by Lily Cahill
I sit down next to her, pull her into my chest. “Then you have to do it. You have to, Lou.”
“I know I should. I’ve always known it was probably going to happen. I just never thought I’d have to make this decision now, you know? I thought maybe after I got married or made my first million or just … I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time.”
“What does your dad have to say about it?”
The tears get harder. “I haven’t been able to tell him yet. I haven’t told anyone. It’s gonna kill him, West.”
“He’s strong. He can take it.”
She shakes her head. “You didn’t see him with my mom. What that did to him. It was awful. I can’t—I can’t let him go through that with me too.”
“Which is why you have to make sure you do everything you can to prevent it.”
“I know. I’ll probably do it at some point. Eventually … just …,” she swipes away her tears like a tiger killing it’s prey. “Just … before I do, I want to live. I want to laugh and be crazy and love and be loved. I want to remember what it’s like for a man to want me—really want me—instead of settling for someone who’s … who’s damaged.”
There’s so much I want to say to her in this moment, so many thoughts tumbling through my head. But there’s one thing I have to say first. “No one who chooses you would be settling, Lou, no matter what happens to your body. They’d be lucky as hell.”
She looks up at me. Her face isn’t clouded with hope or sappy sentiment. She’s not looking for reassurance here.
Her face is full of pity. For me. Because she doesn’t think I understand. And maybe I don’t. But I’ll be damned if I’m not going to try.
“I get it,” I say. “I mean, I don’t get it, but I understand it more now.”
She seems to relax a little bit.
“I want you to have as much fun as you possibly can, Lou. I mean it. Not just because of this, but because it’s who you are.”
“Okay,” she says.
“But can you make me a promise?”
“Maybe,” she smirks, ever the little spark of mischief in her eye.
“Talk to your dad. Tell him. He deserves to know. And you deserve to have his help making this decision. You shouldn’t have to go through it alone. He’d want to be there for you.”
She nods.
“And I want to be there for you too. If you’ll let me.”
She squeezes my hand and her eyes look full again. “Of course I want that,” she says.
“Good. Anytime you need to talk about it, we’ll talk. Anytime you want to run it out, we’ll run together. And anytime you want to hit somebody, you hit me.”
“That part sounds easy,” she laughs.
“I thought you might like that. And if you want to get wild, do it. I’m not going to stop you. But call me first so I can have your back, okay?” I say. “I’ll be your DD any time, any day. It would make me a lot more comfortable.”
“You want to be my male escort?” she asks, tripping her fingers up my chest. “Like my own personal geisha?”
“As long as you don’t make me wear a kimono,” I say. “Then yes. Absolutely yes.”
“In that case, I think I can live with having you around all the time.”
“Good,” I say, then I sweep her up into my arms.
She rolls her eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you,” I say, tromping back toward my truck.
“I’m not an invalid, West. The last time I checked, I could still walk.”
“This is faster,” I say. “You’ve got short legs.”
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“They slow you down,” I say. “I’m taller, which makes me faster. That’s why I kick your ass all the time. Like, so bad it’s embarrassing for you.”
She smacks me.
“Hey!” I say.
“You wrote me a blank check, buddy. Don’t expect me not to cash it.”
“I regret nothing.”
“So what’s the big hurry?” she asks.
“Oh. I’m taking you back to my room, where I’m going to show you exactly how much I want you,” I say, then I drop my lips to growl into her ear. “Because I want you, Lou. I really, really fucking want you.”
Chapter Eighteen
Lou
WEST DEPOSITS ME ON HIS bed and is immediately on top of me, nibbling at my ear, kissing my neck. My moan is so loud, I’m glad we have the place to ourselves tonight. His roommate finished finals and left for home this morning. I’m not sure where we’d be right now if he hadn’t. Because I need this, and he does too.
I feel the pressure of West’s fingers on my collarbone. He’s unbuttoning my shirt, leaving kisses on the places he’s uncovering. Unlike our last time, this time feels slow, reverent. I’m not sure yet if I like that, and part of me regrets telling him about the cancer thing. The last thing I want is for West to treat me like I’m fragile. I’m not.
To prove it, I plunge my hand down his pants, hold his hard dick in my hand. But he immediately grabs my wrist and pins it over my head.
“No,” he growls. “You’re not allowed.”
“Not … allowed?” I pant. The dark look in his eyes destroys any worry I have about him babying me.
“I will tell you exactly when you can touch me,” he says, grabbing something from a drawer. “But right now it’s my turn, and I intend to enjoy myself.”
I see what he has in his hands right before he’s taking off my shirt and clasping my other hand above my head: a fresh pair of athletic socks with MSU blue stripes. He ties my wrists to the headboard. And it’s so incredibly hot that I feel the wetness between my legs spread in response.
“Oh, fuck,” I moan. My eyes close, savoring this moment.
He makes a meal of undressing me, kissing every inch of skin as he exposes it: my forearms, my belly, my thighs, my ankles. It’s driving me absolutely wild and he knows it. The cocky smirk on his lips tells me so.
“Do you like this?” he asks.
“Yes,” I pant.
“Tell me,” he says.
“I love it,” I say. “I fucking love it, West.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He stands, pulling his shirt over his head, exposing the definition on his stomach, his chest. It makes me thirsty for him, so thirsty I’m ready to tear these socks to shreds, just for the chance to touch him.
Then he slides his jeans and boxer briefs off in one motion. I see his cock, pointing toward me. I felt his size before, saw it in the dark. But seeing it so clearly now, it’s hard to believe it fit inside me at all. It matches the rest of his stature. He’s thick and long and proud. The memory of him inside me, filling me, surges to the front of my mind and makes my body tighten. I want his cock so bad.
He follows my eyes and grips it, letting his hand slide up and down again and again.
“And what do you want me to do next?” he asks.
The words escape from my lips without me even thinking about them. “Fuck me,” I say. “I need you to fuck me.”
“Oh, baby,” he says, leaning down to growl against my throat. “We’re not even close.”
With that, he drags his tongue from my neck down to my belly button in a straight line. I can’t stifle the cry as it leaves my throat. The feel of his lips is delicious, almost unbearable.
Then he comes back up, his hands fastening on my breasts. He moans as he draws a nipple into his mouth. So do I.
“Oh, God, West,” I pant. “That feels so good.”
He sucks and sucks and plays me with his tongue. All the time, his hands are cupping me, massaging me, giving attention to the nipple that’s not in his mouth as he moves back and forth between them. For a moment, I think I might pass out from the pleasure.
“Your tits,” he says, breathing hard against my breasts. “Are amazing.” He squeezes them firmly, then pinches my nipples, sending heat down my entire body. “But they’re not what makes you a woman.�
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My breath tightens at his words, my mind clutching at their meaning. Did he say what I think he did?
“What?” I ask.
His hands abandon my breasts, and move to my stomach—that tender place below my belly button on my lower abdomen. His mouth moves there too, kissing softly, licking, adoring.
“This part,” he nearly whispers. “Is beautiful too.” His eyes look up to lock on mine. “But it’s not what makes you a woman.”
My breath catches in my throat. He did. He did say it.
I feel pulled in every direction, unsure of what I need right now. My body is screaming for his attention. My mind is begging me to remember his words—those kind, thoughtful words. And I won’t—I will not—cry.
“This makes you a woman,” he says, gliding his hands over the curves of my waist and then my hips, so softly it’s almost torture.
“And this,” he says, kissing my neck again.
“This too,” he says, before plunging his tongue into my mouth. I accept it greedily. I can’t decide what’s driving me right now—my heart or my body—but I don’t care. I want him. I want all of him.
I feel him reach up to untie me. The moment I’m free, my hands grip his muscled back, clutching him closer. I need him closer.
But he moves to the side of me, leaning on an elbow. He places a hand directly on my heart. I feel my pulse throbbing as he looks into my eyes.
“This makes you a woman, Lou,” he says. Then his hand moves to cup my face, tangle in my hair. “And this. More than anything, this.” He peppers kisses across my cheeks, my forehead.
My eyes are welling and I’m terrified they’ll spill if he says one more word. “Stop it,” I say, gripping him tight. “Please stop.”
“No. You need to hear this,” he says, pulling me into his body, holding me close.
I bury my head in his chest, praying not to lose control.
He rests his mouth on the top of my head and speaks into my hair. “You’re all woman, Lou. You couldn’t be anything else if you tried. Changing your body doesn’t change that. Nothing could change that.”
For a moment, I think I’m going to let my tears spill. He’ll never understand how much his words mean to me. But then his hands start wandering again. He reaches down and clutches my ass, tight and strong.
“This, right here? This is all woman. And I fucking love it,” he says, his voice low and greedy.
I feel his cock pressing against my belly, and the heat fires again between my legs, burning up any sadness and replacing it with pure desire. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want him in this moment.
My hands reach down for him, stroke him, caress him. He groans against me, leaning his head back.
“You’re gonna make me come like that,” he says.
“I want you, too,” I say.
He must not agree because he grabs me and turns me on my side until my back is against his chest, my ass is pressing against his groin.
His arms wrap around me and fondle my breasts while his lips nip at my neck. Then he reaches down and rubs my pussy and I think I’m going to explode in his arms.
“You’re so wet, Lou,” he breathes.
“For you,” I say, moving my pelvis against his hand. “I’m wet for you.”
He groans and dives a finger inside me. It feels like nothing compared to his cock … until he starts to stroke me from inside. What once was a heat turns into a flame.
In response, I grind against him, rubbing my ass against his hardness.
“Jesus, Lou,” he pants. “I can’t take it anymore. You’ve got me so turned on.”
“I need you to fuck me now, West,” I say.
Immediately, he reaches into the drawer in his bedside table and pulls out a condom. I hear the package rip, feel the space grow between us as he slides it on.
Then he’s grabbing me again, positioning himself behind me. He spreads my knees with his hand and lifts my leg until it’s hooked over his thigh. The position leaves me open and ready for his cock.
He wraps one arm around me and plunges inside. I feel myself stretch to accommodate him, feel his warmth filling me deep.
The sensation is different this way. With every stroke, he’s pressing against the same part of me he was working with his finger before. It’s the same feeling as last time, only I’m building quicker. The heat is rising, spreading, and spreading fast. I need it to release. I need it now.
“Faster,” I beg. “Please.”
He complies, pumping into me hard and fast until I can barely take it anymore.
“West. Oh, God, West,” I cry. “It’s happening, it’s—”
As the pleasure engulfs me, I scream. He doesn’t quiet me this time. I’m so loud I’m almost embarrassed. But I can’t help it. Every inch of my skin is on fire.
And he doesn’t stop. I may have gotten my fix, but he hasn’t gotten his. And I can tell he’s not letting me go until he does.
His hips move against me. His arms clutch me closer. His breath is getting fast and shallow and I know he’s close. But his movement inside me feels so good it’s nearly unbearable. I’m riding at the peak and I don’t know how long I can handle it.
Every thrust of his cock keeps it alive, makes it last longer. And I realize I’m still making noise. I realize I’m writhing against him and it’s only his arm around me that keeps me grounded, that locks us together.
Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, I hear him groan, feel his body stiffen behind me. The satisfaction in his voice sends another wave of heat through my belly. I love that sound. I fucking love it.
“God, Lou,” he says. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
I want to tell him that in his arms, I’ve never felt more beautiful. But I don’t. I just hold him—and this moment—close.
Chapter Nineteen
Lou
THE WEEKS OVER CHRISTMAS BREAK pass slow. West is in Houston with his family, and there are only a handful of girls in the Kappa house, none of whom I’m very close to. I’d rather be hanging out with my dad, but I’m still trying to prove a point. Staying at his place during the entire break feels like sacrificing the Queen on a chess board.
So I suck it up and occupy myself with cramming every bit of laziness I can into this time. I surf the internet and read books and call West and take long, indulgent naps. I binge-watch TV shows and make cookies and text West and soak in bubble baths until the water turns cold. It’s especially fun to text West while I’m taking a bath.
It only takes a week for me to feel completely rested but also completely restless. I’m out of ways to waste time and longing for West so hard I feel like I’m thirteen again and screaming in the front row of a Jonas Brothers concert. It’s agonizing. And it freaks me out a little. I’ve never had feelings this strong for anyone before.
Finally, Christmas rolls around and I have an excuse to be at Dad’s place for a couple of days.
We make a joint pact to not discuss anything controversial and spend time doing all our favorite traditions: making cinnamon-sugar treats from the leftover pie crust (we always make mom’s cherry pie from scratch), doing a Christmas movie marathon (Charlie Brown, National Lampoon’s, A Christmas Story, and It’s a Wonderful Life—in that order), and recruiting the neighborhood kids into a game of flag football (Dad loves bossing around children almost as much as bossing around college kids.)
Christmas night, we do my favorite part, which is opening our stockings. We’ve built a competition out of trying to find the worst possible gifts for each other. This year, I’m pretty sure I have it in the bag.
“Open it, open it, open it!” I say.
“You first,” Dad says.
“Okay.” I dig in and pull out a box of raisins. “Ugh. Gross.”
“Get it?” he asks, already cracking himself up. “Because you hate raisins!”
“You’re the worst,” I say, laughing. But rules are rules. I take a handful of them and down them, trying to suppress th
e urge to puke.
“That’s good right there,” he says. “I got you good.”
Next up is a T-shirt that says I’m with stoopid and has an arrow pointing up to the neckline.
“Aw, you shouldn’t have.” I’m forced to wear for the rest of the night. Then there’s a tape—an actual cassette tape—of Dad’s favorite Luther Vandross Christmas album that he’s been crooning along to (extremely out of tune) for years. He immediately pops it into the stereo and starts singing, if you can call it that. Personally, I don’t.
“You got that one just for yourself,” I say.
He dances back to his chair. “It’s not Christmas without Luther.”
Finally, is a name tag with Flo-Jo engraved on it.
“I’m not putting this on,” I say.
“You have to. Otherwise it’s an automatic forfeit. Flo-Jo.”
“Don’t you start with me,” I warn as I pin it on the T-shirt. “Okay, your turn.”
My first gift is obvious because it’s spilling out of the top of his stocking. “What the hell is this?” he asks.
“Kale. Ever tried it?”
“No.”
“You’re gonna love it.”
He takes a bite and his face sours into a grimace. “It’s actually pretty good.” He’s a terrible liar.
Next, he pulls out a clown nose and glares at me. He’s terrified of clowns.
“What? You don’t like it?”
“You better have all the mirrors in this house covered, child,” he says, but dutifully sticks it on his nose.
After that is a football jersey—a Texas Longhorns jersey, the team he’s up against at the Fiesta bowl next week.
“I can’t believe you spent money on this. Traitor.”
“Put it on,” I say, taking out my phone to snap a picture. “That one’s going on Twitter.”
“Don’t you dare,” he says.
And last but not least is a mug that I hand-crafted for him myself. It’s covered in rhinestones and has a photo of him on the front. Underneath, it reads, World’s Biggest Diva.
