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“Stop,” he breathes, and I notice that he is not moving. His pelvic bones are rubbing against mine, his erection is digging into my groin, and it is thick, and long, and tilted to the right. My mouth waters and my eyes gloss over. Jesus H, since when did my best friend become such a man?
“What?” I croak.
He leans forward, his mouth only inches from mine. His body heavy, his hard-on tantalizing, his scent breathtaking, he mouths into my lips, “Game change: if you want me to stop whatever it is I’m going to do as your fake boyfriend, say the name Simon Cowell.”
I groan. He’s giving me safe words now. I don’t have to ink them onto my brain, because I know I’ll never use them. His hips start to move, and he is sliding up and down, grinding himself against my needy pussy. I’m on fire, seeing stars, salivating at the intense friction. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with an impending orgasm, because it’s been so long, too long, and I open my thighs for him, my denim digging into my clit and rubbing against it.
“Say Simon Cowell, or I’ll continue.” His voice is heavy and rough and raw. He is the kid I fell in love with at the age of ten, and the man I would give the world to at the age of twenty. I don’t even care that he is probably using me. Using me as a fake girlfriend. Using me as a sexual outlet on this carpet.
I say nothing, because I’d die if he stops. Maybe not literally, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be the proud owner of the very first case of female blue balls.
He increases his speed, dry-humping me, one forearm propped near my ear and his other hand sliding to my neck. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to kiss me. I want us to break all the rules that helped us survive our turbulent childhood, that helped us defy When Harry Met Sally, that shows the world that men and women can’t be friends. I want to obliterate our friendship on this carpet. I want to show him that my stupid, reckless, defiant heart only beats for him.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls, squeezing my neck softly. His throbbing cock is pushing between my thighs, digging deeper into my slit, even through the denim, and I know it must be painful for him. He is half-penetrating me, and my eyes roll back despite my best intentions, the darkness behind them littered with stars and fireworks.
“Say it now, JoJo. Simon Cowell. Make me stop, or…” He leaves the sentence hanging in the air. Or he’ll take more. But maybe I want more. He said this was going to feel real. Monogamous, even. And now that Mark Tensely is no longer an option (not that we were a thing, but he was a distraction from Sage), I might as well take him up on that offer.
If Sage thinks our friendship can survive it—or worse, that our friendship isn’t worth keeping our hands to ourselves—who am I to disagree?
“Too scared to cross the line?” I hiss, my eyes widening at my own words. I’ve never taunted Sage about sex. About everything else? Sure. But not this. “I’m not sure what you’re using me for, Sage, but if you’re using me, I fully intend to use you.”
The words barely leave my mouth before his mouth crashes down on mine, devouring me like a starved wolf. Like that boy who cried to the moon, and the moon finally answered back. It strikes me like lightning. Sage is hungry. And I’m his meal. His pouty lips drag against mine, seeking an opening. He captures my lower lip with his teeth and tug, tug, tugs until I have no choice but to part my lips and give him better access. His tongue is invading, ruling, and assaulting my own. It chases mine frantically, licks the walls of my mouth, moves across my teeth, memorizing every single spot in my mouth. My eyes roll in pleasure when he takes my tongue between his lips and sucks on it hard, shoving his hand into my jeans. I’m not sure at what point he pulled down my zipper, but now he is rubbing my swollen, sensitive clit through my panties while he’s devouring my mouth, our tongues dancing seductively with one another. My whole body shakes uncontrollably.
“Please. Oh my God. Sage.”
It’s too much. The unexpected, sudden gratification. Don’t get me wrong—I make it a point to get myself off three times a week to keep myself sane, but I can’t remember the last time my body danced on its own accord with passion and delirious need. It occurs to me that I’m about to come before he’s even pulled off his running shorts, so I try to make him slow down by saying our very ridiculous safe word.
