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I jump out and plop down on the lounger beside Colt to dry off. There’s not a cloud in the summer sky, and soon we’re bone dry and boner hard, our desire for Blair scorching far hotter than the sun.
So, I disappear inside and make myself at home, rummaging through the bathroom Colt and Amber shared.
Amber left in such a huff; she left all sorts of lotions and potions behind, and Bingo, I grab a yellow bottle of “Glow Oil” that says it has SPF 50.
“Here.” I tap Colt’s arm with the bottle as I settle back beside him. “Oil up,” I whisper. “Let’s give her a helluva slippery fight.”
Colt smirks before he straightens his face.
We start on our arms, pouring puddles in our palms, slowly rubbing glistening oil over our flexing biceps.
Blair tries hiding it, but we’re stirring the pheromones in the air.
She glances our way while I prime Colt. “You know what I visualized today? The option route in that game. The state championship.” I eye Colt. He’s rubbing oil over his delts and ink while I rub him the wrong way by adding, “The route you missed.”
“The only one I fucking missed.” He starts on his beefy pecs. They pop with the tension in his voice. “You threw it out when I was breaking in.”
Out of the corner of my eye, Blair tilts her head, her foxy ears perking up at our tone.
“Nah,” I argue for the hell of it, caressing my pecs, too. “The way you juked. The way you dropped your hip. It signaled you were running out.”
Tipping the bottle, I drizzle a long, oily stream of coconut seduction down my abs.
“Like hell.” Colt gets riled up at the sight, grabbing the bottle from me and coating his washboard, too. “I was running in, and you threw out. That’s on you, dude. It was a rare time you couldn’t decide.”
“So you’re in my head now?”
“Yeah, I live there rent-free.”
“Then freely tell me what I’m thinking now.”
I’d really like to know because my brain is multi-tasking a lubricated prank, a pseudo fight, and a raging hard-on. Seducing Blair seduces me, too. Colt looks good enough to glide across.
Or down.
Or inside.
Fuck, what game are we playing?
“You’re thinking nine times out of ten; we think the same way,” Colt argues, polishing his abs, his big hands inching closer to his trunks like he’s itching to rip them open.
Or me.
Or Blair.
Or both.
“But it’s that one time out of ten”—he keeps tempting—“when you know you’re wrong and you miss.”
“I’m wrong? I miss? Fucker, do you know my pass completion percentage?”
“Yeah,” Colt woofs. “It’s seventy-one percent, thanks to me.”
“And you lead receiving yards, thanks to me.”
“Nah, baby,” Colt mocks, stroking his glazed abs and pissing me off. “All this body control. All this stamina. All this strength and agility.” And turning me on. “It’s all me.”
“Exactly,” I snarl. Half of me wants on him. Half of me wants in him. “It’s all you, and so was the Super Bowl interception.”
