Page 103 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
Dmitri
Oskar’s mouth forms a perfect O of surprise, and I can’t resist kissing him. He can’t show me his mouth and not expect me to want to delve in there. No way.
He sweeps his arms around my neck, his arms tight, reminding me that he’s not a soft female. His body might be on the smaller end, but everything is compact firm muscle, and I feel safe in the tight grip of his hands.
I’ve been fucked.
I’ll always be a man who’s been fucked.
I smile at the ceiling, as if Oskar has drawn a happy face over my soul.
“Is important question,” I tell Oskar.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Lots of options.”
“I like the option where I can see your face.” I shrug. “Is good face. Works out for me. You have a good face too.”
And then I’m cupping my hands around his face, feeling his high cheekbones, and watching his blue eyes glitter. “If I could find a way to stay, I would.”
“I know.”
“For you,” I tell him.
“Don’t worry about my job,” he assures me. “I-I don’t care about it. It was worth it for me. Besides, I’m going to go to graduate school. It will be a few years until I’m back in the workforce”
I pull him toward me and ruffle his belly, my fingers playing along his narrow waist.
I don’t say anything.
I want him to be right.
With the internet, I’m not sure he is, but I know he knows that too.
My heart swells with wonder at this marvelous man who has become the center of my world.
He is amazing.
Utterly amazing.
He stares at me, and my world consists of the most gorgeous shade of blue and black irises and white sclera. How come no one lauds that color combination? It should be on every item of clothes, every furniture piece, everything.
But then I look at his blonde hair and his clear skin, lightly freckled, the dots visible only at a close distance like this and the pink of his cheeks and the deeper pink of his lips and I know that I am wrong.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
“Of course. You’re in my arms.”
He giggles and snuggles closer. Every moment with him feels precious now.
My cock stretches toward him, heat pulsing through my organ. It pokes into his stomach, and his lashes flutter when he feels it, and he moves closer to it.
“Careful. I might come before I’m inside you,” I warn.
He scrambles up, and I regret my words. Then he grabs another condom. I wait for him to hand it to me, like we’ve done before, but instead he tears the wrapper.
My eyes must widen, and maybe my jaw does a bit of dropping, because he says, “I can unwrap things.”
