Cameron Cole has a plan.
After yet another relationship ends because of certain shortcomings-literally-Cameron decides it's time to swear off dating and focus her energy into her junior year at the University of Charlotte. There's an internship up...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
It's Sunday afternoon, and Jetton Park is quiet.
Overcast clouds stretch lazily across the sky and cast the world in all shades of soft, muted light.
The air is warm but fresh—summer's gone, and winter is sure as hell on its way.
Pink azaleas dot the edges of the grass, the color bright against the dark greens of the pine trees framing the view of Lake Norman. Frank Ocean's Pink + White plays softly from Wes' Bluetooth speaker, and the melody floats around the empty clearing.
Wes is proud—so proud—when he pulls his truck into a little clearing at the edge of the park, a spot he claims no one else knows about.
He comes here a lot to think, he told me, which, y'know, is always a dangerous game.
Men thinking is how we got all those damn wars and taxes.
I woke up practically glued to Wes like a needy koala bear.
My cheek was pressed against his chest, my leg thrown over his waist, my body all but draped across him like some kind of human blanket. He was wide awake, his hand slowly dragging up and down my back, his touch lazy and unhurried.
Wes had bunched my T-shirt all the way up at my neck and shoulders, exposing my bare skin to him. His fingers traced patterns there, his fingertips gliding over my spine like he was memorizing every bump, every groove.
And he was quiet. That's what got me. No teasing, no commentary, just this steady, grounding presence beneath me. His chest rose and fell under my cheek, his heartbeat strong and even.
It was cozy. Too fucking cozy. The kind of comfort that makes you consider skipping life entirely just to stay there.
I stirred and shifted, my head lifting up to look at him, and he hit me with that stupid grin of his.
His cock was hard. Rock-hard.
Right against my thigh.
It's not like it was new—Wes waking up with morning wood was practically a given. He was grinning at me like a boy on Christmas, happy that I was awake and he could finally unwrap his present.
And then the nausea hit.
Wes laughed at me as I rolled off him and onto the floor, all but crawling to the bathroom on my hands and knees.
I needed a few moments alone in the bathroom, trying to find my dignity at the bottom of the bowl. For a group of jocks, their amenities were fucking sparkling.
Breakfast with Wes and Rome was a blur of sarcastic teasing and Rice Krispies—which, apparently, Rome doesn't share with anyone except me now.
He didn't even hesitate to pass it to me when I sat down, though Wes had been visibly offended by the gesture.
