Page 93 of Shameless Game

Pensive. Possessive. Passionate.

“I know what’s on your mind.” So I keep poking, trying to make him smile. “You’re finally ready for me, aren’t you?”

It works. He grins. “You running a high temperature for me, Bronson?”

“Hell yeah, I’m hot for you. For twelve damn years. I’m so ready to blow.”

“You can blow in my mouth.”

“Been there. Jizzed on the T-shirt. Loved the jaw fest. But now I’m ready for the butt ball.”

A deep laugh erupts from his scruffy throat. “You sound like Blair.”

“Our woman rubs off on us, alright.”

“She keeps making us wait two nights.”

“But she’s right. If we fucked like we want, our asses would be dragging at camp.”

“Speaking of asses and camp.” While I pull into my garage, he insists, “No anal before camp. We’re sore enough as it is. We gotta wait until Saturday.”

What?

Are Colt and Blair in cahoots? Are they secretly meeting in the shower without me? Because she signs on to his no-anal-before-camp rule, too.

We shiver in the ice bath, her teeth chattering while she proclaims, “Anal, only before you have a day off. All season.”

“Damn,” I groan, freezing, squatting to where my shoulder is underwater because it’s so painful, it’s good for me. “Your asses have more rules than the NFL.”

“No,” she snuggles against my chest, “I’m freezing my ass off, trying to support your asses playing for the NFL.”

I wrap my arms around her. Colt joins us, trapping her between us. Staying warm together defeats the purpose of an ice bath, but our bodies can’t resist.

“But, Baabbyy,” I try whining, making a puppy-dog face for her, “you got us all kinky for the boom-boom, now.”

She pops her smiling blue lips. “Nope.”

Colt presses into her. “But you don’t play for the NFL. Why can’t we play in your backyard tonight? We promise we’ll play nice and take turns.”

She laughs, reaching, double-fisting our cocks. “You can’t play with these wet noodles.”

“This water is forty degrees,” I inform her. “Every man’s soft cock retreats up his ass to stay warm.”

Colt laughs. “I don’t know how the Vikings did it.”

“They fucked by the fire,” I answer.

But I try obeying Blair’s rules.

She understands us. She keeps us on a regimen. She makes our care a top priority. She’s even got our dicks on a strict routine.

Hell, she’s got our throuple covered, too. Blair’s arranged for us to meet Colt’s beard this weekend.

I don’t know who Ruby Jones is, but Blair says we can trust her. So much so that Ruby’s flying to Atlanta. We have a double date this Saturday night. My publicist will leak it. The damn paparazzi will be there. We’ll be busted, leaving some fancy restaurant, me holding Blair’s hand and Colt’s arm around Ruby.

We’ll debut our girlfriends, and that should shut down Amber Kostas and her Insta bullshit.

She’s relentless. She found out about Blair’s dad, and now she’s riled up my fans, posting, “Blair Monroe is a sports sl*t like her PGA dad. She’ll kill Beau’s game.”

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