Page 92 of Our Secret to Keep

NATE

My crushon River sort of happened overnight. One day, we were fucking a puck bunny, our cocks buried inside her stretched-out pussy—nothing out of the ordinary. Just another wild night. A lot of beer, lube, and a box of condoms.

Our eyes locked for a split second, long enough to see the desire in his eyes. I shook it off as nothing. We were both drunk and high on life. But a thrill rushed through me when I noticed him watching me again. I liked it and didn't understand why.

I didn’t want it to mean anything. Yet, I wanted to feel his body pressed down on mine. My cock inside his ass instead of a pussy.

I want him.

I need him.

Iwillhave him.

After the game, I made a rash decision to leave without River. I ran home to burn off the nervous energy. Now I’m pacing across my bedroom floor, trying not to think about River.

Tonight, I need to be alone.

If I hide until morning, maybe I can get my shit together. Forget all about these unwanted feelings for River.

Before I left the locker room, I peeked at River in the shower, willing my cock to behave. The water crested over his nipples and slithered down his chiseled abs as he tipped his head back to wash his hair. My eyes went straight to his cock hanging between his thick thighs. Anymore, he gets me all riled up, ready to fuck, and desperate for more.

I hate this.

The need.

The cravings.

I can’t fuck my best friend without destroying us. River is too sensitive for us to have sex and forget about it. This is nothing more than curiosity, a strange fascination I must snuff from my brain.

My fingers itch to grab the remote and turn on a porno. I’m going crazy not making or watching porn… or having sex.

Fuck, I miss the release.

I turn on the TV, about to surf through my porn collection, when my cell phone rings.

Fuck, not now.

Why does my dad call when I want to punch something? Conversations with my old man rarely go well. The last one ended with me losing five million dollars and him threatening to take my trust fund away.

I lean against the headboard, stretching my long legs across the mattress, and answer the phone.

“Explain the video,” my dad drawls, his Texan accent thicker when he raises his voice. “Why are you confessing to having an addiction?”

“Dad,” I groan. “That video was taken out of context. I don’t have an addiction.”

“I will squash this. Just tell me the truth.”

“I’m not an addict,” I fire back at him. “Have I done drugs or drink? Sure. So have most college students. But it’s not serious. Promise.”

“Then what the fuck were you mumbling about on that video? Why were you hugging River, looking on the verge of tears?”

“I wasn’t,” I snap. “Fuck. Any asshole on the internet can use someone’s face, voice, and likeness to make shit up. It’s called a deepfake. Look it up.”

He breathes into the receiver. “I’m not in the mood for this shit, Nathaniel.”

I know you like this, Nathaniel. You get so hard for me.

“Stop fucking calling me that!”

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