Page 39 of The Wingman

In my room, I change into athletic pants and a t-shirt. Through the wall, I listen to her moving around her room—opening and closing drawers, her light footsteps, and then the click of hangers in her closet. The swish of her taking her dress off is probably in my imagination. The wallsaren’tthatthin. Even so, I imagine her standing ten feet away in just her bra and panties.

My groin tightens. Jesus fuck. The things I would do to Darcy Andersen with my tongue alone. I’d work on her for hours, wringing every drop of pleasure out of her, coaxing her body to limits she didn’t know existed.

Lust pulls heavy at the base of my spine and I suck in a deep breath, scrubbing a hand over my face before heading back to the living room. When I see her, my steps falter. She’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa in leggings and an oversized black hoodie.

An urgent sense of possessiveness uncoils inside me. “Is that my hoodie?”

Her eyes cut to mine. “Yeah. Is that okay? It was on the couch and all mine are in the wash.”

It’s so big on her, and it’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

Fuck, I like that. I like that so much.

I can’t even picture you with a girlfriend,she said earlier, in disbelief. The memory pinches hard, right behind my ribs.

“It’s fine,” I mumble.

Still, I imagine her losing the pants, just wearing my hoodie and a pair of panties. No bra. Smooth, soft skin. Maybe she’s in my lap. Maybe she has her arms around my neck.

Maybe we’re making out.

I turn away, wishing I’d taken a cold shower before changing.

“You still haven’t answered me,” she says as I take a seat on the sofa and stretch out.

“About what?”

“What kind of porn you watch.”

Blood rushes to my cock, and I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands, thinking of the least arousing things I can in order to head off myerection. The smell of hockey equipment. The pain when I broke my collarbone in high school. The way pickles look, all shriveled and green.

Nope. I’m still picturing her sitting on my lap in my hoodie, moaning into my ear as I slide her underwear out of the way and work my fingers between her legs. Another shock of lust rockets through me.

It would be so easy to tell her about the OnlyFans couple I’ve been watching for years. They’re a young married couple, and their videos don’t feel like typical porn. Sometimes they’re rushed and desperate and intense, sometimes they’re slow and sleepy and lazy, but they always feel real. They never show faces, but she’s petite, with long pale-blond hair. He has a similar build and hair color to me.

They look like Darcy and me. I pretend they’re us. It’s my shameful secret. One that I’ll take to the grave. I pretend the videos are ones we made together, for our eyes only, and that it’s her bouncing on my cock, gasping and shaking and moaning. It’s my head between her legs, drawing her orgasm out. It’s Darcy’s ring finger that sparkles. I pretend that we’re married, and that it’s my hand clutching hers through our orgasms.

“I don’t remember,” I mumble into my hands.

She laughs. “Liar.”

The second she sees, she’ll know. Especially if she finds out they’re the only porn I watch. I’ve lost interest in everything else.

“Okay, presents time.” She hands me a small gift bag. “I saw this on Etsy last week and thought of you.”

I give her a quick smile. “You shouldn’t have.” Inside the bag, my fingers meet soft cotton, and I pull the t-shirt out to look at it. The image on the front is an illustration of all the characters fromThe Northern Sword.

“It’s by a local Vancouver artist,” Darcy adds, a touch of shyness in her voice.

My chest floods with warmth as I stare at the lines of the illustration. “No one’s ever bought me clothes except my mom.”

Darcy groans. “Great. I’m like your mom?”

I laugh. “No, that’s not what I meant. It’s nice. I love it.”

It feels like she’s taking care of me. Like I’m hers.

I stand and whip my shirt off, and her eyes widen in alarm.

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