The next thing I know, ribbons of warm cum are pouring down my throat at an incomprehensible rate, so abundant that I need to swallow at least five times to down everything he gives me. The taste is no longer acquired—it’s something I chase after.
Cock-drunk, my vision brightens like pyrotechnics backfiring into the bruise of night, and Knox’s whole body sags against the mattress, his cock deflating as he slips it out from between my lips. A mixture of cum and saliva messes the bottom half of my face, but I’m in no rush to wipe it off.
Knox—who’s still trying to collect his bearings—leans forward just enough to thumb some of our combined glaze off my chin and stick the pad in his mouth. He groans at the flavor profile, and maybe it’s a trick of the light, but I swear his cock starts to grow again.
“That was…fast,” I say, stunned, unsure if quickness correlates with quality performance. A part of me wants to go again, but with the full experience—his dick tapping the back of my throat, his balls swinging against my face, his hands pulling my hair.
Knox’s chuckle is gruff, and I never knew that a man’svoice, of all things, could do it for me. He makes room for me on the bed, resting his head against the fortress of pillows as I curl up against his side, clinging to him like he’s the only source of body heat in Antarctica’s vast wilderness.
“Have you seen yourself? I’m surprised I even lasted that long.”
“You’re going to give me a complex,” I joke, tracing whirls over his stomach with my fingers.
“Staten, that’s my job as your unofficial boyfriend,” he replies.
Unofficial…right. Even though we’ve had sex, I forgot that we aren’treallytogether. I mean, this is all fake. This is all for show. This carefully crafted plan was just a ploy to get Leif to notice me. Who, by the way, I haven’t thought about in weeks. I don’t like living under the assumption that what I feel for Knox is just some byproduct of forced proximity and an uncertified contract. I have no idea if he wants to be more than friends. And usually, I’d be too scared to disrupt the delicate balance between us, but not belonging to him is the worst of the two outcomes.
I halt my mindless patternmaking to look up at him. “Maybe…maybe it doesn’t have to be that way.”
He inclines his head. “What?”
“What if I want the real thing with you?”
There it is…I’ve just put everything on the table. I don’t think I’ll survive if he rejects me. Should I have held my tongue? We had a good thing going.
“Are you serious?” he exclaims, sitting halfway up as if he’s about to jump out of his skin.
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life,” I whisper, my mouth slanting into a small smile.
His voice soars an octave higher, and he’s giddier than a lottery winner with five dollars to his name. “Holy shit, you’re—we’re—you have no idea how long I’ve waited for this.”
He’s waited for this? He’s waited forme? After all my complaints about Leif and the never-ending fawning? He was never dissuaded? I mean, I came to him broken. Physically, emotionally. Nobody in their right mind would pick a secondhand toy over something new and shiny. For crying out loud, we’re complete opposites. Weshouldn’tmake sense.
Tears kiss the curves of my lashes. “You’ve wanted me all this time?”
Knox takes my hand so he can plant a kiss on the backs of my knuckles. “It’s kind of impossible not to.”
25
JERSEYS AND JACKASSES
KNOX
Staten and I are official. I…I never thought I’d be saying that. I’d give it the celebration it deserves, but my piece of shit father is somewhere in the stands. All my energy is focused on not looking like an incompetent fuck in front of him.
I don’t even know why I care so much. I should be playing for myself, for the team, forStaten. But bad habits die hard, and I’ve got some spite on loan that needs to paint a bull’s-eye red. I want to make my dad eat his words. I want to show him that I’m good enough to make a career out of this—that I’m more than worthy of a spot in my own fucking family. I know I’m supposed to leave all my personal baggage at the entrance of the rink, but I fear that my need to prove myself is the only motivator I have today.
The game is supposed to start in ten minutes. I shift my weight between my feet, pumping my arms back and forth to circulate warmth, a demolition team of nerves working overtime to destroy my (frankly impressive) composure. I’m hyperfixated more than I should be, and the physical side effectsdock a bit too late, materializing in a new strand of nausea and the unabating drumroll of my scorned heart.
“You okay?” Crew shouts at me over the noise, fluent in worry.
“‘M fine,” I grunt with all the elasticity of a liar, not bothering to tear my eyes away from the rink—not bothering to look over in his general direction on the slim chance that he pinpoints my deceit with sniper accuracy.
It feels like time moves slower here, and despite the commotion of the caffeinated hockey fans who are vibrating like little Energizer bunnies, my mind is completely silent. Blank. Out of commission. I’ve never acted this way before a game. I’m not going over plays, I’m not shuffling through our opponents’ strengths and weaknesses, I’m not even thinking about the only person who deserves a permanent spot in my brain—Staten.
The basin of my mouth is stale, my stomach is burning from a lack of food and an overproduction of acid, and every inch of my body is hot to the touch. I only have one chance to impress my father. If I bomb this, my grades won’t mean anything to him. I’ve been working hard, you know? But most of the time, it’s neverenough.
Thankfully, before I blow chunks everywhere, Staten appears in front of me with a smile that could stop traffic, repping a Mustangs jersey with her hair thrown up into two pigtails sectioned off by matching maroon bows.
