Michael doesn’t have a thing for lesbianism, whether faked or real. No more and no less than the next guy, anyway. He’s merely watching because it’s happening right in front of his eyes, and somehow, it melted his steely resolve to... well, not look. He’ll probably find a way to blame it on Lincoln later. It is Lincoln’s fault, after all; it is Lincoln who dared Sara – even though Sara took the bait, and Sofia played along, and he didn’t protest loud enough.
Hence, Michael watches the two women kiss. Sitting on the couch of his and Sara’s living room after a nice, cozy dinner: his wife, Lincoln’s girlfriend. Kissing. There are so many twisted things about this that he doesn’t even know where to start. That is, of course, the reason why he doesn’t start at all and just stares. It’s not a bad view, to be honest. Their lips brush each other’s before Sara mashes her mouth with Sofia’s; pink tongues dart out and delicately lick; pearly white teeth graze silky skin.
He listens to them, too. Moist little noises and sighs are escaping them, almost sounding like music. He knows those little noises because Sara makes similar ones when she’s kissing him, but never before had he realized that the wet sliding of lips and tongue against lips and tongue could be that... effective.
Sofia’s black hair and Lincoln’s raged breathing steal part of the image and part of the melody from him, and Michael feels like grabbing the young woman’s hair to push them out of the way. Same for Lincoln’s whole being, actually, although in his defense, none of this would have happened without his brother’s initiative. His brother who’s sporting a ludicrously obvious and probably quite uncomfortable erection right now, by the way. It serves him right, being played up and caught at his own game. Michael averts his eyes and avoids Lincoln’s. There really are things he doesn’t need to know about Linc – from the look of it, he already knows way too much – and reciprocally. The fact that their respective girlfriends smooching each other makes the two of them hot and bothered pertains to this category and is definitely TMI. Sara is displaying a more appealing view, anyway, and he drinks in the sight of her kissing, tasting and enjoying Sofia’s lips.
He finds the scene arousing, he’ll freely admit it, but not for the obvious reason – okay, not only for the obvious reason. Girl on girl action is nice, but Sara experiencing pleasure in any form is better; so a mixture of both is...
“So fucking hot,” Lincoln rasps, eyes trained on the two women.
Yeah. That. Although maybe Michael wouldn’t have worded it that way.
Sara is beautiful. She always is. She’s beautiful when she’s smiling, talking, crying, scoffing, lecturing, lying near-under-above him in bed... And she is as well when she’s kissing Sofia, using almost all the range of her skills – and he ought to know it’s a wide range. He should be jealous of Sofia, of the blessed-out expression she’s eliciting on Sara’s face, in her eyes, of the care and attention Sara is directing at her. He probably would be jealous if he wasn’t fascinated by the picture Sara is offering and the tiny sounds she’s uttering. Michael barely suppresses a whimper, and mocks himself for this, when Sofia’s fingers slide up his wife’s arm. He watches the thin, golden hand stroke the flesh he’s touched and kissed dozens of times; he can make out the goose bumps that suddenly prickle the smooth skin and wants nothing more than soothe them with a caress of his own. He pushes his fist into the cushions of the sofa. He can’t move now, can’t touch her now; he’s not sure how he could stop if he started anything. Slippery, slippery slope, going there now.
They slowly, lazily part because Lincoln has broken the spell with a crude imprecation – Michael will decide later if he needs to thank or blame his brother for this – and they smile. They grin at each other, at Lincoln’s foolishness, at Michael’s meltdown, who thought it was a stupid idea and can’t think straight anymore at all. Surely Sara wants to kill him dead right here, right now because she suggests with a devilish expression, “Let’s finish this later, shall we?” and seductively pats Sofia’s bare knee.
He swallows hard. Should they ‘finish this later’, he would take a seat and watch. No doubt about that. In his current state, it’s all too easy to picture the two of them together, fondling and rubbing against each other. In his mind’s eye, it is happening right now. Whereas Sofia is straightening her clothes and laughing off what just happened, he can imagine her letting Sara straddle her shoulders and grind down; she strokes and laps at her until Sara is coming with a sharp moan, her spine arched, her head thrown back, her red hair spread all over her shoulders. While Sara is mocking Linc and asking if he thinks she properly took up the challenge, he can envision her, sweaty and breathy, blanketing Sofia’s body; she earnestly mouths and sucks on the young woman’s breasts, dips a hand in the dark patch of hair between her legs and makes her writhe and beg for release.
He would watch them. Her. Hopefully, he would avoid making a fool of himself and manage not to jump in. Or maybe just afterwards, to kiss Sara’s musky taste off Sofia’s lips, settle behind Sara and hold her while she would be gathering her mind.
He doesn’t even understand Lincoln’s appreciative retort, but at least, it snaps him back to here and now. A little out of breath, he leans in and whispers into Sara’s ear, “Sign me in for the show.” She throws him an affectionate glance over her shoulder and reaches behind her to slide her fingers up his thigh. Naughtily, she curls them when his breath hitches in his throat.
Later, maybe, he will convince himself it was an in-the-heat-of-the-moment suggestion. But at this exact second? He most definitely means it.