Chapter 29
JACKSON
I’m sprawled across my bed in boxers and an old Berkeley Shore Football T-shirt, going over my notes from class and reliving every second of this afternoon’s solo exploration. Every time I shift positions, I’m hyperaware of that slight soreness.
Ryan’s at the observatory for his nightly date with the cosmos, which means I have the room to myself for at least three more hours.
Normally, I’d take advantage of the privacy for my regularly scheduled Drew-focused self-care session, but after earlier…
I don’t think my body could handle another round that intense.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and Drew’s name lights up the screen with a FaceTime request. My heart rate triples. I take a deep breath and swipe to answer, propping the phone against my textbook so he can’t see I’m not wearing pants.
“Hey,” I say, and immediately want to die because my voice comes out rough and fucked-out.
Drew’s face fills the screen. He’s clearly in a hotel room with the generic beige walls and ugly paisley bedspread visible behind him. His hair is still damp from his post-game shower, and he’s shirtless. Because I told him not to bother on my account?
“There’s my fake boyfriend.” He grins, and I clench my thighs together, because even through a phone screen, that smile does things to me. “Miss me?”
“You’ve been gone for twelve hours,” I point out, trying for casual and failing spectacularly.
“Twelve very long hours.” He shifts on the bed, and I catch a glimpse of his bare legs. Christ, is he not wearing pants either? “You okay? You look…” He tilts his head, studying me through the screen. “Flushed.”
Because I spent my afternoon thinking about you while fingering myself, my brain supplies. “It’s hot in here,” I lie. “Ryan always cranks the heat before he leaves.”
“Take your shirt off then,” Drew suggests with a wink that’s more flirty than fake boyfriends require.
“I’m good.” I shift against my pillows, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me acutely aware of my ass. “How’s the hotel?”
Drew runs a hand through his damp hair, making it stick up in ways that shouldn’t be attractive but are. “Coach visited me. We talked about the game and…other stuff.”
Other stuff? My mind conjures up many things, none of them PG.
I’ve seen Coach Donovan plenty of times, and that guy could totally become the next People’s Sexiest Man Alive.
How Alex came from that man—not literally, but genetically—I have no fucking clue.
If it weren’t for the red hair and hazel eyes, I’d never know the two were related.
Drew’s confident smirk falters, replaced by a hesitant expression I’ve rarely seen on him. “So, um. There’s this thing happening.”
“What kind of thing?” I ask, grateful for the distraction from my body’s persistent reminders of this afternoon.
“Another charity thing.” He’s not meeting my eyes, which immediately sets off alarm bells. Drew Larney doesn’t do shy. “Oliver told us about it on the bus.”
“Okay…” I prompt when he doesn’t continue.
“It’s for the cancer ward.”
“Drew, just tell me.”
He takes a deep breath. “We have to perform a ‘sensual art performance,’ whatever the hell that means. The Ice Queen will be announcing the details soon. And I want you to be my partner again.”
I gulp audibly before croaking out, “Me?”
“Bingo-bango.” Drew points his finger at me through the screen, and suddenly, I’m thinking of where that finger could go.
“Jackson? You still there?”
I realize I’ve been staring at the screen, at his long…thick…finger in complete silence for way too long. “I’m—yeah. I’m here.”
“I know it’s weird—”
“It’s for charity,” I say, my voice coming out strangled because my dick is throbbing in my boxers. “That’s…that’s good. Charity is good.”
Drew’s studying me through the screen, and I wonder if he can see right through me. If he knows that my brain is currently short-circuiting over the thought of what sensual things we could get up to together in public.
“You okay with this?” he asks softly. “I mean, with the whole fake boyfriend thing, you might feel like you have to participate, but you don’t. I can always find a rugby player to get sensual with.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. Do not think about Drew and a rugby player. Do not think about it, Jackson. “Why wouldn’t I participate?”
Drew blinks. “What?”
“Your boyfriend not doing an art performance with you would look suspicious.”
“I guess.” He’s chewing his bottom lip now, a nervous habit that makes me want to reach through the screen and chew it for him. “I don’t want you to feel obligated.”
Obligated. My dick is so hard it hurts. The thought of being up close and personal with his beefy body…there’s no obligation to be had here. I want to do this with Drew.
“I should let you sleep,” I say, because if this conversation continues, I’m going to do something stupid. Likeshow him my erection and confess that I spent my afternoon preparing for the possibility of him.
He grins. “Night, Jacky.”
“Night.”
The screen goes dark, and I immediately shove my hand into my boxers. I’m leaking so much precome, it’s obscene. I close my eyes and let myself imagine it. The weight of his cock in my hand. The size, the shape, every ridge and vein. The juiciness of his ass. The hidden wonder between his cheeks.
“Fuck,” I gasp, my hips jerking involuntarily.
I can’t do this. Can’t lie here torturing myself with possibilities. But I also can’t stop thinking about it. About him. About the moment when I’ll have to decide how much I want to keep pretending that Drew isn’t turning me into a complete and horny mess.
A vision of his large hands caressing my body is all it takes for me to shoot my load for the second time today. My eyes roll back, and I gasp for air as my body burns. A tingling sensation that starts in my toes, making them curl, zigzags its way up to my brain.
When it reaches, I black out.
I drift back to awareness, each thought struggling to break free from a thick mental fog. The first thing I register is the scratchy texture of wool against my body. Then comes the uncomfortable realization that my right hand is stuck to something. No, not stuck to—stuck in. My boxers.
“Finally awake, I see.”
I jolt upright fast enough that my vision swims. Ryan is at his desk, typing away on his laptop, and acting as though finding his roommate passed out with his hand down his pants is just another night at BSU.
“Ryan, how—” My voice comes out as a croak. I clear my throat and try again. “How long have you been back?”
“A couple of hours.” He doesn’t look up from his screen. “Found you sprawled across your bed like a crime scene victim. Hand shoved down your boxers, phone on the floor, looking thoroughly relieved.”
Heat floods my face as I carefully extract my hand from my underwear. It’s crusted with dried semen, and I want to sink through the floor and disappear forever. “I can explain.”
“Please don’t.” Ryan turns to face me, adjusting his glasses with that precise movement he does when he’s about to deliver uncomfortable truths. “Though I did take the liberty of covering you with a throw blanket. You’re welcome.”
I glance down at the unfamiliar blanket. It’s Ryan’s, from his meticulously organized closet.
“Thanks,” I mutter, unable to meet his eyes. My brain is still foggy, but fragments of memory filter through—Drew on FaceTime, his confession about the charity event, my complete loss of control afterward.
“Drew called after you passed out. Something about a sensual art performance?”
My stomach drops. “He called back?”
“Three times. I told him you’d fallen asleep studying.” Ryan’s lips twitch. “Seemed kinder than explaining you’d knocked yourself unconscious via aggressive self-pleasure.”
“Oh my God.” I bury my face in my hands, forgetting about the dried evidence until it’s too late. “Oh, gross.”
“Indeed.” Ryan returns to his essay with the air of someone who’s seen too much and chooses to cope with homework. “He invited me to attend because he noticed I wasn’t at the last event.”
As if I needed another reminder of how completely fucked I am. My body still carries phantom sensations from earlier—the stretch, the fullness, the overwhelming need to be filled by Drew specifically. And now I have to perform some kind of sensual art with him? In public?
“Let me check if the Ice Queen has posted yet.” Ryan pulls up the blog on his laptop and scrolls through it with efficiency. “Nothing so far.”
I should get up. Should wash my hands, take a shower, and pretend this whole undignified situation never happened. But something in Ryan’s tone makes me pause.
“You think I’m an idiot,” I say.
“I think you’re in over your head.” His expression has turned gentle. “Jackson, is this really what you want to do? Perform some ridiculous stunt for charity?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Ryan’s voice cuts through my deflection.
“I want to be around him,” I admit, the words barely above a whisper. “Always.”
A small smile tugs at Ryan’s lips, but it’s not mocking. “Then tell him that.”
“I need to shower,” I announce, standing abruptly. The throw blanket falls away, and I’m hyperaware of the state I’m in—boxers twisted, shirt rucked up, hand still bearing evidence of my wild night of masturbation.
I grab my shower caddy and flee, deciding to use the communal shower room instead of our private one to avoid temptations. No way to jerk off when you’re surrounded by other guys washing between their cheeks.
My flip-flops echo down the empty hallway, each slap against the linoleum a broadcast of my disheveled state.
I clutch my shower caddy against my chest like a shield, eyes darting to check doorways, praying no one sees me with my twisted boxers and the crusty evidence still flaking from my right hand.
As I approach the showers, I hear guys talking about the Ice Queen and wondering when her post will go live.
I ignore them all and take the showerhead at the farthest end of the room.
The shower itself is both a blessing and a curse.
Hot water washes away the physical evidence of my activities, but it does nothing for the mental replay.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Drew’s face on that FaceTime call.
Hear his voice asking if I’m okay with this, as though he cares about my comfort level.
He probably does, in his own way. Drew’s not cruel.
He wouldn’t force me into something I’m genuinely uncomfortable with.
The problem is I’m too comfortable. Too willing.
Too desperate for any excuse to touch him.
I scrub harder, hoping to wash away these feelings along with the soap suds. But they cling to me, persistent as the water droplets on my skin. The truth is inescapable—I’m completely, pathetically, irrevocably head over heels for Drew Larney.
As I dry off, I think about how nobody forced me to agree to fake date Drew. Nobody made me say yes to the roller disco, or this new charity event, or any of it. I walked into this situation with my eyes wide open and my heart completely exposed.
And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.