1 Bryant
I was eighteen when I lost my virginity. It was to Coltrane Xavier McEnneny. He and I hadn't been dating long, not really long enough for him to warrant a petal off my rose, as Momma would say.
Sex with him was awkward, but rewarding in its own way. For about ten minutes, I'd forgotten the most painful day of my life, so even though I didn't have an orgasm, it was all good.
It shouldn’t surprise me that the boy I’m in bed with is trying ever so hard to wring one from me now. After all, he’s an athlete, superbly built with a mind geared toward one goal: winning. In bed, that means making the girl come.
But I picked this boy because he’s a jerk, predisposed to not caring about what I want. Or, at least, that was my initial thought. I’m mentally revising my image of him. I’ve had to do that a lot with JR “call me Ace” Anderson since I first saw him on the practice field four weeks ago.
When the Southern U Renegades’ new quarterback first arrived on campus, he was angry, terse, and short-tempered. He barked orders at the offense and look bored when the coaches gave instruction. He rarely socialized with his teammates and when he did, he sat moodily in the corner, refusing the advances of girls and boys alike.
“God, you feel good,” Ace breathes against my neck.
But then there was the time he stood up for my sorority sister, Carlene, when her ex showed up at the bar drunk and belligerent. Before anyone else could react, Ace had the guy collared and out the door before Carlene could summon up a “go to hell.”
That action against her rowdy ex-boyfriend cemented things. I knew he would be the last participant through my program—my senior thesis, so to speak—on how to turn an asshole into the perfect boyfriend.
Going home with a boy is not standard practice for me, though. After Coltrane, I’d given up on sex. It’s too messy, too involved, too…intimate. I don’t like letting people in that deep, pun not intended. But I think that’s why Ace’s guarded eyes spoke so strongly to me.
He’s working up a sweat. I thought for sure he’d spend himself by now, but he’s still going strong, much to the distress of my increasingly sore thighs. He has more stamina than a camel in the desert. I squeeze my inner muscles, ordering myself to concentrate.
He groans, “That’s right,” and his hand slips underneath my ass to lift me tighter against him. The friction halts my train of thought for a moment. The heavy weight of him feels exquisite. And the way his bicep flexes as he braces himself, one-armed, so he can use his free hand to knead and grip my ass is crazy sexy.
I close my eyes and try to focus on the sensations rather than how our energetic activity has pulled the fitted sheet away from the mattress so that the elastic rubs uncomfortably against my shoulders. I shift slightly.
My movement interrupts his rhythm. His head jerks up. “What is it?” he asks. “Am I hurting you?”
Amazing. He’s sensed my discomfort. I give myself an internal high-five. I knew I’d been right about him. He pulls out, his long shaft dragging against my sensitive tissues, taking all that delicious fullness away. I urge him back inside.
“No, not at all.” It’s not as if I think sex is a bad thing. It’s that…this is out of character for me.
I’d gone over to him tonight, intending only to introduce myself, and, somehow, his big hand found its way under my skirt, and his hot mouth whispered in my ear about how it was time for us to get a car home or everyone was going to know the color of my panties.
“Your pussy is so tight.” He was that graphic in the bar, too, except there he’d said, “How wet can I get you?”
I’ve never had a man speak to me like that before, never had someone want me so intensely. I caved. I walked out of the bar with him, into an Uber, and climbed two flights of stairs, draping myself over his wide, muscled frame like I was some kind of human cloak.
Mentally, I was with him until the clothes came off and the condom came on. It wasn’t the first real glimpse of his massive dick that scared me off; it was the whole plundering thing. Sex isn’t merely an invasion of your body, but of the mind, too. I’d forgotten that, forgotten why Colt and I broke up only a couple weeks after my first time. I don’t like people in my head.
“Bryant.” Ace says my name with some urgency.
My eyes pop open to meet his. He gives me a penetrating stare—one that I meet with intentionally guileless eyes. I respond non-verbally, squeezing his dick in what I hope is an invitation to continue. Just because I can’t come doesn’t mean he should miss out.
“Is there a different position you wanna try?” he asks as he slides forward. His hips shift, searching for that elusive G-spot.
I suppose I could fake it.
I moan.
He stops immediately and the piercing stare becomes suspicious scrutiny. “Did you just fake a moan?”
My mouth falls open in surprise. I didn’t imagine he’d be this perceptive. My daddy said Ace was more ornery than a wild dog caught in a trap. Ty Masters, the team captain, wondered if bringing in this rejected QB was going to tear the team apart instead of carrying them to the promised land of national championships and first-round draft slots. My Alpha Omega sisters at Western State warned us that Ace Anderson was a pussy hound and not a very nice one.
“Bryant,” he prompts. My name sounds strange and almost exotic coming from his mouth. It’s nearly one clipped syllable instead of the two long ones most of the southern boys around me use.