Page 55 of Unbearable

It’s official. I’m an idiot and I’m trying to force him to be my friend just so I don’t have to let go of him. And it’s okay, right? Because I’m not trying to force him into loving me. I’m just a friend and you know, that’s okay.

He wants to be my friend, too. At least I think he does because he never said he couldn’t be my friend. He just said he couldn’t love me.

My attempts to spend time with him become so bad that when I’m studying, I’m constantly thinking of him and checking my messages to see if he’s sent anything. Consumed is an understatement.

It’s this obsession that leads me to asking him to a football game. No way did he want to go to a college football game where my ex would be. Guaranteed. But I didn’t want to go to the game alone and I knew Tyler enjoyed football.

Me: Come see me. We can go to a game.

He replies within a minute.

Tyler: I’m not into football.

Me: Bullshit. You are too.

Nothing. He doesn’t reply for five minutes.

Me: So you’ll come?

Tyler: Sure. Why not.

Me: Ok, see you Saturday morning.

Tyler: K… but hey, wait…

Me: What?

Tyler: What are you wearing?

Me: Pervert.

Tyler: D misses V.

Me: Muff is going to study.

Tyler: Wang could help you relax.

Me: I’m sure… Night, Tyler.

Tyler: Fine. Study HARD.

He knows exactly what he’s doing with that last text because now my mind is on his wang… and my muff is sad.

I DON’T DO much all week, between studying and a Skype session with Tyler, it fills my week pretty well.

Saturday morning I have him meet me at my dorm room. He’s dressed in a black hooded sweatshirt and jeans that make me what to squeeze him. When I do, he smells like fall, crisp leaves, and foggy mornings.

“How’s that bed of yours? Sturdy?” he asks with an unintentional sexy smirk he has. Or maybe it is intentional. Knowing him, it probably is.

I look back over my shoulder when he steps inside and then back at him. He’s ripping the comfy sweatshirt off his shoulders as we speak and stalking toward me. “It’ssturdyenough.”

It’s the same scenario we find ourselves in every other time we’re together. A battle of dominance to get clothes off, grunting with each forceful move. His hips frantic, my body arching into his, begging he fulfill my every need and knowing he will.

His mouth, soft and tender, quickly gives into the urges, his arms of steel grasping me closer. “Fuck, I missed you,” he rasps just before his mouth finds mine again and he enters me.

High five! He missed me.

I can’t speak to respond verbally. I can barely breathe. A week apart and we are right back to where we know, a place and a moment we are comfortable with one another.

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