, furious hunger, his free hand coming up to cup the side of Matthew’s face. All while Arturo’s mouth worked on his neck, his hips gently rocking Matthew forward into Brandon’s hold.
The world dissolved into a haze of sensation: the slide of satin, the crush of bodies, the taste of champagne on Brandon’s tongue, the sharp bite of Arturo’s teeth on his shoulder. The masks did their job. They were not three men with impossible complications. They were just bodies in the dark, anonymous and free.
Arturo’s voice was a hot whisper in his ear, barely audible over the music. “See? No thinking. Just feeling. Let’s get out of this zoo.” His breath hitched as he watched Brandon break the kiss, his own lips parted. “My place is ten minutes away. No one will see a thing.”
He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand slid down Matthew’s arm, fingers interlocking with his, and he began to lead them off the dance floor. He moved with confident purpose, weaving through the crowd toward a side entrance marked for staff.
Matthew, his head spinning, stumbled after him. He glanced back. Brandon stood rooted for a heartbeat, his chest heaving. Then, with a look of sheer reckless abandon Matthew had never seen on him, he followed.
They spilled out into a quiet service alley, the sudden cool air a shock. A black Lincoln town car idled at the curb, as if pre-ordained. Arturo opened the door and guided Matthew inside with a gentle push.
Matthew slid across the cool leather, the reality of it slamming into him. Brandon ducked in after him, filling the space with his tense, muscular bulk. Arturo climbed in last, pulling the door shut on the muted sounds of the ball.
“La Condesa, por favor,” Arturo told the driver, his voice perfectly calm.
The car pulled smoothly into the night. Matthew sat between them, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could feel the heat radiating from both men. He stared straight ahead, watching the illuminated streets of Polanco glide past.
He couldn’t believe they were really going to do this.
He couldn't believe they were really going to do this. The car's hushed interior amplified every sound: the rustle of Brandon shifting, Arturo's calm breathing, the wet sound of his own lips parting. No one spoke. The air was thick with intent, a live wire strung taut between the three of them. Matthew’s mind scrabbled for purchase, for the familiar handholds of consequence and protocol, but found only the slick, vertiginous pull of what was coming.
The car turned into the familiar cobbled streets of La Condesa, where Arturo’s building stood, anonymous and elegant. When the driver stopped, Arturo slid out a crisp bill and said, “No waiting.” The finality of the instruction thrummed in the night air. Matthew stepped onto the sidewalk, the summer pavement still holding the day's warmth through his thin soles. Brandon emerged last, a shadow detaching itself from the vehicle, his tie loosened, the top button of his shirt undone.
Arturo unlocked the ornate wooden door without a backward glance, holding it open until they both passed through. The foyer was dark, cool, smelling of polished stone and faint damp. They ascended a narrow, winding staircase in single file, the climb a physical countdown. Matthew stared at the back of Arturo’s jacket, at the confident set of his shoulders. From behind, he could feel Brandon’s presence like a furnace at his back.
On the third floor, Arturo unlocked his door. It swung open into darkness, and he flicked a switch. The light from a single amber lamp in the living room illuminated sleek furniture and bookshelves groaning with political tomes. It felt scholarly.Safe. The illusion lasted two seconds.
Arturo closed the door, and the lock slid home with a soft, definitive click.
The sound severed the last thread of pretense.
In the dim, quiet room, the pressure that had built in the car, on the dance floor, in Panama, snapped. Matthew turned, and there was Brandon, already close, his haunted eyes blazing with a potent mix of fear and fury and want. Matthew reached for him, fumbling for the front of his rented tuxedo shirt.
His hands found the stiff fabric. He didn’t unbutton it. He grabbed the placket and yanked, hard. Buttons pinged against the hardwood floor, skittering into the shadows. The shirt tore open, revealing Brandon’s broad, hairy chest. Matthew flattened his palms against the warm, dense muscle, his fingers digging into the coarse dark hair he’d only felt in steam and half-light. Brandon gasped, a sharp intake of air, but didn’t pull away. He stood there, letting himself be exposed, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
“Yes,” Arturo murmured from beside them, a pleased spectator. He watched them for another beat, the intellectual appreciation clear on his face.
Then he moved.
Arturo approached from the side, his movements fluid and purposeful. His clever hands went to Matthew’s bow tie, pulling it loose with a single, practiced tug. He worked open Matthew’s studs, each tiny release a deliberate click. Matthew’s tuxedo jacket slid from his shoulders, caught by Arturo and dropped heedlessly to the floor.
As Arturo’s hands slipped under Matthew’s now-open shirt, pushing it off, Matthew twisted slightly, his own hands leaving Brandon’s chest to clutch at Arturo. He fumbled with Arturo’s silk waistcoat, the fine buttons, his urgency making him clumsy. He gave up and simply pulled the shirt free from Arturo’s trousers, yanking it up and over his head.
Arturo raised his arms, allowing it, a faint smile on his lips. Matthew’s hands landed on the smooth, taut skin of Arturo’s stomach and chest. The contrast was dizzying: where Brandon was a landscape of hard-earned bulk and rough texture, Arturo was sculpted and sleek, a different kind of strength.
“See?” Arturo whispered, guiding Matthew’s hand to his own pectoral. “Smooth.”
Then he took both men by the wrist, his grip firm. “Come on.”
He led them through an arched doorway into his bedroom. It was dominated by a large, low platform bed, the sheets a rumpled charcoal gray. A streetlamp’s diffuse glow seeped around the edges of the blinds, striping the room in bands of muted light. Arturo released them.
There were no more words.
They undressed in a frantic, chaotic ballet of tangled limbs and discarded fabric. Shoes kicked off. Trousers and briefs shoved down, stepped out of. Their masks, the last remnants of the public charade, were torn off and dropped. In less than a minute, they were all naked in the striped half-light, breathing hard, a triptych of skin and shadow.
Matthew stood between them, his body thrumming with adrenaline. He had no plan, no script. He was simply an object of acute, competing focus.
Arturo leaned in first, capturing Matthew’s mouth in a deep, probing kiss, one hand sliding down to grip his ass. As he did, Brandon came from behind, his big hands mapping Matthew’s ribs, his stomach, moving lower. His mouth found the juncture of Matthew’s neck and shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin. Matthew moaned into Arturo’s mouth, his head spinning.
Arturo broke the kiss, turning Matthew slightly, and their mouths found Brandon’s. It was less a kiss than a messy, wet clash of lips and tongue, three ways, until Brandon pulled back, a low growl in his throat. He dropped to his knees behind Matthew.
His broad hands spread Matthew’s ass cheeks. His mouth, hot and wet and relentless, found his entrance. The sensation was electric, shocking in its intimacy. Matthew cried out, his knees buckling. Arturo held him upright, a steadying force, watching with rapt, clinical fascination as Brandon’s tongue worked him open.
“Christ, look at you,” Arturo breathed, his own erection pressing against Matthew’s hip. “The big, bad DEA agent on his knees for you.”
Brandon’s answer was a wet, filthy sound and a firmer thrust of his tongue. Matthew gripped Arturo’s shoulders, nails digging in, overwhelmed by the dual assault of sensation—Arturo’s skilled mouth on his neck, Brandon’s relentless tongue below. It was unhinging. He was dissolving under their shared attention.
Arturo guided him backward until the backs of his knees hit the bed. “Down.”
Matthew collapsed onto the cool sheets, and they converged on him like animals. It was no longer coordinated. It was a hungry, parallel takeover. Brandon kissed him, his tongue still tasting of Matthew’s own skin, while Arturo moved down his body, sucking a bruise onto his inner thigh.
Their hands were everywhere, competing, claiming. Brandon wrapped a fist around Matthew’s cock, his calloused grip almost painfully tight. “You’re so hard,” he groaned into Matthew’s mouth. “You fucking love this, don’t you?”
At the same time, Arturo’s slicked finger pressed into him alongside the ghost of Brandon’s tongue, stretching him further. Matthew writhed, a high, desperate sound caught in his throat. He was pinned between the hard, hairy weight of Brandon above him and the slick, relentless advance of Arturo below.
“Yes,” he finally gasped, an admission and a plea. “God, yes.”
Arturo added a second finger, scissoring them. Brandon’s hand sped up on his cock, the pace punishing. “Fuck, Matthew,” Brandon panted, his forehead damp against Matthew’s. “The sounds you’re making.”
Arturo withdrew his fingers. He looked at Brandon. “You want it first? I feel like you’ve earned it.”
The competitive glint was unmistakable. Brandon’s eyes, black in the dim light, met Arturo’s. He gave a sharp, single nod.
Matthew was flipped onto his stomach with a rough, efficient strength that came from Brandon. He felt the bed dip behind him, and then Brandon’s weight settled over him, blanketing him. There was no more foreplay, no gentle question. Brandon’s thick cock, guided by his own hand, pressed against him and pushed inside in one relentless, burning stroke.
It was more than he was ready for. Matthew gasped, his face mashed into the sheets, his fingers clutching at the fabric. Brandon seated himself to the hilt, his body trembling with the effort of holding still for a heartbeat. “Fuck, fuck,” he chanted, a broken litany. Then he began to move.
His thrusts were deep, hard, punctuated by heavy breaths. It was fucking as an act of possession, of proving something. Each drive pushed Matthew up the bed.
Arturo appeared in front of him, kneeling, his own cock inches from Matthew’s face. “Open,” he commanded, his voice gentle but firm.
Matthew opened his mouth, and Arturo pushed inside, hitting the back of his throat. The dual penetration was absolute, a total usurpation of his senses. He was stretched, filled, and used from both ends, a conduit for their rivalry. Brandon’s grunts filled his ears; Arturo’s salty taste filled his mouth. The world shrank to the slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the animal sounds they all made.
Arturo cradled his head, fucking his mouth with shallow, controlled thrusts, watching Brandon piston into Matthew's ass. "Look at him take you, Brandon," Arturo said, his voice ragged. "He takes your whole fucking cock so well."
"Shut up," Brandon grunted, but his thrusts grew wilder, deeper.
Matthew could feel the coil of his own orgasm winding impossibly tight, pulled by two masters. It wasn't about love, or even connection anymore. It was about this obliterating, shared passion, this obsessive need to wring a reaction from his body. He gave himself over to it completely.He surrendered. The tension, the politics, the fear—it all melted under the raw, physical truth of their bodies.
Brandon’s rhythm shattered. His thrusts became erratic, brutal. He let out a choked roar, his body seizing as he came deep inside, his release hot and endless. He collapsed onto Matthew, his full weight a crushing, wonderful finality.
Arturo pulled his cock from Matthew's mouth with a wet pop. “My turn,” he whispered, his eyes alight.
Brandon rolled off, spent and breathing in ragged gulps. Before Matthew could even process the emptiness, Arturo was moving behind him. He didn't re-enter him. He hauled Matthew onto his side, his back against Brandon's still-heaving chest. Brandon's arm came around him, holding him, not letting him go even now.
Arturo lay facing them. He spat into his palm, slicking himself, then took Matthew's limp cock in his other hand. He began to stroke him, his grip perfect, twisting on the upstroke, his thumb smearing precum over the head. At the same time, he rutted against Matthew’s thigh, his own cock leaving wet trails on his skin.
It was an act of startling intimacy amidst the brutality. Brandon watched, his breath hot on Matthew’s neck, his arm tightening. Arturo’s dark eyes were locked on Matthew’s, watching every flicker of pleasure, every wince of overstimulation.
“You’re going to come for me now, jefe,” Arturo breathed, his strokes becoming faster, more insistent. “You’re going to let go.”
Matthew could feel the peak rushing at him, a tidal wave. It was too much and everything all at once. “Arturo… I…”
“Yes,” Arturo urged, shifting to grind his cock harder against him, his rhythm on Matthew's cock becoming punishing. “Come on. Do it.”
His climax tore through him with a violence that was almost painful, a white-hot detonation that arched his back and ripped a raw, throat-shredding cry from his lungs. He came in hot stripes across his own stomach and Arturo’s hand, his body shaking uncontrollably in Brandon’s hold.
Seeing it, feeling Matthew convulse, Arturo tipped over the edge. He gave a few final, rough thrusts against Matthew’s thigh, cursing in Spanish as he came, his release spilling between them.Silence.
It was a heavy, breathing silence, thick with the smells of sweat and sex and release. Matthew’s body hummed, a wrecked, sensitive thing. Brandon’s arm was still around him, solid as an anchor. Arturo lay facing them, a faint, satisfied smile on his lips as he caught his breath.
No one moved. The three of them lay in a tangled, damp knot on the ruined sheets. The room seemed smaller. The sounds of the city outside filtered back in, a distant siren, a dog barking.
Matthew closed his eyes, the adrenaline leeching away, leaving something hollow and awed in its place. He had given himself over, and they had taken. He had no idea what came after this.
Brandon shifted slightly, his breath evening out. One of his big hands came up, tentative, and brushed a sweat-damp strand of hair from Matthew’s forehead.
It was a tender gesture. In this room of filth and possession, it felt like the most dangerous thing of all.