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I can’t believe I’m having sex with Oliver Winslow. The situation isn’t ideal, and he hasn’t changed his mind about leaving, but I can’t second-guess this. If this is my only chance to be with him, I’m grabbing the proverbial bull by the balls.
He pounds into me, his hands fisting my hair and arms shaking. My nails dig into his back, and I propel my hips forward to meet his and increase the waves of pleasure washing over me.
His rough, stubbled jaw rubs along the side of my face, and my tongue licks his fevered flesh, relishing the masculine taste of him. And his scent—he smells divine. Part salty and part clean.
“Fuck.” He pauses as I clench around him.
“Oliver, I’m close.”
“Hang on. Wait for me.” He quickens the pace and deepens the angle.
I latch onto his shoulder blades, his skin hot and damp beneath my fingers, and it isn’t long before almost every muscle in his body tightens. Hard as granite.
My head spins, my breath stutters, and a sharp jab of pleasure rushes up my spine. Oliver jerks and mutters something indistinct, and I cling to him, press my head into the seat cushion, and cry out his name again and again.
He collapses on top of me, though I can sense he’s holding back, not all of his weight on me. His forehead presses into mine as each of us try to catch our breaths.
“You good?” His lips lightly brush me.
I smile against his mouth. “Better than good. You?”
He holds me tight and twists our bodies so we’re lying on our sides, facing each other on the narrow couch.
“Incredible.” His arms hug me tighter to him. “You’re fucking perfect. Always knew you were.”
I snicker, loving the compliment no matter how ludicrous it is. “You’re darn near perfect yourself, Twist.”
“What? Only near? Ouch.” His cock twitches inside of me and though we’ve only just climaxed, both of us spent, he’s semi-hard.
I like this nearness. This intimacy. We’re chest to chest. He’s buried deep inside of me. I’ll never tire of how close we are. The closest two people can ever be.
His wandering fingers poke at my sides to get my attention, and I laugh, recalling his mock injury.
“Oh, please, Twist. Like you need me to tell you you’re fucking hot. Anyone with a vagina in Winslow Grove fawns all over you. No, make that all of Montana.” I exaggerate though I doubt by much.
He doesn’t care for my teasing and proceeds to mercilessly tickle me. I yelp, wriggle, and writhe, and somewhere through all this jostling and fooling around, he slips from me.
The loss of him is like a thunderbolt to my heart, and I’m immediately filled with a strange melancholy. It’s an irrational sensation and yet, I can’t stop the crushing pall of dread dampening my spirits.
We lie there, close and silent, and slowly a sticky wetness gathers between my legs, another reminder of my loss. Attentive even in the dark and instinctively sensing what I need, Oliver springs to his feet.
His strong hand curls around my shoulder, warm and reassuring. “Stay put, let me get something. Then we’ll go to the restrooms and clean up.”
I roll onto my back and stare in the direction I think he is. He didn’t take the flashlight, and what I’d give to see Oliver Winslow prancing around Coach Bell’s office right now.
Naked.
Now more than ever, I mentally plead for the lights to miraculously flicker on, even if only for mere seconds. Alas, my prayer goes unanswered.
Then he’s back and I clean up enough to make it to the locker rooms. With the beam of the flashlight to lead the way, our scattered clothes in hand, we stumble to the bathroom joking and laughing, all limbs, always touching.
At the entrance to the locker rooms, he hands me the flashlight. “I don’t need it. I’ll wait for you out here. Are you going to be okay in there?”
He’s sweet enough to not complete the thought, leaving out the part where I’ll be alone in the dark.
“I’ll be fine.” As I turn, he grabs my hand and stops me.
“Hey, Wren, don’t get dressed.” His clothes drop to our feet.
