14. No Good Decisions Are Made After Dark
NO GOOD DECISIONS ARE MADE AFTER DARK
SUTTON
Lake’s adrenaline rush doesn’t last long, hence why I’m carrying her bridal-style to my bedroom while she’s snoring like a lumberjack.
After the Great Streak and a few other tamer dares, she decided it would be a wonderful idea to fall asleep on a frat brother’s bed.
She went pretty hard tonight. I have no idea what she’ll remember in the morning.
I know this sounds sappy, but getting to see her in her element, so carefree, even for two hours, was a blessing I don’t take lightly.
I don’t like seeing her with the weight of the world on her shoulders—weight that she’ll never lend to me. If I could carry all that worry, then I think I could finally say that I’ve done something worthy in the twenty-two years I’ve been on this planet.
A part of me knew the night was going to end like this, and I’m glad it did.
I tuck her into my bed while she mumbles gibberish to me, and the way she snuggles deeper into my covers inflates my chest with a protectiveness that’s never been pedestal-worthy.
She looks so adorable drooling on my pillow.
Like an undercover agent on a covert ops mission, I quietly make my way to the living room, plopping down on the couch with a lung-emptying sigh and a tightness in my pants that’s been taunting me ever since Lake flashed me her full moon.
I don’t think my self-control has ever been tested like this before. Years of hockey-related discipline haven’t prepared me for the cold, hard truth: I’m so astronomically down bad for my teammate’s ex-girlfriend.
Jerking off right now, while she’s asleep in the other room, would be a morally unsound decision, right?
Then again, my moral compass is buffering with a corrupted magnetic field.
I’m not a guy who masturbates on the regular.
I prefer the real thing—the warmth of someone else’s body, the shared wavelength of two vastly different people as your souls bind with one another for a glorious moment in time.
I can’t have that, and my body is punishing me for it.
My dick is so erect that it pains me to move, and I feel tingly in the worst kind of way, as if I’ve cut the bottom of my foot on a sea ledge, inviting salt water and neurotoxins into a raw, tumefied wound.
I’m going to pass out. The throbbing in my cock is relentless, my lower abdomen is cramping with unresolved tension, and my vision is beginning to condense into twin points. Not to mention that there’s an air strike tormenting my head.
It’s fine. Just one pump. Don’t think about Lake without her consent. Think about, uh, another girl.
Seriously? There is no other girl. No other girl does anything for me.
Neurotic and on the verge of taking an unadvised amount of melatonin to make this pain go away, I unzip my pants, instantly welcoming a wave of relief now that denim isn’t a constrictor. My ten-inch dick, rubescent at the head, looks worse for wear.
A raised topography of stark veins branches up the underside, tapering into miniature streams and a battlefield of detonation points.
It sags from its heavy weight, and I lift up my shirt slightly to give it a place to rest. It lolls against my exposed stomach as a pearl of pre-cum mats the steel-wool of my happy trail.
All those things Lake said to me tonight—a part of me knows they weren’t the aftereffects of the alcohol.
She wants me just as badly as I want her, and that’s all the ammunition I need to start with an experimental hand on the cambered root.
The skin is tight, turgid—touching it almost makes it worse.
Brine swathes my forehead, a pathetic whimper clots my throat, and I commit to remedying my dick debacle with more assured pumps.
I follow a familiar rhythm, torquing my fingers once I get to the mushroomed head to wring just the right amount of pressure.
I shed the last of my gentleman act with a forceful stroke that has my hips bucking against the air, and more moisture bubbles to the top of my tacky slit, hell-bent on leaving a puddle of evidence to immortalize my lack of restraint.
“Fuck,” I grind out between my teeth, speeding up my technique with an untrained urgency, biting down so hard on my molars that a warning zing crackles up my ramus.
The sweat from my palms is providing a good lacquer for me to work with as the calloused pads of my fingers brush over the silhouette of each discolored vein. My balls—practically drawn up into my body—need to discharge a buildup of cum in the next three minutes.
I can smell my musk from here. It’s overwhelming but undeniably clean, and it triggers some animalistic response inside me to visualize Lake on her knees, bright-red lips printing a ring around my cock, her irresistible bedroom eyes silently begging me to fill her cheeks with a girth she can barely get her hands around.
Thinking about her is the only way I’m going to be able to finish.
The heat of her mouth would envelop my cock, pouty lips pursing to redistribute the pressure consolidated in my length.
Each bob of her head would bring me to the edge, and I surmise that it would only take me an embarrassing fifty seconds to finish.
I pretend that my hand is hers, and each expertly placed finger assists in stimulating the root-tangle of nerves all over my cock.
Throwing my head against the back of the couch, I begin to thrust eagerly into my palm, mentally fixating on each patch of Lake’s uncharted, flawless skin. The more realistic my fantasies become, the faster my dick prepares for a flood.
I want to push her up against the wall. I want to lick the inside of her mouth and taste the tequila on her tongue. I want to familiarize my hand with the curves of her body until it’s second nature for me to yank multiple orgasms out of her trembling frame.
Lake Capitano will be my undoing.
Rubbing my thumb over the sopping slit, I stick my cum-drenched digit into my mouth, hollowing my cheeks to taste the emission. I could overdose on the euphoria swimming in the barren badlands of my one-track mind.
A moan escapes from my parched lips, but I’m too busy to care about the volume of the noise. I employ the help of my other hand to fondle my ball sack, squeezing gently and brushing the hairs that form a forest at the apex of my thighs.
Imaginary Lake is still very much haunting the corridors of my sex-starved brain, bending at just the right angle to give me a face full of cleavage while she slurps up my cock, unhindered by its size.
Oh, fuck, I’m going to come. I want to spurt in her mouth, watch her swallow, know that I’ve filled up her belly.
Everything is starting to burn. My pulse is rising, my moans are beginning to reach disruptive levels, and my hand delivers a series of concentrated pulses that shift everything upwards.
I want Lake screaming my name; I want to bend her over the first flat surface I see and drag my cock against her soft, inner walls.
I want her cunt to choke my length; I want liquid desire to drip out of her like a never-ending stream until I can’t wash the memory away.
And I know she’ll take it like a good girl despite being so utterly defiant.
“Fuck,” I groan, speeding up the pumps, something visceral shuddering through me. One last fleeting image of Lake kissing me with raw abandon is all it takes for my cock to unload a night’s worth of pent-up frustrations.
I moan her name while I come, losing slight control in my aim as I spurt an uninterrupted stream of warm cum onto my stomach.
It feels endless, and I definitely didn’t account for the radius.
A small puddle gathers in the concave of my belly, already congealing, diverging into different runnels that slide through the mane of hair over my body.
I’m sticky and hot and still so unfulfilled.
I want Lake. I want her so badly, and it’s killing me that I can’t have her.
Cursing under my breath, I stand up to orient myself toward the kitchen to grab a handful of paper towels. There’s something almost dehumanizing about pumping one out in the dark, though my cock is finally starting to deflate, which is a good sign.
But as soon as I make a noise—thank you, creaky floorboards that need to be fixed—I’m alerted to an undetected figure skulking in the shadows.
I, with my pants down and dick out, have nothing to use but my bare, cum-stained fists to fight off this goddamn house intruder. Well, until I realize that my intruder is less of an intruder and more of an…invitee.
I’d almost prefer a criminal at this rate, because when they step into the scarce moonlight, I see my silent observer is none other than Lake herself, in one of my large T-shirts that fits her like a dress. No pants. Underwear, I hope. Jesus. Why am I thinking about her in her underwear?
“Lake? Hi! Hey,” I stammer, hastily slapping my hands over my privates as if she didn’t just watch me finish to completion a few seconds ago.
For someone who’s on the taller end, she’s still so small compared to me, and she looks up at me with mascara-smudged eyes. Considering the state she was in, I have no idea how she snuck up on me without alerting me.
“You’re dirty,” she says with zero inflection, gesturing to the humiliating mess on my stomach.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s speaking literally, not figuratively. I’m both. I’m hopeless. I’ve been demoted to the idiot stereotype who beats his meat at the thought of his crush instead of, I don’t know, dealing with his feelings in a more respectable manner.
“I was just about to—”
She stalks toward me, effectively collapsing the end of my sentence without so much as a word.
I’m immobilized. I don’t think to move, even though she’s looking at me like a vixen who hasn’t eaten in days.
The temperature suddenly turns subarctic, but it’s no match for the heat in her stare—the one that peels back the last of my layers to uncover a heart that hasn’t truly been seen in twenty-two years. Embarrassment sours my gut.
When she’s an inch away from me, her tongue lavishes over her bottom lip. “I can fix that,” she muses.
God, please arm me with enough self-restraint to turn her down. She’s not—she’s not thinking clearly. The alcohol isn’t flushed out of her system all the way.
Maybe you’re just scared. You’ve been dreaming about this for an embarrassingly long time.
Great. I’m arguing with myself. I’ve officially lost my mind.
You know I’m right. You’re scared of having someone you could lose.
If you take this step with Lake, she becomes that much more permanent in your life.
Right now, she’s a fantasy that you’ve convinced yourself you can’t have.
But you both know this…“friendship”…won’t last forever. At some point, it’s easier to give in.
My hands find her waist, and thankfully, it’s enough to stop her in her tracks. “Lake…”
Fuck, she smells incredible. I want to rub my face in her neck, inhale the essence of her, brand it to my skin so everybody knows that I’m hers.
“Trouble. You called me Trouble,” she purrs, drifting her hands down to mine, smoothing her soft fingers over the callouses on my knuckles. “Say my name.”
Unheeding the little voice in my head, I close the distance between us, needing her more than my next breath of air. She’s been taking a chisel to my composure and slowly chipping it away without me noticing. I forget that I’m half-naked, or that she has a front row seat to my lapse in judgment.
She drags her nails up my V-line, then my sides, unaware of the blood that’s currently rushing for the cock she’s centimeters away from brushing.
When her fingers catch on the hem of my shirt, she helps me out of it without any resistance, pulling it over my disheveled mop of hair and leaving me fully nude in the middle of the living room.
“Trouble,” I whisper weakly—more of a warning than an indulgence of her request, every tendon in my upper body straining against the give of temptation.
Rising to her tiptoes, Lake takes two fingers and pushes my jaw to the side so she has full access to my neck, where she licks a titillating stripe up my carotid.
My legs practically buckle then and there.
I cling to her waist like a god kneeling at her altar, begging for mercy, begging for a truce that will never come.
This six-foot-five mountain who’s been personally uprooted by the five-foot-seven deity with an affinity for bending the laws of nature.
I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore.
Lake lifts my chin up, forcing me to look her in the eyes. “Does it feel good? To resist this?”
My cock is already hardening at the sound of her voice. Raspy in all the right ways, caressing me with a sickly sweet tone that no person in their right mind could ignore. We’ve already established that I’m a masochist. I just never knew it was this bad.
“No. Fuck no,” I confess, a muscle in my jaw shaking. “It feels like my entire body is on fire, and you’re the only person who can extinguish it. Everything hurts when I’m not around you—when I can’t touch you.”
“Then why deprive yourself? You always have permission to touch me.”
You don’t understand. I’m scared of ruining things between us. Sometimes physical intimacy is more terrifying than emotional intimacy.
“Because once I indulge in what I want, I can’t control myself,” I admit quietly.
The air around us has finally gone cold, and despite the tight rod of pleasure running through me, my sensibility is no longer lost to the roiling waves of a tempestuous ocean.
Trouble is a fitting nickname for Lake, because what she says next negates all my efforts to uphold the invisible delineation between us.
“Who says you need to control yourself?”