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My chest hitches on a groan as I fall into a climax so intense that it steals my breath. Molten pleasure bolts through my body. My eyes clench as thick ropes of cum stream from my cock. My shirt is coated with my release, my hand still pumping lightly up and down my shaft, drawing out every drop as aftershocks of bliss roll through me.
“Holy fuck.” The words come out on short, stilted breaths. I’m more drained than I am after a two-hour practice. Even though my shirt is a mess, it’s minutes before I can even think of gathering the strength to get to my feet.
When I do, my knees are still wobbly.
I kick off my shorts and strip off my shirt, opening my closet to find something clean to wear.
I’ve never felt anything like that in my life. Not even close. Lying on my bed and using my own hand just thinking about Summer was more intense than any real sexual experience I’ve ever had.
That should probably worry me. Luckily, I’m too drained to be worried about anything right now. I’m in a downright stupor.
Summer’s the kind of girl who could wrap me around her finger; the kind of girl whose finger I’d want to be wrapped around.
My heart just about ricochets off my ribcage as soon as the thought crosses my mind.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve have to remind myself this is fake, the voice in my head stern and loud. I add one more time to the tally.
Besides, no matter how I feel, I’m the last kind of guy who a girl like Summer would go for.
She sure as hell doesn’t need an arrogant, entitled jerk like Sean; but she doesn’t need a closed-off, hockey-obsessed grump like me, either.
She needs someone who deserves her. Though I can’t imagine anyone who does, and I’m pretty sure if I could, I’d immediately imagine wringing his neck.
“Damn, what smells so good?” Tuck’s nose drags him towards the kitchen as soon as he walks through the front door.
I’m standing in front of the oven, impatiently waiting for the timer to go off. “I’m baking something,” I answer.
Tuck’s eyes pop. “You. You’re baking?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “So hard to believe?”
“Kinda,” Tuck shrugs. Then he glances to the counter of the island unit in the middle of the kitchen. On it lie the scattered materials of my clumsy effort to bake the tray of brownies that are finishing up in the oven right now. “Oh, damn, more brownies? Your hot girlfriend’s recipe?”
Tuck’s called Summer my hot girlfriend a couple dozen times now—and again, no one could dispute the description—but every time he does, jealousy ripples over me.
I don’t want any other guy looking at Summer the way I look at her. I don’t want any other guy thinking about Summer the way I think about her.
But I know that expecting guys not to look at and think about a girl as drop-dead gorgeous as Summer is as futile as trying to sculpt water into a replica of Michael Angelo’s David. So, I swallow down the jealousy, though it feels corrosive as acid going down my throat.
It’s Thursday. Yesterday I went to Summer’s place to visit Salsa, and she mentioned that Sean’s been texting her lately.
I fought off the very strong impulse to march to his house, kick down his door, and rearrange his face. Instead, I proposed that we do something in public that he’ll see, to remind him that there’s absolutely no trouble in Summer-Hudson paradise. Hammer in the fact that he has no hope of getting back with her.
Eventually, there’s gotta be a straw that breaks the camel’s back. We just have to keep piling on those straws.
I proposed we have a very public picnic on the campus green, right in front of a building where she told me he has class. He won’t be able to miss us.
For that picnic, I’ve decided to surprise Summer with a tray of brownies. The first I’ve baked since the last time I baked with my mom.
There’s a sharp twist in my heart and I feel something fluttery behind my eyes. I force myself to make a mental detour instead of going down that lane of memories.
The buzzer finally buzzes, so I scurry to take the tray out immediately. I want these brownies to be good, so I don’t want them to spend any extra time in the oven and end up dry.
The sound of the buzzer must have covered up the front door opening, because now I have an audience of two for my baking escapades. Sebastian is standing next to Tuck now.
“Can we have some?” Sebastian asks eagerly.
“No.”
