Chapter Five #3
And this time, Sawyer seems to get my wordless beg as he crawls up closer, his thighs spreading mine even wider, and wraps his hand around both our cocks, sliding it up and down our lengths as he finger-fucks me.
I cover my face with my palms and scream into them as overwhelming pleasure pools all around my groin.
My hips roll and I’m trying to simultaneously buck into the tight grip of his fist and impale myself on his finger that continues to probe what I now realize must be my prostate.
“Sawyer…” It’s the only word left in my vocabulary. I want to ask him to slow down or pause altogether before I embarrass myself by shooting my load within seconds.
But as soon as my eyes land on his face, I realize no words are necessary.
His teeth are bared, face crooked in a wild grimace, while his eyes are glued to where his finger disappears in my ass time and time again.
His hips push toward me as he grinds his cock against mine inside his fist.
It’s the image that proves to be my final straw.
“Fuck. Sawyer.”
There’s no stopping my orgasm now as he moves his hand and twists it around the heads of our connected cocks, and on my next inhale, the air gets stuck in my lungs as I shoot off the mattress, my forehead almost hitting his, and a full-body shake runs through me as come shoots out of me and into his fist.
I prop my hands on the mattress behind me and pump my hips up, fucking into his palm.
What comes out of Sawyer’s throat I can only describe as a roar, and even through the orgasmic haze that clouds my mind, I recognize his stance as he follows me, coming all around my cock, his hands never stopping their multi-frontal assault on my body.
His finger still brushes my oversensitive prostate as the last of my come gets squeezed out of my cock, and I squirm, collapsing on the mattress in a boneless heap.
Sawyer tortures me for a few more seconds, and even though I couldn’t possibly take any more right now, I miss his hands the second they’re gone.
He leans down, his heavy breaths matching mine as he supports himself on shaky arms. I wouldn’t mind if he collapsed on top of me right now. A part of me is disappointed when he doesn’t.
“So,” he starts between breaths. How he’s able to formulate thoughts right now is beyond me. “Was that what you were hoping for?”
I blink a few times, willing my brain to come up with something, anything, my body far from operational. “Hmm. Let me see. I’m thinking C plus.”
He laughs and smacks my chest, straightening up to a kneeling position. “Fine. Do it yourself next time.”
I know he’s joking, but the hint of offense flashes in his voice. “Nice try. I’m not letting you off the hook that easily.”
He winks at me, and for a second, I think—or rather, hope—he’s going to lean down and kiss me.
He doesn’t, getting off the bed instead and I smile as I watch his ass sway when he turns and ambles to the bathroom. Moments later, he’s back with a couple of wet wipes.
I reach out, my hand unnaturally heavy, but he doesn’t hand me one. Instead, he moves my other hand off my chest and runs the wipe around my stomach, cleaning the proof of what just happened off my body.
Once I’m clean, he tosses it carelessly on the floor and lays down with a soft thump next to me; the mattress bouncing up and down as he does.
Silence falls around us. The only sounds filling the space are our breathing and an analog clock ticking away somewhere inside the room.
I roll to my side and prop my head on my palm, enjoying the image of his blissed-up face.
As if sensing my stare, he opens one eye and turns his head to me. “What?”
I shrug and smile. “Nothing.”
But my contentment evaporates as soon as my gaze drops to his chest and the zipper-shaped scar stretching in the middle.
I reach out and run my index finger along the bumpy skin. Sawyer winces.
“Tell me about it.”
He takes a prolonged inhale and runs his palm over his face. But instead of explaining or telling me it’s none of my business, he scrambles off the bed again, walks up to the dresser by the opposite wall, and rummages through the bottom drawer.
When he comes back, he carries a small metal box.
I jerk my chin toward it. “What’s that?”
He opens the box and a strong smell I recognize hits immediately.
He kneels next to me and removes a bag of weed, along with a piece of rolling paper, and proceeds to produce the fattest joint I’ve ever seen.
Once he’s done, he lights it up and takes a long puff before handing it to me.
A familiar taste fills my mouth as I take a hit, smoke scraping at my throat. I cough a little on my exhale.
He chuckles when he takes it from me for another puff. “What do you want to know?”
Oh. So it’s a talking aid.
I shake my head when he offers me the joint again. Reaching out to brush my fingers along the scar, I ask, “How did you get that?”
He regards me for a moment and sighs heavily. “It’s not really an interesting story, you know? Heart failure. The summer after freshman year.”
My chest gets squeezed by a phantom belt. “I’m sorry,” I mumble. Why did I even ask? What was I expecting to hear?
“Don’t be. As you can see, they fixed me. Well, almost.”
My brows furrow. “Almost?”
He shrugs. “The surgery went fine. But,” he takes another hit, “I couldn’t play football anymore.” He lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “Funny how something so… trivial can change your entire life.”
I sit up and scoot closer to him. “It’s not trivial. It’s your heart.”
I do my best to control my voice, but it comes out shaky anyway as pieces of the puzzle start forming in my brain in an image I’ve never wanted to see.
How drastically he had changed after that summer. How he no longer played sports. No longer cared about school. How he lost his scholarship. How he pushed everyone around him away.
“Hey,” his voice snaps me out of my musings. “Cheer up. It’s not that big of a deal.”
“It’s your heart!”
He pulls on the joint again, holding the smoke in his lungs for far too long before exhaling. “Yeah, well. Sometimes a heart is just a malfunctioning muscle.”
I don’t argue. Instead, I give him a tiny nod, lay back down, and close my eyes, hoping that way he won’t be able to see the tears that threaten to fall.