He reaches down to take hold of himself and lines us up, but pauses excruciatingly close to entering me to ask, “Can you be quiet?” I only nod in response, showing him how quiet I can be. “If you’re too loud, I’ll have to stop.”
I shake my head and nudge at his hips with my crossed feet, trying to urge him on like some kind of fucked-up steed.
His hips push forward and he’s inside. I take in a sharp breath at the punishing size of him. He finds his rhythm quickly, and I let myself revel in the feel of his cock sliding deep inside me and then all the way back out until just the tip of him stays. He snaps his hips forward and is all the way back in. “Oh, fuck,” I cry out. He stops instantly, mid stroke.
“I thought you could be quiet?”
“I’m sorry,” I beg, my voice a whisper. “Please don’t stop.”
He picks up his speed again and I move my hand down to touch my clit while he rocks into me. I’m honestly not sure I can be quiet. The build of my orgasm is coming so quickly, I don’t know if I’ll have the wherewithal to hold it in. It feels so good, so right, that I don’t want to have to hold it in.
The combination of his strokes and my light caress is too much to handle. I start whimpering again, but this time Wyatt’s hand covers my mouth. “I’m too close to stop.”
Cutting off my airway just drives my need higher, pushing me closer to my edge. “Wyatt,” I speak through his palm, his name comes out louder than my last cries. With the hand not covering my mouth, he grabs the shirt I slept in last night and pushes it in my mouth. The cotton instantly soaks up every bit of spit, and I bite down on it, the whining coming through my nose instead. Wyatt holds my nose closed with one big hand, and I’ve never been so denied of air. Never let my penchant for a little choking go as far as this. My back curls off the bed and I cry into the shirt as I come. Wyatt’s blows become stuttered and uneven, and I know he’s falling with me.
The second I come down from riding the wave of my orgasm, Wyatt pulls the t-shirt from my mouth. “Too far?” he asks with a seriously concerned look in his eyes.
“Just far enough.” I pull his head down to mine and kiss him. I hope I kiss the breath out of him like he withheld my breath from me. I hope he likes it half as much as I did.
I know I’m the one pushing him away emotionally, but I want to keep him with me physically. “Stay?”
“You know Ma and Pa’s rules…”
“They won’t even know,” I counter.
“We literally live together,” he pauses, then huffs a dramatic breath. “Okay. You win. But I’m sneaking back to my room before they get up.”
“You’re a grown man,” I laugh.
“I still respect my parents’ rules,” he shrugs.
My heart aches with how much I love him. Waves and waves of it overtake me. Like I’m a grain of sand on the shore getting pummeled. He’s too pure for this world. Is that a Midwest thing? A Wisconsin thing? Or is it just how this wonderful man was made? After living here for four years, I think it’s a Vandergriff thing.
And who am I to take him from that?
The next morning starts relatively early after a long night of dancing, drinking, and getting cracked. When I wake up, there’s no Wyatt. His parents get up super early to start farm chores, so he’ll have been long gone by the time the sun came up.
I roll out of bed and set to getting dressed and packing up to head back home. I love visiting Wisconsin and getting a break from the heat, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous to get back home.
I put the t-shirt Wyatt gagged me with last night in mysuitcase and a shiver runs down my spine at the memory. I mentally kick myself. I can’t keep sleeping with my best friend who’s in love with me knowing I don’t have a solution to both of us giving something up. It’s not fair to him. Is it still leading someone on if you have feelings for them, too?
When I’m presentable, I head down the stairs. The smell of coffee brewing hits me first, and I’m hoping for a piece of leftover breakfast casserole before we leave.
I’m about to round the door into the kitchen when I hear something that stops me in my tracks.
“What about your place on the farm, son?” That sounds like Charlie.
My heart stops beating in my chest, like it can’t continue pumping blood until Wyatt responds. “It’ll be here waiting for me, won’t it?” I hear the rattling of a spoon in a mug as he speaks. “When football is done, I’ll be able to come back?”
“Of course. But how many years will that be?”
“As many as possible. I love football. If I can play an unprecedented amount of years, I will.” I hear a chair scraping the floor. Wyatt must be sitting at the kitchen table. I can see him in my mind’s eye—hair mussed from sleep, Hurricanes t-shirt on, coffee cup clutched in both hands.
“Now that Clark is gone, would you consider coming back to Green Bay?” his dad asks.
“Henry told you?”
“No, Grant did. That kid’s a loudmouth.” He pauses, looking for words. “Listen, I know this state has had Clark up on some kind of pedestal, but he’s not from here, and now he doesn’t play here anymore. People will move on from him now, but you? You’re one of us. Corn stalk. Born and raised. You belong here, and I hope you never forget that.”