His breath comes in short pants, and a noticeable warmth pools inside me. There’s a small gush when he pulls out, and our cum blends together between my legs.
He leans against the opposite wall, dick gradually softening, with a sated and spent smile on his face. He’s so beautiful—shirt clinging to his sweat-dampened torso, abs and defined chest muscles tightening with every heaving breath. Guys like this don’t exist outside of online thirst traps.
“Your dryer was never actually fucked, was it?”
“Oh, no.” I fix a fallen strap on my cami. “It’s on its last legs. But now I’m definitely in no hurry to fix it.”
I pop open the dryer door, instantly pausing the cycle and ending the nauseating racket. After a few seconds of rummaging, I triumphantly hold up a warm and dry washcloth. Besides the bathroom, I can’t think of a more convenient place to fuck.
Colt dampens the cloth in the laundry sink, and in under a minute, we’re both cleaned up and our cheeks are significantly less flushed. We’re also both wearing clothes again, unfortunately.
He kisses me softly. One final peck before slipping out of the sex-filled air and returning to a place where we’re nothingmore than friends. I allow myself a few more moments to compose myself, catching my breath and reveling in the satiated soreness between my legs before following.
I suppose this is how horny parents do it—sneaking away for a quick orgasm and jumping back into normal life as if they don’t have the taste of arousal on their lips or cum dripping into their underwear. It might not be romantic, butfuckis it sexy.
When I’m finally slipping back into my spot on the couch, taking a long sip of ice water and tucking my toes under the warmth of Colt’s thigh, I feel it. Another seismic shift between him and me.
This could work.
For the first time, the fear isn’t as loud as the hope.
It’s still there, a quiet hum beneath my ribs, reminding me of all the ways this could fall apart. But right now—right here—it doesn’t feel like a countdown to heartbreak.
Colt
Colt:I can still taste you in my mustache.
Whit:COLT
Whit:Jonas is sitting right next to me. He could’ve looked over and seen that.
Colt:Sorry not sorry, honey.
Getting out of the truck, I glance over at where Whit’s slapping her phone down on the weathered wooden picnic table, green dress fluttering mid-thigh, lifting as gently as the notes of country music from the Bluetooth speaker. Her brown ponytail falls to one side of her head, then the other, as she busies herself helping Beryl prepare food.
Standing there, doing nothing but slicing a cucumber, she’s the best thing about this place.
Betty runs and throws herself into my legs with a force that nearly dislocates my knees. Lapping at my hands until they’re drenched in dog slobber. You’d think I’d abandoned her here for weeks.
“Sorry, girl. You know you’re always number one, but I couldn’t turn down a sleepover with my other lady.” Her ears flop around with my rough neck scratches. Apparently it feels so good she has to sit down and join in with the wild kickingof her back foot. Her nails catch on my hand, and I pull away to let her hit whatever spot I wasn’t quite getting. “Anyway, I brought you home a puppuccino.”
Leaving her to scratch and roll around on the gravel, I turn and grab her treat from the cup holder. She practically inhales it, leaving creamy residue on her whiskers and muzzle.Oh yeah,I’m forgiven.
“You’re a wreck,” I say to her through a laugh, strolling toward the party.
Practically feral barefooted kids weave between adults and picnic tables and coolers. I narrowly avoid collision with Kate and Jackson’s toddler, Rhett, as he wobbles his way behind the older kids. If there’s one thing the Wells family likes to do, it’s host a family gathering. And the Labor Day party is always open invitation to ranch hands, friends, family, and whoever wants an excuse to drink beer around a fire.
Thanks to the scorching summer we’ve had, a fire ban prevents us from having a bonfire to gather around, but there’s a makeshift propane firepit and enough liquor we could sit around an orange traffic cone and nobody would care. But Whit is here, and despite my promises to keep things platonic, my feet automatically move in her direction.
When Whit takes notice, the drift of her eyes over every inch of my body drenches me in sunlight. And it takes damn near everything in me not to run, grab her by the waist, and spin her around in front of everyone. There’s something primal and caveman-esque in the way I look at her with all our friends around, wanting to kiss her—claim her—for everyone to see.
Except, for Jonas’s sake, Whit and I are nothing more than friends today.
Friends who lock eyes and let the entire world fall away.
But yeah…just friends.
Finally reaching the picnic table, I pick up a cracker and wink at Whit. “Hey, Mama.”
