Aramis gazes into Athos' eyes, a little drunk with the look that's gazing back at him, and then Athos kisses him so deeply that Aramis' sense fails him, body floating on pleasure until Porthos' shorn head brushes his hip just as his fingers crook, and pleasure shoots hot and electric down Aramis' every nerve. Trapped gloriously between their attentions, Aramis cannot pick out just one name to call, and instead groans his pleasure into Athos' mouth.

It is almost a shame when Porthos removes his fingers, but Aramis knows there is more to come, and he laughs and puts his arms around Athos as Porthos slicks his cock. "I know he is excellent with his hands," he tells him, "But do not come."