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You fold your arms atop the little table and lean forward to push your breasts against them. Your thumbs graze your nipples through your shirt when neither pair of blue eyes is on you. You’re so wet it’s pathetic.
Someone’s foot bumps into your ankle. Colt’s eyes shift to your lips, Ryland’s to your eyes. He keeps looking at you over the rims of his slutty little glasses, and it makes you squirm, nudging your calf into the shoe of the person flirting with you under the table. You want to reach across the tabletop and seize Ryland’s tie in your fist, want to draw him forward to kiss you, want to learn how he tastes. He smells so good, his brother too, Ryland like sugar and raindrops, Colt like cinnamon and sea foam.
You stare at the last drop of drink in your glass, but you feel the weight of both of their stares pinning you to your seat in the leather booth the three of you share. Ryland collects the trio of empty glasses in one hand, one massive hand with long fingers that could plunge so deep inside you—maybe if you ask, maybe he would take you home, and maybe you could squirm against his pillows and his sheets instead of in this stuffy bar where all your breaths are as sticky as the arousal soaking your panties.
Ryland slides out of the booth and strolls up to the bar to order another round. The foot teasing your ankle is still there; Colt is the one who’s timidly fondling you. He props his chin on his hand and hums, a sexy sound that should have you drooling, but you’re more interested in the swell of Ryland’s ass in his jeans as he leans over the bartop. Colt licks his lips and bats his eyelashes at you as his foot trails toward your knee. His eyes are foggy. You make eye contact—he and Ryland have the same eyes—and smile, and he locks up and flicks his eyes to his lap, then pats the top of the table and flies out of the booth in search of some cold running water to splash on his flushed face.
You watch Ryland grip the bar counter with one hand and sway back and forth while he waits, then watch his arm bulge as he sweeps a hand through his messy hair. His fingers tap on the bartop, impatient. He spins around to face the crowd, to face you, and when he leans his elbows back onto the counter his buttoned shirt stretches taut across the swell of his chest.
You shove your face into your hands. You can actually hear your blood pounding in your ears, what the fuck. You try to breathe like a sane person, but really you’re just panting into your palms.
You didn’t want this to happen. Too many mornings following Colt around movie sets, too many afternoons eating lunch with Ryland at his desk at school and too many evenings helping him in his lab, too many late nights at the bar with the two of them and no one else, just the twins with their perfect haircuts and their pretty eyes and their big strong arms and their long legs and boom! you’ve fallen in love—and in lust.
The problem, and what confuses you, is that your feelings switch targets all the time. Last weekend you fell asleep on the couch at their apartment and you woke up with Ryland’s fox cardigan draped over you to keep you warm. Swoon. On Tuesday afternoon you heard Colt doing karaoke and he smiled all soft and gooey at you when he sang the phrase “you’re the one.” Double swoon.
Then Ryland tripped over a dry erase marker in the lab and flew into your arms, and when you somehow caught his weight he looked up at you, glasses all crooked to hell, and said something casual like, “Just another Thursday.”
Then Colt picked you both up in his truck and you had to squeeze between him in the driver’s seat and Ryland on the passenger side, and Colt drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, his thumb rubbing circles into your skin.
Then the three of you stayed awake all night playing board games in the twins’ living room, and somewhere around five o’clock you were all out of your minds, and Colt told Ryland about the Pocky game, and you wound up biting one end of a Twizzler, Ryland biting the other, taking turns chewing closer to the middle until your noses brushed and he chickened out, red-faced and fidgety. So Colt took his place, and you closed your eyes the closer he came to you, and when Colt’s lips briefly touched yours, Ryland made a squeaky sound and shoved you two apart. You tasted Colt more than you tasted the candy. Swoon swoon swoon.
You would take either of them, whoever offered first. You figured Colt would beat his brother to it, but it seems like you’re all three locked into this odd flirty-friendly frenzy where no one has the guts to make a move. You’re tired of waiting around for Colt to kiss you for real, so your attention has shifted to Ryland tonight, and it’s shameful how much you need him to pin you to his bed with his huge hands and stick his tongue down your throat and roll his hips into the backs of your thighs until he’s spilling inside of you and then spilling out because he has so much to give.
You feel wet pressure behind your eyes and utter a pathetic whimper into your hands on your face. This is so not okay.
One of them slips back into the booth, and the scent of cinnamon sugar wafts into your nose. You keep your eyes hidden behind your fingers as his foot knocks into your ankle again. Younger twin, then. You have to come clean.
“I’m in so much trouble, Colt,” you whine. “I want your brother to breed me.”
He chokes on a sip of his drink—wait, his drink?—and coughs and wheezes across from you, his glasses—glasses?!—clattering onto the table.
You drop your hands and look up at him in horror. It’s not Colt. It’s not Colt. Older twin, then. The older twin you just said you wanted to breed you. To his face, which is colored red all the way to the tips of his ears. He’s still coughing and clutching his chest when the real Colt returns and plops down in the space next to him, concern written all over his face.
“Go away!” you shout at Colt. You slam a hand into his shoulder to push him out of the booth, but he catches your wrist and frowns at you. You try to pry his fingers off of you with your free hand, but he’s too strong. You kick him under the table. “Go away!”
“Why should he go away?” Ryland sputters. “You wanted to talk to him!”
“What did you say?” Colt demands, staring at you. His eyes are—not helping, not when you’re still turned on somehow. You slump over the table and groan, your hand going limp in Colt’s hold. He flicks his stare to Ryland and asks with more urgency, “What did she say?”
“Nothing!” you squawk. “Ryland, do not rat me out.”
“You ratted yourself out!” he accuses in an adorably high-pitched voice. “To me!”
Colt seizes his brother’s shirt collar and rattles him around. “What did she say?!”
“She wants me to breed her,” Ryland blurts. It does not sound like he’s on board. Colt is very much not on board, either—he yanks his hand away from you, your arm slapping down onto the table, and claps that same hand over his mouth to scream into his palm.
“No,” you deny. You jab a finger into the solid tabletop. “No I don’t. I didn’t say that.”
“Hey, it’s true that my eyes are broken,” Ryland says as he shoves his glasses into place on his nose, “but my ears are working just fine. You said I’m in so much trouble, Colt. I want your brother to breed me. And you are absolutely in trouble, young lady.” He curls his hands into fists on the table and shakes his head at you.
“I am a grown woman,” you protest, “and you—both of you, but especially you, Ryland, with those stupidly sexy glasses—are insanely hot.” You cross your legs and don’t apologize when your foot hits someone’s knee. “I tried to behave, but you’re driving me crazy. I want to kiss you senseless. I want to sit on your face. I want you to breed me.”
Ryland covers his ears and shakes his head more fervently.
“You want to sit on his face?” Colt says like he’s wounded, his voice all droopy. “That’s not fair. You should sit on my face.”
“Nope,” Ryland squeaks. “No more mental images.”
Your heart plummets into your stomach. “Are you not attracted to me?” You turn to Colt for help. “Is he not attracted to me?”
“He’s not attracted to you,” says Colt.
“I’m not attracted to you,” says Ryland.
“I’m attracted to you,” says Colt.
As soon as you make a move to flee, Ryland kidnaps your right hand, Colt your left, and they hold on tight like human handcuffs.
“Listen to me,” Ryland says, pleading, and you have no choice but to comply. His fingers are so warm, and long, and he’s not attracted to you. You choke out a sob. He squeezes your hand.
“Colt,” you whine, begging him with your watery eyes to let you escape, but he strokes the side of your hand with his thumb and won’t release you.
Ryland says your name. You look at him. He’s okay. A little shaken from your confession, but okay. “I love you,” he says. “You are a dear friend of mine. You’re—you’re good.” He sucks in a breath. “But I’m not attracted to you, because I’m not attracted to anyone.”
“Ryland Grace,” says Colt, patting his brother’s shoulder, “is aroace.”
Ryland drums his fingertips against your knuckles. “I’m flattered that you feel so strongly about me,” he says with a timid smile, “but I will not, um—yeah.”
“Breed her?” Colt supplies.
Ryland shuts his eyes. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m so sorry,” you say in a small voice. You feel awful. Your hands are tingly from the twins’ touch, and your skin is hot, and your inner thighs are slick inside your shorts, and your stomach is in knots, and you’re ashamed. And he’s not attracted to you.
“It’s okay,” Ryland soothes.
“On the bright side,” Colt chimes, “I look exactly like him.”
Ryland elbows him. “Do you really think this is the best time to flirt with her?”
You pull your hands out of their clutches. It’s not the end of the world. You just made one of your best friends super uncomfortable for a minute. He already forgave you.
You flee.
☆
Time heals all wounds. You spend your lazy Sunday ignoring their texts and scribbling all of your dirty thoughts about Ryland into a notebook and then burning the notebook in your fireplace. You climb into bed early and straddle one of your pillows, rocking back and forth while you picture him, then picture Colt, then picture Ryland—and your phone vibrates next to you when you’re so wet that there’s a stain on your panties and on the center of your pillowcase.
It’s Ryland. You decline the call and sit there straddling your pillow, your breathing heavy.
He leaves you a voicemail. Your finger hovers over the play button for twenty, maybe thirty seconds. You press it.
You roll your hips as his voice bleeds through your phone’s speaker, cheerful and a little raspy:
“Hey! I miss you. I know I saw you last night, but it’s weird not hearing from you for twenty-one hours, haha. Colt says you’re not mad at me and I should let you have your space, but that’s not how I roll.”
You snicker and slow your rhythm. Your thighs shudder around the pillow.
“Are you okay? I obviously can’t imagine how you feel, but I’m sure you’re embarrassed. Um, do you know that Colt likes you? Like, I’m pretty sure he’s in love with you. And I thought—I mean, it seems like you look at him the same way you look at me, so you must think he’s hot or whatever. I caught him wearing my glasses this morning and glaring at his reflection in the mirror, and I think, like, maybe he’s scheming? I don’t know. It’s freaking me out. I don’t even know why I’m saying all of this.
“Call me back, okay? I don’t care if you’re super horny for me, I still want to hang out. Not that I want you to suffer—”
“Hang up.” This voice is a hint lower and far away. It’s Colt’s voice. “You’re so pathetic. Don’t make her listen to all of that.”
You still your hips and lift your phone to your ear.
“You told her she should sit on your face,” Ryland snaps at Colt. “You’re the pathetic one.”
“You’re so witty,” Colt says, deadpan. “She thinks you’re hot, sure, but you’re not hubby material.”
“First of all, I literally don’t care, and second, if I’m not husband material then how come she wants me to give her a baby—Ow!”
You hear Colt giggle. His voice is closer now; he probably took Ryland’s phone. “Sorry about him, honey,” he drawls. “Take your time.”
The voicemail ends. You’re warm all over. Sorry about him, honey. You want to hear it again. You rewind the message and let the last few seconds play out. Sorry about him, honey. Take your time.
Your flush spreads down your neck and your hips jerk against the pillow. This is okay—you can work with this. Do you want to work with this? Which one do you really want?
You flop onto your back and close your eyes. You should sleep on it.
☆
Colt answers the door when you knock. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says, and the pet name makes you want to leap straight into his arms. One corner of his mouth pulls into a smirk. “I knew you’d come around.”
You shift your weight from one hip to the other and clench your fists around the handles of the gift bag you’re holding. “Is Ryland here?” you ask. “I bought him, like, a month’s worth of Twizzlers and Skittles to apologize.”
“He’s not home,” says Colt. “Parent-teacher conferences, I think. Do you want to hang out while you wait for him? I’m just in the middle of knitting—”
You’re already dumping the gift bag onto the table just inside the door and darting back into the hall, but Colt’s fingers attach to your arm, and he yanks you into the apartment—and into his lips.
Yes, you think, and nothing else. Yes.
Colt’s fingers are probably bruising your arm, but his other hand cradles your face, and his kiss is sweet. You fist your hands in the hem of his shirt and kiss him back, the heels of your feet lifting from the hardwood floor.
“Colt,” you start to say, breaking away from his plush lips, so he peppers your face with kisses instead, even brushes your hair back to kiss your temple. You repeat his name, and he says yours so pathetically you could almost mistake him for his brother. He seals his lips onto yours again, and when you open your mouth he flicks his tongue across the inside of your upper lip, and it’s—hot. He’s hot. His hands are hot on your arm and your neck; his skin is hot against your palms when you slip your fingers underneath his shirt.
He hums into your mouth as you trace the ridges of his abs and then draw your hands back down to hook your fingers in his belt loops. One of his hands chases the curve of your back as you arch into him, panting. His tongue dips into your mouth for a taste before he pulls away, his lips slick and glistening and his eyes—such pretty blue eyes—glazed over, pupils blown wide.
He rakes those eyes down the line of your neck, the swell of your chest, the curve of your waist, and then follows that same path back up to slow-blink at you. You feel so small when he makes eye contact, so devoured, but the gentle way he wraps his fingers around your wrists and rubs circles over your veins reassures you that he isn’t really the one in control, that he’s begging.
He looks you dead in the eye when he says, “Let me make love to you.”
You unhook your fingers but he holds your hands, even laces his fingers with yours. He walks backward a couple of steps and you follow, the front door shrinking behind you. It’s still close, but not so close that you can escape in an instant. Colt squeezes your hands—god, his fingers are swallowing you up—and leans in like he’s going to kiss you more, but he stops a few inches from your face and tips his head back slightly to look down his nose at you.
“You want Ryland to breed you?” he husks. You’ve never heard his voice like this, so raw and deep. “That’s the fantasy you were having the other night while I was sitting right there next to you, waiting for the perfect moment to ask you to come home with me?”
Your mouth drops open. You snap it shut.
He smiles down at you—a real smile, with teeth. You swear you see his eyes sparkle. “You don’t want me to ask, do you?”
“Colt,” you whisper.
“Ryland.”
You tilt your head. He holds a finger to his lips.
“I’m going to wear his clothes and make you cry out his name while I fuck you,” Colt says, his tone dangerous. He turns to tread toward his brother’s bedroom. “Close the door behind you, sweetheart, because Ryland is going to breed you tonight. And”—he spins back around to face you, hovering so close—“when you’re leaking my cum I want you to think long and hard about who really did such a good job and who really deserves to be your good boy.”
You could laugh at that last part if you weren’t so breathless, so weak in the knees. Swoon, you think as you kick the door closed. It’s weird for him to want to do it like this, isn’t it? It’s totally weird. Even so, you can’t help but treat him to a cheesy, gooey grin as you follow him into the next room.
Colt throws open the sliding door to Ryland’s closet. “Okay, honey,” he purrs, and winks at you. He’s really laying it on thick. “What clothes do you most like to see on him?”
You perch on the end of Ryland’s bed, cross one leg over the other, and rest your chin in your palm. “I’m torn,” you sigh. “I like to see his arms, but I guess I’m going to see them regardless if—if we’re really doing this.”
“We’re really doing this,” says Colt.
You scan the clothing rack. “Do you know what he’s wearing at the moment?”
“Mhm,” says Colt. “Fox sweater. Denim shirt. Jeans.”
“Double denim,” you note softly. “What blue shirts does he have in there that aren’t denim?”
Colt pulls two button-down shirts from the rack, one a solid baby blue and the other white with slim blue stripes. You like the stripes more, but the full blue one makes his eyes pop. “That one,” you say, and point at it. “Wear that with a red tie and a gray blazer.”
“That doesn’t sound sexy,” he complains.
“It’s sexy.” You’re already tingly just thinking about it. Ryland wears that outfit quite often at school, and whenever you see him in it you have to suppress the urge to bend yourself over his desk and beg him to have his way with you. Maybe if this works out, you and Colt can pick a day to break into Ryland’s classroom after hours and fulfill that fantasy too.
Colt tosses the blazer and the tie next to you on the bed and strips the blue shirt from its hanger. Then he strips his shirt from his body, drawing it over his head and dropping it to the carpet. His back is turned to you. You were there when he had his accident—not really an accident, but it hurts less to call it that—and even though he’s healed since then, you still treat him like he’s delicate. Not because he’s weak. He isn’t weak. He’s just so damn precious.
You abandon the bed to stand behind him and slowly reach out, your hand hovering between his shoulder blades. You press your palm there and tap your fingers against his skin, your lips twitching when he glances over his shoulder at you. Your fingertips trace his spine as you draw your hand down to rest at his lower back, then sweep your thumb across the waistband of his jeans.
He makes a pathetic noise and pushes back into your hand. You move your hand to center your thumb with his spine and he jolts when you rub the gentle arch of his back. You bend down and kiss him there.
He twists and puts his whole hand on your face to shove you away. You lick the arch of his thumb, and he pretends he doesn’t like it—wrinkles his nose and wipes his hand on his jeans—but he does like it, fumbling a little as he pulls Ryland’s shirt over his shoulders and tunnels his arms through the sleeves, because he’s flustered. He’s facing you now as his thick fingers—thick fingers, thick wrists, thick forearms, thick biceps—thread each button through its hole to hide his chest away. He’s thick there, too, but beyond his chest he’s the perfect balance between broad and lithe. His hips are slim, yet his jeans are tight around his thighs, and he’s got long legs you want to rake your nails down until you’re kneeling at his feet.
He leaves the top button open for now, and you take it as an invitation to kiss the hollow of his throat. He paws at your shoulders and whines, maybe, or does the auditory equivalent of pouting, so you kiss him again, higher, around the gentle swell of his neck where that knot in his throat sits. You watch it move—you love watching it move—and then Colt’s hands are actually clamping down on your shoulders, squeezing, shoving you backward until the backs of your knees meet the foot of Ryland’s bed.
You sit back down and part your knees to make space for him to stand between them. Your eyes flit over the length and bulk of his arms as he tucks them under a second layer of clothing, his movements a little clunky because he’s not used to dressing like this, in a thick gray blazer. But it’s undeniably hot to watch him drag the lapels over his chest—he can’t do the button at his waist without obscenely stretching the fabric, so he leaves it open. He fills the shoulders of the blazer so well, like the garment is tailored to him—which, okay, it pretty much is.
He loops the red tie around his neck and you tuck it under his collar for him. You let your thumbs graze his neck and his throat bobs under your touch, and you hear his breathing shift, you hear his lashes flutter, you hear the pads of your thumbs scrape across his beard, and you hear your pulse pound in your ears—you have to kiss him right this second, right this second—
Your fingers latch onto either end of the tie and you use it to pull yourself up from the bed. You crash into him and he makes the sweetest sound into your mouth because you’re kissing him, god, you’re kissing him—
“Easy,” Colt says, soft and deep, humid; there’s a spongy warmth to his voice and you think of the way his throat moved under your thumbs and you whine against his lips, rake your nails down the lapels of his—no, Ryland’s—blazer. You wonder if Ryland kisses like this—idiot, Ryland doesn’t kiss—but then Colt bites your lip hard enough that you’ll feel it tomorrow, and it snaps you back into the moment, into his lips.
You slide your fingers into his hair. It’s softer than it seems, and when you tug on a handful of it, too-soft blond trapped in your fist, his hips buck. His kiss skews sloppily across your cheek, smearing saliva there, and he mouths vaguely at your ear, the flat of his tongue finding the angle of your jaw. He moans, and it vibrates through your skull. He’s so vocal already, and he’s got a perfect voice—it makes you want to pull his hair more, so you do, which makes him want to buck his hips again, so he does—his cock is drooling precum into his jeans, and when you draw your hands a little lower and scratch behind his ears, his fingers close around the base of his cock through a thick layer of denim, barely in time.
You sound waterlogged with arousal when you say, “Did you almost come just from that?”
He rolls his head back and sighs. “You found my weak spot,” he murmurs. Even that—his murmur—sounds rugged and whiny at the same time. He licks his lips—god—and bats your hands away from him. “This isn’t about me. I’m going to tie this tie, and then I’m going to breed you.” He tilts his head and makes a face at you, his nose scrunching up. “Do you actually want me to breed—okay, I’m going to stop saying that—do you want to do this raw? Ugh, that doesn’t sound good either. I just want to make sure we’re not actually making a baby.”
“We’re really making a baby,” you say candidly just to watch his eyes widen comically. You snicker. “I’m on birth control. If you think that’s not safe enough, I guess you’ll just have to treat me to breakfast tomorrow. Who doesn’t love Waffle House waffles and a Plan B pill?”
“You want me to take you out for breakfast?” he says. His eyes sparkle like he’s a cartoon—you almost hope to see his nose bleed. “You want me to take you, not Ryland?” He’s glowing. “Hold on. You want me to buy you waffles and an emergency contraceptive? That’s so romantic.”
“Tie the tie, Colt.”
Colt’s fingers reach for the tie around his neck. He crosses one end over the other, then freezes—his shoulders droop. “Okay, so, I’m in a bit of a pickle,” he says. “I don’t know how to tie a tie.”
You laugh at his wording and slide your hands over his chest. You take the tie into your fingers and pull the thicker end down much further than the thinner end. You cross the two sides, loop the long end all the way around the short end, then pull it through the opening. He swallows as you clasp the top button of his shirt and tighten the tie until the knot rests there. You fix his collar, straighten the ends of the tie, brushing your knuckles over the front of his jeans in the process—and just when he tries to muffle a gasp, you yank on the tie to jerk him down to meet your lips. He doesn’t gasp, he moans, straight into your mouth, his tongue quivering against your bottom teeth.
You skim your palms down his thighs and you’re just able to reach his knees, just able to hook your fingers into the holes in his jeans. His knees nearly buckle, jolting into your hands. You shake your head at him and say, “Ry wouldn’t wear ripped jeans.”
Colt drops his forehead onto your shoulder, trembling with the need to touch you. It’s silly, making him undress to redress just to undress again soon, but this was his idea, and he knows you can leverage that, so he steps away from your fingers and sulks over to Ryland’s dresser.
He opens the drawer that holds all of the denim—Ryland has a shocking amount of it—and takes some light wash jeans. He keeps his back to you so that you can’t see him unzip the jeans he’s wearing, but you can hear it, the low rasp of the zipper as he drags it down. He shuffles his jeans down his legs and you laugh—you don’t mean to laugh, you try to suck it back in once it leaves you, but he’s already whipping a glare at you over his shoulder and snapping, “What?”
“You can’t wear those,” you manage between giggles, pointing at the black briefs that are snug around his ass and dig the tiniest amount into his hips. You wouldn’t care if they were just black, but these are patterned with bright yellow ducks.
He kicks his jeans away and unfolds Ryland’s with a flourish. “I’m not raiding my brother’s underwear drawer,” he says as he pulls the non-ripped jeans up to his hips. The denim is tight around his thighs. “And I’m not giving you a sneak peek at the goods,” he adds, enunciating more than he should just to tease you. His voice is so—and the sound of him tugging the zipper closed over his—and those stupid ducks—
“Colt,” you whine, and he must sense the bump in your heart rate or the shift in your temperature or the impatience in your tone because he stalks over to you while he’s in the middle of tucking his shirt into his jeans and swoops down to kiss you. All of Colt’s kisses are the same: sweet, needy, clingy. This isn’t one of Colt’s kisses. This is Ryland’s kiss, heady and twitchy and suffocating. You imagined them switched, pictured Colt the wolf and Ryland the puppy, but Colt is the puppy and Ryland is a fox—shy, but knows how to bite.
His fingers tangle in your hair like it’s made of spider silk. Your fingers, in turn, spider over his sleeves, tracing the curves of his shoulders and clawing at his chest. There’s so much of him and so little of you, so much tongue in your mouth, so much surface area on his palms pressed to the sides of your neck—he should have no trouble pinning you down, but he stops pushing you toward the sheets the instant you say, “Wait.”
You glance behind you, then flick your eyes to the door, then stare up at Colt. You start to say, “This is Ryland’s bed—” and it dawns on you.
He smirks, and when you blink, he’s his twin brother. This is his bed, you think. This is Ryland standing in front of you, and it’s Ryland’s voice you hear when Ryland says, “Close your eyes.”
You close your eyes. There’s so much power to his voice—it isn’t unkind, but it is a command. He sounds like a schoolteacher. Does that make you one of his students?
You check your breathing while he sidesteps past you and walks around one side of the bed. You hear a soft scrape of thin metal against wood, an object on the nightstand, maybe, and then the dull hiss-swish of denim as his legs move; he’s in front of you again, you feel his presence as a tangible pressure in the air and you smell that same cinnamon sugar as the other night, when you misjudged which twin was which.
You feel the tip of his nose nuzzle your cheek, his breath roll across your face; you feel cool metal nudge your cheekbone, smooth glass graze your brow; and you feel him press his lips to yours, taking care not to knock his glasses too hard into your face. His glasses. Oh god oh god oh god his glasses.
The frames clink against your temple as he glides forward and purrs into your ear. No words, just that slow, deep, vibrating purr. If he didn’t know you so well, he wouldn’t risk sounding so silly, but he does know you, and to you he sounds so sexy that you push your ear against his lips to feel the vibration as much as you hear it.
He mouths at the shell of your ear, licks into it, presses forward to make your hair tangle around his glasses. You want to see his eyes behind them. You lean aside, away, and he draws back and stands straight, having to tip his chin down to look directly at you, which makes the glasses slip down the bridge of his nose. The lenses sharpen his eyes, draw your attention to all the blue and to his lashes, which are more blond than you knew. His lips part, pinkish-red and etched with lines like the tiny cross-hatchings on your palms if you stare closely enough, except these are all vertical and so small you can’t feel them with your lips or your tongue when you kiss him one more time just to try.
He licks them, his lips, pinkish-red, lined, soft, and whispers, “Say my name.”
You open your mouth, close it. You sound much more timid than you feel, breathless just the same, when you say, “Ryland?” There’s a question mark at the end that you didn’t mean to employ.
He rests his hand at the top of your chest, circles your throat with the arch of his fingers. “Hmm?” he hums, mirroring your question mark, one brow arched over the frames of his glasses.
His hand is hot and huge on your chest, your neck. You drop the question this time. “Ryland.”
He draws his fingers over your collarbone and pulls his palm to the center of your chest. He blinks slowly, drawls, “Good girl.”
Your eyes dart to his eyes, and his eyes dart to your eyes, and you erupt with laughter, quite sure your face is burning the same pinkish-red as his lips. “Ryland would not have the confidence to say that, or the urge,” you say.
Colt laughs into the back of his free hand. “I don’t know, are you sure?” he wheezes, smiling far too much for someone whose dick is hard against your hip. He pushes the glasses higher on his nose with one long finger and exhales slowly through rounded lips to quell his laughter and calm his pulse. “I’m still getting into character. I’ve never really acted before; I’ve never had to perform any lines.”
“I don’t want you to act,” you pout. You avert your eyes, trailing your gaze down that red tie you did for him, and you skim your fingertips over the back of it, then close your fist around the fabric. “You could use your mouth for other things besides reciting lines, you know.”
You sit down on the bed, make eye contact, and tug the tie down all at once. He stumbles to his knees, glasses leaping up from his face and clattering back down, crooked, and his pretty blue eyes flick from your face to your hips, your face, your hips, then to your thighs, and he rubs his jaw against the side of your knee, his beard soft; he grows it out enough that it won’t irritate your skin as much as Ryland’s stubble would.
Colt’s beard is softer than Ryland’s stubble, but Colt cut his hair the other day, so when you comb your fingers through it, you’re able to style it a bit more like Ryland’s. Gentle, subtle waves on top, wild in the back, a hint of bangs. You decide that you really like this twin cosplay thing, because it’s like you get to have sex with both of them at once. (Good lord, what a dream that would be.)
You keep one hand on the top of his head, sweeping his bangs back over and over, while your other hand slips behind his ear again and scratches that spot he likes. He bites your thigh, drools onto your skin, licks the teeth marks he left, and you pull his hair and scold, “Bad dog.”
He hides his face in your knee. You trail the tip of your finger over the arch of his ear, red hot like the rest of his face. His neck is flushed, so you caress it with the back of your hand, picking up the vibration of his throat with your knuckles when he whines because of you, for you. You pet his hair and coo, “You want to be a good puppy—Ryland?”
He perks up either at the sound of his not-name on your lips or at the split second pause where you almost said Colt, almost forgot what game you’re playing. He nods, kisses the place where he bit you, licks it some more, slobbering over your skin. Dog saliva is said to clean wounds.
“Are you a good puppy?” you prompt. He pushes his head into your hand, closes his eyes behind his lenses and basks in the comfort of your palm petting his hair. You play into the dog thing a little more. “Come on, boy, speak.” His lips part, but he says nothing. Your hand freezes at the crown of his head. “Do you only understand French commands, chiot? Parle!”
“Woof,” he says at first, and you don’t know what to make of it. He’s really into this—maybe you’re into it, too, because you’re abruptly aware of your panties sticking to your vulva, your skin slick and warm and wanting. “I’m a good puppy,” he says in a much softer voice, his pitch raised a little, likely from shame. A thick crease appears between his brows. “You know French?”
“Some,” you say. “Enough to tell you to déshabille-moi.”
His fingers are already plucking at the hem of your shirt. He slides one hand underneath it, feels up the line of your stomach and paws at one of your bra cups, clamps his teeth down on his lip and shudders when he feels your nipple already hard under the padding. He’s so responsive, not quite able to swallow a moan as he pries your shirt up to your collarbones and stares at your chest. You’re wearing a simple bra—cute, maybe, you think—but the lace trim really does it for him, or maybe it’s just you. He helps you pull your shirt over your head and then takes your hands in his huge ones, the contact skin-sizzling as his fingertips race across your palms, the veins in your wrists, your forearms, then back down to hold your hands, to squeeze you, all while his eyes flit across your chest, your soft stomach, your softer thighs where your shorts have ridden up—it’s totally just you.
He fixes his crooked glasses to see you better, remembers a second too late that he doesn’t need the glasses to see you at all. You brush his hair back from his forehead, pet him a few times, watch his mouth drop open and his irises shrink around his pupils. “You don’t have to wear those for me,” you say, “if I’m too blurry.”
He blinks, tips his head down, lets the glasses slide low so that he’s looking at you over them, not through. “It’s a weak prescription,” he says, and rubs the pads of his fingers over your fingernails. “He probably just wears them to look smarter.”
You laugh. You try to capture his hands, but his fingers are too fast; they climb over the backs of your arms, jump to your back, pinch the clasp of your bra and unhook it—wait, one of the hooks is stuck—a little more—there, the clasp comes undone and he flicks the straps down from your shoulders, snatches the garment away, bares your breasts to him—to Ryland, who’s really Colt—and, to your surprise, looks you in the eye, his lips parted, breaths cycling faster, fingers twitching when they land on your thighs and pick at the frayed hem of your shorts.
“You’re so pretty,” he says, he swoons, bearing a toothy smile but abashed and blushing. “I should have said that before I started to undress you, but believe me, I thought it. I think you’re pretty all the time. I’m totally lost in your eyes right now even though you’re topless.”
“That’s so sweet,” you say, and you really mean it. You pry his left hand up from your thigh and guide it to your breast. “Touche-moi, puppy.”
He rises a little on his knees to kiss a zigzag pattern over your stomach and toward where you want him, and his hand kneads your breast to appease you while he’s on his way. His kisses are double-textured, the softness of his lips and the roughness of his beard searing your skin, both a comfort and a tease. He tucks his nose into the hot curve of your breast and inhales the sweaty scent of you, and his knees shuffle forward, desperate to be closer. He’s between your thighs and playing with the weight of your right breast, his other hand pressed flat to your ribs, almost cradling the left one in the arch of his fingers; and his mouth, his face, is on you—double textured—his lips grazing the edge of your nipple. He smiles again, swipes one of his canine teeth over the bud, then attacks it with his tongue.
Your name tumbles from his lips, then a gaggle of words that he probably, most likely, doesn’t mean to voice. “If we made a baby for real, you could—god,” he whispers into the cleft that forms between your breasts when he squishes them together. His lips move sloppily over your nipple as he slurs, “I want your milk, want to taste it, want it to drip all over my face.”
You jolt, pushing your chest into his hands, into his mouth. You feel his canines again, feel them almost pierce your flesh, feel his tongue dart out between them and flick over your nipple, feel his tastebuds rough like sandpaper and the underside of his tongue slimy and warm, feel his lips close around your nipple and suck. There’s an audible pop when he releases you from his mouth to whine, “I’m a puppy”—he kisses your other nipple—“and I need my mama to feed me her milk.”
“Oh my—Ry!” you squeak, jolting again at the cold press of his glasses frames to your skin. You’re shocked to hear yourself call him that when it’s clearly Colt who’s suckling at your nipple until it’s puffy and raw, but you feel Ryland’s blazer under your fingers, and you feel his duvet beneath your thighs, and you feel his voice seep into your chest when he moans—it’s a sound that just shudders out of him in one long wave, a tight vibration that makes you throb. You screw your eyes shut and command, “Down, boy,” and he drops despite his hunger for you because he’s an obedient little dog.
You crack one eye open, then the other, and tap the button of your shorts with your fingernail, the metal sounding a dull clink. He works the button open, still eyeing your breasts and the glisten of his saliva on your nipples, but when you lift your hips he tugs your shorts down to your knees, lets them pool around your ankles, whisks them away while he ogles you. His palms slide from your knees to your thighs to your inner thighs, and his gaze drops there, pupils gaping, irises shrinking, his mouth actively watering—he’s drooling from the lips on his face as much as you’re drooling from the lips between your thighs. Your panties are drenched, darkened in the center from the sheer volume of your slick. He rubs the fabric—very much too close to rubbing your clit—and pulls his thumb back wet, smears your arousal across his lips, moans into the pad of his thumb.
You scoot forward, barely on the edge of the bed now, and spread your knees wider. He hooks his fingers in the elastic of your panties, pulls it and lets it go, lips twitching into a fleeting smile when the band snaps against your skin and you jolt, again, your breasts bouncing a little. You glare at him, and he shrinks back but reaches forward, wrestling your panties over your ass and tearing them away in the blink of an eye.
“Yes,” you breathe, but that gets him too eager, and he hurtles forward to bury his face between your thighs. You shove your palm into his bangs and say, “Sit,” and he sits, staring with his best begging eyes at you, tongue lolling out of his mouth as he honest to god pants like a real mutt. “Stay,” you say, and he stays. You plant your hands at either side of you on the bed and wonder what other commands he will obey. “Paw?” you say, and he lifts his hand, his wrist limp, still panting and begging with those glittering blue eyes. You glide your fingertips across his knuckles and stare at his pink tongue when you say, “Speak.”
“Woof!” he barks. The corners of his lips spread. His panting quickens, each breath dripping hot and fast from his tongue. His eyes sparkle, and he smiles wider. “Woof! Woof!”
You feel feverish. “Good boy,” you praise. He swallows his tongue and whimpers, hides his face in your knee like before, kisses you there. His glasses are starting to fog. Glasses—the glasses remind him of the switch, of the twin he’s playing, and it knocks some sense into him. You loop his tie around your fingers and tug him into you, treating the fabric like a leash. He humors you, lets you jerk him around, even whimpers again because damn he’s aching in his jeans and he loves the torture, loves the dull pain he feels in his neck when you yank on his tie; but he doesn’t shove his face into your pussy like he wants to, because it’s not the best he can do—he has a better idea.
He sucks a kiss onto your lower stomach, and his dominant hand snakes between your thighs. His fingertips, all of them, ghost over your vulva, your sensitive skin straining to feel his not-touch. His thumb presses to the space above your clit, and he curls his fingers to drag his joints over your slit. You feel every ridge of bone, every finger, the medium rough-textured pad of his thumb teasing you, and then he takes it all away, turns his hand over and cups you in his palm.
Your hips stutter into his hand. You can feel the curved lines sewn into his palm; his palm is wide, which makes you feel small, which makes his fingers feel that much more huge when the tips crook just barely inside you, four of them, four fingers squished together to fit at your entrance, crowded there. Your arousal coats his fingernails and dribbles down his fingers when he turns his wrist over again and strokes you with the back of his hand, lets you rock against his fingers once, twice, hears you gasp, “Colt,” and pins you easily in place with his free hand clamped down on the very top of your thigh.
“Not my name,” he drawls, eyes cast to his hand on your pussy. The thick blond edges of his eyebrows curve up, arching toward the middle of his forehead, and yes, it’s sexy enough to warrant a sentence or two of acknowledgement. You brush your thumbs across his brows, softer than you imagined, and nudge the backs of your fingers against his bangs. He mimics the motion with his right hand, nudges his fingers against you. Swipes his tongue across his lips. Blinks, holds his eyes closed for a second, his eyelids a subtle peach pink. He opens his eyes. He looks up at you.
He looks up at you over the rims of his glasses, the move that always stops your heart, and his voice is a hint lower, more focused, you think, when he says, “I’m Ryland Grace. I have a doctorate in biology. I know how and where to touch you, and I have a pretty good idea of what will make you come.”
“A doctorate in molecular biology,” you correct him, but he’s already talking over you.
“You like my hands”—he switches from a drawl to a purr—“and my voice.” Your pussy drools more wetness onto his open palm as he spreads his fingers and draws them through the creases of your thighs and the edges of your curves. “Your labia majora is so soft,” he says.
“What?” Your heart skips a beat. Ba-dum—silence—ba-dum.
“Mmm,” he not-says, and even the not-word makes you shudder. It’s his breath, it’s his voice; it’s the pitch of his hum and the vibration; it’s the way his throat moves and it’s the way his lips pucker when he’s focused. “The labia minora, though,” he says, so candid, “is more sensitive, isn’t it? So if I trace the slit between the two folds”—he flicks the tip of a finger up the length of your slit and locks eyes with you, fuck—“you like that.”
You open your mouth, but nothing—there are no words.
“And,” he adds, “if I feel the opening of your vagina—” The terms he’s using are killing you. You’re flushed to your chest, to the tips of your ears. You push his hair back and find his ears flushed too. He dips his fingers into your entrance and breathes, “Oh, you’re so open, so ready for me. You want my fingers inside. Before that—I’ve been neglecting your clitoris.”
You slap a hand over your eyes. His thumb circles your clit, then his index finger comes along and he pinches the nub. He moans with you, harmonizing, and his voice is—it’s Ryland’s voice, it’s Colt copying Ryland’s voice because Ryland’s voice is the same as Colt’s voice, and now that voice is saying, “Look at me.”
“Ryland,” you whine in protest and to appease him.
“I know, honey,” he soothes. He rolls your clit between the pads of his fingers and pillows his cheek on the side of your thigh. “You get off on my eyes, too. Eye contact feels good, huh? Your clit throbs when I look at you.”
You peek at him between your fingers and it does, you do, you pulse against his thumb. “Please stop,” you hiccup, but you mean the opposite, and he knows that. He pulls your hand down from your eyes and holds your gaze as he pushes two fingers into you, his thumb stroking your clit, fingers stroking your walls, sinking deeper an inch at a time to make sure you feel how long his fingers are, how long it takes for him to push them in to the hilt, his knuckles flush with your entrance.
“Hmm,” he says, and presses his fingertips deeper. You feel one brush a tender spot inside you. “I’m touching your cervix. You feel that? That’s my middle finger. The shorter one”—he works his fingers a little further, his wrist straining, and you feel a second fingertip join the first—“that’s my ring finger.”
He nudges your cervix, careful, so that it’s the good kind of pressure. You drop your gaze to his wrist and the heel of his hand, his fingers lodged entirely inside of you and then some. He snaps the fingers of his opposite hand to call your attention back to his face, says, “Hey,” and locks eyes with you. The authority in his voice does things to you. “I can feel you squeezing my fingers,” he remarks, and it takes all of your will not to avert your eyes. He’s staring intently at you, his glasses frames cutting a line through his eyes at this angle, and he’s so earnest as he says, “You understand the size of my hand now, yeah? Your vagina is probably four and a quarter, maybe four and a half inches long, and your cervix rests at the end of it. My fingertips are touching your cervix.”
Your vision blurs—you blink back into focus, and he’s still watching you. You bend down to kiss him, and the way your body folds puts pressure on your stomach, and something about it just—you pulse around his fingers and kiss him messily, your hands blindly pawing at his face, your nose knocking into his glasses. His lips part and he just breathes into your mouth while you kiss and bite and suck; you lick his canine teeth, bite his tongue, suck the drool out of the corner of his lips, and you think you’re about to cry.
“Ry-yland,” you stammer, and screw your eyes shut again. His fingers shift inside you, drawing away, out, but you clamp down to suck them back in. His other hand starfishes across your stomach, tries to push you upright, but all you do is rock forward to chase his hands, both of them, and when you toss your head back and roll your hips into his fingers, your boobs hit his face and knock his glasses onto his forehead.
He moans a single word into your breasts, probably a curse, but what you hear is a muffled, “Fff—ugh,” and his fingers curl, rub, find your sweet spot and push it, hold pressure there, amping up the force until you feel the pleasure rattle through your entire nervous system. You reel back and he coughs, fingers jolting, pressing harder, his voice dirty and rough now. “Look at that,” he growls, “I found your internal clit.”
Your walls spasm around his fingers and you do cry, a pair of hot tears rolling down your cheeks. “Stop talking, stop talking,” you plead, jerking your hips, but he follows the movement and keeps his fingers steady against that spot. You make the mistake of meeting his eyes just as his thumb connects with your clit and rubs it violently, and—“Oh”—and it’s—“if you don’t”—it’s—“I’m gonna come—”
He rips his fingers out of you and snakes them, wet and sticky, over your shoulder, and the fingers of his opposite hand pinch your clit so hard it hurts. He stares you down with a frown on his face and his nails digging into your shoulder, his brows drawn tight. “Not. Yet,” he scolds in his teacher voice, yet it’s laced with a little too much impatience and a little haughty, the same voice that spat the phrase staggering waste of carbon.
You blink, and he stands, and when you blink a second time you don’t need to pretend at all. He towers over you, pushes you down until your back is flat against the duvet, and huffs at you like you’re a handful. “Ry,” you whisper, converted, a believer. Colt is somewhere other than here, because all you see above you is his twin.
Ryland hikes a knee onto the bed, shoves it between your thighs, pins you down with the hand on your shoulder when the drag of his jeans against your vulva makes you squirm. He braces his free hand beside your head and leans down, his face casting a shadow over yours. His glasses drop back into place over his nose and his tie dangles over your chest, tempting you to pull it. You hook a finger under the knot and tug it loose around his collar. Your hand slips beneath his blazer and into a sleeve to feel the meat of his bicep through his shirt. His arm is soft but firm under your fingers, and so damn strong.
He eases a huge hand beneath your head and cradles the back of your skull as he comes down in search of your lips. His kiss is fleeting, because he won’t quit gazing at you, his eyes peeling open when his mouth is still connected to yours. “I want you,” he whispers against your lips, his glasses the only barrier between his eyes and yours with all the lack of space, “to sit on my face.”
You frown and pull on his tie, barely. “Are you sure you want me to have that much power? I weigh more than you think.”
“So?” he says, dead serious. He studies your eyes. “If going down on you is how I die, I win. I want to hear nothing but my lungs deflating because your thighs are clamped around my ears and you’re humping my face. Please let me have that.” He slides his hand over the back of yours and guides your palm to his cock. You cup him through his jeans; he’s thick and fucking wet. He squirms against your palm, and his jaw clenches when you rub him with the heel of your hand, but he still whines a little bit. His cock throbs against your fingers, swollen and probably red, probably in pain from the press of tight denim to the leaking head. You rub the tip with your thumb and raise your other hand to his neck, your fingertips tracing the arch of his ear.
“You almost came from this earlier,” you whisper as the pads of your fingers slip behind his ear and graze the place he deemed his weak spot. You feel him spurt precum through his jeans and it slicks your palm, eases the friction as you rub him faster. You pull him down and let your lips hover at his ear. “If I wanted to see you come in your pants, could you do that for me?”
He nods first, then shakes his head. His glasses tumble down onto your face, so you help him fix them, but they won’t stay in one place on his nose; he’s thrusting into your palm, wheezing more than breathing, his voice strained when he says, “I have to save it—save my cum for when I’m inside you. I need you to take every”—thrust—“last”—thrust—“drop.”
And then he kisses you. It does nothing to mask his moan, high-pitched and girly, as his fingers cuff your wrist and he trembles above you, his next inhale quivering, staggered. He takes your hand and kisses it, bites your knuckles, catches his breath.
“Come on.” He climbs onto the bed, lying down on his back, and beckons you. You shuffle forward on your knees until you’re fidgeting at his side, nervous. You hate that you’re nervous. You want this so much. In your fantasies you ride his beautiful face with abandon, make a mess of his mouth and damn near suffocate him, but you’ve never—no man has ever begged you to sit on his face. You’re already in bed, you’re already naked, all you have to do is—oh.
Ryland calls your name, softly, and his hands grasp your thighs, softly. His left hand slides to the back of your knee and he pulls your leg over his hips, pulls you down into his lap, pulls you forward, guides you into a slow rhythm. You grind against the front of his jeans and sigh as that itchy anxiety in your stomach wastes away to make room for arousal. His palms caress your thighs, softly, and climb up until his fingers are squeezing your hips, softly. He pulls you onto his stomach, pulls you onto his chest, pulls you over his face, your hips lifting to hover there.
You brace your hands on the headboard and summon the courage to glance down at him. He reads your hesitation and fixes his eyes on yours, silently forbidding you to look away. “I want your crazy,” he says, and it’s a promise. “Take the elevator down, sweetheart”—he tugs you down toward his lips—“and enjoy the ride.”
“You’re so stupid,” you laugh, breathless as he kisses your vulva.
“I don’t care,” he moans. One arm slithers around your leg, his fingers groping your inner thigh to spread you open for better access. “Come here.”
You slide onto his mouth, warm like a kiss but obscenely slick. You drop your forehead against your hands on the headboard; you want to close your eyes, it’s too much, but you can’t miss this. You hear blood rushing in your ears and nothing else, not the sound he makes—that’s only a long vibration against your curves as his tongue snakes through your slit and probes your entrance. Your ears tune back in to listen to the sounds you make on his tongue and the sounds his tongue makes on you, and the low groan of the bed underneath you, the crack of your joints as you part your legs wider and your knees shift on the pillows.
His hands urge you to move, to use him. You can see in his eyes that he’s waiting. You roll your hips once, your inner thighs connecting with the arms of his glasses and skewing them on his face. The cold metal frames against your skin make you jolt back, and your lower back meets one of his hands, the other gliding up over your stomach to trace the curves of your breasts. You take that hand and pull it over one of your tits, and he cups the weight of it, whines into your pussy as your thumb brushes across the inside of his wrist and you arch your back to roll your nipple across his palm.
You’re flushed and he is too, a deep blush dusted from one cheekbone to the other in a dramatic red line across his face. You freeze in place and swipe a fingertip across his cheeks, over the hump of his nose, and he draws his tongue to your clit, which brings his thin top lip into your view. You tap the corner of his mouth. His lips are wet with saliva and your slick. He sucks your finger into his mouth, keeping eye contact, eye contact, takes it to the hilt and angles his tongue around the base of your finger to lick your clit at the same time.
“Oh god,” you say—you think you say, and you arch so violently that you skid forward on his face and knock his glasses onto the pillow. You backtrack and sit gently on the top of his chest, your finger still in his mouth. You wrench his jaw open and drag your nail across his teeth, his lower lip, then stick your finger under his tongue. It’s hot there, a squishy pale pink. You pull his tongue over his top lip and grind your clit against the underside of it, noting the abrupt furrow of his brow and the muted sound of confusion that tears from his throat.
“You said you want my crazy,” you gasp. Your fingers tangle in his hair, soft and blond and such a mess as you have your way with it. “This is my crazy. I’m obsessed with your tongue, Ryland, and your lips.” You pluck at his bottom lip and let it bounce back into place, then rub your clit over that, too. “I’ve been eyeing your nose for a while, you know, ‘cause it looks really fun to ride.”
“Ysh,” he croaks, which you translate as yes. You’re rocking back and forth over his mouth, your clit bumping the tip of his nose when you want it to, and his beard is scratching your inner thighs so good, not too prickly and not too soft. You press down until you feel the curve of his chin rubbing your entrance, and when he flicks his tongue over your slit, you feel like static—sparks all over your skin, warmth shocking your core.
“I think I understand what Madonna meant,” you muse, gulping air into your lungs between thrusts, or rolls, or whatever it is you’re doing. “I feel like a virgin”—your clit bumps his nose again—“touched for the very first time.”
He works his glasses back onto his face with a few shaky fingers and taps his nose, his eyes wide and pleading. You inch forward and grind real slow, real hard against the tip of it. You swear you feel his breath coast warm through his nostrils and hit your urethra—ugh, fuck, you’re mimicking the type of terms he used when he fingered you. Fingers—you want his fingers inside again, want to feel him abuse that spot he found, but there’s no time; you’re pathetically close and can’t seem to slow down, thrusting your clit along the length of his nose until you meet the bridge of his glasses. And he’s still looking at you, but his lenses are close to hitting his eyes, and shit, your thighs are clamped around his head, squeezing him, what if you break the frames—
“I’m obsessed with you,” you cry out, because there’s no other explanation for how torrid you are, how mad crazy feral, bucking against his nose until he’s soaked in your arousal and about to get a lot more wet, you can feel it, the heat, the pressure, fuck, not yet! “I’m—obsessed with your eyes, the way you look at me, like, like I’m special,” you babble, trying in vain to slow your hips and distract from the good, how good it feels. “I’m obsessed with your glasses, Ry, how you just walk around with them slid low on your nose or dangling from your ear, it’s not appropriate, god—are you still breathing? I think I feel you breathing.”
He thumps his fist on your thigh and gives you a thumbs-up—Colt.
“Good boy. Good boy!” you chant, sounding just as crazed to him as you sound in your head, but he loves it, he’s mewling into your pussy because he loves it so much. “Good—Ryland, you’re a good boy, you’re my good boy—oh, is this—what about now, is it—say it’s okay, say I can come.”
“Ysh,” he croaks again, and nods, rubbing his whole face against your whole vulva, your clit jammed against the bridge of his glasses, the top of his nose, yes— “Yes, sweetie, please.”
“Sweetie?” you echo. You can’t mistake that for Colt; that’s Ryland, a hundred percent. It’s his voice, his lips—sweetie belongs in his mouth, not his brother’s.
So you spiral into a shuddering orgasm that has you sinking down onto his face with your whole weight, your fingers flexing in his hair, and you’re—oh, you’re squirting all over him, his nose, his cheeks, soaking his beard, his lips, spurting into his mouth, gushing over his glasses. It’s in his hair and drooling down his neck. He’s covered in it; he belongs to you.
You squeak a word or two of apology, but you can’t move. His arms coil around you, around the small of your back and the swell of your ass, and he holds you down to lap at your skin, at the glisten of fluid along your slit. The droplets on his glasses look pretty like rain, and he never closed his eyes the entire time it poured—he watched you. He’s always watching you.
He licks you through the aftershocks and keeps licking you until you can’t handle the stimulation and you have to force him back with a hand in his bangs, shoving his head into the pillows and wriggling out of his arms to lift away from his face. The red line across his cheeks has spread to his ears and trickled through his beard to his neck, so much skin flushed and wet, and it’s all your fault. Your thighs are shaking—he’s smug at that, his lips lolling into a lazy smile, his eyes drooping half-lidded. You settle down on his hips, feel his hip bones poking out above the waistband of his jeans, his shirt having come untucked at the sides. You dip your thumbs into the hints of skin exposed to you and then ruck his shirt up some more. His stomach is toned and it moves beneath the hand you lay on his navel, because his breathing changes, his throat bobbing as he swallows a lungful of air and then another quicker than he should, his heart beating quicker than it should.
“Look at you,” you breathe, matching his pace. He stretches his arms over his head and then drops them across the pillows, fingertips toying with his hair. He tries to spread his legs, but you’re sitting on him. His cock aches in his jeans and under the warmth of your bare pussy. You curl your fingers around the tie that’s loose around his neck and say, “I wish I could breed you.”
“Oh fuck, you can try,” he blurts. You yank him up via the tie—you told him it was sexy—and he throws his arms around your neck and kisses your cheek, the corner of your mouth, a little sloppy.
You slip your fingers into the fold of his shirt collar, at the back of his neck, and hook your thumb under the tie so that when you tug on it this time, you’re pulling him back, away from your lips. “Ryland doesn’t curse,” you say.
Colt slaps a hand over his mouth.
You laugh. “You’re not in trouble,” you soothe. “I—like it.”
There’s an awkward silence where you should elaborate, but don’t. Colt—Ryland, damn it—grins, and it’s a grin you don’t trust, because it’s awfully smug for someone who just a second ago invited you to, what, peg him? “You like it, huh? You like it when I curse, sweetie?” He strokes your cheek and takes your hand and kisses the inside of your wrist where your pulse beats. “You know, I can’t just curse willy-nilly, because if it becomes a habit, I risk swearing in front of my students.” He guides your hand into his hair, no, to that spot behind his ear, and says, “But if you touch me and it’s so good that I—fuck—curse like that, it’s not really my fault, is it?”
You press your thumb into that spot, then rub, then merely graze, and he seems to like the teasing the most, the gentle brush of your fingertip over his skin.
“I could say sh-shoot,” he gasps, and the act of him trying not to curse turns you on maybe even more than the actual cursing. He nuzzles into your hand, your wrist. “I could say heck, or I could sound silly and say fluff or fudge or—f-fuck!”
Your other hand is tucked into his shirt, a few fingers shoved through a gap between the buttons, and you’re flicking your fingertips over a nipple. “Shh, that’s a bad word,” you tease. You pinch his nipple between two of your fingers and he bites his lip, his brows knitted. You kiss the space between them, between his brows, then kiss a path across them both, humming softly into the smooth skin of his forehead.
“Mmm, ‘s so hot in all these clothes,” he complains, rolling his shoulders back. You help him out of the blazer, watching his muscles strain against the shirt underneath; the fabric is stretched taut across his chest, the buttons barely holding the shirt together. You unravel his tie first, but before you toss it away you wipe his wet face with it, dirtying the cheap polyester.
He rests his hands on your waist while you flick open his shirt buttons one at a time. His fingers squeeze you for each button you unclasp, and his labored breathing morphs into soft-uttered praise, things like, “You make it look so easy, sweetheart,” and “I love your hands,” and “One more, yes, like that,” and then your hands are on his chest, his skin, and his nipples are hard under your palms and he’s sighing, “Fuck yes, fuck—ugh, fuck, I’ve started and I can’t stop.”
His voice so near your ear, and that word whispered over and over, it all makes you need him more, makes you need him naked and inside you so you can hear how similar that sounds to this, him cursing, “Fuck, you just feel so good,” when all you’re doing is touching his chest. You skim your fingers over his abs and thumb the button of his jeans, angling your hips back to make room for you to work.
He plants his palms a bit behind him and leans back, his glasses slung low on his nose and his blue eyes cast to your fingers unzipping his jeans and prying the waistband down. He lifts his hips, you shuck his legs bare, and with the jeans piled in your hands you look up and catch a glimpse of yellow—those damn dumb briefs he’s wearing.
You snort, which gets him defensive. “Ducks are sexy,” he argues, frowning.
“Geese, maybe,” you say as you drop his pants onto the carpet. You press your palms into the meat of his thighs, try to curve your fingers around him but your hands are too small, and he’s too big.
He pinches your nose closed and says, “Honk.”
You smile, catch his wrist. Trail your opposite hand over his hip, dip your fingertips into black elastic, drag his waistband low to take a peek at his—it’s big. You’re too small, and he’s too big, your fingers barely able to wrap around him, and wait, your fingers are wrapping around him.
Ryland, Colt, whatever—his cock throbs in your hand, the head flushed red like you imagined, precum beading at the tip like you imagined; he’s warm and velvety and thick. For once, he’s not looking at you; he’s looking at your hand, but not at you, too wrapped up in the tunnel of your fingers—literally—to meet your eyes.
You seal your lips onto his. He tastes bitter and feels slick; it’s not an innocent kiss. You play with the head of his cock, draw your thumb through his slit to feel more precum spurt over your hand. He tilts his head and kisses you deeper and thrusts into your fist and moans into your mouth, “Mmm, I need you, honey,” and your fingers unfurl from around his cock to undress him the rest of the way. You touch a hand to his shoulder and rake your eyes over all of him, head to toe, and then you straddle his lap and rub your vulva against his cock with your eyes trained on his eyes—it’s far too late to feel shy.
But his gaze drifts down again, enamored with the way his cock catches on your entrance, so you frame his face with your hands and say, “Look at me.”
There’s just so much heat. The heat of his cock begging to press into you, the heat of his breath on your face, the heat of his face in your palms, the heat in his eyes, bright blue eclipsed by the size of his pupils. You sink down onto him all at once; you meant to move slow and steady, but you’re all too ready for him. You watch his lips part in slow motion and one of hands flattens against your back to hold you, to halt you. Whatever obscene noise he was about to spill, he chokes on it, and it dies in his throat as he kisses you hard and scrapes your lower lip with his teeth when he hisses, “Wait.”
You drag your hands from his jaw to his neck and rock deeper into his lap, gasping as you feel his cock slide past your cervix and slot into the space behind it. He spreads his fingers across your stomach and pins you between his two hands, one on your front and one on your back. You can’t move like this, but even if you could, your legs are tired. So you say, “Move,” instead of telling him to let you move, but he shakes his head.
“Can’t,” he whispers, his voice strained. “Don’t want to come yet.” He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath through his teeth. You try to hold still for him, but he’s nestled so deep inside you and his hip bones are flush with your thighs and it feels so good that you clench around his cock, pulling a pathetic, strangled moan out of his pretty little mouth.
Your thumbs glide across his jaw, palms across his neck, and you bury your fingers in his hair to pull it. You push him forward into your lips, kiss his forehead and start to say, “Colt—”
“Colt?” He bucks into you, eyes popping open. His breath comes up short and he has to swallow another one. He shifts his hands to clutch your hips and tips his chin down to lock eyes with you over the rims of his glasses. “Do I need to remind you who I am?”
You shake your head, but his long fingers bracket your chin and force you to nod instead. He flips you over like you weigh nothing and pins you on your back, slotting his cock into the crease of your thigh, slotting a hand into yours and lacing your fingers with his. He presses your linked hands to the pillows and leans down into your space, his chest flush with yours and his lips at your ear. You turn your head the other direction but he catches your earlobe with his teeth and squeezes your hand. The pillows smell like Ryland, like him.
“What’s my name?” he demands. He rubs the head of his cock against you, first over your clit and then slides to your entrance, waiting. His nails cut little crescents into your hip.
“Ryland,” you moan, your tongue numb in your mouth. He rolls his hips to push only the tip of his cock into you, so you say it again, more frantic. “Ryland! Your name is Ryland.”
He thrusts into you then and licks the shell of your ear, his skin so warm against your skin, his voice so hot and so close and so Ryland. “Good girl,” he purrs, and it doesn’t make you laugh this time. He lifts your linked hands and taps them against the pillow. “This is my bed. This”—he holds his lips to your ear—“is my voice. Look at me. Come on, sweetie, look at me.”
The thick weight of his cock inside you is so distracting that you can’t really think, but his voice is so powerful that your eyes snap to his face before you even register what he asked of you. When you look at him, he looks away, teasing you. His eyes flick to your fingers slotted between his, then to your ear as his thumb tucks your hair back, then to your neck; he comes down to bite it, timed with a thrust, his hips hitting the backs of your thighs as his teeth sink into your skin. You whine into his hair and reach for him with your free hand, latching onto his bicep. The muscles flex under your fingers as he thrusts again, careful, patient.
He comes up from your neck and meets your eyes through his glasses. “What’s my name?” he asks, gentle this time. You feel him draw back and angle his hips to brush your sweet spot every time he rocks forward, slow and precise.
You hum, or whine, lost in his eyes and melting from all the stimulation between your thighs. He knows what he’s doing. He’s smart and strong and looking at you and you can’t—you can’t. “Dr. Grace,” you moan, the heat in your core spiking through your chest. His next thrust is sharper, his mouth falling open.
“That’s—” He claws at your waist when you roll your hips to take him deeper, faster. Your clit brushes his skin at the height of every thrust, when he’s buried to the hilt. His glasses fall when he matches your pace, so you hold them to his face for him, your fingertips slick from the sweat at his brow. He chokes on a moan with his mouth closed, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth.
“You can’t speak?” you tease, curving your lips into a pout. “You’re always talking, Dr. Grace, that’s your thing. Talk to me.”
“I-I can’t—” He’s pounding into you now, can’t help it, and the sound of it is filthy, the harsh slap of skin and the slick slide of his cock into your pussy. You don’t know if you’re wet or if he is. “It’s his name,” he says, breaking character, “his title, so why is it so—why do I like it so much?”
“Dr. Grace,” you coo, listening for a whimper. He sounds so wrecked already, but you can’t tease him for it because you’re wrecked too. You lick the sweat from his face, lick the curve of his cheek, feel him burning hot under your tongue.
“Fuck,” he whimpers—there it is, even better— “You want me to come inside? Hm, sweetie? You want Dr. Grace to breed you?”
His thumb finds your clit and you gasp, “Colt!” —can’t pretend he’s anyone else, can’t give the credit to anyone else. He’s still looking at you, always, but now his lashes flutter, and he fucks into you a couple more times and freezes, gasps, whines, squeaks all high-pitched and pretty. He spills inside you—you feel it spurt warm and sticky and fill you up until there’s so much that it’s leaking out around the base of his cock.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t talk you through it, doesn’t have to, just gasps and sobs and mashes his thumb down on your clit and that’s enough to make you come, arching into him, crushing his hand in yours, your mouth already open for the messy kiss he gives you, his glasses smushed between your faces.
He loops an arm around your neck and whines your name into your mouth, the sound waves rolling down your throat and into your stomach. You’re panting, or he is, and he’s trembling, or you are, and when he separates his hand from yours your palm is sticky with sweat. You wipe it into his hair as he pulls out, and you both peer down to watch his cum drool out of you and stain the duvet. He makes a shocked noise as another small spurt shoots out of him and spills over your vulva. He swipes his fingers through it and pushes his cum inside you, sinking deep until his fingertips kiss your cervix.
He kisses the tip of your nose and you pet his hair, analyzing the handsome face above you. You notice that his cheeks are a little fuller than Ryland’s, that his lashes are a little longer, his eyes a little softer. “I don’t want to play pretend next time,” you sigh, falling a little in love with these softer eyes. “I just want you.”
“Next time?” he rasps, bleary-eyed and fatigued. “You want me? Is this a dream?”
You ruffle his hair and coo, “You’re such a good boy, Colt.”
“Yes,” he murmurs, then perks up. “Yes! I love you! I’m in love with you!” He smiles, turning pink all over again, and draws his tongue over your lips.
“Colt,” you laugh, then squeal as he licks your face. “Colt, stop it. Colt!”
“Woof!” he barks, panting, licking you some more. “I told you I’m your good boy. I want a collar! But only if it’s one of the cool ones that has the spikes on it.”
You put your hand on his face and shove him away, but he just licks a stripe up your palm instead. “Colt, I think I’m falling in—”
The door swings open.
“—love with you too,” you finish weakly, dazed. You and Colt turn to the door. You slap a hand over your mouth.
“Hey Colt,” Ryland says, first glancing at his watch, not seeing you, “have you seen my glasses—”
Colt rips the glasses off of his face and holds you tighter against him to shield your nudity from his brother’s eyes. Ryland looks up—Colt points the glasses at him, waving his arm, stuttering, “Ry, this isn’t what it—okay, it is, but don’t think about it. Don’t—I see your mouth moving, stop that, shut it. Do not say—”
“What,” Ryland bellows, “the motherfluffing heck are you doing?!” You muffle a laugh into Colt’s neck, try to mask it with a cough, but he does nothing to hide his snort. Ryland’s eyes dart around the room and find his clothes strewn across the floor, find his glasses in Colt’s hand. “Why are you—in my bed?” he squawks. “Why are you me?”
“I’m not,” Colt says with a wince. “Oh, you probably want these back.” He tosses Ryland his glasses, and they hit him square in the chest. Ryland catches them in his palms, squints down at the lenses, which are dirty, from—from—
He screams, drops the glasses onto the carpet, leaps away from them and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, then screams again because his hands aren’t clean. “I,” he wheezes, jabbing a finger at his twin, “am going to fucking kill you.”
“Oh,” Colt says, and meets your eyes. “He does curse.”