Page 31

THIRTY-ONE

HUDSON

Puck Kings

Easy E

We’re home with back-to-back nights off. No games. No practice. What are we doing to let loose tonight, boys?

Sully

Turning my phone off and spending time with someone I like more than you.

G-Money

Piper, obviously. I’m down for anything. Cap? You in for a night out?

Mavvy

Nope. Emmy isn’t feeling well, and I’m staying home with her.

Me

Count me out too. My shoulder is finally back to 100%, but now my legs are sore as hell from those drills we ran the other day. Y’all have fun. Call if you need a DD. I’ll pick you up.

Easy E

Aye aye, Huddy Boy. You’re a real one. Mitchy? What are you doing?

Mitchy

There’s an art class I’ve been wanting to try. They finally had an opening tonight, so I’m on my way there.

Easy E

Damn, G. Guess it’s just us.

Sully

I’ll be shocked if the city doesn’t burn down.

G-Money

Aw! That’s his way of saying he loves us!

Sully

In your dreams.

I set my book on my nightstand and turn off the light. After dinner with Madeline and Lucy, a hot shower, and a twenty-minute stretching session, I’m ready for sleep.

The room plunges into darkness, and I turn on my side. I stare at the wall and wonder what Madeline is doing on the other side, glad she’s not hiding from me anymore.

I bet she’s watching TV. She told me about the reality shows she puts on to decompress at night. There’s one in particular she likes where people get married after only knowing each other for ninety days. The idea sounds so fucking bonkers, I’m kind of intrigued.

She’s normally so quiet I sometimes forget we share the wall behind my headboard. I can’t hear any muted noise tonight, and I figure she must’ve gone to bed. She looked exhausted after dinner with heavy shoulders and a slowness to her step. There was a delayed reaction to everything I said to her, and I cleaned up the dishes before she could protest so it was one less thing she had to do.

I hope she’s getting enough sleep. I hope the dogs aren’t bothering her, and I really hope I’m not bothering her.

I yawn and close my eyes, heading to the brink of unconsciousness myself until the sound of a low buzz fills my room. I prop myself up on an elbow and glance around.

The noise isn’t my phone, and it’s not the dogs out in the living room. It can’t be the smoke detector—I changed the batteries last week.

I don’t know what the hell is going on.

And that’s when I hear it.

A long, drawn-out moan from the other side of the wall.

It sounds like…

Fuck .

It’s Madeline getting off with some sort of toy.

A vibrator, I’m guessing, judging by the noises, and my heart pounds. I stare at the barrier between us like it’s going to crumble if I glare at it, and I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do.

Cover my ears so I can’t hear her?

Lock myself in the bathroom until she finishes and pretend like it never happened?

Move out of the building and change my name?

All three are good options. All three take the high road. All three make me look like a stand-up guy.

But what the hell do I do instead?

I lean against the headboard. I drop my head back against the wall.

And I listen like a goddamn creep.

She moans again, but it’s different this time.

Raspier, deeper. Needier , and my mind races.

What is she thinking about? What speed does she like to use? Is the toy enough to get her off, or is it just to tease? Does she use it during sex? What kind of stimulation does she prefer? Does she fuck herself with it, or is it only for her clit?

Madeline’s vibrator shuts off, and I hope she’s not done.

I hope she’s just getting started.

I’m greedy. Feral to hear more, and when the toy starts back up, it’s been switched to a faster setting. Some variation that adds a pulsing sensation to wherever she’s touching herself, and I recognize the change in the tempo.

I’m proud to admit there’s a solid three seconds where I consider slipping on my noise canceling headphones and attempting to sleep, but the other side of my brain—the side still thinking about kissing her even though she said it’s not going to happen again—wins out.

I’m a good guy.

I’ve helped others and gone above and beyond for my community.

I’ve racked up a lot of good karma, and I hope the gods above don’t judge me too harshly when I yank down my pajama bottoms and wrap my hand around my hard cock.

God .

One touch and I’m on fire. My imagination is running rampant, and I try to remember the last time I got off.

A few weeks ago?

A month or two?

I don’t even know.

Tonight, I’m desperate for it. It’s like I’m in there with her. I can hear her sheets moving, and I picture her on her back. Her head against the pillows and her legs spread wide. I don’t know if I’d want to be between her thighs so I could watch—so I could taste —or behind her so I could help guide her through it. So I could whisper in her ear and put a hand low on her stomach, there if she wanted help.

Does she do this every night? If she does, why haven’t I heard her before?

Is it a special occasion?

Is she making a video and sending it to someone else so they can watch her fall apart?

Is she thinking about me like I’m thinking about her?

I hear a “ Fuck ” from the other side of the wall and I bite my lip so I don’t say it back.

I pull my hand away from my cock. I spit in the center of my palm then start again. This is filthy. Completely unhinged, but I don’t care. I stroke myself up and down, and for the first time in months, there’s an image of a specific woman in mind as I relax into the satisfaction of getting off: her .

We agreed to be friends. I know we said what happened on New Year’s isn’t going to happen again, but I wish it would. I wish I could knock on her door and join her on her bed.

Hell, I’d be happy to stand in the hall and watch from afar. I’d be happy to keep my hands to myself until she told me I could touch myself—could touch her .

And if she let me join?

I’d make it so good for her.

I could be gentle. Rough. I could fuck her like I hated her or I could make love to her and kiss her soft and sweet. I’d get on my knees and beg, or I’d ask her to say please if that’s what she liked.

I’d call her perfect. I’d tell her how well she was doing, how pretty she is when she’s taking two of my fingers then three.

I would do anything she wanted.

When a soft “ Oh ” echoes through the wall, pre-cum leaks from the tip of my cock.

I’m not going to last long. Not when there’s a bump against the wall, and I pretend it’s either her head or her hand. Not when another “ Fuck ” comes next, followed by a gasp.

Christ .

This is the best kind of torture.

I grip my cock tighter. I jerk up and down. There’s no rhyme or reason to my movements except to match the pace of her toy. I’m going straight to hell, but I can’t find it in myself to care.

I’d rather be a sinner with her than a saint with anyone else.

I’m straining to hear what other sounds she makes. I’m greedy for more of her and trying to commit the noises to memory, so in the off chance I ever do get to touch her again, I can make sure I’m doing it right.

I’m not going to let a toy be better than me.

I rub my thumb through the pre-cum and coat my length with it. My strokes turn sloppy and uncoordinated, and I want to get there at the same time as her. I want to fall over the edge to the sounds of her orgasm. And when the vibrator clicks up to the next speed and she pants out a strangled “ fuck, yes ,” I lose it.

I bite my collar, tempted to yell out her name. My hips lift off the bed and warm, sticky cum covers my hand. It runs down my still-hard length, and a soft groan sneaks out of me at the vision of Madeline helping me clean up. Her tongue at the base of my shaft and finding out how deep she can take me down her throat.

“Goddamn,” I whisper.

I fumble with the lamp next to my bed. When I turn on the light, the mess in front of me is downright embarrassing. I’ve never come like this before. My entire body is hot and prickly as I shove my pants all the way off and use them to wipe my hands.

I should be ashamed.

I should go to church on Sunday and repent for my transgressions.

But I don’t want to.

Madeline makes me want to be unbelievably bad, and maybe it’s time I deserve to be something other than good.

I drop my head on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. I feel weightless and a little drunk even though I haven’t touched a sip of alcohol. My shirt is halfway up my stomach, my skin is splotchy, and it takes a good five minutes before my breathing returns to normal.

On her side of the wall, there’s a satisfied hum. A deep sigh and gentle giggle.

She liked that .

So did I, but I’m pretty sure telling your roommate you got off to them getting off goes against some moral cohabitation code.

I can never, ever mention this.

To anyone.

Even if it was the best orgasm of my life.

Suppressing one more groan, I clean up my stomach and toss my pants in the laundry basket. I stand, needing to shower and use the bathroom. I wish I could get a lobotomy to forget the last ten minutes—I am so pathetic—but I also wish I had a way to hear her come again.

Friends , I remind myself in the shower as I picture her blissfully content in her bed.

Friends , I remind myself when I climb back on my mattress and wonder if she’s going to go for round two.

If she wants to be friends, I’m going to be the best damn friend she’s ever had.