The Play (Briar U, #3)(25)

“Hers,” Gavin guesses.

“Or he’s getting blown,” Matt counters.

They all go quiet for a moment.

“Nah,” Foster finally says, raising his beer to his lips. “He goes down on her first, then she blows him, then they fuck. That’s the order of sex.”

I start to laugh. “Oh really? Is that what the manual says?”

Matt snickers.

“That’s the order I do it in,” Alec chimes in. “Why? What do you do?”

“I don’t fucking know. I don’t chart out my sexual encounters like I’m exploring undiscovered islands in the Maldives.” I roll my eyes. “There’s no set order. You just see how it plays out.”

“It always plays out the same way,” Alec says stubbornly.

“It’s true,” Foster agrees. “Usually goes that way for me, too.”

“Huh. Weird.” When I think back on past hook-ups, they’re honestly different every time.

Sometimes we stumble into my room and she’s on her knees with my dick in her mouth before I can blink. Once I was with a girl who wanted to kiss for all of three seconds before she turned around and offered me her ass, ordering me to screw her from behind. Longer sessions have begun with me kissing every inch of their bodies, or vice versa. Sometimes we even start with sex and end with foreplay.

“I don’t know what you guys are doing, but I can’t find a pattern in my hook-ups,” I admit.

“Maybe it’s a girlfriend thing,” Foster suggests. “I dated the same chick all throughout high schools and I’m using her as my point of reference.”

“Three years with Sasha for me,” Alec says with a nod, referring to his current girlfriend.

“Oh, it’s definitely a girlfriend thing,” Matt confirms. “Like, with Jesse. He and Katie have the most predictable sex life ever. When we were rooming together in the dorms last year, every time they put that stupid sock on the door I knew they’d need exactly forty-seven minutes to bang. I could probably plot out the exact time of orgasm.”

“Sounds kinda boring.” Although maybe having sex with someone you’re madly in love with feels different somehow? I have no idea. I had a few girlfriends in high school, but none of them were ever the one.

“Okay. It’s been twenty-one minutes,” Foster announces. “He’s either balls deep right now or she’s got her mouth full. Either way, the dick is in play. I repeat, the dick is in play.”

“You jackasses are the worst. As team captain, I should stop this,” I warn.

They all wait expectantly.

A slow grin stretches my mouth. On the other hand, Conor gets so much action his ego could probably use some coitus interruptus. “But I won’t. Go ahead. Do it.”

Foster and Alec sprint up the narrow staircase. A moment later their heavy footsteps thud on the ceiling. Incessant pounding reverberates through the house as their fists attack Conor’s bedroom door. It sounds like a SWAT team breaking into a crack den.

“Pablo’s hungry!” Foster shouts.

“Feed me,” Alec hollers.

On the other end of the sofa, Matt is shuddering from laughter.

An even louder commotion ensues. Angry cursing rings in the air, followed by the frantic footsteps of two huge hockey players racing down the stairs. Conor is on their tail, bare-chested, barefoot, with a pair of plaid boxers haphazardly sagging off one hip. His blond hair sticks up and his lips are a bit swollen.

“You fucking assholes,” he growls.

“What?” Foster blinks innocently. He gestures to the coffee table. “Our pig needs his lunch. We have a pet, bro. Pet comes before pussy.”

“Pet before pussy,” Matt echoes.

Gavin tears his eyes off the video game and nods gravely. “The wise words of Thomas Jefferson.”

“I fed him this morning,” Conor protests.

Foster glares. “He eats three meals a day, you selfish jackass. Look at him—he’s starving.”

I glance at the egg and his stupid face, then bury my own face in my hands and quiver in silent laughter.

“Davenport!” Conor barks. “You’re team captain. I’m filing a complaint against them.”

I lift my head, lips still twitching. “What’s the complaint?”

He jabs the air with his index finger. “I was fucking.”

“That’s not a complaint. It’s a statement of fact.”

Foster crosses his arms over his bulky chest. “Don’t forget—you gotta take five whole minutes to make sure he eats all his food.”

A vein throbs in Con’s forehead as he snatches Pablo off the table. It looks like he’s about to whip the egg against the wall, but at the last second he curses under his breath and spins around. Low mumbling comes from the kitchen.

I gape at Matt. “He’s not going to prepare actual food, is he?”

“Nah, it’s not in the rules.”

“What exactly are the rules?”

“They’re whatever we make them,” Foster replies with a grin. “But basically, five minutes are required whenever Pablo is in play.”

“But you can’t abuse the system,” Matt says.

“What system?” I sputter. “It’s all nonsense.”