Page 75 of The Longest Shot
"Lets me skip my period when there's a game," I say, like it's obvious.
"Well, I got tested after my last… thing… and I'm clean," he says. "Trust me?"
His eyes find mine, and there's a much deeper question there. He's not really just asking me to trust him without a condom. Although that's important, it seems like he's asking me to trust him with something deeper and even more critical.
My heart and my well-being.
This is it. One last checkpoint. The moment where I could salvage this, preserve the careful distance, and protect myself from what's coming. Not just the sex, but the aftermath, and the possibility that he'll panic and turn this into a joke and take me back to three years ago when I've workedsohard to gethere.
But apparently masochism is my new hobby, because my legs wrap around his waist and pull him forward, and he pushes into me with one slow, devastating thrust that fills me completely. I'm as wet as I've ever been, but the action still shocks me like diving into a cold plunge pool.
"Christ." The word punches out of him as he hilts himself inside me. "Morgan, I forgot how perfect you feel."
The stretch burns perfectly, my pussy clenching around him as it remembers this specific occupation. He's thick and hot and perfect, reaching places that have apparently been waiting specifically for him, untouched by anyone but him. The fullness is overwhelming, not just physical but something deeper.
His voice is wrecked, all his usual humor stripped away until just James remains. Not James the goalie, not the team clown, but the boy from the beach who looked at me like I was precious before teaching me that precious things get broken.
He starts to move, and thinking becomes impossible.
Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his hips rolling with an athlete's precision. The desk creaks with each drive, a rhythm anyone passing would recognize immediately. The thought should trigger retreat. Instead, I dig my nails into his shoulders and meet him thrust for thrust, my hips tilting to take him deeper.
His mouth finds mine again, kissing me deep and desperate, and I taste myself on his tongue—tangy and intimate and overwhelming. His hand finds mine on the desk, fingers interlocking, and that simple gesture threatens my composure more than his cock stretching me open.
This isn't just sex. This is three years of unfinished business. Every thrust is an argument we never had, every withdrawal a counterpoint to words we never said. Every time he hits that perfect spot deep inside, it's an apology wrapped in friction and need.
His hands roam everywhere now, relearning territory he once knew by heart. One palm goes up inside my sweater and cups my breast, thumb finding my nipple with unerring accuracy even through the fabric. The other slides down to where we're joined, fingers finding my clit.
Meanwhile, my hands can't stop moving—clutching at his shoulders, sliding down to grab his ass, feeling the muscles flex with each drive forward. He's all power and purpose, using every inch of that athletic frame to take me apart.
"Look at me." The command is rough, stripped of his usual jovial tone, reduced to pure need. "I need to see you when you come."
My eyes snap open to meet his, and what I see there—possession, tenderness, desperate hunger—shoves me over the edge. The orgasm hits like a slapshot to the chest. My pussy clenches around him in waves, muscles contracting so hard it borders on pain.
Everything whites out except the feeling of him inside me, the desk creaking beneath us, and his fingers still working my clit as I shatter. I bite down on his shoulder to muffle my scream, tasting cotton and salt andhim, and feel his whole body go rigid against me.
"Shit, Morgan, I'm—" His words dissolve into something primal, a guttural groan that vibrates through his chest and into mine.
Then I feel his cock pulsing inside me, that first hot rush of his release flooding me. His hips jerk erratically, each thrust pushing his cum deeper as he empties himself into me. The feeling of him coming, of being filled and claimed and thoroughly fucked, sends aftershocks rippling through my system.
His hand finds mine on the desk, fingers interlocking, and that simple gesture threatens my composure more than his cockstretching me open. I don’t pull away, our fingers interlocking with desperate pressure as we both shake through it, as if holding on to each other is the only thing keeping us from flying apart.
He collapses against me when it's over, his weight pressing me into the desk's edge, both of us breathing like we've just survived overtime. His face burrows into my neck, we're both sweat-damp and trembling, and he's still inside me, still half-hard, every micro-movement sending sparks through my nerve endings.
For exactly three seconds, everything feels right.
My body is satisfied in a way it hasn't been in three years.
Instead of feeling exposed, I feel free.
Then reality performs its inevitable ambush.
I'm in a library study room with my pants on the floor. James's cum is already starting to leak out of me onto a desk where tomorrow some earnest freshman will highlight their psych notes. The air reeks of sex. My underwear is definitely ruined. My neck probably looks like I've been mauled.
But worse than all these spectacular failures is the look on his face when he pulls back to meet my eyes. He looks destroyed in the best way, satisfied but also cracked open and vulnerable. His mouth opens, and I can see it forming, the question I asked him three years ago now on his lips.
The memory hits like ice water to the face.
The hood of his truck. The most vulnerable I'd ever been, asking what came next, and watching him transform into someone I didn't recognize. The jokes. The deflection. The systematic destruction of everything I'd just given him, delivered with a smile like it was all hilarious.
