Split Open by the Twins
One Hole. Two Brothers. No Mercy.
You asked for more, and I don’t blame you. A Streetcar Named Temptation was one of the hottest micro-erotica drops, and this continuation turns up the heat even more. Dive in.
The streetcar smelled faintly of metal, worn leather, and sunbaked pavement as I stepped onto the F-line. I wasn’t a tourist—I’ve lived in San Francisco for years—but today, I decided to play one. Camera around my neck, backpack slung low, and an excuse to lose myself in parts of the city I’d never bothered to explore.
But the game shifted the second I saw him.
The operator sat at the helm, one gloved hand gripping the polished brass lever with the kind of easy confidence that made my breath hitch.
He looked like he belonged on the cover of some gritty noir novel—dark, sharp eyes focused on the tracks ahead, a strong jaw dusted with the faintest trace of stubble, and full lips set in a line that said he didn’t smile often, but when he did…
His skin was a warm bronze, catching the late afternoon sun filtering through the window. His hair, short, black curls faded perfectly on the sides, peeked out from under his cap. A faint scar curved across one brow, giving his face an edge, but it didn’t dull his beauty; it sharpened it.
Treat yourself to full access while it’s 50% off — because my birthday’s the perfect excuse to get a little naughty.
The way his uniform fit him wasn’t helping either. The navy blue button-up stretched slightly across his chest, and the sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose his forearms—lean, strong, and traced with faint veins that hinted at both strength and control.
I told myself to keep walking, just sit and stop staring like some love-struck idiot. But when his eyes flicked up to meet mine in the rearview mirror, a slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.
I dropped into a seat near the front, half chub.
I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him for the next twenty minutes. Every time the streetcar hit a bump, his body shifted with an effortless control that had me gripping the metal pole next to me a little tighter. His gloved hands worked the controls with smooth precision, and every now and then, I’d catch his gaze in the mirror again.
It was like he was daring me to keep watching.
The streetcar rattled its way down Market Street, and I was more aware of him than anything outside the windows. He was all confidence and swagger, with a face carved by some higher power that had very specific plans in mind.
When my stop approached, my stomach tightened. I stood, clutching the strap of my backpack, trying to suppress the nerves fluttering in my chest.
I paused near the front, his presence pulling me in like gravity.
“Uh… thanks, oper—operator,” I said, my voice coming out a little breathless.
He turned slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine directly this time. Up close, I could see faint flecks of gold catching in them, the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, making them almost glow.
“Anytime, handsome,” he said, his voice low and gravelly.
My knees felt like they might buckle.
Before I could stumble out onto the street, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a slip of paper, and scribbled something down. His gloved fingers slid it across the ledge, slow and deliberate.
“Name’s Hawk,” he said, his lips curving into a smirk that felt like a promise. “Don’t leave me waiting too long.”
I took the paper, my fingertips grazing the leather of his glove. His warmth lingered as I stepped off the streetcar and onto solid ground, my head spinning.
Once I was clear of the platform, I unfolded the slip. A phone number, underlined twice, stared back at me.
I exhaled shakily, tucking the paper carefully into my pocket.
I was hunted. And if Hawk was looking to catch me, I wasn’t about to make him chase too hard.
Later That Evening…
I stared at my phone for longer than I’d like to admit before I finally texted.
Me: Hey, it’s Gage. From the F-line today.
I hit send before I could overthink it. The three dots appeared almost immediately, then disappeared. I groaned, flopping back onto my couch.
Ten minutes passed. Then thirty. Then, an hour.
And then—ping.
Hawk: U’re hot AF.
I blinked at the screen, heat rushing straight to my dick… rock hard.
Hawk: Free tonight?
My heart stuttered in my chest as I typed back.
Me: Yeah.
Almost instantly:
Hawk: That’s what’s up. U into 3somes?
I swallowed hard, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard as I processed. The directness shouldn’t have surprised me—not with the way he looked at me on that streetcar.
Me: Depends. Who’s the third?
He didn’t reply right away, but when he did, I could practically hear his voice in my head.
Hawk: You’ll like him. He’s hot. A direct copy of me. 😉
My breath hitched. Twins! Fuck ya.
Hawk: Come through.
The address popped up a second later.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the screen, my pulse thrumming in my ears. I grabbed my Hawket, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and headed out the door.
The hallway smelled like old wood polish and secrets. I stood in front of Hawk’s apartment door, heart drumming a ridiculous rhythm against my ribs. My knuckles hovered, then dropped. Fuck it—I knocked.
It opened before I could second-guess myself.
Hawk stood there, barefoot in low-slung sweats and a tank that looked like it was made to be ripped off. His curls were damp, like he’d just stepped out of the shower, and the scent of something warm—Irish Spring and clean skin—drifted out the doorway and hit me right in the chest.
“Gage,” he said, lips tugging into a slow, crooked smile. “Get in here.”
I stepped inside. The place was small but neat—exposed brick, a beat-up leather couch, and a faint hum of jazz playing low from a speaker. The lights were dim, almost golden. Intimate.
He shut the door behind me, and the click of the lock echoed loud enough to feel like a turning point.
“You nervous?” he asked, eyeing me with that same lazy confidence from the streetcar. The kind that said he already knew the answer but liked watching me squirm anyway.
“Little bit,” I admitted.
He stepped closer. “Good.”
His hand brushed against my cheek, thumb grazing the corner of my mouth like he was checking to see if I was real. I didn’t move.
“Stone’s not here yet,” he murmured.
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
“Means I got you to myself for a few.”
He leaned in, so close I could feel the heat of his body. “You want a drink?”
“Sure.”
He moved past me, the brush of his arm across my chest making me shiver in the best way. I watched him pad into the tiny kitchen area, open a bottle, and pour. No labels, just dark liquor and the promise of a night that might fuck me up—in all the right ways.
When he handed me the glass, our fingers touched, and I swear it was electric. I took a sip, wincing a little. Smooth burn. Strong.
“Let me guess,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch, legs spread wide, drink in hand. “You’ve never done anything like this before.”
I stood there, unsure what to do with my hands. “You mean, like… twins?”
He chuckled low. “I mean being the center of attention.”
I swallowed, throat tight. “No. I haven’t.”
“Thought so.” He took a slow sip, licking the drop from his bottom lip like it was for me. “But you thought about it.”