Page 110 of The Longest Shot
As he sets a punishing pace, his hand finds my clit, rubbing tight circles as he talks like he's confessing. “I've thought about you constantly, Morgan. The way you looked in that library, coming apart in my arms. I've been jerking off to that memory for weeks.”
The image—him alone, hand around himself, thinking of me—sends me spiraling. But then he slows, pulls me up so my back presses against his chest, one arm cupping my breast tenderly… protectively… while the other continues its devastating work on my clit.
“I’m sorry,” he says against my ear. “For everything. For that summer. For being a coward. For the gala. For every time I chose the easy laugh over the hard truth.”
The apology—direct, sincere, without deflection—unlocks something deep. “I was falling for you that summer,” I admit.
“I know.” He’s still moving inside me, slow and deep, apologizing with every thrust. “I was terrified. You were real, serious, and perfect, and I didn’t know how to be that. So I did what I always do—made it a performance—and I’ve regretted it every day since.”
I turn to look at him. “Don’t do it again,” I say, barely audible.
“Never.” He kisses me desperately, signing a binding contract with his tongue.
Then he’s moving faster, helping me climb toward something massive, something worldview-restructuring. And when the orgasm hits, I scream his name, convulsing, internal muscles clenching around him so tight they might never let go.
I feel him follow, pulsing inside me as he comes with a broken sound that might be my name, might be a prayer, or might be both. And when we're done, we collapse forward, him still inside me, breathing like we’ve played sudden death overtime. His weight should feel oppressive. Instead, it feels perfect.
After a moment, he withdraws carefully, before curling around me on my sofa. We’re tangled, sweaty, our hearts still racing, and I'm not sure I've ever felt happier. Because for the first time in years, I feel warm and connected and content. And there's not one single part of me that wants to run.
“So,” he says eventually, kissing my shoulder. “Did I pass?”
I laugh, surprising myself. “The exam is tomorrow, idiot.”
“I meant your test.”
I turn to look at him. His face is soft, vulnerable, and completely unmasked. “Preliminary results are promising,” I say. “What happens next?”
The question hangs, loaded. Becausethisis the moment it could all turn to shit. But it'salsothe moment we could unlock possibility if he wants to. And, for the first time in three years, Ican imagine a future not built on isolation, a future where trust isn’t a weakness, a future with him.
“Everything,” he says simply. “Breakfast where I burn the eggs. Me at every game, wearing your number. Grocery shopping arguments about organic milk. Netflix fights—you’ll want documentaries, I’ll want comedy, and we’ll compromise on true crime—and really spectacular sex.”
“That’s a lot of promises.”
“I’m good for them," he says. “I’m not going anywhere. If you’ll have me.”
A genuine smile spreads across my face. “We’re a team, Fitzgerald,” I say.
His answering grin could power the Eastern seaboard. “The best fucking team.”
I push up, muscles protesting, and swing off the sofa. He makes a sound of protest, hands reaching, but I stand anyway, gloriously naked and completely un-self-conscious for possibly the first time ever. His eyes track over me with a heat that makes me want to abandon planning and climb right back on him.
“Get dressed,” I say, slipping into a captain’s voice laced with affection and post-orgasmic satisfaction. “We have work.”
“Morgan…” He looks like I’ve canceled Christmas.
“You have an exam tomorrow.” I grab my underwear from the floor, stepping into it. “Despite what just happened, you still need to study.”
He groans, flopping back with pure melodrama. “You’re really making me study afterthat?”
I pull on my bra, noting how his eyes track every movement for future reference. “Yes, we’re studying.”
“We?” He sits up so fast he nearly falls off, hope brightening his entire face. "Like, more question-and-answer-and-fucking type studying?"
I throw his boxers at his face with perhaps excessive force. “You're a walking-disaster…"
“I remembered Bourdieu’s habitus while I was inside you,” he points out. “Surely that counts for extra credit?”
He stands, crossing to where I’m buttoning his shirt, which I commandeered during our tangle of clothes. The fabric smells like him, and I've decided it's now mine. His hands settle on my waist, warm through thin cotton, pulling me against him for a kiss that’s slow, deep, and perfect.
