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“Fuck,” I bellow, feeling their lust, too, and Beau looks at me.
“Oh fuck,” he grunts, realizing what we’re doing together. “Yes,” he growls, getting louder, making sure Blair can hear. “Fuck yes. The three of us. Come on. Watch. Watch how we come for each other.”
“Oh god! Oh god!” I look, and Blair’s crying out, her thighs shaking, her hand pumping that dildo faster.
“Yes.” Beau locks his gaze to hers, his voice, too. “Yes, Kitten. Do it for us while we watch you. That’s it. Make that pretty pussy come. Show Colt what a sweet little slut you are for me.”
Blair bucks, crying out, her lungs huffing with her leg-shaking orgasm. And I’ve never seen a woman so natural, so beautiful, and proud of her sex. And then I stare at the hungry man so in love with her and me, too; I throw my chin up. “Oh fuck, yes.” I come so hard, blinded by the sun and all we could have together.
“Fuuckkk!” Beau comes too. I know his sound. I live for it and it only makes me spurt more. And more. And more.
Then I just lie here, finding my breath, letting the euphoria wash over me. The hot sun, too. Cum coats my abs, and it feels right.
More than right.
It’s perfect.
We’re shameless together.
And when I hear a sliding glass door open. When I look at Blair standing sexy and nude. When I see her beautiful face glowing. When she says, “Despite what you say, Bronson, your cock really loves my distractions, and so does your hot best friend. Perhaps you’ll learn to love it, too, one day. But until then,” she tosses her raven hair over her shoulder, “don’t forget to clean our bathroom.”
When Blair does that?
I love our new game.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You want to lick both sides of the stamp so bad, your tongue is drooling for it.”
BEAU
It must be love because I smile while I mop my golden joke off our bathroom floor, even though it was Blair’s fault.
Okay, fine.
Technically, it’s mine.
I tortured her with Clingwrap on the toilet in college, so here I am, thirty, and pissing my flip-flops over her.
The rest of the afternoon, she hides from me and the sun, sitting with her laptop on her bed. So, I get to work, too.
Even though Colt and I are like sandpaper, rubbing each other raw and not in a good way, we’re pros, too.
Colt packed a ball. I did, too, but we use his for drills.
He goes long, running down the wooden dock. It’s only twenty or so yards, but it’ll do. I throw, and he goes for the catch, practicing his half-turn, snatching the ball with his long fingers before securing the tuck, making it a true vacation by splashing into the Caribbean as our end zone.
Silently, we practice for over an hour. Silently, I worry he’ll slip and crack his skull on the edge of the dock or get a splinter in his foot. Silently, I’ve always worried about Colt.
I had privileges and parents with money, and he didn’t. I miss his mom, too. Celeste was sweet. As a single mom, she sacrificed everything for her son because Colt’s dad had been long gone since he was a baby.
So, of course, Colt’s family became mine and mine his.
I think that’s another reason we hit our stride these past few years. I felt his grief, too. I was there for him. When it’s your mom dying, teammates give hugs, back slaps, and arm locks around the neck. So I could be there for Colt. I could hold him with no judgment because it was legit. Everyone in the locker room understood, and no one judged.
But I couldn’t stop the inevitable.
And I can’t stop studying him now.
