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“Kiss me,” Colt whispers. He’s all over you, ignoring the pancakes on the stove in favor of kissing the girl on the counter. His hips slot between your knees and his fingers curl around your thighs, bunching the fabric of your pajama pants.
You card your fingers through his bangs to brush them back from his forehead, and then you kiss the space between his brows. “Like that?” you tease.
“No,” he whines, but he chases your lips with his face when you draw back. He sways into you, whimpering as you snake an arm around his back. He’s so needy. “I’m not needy,” he complains, pouting. He folds his arms across his chest and narrows his eyes at you. “I’m totally chill.”
You duck your head to kiss the angle of his jaw, then mouth at his neck, leaving a sloppy path of kisses down the column of his throat. His hands shoot back down to hold you, his thumbs pressing into the meat of your thighs.
“I’m needy,” he says in an adorably breathy voice. “I’m super needy. Oh god.” You feel his throat move against your lips. You suck a hickey onto his neck and his breath hitches. He lifts one hand to stroke your hair and then takes a handful of it to pull you back. His lashes flutter as he looks at you. “You’re so pretty.”
You trail a lingering kiss across his beard. “So are you,” you coo. “You’re so pretty in yellow.” You clutch the cute yellow cardigan he’s wearing and yank on it until his lips stumble into yours. The heat of his blush melts into your face and you burn as his hands slide to your hips and squeeze them tight. He opens his mouth for you. His tongue slips under yours and your arms slip around his neck.
He smells a burnt pancake.
“Shit,” he hisses. “We’re a cliché.” He steps out of your arms, lifts the skillet from the burner, and dumps the blackened pancake into the trash. He pours more batter into the pan while you hop down from the counter, and when you wobble, his free hand settles on your waist to steady you.
You swallow the saliva in your mouth, which is probably his saliva, and your throat aches thanks to a certain activity you did last night. You take a sip from your coffee mug to soothe the pain and graze your fingers over the front of your neck as you clear your throat. “I hope I can still sing tonight,” you murmur.
Colt freezes, dripping pancake batter onto the stovetop.
You cock your head to one side. “You do know we’re doing karaoke with my friends tonight,” you say firmly. “You didn’t forget, did you?”
“Uh, nope.”
You stare at him until he caves.
“I may or may not have agreed to help my brother chaperone the middle school dance tonight,” he admits. “He got roped into it and he needs, like, a security type guy to keep the kids on their best behavior.”
You stare at him some more.
“He can handle those kids in a classroom,” says Colt, “but at a dance? He shuts down around awkward first kisses and hormonal teens grinding on each other.” He flips the pancake. “What time is karaoke? Nine?”
“Nine,” you echo. “You really didn’t forget.”
He points the spatula at you. “I will be there,” he says. “The dance is at seven, so please don’t kill me if I’m a few minutes late, but I will be there. I promise.”
☆
“This is fun,” Colt says as he dips the ladle into the punch bowl, “but you should really make some friends your own age.”
“I do have friends my own age,” says Ryland, “but they don’t give me glow bracelets.” He shakes his arms out in front of him to jiggle the neon green and purple bracelets peeking out of his sleeves. The group of girls who snapped them shut around his wrists wave to him from the bleachers, their hands and necks lit up with more plastic glowing jewelry. Ryland shoots them a pair of finger guns. Colt smacks his hands down.
“You’re so lame.” Colt pours some punch into a cheap cup and takes a sip.
“You’re just jealous,” Ryland accuses. “Do you want me to ask them if they have any yellow ones to match your suit? Maybe we could make some glow-cuffs and arrest you for the crime against fashion that you’re wearing.”
Colt spits his drink out in a mist that glitters over the floor of the gym. “My girlfriend thinks I look pretty in yellow,” he says, and his lips droop into a pout. “At least I made an effort. You’re wearing your same old teacher shit.”
Ryland elbows him. “Language,” he scolds.
Colt catches Ryland’s elbow and inspects his clothes. “Are these elbow patches?” he gasps. He levels a horrified stare at his twin. “Ross Geller called. He wants his blazer back.”
“Your suit would work better if it had a vest,” Ryland snaps. “Then it wouldn’t hurt as much when I punch you in the stomach.”
“I’d punch you right back,” Colt threatens. He flexes his arm, his muscles straining against the banana yellow sleeve of his suit. He lifts a finger from around the cup in his opposite hand and points at the swell of his bicep. “We’ve got the same guns, you know.”
Ryland shakes his head. “I work out more often.”
“I lifted my girlfriend onto the counter this morning with one arm,” Colt brags. “I’ve held her up against a wall for twenty-five minutes at one time. And her legs weren’t even around my waist, I was holding her by the backs of her knees, which takes a ton of stren—”
“I will kill you,” Ryland hisses.
“I’m just saying,” Colt drawls, smug, “I work out every single night, if you count all the sex.”
“You’re a pillow princess,” says Ryland. “So no, I don’t count all the sex.”
Colt gapes at him. “Ry! I’m not—did you not just hear what I said about the wall? I’m a top! I’m always on top! I’ve literally never laid there while she does all the work. That’s not me.”
Ryland casts him a glaring side-eye. “I heard you,” he says. “I also heard you last week when you said you love looking up at her. Up, Colt. And I heard you the week before that when you were super drunk and you complained about how sore you were after you let her peg you. No, sorry, it was after you begged her to peg you.”
Colt flushes pink, almost neon. He’s one step ahead of those glow bracelets. “That didn’t happen,” he croaks. “If it did happen, which it didn’t, I obviously let her lie back while I rode her, because I’m always on top.”
“You said you were a whimpering mess and that you drooled all over the pillows,” Ryland says dryly. He’s a little bit pink, too. “I can’t forget hearing those words come out of your mouth. I wish I could.”
Colt runs a hand through his hair. “This is fun,” he says, echoing his earlier comment. He squeezes the cup in his hand too tight, and the punch sloshes over the rim and trickles down his fingers. “I’m having so much fun.”
☆
You’ve called him twice, once at nine forty-five and again at ten o’clock. He knows he’s late. He knows he’s an hour late. But he won’t break his promise. He will be there.
The school dance ran longer than the allotted two hours. Then Colt helped the other chaperones and staff clean and clear out the gym. Then Ryland pointed out the full moon, and he and Colt stood at the front of the school and stargazed because it’s a clear night and Ryland knows most of the constellations by heart.
Then Ryland strapped his helmet on and tried to pedal his bike, but the chain had somehow snapped.
So he tossed his bike into the back of Colt’s truck and Colt drove him home, ignoring the phone buzzing in the pocket of his yellow pants because it isn’t safe to text and drive.
It’s a quarter past ten when Colt bursts into the karaoke bar, and you aren’t there. Not good. He checks his phone, but you haven’t left him any voicemails. His heart leaps into his throat and he draws a few deep breaths to coax it back down. It’s fine. It won’t take long for you to forgive him if he grovels. He’s a good boy, and he loves you.
He drives home as fast as possible without risking his life and hurries into the apartment. The lamp beside the couch is on, but no one is sitting there. Your shoes are near the door, so you are home. He calls your name.
He says, “Honey, I’m home,” because it usually makes you laugh. He leaves his shoes next to yours and closes and locks the door.
“Colt?”
The sound of your voice behind him makes him jump, his pulse spiking. He whirls around to face you where you loom in the dim corner near the door, and he only calms down a fraction when you step forward into the lamplight, because you seem so—normal.
“Hi,” you say, and promptly kiss him. He’s sure he hums in shock or maybe whines, but it comes out weak because his throat is tight. You loop your arms around his neck and kiss him real good, making sure he tastes your chapstick, and when you lean into him his hands attach to your waist. Big hands. Big, strong hands with thumbs that press into your stomach and long fingers that curl around your curves. Oh god.
Then you feel the floor split away from your feet as Colt lifts you into the air, just to prove that he can hold you like that, your whole weight balanced in his two hands. You slide your palms over his shoulders and onto his biceps while his muscles work to keep you suspended in the air, in his hands, on his lips. He lifts you higher so that when you open your eyes, you have to look down at him, and he has to look up—he does it all because he knows he’s prettiest when he’s looking up.
He kisses your neck about a hundred times, smearing saliva in a messy path across your skin. You draw your fingertips across his jaw, then cradle his face in your palm to pull his lips back onto yours. His tongue timidly teases your teeth. You lick into his mouth. He tastes fruity, smells like soap and salt. You drive your tongue up the length of his nose because you want to, because you love the shape of it, the little bump on the way up, the little creases between his brows. How he’s so little and yet somehow so big amazes you.
He nips at your chin and breathes your name into your neck. He’s lifting you again, too high. He throws you just to catch you, his arms wrapped tight around your thighs, and he keeps his eyes on yours as he slowly lets you slide down until your feet are touching the floor.
He’s smiling at you like he’s woozy just from a few kisses (spoiler alert: he is). So you drop the doting girlfriend façade and wriggle out of his arms. His fingers twitch and try to chase you, but you step away and take a seat on the sofa, folding your hands in your lap.
“You missed karaoke,” you say calmly.
He’s a mess without your kisses. He raises his hands to claw weakly at his face, his cheeks flushed behind his fingers, and the way he pulls on his skin makes the tears dancing in his eyes spill down the sides of his nose. He whimpers like the needy little pet he is, shrinking under your gaze. He’s so vulnerable like this. You’re staring at him as he stands trembling a handful of feet away, close but so far compared to where you had him mere seconds ago. He squeaks your name like he’s sorry. He is sorry. He swears he’s a good boy.
You say, “You broke your promise.”
“I would never,” he blurts. “I was there, I went there. I thought I could catch you before you left.”
You shake your head. “You were over an hour late. You’re not a good boy.”
“I’m a good boy!” he protests. He drops to his knees in front of you. “Let me make it up to you. Anything you want, sweetheart, it’s yours. I’m yours. I’m your good boy.” He rubs the side of his face against your thigh, hunched between your knees and looking up at you through his lashes.
“Anything?” you echo, lost in his watery blue eyes.
“Yes, please, anything,” he breathes. “Whatever it takes for you to love me again.”
You move a hand to the side of his head and swipe your thumb over the shell of his ear. Shoot, it’s impossible to stay mad at him. You pet his messy hair as you say, “I do love you, baby.”
“Love me more,” he pleads. “Take what you want, as long as you want me. I want you to want me.”
His voice makes you feel hot all over. You shift your hips forward and ask, “Are you going to do exactly as I say?”
He nods, his beard tickling the inside of your thigh. “Yes ma’am.”
“Okay then,” you sigh. Your heart beats a little heavier in your chest. “If I touch a piece of clothing, that means I want you to take it off. Like this.” You pluck at one of his sleeves, and he obeys instantly. He shakes his arms out of the sleeves and pushes the yellow suit jacket from his shoulders. He’s wearing a fitted white shirt underneath that only thinly veils the contour of his abs and the peaks of his nipples.
You hum in approval. He brushes a kiss across your knee, smiling against your skin. Your fingers drift to the button of your shorts, and he follows. His forearms press to your thighs as his fingers work the button undone and tug your zipper down. You raise your hips. He yanks your shorts down over your ass and your thighs, flexing his arms as he wrestles the denim off of you. He’s breathing heavier once he’s done, not from the effort but from the desire, his eyes wide and trained between your legs.
You scoot forward on the couch. His pupils dilate like it’s not enough, like the closer you come the more he needs you. You hook your fingers under his chin and pull his face toward your pussy.
He moans into the curve of you, into your warmth. He mouths at the front of your panties, drooling, a line of saliva leaking from the corner of his lips. You tap your waistband and he works fast; in the blink of an eye your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor and Colt is panting hot and humid against your vulva, his fingers splayed over your thighs, awaiting your next command.
You brush your fingers over the back of his head where his hair is shorter, then slide one hand over the nape of his neck and graze his shirt collar. He draws back from between your thighs and pulls his shirt over his head obediently. His chest heaves with the breath he takes, and you press your hands there and whisper, “Good boy.”
He pushes his chest into your palms and shifts his hips. You see him twitch in his pants. He’s so easy to arouse. He whimpers when you start to play with his nipples, then growls when you curl your fingers around his arms instead. He could spread your knees apart with his hands if you wanted him to, could wrench your legs open wider until you break if you let him. He could throw you around, take you against the wall or pin you to the bed or bend you over the table, he’s so strong. You want to bite his thick fucking biceps, want to lick them, want to use his arms to get off.
Oh god yes. You’re gonna use his arms to get off.
You seize one of his hands and make him cup the curves of your vulva. Your voice wavers as you say, “Touch me.”
He presses his thumb into the space above your clit and pushes up to draw back the hood. His knuckles drag over your slit, then his fingertips, then his palm, and the heel of his hand rubs your clit while he swirls a finger around your entrance. He’s so slow with it, but his hand is so animated. You ogle every detail: the lines on his palm, which collects your arousal; the trim of his nails, which tease your sensitive skin; the length of his fingers when two of them sink into you at once and then come right back out. He spreads them apart and you both watch a thread of your slick stretch and break between them.
He softly says your name and looks up at you with those big blue eyes. “Yes?” you rasp, your breath hitching. He licks his lips and peers down at his glistening fingers. His whole hand is soaked, really.
“You’re so wet.” His voice is husky and pitched low. “I don’t get it. I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did,” you say. You slide your foot onto his thigh. “You’re on your knees. You did that.”
His fingers twitch, so he dips them inside you again. He thumbs at your clit and shoves his face into your thigh to muffle his voice when he slurs, “I wanna taste you, Mama.”
You roll your hips to take his fingers deeper. You’re sweating through your shirt. He only calls you Mama when he’s feeling clingy and horny and wanton—when he’s ovulating, you like to say.
You card your fingers through his hair and pull his head back. “Not yet.” You coax his thighs apart with your foot and brush your heel over the rigid line of his cock trapped in his pants. He bucks his hips, and his fingers curl inside of you, grazing your favorite spot. “Good boy,” you sigh, “but slow down.”
“Hmm.” Colt draws his fingers out, slides them under your shirt, and pushes his hand flat to your stomach. Your thighs close to bracket his forearm between them. His fingertips streak your wetness down your lower stomach as he drags his hand back to your vulva. “I don’t want to slow down,” he whispers, and he rolls your clit between his fingers, pinches it, rubs it, moaning softly when he feels you throb against the pad of his thumb.
“I don’t care what you want,” you snap. You need to move this along. You could come soon, could soak his fingers as your hips buck into his palm, but you want to make a mess of more of his skin first, want to touch him more, and you want to touch him with your cunt instead of your hands.
You take his wrist and turn his palm down. Your hips pitch forward to rub your clit against his knuckles, the backs of his fingers slipping through your slit. You mold his hand into a fist, feel his joints grind against your entrance as you steer your clit over the tendons in the back of his hand. He shoves a curled finger inside you and it’s so thick, and you’re so wet, and his other hand is clutching your hip, the weight of his arm resting on your thigh, fuck.
His thumb is as long as your index finger. You make him thrust it inside you, your walls clenching around it, and when he bends his thumb back it brushes that sweet spot inside. “Colt,” you gasp, “oh my god.”
“You never told me this,” he stammers while you twist his hand however you want it. “You have a thing for my hands?”
You pull his thumb out and let him draw a few wet circles over your clit before you tug him closer to pretty much sit on his knuckles. “It’s not just your hands,” you confess, and you keep pulling until your twitching pussy trails down the taper of his hand to his wrist. He tilts his head at you, confused, but then your clit slides over the knob of his wrist, and oh. You slump forward and rock your hips, fucking your clit into that little ridge of bone.
You turn his hand over to see if you can feel his pulse beat against your folds, and when you press your hips down hard you can. You flip his hand back down and shimmy closer to the edge of the couch, then reach behind you and clumsily link your fingers with his as you straddle his forearm. It’s so big, like the rest of him. You drag your clit along each visible vein, your free hand clamped on his shoulder. Your slick makes the soft hairs on his arm stick together. His fingers squeeze yours as you reach his elbow and search for his pulse again, though it’s weaker here than at his wrist. You rock back and forth in the crease of his elbow and grope his bicep with your greedy fingers, your nails digging crescents into his skin.
You detangle your fingers from his and reach for his face, cradling his cheek in your hand. He’s flushed more red than pink and staring dazedly between your hips while you use him like a toy. You tilt his chin up to make him meet your eyes.
“Okay?” you ask, and he nods. You’re salivating so much, drooling more from your mouth at this point than your pussy, which has left an obscene wet streak across his forearm. You slow your hips and hold his face in both of your hands, one thumb prying his mouth open. His lips are that same red-pink color.
“I wanna ‘aste you,” he whines again. You can’t blame him—your hips are close to his face, and your clit is pulsing against his arm, and your foot is hovering at the clothed head of his cock. If he wanted you before, he needs you now.
“Not”—you stick the pad of your thumb into his mouth—“yet, pet.”
His lashes flutter. You see the knot in his throat bob as he swallows to suppress a moan. “Please?” you think he says, but he can’t pronounce the consonants because of the way you’re manhandling his mouth.
You pull his tongue down to cover his bottom lip. “Since you asked so nicely,” you say, your face looming above his, “you can have a little treat.”
You open your mouth and drizzle his tongue with your saliva. It spills over your lip and drips thick and warm into his mouth, some onto his beard, and he gulps it down like it’s water. You pat his head and smile wickedly at him as his pupils dilate, his face already a mess.
You shift your hips and settle over his bicep. One of your knees presses into his ribs, but he doesn’t care. You sit down, one hand on his shoulder, the other in his hair, and grind your clit against the meat of his arm. It’s so solid, his arm, all of it, from his wrist to his shoulder, but you like this the most.
He flexes all that muscle, and you rub in short little motions against it, rutting into the hard swell of his bicep. Your breath tears out of your lungs in a moan, it feels so good. Your inner thighs are slick and his arm is slick and he’s still flexing, and his free hand flies to the small of your back to help guide you, and he kisses your hip and yes, that, you need his lips—
“You still want—to taste me?” you pant. Heat coils in your core and you slide forward faster, chasing the stimulation. The bulge of his bicep is a better seat than his thigh, you think, but you love to ride that too. You scratch your fingers across his scalp and blurt, “Want me to rub my pussy on your face?”
“Fuck yes,” he curses. You tighten your fingers in his hair. Colt cranes his neck to kiss the crease of your inner thigh and breathes into your skin, “If you’re gonna come, please do it on my face, Mama.”
He scrapes his teeth over his lip and shudders as you spread your legs wider. You hike a knee over his shoulder and his huge hands handle your waist, lifting you up and onto his face. You’re unsteady like this, with him kneeling on the floor and you balancing on top of him, the two of you stacked and splayed at odd angles, but he’s strong and sturdy and holds your waist tight, allowing you enough freedom to move but not enough to pitch forward and tumble to the floor.
He pulls you down onto his face and you gasp, because his tongue is already darting through your slit and licking long stripes down to your entrance and back up to suckle at your clit. You fist your hands in his hair and tug his head back. His eyes are kind and pleading, glazed over with lust, and his brows are knitted. You draw your thumb across them and say gently, “Open your mouth, but keep your tongue just behind your teeth.”
He does as he’s told. You push forward, and your clit drags over his chin, his beard, his plush lower lip, his tongue, the top row of his teeth, his upper lip, and over the point of his nose. You feel him exhale into your skin, and as you rest more of your weight on him, your thighs squish his cheeks and clamp around the reddened arches of his ears. He’s panting beneath you, into you, and when your clit skates over his nose again it occurs to you that you’re smothering him.
“Colt,” you moan, “can you breathe?”
One of his hands skims across your thigh. His fingers form a shaky thumbs-up, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your vulva. Then his hand is on your waist again, and you cover that hand with one of yours, squeezing his fingers to make him hold you tighter. He takes the hint, gripping you so hard he’s sure to leave bruises on either side of your back and two dark thumbprints under your ribs.
You start to grind for real against his mouth, jolting when his tongue laps at your entrance. You let him do it, and while he fucks his tongue into you, you ride the tip of his nose, your thighs clenching around his head each time he whimpers and you feel the heat of his breath hit your pussy. Your stomach flips at the thought of suffocating him like this—but his face is red, not purple, and he’s still gazing up at you like you’re royalty.
You can’t drag this out much longer. He’s so sexy down there, and he’s so strong, supporting your weight with ease. You tilt your hips back to let him suck and lick your clit until you’re close, and then you take his soft bangs in your fist and push him further down so that you’re situated over his nose. He closes his eyes. You’re probably on a time limit; there’s no chance he can breathe like this.
You only need a few seconds, only need a little more Colt. You rub mercilessly against the slope of his nose. He claws at your waist, and he makes some obscene gurgling noise, and fuck, maybe you’re drowning him in your slick. You lift away from his face, but he tries to yank you back down. His lips are swollen, his beard wet; his entire arm is soaked with your slick, messy from his shoulder to his fingertips. His hands race toward your chest and he flicks his thumbs over your nipples, groping your tits to hold you up when you curl forward. And if that wasn’t enough, he nuzzles your clit and rolls his tongue against you, into you, and whines, moans, whatever. All you know is that the vibrations of his voice are what make you come, tugging sharply on his hair and shaking, twitching against his mouth and his nose.
It takes you a while to blink the black spots out of your vision and remember to breathe, but he holds you through it. He clutches your waist again where his fingers have left bruises, and when he lowers you onto the couch you notice the sudden weakness in his hands. His fingers quiver and tremble as he draws them to your knees. And he’s still so flushed, and his eyes are clouded over with that same lust.
He rises onto his knees between your limp, spread legs and licks his lips—which also quiver—before he starts to say, “Did I make it up to y—oh.”
You’ve reached between his hips, and your fingers are tracing the heavy line of his cock through his pants. The fabric is wet with precum, and he twitches when your fingertips rub the head.
“Does this mean—” he gasps, then yelps when you stroke him. Your fingers close around his cock through his clothes, and his hips shift back, his lip bitten between his teeth.
“Colt,” you coo, “you’re such a good boy.”
He whimpers into your free arm, his fingers pulling and prodding at your hand. “Mama,” he moans, “feels too good, too much.” He draws his tongue through the inside of your elbow, no doubt wanting to pick up your pulse.
“You’re so close, aren’t you?” you taunt him. You rub the head of his cock with the heel of your hand, and he shoves his face into your arm to muffle a sob.
“I like this suit,” he says, and it’s a plea. Don’t make me come, not like this. You’re not really touching him, and he doesn’t want to ruin these pants.
You rub his slit with the pad of your thumb. “I know,” you soothe, and draw your other hand out of his. You poke at the seam of his lips with your forefinger. He opens his mouth for you. You smile. “You should have worn it to karaoke,” you say, and your finger thrusts into his mouth, sliding along the velvety flat of his tongue, and your opposite hand rubs his cock just the way he likes, just the way that always makes him come.
He gags around your finger and spills hot and messy into his pants, his cum seeping through the fabric and wetting your hand. You feed him another finger and feel his cock twitch, feel more cum spurt from his tip. You pull your fingers out of his mouth once he’s done whimpering and you wipe them on his beard, smug. He closes his eyes.
“Are you okay?” you ask him so softly, you aren’t sure if he even hears you. But then he nods, and he licks his lips, and he hums as you draw one of your knuckles very carefully across his eyelids. You wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of your hand and brush his bangs back and say, “Tell me what you need.”
His eyes open, so blue. “Kiss me,” Colt whispers.
You lean down and kiss the space between his brows. “Like that?” you tease.
He shakes his head. “Like this,” he says, and captures your face in his hands, and captures your lips, so sweet.
☆
“You hated the yellow suit,” says Colt, “and it’s totally ruined, so you win.”
Ryland’s hands are pressed over his ears, his back pressed to the whiteboard, his lips pressed into a thin line. Colt swings his legs back and forth over the edge of Ryland’s desk, sitting on some ungraded papers.
“You should have seen my arm,” Colt gushes. “You should have seen my face. She squirted a little bit when she came, too, so there was so much—”
“Nope, not listening,” Ryland squawks. “The more you overshare, the more awkward I’m going to feel when I meet your girlfriend. I know too much already, thanks.”
Colt rakes his eyes over his brother’s face and down his chest to his hips. He’s wearing short sleeves. Colt wonders if Ryland’s students are old enough to crush on their hot teacher. “What the hell?” he barks, frustrated with his derailed train of thought and with his twin’s unfairly muscular build. What is a teacher doing with all of that? Colt is definitely not pouting when he says, “I’m never letting you meet her.”
Ryland rips his hands away from his ears, and his glasses skew on his nose, crooked. “What?” He stumbles forward a little and folds his arms, his biceps bulging out of his sleeves. The guy even has tits, for crying out loud. His chest is huge.
Colt is dizzy. “Look at you,” he scoffs, and plucks at the edge of Ryland’s sleeve. “You’re jacked. I can’t let my girl see you, man.”
Ryland grabs his cardigan from the back of his chair and pulls it over his arms, his cheeks a little bit pink. “Better?” he says awkwardly, folding his arms again. His muscles stretch the knitwear, damn.
“No,” Colt huffs, exasperated. “You’d need to wear, like, a space suit or something.”
Ryland rolls his eyes. “I’m not an astronaut.” His glasses slide to the tip of his nose when he tilts his head down, and the way he looks up over the rims—who is this objectively sexy guy, and what has he done with Colt’s ditzy brother? Colt is supposed to be the sexy one. And since when are glasses sexy?!
“Do you have contact lenses?” he blurts.
“Why?” Ryland wails. He slips a hand into his hair and tugs on the strands that always fall over his forehead. Even his hair is styled better than Colt’s. Oh god, what if you’re only in love with Colt because you haven’t met his brother yet?!
Colt is spiraling. He flaps his hands uselessly as he says, “Let’s face it, Ry, she would take one look at you in those slutty little glasses and start to fantasize about riding your stupid face, too.”
Ryland clamps his hands back over his ears. He’s either furious or mortified—flustered, Colt thinks. “What is wrong with you?” Ryland shrieks, his voice shrill. The blood rushing to his face streaks a splotchy red line across his cheekbones. “I don’t—my glasses are not slutty.” He whispers that last word. “And you calling them slutty makes it sound like—like you’re attracted to me.”
Ryland shudders, and Colt grimaces. “No, no!—come on, seriously? No.” He cocks his head to one side, his voice rough as he says, “I didn’t mean it like that. I just know what she likes.”
He pokes the bridge of Ryland’s glasses to push them higher on his nose. Ryland smacks his hand away.
Colt jabs a finger at him. “Stay away from my girl.”