Following the Rules (The Script Club 1)

And I remembered Simon.

It had been a few years, but he was hard to forget. Especially if you were like me and had a tendency to drool over hunky athletes who were well out of your league. George’s brother was the ultimate fantasy material. Tall, dark, handsome, and…nice. I knew that even though we hadn’t exchanged more than a sentence or two.

See, I couldn’t talk to guys like him. I froze and sometimes even had a hard time breathing. It was so embarrassing. It was always best to make any interaction as quick as possible. Or better yet, not to speak at all. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get away with that at George’s nineteenth birthday party—not with his mom pulling my sleeve and guiding me toward a group of large, muscular jocks.

“Honey, say hi to George’s friend, Topher,” she’d instructed, hugging me impulsively before hurrying off to greet another guest.

His friends had nodded politely and looked away. Not Simon. He’d held his hand out and squeezed my fingers enthusiastically. His smile was warm and welcoming, designed to put me at ease. Sadly, it didn’t work.

Our conversation went something like,

“Hey, there. Nice to meet you.”

Commence impossibly long pause.

“Th-thanks. You t-too.”

Simon had angled his head toward the kitchen. “Did you try my mom’s guacamole? She’s an amazing cook.”

“Technically guacamole is assembled, not cooked,” I’d stammered.

His lips had quirked in undisguised humor.

“I stand corrected. She assembles it well. Try some and let me know what you think.” He’d turned briefly when one of his friends tapped his shoulder and hiked a thumb toward the door. “Hey, I gotta run. Nice to meet you.”

He’d squeezed my arm and shot one last stunning grin my way before moving on.

And me? I’d stood still as a statue, certain I’d just had an out-of-body experience.

Lame, right? I know. Look, it wouldn’t have been considered a particularly mind-blowing exchange in anyone else’s world, but it stuck with me. And I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I jerked off to the memory of Simon’s hand on my arm…more than once.

Of course, my fantasy was a bit more graphic. His hand drifted to my hip as he inched closer. He kissed my cheek and my neck, fumbling with my belt and my zipper in a quest to reach my cock.

In real time, that would be my cue to undress down to my boxers and slip my fingers under the elastic to grip my shaft. I’d pull at the steel rod between my thighs, imagining Simon stroking me, fondling my balls, and pressing his thumb oh, so gently at my hole. It usually only took two or three passes from base to tip before I gave in and pushed a single digit inside. After that, I never lasted long. With my feet flat on the mattress, knees bent, legs spread wide, I’d jack myself furiously with one hand and finger-fuck myself with the other. And all the while, I’d think of Simon.

Simon’s hands on me, his lips on my neck, his cock inside me. I imagined him surrounding me and taking me over completely…driving me harder and faster until I had no choice but to fall apart. I’d lay panting in the aftermath with my stomach covered in cum, wondering if there was a special place in hell for perverts who lusted after their friend’s straight brother.

Five years later, I wanted to claim my days of mooning over unattainable jocks were long gone, but Jake was proof that wasn’t true. Nope…I’d graduated to having meaningless sex with closeted men who wouldn’t look me in the eye in daylight. But Simon wasn’t Jake. And I wasn’t a complete moron. I was actually a genius.

Cody was right. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity to overcome a silly fear, get over unrequited lust once and for all…and make a little money too.

Win. Win. Win.

2

Simon

The bathroom door opened, followed by the clip of heels down the hallway leading to the great room. I poured orange juice into a tumbler and swirled it lazily as I waited for my guest to appear. I’d become an expert at studied nonchalance over the past few months. I had no doubt I could pull off the perfect balance of regret with a tinge of longing. That seemed to work better than the truth, which was roughly something closer to, “What we just did will never happen again, but it was nice to meet you.”

A pretty brunette with a sunny grin sauntered into the kitchen a moment later. Don’t ask her name. My brain didn’t hold that kind of info for long. I pasted something resembling a smile on my face, holding the glass in front of my bare chest to avoid an awkward, fake hug scene. I wanted her to leave badly, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t be rude. It wasn’t her fault I was a fucking head case.