Thank fuck for Elliot Montgomery and his emotional intelligence.
My ass hits the bench hard. My fingers tremble against the laces. Jackson sits next to me, close enough that our thighs touch, and that minimal contact is a live wire to my cock.
“I need…” I hesitate because what I need is to get off, right now, before I combust. The rational part of my brain knows this is a terrible idea. We’re in public. The Ice Queen is lurking somewhere. But all the blood has officially left my brain. “Fuck it. Restroom. Now.”
Jackson’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t protest when I grab his hand and haul him toward the men’s room. My body is operating on pure instinct as every nerve ending screams for release. This is what I know—the quick fix, the desperate fumble, the mindless chase for an orgasm. It’s safer than whatever was happening on that rink. Safer than the emotions threatening to crack my chest wide open.
Once we’re in the restroom, I drag Jackson into the handicapped stall and slam him against the wall before my brain can catch up with my body. He makes a sound that’s half surprise, half want, and then my mouth crashes into his.
It’s nothing like the soft, tentative kisses we’ve been exchanging since we kicked off this whole fake dating thing. This is desperate and messy—all teeth, tongue, and need. Jackson’s hands grip my shoulders hard enough to bruise, and when I grind against him, he groans into my mouth.
“Drew,” he gasps when I pull back to breathe. “What are we?—”
“Don’t think,” I cut him off, pressing my hips forward again. “Just—fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck,” he pants, and thank Christ he gets it.
His hands slide down, fingers digging into my ass, yanking me forward until the hard line of him presses against methrough our clothes. The friction sends lightning up my spine. I thrust against him, and Jackson’s breath hitches—a soft “ah” that catches in his throat, followed by a whimper that vibrates against my lips.
I tell myself this is just the dumb animal part of me seeking a dopamine hit. I try to pretend it’s the same as every other hookup I’ve ever had, even though that’s the kind of lie that would get you arrested for perjury in a court of law.
It’s just Jackson’s hands, hauling me in, nails biting through my stupid purple spandex. Just his open mouth at my jaw, biting, kissing, tasting the sweat that’s been pouring down my face since the DJ dropped Olivia Newton-John. Just my rock-hard dick smashing into his, both of us breathing through a chorus of mutual fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.
I grip the metal bar affixed to the wall to keep from collapsing. My legs are jelly. My brain’s a case study in cognitive dissonance. I want him so badly it hurts—actual, physical pain, like my skin is too tight for my body—but I can’t let myself feel it. Not for real. Not after how many times I’ve watched friends and teammates mistake lust for love and crash and burn.
So instead, I focus on the mechanics: friction, movement, pressure. I let my head drop to Jackson’s shoulder, breathing in the salt and the faint whiff of rink popcorn that clings to his collar. His hands slip under my waistband and dig into my bare ass, and I lose what little composure I was clinging to.
We’re both about to bust, I can feel it in the way his thighs tense, in the desperate, half-choked sounds he makes in my ear.
“God, Drew,” Jackson pants. “I think I’m gonna come.”
“Do it,” I growl, speeding up my jerky movements. “Come on, Jacky, let go.”
The nickname I gifted him last semester slips out without permission, but I’m too far gone to care. Jackson goes taut beneath my hands, every single muscle in his body locking up atonce. His roller skate thumps against the tile with this frantic, arrhythmic energy, and then he’s gone, lost in it, moaning hoarsely into the crook of my neck.
I feel the wet heat burst between us, and never has it felt so good. So…right. I can’t tell whose pulse is hammering harder right now, his or mine.
The knowledge that I shoved him over that edge—that I’m the one unmaking Jackson Monroe—turns my brain inside out. I can’t hold back any longer. I rut against him, mindless, greedy, shameless about the way I grind myself into the heat of his body. My whole self funnels into a pinpoint of sensation: the drag of his rough hands yanking my waistband down, the calluses on his palms scraping my ass, the way his spent dick is still pressed to mine, softening but refusing to give up.
There’s a split second before I come where everything goes white. My eyes roll back, my knees buckle, and I’m making these noises I’ve never made in my life—raw, needy, ugly.
I burrow my face into Jackson’s shoulder and bite down on the seam of his hoodie to keep from screaming, and yet I do anyway. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—oh, god—Jackson—I—FUCKKKK MEEEE!” My voice is wrecked beyond recognition.
I ride the wave until my legs threaten to give out completely. I only stay upright because Jackson wraps both arms around me and clamps down, his blunt, wet mouth pressed against my ear.
The world starts to fuzz at the edges. I’m vaguely aware of the stench of sweat and sex permeating the stale air. I hear the faint slap of the stall door as it rocks from the impact of us, the distant thump of wheels on the rink outside, and—somehow, impossibly—Jackson laughing, this tiny, sated hiccup of joy. His hands trace my spine in lazy, trembling lines. I can’t stop shivering, though I’m burning hot and sticky and spent.
I want to say something—anything—but my mouth won’t work. My brain fries every sentence before it can reach escapevelocity. I’m suddenly, brutally aware that if someone walked in, we’d be caught like this: my spandex pants just below my ass, Jackson with his hoodie rucked up, both of us looking like we’d just been hit by a bus.
But I don’t care. I can’t care. I want to live in this moment—this stall, this mess, this afterglow—forever.
When I finally have the strength to pull back, I take in Jackson’s eyes. They’re glassy and wild, and his lips are swollen from my kisses.
I should say something. Apologize, maybe, or make a joke. But my brain is still offline, and all I can do is stare at my best friend in wonder.
“Well,” Jackson says, voice rough. “That’s one way to work off performance anxiety.”
The joke breaks something in me, and I let out a shaky laugh. “I didn’t planthat.”
