Page 2 of Made Man

Not Tony. If I turn my head, I’ll be able to see his face clear as day, lit up by his phone as he scrolls. Huge turn-on. “Our first time isn’t going to be outside for anyone to see.”

“You did it with Layla in the back seat of her car.” She says Layla’s name in a teasing way, but I hear the hurt in her voice.

Layla was before the tickles and teasing smacks and flat tires, when I thought Mira and I were never going to happen. I was a sophomore. Layla was a senior. She offered. I accepted. I’d regret it a hundred percent, except it was Layla dropping me off at home after school that made Mira finally look at me as more than a friend.

“Your daddy would never let me get you into the back seat of a car,” I say.

She peers up and scrunches her nose. “Who’s gonna ask him?”

I catch her lips with mine, and immediately, her saltiness disappears in a sigh. She widens her split so that my cock rests in the notch where her panties bunch between her pussy lips, and she pulses her hips faster, chasing that orgasm. I look over at the trees and focus on Tony’s ugly face, praying to God I don’t come before she does.

We finally figured out how to get her off a few months ago, and she’s been insatiable ever since. It’s killing me, but I’m not popping her cherry on a jungle gym or the ground behind a bush or in some shed. I’ve got a room booked at the Fairmont for after prom, and I’m going to lose Vinnie or Tony or whoever, and we’re going to do it right.

I’m marrying this woman one day. I’m not brushing her off after I fuck her and sending her home.

Prom is only three weeks away. I can wait. And based on how her breath is coming in short, sharp bursts, I’ve only got a minute or two before this torture ends, and I can go bang my head on the metal fireman’s pole or something to put myself out of my misery.

“It’s so close, but it won’t come,” she whines.

“I got you,” I say and slip a hand past the elastic waistband of her pants.

“Yes,” she moans, lifting her hips to guide me where she wants me. I work my fingers under her wet panties and find her hard, swollen clit. It’s never been hard to find; it’s always hanging out of its little hood like the tip of a tongue even when she isn’t turned on. Now what to do with it? That’s the tricky part.

You can’t touch the bullseye, not until the very end. You’ve got to circle the nub, and then brush across it, and she’ll always try to rush things by humping into your hand, but she doesn’t know what she wants.

Touch it straight on too soon, and it scares her orgasm away. You have to listen for her tell. It’s an almost imperceptible hitch in her breath. When I hear that, it’s go time. I press my thumb on her like a button and rub, quickly chasing down her mouth to swallow her scream.

She seizes up, her back arching, her arms jerking and her legs quivering like she got electrocuted. After a few seconds, she turns into a noodle. Then she smiles dopily down at me, her brown eyes fuzzy and shining with love, and I soak it in like dead grass in a rainstorm.

She’s the only one who’s ever looked at me like this—like I’m not a fuck-up. Like I’m not theotherFoster kid.

I was the kid my family could have done without. My oldest brother is the high achiever, valedictorian, pre-med at Cornell. Greg is the fencing phenom. Third ranked in the world. Training for his second Olympics and favored to medal. My younger sister is the one with personality. She dabbles in everything, has a hundred best friends, hundreds of thousands of followers on social media profiles that she deletes when she gets bored. She’s who my mom wishes she’d been.

I’ve always been mid in every way. Absolutely nothing special. My parents red-shirted me in kindergarten. That’s the only reason Mira and I are in the same grade. I’m a year older than her. I was junior varsity until senior year, and I fought for that C average. I only got into Wharton because I’m a legacy, and Dad’s on the board.

I’m an afterthought in my family, the surprise sour grape in the bunch to my parents, teachers, coaches, and the kids who try to make friends with me to get close to my sister. But to Mira—I have always hung the moon. I have no idea why or how I got so lucky, and there’s no way I’m asking her. I don’t want her to actually think it through and realize she’s been wrong. I just bask in that love and wish I didn’t have to go away to figure out life so I can take care of her.

“Who’s got you?” I whisper as she collapses back onto my chest.

“Wyatt Foster.”

“That’s right. Who loves you?”

“Wyatt Foster.”

I can feel her smile against my bare chest. The gritty panels of the suspension bridge scrape my back, and my blue balls hurt like hell, but I never want to move from this spot.

“Who loves you back?” she whispers in her sweet, husky post-orgasm voice.

“Mira Volpe.”

“Forever,” she says.

“F—”

A gunshot splits the night. Then another. More.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat-tat-tat.

---