by L.J. Shen
By the time I get back home after a stop at the library, it’s dark and Sage is waiting for me in the living room with two slices of pizza, a Caesar salad, and beers. I’m so relieved to see the food—and him—I nearly whimper at the beauty of having both of them.
This is what heaven looks like, right?
“Sit. I’ll put some X Factor on.” He pats the tangerine sofa he’s slouched on. Clad only in gray running shorts, he is naked from the waist up, which is not surprising—Sage has a strict no-shirt policy around the house. I make my way over and plop down next to him with a sigh. He hits Play just as I take the first bite of my pizza.
“Nice blouse.” His eyes are already dead on the screen.
“Thank…” I start, but then remember it has a coffee stain the size of Mississippi and frown. “I should probably take a shower and change before dinner.” I’ve never felt too self-conscious in front of him before, but I do now.
“Bullshit. I’m your boyfriend. You don’t have to doll-up for me. I like the real you. The girl who snores when she is tired and smells of garlic every Sunday after her grandmama’s special casserole.”
“You’re my fake boyfriend,” I correct, trying to set some boundaries.
“Irrelevant. Everything that came out of my mouth was real.”
I roll my eyes and dig into my pizza and salad, internally admitting that my best friend will one day make a kick-ass real boyfriend, just probably not to me. Simon Cowell is slaying people in the auditions segment. Two girls cry and one guy threatens to sue him. Then the commercials come on and we both stretch out on the couch.
“Do your Simon Cowell impression for me.” Sage elbows my ribs, winking at me playfully.
“Maybe later. I’m exhausted.” I rub my eyes. Inhaling the pizza, salad, and beer like food is a foreign concept that’s left me in a carbma (carb coma). Sage stares me down, his face intense yet unreadable.
“You know what’ll happen if you refuse, right?”
I do. And I want it to happen. Shamefully, our tickle sessions are the most erotic thing in my life right now. I haven’t had sex in months, and I swear there’d be cobwebs all over my vajayjay had I not purchased enough sex toys to open a store.
“I do not negotiate with terrorists,” I say adamantly.
“So happy to hear, because I think I’m about done talking, anyway.”
His eyes hone in on mine and his ripped body tenses before he pounces on me, tackling me to the carpeted floor. I fall with a bang, but his huge palm is covering the back of my head as it always does. He’s on top of me. With me writhing beneath him. I’m pretending to fight him, throwing balled fists into his chest, waiting for the tickles to arrive, when…
“Stop,” he breathes, and I notice that he is not moving. His pelvic bones are rubbing against mine, his erection is digging into my groin, and it is thick, and long, and tilted to the right. My mouth waters and my eyes gloss over. Jesus H, since when did my best friend become such a man?
“What?” I croak.
He leans forward, his mouth only inches from mine. His body heavy, his hard-on tantalizing, his scent breathtaking, he mouths into my lips, “Game change: if you want me to stop whatever it is I’m going to do as your fake boyfriend, say the name Simon Cowell.”
I groan. He’s giving me safe words now. I don’t have to ink them onto my brain, because I know I’ll never use them. His hips start to move, and he is sliding up and down, grinding himself against my needy pussy. I’m on fire, seeing stars, salivating at the intense friction. Every nerve in my body is buzzing with an impending orgasm, because it’s been so long, too long, and I open my thighs for him, my denim digging into my clit and rubbing against it.
“Say Simon Cowell, or I’ll continue.” His voice is heavy and rough and raw. He is the kid I fell in love with at the age of ten, and the man I would give the world to at the age of twenty. I don’t even care that he is probably using me. Using me as a fake girlfriend. Using me as a sexual outlet on this carpet.
I say nothing, because I’d die if he stops. Maybe not literally, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be the proud owner of the very first case of female blue balls.
He increases his speed, dry-humping me, one forearm propped near my ear and his other hand sliding to my neck. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to kiss me. I want us to break all the rules that helped us survive our turbulent childhood, that helped us defy When Harry Met Sally, that shows the world that men and women can’t be friends. I want to obliterate our friendship on this carpet. I want to show him that my stupid, reckless, defiant heart only beats for him.
“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls, squeezing my neck softly. His throbbing cock is pushing between my thighs, digging deeper into my slit, even through the denim, and I know it must be painful for him. He is half-penetrating me, and my eyes roll back despite my best intentions, the darkness behind them littered with stars and fireworks.
“Say it now, JoJo. Simon Cowell. Make me stop, or…” He leaves the sentence hanging in the air. Or he’ll take more. But maybe I want more. He said this was going to feel real. Monogamous, even. And now that Mark Tensely is no longer an option (not that we were a thing, but he was a distraction from Sage), I might as well take him up on that offer.
If Sage thinks our friendship can survive it—or worse, that our friendship isn’t worth keeping our hands to ourselves—who am I to disagree?
“Too scared to cross the line?” I hiss, my eyes widening at my own words. I’ve never taunted Sage about sex. About everything else? Sure. But not this. “I’m not sure what you’re using me for, Sage, but if you’re using me, I fully intend to use you.”
The words barely leave my mouth before his mouth crashes down on mine, devouring me like a starved wolf. Like that boy who cried to the moon, and the moon finally answered back. It strikes me like lightning. Sage is hungry. And I’m his meal. His pouty lips drag against mine, seeking an opening. He captures my lower lip with his teeth and tug, tug, tugs until I have no choice but to part my lips and give him better access. His tongue is invading, ruling, and assaulting my own. It chases mine frantically, licks the walls of my mouth, moves across my teeth, memorizing every single spot in my mouth. My eyes roll in pleasure when he takes my tongue between his lips and sucks on it hard, shoving his hand into my jeans. I’m not sure at what point he pulled down my zipper, but now he is rubbing my swollen, sensitive clit through my panties while he’s devouring my mouth, our tongues dancing seductively with one another. My whole body shakes uncontrollably.
“Please. Oh my God. Sage.”
It’s too much. The unexpected, sudden gratification. Don’t get me wrong—I make it a point to get myself off three times a week to keep myself sane, but I can’t remember the last time my body danced on its own accord with passion and delirious need. It occurs to me that I’m about to come before he’s even pulled off his running shorts, so I try to make him slow down by saying our very ridiculous safe word.
“Simo…”
His lips leave mine and he covers my mouth with his palm to keep me silent while he rises to his knees, pulling his shorts down with his free hand.
He shakes his head on a smirk. “If you want me to stop, just say no, JoJo. But from this point forward, you’re not screaming anyone’s name but mine. Do you want me to stop?” He takes his hand away and I grab him by the wrist and graze his knuckle with my teeth before slipping the tip of his finger between my lips and giving it a little suck.
Hell no, I don’t want him to stop.
His thick cock springs out of his shorts, and he presses the long, hot, velvety shaft against my bare stomach. My blouse rode up sometime during this spontaneous make-out session, and now Sage is tugging it further up to accommodate his cock, resting it on the little pink bow at the center of my bra, before reaching under me to snatch my bra, tearing it apart.
“Gonna tit-fuck you now. Been wanting to do that since your thirteenth birthday. Remember the day? Checkered baby blue dr
ess, ham on rye in the meadow, showing me the first sign of tits…” He drags his tongue across my chin, closing in on my mouth with a sloppy kiss. A kiss with too much tongue. Too much saliva. Too much everything, yet not enough of him. My response is squeezing my breasts together around his thick cock. The pad of his thumb is rubbing my clit again, and my quivering thighs begin to jerk uncontrollably. He pinches my clit. I moan so loudly my ears ring. Pinch, pinch, pinch. After a dozen small pinches, I feel a tug on the invisible string of pleasure that connects us. I explode when he finally pinches harder, sending me over the edge. I writhe under my best friend, shouting his name with the kind of wild abandon I hadn’t felt since the day I ran toward him in the pouring hot rain.
I barely have time to come down from my orgasm before he starts fucking my tits, the tip of his cock poking my chin every time he grinds himself on my torso. He scoots up, sitting on my stomach with his knees on either side of me. His muscular thighs harden, holding most of his weight as he goes at it like a professional porn star.
“Look at me,” he growls like a wounded animal, his tone far from its usual playfulness. I raise my head. My hazels meet his blues. He smirks the most patronizing, jerk-fueled smile I’ve ever seen, cupping my cheeks with one hand.
“I want to come in your mouth.”
I nod silently. I’ve never given anyone oral sex. Not that I have anything against it, but I guess I never felt super comfortable enough with any of my past boyfriends. But Sage is not just a guy I went on a few dates with. He is the boy who kicked other boys’ asses when they disrespected me at school—despite my telling him that I could take care of myself—and tried (and failed) to bake me shortbread cookies every Christmas because he knew they were my favorite.
He is good enough to never mention it if I suck (not literally), and man enough to never say a word about it to anyone we know.
“Oh, fuck, so close. Jolie, my beautiful, gorgeous Jolie…”
He scoots up, slides his cock from between my tits, and shoves it into my mouth, cupping my head from behind and making me deep throat him. And I do. I fight my gag reflex and wrap my lips around his cock as he pumps the base, warm, thick liquid sliding down my throat in spurts. My hands are on his rear, and I’m squeezing hard, as if I’m the one who is milking him, and it feels dirty and wrong and so magnificently right.
When he collapses next to me, his salty taste on my lips and tongue, I close my eyes and breathe, trying to rearrange the jumbled mess that is my mind. My bra is torn, my pussy throbs and burns from the friction of the denim and the pinching, and I feel like a train wreck with smeared lipstick.
A big paw reaches across my stomach, rolls me over to my side, and embraces me into a hug. Sage kisses my temple—like a loving friend, not like a quick lay—and whispers something I cannot decipher.
“What did you say?” I murmur, allowing my head to rest on his iron pecs.
He doesn’t answer, and I don’t probe, falling asleep in the arms of the boy I pieced back together myself with a hug.
The next day, I tackle Mark to the ground in practice. My official reason? He’s a fucker. My real reason? Jolie is standing across the football field with Chelsea and a few of her other girlfriends, hugging her MacBook to her chest and laughing at something one of them said. That, in itself is not a problem. But the fact that Mark just ogled her for two straight minutes? Totally is.
“What part of ‘she’s mine’ did you not get?” I snarl in his face, nailing him to the ground. Well, this escalated quickly. Can’t help it, though. The more I think about how much of a dickbag this dude is for even suggesting he’d date my best friend, the more I want to punch him into unconsciousness. Luckily, Jolie and I have this kind of relationship where we don’t even have to fully explain ourselves to each other and she’d agreed to “date” me.
Just like I’d agreed to take care of her friend’s pet ferret for a month junior year because her grandmama was allergic and she couldn’t do it herself. We’re there for each other in big ways and little ones. Always.
“I’m not looking at Jolie, dickwad! I’m looking at Chelsea. I asked her out yesterday.” Mark pushes me off of him, and I roll on the hot, damp grass, laughing to the bright blue sky. It unburdens me from weight I didn’t know I had on my heart. Ever since I graduated from high school, I’ve always had it easy—easy with girls, easy with grades, and easy with football. The rest I didn’t really care about, frankly. And maybe that’s why I’ve never had something I was in danger of losing. I do now, and hell if it’s not a bitch to keep it from slipping between my fingers.
“Chelsea, huh? You move fast,” I note, standing to my feet and wobbling between Michael and Elliott, who are stretching on the ground.
“Said the guy who dicked the girl I wanted to date just so I couldn’t have her.” Mark picks his gear up from the grass and stomps toward the dressing room behind me. He catches up to me, and I rein in the urge to steal a glance at my fake girlfriend, who really doesn’t feel that fake at all.
“Don’t talk about her like that.” I scowl.
“Why? You talk about girls like that all the time.” He laughs.
Because she’s not a fucking girl; she’s my best friend, I’m tempted to yell, but I’m not five, nor a pussy, so I bite my lip and change the subject.
“You inviting Chelsea to that charity thing in New York?” I jerk my chin in the girls’ direction. One of my sponsors is flying me out with a plus one. I can’t wait to see Jolie in a red dress—that’s the dress code for the female attendees—and seeing everyone’s faces when this Southern belle is on my arm alone could make me shoot my load all over my tux.
“Why? Are you asking Jolie?”
“Of course, I fucking am. She’s my girl. So?” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. Maybe because I really want to hear that he’s over JoJo.
“Fuck knows, man. We haven’t even gone on one date. What’s it to you?” He frowns and stops by our blue lockers. I shrug. I know that Mark and Jolie don’t speak to each other. I’d just like to keep it that way for the remainder of our last year of college. If she finds out I cockblocked her out of this potential relationship, she is going to jerk me off with a Brillo pad.
“Just curious.”
“Hey, man, don’t take this the wrong way, but it looks like something’s eating you,” Mark says carefully, peeling his shirt off and throwing it on a bench behind us. “Is everything okay?”
Everything is not okay. I made a horrible mistake with a girl, and even though it made me realize that there’s another girl I deeply want and love, I hurt someone. A lot. But I just smile. “Couldn’t be more perfect.”
“Good.” He strokes his chin. “Good.”
I take my clothes off and step into the shower, letting the scorching hot water punish me for what I did.
I’ll fix it all.
Fix it all with Jolie.
The day drags.
By the time I stumble through my front door, it’s already ten at night.
Between my shift at the Happy Bunny—a diner off of Bordeaux Street—and a library session with Chelsea and Penny, I’m thoroughly spent. Too exhausted to even grab myself a bite. The minute I get into the apartment, I head straight to the shower, scrub off the day’s dirt, slip into my pajamas (conveniently located on a hanger in the bathroom right next to my towel to avoid any more embarrassing hallway encounters with Sage) and slide under my blanket without even turning on the lamp next to my bed. I scoot to the edge of my bed and close my eyes.
Mmm, this is nice.
So relaxing.
I can just drift and clear my mind and not think about…
Okay, something is poking my ass.
Correction: an erection is poking my ass.
Double correction: a bare erection is. Poking. My. Ass. Mothertrucker!
“Sage!” I jolt, partly pissed, but—let’s admit it—mostly turned on. It’s like Sage has the manual to my body and knows how to work it better than I do. Which i
s weird. We still haven’t spoken about the sudden escalation in our relationship, but since it’s already happened—what’s crossing another line, right?
“Shhh, baby girl.” His strong, warm palm slides down to cup my ass. “Let Daddy take care of you.”
“Call yourself my daddy one more time and I’m fishing your eyeballs out with a spoon.”
“Fuck, my girl has some pent-up aggression in her. So glad I’m here to loosen…” He glides the sleeve of my pajama dress across my shoulder and kisses it. “Her.” He lets the gown slip over my head and down my body, leaving me completely naked, save for my cotton panties. “Up.” His hand slinks between my thighs, cups my pussy, and squeezes. Hard.
“No need, as I’m perfectly loose,” I murmur, teasing him. He slides my panties down and I wiggle my ass into his erection so that his cock is halfway between my ass cheeks, putting pressure on my tight hole. He could dream. But then again, that’s exactly what I want him to do. Crave me like a fantasy.
“Nah, you’re not loose. Tight as your sweet little cunt, more like.” His tongue skates down my spine, leaving shivers in its wake. He is moving south. Who gave him permission to move south? This is like Game of Thrones. Wars should be fought to win the south. You can’t just knock on the door and expect me to open it up.
Wait, you totally can if you look like Sage Poirier.
“Too tired for sex, Mr. Fake Boyfriend. I’m not in the mood to move,” I protest one last time, just to tell myself that I’ve tried if things go wrong. Just to show myself that I really did try, I flip the lamp on for emphasis, like I’m going to be reading, or watching TV, or not thinking about having sex with my best friend (lie).