by Ashley Love
I put a hand on my hip and lift the other one, palm side up, and wave it in the air, gesturing to the room as if to say 'Oh, I don't know, take a guess.' "Why would someone even do something like this?"
Blake winces, balling the jersey up in his hand. "I think I know why," he admits. He hastily adds, "Which doesn't make it my fault, okay? But it, uh, might be the guys from Jefferson. We kicked their asses the other day, and they weren't exactly happy about it."
I blink at him for a long, long moment. "You're telling me," I say, while pinching at the bridge of my nose, "that this is over a game of football? That our room is trashed because of a fucking game?"
"I think so, yeah," Blake admits. "It happens, pranks on the other teams and stuff. You're making a way bigger deal of this than you need to. Nothing's ruined, it's just messy. Well, nothing but my fucking jersey," he grumbles. "I'm going to have to order a new one and use my spare for now."
"And clean this up," I add. "You have to clean this up."
Blake snorts, dropping his jersey onto the bare mattress of his bed. Our laundry won't be done for another hour or so, which sucks because I honestly want nothing more than to crawl into bed and pretend that I never woke up this morning. That everything from that point on was just a dream.
"I'm not cleaning your side of the room," Blake informs me.
"Yeah, you are," I say. "It's your fault this even happened."
"No, it's not," Blake says firmly. "It's not like I asked for it."
"I did the laundry, you can do the room. That's pretty fair, considering this wouldn't have happened to me if I wasn't rooming with you."
"How do you know?" he argues. "I'd have silly stringed your room months ago if I didn't have to look at it."
"Just fucking clean it, Blake!" I shout, patience gone. My cheeks flush, and I can't remember the last time I was this upset. Sure, Blake pisses me off on a daily basis, but this is worse than usual.
I like my space clean, okay? I like to be able to do my work. I like my things organized. I like to keep my bed made unless I'm sleeping in it. Now, there's silly string covering my textbooks and my comics. There's a blob of shaving cream on my laptop. If there were ever a time where I really lost it and finally gave in, punched Blake right in his face, it'd be today. I feel overheated with anger, breath coming out in pants.
And Blake. Fucking Blake, he says, "I'll clean my half."
I push him. I'm not even aware I'm doing it until my fingers press into his shoulders. "You'll clean the whole thing."
Blake's so surprised that he actually stumbles back a step, but as soon as he's caught himself he's crowding into my personal space. He gets so close that we're almost touching, his face inches from mine, and I'm suddenly acutely aware of the size difference. Height wise, Blake's barely bigger than me. But he's got wider shoulders, thicker arms, and he's a guy after all. If it came down to it, he could kick my ass, no problem.
It's like the tension in the air is a physical thing, something stretched so tightly that it's only seconds away from snapping. And it does, when Blake leans in a bit and whispers, "What if I don't?"
The next thing I know, he's got a hand around the back of my neck, pulling me in, and I've got my hands gripped tightly on his waist, fingers curling, nails trying to dig into flesh through his shirt. It hurts when Blake's lips meet my own. It's violent. His teeth press against my lips, and I make a sound of pain that he matches with one of frustration.
I'm not even thinking, I'm just reacting. I push my hands under his shirt, sliding up his muscular back, and Blake fists a hand in my hair, tugging at it until my lips part obligingly. His tongue pushes into my mouth, and all I can do is focus on remembering how to breathe as I try to kiss back.
It's like he's trying to kiss me and hurt me, at the same time. I do the same, pulling back, tugging sharply at his bottom lip with my teeth until he hisses in a sharp breath.
"I can't believe you pushed me," he says, as he does just that to me, pushing me back towards my own bed, never fully breaking contact.
I stumble backwards, tightly gripping the front of Blake's shirt. "You're such an—" I cut off when his lips move to my neck, sucking harshly. "An ass," I get out, shaky, weak. "You're such an asshole."
Blake shoves me down onto the bed, and I go without fighting it. "I don't think anyone," he starts, pausing only to climb on top of me, legs on either side of my waist, "pisses me off as much as you do."
I try to take a breath, struggling with Blake's weight on top of me, but I like it. I pull him down so our chests are pressed together, and this time it's me pushing my tongue into his mouth, curling around his, tasting Coke and something else, something infinitely sweeter. So sweet it's dizzying.
Blake leans up, and I make an annoyed, upset sound until he tugs his shirt off and, oh, yeah, okay. That's—yeah. When he kisses me again, I'm too busy running my nails over his back, liking the way he arches when they dig in too much, praying that they leave red marks in their wake.
Blake's length presses against my hip, and I groan when he grinds down against me, raggedly breathing into the crook of my neck. I'm still on fire, anger pulsing through me, but it's almost evenly matched with arousal, at this point.
"Tug my hair one more fucking time," I warn, while trying to feebly grind up against him, "and I swear—"
Blake does just that, and the sound I make was supposed to be annoyed, it was, only it isn't. It isn't at all. "What? Seems like you like it," Blake grunts against my skin.
He keeps tugging at my hair, but it doesn't really hurt, exactly. It sends sharp pinpricks of arousal through me, and when he grinds down just right against me, just enough friction between our bodies to steal the air from my lungs, I moan, "Fuck you, Blake. Fuck you."
"What do you think I'm trying to do?"
My eyes fall closed at that. Is that where this is going? Seems to be. Do I want that? Maybe I'd say no, if Blake wasn't still rolling his hips down into mine, mouthing along my neck as he does. But he is, and all I can think about is finding relief from the red hot coil of tension in my stomach.
"Then do it," I say. "Stop dry humping me."
He pulls back abruptly, hovering over me, propped up on his hands. He searches my eyes for a moment, and I glare up at him, lips parted, panting embarrassingly.
"Okay," he says slowly, looking almost dazed. "I...yeah, okay."
He leans over to the desk before I can say anything. He pulls open the bottom drawer, grabbing out a pencil case, from which he produces a box of condoms. Just seeing that makes this more real, and my stomach flips but I force it down, saying, "I can't believe you've been keeping condoms in a pencil case."
Lips crushing my own shut me up, and I'm pretty sure that was his intention. I go with it, kissing him back eagerly because I've accepted that this is happening, and I'm going to fucking enjoy it until it ends and the consequences of what's happening catch up to me.
Blake undoes his jeans while I sit up to tug off my shirt, and then hands are at the waistband of my own jeans, popping open the button, tugging down the zipper. I lift my hips, and Blake looks down at me with his bottom lip between his teeth. It makes me squirm. "Are you going to just sit there like that the whole time, or—?"
My panties are tugged so quickly down my hips I'm pretty sure the seams rip. After that there's no more kissing. No lingering looks or touches. Blake moves like the same heat that's burning me up is coursing through his veins, and he wastes no time slicking up his fingers, pushing one into me with his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. No teasing, straight to the point.
By the time the second finger stretches me open, I have my head tilted back. I can't look down at Blake anymore. It's too much, the drag of his fingers, the mild pain underlying the shivers that go through me every time he brushes that spot inside me. It's not enough, at the same time, so I push down against them and try to bunch my hands against the bare mattress, but there's nothing for me to hold ont
o, which might be the cause of that feeling in my stomach. It's like being on a rollercoaster; it's like that moment where you tip too far back in your chair and it hits you that you're going to fall and your stomach clenches.
"Fuck," I hiss at the third finger, and I can't tell if it's in pain or pleasure; maybe it's both, because they're blurring together in my mind.
There's no warning before Blake's fingers are gone, and I would yell at him for it if I had any breath left in my lungs. I prop myself up on my elbows, watching as he rips open the condom with difficulty, fingers still slick from fingering me. I take that one moment to appreciate him. Sure, I hate the guy, but that doesn't stop him from being gorgeous. All that working out pays off, apparently, and the sweat shining on his skin only enhances the dips and curves, the hard muscles of his stomach and chest, the width of his shoulders, the curve of his dick, which he's sliding the condom onto, the thick coarse hair at the base.
I lay my head back against the pillow.
"Are you sure?" Blake asks when he's done, leaning over me once again. I give him a pointed, annoyed look. "Right. Just let me know if..." He swallows back the rest of his words and shakes his head. He moves so he's lying beside me, and he orders, "Get on top of me."
I have to bite back the instinctive "Don't tell me what to do," only because I feel like now is not the time. Instead I do as I'm told, thighs on either side of Blake's body. One of his hands grabs my hip, the other lining himself up with my entrance, and I lower myself. I'm taking short, aborted little breaths, eyes squeezed closed. It's been way, way too long, and for a moment it hurts more than it feels good.
It starts out slow, me doing most of the work as Blake blinks up at me with heavily lidded eyes. But eventually he grunts out a moan and both of his large hands grip my hips tightly, pushing me down, and he fucks up into me with abandon. I collapse on top of him, head tucked into his neck, breathing damply against his skin because that...that is exactly how this is supposed to be. Not slow and careful and gentle.
"You close?" he whispers, lips brushing my hair.
Really? Fuck. "Shut up," I hiss, because I am. So, so fucking close, if I could just...
I push myself up, wrapping my hands around my breasts, squeezing my nipples with my fingers. Blake bats my hands away seconds later, replacing them with his own. One touch and it's over, it's always that way with me. I feel electricity in my skin, hormones shutting down my brain and the rise of my orgasm. From there on in it's all passion, intense, intoxicating. It's my release, my escape, my drug...
Not that I'm easy. I know well enough to avoid letting guys have their way way with me. But with Blake, too many of my switches are flicked for a reverse gear to be possible. All I can do is go along for the ride and pray my instincts are right.
"Oh my God," I can't help but moan into the air, tilting my head back and squeezing my eyes shut. Blake continues fucking the shit out of me, taking my breasts in his large hands, massaging and molding them, his palms teasing my nipples. He moves his hands to brutally grip my waist, my tits bouncing up and down as his hips slam against with me force.
My nails leave indents on his chest when I cum white hot between the two of us, gasping, toes curling, a shudder going through my whole body. I fall forward against his chest, and he keeps going, only slowing a fraction.
I whimper, I can't help it, not with my oversensitive nipples trapped between our bodies. His hands slide soothingly up my back, and his lips press to my hair again, being incredible gentle. Which is such a contrast from his teeth, threatening to break my skin when he finally cums, biting at my shoulder with a strangled sound.
Afterwards, there's a moment of near silence where we lie pressed together, the soft sound of our breathing the only thing in the room. Blake's hands keep rubbing at my back, and I try to collect myself, try to tell my limp, rubbery-feeling limbs to move, but I can't just yet.
When I can, I carefully climb off Blake, wincing as I fall onto the bed beside him. Instantly he crawls over me, getting off the bed. I stare up at the ceiling, hear him moving around. I'm still gulping for breath when he says, "I'm going to take a shower," and then, just before he's out the door, "and I'm not cleaning your side of the room."
The door shuts, and I'm grateful when I hear Blake lock it behind himself because I do not need someone walking in on me right now. Not when I'm covered in drying semen, sweat (mine and Blake's), lying on the bare mattress of my bed.
As the minutes tick by, it dawns on me what just happened. Bit by bit, I realize that I just had sex. With Blake Alexander. I had sex with Blake fucking Alexander. How exactly did that even happen? Why had I let it happen? Why did I enjoy it to so much? Because I did. Even as I press my fingers to the bruise his mouth left on my shoulder, I can't deny that it had been good. Really good.
"Shit," I mutter, covering my eyes with my arm. "Shit."
5
Blake isn't in the bathroom when I go to take my shower; Blake isn't there when I get back to the room, but his side is spotlessly clean. And I'm grateful, even if I spend the next twenty minutes cleaning my own side of the room and getting our laundry. I'm not sure what I'd say if Blake had been there. Not sure if this changes things or not, because I still hate him, I do. Maybe I hate him even more.
Everything inside of me is in turmoil. I can't sort out my thoughts or emotions. On one hand, I'm shocked it happened. On the other hand, I think that maybe a tiny, little part of me saw it coming. Another part of me is pissed for even thinking that. And I feel angry with myself, angry with Blake, and I'm regretting it already. I regret it so much, because I can't get the way he had felt inside of me out of my mind; the way he'd gripped my hips and tugged at my hair. While, at the same time, I don't regret it at all.
Eventually I leave the room with my laptop and my books and my paper. I can't be in there anymore.
Only I can't focus on my work. I get to the library, set myself up, and then I stare at the word document, fingers hovering over the keys, eyes glazed. I try, though. I spend about an hour copying the words painstakingly slow, but I keep misspelling things, skipping lines, missing words. There's so many words underlined in red that I give up, shutting the laptop.
Emma and Cadence aren't in the common room when I get there, so I hike my bag higher on my shoulder and head for their room.
Their room is only six down from mine, which is how I met them. The day after they'd moved in, the first time I had the room alone since Blake walked in the door, I was unpacking, and someone had knocked at the door. I went to answer it, and the next thing I know there's this blonde girl sitting on my bed, telling me her life story, while her friend stood in the doorway, looking both pleased and apologetic.
Apparently, or so Emma told me later, I was the only one who allowed Cadence through the door, which is why I'm now stuck with the two of them. Cadence pushed into my life without invitation, and she brought Emma along like a carry-on bag. Not that I mind. Befriending the two of them is probably the only exciting thing I've done since I got here. Well, it was. I'm pretty sure having sex with Blake is now on that list.
When I get to their room, I push the door open. They have a whiteboard on the door that Emma obsessively uses to let people know if they're in the room, out of the room, or in the room and want to be alone. Right now it reads 'COME IN!' with a sloppy smiley face beside it.
I find the two of them stuffed on Cadence's bed, a box of pizza between them. Emma's sitting with her legs neatly crossed, taking up as little room as possible. Cadence is spread out, limbs everywhere, lying on her stomach while she shoves a slice of pizza in her mouth. Which is such a good representation of both of their personalities, really.
"Hungry?" Emma asks, nudging the box towards the edge of the bed. "Help yourself. My mom sent me extra cash this week."
I nod mutely and take a piece of pizza, picking off the slices of pepperoni before I take a bite. It's not hot anymore, but it's greasy and cheesy and delicious anyway. I
chew as I sink onto Cadence's bed, pulling my legs up, before asking, "Can I stay here tonight?"
"Are you going to spend the whole night bitching about whatever it is Blake did that makes you not want to stay in your own room?" Cadence inquires.
I look down at my food. "No."
"Hey," Emma says softly, "You okay? Did he do something?"
"Blake always does something," Cadence reminds her.
Which is true, but this time it's as much my fault as it is Blake's.
"No," I find myself saying. "He, uh, didn't do anything."
"Why do you sound weird?" Cadence asks. "You look weird, too."
I flush. I stuff the pizza into my mouth to avoid answering for a moment. It doesn't taste good anymore. It's like chewy cardboard. But I can't put it off forever, and my slice of pizza is gone too quickly. I run a hand through my hair, eyes downcast, and whisper, "I had sex with Blake."
"What was that? Couldn't hear you," Cadence says.
"I had sex," I repeat, "with Blake. Okay?"
When I look up, Emma's frozen, pizza half to her mouth. Cadence is gaping at me like I have two heads, and it's so fucking quiet. And I know, if the roles were reversed, that I'd be gaping at myself too.
"Holy shit," Cadence breathes. "Holy fucking shit." She turns to Emma. "You owe me fifty bucks."
"You were betting on this happening?" I demand. "Really?"
Cadence shakes her head. "Don't try to turn this around. I want details. Like, explicit details."
"I just want to forget it happened," I mutter.
"Ooh, it was bad, huh?" Cadence says. "I knew it. All those muscles are compensating for a little dick, right? Called it."
I throw my crust in Cadence's direction. It hits her arm and she doesn't even blink, or move to throw it out, so Emma leans over her and tosses it in the pizza box with three other uneaten crusts.
"You can stay," she adds. "You can have my bed. I'll sleep in Cadence's."
"Yeah," Cadence agrees. "No problem. You know you're always welcome here."