The End Zoneby(8)

“Say Simon Cowell, or I’ll continue.” His voice is heavy and rough and raw. He is the kid I fell in love with at the age of ten, and the man I would give the world to at the age of twenty. I don’t even care that he is probably using me. Using me as a fake girlfriend. Using me as a sexual outlet on this carpet.

I say nothing, because I’d die if he stops. Maybe not literally, but I’m pretty sure I’ll be the proud owner of the very first case of female blue balls.

He increases his speed, dry-humping me, one forearm propped near my ear and his other hand sliding to my neck. I want him to kiss me. I don’t want him to kiss me. I want us to break all the rules that helped us survive our turbulent childhood, that helped us defy When Harry Met Sally, that shows the world that men and women can’t be friends. I want to obliterate our friendship on this carpet. I want to show him that my stupid, reckless, defiant heart only beats for him.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he growls, squeezing my neck softly. His throbbing cock is pushing between my thighs, digging deeper into my slit, even through the denim, and I know it must be painful for him. He is half-penetrating me, and my eyes roll back despite my best intentions, the darkness behind them littered with stars and fireworks.

“Say it now, JoJo. Simon Cowell. Make me stop, or…” He leaves the sentence hanging in the air. Or he’ll take more. But maybe I want more. He said this was going to feel real. Monogamous, even. And now that Mark Tensely is no longer an option (not that we were a thing, but he was a distraction from Sage), I might as well take him up on that offer.

If Sage thinks our friendship can survive it—or worse, that our friendship isn’t worth keeping our hands to ourselves—who am I to disagree?

“Too scared to cross the line?” I hiss, my eyes widening at my own words. I’ve never taunted Sage about sex. About everything else? Sure. But not this. “I’m not sure what you’re using me for, Sage, but if you’re using me, I fully intend to use you.”

The words barely leave my mouth before his mouth crashes down on mine, devouring me like a starved wolf. Like that boy who cried to the moon, and the moon finally answered back. It strikes me like lightning. Sage is hungry. And I’m his meal. His pouty lips drag against mine, seeking an opening. He captures my lower lip with his teeth and tug, tug, tugs until I have no choice but to part my lips and give him better access. His tongue is invading, ruling, and assaulting my own. It chases mine frantically, licks the walls of my mouth, moves across my teeth, memorizing every single spot in my mouth. My eyes roll in pleasure when he takes my tongue between his lips and sucks on it hard, shoving his hand into my jeans. I’m not sure at what point he pulled down my zipper, but now he is rubbing my swollen, sensitive clit through my panties while he’s devouring my mouth, our tongues dancing seductively with one another. My whole body shakes uncontrollably.

“Please. Oh my God. Sage.”

It’s too much. The unexpected, sudden gratification. Don’t get me wrong—I make it a point to get myself off three times a week to keep myself sane, but I can’t remember the last time my body danced on its own accord with passion and delirious need. It occurs to me that I’m about to come before he’s even pulled off his running shorts, so I try to make him slow down by saying our very ridiculous safe word.

“Simo…”

His lips leave mine and he covers my mouth with his palm to keep me silent while he rises to his knees, pulling his shorts down with his free hand.

He shakes his head on a smirk. “If you want me to stop, just say no, JoJo. But from this point forward, you’re not screaming anyone’s name but mine. Do you want me to stop?” He takes his hand away and I grab him by the wrist and graze his knuckle with my teeth before slipping the tip of his finger between my lips and giving it a little suck.

Hell no, I don’t want him to stop.

His thick cock springs out of his shorts, and he presses the long, hot, velvety shaft against my bare stomach. My blouse rode up sometime during this spontaneous make-out session, and now Sage is tugging it further up to accommodate his cock, resting it on the little pink bow at the center of my bra, before reaching under me to snatch my bra, tearing it apart.

“Gonna tit-fuck you now. Been wanting to do that since your thirteenth birthday. Remember the day? Checkered baby blue dress, ham on rye in the meadow, showing me the first sign of tits…” He drags his tongue across my chin, closing in on my mouth with a sloppy kiss. A kiss with too much tongue. Too much saliva. Too much everything, yet not enough of him. My response is squeezing my breasts together around his thick cock. The pad of his thumb is rubbing my clit again, and my quivering thighs begin to jerk uncontrollably. He pinches my clit. I moan so loudly my ears ring. Pinch, pinch, pinch. After a dozen small pinches, I feel a tug on the invisible string of pleasure that connects us. I explode when he finally pinches harder, sending me over the edge. I writhe under my best friend, shouting his name with the kind of wild abandon I hadn’t felt since the day I ran toward him in the pouring hot rain.

I barely have time to come down from my orgasm before he starts fucking my tits, the tip of his cock poking my chin every time he grinds himself on my torso. He scoots up, sitting on my stomach with his knees on either side of me. His muscular thighs harden, holding most of his weight as he goes at it like a professional porn star.

“Look at me,” he growls like a wounded animal, his tone far from its usual playfulness. I raise my head. My hazels meet his blues. He smirks the most patronizing, jerk-fueled smile I’ve ever seen, cupping my cheeks with one hand.