Page 59 of The Trade

“I like you,” I tell him for the second time, fingers clutching at the firm ridges of his waist, anchoring me in place.

“And I like you,” he says, tapping the end of my nose, a grin tugging at his lips. “You little dork.”

17

WEST

Tonight will markthe first full night I’ve spent with a girl—actually lying in bed, cuddling, and talking after sleeping together—and I can’t shake off this strange mix of guilt and exhilaration.

It might sound like I’m bragging or, even worse, complaining, but I’m not trying to. I’ve always been wary about what messages I might unintentionally send. The last time I was truly emotionally invested in a girl was back in the early days of high school.

Since then, everything’s been more or less . . . shallow. So, why pretend otherwise?

Straight-up honesty has been my game. No messing around, no beating around the bush, and definitely no painting illusions of something more significant. My prior relationships, if you can even call them that, were just a string of . . . well, casual sexual encounters. From the moment I set foot on Dayton’s campus, that’s how it’s been.

Until Jade, that is.

And now, I’m more than grateful that I have her. We’ve barely known each other for a month, yet she’s already claimed a significant space in my life.

It’s not like I don’t have enough on my plate already—football, classes, my scholarship, and the looming draft. But there’s an undeniable, irresistible urge to include her in that list of priorities too.

If I want this to work, if I want us to be something more than a passing phase, then I need to carve out time for her. For us. For this new, uncharted territory of what seems like an actual grown-up relationship.

For me, it’s the first of its kind.

In the stillness of the night, my brain working in overdrive, I sense her stirring beside me. The gentle rustle of the sheets is the only sound that breaks the silence. She snuggles up against me, nuzzling her nose into the welcoming crook of my neck.

“Jade,” I whisper, stroking the back of her hair.

She responds with a sleepy “Mhmm,” but the drowsiness doesn’t linger for long. Now, she’s pressing gentle kisses against my neck, and the soft, barely there touch of her lips elicits a low rasp from the depths of my chest.

“What are you doing?” I manage to ask through the thickening haze of desire.

She doesn’t bother with a verbal response. Instead, she continues to trail kisses from my neck to my jawline, peppering them until she’s nipping at my earlobe. Her thigh moves to nestle between my legs as she rocks her hips against me.

I wrap my fingers around her waist to pull her closer. Our hips press together—my hard length against her soft core—and I can feel the warm, heavy pulsing of her desire as she whispers, “I want you,” into my ear.

In a coordinated flurry of motion, I grab the stash of condoms on her nightstand. Rolling one on, I nudge her panties aside and slowly push my cock inside of her. This time, we fuck nice and slow.

In the morning, I take her again in front of the bathroom mirror. She’s tying her hair up when she starts reciting that corny little mantra of hers. So, I bend her over the counter and slide into her from behind. She’s just as tight, and wet, and needy as she was the first time.

Well, fuck me.

I didn’t realize that’s what spending the night could entail. I mean, we talked for hours about our family, ate pizza in bed, and then she asked me the big question: “Theo, do you want to stay over tonight?”

“Hell yeah,” came my instant response. No need to mull it over, not even a second thought about it.

And I suppose that’s the difference right there. There’s no need to pretend, no room for ambiguity. I want her—all of her, every single part. I can’t seem to get enough of her, physically or mentally.

Even when I’m finally back home on Sunday afternoon, attempting to study for my Greek Mythology midterm.

“God, I’m a fucking dipshit,” I groan, my forehead meeting the cool surface of our dining table.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Cam calls, a grin playing on his lips as he fishes out a couple of Gatorades from the bottom of the fridge.

“You’re a dick,” I say as he tosses one over.

“Again—tell me something I don’t know,” he echoes, sinking into the chair next to me.

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