Uncut (Unexpected Book 4) (5 page)

For all I know, my parents wasted their money to have a team of professionals bully me. Torment me while I tried to find my place—a place I’d rather avoid. Those three months of intensive therapy, where they drilled inside my head that looking at a man with lust was a sin as bad as murder, only brought confusion and shame. I fought my own nature on a daily basis until senior prom.

Blake, the QB of our football team, and I are shooting some hoops instead of dancing with our dates inside the gym.

“Heard you’re going to Stanford,” I say, throwing the ball and missing the basket. “Congrats, maybe you’ll make it to the NFL.”

He shrugs, casually considering this. “Sucked that you were out of the country and couldn’t train with us. I needed my running back for the last season, Cooperson.” He grabs the basketball and his dark eyes concentrate on mine. “You and I . . . we had a connection.”

A connection. Shivers race down my spine at his words. I take a step back, watching him, taking him all in. He’s taken his jacket and shirt off, wearing only the undershirt that fits tight against his muscular stomach. His pants hang low on his hips . . . I notice the outline of his erection through them and move my eyes away. Fuck. No, I can’t go back to camp. God will punish me, and my father will beat me for committing a sinful act. For thinking about touching another man, but I want to touch him so bad.

“Like what you see?” he asks, cocking a brow and flashing a wide smile. “Because I’m liking what you have.” I follow his gaze to find him focusing on my bulge. Shame overtakes me, and I take a few steps back from him, suddenly needing to put some space between us. Like maybe a football field. “Hey, if I’m misreading you, I apologize.”

“I was sent to a camp,” I blurt. His eyebrows draw together. “To reverse my sexuality. According to my parents and the therapists, being attracted to women
and
men is a sin.”

He shakes his head. “I can show you how great it is to like men,” he whispers, a whisper that numbs the voices telling me that being attracted to him is wrong. In this moment it is only Blake and me. The rest doesn’t matter. For a few breaths we study each other. His eyes fill with lust mirroring my body. I give him a slight nod.

That’s all he needs to take my hand after he grabs our jackets and dress shirts. “Follow me,” he orders and I obey blindly.

Young, stupid, and in lust, I do as he says, jump into his car, and let him take me wherever he wants. He drives us to a Residence Inn located outside of Hartford, the place where he had planned to take his date after the prom. When we step inside the room, Blake is only mere inches away from me. Slowly, he raises his hand, touching my cheek. My body shakes as his fingers trace my jaw. Then, with determination, he leans in and presses his lips to mine. I can’t move because Blake Kennedy is pressing his lips against mine, his tongue is licking my mouth, pushing through, trying to get in.

No. This is wrong,
I think. Pulling back I stare at him.

“Don’t think, Cooperson. Let me show you that there’s nothing wrong with letting a man love you.” His voice is hoarse with lust and excitement. He steps closer, backing me up until my back bumps the door. “I’ve dreamt of us rocking each other’s worlds for a long time. Give me tonight.”

I had no idea he’s into guys, but the thought of Blake Kennedy rocking my world almost makes me come. This is bad, but it feels so good. His hard cock presses against mine. Holy shit, I don’t have a prayer. One night. I can do it for one night and maybe get the need out of my system. Yes, tomorrow I’ll rush to church and confess my sins. They’ll absolve me for being weak, and after penance I won’t do it again.

My hands curl around the back of his neck and I tug him toward me. Our mouths meet in another soft kiss. His chest pushes against mine while he grinds his firm body against me. A groan escapes me. A groan that makes him deepen the kiss. The pace turns into a desperate battle. His hands fumble with my belt, while mine just copy what he does. Pants go down, white tank shirts come off, and we’re left with only one piece of clothing remaining: our underwear.

I admire his abs. The V-line they form go all the way to his groin. But mostly, I admire his bulge. Instinctually I want to hold it. Suck it.

Blake moves us toward the bed, where we lie only seconds later. His arms reach for me, pull me into his embrace. All the fooling around I did with Lincoln doesn’t compare to what I’m about to do. The internal fight between what I feel and what I know struggles once Blake’s hand slides between our bodies and grasps my cock. His fist pumps my slick dick. My legs tremble as my balls tighten, feeling heavy and in need of release.

“Don’t come yet,” he says, releasing me. “Please, I want you to come while I fuck you. Have you ever?” My head shakes, and no words come out of my mouth. “I’ll make it good for you. You won’t regret it.”

Blake is prepared. He pulls a bottle of lube from the duffle bag he brought from the car. He dribbles some onto his fingers and applies it into my hole. Gently he pushes the tip of his finger inside my ass. The strange pressure between my cheeks makes me want to push him out.

“Relax, babe, let me inside.” He kisses the tip of my cock.
How I would love for him to take it into his mouth. “This will hurt at first, but I’ll make it feel good.”

Following his words, I let the tension go allowing him to be able to thrust his finger all the way in. The ministration continues, moving in and out at a lazy pace. I enjoy the pressure, but mostly, the pleasure each time he hits my prostate. Gradually he adds a second and then a third to circle my ring, stroking it, teasing as they sink deeper and deeper inside me.
It. Feels. So. Good. I can’t help the moan that escapes my mouth.

“Fuck, you feel so good. You’ve made me so hard. You’re ready for me.” He tears the condom open, rolls it down his shaft, and then applies lube on the latex. “Ready?” I nod. “On your back. I want to see your face.”

Gripping his cock, he positions himself between my thighs. The head nudges my hole, and I tense.

“Breathe, babe, you have to relax.” His voice is barely a whisper.

I swallow hard and close my eyes. This is it. Tonight I’ll get a taste and tomorrow I’ll make sure to shut this need. Never again would I desire a man. He pushes forward, easing himself inside me.

“Are you okay?” I open my eyes and slightly nod in response. “Tell me when I can move.” My reply is a loud moan. He takes that as a go ahead and thrusts all the way in. The intense burn wakes all my nerves. Blake fucks me with determination, yet with slow strokes. But I don’t want slow. I want fast, deeper, so I hook my legs around his ass and meet him each time he plunges himself inside me. Desperate, I beg him to go faster.

His hand reaches between our bodies and finds my cock. He fists it and pumps at the same rhythm as he fucks me. The moment my balls tighten, my entire vision is reduced to only him. Blake. We both groan when he plunges one last time all the way inside my ass and my cum sprays his chest.

Coming down from the high, and watching Blake collapse on top of me while realizing I’ve failed my family and God, make me jet out of the room. I can barely make out Blake’s protests as I flee. They make me hate myself even more. It was good, until I remember that it should be bad.

E
ver since I can remember, Sunday has always been my least favorite day. During my childhood, I hated being dragged to church dressed like a younger version of my father. Sitting straight while the priest rattled on about stuff I never understood irritated me, but not as much as dinner at my grandparents’ house. We had to sit on the couch for hours until the meal was ready and then eat in silence while the adults chatted about boring subjects neither Fey, Lucas, nor I understood. Once the torture was over, we’d head back home and wait for Monday. I hated weekends.

Matthew reminded me today of those torturous times, and why I still don’t find any joy knowing it’s Sunday. He invited me to his parents’ house for Sunday dinner. A five-year tradition, he explained. I appreciated his invite, but declined it right away. There’s no way I’m going to dinner with his family, or with him. I’ve had enough Matthew Decker to last me for an entire year. He’s not bad, but the attraction I once felt for him has increased significantly. If we continue interacting I will lose my strength and give in to his advances.

After Matthew left, I grabbed my wallet and my keys, and headed to the pub down the street for a burger and a beer. Two beers and an uncooked hamburger later, I walked through the streets of Seattle and found myself in front of a joint called Silver Moon. A rundown bar with neon signs from last century and several code violations.

The ripped bouncer stares down at me as I try to enter the joint. “ID?” I pull out my wallet and show it to him. The bald man tilts his head toward the entrance and I make my way in.

I refrain from explaining to him that his attitude is scaring the few customers they have. Then I think again, they should be closed. A bar on a Sunday at seven is not going to gather many patrons. They should wait until nine to open the place. If I owned this shithole, I’d make a lot of changes. I come to a halt and check out the bar. A tall, curvy woman is pouring a few shots, opening bottles, and mixing drinks while a few customers watch blatantly. Her soft facial features remind me of a princess, or an angel. Once her audience is served, they make themselves scarce and she wipes the counter. Then she proceeds to pour a shot of vodka and stares at it for a few seconds. Weird.

“Is that for me?” I step closer and point at the glass.

She lifts her gaze and straightens her body. The woman is only a couple inches shorter than my six foot one. She stares at me. The dim light of the bar doesn’t allow me to distinguish the color but they are soft, just like her.

“Vodka?” Her soft voice travels through my ears and caresses my entire body. She looks at me and shakes her head. “No, you’re more like a whiskey-scotch kind of guy. Beer when you’re watching the game.”

“What game?” I smile at her and drink the shot, slamming the glass when I’m done. “Hockey?”

She shrugs and hands me a glass of Jack Daniels. Her hand lifts and she points toward the other side of the bar. There’s a stage and a group of people setting up. “If I were you, I’d be leaving soon. Open mic sucks on Sundays.”

I drink the JD as I check the entire joint. There isn’t much to it. If we could place a couple of billiard tables, upgrade the bar, and maybe use the upstairs area, the place would attract a different crowd. My eyes land on the entrance where the bouncer continues his task of scaring any incoming customers.

“Can you give me a whiskey sour?” The bartender frowns at me. “What? You don’t like my choice of drink?”

“That’d be your third drink,” she points out as she starts preparing it, “in less than ten minutes. Are you okay?”

No
,
but she doesn’t need to know. My defense mechanism kicks in and I snap at her, “Keep them coming.” I set a hundred-dollar bill on top of the counter, take the drink, and head to a table far from her judgmental attitude.