Chapter 7: Latavius
The insistent buzz of Bruce’s phone on the teak side table cut through the lazy afternoon haze. Sunlight streamed through the bungalow’s open shutters, painting stripes across the worn hardwood floor. The air hung thick with the rich aroma of freshly brewed Colombian coffee and the faint, smoky undertone of a jazz trumpet playing somewhere down the street. Camille lay sprawled across the plush rug, her head in Lena’s lap as Lena absently braided a strand of her dark hair. Bruce, stretched out in a worn leather armchair, felt the vibration travel up his leg.
He grabbed the phone. A text from Marcus.
Yo B. Got a question. Been talking to my little bro, Latavius. 24, respectful. Got that same… family trait, you feel me? But bigger. Way bigger. He saw a couple pics Lena posted – the tame ones, poolside? Kid hasn’t spoken a full sentence to me since. Starstruck. Said if he could just observe our next session, he’d be the happiest dude alive. He’s mad impressed with you, man. Your vibe. Your calm.
Bruce read it twice. A low whistle escaped him.
Camille lifted her head, sensing the shift. “What is it?”
Lena paused her braiding, curious.
“Marcus,” Bruce said, his voice a little tight. He held the phone out so they could both see the screen. “Wants to bring his brother. Latavius. Twenty-four. Respectful. And apparently…” He paused, meeting their eyes. “…measuring in at eighteen. Thicker than Marcus. Saw some pool pics of you two and lost his damn mind. Just wants to watch.”
Silence settled for a beat, thick as the coffee scent. The jazz trumpet wailed a mournful note.
“Eighteen?” Lena breathed, her dark eyes widening slightly. She let go of Camille’s hair, sitting up straighter. “Thicker than Marcus? Dios mío.” A slow, intrigued smile spread across her face. “Just watch? Seriously?”
Camille pushed herself up onto her elbows. Her striking face was unreadable for a moment, then a faint flush crept up her neck. She looked from Bruce to Lena, then back to Bruce. “Observe? Like… just sit there?” Her voice was carefully neutral, but Bruce saw the flicker in her eyes – a complex mix of apprehension, curiosity, and that familiar undercurrent of wanting to please him.
“That’s what Marcus says,” Bruce confirmed. He kept his gaze steady on Camille, searching. “Says the kid’s impressed with ‘my calm control’.” He almost snorted. Calm was the last thing he felt right now. The image of Marcus, massive and commanding, was one thing. Adding a bigger brother? Just watching? It pulsed in his brain, a forbidden, electric current. But Camille… her comfort was paramount. “So… what do you think? Both of you. Would you be okay with him just observing? Or…” He swallowed, the next words catching slightly. “…would you want to see that thing in action?” He forced a casual shrug, trying to mask the raw hunger the question ignited. “He’s apparently eager either way.”
Lena didn’t hesitate. She bounced off the floor, her thick legs carrying her swiftly to Bruce’s chair. She perched on the wide armrest, her bare thigh warm against his shoulder. Her small hand landed on his chest, fingers splayed. “Observe?” She leaned down, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur near his ear. “Bruce, papi, if the man’s packing eighteen inches of respectfulness, just sitting there feels like a fucking crime.” Her eyes glittered with pure, unadulterated mischief and challenge. “Let the boy play. See what he’s made of.”
Bruce’s hand found her hip, squeezing automatically. Her boldness, her effortless embrace of the outrageous, never failed to thrill and slightly terrify him. He looked past her, to Camille, who was still on the rug, her expression pensive.
Camille met his gaze. That internal struggle was visible again – the devotion to Bruce warring with the instinctive recoil at the thought of another man, the phantom fear of Bruce feeling diminished, tangled with the undeniable heat Lena’s words and Marcus’s text had sparked. She’d come so far since that honeymoon suite confession, embracing the sessions with Marcus not just for Bruce, but discovering her own fierce enjoyment in the surrender, in the shared spectacle. Could she handle another variable? A younger, unknown quantity, exponentially… equipped?
She took a slow breath, the lace edge of her camisole rising and falling. Her dark eyes held Bruce’s hazel ones, searching for reassurance, for permission, for the truth beneath his carefully controlled facade. She saw it there – the banked fire, the voyeur’s hunger that had fueled his deepest fantasy finally realized with Marcus, now flaring brighter at this new prospect. It didn’t threaten her belonging; it amplified it. He wasn’t pushing. He was asking. Them.
A small, almost imperceptible shift happened. The tension in her shoulders eased. A spark, mirroring Lena’s but tempered with her own deep sensuality, ignited in her eyes. She pushed herself fully upright, the movement fluid, confident. She ran a hand through her hair, dislodging Lena’s half-finished braid.
“Eighteen inches,” she repeated, her voice low and smooth now, carrying a hint of wry amusement. She looked at Lena, then back to Bruce, a slow, knowing smile curving her lips. It wasn’t submission. It was ownership. “That’s… a lot of observing.” She paused, letting the implication hang in the coffee-scented air. Then she shrugged, a gesture that was pure Camille – elegant, decisive. “Tell Marcus… tell him his brother is welcome. To participate.” Her gaze locked onto Bruce’s, daring, inviting. “Let’s see if he lives up to the hype.”
The air crackled. Lena let out a delighted laugh, leaning down to kiss Bruce hard on the mouth. “Fuck yes!” she breathed against his lips.
Bruce felt the world tilt slightly. The fantasy wasn’t just evolving; it was exploding into uncharted territory. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling slightly despite his effort to stay calm. He typed, the words stark on the bright screen:
>Marcus. Bring him. Wednesday. Tell Latavius… observing time is over.
He hit send. The jazz record scratched to its end in the sudden silence. The only sounds were their breathing and the distant hum of the city. Bruce looked at his wives – Lena vibrating with excited energy beside him, Camille looking serene and powerfully alluring on the rug, a queen granting an audience. The image of Marcus, massive and familiar, arrived with a silent, gargantuan shadow beside him… it filled his mind, a tidal wave of anticipation. His calm control felt like a thin veneer over a molten core. Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough.