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"What's that called?"
"You mean like a label?"
"Yeah—what do you call it when you like the person, despite the parts?"
"Despite the parts is a funny way to put it," he says, scrunching his brow. "And I'm not one hundred percent sure, because there are a lot of nuances. It could be pansexual, where gender or identity isn't a factor. Or maybe demisexual, which is where you only feel sexual attraction to someone that you form a close emotional relationship with."
I shake my head. "That's not it."
I definitely felt some attraction, some magnetic pull, towards Bryant Nicks that first night I saw him standing in the shadows of the warehouse I was working at. Then, that first day I arrived at the sports complex, I didn't even know it was him I was looking at, but I couldn't help but admire the body of the man I was watching. If I'm being honest, it's only been in the last month or so that I've really felt an emotional connection. Before that, it was easier to deny that I might be some form of gay, because it was only physical. I can't deny how happy I feel in his presence, and I find myself wanting to do even the most mundane activities with him. Like sitting at the table in the morning, eating fucking cardboard for breakfast, watching him read the paper with his goddamned reading glasses perched on his nose. It’s something more now.
"What about… heteroflexible?"
Luke laughs, which annoys me. I'm being perfectly fucking serious right now. "What the hell is that?"
"I don't know. I found it on Google,” I say defensively.
"You've thought a lot about this, yeah?" He frames it as a question, but it's more of a statement, so I don't reply. I only sit there, frozen. Wishing I hadn't said anything because he's not being very fucking helpful and I feel like I've exposed myself, like everything could come crashing down because I opened my fat mouth in a moment of insecurity. "Look, I'm gay. I like dudes. Not all of them necessarily, but I don't think of women that way at all. But that doesn't make me an expert. And honestly, if you ask me, all these labels do nothing but separate us from what we all are—human. It doesn't really matter if you're gay or maybe just not entirely straight. What matters is that you find someone that makes you happy."
I want to tell him that I wasn’t talking about me, that this was all rhetorical, or that I was asking for a friend. But I know he'll know the truth, whether he calls me on it or just smiles and nods.
"Jack," he says, and I pull my eyes away from the lines in the wood grain of the table. "I'm here if you ever want to talk it out, and I promise I'd never say anything to anyone. Your secret is safe with me."
"Thanks," I mutter, but I don't look at him or try to talk anymore. Instead, I grab my books and make a hasty exit.
CHAPTER 26
BRYANT
He looks peaceful when he sleeps, and it makes me wonder what troubles him during the day. Whenever he's not in the throes of a play, running down the field at top speed, or getting the breath fucked out of him, Jack’s brow is creased in concentration.
Maybe that's why this arrangement has worked so well for him.
Maybe what he needed was someone or something to get him out of his head, to refocus his energy. For all the talent and brains he obviously has, he was getting in far too much trouble not to ruin his chances. Talent like his isn't easy to come by, but it seems effortless for him. Knowing what I do about his record, not just the official stuff, but his sealed juvenile records, I can't help but feel like he was purposefully trying to stall his future. He really seems to want it, so why would he do that to himself?
I'm afraid that if I let him go, if I release him into the wilds of the NFL, that he'll end up back in that same situation. How will he fare without the guidance? I can't keep him on the hook, texting me all day every day, for the rest of his life, and it's not like an arrangement like this could last long distance.
The dean called me again yesterday. Both he and Tuck think I should convince him to stay for another year. Why would he, though, if greatness is within reach? Everyone wants him; I've made sure that all the right eyes are on him. I've patched up what I can about the public relations nightmare that the incident with his last school was, and thankfully the coach never leaked the footage, because of course it was his daughter in the video and everyone knows it. Having read through the report of how thoroughly Jack fucked up that other player, putting him in the hospital for over a week, and physical therapy for years, ruining his chances to play football ever again, I know it could have not only ruined all of his prospects, but landed him in prison. He’d told me that he'd beat the kid up, and why he did it. At the time, I’d found it admirable, and maybe a part of me still does. But he’d downplayed how brutal the attack was.
It's hard to imagine the peaceful man lying next to me could have done that to someone.
Jack shifts in his sleep, and the sheet slips lower down his back, exposing more of his ass. That fucking ass could make me forget a lot of things. Kind of like how I forget how to sleep for more than a couple of hours straight when he's in my bed, because I'm acutely aware of that perfect ass lying next to me. It's become a new hobby of mine to see how far I can go before he wakes up, and he hasn't complained about waking up to his cock getting sucked.
I groan and turn my body towards him, lightly brushing my fingers down his spine. His deep breaths don't change, but the little hairs on his skin stand up. I brush my fingertips around his round ass cheeks, palming and lightly squeezing, feeling the muscle. He still doesn't wake up, even when my fingers find their way between his cheeks, rubbing along the crack of his ass. I shift down the bed, laying at the bottom between his legs, and pulling the sheet fully off him. I palm both of his cheeks, spreading him open to me. I look my fill and lean forward to lick along his crack, pressing my tongue against the puckered hole that takes my cock so well. He tastes like cum–my cum–and that fills me with an unnerving level of contentment. I push my index finger inside, just to the first joint, and his breath hitches before evening out again. I push farther in, slowly, until I reach my knuckle, and then pull out again. I toy with his ass like this for a while, edging him until he’s close to waking, until my cock is so hard it hurts. I remove my finger from his ass and grab the bottle of lube that now lives on my bedside table. Laying down next to him, curled over his back, I coat my fingers in the slippery liquid, then push two fingers inside. He groans as I pump my fingers, spreading the lube inside and stretching the tight ring. He's getting better at taking me with less prep, but I think he also likes it when it hurts a little. Deviant that I am, I enjoy hurting him.
He gives a sleepy whimper when I pull my fingers out so I can spread lube over my cock. I've never tried fucking him when he's asleep, but I like how pliant his body is right now, how responsive he is to me, even in his dreams. I want him to wake up, though. I want him to wake up to my big cock spearing his ass, making him mine, taking him whenever and however I want.
I brace my arm next to his shoulder and wrap my hand around his wrist, dragging it above his head. Using my free hand, I line myself up, then hold his hip and press slowly into him, holding my breath. He lets out a throaty moan when I'm fully seated, and I stay still like this for a while, cuddled up against his back with his ass swallowing my cock. My lips press against the back of his neck, and I inhale his scent before I start to move.
Slowly, gently, I rock my hips into him. My mouth pressed against the back of his shoulder. He moans and pushes back against me.
"Good, you're awake," I murmur against his neck.
I thrust harder, and he cries out. Fuck, I love the noises he makes. I wouldn't say this to him, because I think he worries about his manliness being the bottom in this twisted relationship of ours, but the sounds he makes are far sexier than any I've heard from any woman. They're throaty and raspy—animalistic—when I can get him to whimper or make a higher sound than a low moan, I know I've hit a good spot. I live for those moments that he's crying out my name and trembling, begging me to let him cum.
Wrapping one leg around his hips, I turn our bodies so I'm fully on top of him, his face pressed into the mattress. His ass cheeks are pressed together, adding extra pressure to my cock as I slide it in and out of him. He tries to push up, but I hold him down. He might be younger and faster, but I'm a hell of a lot bigger and stronger.
I brace one hand against the back of his neck, the other on his hip, and I pound him into the mattress until he's screaming my name, muffled into the mattress. I pull out quickly before I come, and flip him over before straddling him again. He's breathing heavily and trembling, and his cock is starting to spurt. I press our cocks together and stroke us both to completion, both of us erupting in my hand and splashing down on his abs.
