Page 71 of Fast Break
But forgive me if I hang on to a few of those old notions for a moment because sex with Quinn wasa-mazing. I already knew it was going to be, but he was just so damn sweet and caring and that just added to the already burning lust and desire I have for him which only made it a hundred times better.
I was glad I’d spent a bit of time—okay, alotof time— researchinghow to prepare for anal sexbefore we actually did the deed. Although I’d had to revert to some old school textbooks to do so which probably weren’t all that up to date. Definitely no wi-fi that could be tracked back to my parents who have installed one of those family monitoring apps on my laptop and phone—the kind that bark like a dog and send notifications pinging through the universe if I look up anything remotely non-PG rated. So definitely no porn for me and definitely–definitelyno looking up how to have gay sex with your boyfriend.
I’d wanted to roll over and do it again and again, but Quinn was on to something when he suggested we wait. Because yeah, things are a little sore back there still and there is a definite twinge when I move a certain way. But I love feeling that twinge because it is just a reminder that Quinn was inside me last night.
I’m feeling warm and sleepy and so safe in his arms, so safe that it makes my mouth want to say certain words to him, words I can no longer hold back. They’ve been there for a while now, desperate to get out, like a word tsunami.
“Quinn?” I say, his soft fingers tugging on the curls in my hair.
“Mmm?”
“I love you,” I tell him, getting it out before my bravery dies. Those words have been on the tip of my tongue for weeks and I know if I don’t say them soon, they’re going to explode inside me. I feel Quinn shift underneath me, his fingers stilling in my hair.
“I love you too, JT,” he says. I’m not surprised by his words. I’ve felt them just as strongly as the way I feel for him, but it sure is nice to hear them. I look up at him, seeing the love in his deep blue eyes as he smiles softly down at me.
“Can we just stay here forever? In our own little bubble?”
“With just the ducks you love for company?” Quinn returns, that crooked smile on his face.
“They are very cute. Plus they make that adorable quacking sound.”
“Yeah, we can stay here forever,” Quinn tells me, resuming the threading of his fingers in my hair.
And we do. We lie there together on a cool Saturday afternoon, just me, quietly loving a boy.
We stay out at the duck pond until the wind starts whipping up and we suddenly remember the value of four walls and a roof overhead and we head back home.
I have so many punishments owing my parents that I don’t even care that I am disobeying a direct edict by staying out again on Saturday night. But I need to be with Quinn, and I think I need to start standing up for myself better at home. I mean, I’m pretty proud of what I’ve already stood up for but this control they have over every minute of my life needs to ease up.
Even if I have to force the matter.
***
Quinn drops me off back home on Sunday evening. I think he knows how much I don’t want to leave as I reluctantly pull my Nikes on in his bedroom. He drapes my basketball medals around my neck and then wraps me in a hug and just holds me like he knows how much I need it.
I wave goodbye to Amy after eating the amazing spaghetti Bolognese she’d made us for dinner and then far too soon I am walking up my driveway, steeling my nerves for the onslaught I expect whenever I step through these doors.
Sure enough, my parents are sitting in the front lounge, eyes on me as I walk through the door. Benji and Abbie are nowhere to be seen which is disappointing as my parents are generally more reasonable when the two angels are around.
“Where have you been, Jethro Thomas?” are the first words out of my dad’s mouth.
“At Quinn’s,” I reply with a casual shrug.
“At Quinn’s again?” Mum sighs. “We don’t even know this boy or his parents or what their values are. I don’t want you spending all this time with him.”
“Well, that’s where I was,” I reply. I’m done playing their games and I think they must sense the shift in me as they share a quick but obvious glance. Dad’s eyes drop to the medals around my neck.
“Was it your grand final?” he asks.
“It was,” I tell them. “We won in case you’re wondering. And I was named MVP of the league.”
They say nothing, exchanging another quick glance with each other, some silent communication passing between them.
“You should have told us it was on. We would have come to the game,” Mum says in a hurt voice that has my hackles rising.
“Would you though?”
“Now that is unfair, Jethro Thomas,” Dad cuts in.
