Page 104 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
“My baby is so clever,” I say.
“Your baby went to Harvard,” he reminds me, and I grin because he’s acknowledging that he’s my baby.
He removes the condom, then places it on my shaft. I look down, but he’s applied it correctly, leaving the tip loose for the come that I know will come pouring out of me when I’m thrusting inside him.
Then he takes the lube and squirts some on his palm.
I cough noisily. “Excuse me. I can do that.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I want your bottom up,” I say in my sternest voice.
“Seriously?”
“You gave me ideas, Oskar.” I shake my head, keeping my voice still strict.
His cock jerks.
“Someone’s into this,” I say.
“Maybe.”
“Can’t keep secrets about what you like when you have a cock like that.” I pat beside me on the bed, and in the next moment, he flips around, straddles my chest, then points that sweet ass straight into my face.
“Fuck.” I stare at his two globes. “You are so fucking beautiful, baby.”
I stretch his globes.
“That first night you moved in with me I should have stripped you naked and stared at your ass all night.”
His cock jerks, bobbing against my stomach.
“See, no secrets.”
He gives a weak laugh. I lube up my hand, then lube up his cock. I place his hand on it, then move his hand up and down. “Keep on jerking yourself, baby. I’m going to take care of you.”
Then I spread his cheeks and eye his hole.
It’s gorgeous and dark pink.
No one has seen this. I see parts of him that no one else in the world ever has. I am so incredibly lucky.
My heartbeat quickens, and I grab his cheeks with each hand, loving the feeling of his warm flesh. I squeeze his cheeks. If I ever thought I would miss boobs, this is a hell of a replacement.
I mean, women have asses too, but I’ve never paid them much attention.
So I considered myself pretty sexually adventurous.
I’ve had a lot of sex.
I mean, professional athletes tend to have a lot of sex, and I’ve always been on the high end.
Why have conversations in bars when you can be thrusting in and out of someone? My English wasn’t great when I arrived, it’s still not great, because hockey fills my days, not listening to lectures or something that uses words. I preferred inviting a woman to my bed and pretending that I wasn’t that alone. Pretending that I wasn’t on the other side of the world from everything that I knew. Pretending that I was utterly awesome.
The wondrous glances women shot me helped with the latter.
There was never a woman I wanted to spend more time with. I guess that makes me an F-boy, but I’m pretty sure they knew what they were getting into. Now I’m less certain. How could an act that feels so intimate and special with Oskar have ever been something that was almost routine with others?
