It shouldn’t be this hard.
Okay, it actually should. I’m a healthy twenty-two-year-old male, so my dick should definitely be this hard.
The state of my cock isn’t the problem. Or at least it isn’t the only one.
I’m blessedly alone in this giant-ass house for the first time in a week, so I’m taking full advantage of the privacy while it lasts. For some guys, that means beating off in the shower or having a quick solo sesh on the edge of the bed with a box of tissues nearby.
For me, it means a ring light, some plush bedding, and enough post-production editing to make sure my face isn’t visible in any of the footage.
One little slip-up, and it could all be over. It’s not that I’m planning to be a MyFans model for the next forty-five years or anything. It’s fun as fuck, but it’s not my chosen career field. There’s not a huge demand for philosophers these days, and my dad thinks I’m too much of a clown to be successful in his real estate business. But no matter whatpath I eventually choose, I know stroking my dick for the internet is not part of my long-range plans.
Especially since I can’t even focus enough to finish the fucking scene. I stopped and started half a dozen times. I’ve done live sessions before, mainly since that’s what my buddy Aven prefers. I can’t lie, the mix of spontaneity and voyeurism is pretty hot. But since I need to keep my identity hush-hush, I usually stick to the pre-recorded stuff. It’s a lot easier this way. Well, it was.
Some people might freeze up at the idea of recording themselves having sex, either alone or with a partner. That’s never been a hangup for me. In fact, when I think about people getting themselves and their partners off to images of me doing the same? Well, yeah. That’s fucking hot. Still, SGP@MyFans wouldn’t exist if Aven hadn’t dared me to create my account more than a year ago. We’d been drinking and messing around with our friend Laura for mutual satisfaction all around. When we’d reduced her to a sleepy, happy puddle, she muttered something about how she’d be replaying our little sexfest in her head for all of summer break. I quipped that I’d be happy to start an online channel so she could tune in anytime she wanted. Laura laughed, but Aven turned to me with two little words that have gotten me in trouble my whole damn life.
“You won’t,” he scoffed, a challenge in his gaze.
Ten minutes later, I had a profile under the initials SGP, for Silly Goose Productions, and the rest is history. I knew I’d be screwed—and not in the fun way—if I attached my name or face to the account, so I went incognito. Nobody’s outed me yet and thank fuck for that.
It’s risky as hell having this account, but I can’t deny I love the adrenaline rush. My account was only supposed to be live for the summer, but once I started playing for the camera, I didn’t want to stop. I’m not sure what it’s like forother people, but I get into a pretty deep headspace that’s unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. Sure, I love playing hockey, but nothing I’ve ever done on the ice even begins to compare to the euphoria I feel when I’m in front of the camera.
But something’s off today. That blank playground where my mind usually goes is nowhere to be found. I’m restless and preoccupied. None of the narratives in my head are doing jack shit for me right now.
I’m lying back on a mound of pillows, my rail-hard cock in my hand, and only one thing on my mind: the feel of Fallon Zabek’s body as it grinds against mine. I haven’t been able to get her off my mind since I saw her at Wolfie’s the other night.
This is wrong in a thousand ways. I shouldn’t be thinking about her, fantasizing about her lush curves and the ten fucking minutes we spent on a makeshift dance floor two years ago.
Sure, she’s hot as hell. She’s got a mischievous streak a mile fucking wide, and a killer sense of humor. And have I mentioned that her body is smoking fucking hot?
That’s not the first thing I noticed about her, though. The living room of the hockey house was dim, lit only by a few strands of twinkle lights and a neon Wolves logo that hung on the wall. There were enough people in that cramped space to have given the fire chief a coronary, but when I saw Fallon’s deep blue eyes on what passed as a dance floor, everything else in the room melted away.
At the time, I didn’t know anything about her. When she looked at me, I didn’t care about her name or her major or even what year she was in. My body was drawn to hers, and I was helpless to resist. Hell, I didn’t even try. I just joined her in the small space, moving in behind her as we let our bodies follow the rhythm. Her hands reachedback for me, pulling me in tight. She was warm and soft, and I let my fingers wander over the supple flesh of her hips and thighs. Within a minute, I felt my dick harden. Just when I started to ease back for fear of freaking her out, she gripped me with her hands on the backs of my thighs while she rubbed her ass against my hard cock. I remember the heady smell of her peach shampoo as I leaned in close, pressed a kiss to her neck, and cupped her full fucking tits in my hand.
I was about to ask her if she wanted to move this up to my room, but when the song ended, her friends pulled her away and headed for the kitchen.
I was hot on their heels, and not only because I knew where we kept the good stuff. My dance partner was intoxicating, and when she looked over her shoulder and winked in my direction, I knew nothing was going to stop me from getting her back on the dance floor and anywhere else she wanted to go.
Until Koz, my linemate and friend, pulled me aside.
“Christ, Jablonski, do you have a death wish?”
“It’s possible,” I shrugged. “But we can talk about that later. Right now, I?—”
“Right now,” he repeated, blocking me from entering the kitchen. “You need to listen the fuck up and leave that girl alone.”
“Uh, respectfully, fuck right off. I’m having fun and?—”
“Fun,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Fun with Booker’s little sister. He’s going to kill you.”
I froze right there in the hallway. To a twenty-year-old college guy, Bro Code is the law. What happened next isn’t something I’m proud of, but it effectively put the brakes on any feelings Fallon had for me.
More accurately, it stopped the train altogether and threw it in reverse.
It’s been nearly two years, but Fallon hasn’t forgiven me for hooking up with a girl mere minutes after she and I had our hands all over each other.
That hasn’t stopped me from wanting her, though.
My hands itch to touch her right now—to trace the hourglass shape of her body, to wander their way down every inch of her, even if she lives halfway across campus and barely tolerates my ass.
