The End Zone
“So do it.” I smile. He reaches across his bed and fumbles for a condom in his dresser’s drawer. Then he rolls it down his cock as we both watch in awe, as if this is the first time for both of us—and in some weird, screwed-up way, it kind of is, at least for me. I’m not a virgin, but I feel like one right now, as he slides on top of me again.
“I love you.” It’s my turn to say. “Every part of you. The broken boy. The strong man. The lighthearted jock and the heavyhearted kid. Every piece of you is loved and cherished, Sage Poirier. Always remember that.”
He enters me in one smooth stroke, and I moan at the sudden sensation of being so full, not only physically, but also mentally. My back curls against the sheet when he starts moving in and out in a rhythm I’ve yet to experience with a man. His movements have no start nor ending. His hips roll back and forth constantly, like an erotic dance between two bodies, and we quickly find the pace that makes us both pant harder and faster. I’ve never looked in a man’s eyes when we had sex before. It felt too weird. Too awkward. But with Sage, I can’t help not to.
His eyes are an open wound.
Mine are a bandage that wants to make it all better for him.
This is it. This is everything I wanted. He and I. Fully and completely committed to one another. His movements become jerky. I begin to quiver again. I swear I’ve come with this man more times than I did with all my previous partners combined, which really says a lot about his dedication, but also about men in the sack in general.
“I’m about to come, baby. Please come with me.”
I nod. Coming on command is the kind of thing that always made me snicker when I read it in books, but now I get it. It is doable when the person asking you to is the biggest turn-on you know.
We come in each other’s arms, with him moaning my name and me whimpering when his cock drills into me one last time, and part ways on a kiss. Both our bodies are covered in sweat. We look spent, happy, and so much younger than our years.
He rolls on his back and stares at the ceiling.
I roll to my side and put a hand on his abs.
“Shit,” is all he says. I throw my arm over my eyes and laugh. He’s been talking sweet to me for an hour, so it only makes sense he’ll be back to his old self now.
“That bad, huh?” I joke. He turns to me and pulls my arm from my face.
“That good. I never thought it could feel like this.”
“Like what?”
He takes my wrist and presses it against his pouty, perfect lips. “Like forever.”
The dirty beige hallways don’t feel quite the same the day after.
Neither does the cafeteria, which constantly smells of stale pretzels and burnt coffee.
Neither does my body. Nope. It feels lighter and much more capable.
And if I were anyone else, I’d probably say some bullshit about being a different man, but unfortunately for the world, I’m still the same douchy jock. The only difference is I now have sex with my best friend (six times in less than twenty-four hours, but who is counting?), and I don’t want to read too much into this, but damn, it puts a stupid-ass smile on my face, which I can’t seem to wipe off.
Enter: Amber.
I see her coming out of Sabatta Hall just as I make my way to the weight room. I stop. Last night, we left everything hanging, and as much as I felt bad about her miscarriage—the doctor told her it might’ve been due to the fact that she still drank heavily at parties before she’d found out about the pregnancy—I was too fucking wrapped in my own universe with JoJo. Which is shitty, I know. So I stop and clap a hand over her shoulder. She looks tired, and I feel guilty. When Amber found out that she was pregnant, I said I’d support her no matter what. She wanted to keep it, but still hadn’t told her parents. Then the miscarriage happened three weeks ago and I’ve been trying to be there for her, but most of the time, that entails her telling me we need to try to have a baby again.
“Yo. What’s up?” I squeeze her shoulder softly, giving her my most genuine smile. People pass us by, talking to each other, laughing. Amber shoots me a look, flipping her blonde, straight hair on an eye roll.
“What do you want, Poirier?” Her voice is pointed, like her expression. I look left and right, somehow still freaked out about JoJo seeing us. Even though I know she gets it. She’s the kindest girl I’ve ever met. She felt so guilty about what happened to Amber. Like she had something to do with it somehow.
“To check how you’re doing.” I ignore her snark. “See if you need anything.”
“I need you to stop fucking around and give me attention. That’s what I need.” She juts her chin out, defying me. I scratch the back of my neck, trying to figure out if this is a joke. Throughout the last month, I’ve been her designated bitch. Drove her places. Let her hang out with the boys and me at Barnie’s. Even helped her with her studies. She tried to hit on me countless times, and I blocked it, because even though we shared a fling, I really couldn’t see us doing anything more. So this is unwarranted at best and rude at worst.
“Huh?” I cock my head sideways. She slaps my chest. Hard. I take a step back, looking at her like she drank from the crazy fountain, then ate a big dish of psycho.
“You,” she points at me, her eyes narrowing, “are not focused on what’s important. I just lost our child, Poirier. Do you get what I’m saying? I’m mourning. I’m hurt. I don’t need to see you parading your new piece all over campus, telling people she’s your girlfriend. It’s so disrespectful.”