He tips his head back and laughs. “It’s a shocker. What self-respecting woman wouldn’t want to make an honest man out of a guy who shares his bed with another girl every night because he can’t function without her?”
I shake my head. “Stupid girls. They don’t know what they’re missing.”
And they don’t. For a guy who’s still a virgin, he certainly knows what to do with that rather large appendage of his. I’m still trying to figure out if it’s because it’s Colt and he has a natural ability to excel at everything he puts his mind to. Or if it’s an us thing. We’re best friends, and so completely in tune with each other’s thoughts and feelings; we don’t need words half the time. Perhaps we can sense what the other needs sexually too.
“We’re both screwed up, huh?”
“We are the definition of screwed up.” I nod in agreement as we walk in the front door.
15
Colt
“You know, if either of us were to settle down and get married one day, we’d need to buy an enormous bed to fit us all in,” Em says, a cheeky grin on her face.
So many images of me in bed sandwiched between Em and a hot brunette flash through my mind. Yeah, I’m seeing the appeal of settling down one day. What guy wouldn’t want two women in his bed every night?
Then Em taps my chest and says, “There’s Austin, I’m going to say hi.”
Then I’m standing there with images of me, Em and Austin sharing a bed. I like my fantasy better than hers.
Hell fucking no.
The answer is simple. Em can never get married, or if she does her husband better be okay with sleeping in a different room because I’m not going anywhere.
A little over the top? Maybe.
True? Definitely.
I can’t breathe without her. Her and me are a package deal.
Imagine the weddings vows. “I promise to have and to hold from this day forward, blah, blah, blah, to love and cherish until death do us part, or at night when Colt takes over.”
Chuckling to myself, I glance around the room trying to decide what I want to do.
College parties fucking suck.
Maybe if I drank more than once a year I might enjoy myself, but I don’t, so I’m left here staring at Em while she talks to the walking ball bitches championship runner up. Damn Em and her newfound friendship with Austin. I refuse to acknowledge them as any more than friends. Acquaintances? Still a stretch.
Rolling my eyes and not wanting to be a witness to anymore of their flirting, I push my way through the hot, sweaty bodies dancing on the makeshift dancefloor in the center of the living room, into the kitchen where I find Fletcher and Crew with a beer bong.
“Dude!” Crew raises his arms above his head and cheers like he hasn’t seen me in forever—we have three classes a week together and run drills on the court twice a week in the off-season—spraying beer all over the place because he forgets to drop the tube. They somehow hooked it up to the keg so it’s a never-ending stream. On the court, he’s strong and aggressive and has some of the best defensive footwork I’ve seen. Off the court though, it’s a different story. He’s the life of the party, fun, and everyone’s best friend. For an athlete in peak physical condition, he drinks like a fucking fish. I’ve never seen him show up to practice or a game hungover though. He’s a machine.
I don’t drink because I tend to go off the rails if I do. Besides, I like waking up rested and not suffering a hangover the next day. I don’t understand why anyone wants to drink to the point of inebriation. I also grew up next door to Em and her parents, and that’s enough to scare anyone off drinking. I don’t drink because I don’t want Em to see me drunk. No one makes a good drunk. No one makes smart decisions drunk. Drunk is messy. Drunk is dangerous. But Crew, he doesn’t get messy. I swear the dude has an iron stomach.
“We boxing tomorrow?” He hands the tube to Fletcher, who wastes no time sucking the beer down. Wouldn’t want to waste a drop.
“No.” I shake my head. We box on weekends, usually Saturday mornings but we missed today because Crew had to work, and I was too busy under the bleachers with what’s-her-face and her vacuum mouth. Won’t be making that mistake again. Not now I figured out the secret to getting off.
Emerson.
“Why the hell not?”
“It’s Sunday.” I shrug and glance over my shoulder at Em and Austin.
“Ahhh. Gotcha.” Crew nods like he understands. He probably does. I don’t know. But Sunday is mine and Em’s day. It’s the only day of the week I don’t go for a run, or to the courts, or anything basketball related. It’s the only day of the week we don’t study and Em doesn’t work.
It’s our day.
And I’m kind of hoping she’ll want to dry-fuck like teenagers again, because tonight was awesome. My balls are still tingling, and I want to see if it works a third time or if it was a fluke, because I never come with anyone else. Ever. Unless it’s in my hand with images from my spank bank.
My gaze catches Em’s and she smiles, gives me a lift of her chin—her way of winking because she agrees with me that only douchebags wink—as my breath gets caught in my throat.
Realization hits like a god damn truck.
My spank bank is full of images of Em.
I shake my head.
Gross.
But is it really? It kind of explains why no other woman does it for me. Now, after that one night a few weeks ago, my conjured images aren’t enough. I need the real thing, if we’re making assumptions based on tonight. Longest shower ever because I couldn’t do it without her.
I shake my wrist out.
It’s a little stiff after the workout I gave it. Might have to ice it later.
I swallow and close my eyes. When I open them again, Em is watching me with concern knitting her eyebrows together. I stare at her and she tilts her head.
She knows me too well to not realize something is wrong. Only, I don’t know what is wrong exactly. Am I freaked out because I’ve been jacking off to images of my best friend for years and only just realized? Am I scared of what she’ll think when she finds out? Or is it because I want to do it again?
Friends can do casual, right?
We could be friends with dry benefits.
Or dry-fuck buddies.
Works for me. Wonder if she’ll go for that? She enjoys it as much as I do.
“What’s with Em and Austin?” Crew nods in their direction.
“Nothing. Fuck off.”
I reach out and grab the tube from Fletcher. Bringing it to my mouth, I let bitter amber liquid flow down my throat.
Fucking Austin.
With one last glance at Em, who mouths, “You okay?” I nod once and walk out of the kitchen, through the side door into the backyard, beer spraying everywhere when I drop the tube.
“Hey, where you going?” Fletcher calls out.
I ignore him. I’m heading straight for the court to burn some energy because it’s my coping mechanism. When I can’t be with Em, I play, I practice, I run, whatever. But I spot Leoni and make my way over to her in the hopes she’ll get Em out of my head.
Sometimes a mistake has to be made more than once for a person to learn from it.