Four for four. The crowd’s getting excited now, shouting encouragement and placing bets on whether I’ll get them all. My palms are sweating, and not just from the ass-handling. Because if the pattern holds, the next one should be…
The footsteps are familiar. The particular rhythm of Drew’s walk that I’d know anywhere. My breath catches as he positionshimself, and then his ass is in my hands, and every nerve ending in my body lights up like a firecracker.
My fingers curve around the familiar terrain, muscle memory taking over. The subtle dip where thigh meets glute that my thumb has traced a hundred times in the dark. That telltale firmness that I can never get enough of. My hands settle into their natural position, the way a baseball finds the pocket of a well-worn glove.
I should name him and move on. But when will I get another chance to grope Drew in public with permission?
“Checking for distinguishing marks,” I announce to the crowd, then proceed to conduct the most thorough ass examination in BSU history. I touch every inch, letting my fingers dig into the muscle, spreading my hands wide to appreciate the full scope. Drew’s whole body tenses.
“Christ, Jackson,” someone calls out. “Leave some ass for the rest of us!”
But I’m lost in it now. This ass has been my religion for weeks. I’ve worshipped at this altar, left offerings of hickeys, bite marks, and handprints. I lean forward in the chair, ostensibly to get a better angle, and let my breath ghost over his lower back. Drew makes another sound, and I realize with wicked delight that he’s getting hard in front of everyone.
Time to put him out of his misery.
“Drew,” I say, giving one last possessive squeeze. “Definitely Drew.”
The crowd erupts. Drew spins around, and even blindfolded, I know he’s grinning. “Took you long enough,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, but there’s a breathless quality that tells me I’ve affected him.
“Had to be thorough,” I reply innocently. “For science.”
The next series of asses blur together. Will’s (hockey player standard, firm but unremarkable), Mason’s (surprisinglyperky for a beefy defenseman), Taylor’s (needs more squats), Sebastian’s (weirdly jiggly), Francisco’s (so hairy), Jonas’s (bouncy), and Jordan’s (perfectly average in every way).
I nail each identification, my confidence growing with every correct guess. The crowd’s gone wild by the time Elliot finally removes my blindfold.
The first thing I see is Drew’s face, bright with amusement and something else—heat maybe, from my extended groping session. He’s half-hard and trying to hide it by standing strategically behind Kyle.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Elliot slurs, raising my arm like I’m the winner of a wrestling match. “Jackson Monroe has correctly identified every single ass! The Ice Queen has been defeated!”
The backyard explodes, half with cheers, half with people singing “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead.” Gerard lifts me out of the chair in a bone-crushing naked hug, spinning me around while the crowd chants my name. Someone blasts “We Are the Champions” from their phone. Nathan appears simultaneously relieved and embarrassed, Oliver’s shaking his head but smiling, and Kyle is glad it’s over.
But I only have eyes for Drew, who pushes through the crowd to reach me. Gerard sets me down, and my boyfriend crashes into me with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s full of heat and possession…and pride.
“You did it,” he breathes against my lips. “You beautiful, ass-grabbing genius.”
“I had good motivation,” I tell him, letting my hands drop to squeeze said motivation.
“Get a room!” someone shouts.
“Planning on it,” Drew shouts back, already pulling me toward the house.
As we escape the chaos of the backyard, I catch a glimpse of someone in the shadows, slipping away from the party with a phone in their hand. The Ice Queen, maybe? Or another student documenting the madness?
I don’t care. Because Drew’s hand is warm in mine, his ass is perfect under my palm, and our relationship is real in every way that matters. The Ice Queen wanted proof? Well, she got it. Turns out love really can be proven by knowing your boyfriend’s ass in a lineup. Who knew?
Drew pulls me through the kitchen, past couples making out against counters and someone doing body shots off someone else’s chest. The bass from outside thrums through the walls, but all I can focus on is the urgency in Drew’s movements, the way his hand grips mine like I might disappear.
“That was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced,” he says as we climb the stairs. “Fuck, Jackson.”
We barely make it to his room before he’s on me, pressing me against the door with his whole body. His cock is fully hard now, grinding against my hip, and I realize my white briefs are probably showing exactly how affected I am too.
“Everyone saw,” he pants between kisses. “Everyone knows you’re mine now. That you know my body better than anyone else ever could.”
“And you know mine,” I remind him, gasping when his teeth find that spot on my neck.
“Gonna prove it,” he promises. “Gonna make you forget every other ass you touched tonight.”
But that’s just it. They’re already forgotten.
