He crooks a finger at me while his other hand takes hold of his erection and lazily strokes it. That’s all it takes—seeing him pleasure himself for my benefit—to have me jamming Purple D all the way inside me and hurtling over the edge of great bliss.
“Jackson—oh, shit! You’re gonna…I think I’m—fuck!” My eyes widen in surprise as the most intense orgasm of my life tears through my body. “Oh my God!” I shout as the first rope of cum shoots out at me faster than the speed of light.
I dodge it at the last second and hear the faint splat as it lands on my pillow. More quickly follows, coating my neck and chest.
“Ungh…fuck…holy…it’s…can’t…ack!” I can’t string a sentence together because my brain has melted.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about being completely covered in my spunk. All I can do is enjoy the ride. And what a fucking amazing one it is. I breathe heavily, blissed out and enjoying the warmest tingle that radiates from the tip of my cock to the tips of my toes.
My hand continues to slide up and down my shaft at a rapid pace, hoping to make the sensation last forever. My eyes roll back as Jackson’s lopsided smile appears before me, a visionfrom God. I buck into my fist and freeze with my back arched off the bed and legs shaking so hard that the bedframe rattles. “Ohhh, shittt,” I slur out.
I can’t come anymore, but I think I’m experiencing a second orgasm. A mind orgasm.
Or maybe it’s me meeting my maker. Either way, when I finally come to my senses, I’m sweating profusely.
Purple D keeps vibrating, sending jolts of overstimulation through my sensitive prostate until I finally manage to fumble for the off button.
My hand is sticky, my pillowcase is ruined, and I’ve officially jerked off while fucking myself with a purple dildo and thinking about Jackson. I can’t let this become a habit. It will only lead to disaster.
Silence. Heavy breathing. The distant sound of someone in the Hockey House yelling about missing pizza.
I grab a towel from the floor and clean myself up the best I can. My shirt goes right into the trash; no amount of Tide is going to get the smell of semen out of that one. I grimace at the bedsheet where an ass sweat stain has formed. And then I grin because, well, it’s big.
A few minutes later, as I’m wiping off my dildo and wondering if I can make it downstairs to clean it properly without being caught, the post-orgasm clarity hits. And, oh, is it a motherfucker.
My phone buzzes. Another notification about “Drackson.” Another reminder that everyone sees what I’ve been trying to hide, even from myself.
Patrick’s wrong. The universe isn’t giving me a push. It’s playing a cruel joke by dangling what I want most right in front of me in the form of a campus-wide delusion.
Because here’s the truth I can’t say out loud: I’m in love with Jackson Monroe. Not crushing. Not lusting. Fucking in love. Thereal deal, butterflies-in-my-stomach, can’t-stop-thinking-about-him, would-give-up-casual-sex-forever-if-he-asked kind of love.
And he’ll never feel the same way.
9
DREW
Popping my earbuds in, Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” comes on, and I snort.Already did that.I skip to the next song and nod. An ’80s rock song to run my frustrations out to.
As I leave the Hockey House in the dust, I think about how, before the Polar Bear Plunge, everything was simple. Jackson was my friend whom I had a crush on, but it was manageable. Nobody knew, nobody saw—or so I thought—and I was able to forget about him every time I hooked up with a frat guy or a hockey fan.
Now, everyone and their mother sees what they want to see. It doesn’t matter what Jackson or I have to say. We’re wrong, and they’re right.
Well, fuck that. Why can’t people leave us alone? Why can’t two guys share body heat without it being some grand romantic gesture?
My feet hit the pavement harder as I make my way up the winding hill around the side of campus. Jackson’s dorm building isn’t that far from here. I could go to him and vent, but then everyone will think I went there to hook up. Because that’s whatI am to people. A sex fiend. And sure, I haven’t done much to make them think otherwise, but I can be more than that.
Iwantto be more than that.
I want to be like Jackson. Unflappable. A guy who sees everything through a glass overflowing. A guy who hasn’t been abandoned and needs to keep his distance from people so as not to get burned worse than he already has.
Annoyance bubbles up in my chest because I’ve always acted as though I’m secure with who I am. I’ve built up my Drew Larney persona into someone cocky, someone brazen, someone bold. And I need to channel that more than ever now. I can’t let people know that all this gossip is crawling under my skin. Or that I’m falling for a guy with a heart of gold and a lopsided smile, who doesn’t realize how much power he holds over me.
I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the way, my life suddenly became more meaningful. Before Jackson, all I cared about was hockey. Now, I care about hockeyandhim.
He’s the friend I never knew I needed.
And I can’t fuck that up. Iwon’tfuck that up.
