Chapter 38
JACKSON
I’m about to identify my boyfriend’s ass in front of a hundred drunk college students, and somehow this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened to me this semester.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter, but Drew’s hand squeezes mine, warm and reassuring despite the chaos erupting around us.
Elliot—still very inebriated and clearly just finished having sex with Gerard—stands in the center of the backyard like some demented game show host. He’s holding up a Berkeley Shore University bandana that’s about to become my blindfold.
The crowd presses closer, phones already out, ready to document what might be the most humiliating moment of my life.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I take a seat in a metal folding chair.
The chill that seeps into my ass does nothing to quell the fire raging inside of me.
I’ve had four beers—no, five—and the world has that soft-focus quality that makes terrible decisions seem reasonable.
But even through the alcohol haze, panic claws at my chest. Because I do know Drew’s ass.
I know it intimately. Have spent the past several weeks worshipping it with my hands, my mouth, my cock. The question is whether I can identify it in a lineup while blindfolded and drunk with everyone watching.
“This is the best party ever!” Gerard bounces on his toes, still gloriously naked yet no longer erect. “A new game! We should make this a tradition!”
“Absolutely not,” Kyle growls. “Let’s get this over with before I come to my senses.”
Oliver sighs. “Everyone…the sooner Monroe gropes us, the sooner we can pretend this never happened.”
“But it’s for love!” Gerard protests, grabbing Nathan by the shoulders. “Nathan, you understand! Tell them about the power of love!”
Nathan snort-laughs, clearly having drunk past his usual limit. His cheeks are flushed, and he’s swaying slightly. “Love is…love is Gerard’s ass causing chaos everywhere it goes.”
“See? Nathan gets it!” Gerard beams, completely missing the point.
Elliot approaches me with the blindfold, rolling his eyes and probably wondering why the hell he ever decided to come to BSU. And then the bandana covers my eyes, and the world goes dark.
“Can you see anything?” he asks.
“Just my life flashing before my eyes,” I say, and the crowd laughs.
Drew’s lips brush my ear. “You’ve got this, Jacky. Just remember—I’ll be thinking about your hands on me.”
Jesus Christ. My cock twitches in my white briefs, and I pray the darkness hides it. The last thing I need is to sport wood while groping the entire hockey team.
“Gentlemen, assume the position!” Elliot commands.
I hear shuffling, muttered curses, and Gerard’s enthusiastic “This is like that team building exercise sophomore year!”
Whatever happened back then, I don’t want to know.
“Alright, Jackson,” Elliot announces, and I can hear the smirk in his voice. “First contestant, approach the throne of judgment.”
Footsteps pad across the grass—confident, unhurried. The crowd goes eerily silent, everyone holding their breath in anticipation of what’s to come. The person stops in front of me, and I smell coconut.
“Hands out,” Elliot instructs.
I extend my hands, heart racing. This is it.
The start of a game where I either prove my love or become Berkeley Shore’s biggest fraud.
The ass backs into my palms, and holy mother of God.
My fingers spread wide, but I still can’t span half of each cheek.
I squeeze, and the flesh yields before meeting resistance.
My thumbs sink into twin dimples at the base of the spine.
When I release my grip, the skin springs back with the resilience of premium athletic wear.
My palms tingle with warmth. I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
Only Gerard walks around campus with topography like this.
The crowd titters at my obvious awe.
“Gerard,” I announce with absolute certainty.
“CORRECT!” Gerard shouts, and I hear him bouncing with excitement. “See? Jackson appreciates art when he feels it!”
When the next ass backs into my waiting palms, my fingers register the change immediately.
My thumbs slide over twin ridges of muscle that flex involuntarily at my touch.
I squeeze experimentally and meet resistance that gives way only slightly, like pressing against a ripe peach that refuses to bruise.
“Oliver,” I say, recognizing the particular way he shifts his weight to his left leg as he waits for my verdict.
“Unfortunately correct,” Oliver sighs.
My stomach twists. Ryan’s going to murder me. My best friend has been thirsting after Oliver for months, and here I was, copping a feel in front of everyone. I make a mental note to take him stargazing every night this summer as an apology. Hell, I’ll even buy him a new telescope.
The third contestant approaches with hesitant, shuffling steps, pausing several feet away.
“Closer,” Elliot sighs, and I hear the reluctant scuff of bare feet on grass.
When my palms finally connect, my thumbs sink a half-inch deeper than they did with Oliver.
My fingers spread wider, mapping the contours that curve without the harsh definition of the others.
A memory flashes—Nathan sprawled across the couch last movie night, Gerard’s head resting on his hip as he dozed through the third act.
“Nathan,” I say gently, not wanting to embarrass him further.
“How did you know?” Nathan sounds genuinely baffled.
“Lucky guess,” I lie.
Someone whispers, “It’s the squish factor,” and Nathan makes a strangled noise.
The fourth approach announces itself with a rhythmic thud-thud-thud across the grass, each footfall landing with military precision.
Something firm brushes against my palms for half a second before jerking away.
In that fleeting moment of contact, my fingers register nothing but granite—no give, no softness—just two rock-solid hemispheres that could crack walnuts between them.
“Kyle,” I say immediately. “And please don’t punch me.”
“Wasn’t planning to,” Kyle mutters, but he sounds impressed. “You’re better at this than I expected, Monroe.”
Four for four. The crowd’s getting excited now, shouting encouragement and placing bets on whether I’ll get them all. My palms are sweating, and not just from the ass-handling. Because if the pattern holds, the next one should be…
The footsteps are familiar. The particular rhythm of Drew’s walk that I’d know anywhere. My breath catches as he positions himself, and then his ass is in my hands, and every nerve ending in my body lights up like a firecracker.
My fingers curve around the familiar terrain, muscle memory taking over.
The subtle dip where thigh meets glute that my thumb has traced a hundred times in the dark.
That telltale firmness that I can never get enough of.
My hands settle into their natural position, the way a baseball finds the pocket of a well-worn glove.
I should name him and move on. But when will I get another chance to grope Drew in public with permission?
“Checking for distinguishing marks,” I announce to the crowd, then proceed to conduct the most thorough ass examination in BSU history. I touch every inch, letting my fingers dig into the muscle, spreading my hands wide to appreciate the full scope. Drew’s whole body tenses.
“Christ, Jackson,” someone calls out. “Leave some ass for the rest of us!”
But I’m lost in it now. This ass has been my religion for weeks.
I’ve worshipped at this altar, left offerings of hickeys, bite marks, and handprints.
I lean forward in the chair, ostensibly to get a better angle, and let my breath ghost over his lower back.
Drew makes another sound, and I realize with wicked delight that he’s getting hard in front of everyone.
Time to put him out of his misery.
“Drew,” I say, giving one last possessive squeeze. “Definitely Drew.”
The crowd erupts. Drew spins around, and even blindfolded, I know he’s grinning. “Took you long enough,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, but there’s a breathless quality that tells me I’ve affected him.
“Had to be thorough,” I reply innocently. “For science.”
The next series of asses blur together. Will’s (hockey player standard, firm but unremarkable), Mason’s (surprisingly perky for a beefy defenseman), Taylor’s (needs more squats), Sebastian’s (weirdly jiggly), Francisco’s (so hairy), Jonas’s (bouncy), and Jordan’s (perfectly average in every way).
I nail each identification, my confidence growing with every correct guess. The crowd’s gone wild by the time Elliot finally removes my blindfold.
The first thing I see is Drew’s face, bright with amusement and something else—heat maybe, from my extended groping session. He’s half-hard and trying to hide it by standing strategically behind Kyle.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Elliot slurs, raising my arm like I’m the winner of a wrestling match. “Jackson Monroe has correctly identified every single ass! The Ice Queen has been defeated!”
The backyard explodes, half with cheers, half with people singing “Ding Dong, the Witch is Dead.” Gerard lifts me out of the chair in a bone-crushing naked hug, spinning me around while the crowd chants my name.
Someone blasts “We Are the Champions” from their phone.
Nathan appears simultaneously relieved and embarrassed, Oliver’s shaking his head but smiling, and Kyle is glad it’s over.
But I only have eyes for Drew, who pushes through the crowd to reach me. Gerard sets me down, and my boyfriend crashes into me with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs. His mouth finds mine in a kiss that’s full of heat and possession…and pride.
“You did it,” he breathes against my lips. “You beautiful, ass-grabbing genius.”
“I had good motivation,” I tell him, letting my hands drop to squeeze said motivation.
“Get a room!” someone shouts.
“Planning on it,” Drew shouts back, already pulling me toward the house.