Page 35 of Lovefool

Sutton finally turns to look at me, and despite him being half-shadowed by darkness, I can see the entire universe in his umber eyes—a universe that I’m apparently at the very center of. His gaze runs the length of my body.

“You’re…” He sighs. “Gorgeous.”

My composure is starting to splinter into microscopic fragments. Can he see how red my cheeks are? Can he smell how nervous I am? Is that even possible? No, of course not, Lake. He’s not a dog.

I fold my arms over my chest to limit boobage, suddenly wishing that my partner in crime was anyone but him. Oh, I bet Knox did this on purpose. I bet he thought he was all sly playing matchmaker. Well, newsflash, buddy, I’m going to write something really embarrassing about you in my article! Yeah! Like how you probably blend chicken and Crystal Light into a pre-workout smoothie!

“I’m getting a strange sense of déjà vu,” Sutton comments, nodding to my half-naked state.

“You’re not complaining.”

A grin crosses his mouth, and his tongue prods at the tip of his incisor. “Not at all. I was hoping I’d get to see this view again.”

Hubba-hubba. Jesus, if you’re listening up there, why did you have to create the most perfect man in all of existence? Is he secretly an apology for the rest of the rotten, degenerate male population? If so, I may be able to forgive the transgressions of the IQ-challenged.

I bounce on the balls of my feet for a hot minute before deciding to go all in, shucking off my panties and unclipping my bra so I can fling it in Sutton’s general direction, then I take off like a long-distance sprinter down the road with my bare ass cheeks on display.

Everything happens so fast. It’s cold, I should’ve kept my shoes on because the gravel is tearing up the soles of my feet, and downing all those unadvised drinks earlier are starting to catch up with me. Pride flourishes inside me. So does nausea, but that’s beside the point. I’m free, baby. And as soon as I touch the forest line and catapult myself back down the street, I’m going to finish what Knox started.

I’m going to fuck Sutton Whittaker’s brains out.

14

NO GOOD DECISIONS ARE MADE AFTER DARK

SUTTON

Lake’s adrenaline rush doesn’t last long, hence why I’m carrying her bridal-style to my bedroom while she’s snoring like a lumberjack.

After the Great Streak and a few other tamer dares, she decided it would be a wonderful idea to fall asleep on a frat brother’s bed. She went pretty hard tonight. I have no idea what she’ll remember in the morning. I know this sounds sappy, but getting to see her in her element, so carefree, even for two hours, was a blessing I don’t take lightly.

I don’t like seeing her with the weight of the world on her shoulders—weight that she’ll never lend to me. If I could carry all that worry, then I think I could finally say that I’ve done something worthy in the twenty-two years I’ve been on this planet.

A part of me knew the night was going to end like this, and I’m glad it did. I tuck her into my bed while she mumbles gibberish to me, and the way she snuggles deeper into my covers inflates my chest with a protectiveness that’s never been pedestal-worthy. She looks so adorable drooling on my pillow.

Like an undercover agent on a covert ops mission, I quietly make my way to the living room, plopping down on the couch with a lung-emptying sigh and a tightness in my pants that’s been taunting me ever since Lake flashed me her full moon.

I don’t think my self-control has ever been tested like this before. Years of hockey-related discipline haven’t prepared me for the cold, hard truth: I’m so astronomically down bad for my teammate’s ex-girlfriend.

Jerking off right now, while she’s asleep in the other room, would be a morally unsound decision, right? Then again, my moral compass is buffering with a corrupted magnetic field. I’m not a guy who masturbates on the regular. I prefer the real thing—the warmth of someone else’s body, the shared wavelength of two vastly different people as your souls bind with one another for a glorious moment in time.

I can’t have that, and my body is punishing me for it.

My dick is so erect that it pains me to move, and I feel tingly in the worst kind of way, as if I’ve cut the bottom of my foot on a sea ledge, inviting salt water and neurotoxins into a raw, tumefied wound.

I’m going to pass out. The throbbing in my cock is relentless, my lower abdomen is cramping with unresolved tension, and my vision is beginning to condense into twin points. Not to mention that there’s an air strike tormenting my head.

It’s fine. Just one pump. Don’t think about Lake without her consent. Think about, uh, another girl.

Seriously? There is no other girl. No other girl does anything for me.

Neurotic and on the verge of taking an unadvised amount of melatonin to make this pain go away, I unzip my pants, instantly welcoming a wave of relief now that denim isn’t a constrictor. My ten-inch dick, rubescent at the head, looks worse for wear.

A raised topography of stark veins branches up the underside, tapering into miniature streams and a battlefield of detonation points. It sags from its heavy weight, and I lift up my shirt slightly to give it a place to rest. It lolls against my exposed stomach as a pearl of pre-cum mats the steel-wool of my happy trail.

All those things Lake said to me tonight—a part of me knows they weren’t the aftereffects of the alcohol. She wants me just as badly as I want her, and that’s all the ammunition I need to start with an experimental hand on the cambered root. The skin is tight, turgid—touching it almost makes it worse. Brine swathes my forehead, a pathetic whimper clots my throat, and I commit to remedying my dick debacle with more assured pumps.

I follow a familiar rhythm, torquing my fingers once I get to the mushroomed head to wring just the right amount of pressure. I shed the last of my gentleman act with a forceful stroke that has my hips bucking against the air, and more moisture bubbles to the top of my tacky slit, hell-bent on leaving a puddle of evidence to immortalize my lack of restraint.