This is my one shot I wrote anonymously for the 'In the Closet' Contest. Just reposting it on my profile. Here's the link to the In the Closet ffn page: http: / fanfiction . net / u / 2424392 / intheclosetcontest Just do it without the spaces of course. Anyway, hope you like! :)

"Who the fuck is he?"

Glancing up from my lunch to get a look at who Emmett is currently glaring at, I spot some guy at a table at the other end of the cafeteria, sitting opposite Rosalie Hale.

He's new, I guess, seeing as Emmett doesn't know who he is, and I don't think I've seen him before.

I shrug. Take a huge bite out of my chicken sandwich, chew a little, swallow, chew some more, talk with my mouth half full. "Dunno. Never seen him."

I'm not even mildly interested in the guy and who he is, to be honest.

I mean, he's just another unlucky son-of-a-bitch that Emmett seems to be pissed at for whatever reason – and Emmett's always fucking pissed at someone, or something. They don't call it 'roid rage' for nothing.

We can't even see the guy's face.

He's sitting with the cheerleaders, and if Emmett hadn't pointed him out to me I probably would have mistaken him for one of them. All I can see of him is longish, dirty blond colored hair tied back in a ponytail.

Emmett's still looking over at their table – scowling now – and it makes me curious.

So I glance up again.

I see Rosalie Hale giggling uncontrollably, her hand daintily covering my mouth, like whatever she's laughing at is the funniest fucking thing she's ever heard.

And now, Rosalie Hale's grabbing the guy's ponytail and she's… she's stroking it, playing with it, her fingers twisting it round and round…

Well, damn, no wonder Emmett's going apeshit over here.

I'm not even surprised when he nearly jumps out of his chair and sprints over to their table. I mean, I wouldn't blame the guy if he did. I wouldn't want my girl all cozying up to another guy like that right in front of me. Emmett somehow manages to restrain himself though, a fist curling up into a white knuckled ball as he spits, "the fuck is she doing?"

"She's tryna get a rise out of you, dude. Don't take the bait," I say – though my words are probably already too late.

You see, Emmett McCarty, Forks high Spartans Quarterback, and Rosalie Hale, Head Cheerleader, and self titled, 'Queen Bee' have a very… volatile relationship. They're either constantly fighting, or they're broken up, or they're back together again, or they're on 'a break'. I can't keep up with, or give a shit about their relationship status – so I don't bother trying to.

I guess they're either broken up or on another 'break' right now though.

Emmett's fuming. His nostrils flare as he cranes his thick neck from one side to the other, trying to get a look at the guy's face.

"Fuck! See if you can see him, E."

I roll my eyes. Take a swig from my bottle of water. "Just ignore them, man."

He ignores me instead. Continues, "You can probably get a good look from where you're sitting. Maybe if you lean back or something –"

Rosalie Hale's throaty laugh suddenly penetrates the constant background noise of the cafeteria.

I glance over at her table to find her looking even cozier with blond guy, head thrown back as she laughs. His back is still to us, but he's clearly laughing too – broad-looking shoulders shaking under a blue t shirt.

"She's doing it on purpose," Emmett mutters, his jaw line pulsing with the strain of his clenched teeth. `

As if in answer, Rosalie Hale leans across the table to whisper in blond guy's ear. Her bluish-grey eyes flicker over in Emmett's direction as she does – and she smirks.

Emmett's fist comes down – hard – causing wary, puzzled glances from the other guys we're sitting with, and shaking our table so hard the cutlery jumps. He also manages to knock my bottle of water over in the process – spilling it all over the front of my pants.

"Aw, fuck!" I leap up out of my chair as the icy water quickly penetrates the denim of my jeans, damn near freezing my balls. "Christ, Em, you really need to lay off those fucking things," I hiss, furiously, pointlessly, brushing water droplets off my crotch with the back of my hand. "Now I'm gonna have to walk around for the rest of the day feeling like I've fucking pissed myself or something." Thank fuck my jeans are a dark wash so it's not too noticeable. "Shit."

"Sorry," he murmurs, distracted, not even having the courtesy to look at me as he apologizes, still needlessly torturing himself watching Rosalie Hale.

The bell rings.

I pick up my backpack and sling it over a shoulder. "Don't forget, Coach said we've got practice after school today instead of tomorrow," I say, briefly meeting the eyes of the other guys at our table, who all nod.

Emmett's not even listening, oddly fixated on the two blonds seated at the table across the cafeteria.


His eyes reluctantly swing to mine, dark eyebrows a tightly drawn curtain above them. "What?" he growls.

"Practice. After school."

"I fucking heard you."


That blond guy happens to be in my World History class.

And yeah, he's new alright.

He's definitely new, because there's no fucking way I would have missed him if he wasn't.

I'm already at my desk when he shows up, about five minutes late for class. It hasn't started yet anyway; Mrs. Platt is only just getting out her lesson plan.

He saunters casually through the open door, hands stuffed into the pockets of a navy blue hoody he wasn't wearing in the cafeteria, books tucked in his left armpit, no backpack in sight – and shit.

The guy is fucking… pretty? I'm not even sure if that's the best word to describe him. His tan face is smooth, trimmed blond sideburns being the only trace of facial hair I can see. His lips are exceptionally pink, so pink I have to wonder if he's wearing some kind of lip gloss on them or something. His hair is parted in the middle, and some strands of it have fallen out of the ponytail and tucked behind his left ear – where a tiny silver hoop earring glints.

And I just… stare at him.

His eyes are large, and really blue, and they narrow as they briefly dart around the room from under blond lashes – before unexpectedly pausing as they land on mine.

And still, I just… stare at him.

He stares back –

My eyes quickly shift away.

I twiddle my pen a little. Randomly draw a circle in my notebook. Blush hard.

My eyes can't help shifting back.

And again – they meet his.

There's this… this tightening in my throat, and it gets a little less easy to breathe. I find myself needing to take faster breaths to compensate.

He grins: an unhurried, deliberate curving of his pink lips. A slight lifting of his cheekbones.

And I don't like it.

His grin is… loaded. It's taunting, it's a grin that says, 'I know what you are', though how can he know just by looking at me? Am I just being paranoid or what?

Sweat beads my forehead; throat feels like I just swallowed a bucket of sand.

I drop my eyes.

I feel him walk past and ease into the desk adjacent to mine.

My palms are damp as I grip my pen and attempt to make notes.


I can't fucking stop myself from looking at the guy.

I see him in my periphery, tipping back on his chair.

His left hand makes hurried movements over his notebook as he writes.

His head lifts as he glances at the board, drops as he looks at his notes.

Strands of his hair fall forward into his eyes, and his left hand stops writing, his pen still in hand, as he reaches up to tuck them back behind his ear.

The fingers of his right hand absently scratch at his jaw.

His Vans occasionally tap a silent beat.

The bell rings and I'm probably the first to stand up.

I just… feel the need to get the fuck away from this dude – and fast – because honestly, I can't stop looking at him and either he or someone else is going to notice that.

I pack my shit, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and I'm out of that class like a –

"Had a little accident there?"

The voice is low, sort of husky; there's a smile in his slightly southern tone.

I spin around to find blond guy hot on my heels. So close, in fact, I have to take a step back.

My eyes involuntarily roam the length of his body.



He inclines his head at my crotch, eyebrows lifting to punctuate the movement, pink lips pressed into a line – like he's fighting a smile.

My face now scorching, I glance down at myself.


My fingers reach for my hair. I grab a fistful; run a hand through the mess. It's a nervous habit.

Blond dude's blue eyes follow my hand to my head, where they pause. He blinks once, twice, and then they drop back to my face – his lips still pressed tight.

It's everything I can do to stop myself from covering my crotch with my palms.

Because, yeah, my pants are still damp from the spill, but there's no way a person would notice the damp patch on my crotch, seeing as my jeans are a dark wash – unless they'd been paying close attention to that area…

And fuck my life, there's also my growing erection, which is now beginning to press against the denim…

I drop my hand from my hair, toe the floor awkwardly, shove my hands in my jeans pockets – only to quickly yank them out when I realize it just highlights the problem, feel my face practically melting with embarrassment.

"Yeah, I know." My voice sounds so quiet when paired with my now thundering heartbeat. "I err, spilled some water on my pants at lunch. Thanks for the heads up anyway."

He nods, finally lets a small smile permeate his pink lips, snorts. "No problem."

I turn away, desperate to get the hell away from this mortifying moment, to get the hell away from him – and hear a low chuckle.

A quick glance over my right shoulder and –

The guy's fucking laughing at me.


"Oh, what? No fucking way."

Emmett's elbow digs sharply into my side.

I hiss. "Fuck, Em. What?"

"It's that jerkoff from lunch."

My head snaps up of its own accord – and there he is.

About five minutes late yet again, and sauntering over to the bench where we're sitting, dressed in practice gear: white Spartan practice jersey, shoulder pads, knee pads, cleats, helmet in hand.

My eyes gravitate towards the noticeable bulge in his tight pants.


"Tell me about it," Emmett concurs.

The guy reaches the bench and settles on the end of it, casually placing his helmet on the grass by his feet, leaning back, thighs apart, like he's been doing this his whole life.

I find myself staring at him again.

Jesus, I can't fucking help it.

Luckily though, I'm not the only one staring now.

There was a general lull in conversation as he'd approached, and now the whole team is shooting him curious, questioning glances – glances he seems completely oblivious to.

He keeps his gaze forward, padded shoulders relaxed against the wall.

Emmett's elbow digs into my side again.

"He can't be on the fucking team," he mutters gruffly. "Banner didn't say anything about a new guy."

Coach Banner chooses that moment to turn up, in his usual attire: loose khaki slacks, long sleeved polo shirt. He adjusts his blue Spartans cap over his thinning hairline and clears his throat to speak.

"Season's about to start, as we all know, and since Biers is definitely out for the count –"

"What, for good?" Jacob Black interrupts.

Coach Banner shoots him a fleeting glare. "Yep, for good. His leg's messed up in three places. No way will that boy be playing football, or any sport for that matter, ever again. It's a damn shame."

There's a quiet murmur of sympathetic curses scattered around the bench.

Impulsively, my eyes flicker over to the new guy.

He's grinning.

"The fuck's he smiling at?" Emmett mutters.

Coach Banner clears his gravel laced throat again, and the team shuts up. "Anyway, since Biers won't be joining us again, we've got someone new to replace him."

All heads, including Coach Banner's, turn to the new guy.

He stands up, – still grinning – ambles over to coach Banner, who claps him on the shoulder pad with a wide grin of his own.

"Jasper Whitlock has just transferred here from Austin."

Jasper Whitlock's blue eyes scan the bench – until they land on me. They linger a moment, and then he looks away.

I rake my fingers through my hair.

It's starting to feel a little hot out here, despite being barely fifty degrees…

"Now, normally we'd have tryouts to recruit new players. But Whitlock," Coach claps him on the shoulder again, "is the best player Austin high school ever had. His coach back there called me, told me I had to have him on the team when he transferred. So I went over to Austin for a couple days last semester to watch a few of his games." Coach smiles – and it's the type of smile proud fathers reserve for their sons, the type of smile I've never seen on his face before. "And he sure as shit didn't disappoint. So here he is."

Jasper Whitlock doesn't even seem fazed by all the attention. He stands straighter, scratches at his smooth jaw a little, and speaks in that husky, slight Southern inflected voice:

"Uh, yeah, I'm pretty excited to join the Spartans." He grins, blue eyes sweeping the bench. "Heard you guys know how to kick some ass."

There are snickers and chuckles, and then Jacob Black, who can never keep his mouth shut, yells, "You heard right, cowboy!" which leads to more chuckles.

Then everyone's getting up and strapping on their helmets, and smacking Jasper Whitlock on the ass with a, "welcome to the team, Whitlock," as they jog to the middle of the football field to begin warm ups.

Emmett and I hang back, – though I doubt Emmett's hanging back for the same reason I am...

He stalks up to Jasper Whitlock, twice as burly and twice as intimidating in all his football gear. He doesn't stop until he's practically nose to nose with the guy.

"I don't give a shit if you're 'supposedly' the best fucking football player on the planet, you fuck with my girl again and I break your fucking legs. Got it?"

Whitlock frowns, scratches at his jaw, shrugs a shoulder. "Whatever."

Apparently satisfied with this reaction, Emmett straps on his helmet and jogs away – leaving only me and Jasper Whitlock still standing by the bench.

And I can't, for the life of me, get my fucking legs to move.

I crouch down instead, untie the laces on my cleats and tie them tighter, hope that Jasper Whitlock has fucked off by the time I stand up again.

No such luck.

He's still standing there – eyeing me carefully.

I sniff. Run a damp, shaky hand through my hair. Frown. "What?"

He shrugs. "Nothin', just thought I'd wait for you, is all."

My whole body starts prickling with perspiration. What is with that?

We begin walking towards the others who have now started their warm ups.

Our shoulders bump occasionally. I try to ignore it.

"Edward Cullen, right?" He enunciates each syllable of my name meticulously.

It sounds… nice, the way he says it. Sounds… pretty fucking hot actually.


I look at him with furrowed brows. "How'd you know my name?"

"You're in my World History class." A ghost of a smile lingers on his mouth.

My eyes linger on his mouth…

"Oh yeah, right."

"But…" The ghost of a smile fleshes out. "I've also heard your name quite a lot around school."

"Oh yeah?" I keep my face forward, blush like a girl, hope like hell he's not looking at me. "All good things, I hope."

When he remains silent I can't help but turn to look at him again.

He's grinning, and from my close proximity I can see he has light dimples in his tan cheeks…


"What's funny?"

His eyes slowly slide to their corners to look at me.

"I heard you're the fastest Running Back Forks high has ever had."

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can manage – but fuck, it's difficult. My face is on fire. "I guess," I reply. My hand seeks out my hair, finds it, ruffles the shit out of it.

"Well, guess what?" His grin widens, those pink lips of his parting to reveal straight white teeth. "I was the fastest Running Back Austin high ever had."

This annoys the piss out of me.

"Good for you," I answer, terse, teeth clamped. "Shame you ain't in Austin high anymore."

He shrugs, turns around to face me so he's walking backwards. "Yeah, but you know what?" He pulls his helmet on, straps it. "I'm gonna be the fastest Running Back Forks high has ever had." I see those white fucking teeth of his through the slits in his helmet, which tells me grinning again.

And then he's turned around, and he's jogging away from me before I can even begin to think of a response, and I'm totally fucking pissed at the audacity and fucking ego of the guy – yet…

I'm also unable to tear my eyes away from the way his muscular ass is flexing in those tight pants.



The fucking locker room.

This place used to be a personal hellhole for me. I mean, Christ, a guy going through puberty and being surrounded by guys who apparently have no qualms about walking around buck naked in front of a bunch of other guys, is a fucking nightmare.

Actually, let me rephrase that.

A gay guy going through puberty and being surrounded by a bunch of naked guys is a fucking nightmare.

I swear, I had to hide my boner after every single PE class for two years straight, and I actually didn't find the guys in the class particularly attractive. It was just… pretty fucking obvious what called my cock to attention – and pussy definitely wasn't it.

I'm about, ninety nine percent sure I'm gay.

Actually, I'm more like, ninety nine point nine percent sure I'm gay.

However, no one but me is aware of that fact.

The reason for that is not because I'm in denial about it or because I'm confused or I'm ashamed of it or anything deep like that. I just figured there's no point in coming out now.

I'm gay, but I've never actually been with a guy.

Really, the only reason I know I'm gay is because, from about the age of fourteen, catching a glimpse of a guy's wang would get me harder than a steel rod, whereas a nice pair of tits or a pussy never garnered that reaction. I jerked off to fantasies where I made out with androgynous faces, though the bodies in my fantasies were all boob and vagina free, and not to mention well hung. And then, when I grew out of the imagination stage, gay porn sites were my pastime.

Girls do nothing for me. I mean, I tried to get into chicks, I really did. I made out with girls; I groped their tits and fondled their pussies, but the most it ever got me was a semi, and that never lasted long. I've fucked girls, and while it does feel good, the only way I can keep my dick up is if I fuck them from behind. I mean, I do think some girls are pretty and whatever, they just… don't interest me.

I've had crushes on a few guys over the years, but crushes were all they were, and I got over them relatively quickly.

So you see, what's the point in coming out?

It won't make much of a difference, I mean, it's not like I'm gonna start dating guys and stuff if I do come out, 'cause there's not really anyone in Forks I want to date. Hell, are there even any other gay guys – openly gay, that is – in Forks? So I figure I'll just hide out in my metaphorical closet for the rest of my high school life, and do the whole 'coming out' thing in college.

But this fucking locker room is gonna out me.

I don't get hard-ons over guys in the locker room much these days, seeing as I'm eighteen now, and the occasional one doesn't bother me. I mean, every guy has one in the locker room every once in a while – not that I'm always looking at other guys' dicks or anything…

But fuck me, Jasper Whitlock is in this fucking locker room now, doing the whole, 'walking around stark naked and not giving a shit about who sees his junk' routine that I've gotten used to over the years from the other guys.

The thing is, like I said, I don't find any of the other guys attractive.

And, well, I find Jasper Whitlock a fuck more than just attractive.


He's standing right before me, clad only in a small white towel wrapped around his hips, tan skin all glistening wet from the shower, that fucking ponytail of his darker and slicked back with water.

His body is long, lean, muscular, broad shoulders to top it off and shit, it's so fucking hard to keep my eyes on just his face.

"What do you want?"

I turn away from him in order to control my roaming eyes, angling my hips – I'm only wearing boxers myself – away from his body, and opening my locker door to hide the piece of wood I'm sporting, currently hanging off my groin.

Whitlock's lips twitch – like he's fighting a laugh. He raises his eyebrows as he asks,


My heart rate spikes at the question. "About what?"

He leans his muscled forearm against the row of lockers, moves so he's standing closer to me. "About the fact that I'm gonna be taking your position real soon."

Anger licks through my veins like fire and I find myself fisting air. This guy really knows how to rile me up. I'm breathing hard as I turn my head to the side to look at him – and our faces are only inches apart.

"In your fucking dreams, buddy."

He snorts, lips curled in a smirk that accentuates his dimples. Blue eyes lock with mine, wander down to my mouth, smirk fades –

And suddenly I'm breathing hard for a completely different reason.

My cock throbs, grows harder, strains through my boxers.

Eyes still on my mouth, he murmurs,

"We'll see."


I tear off my helmet; aggressively toss it on the locker room floor.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

Whitlock stands there: cool, calm, shit eating grin plastered on his pretty face. And it makes me so fucking mad I wanna hit something. Preferably him.

"C'mon," he says, eyebrows raised in amusement. "I could make that run faster than you could. And we ended up scoring a touchdown, right?"

My index finger stabs at my chest furiously as I growl, "I'm the fucking Running Back, ok? I've always been the fucking Running Back, and I'm gonna stay the fucking Running Back, got it?"

Whitlock's blue eyes roll. He quirks an eyebrow. "Jesus, you sound like a spoiled five year old. And there can be two Running Backs on a football team. Jus' sayin'."

Before I even realize it, my hand is around the guy's throat and I've pushed him back, flat against the lockers.

Breathing so hard my chest heaves under all my football gear, there's a long moment of thick tension, in which we stare at each other in dead silence.

The guy fucking tackled me. He's on the same team as me and he actually shoved me, took the fucking ball off me, and continued sprinting down the field like it was no big deal. So I got mad and tackled him, taking him down. Then coach got between us before I could throw a punch, and we both got sent off.

Which was a pretty dumb idea because now I can beat the crap out of him without disturbance.

I wanna punch him in his cocky, smug face, wipe that teasing smirk off his lips, erase the amused twinkling in his eyes – yet at the same time...

I can't help noticing how fucking smooth the skin of his neck feels under my fingers, how fucking blue his eyes are, how fucking long his blond eyelashes are, how fucking plump his pink lips look…

And again, I start breathing hard for a completely different reason.

And he's breathing hard too.

And our chests are touching.

And our eyes remained connected, locked in an intense stare.

And then one corner of those lips lifts up, and those sexy-as-fuck dimples of his appear on his tan cheeks.

And he whispers, "This is the part where you kiss me."

I blink rapidly. My hand releases his neck, reaches for my hair instead. My face burns. "What?"

His smile is a lazy one, eyelids drooping as he says, "You know. We fight, tensions get high, and we end up kissing, tearing off our clothes, having hot, angry sex against the lockers..."

And just like that, I feel myself getting hard, the scenario playing out vividly in my head.

"Fuck you," I spit.

He leans his head back against the lockers, so he's looking down his nose at me, lazy eyes barely open. "Yeah, that's kinda the idea," he says, his voice low, rough. That plump pink bottom lip of his disappears under his top teeth, and he just stands, staring at me, sexy as hell, and Jesus, I don't know what to do with myself.

I take a step back, out of his proximity.

He snickers quietly through his nose, continues huskily, "What's the matter, Cullen? Does that sound a little too appealing? Afraid you might actually do it if you stand too close?"

I don't answer. I can't answer. My throat feels tight again, and all I can do is breathe – hard and fast.

His blue eyes travel down my body, and the way he does it makes me feel naked. His eyes linger on my groin. His hand palms his own groin. Eyes travel back up to meet mine again.

Then he's taking a slow, deliberate step towards me –

The sound of the other guys' heavy footsteps pounding down the hall causes my head to snap in the direction of the doorway.

And when I turn back to him – he's gone.

A few seconds later I hear the shower running.


So, Whitlock's gay.

Well, I think he's gay. I mean, my gaydar is pretty much nonexistent. But after what he said to me in the locker room the other day, the way he looked at me…

Shit, I get hard just thinking about it.

"…to get back together. Told her I'd think about it. If she thinks she's gonna get me back that easily after that stunt she pulled…"

"You know. We fight, tensions get high, and we end up kissing, tearing off our clothes, having hot, angry sex against the lockers..."

"Dude, you listening to me?"

Emmett's elbow in my ribs snaps me out of my daydreams.

"What the fuck, man?"

"What is with you today?"

"Nothing's with me, I just don't want my ribs fucking cracked. Stop doing that."

Emmett briefly glances at me from the side of his eye, before concentrating on the road again. "Nah, something's definitely up. You seem… distracted." He inclines his head towards me. "Not to mention the fact that you're sporting a pretty obvious boner, which is sort of weirding me the fuck out right now."

My hands fly to my crotch. My face turns into a furnace. "Shit."

"So, who're you thinking about?"

"No one."

Emmett snorts. Rolls his eyes. "That's bullshit. C'mon, man, spill!"

I roll my eyes. Ignore him. Keep my palms covering my 'situation'.

"Fine, don't tell me who she is," he says. He shrugs. "I'll probably find out soon enough anyway."


Emmett and I are standing in Jacob Black's kitchen, sipping on bottles of Bud when Jasper Whitlock shows up.

Late to the party, as usual.

His eyes dart around, like he's looking for someone – and stop when they find me.

I look away.

"I can't stand this guy," Emmett mutters. He raises the bottle to his lips. Lowers it. "Thinks the sun shines out of his fucking ass or something."

Involuntarily, my eyes travel to Whitlock's ass.

He's turned around, making small talk with some other guys from the team, and his ass in his jeans is just…

The 'situation' in my own jeans begins to stir again.

I place my bottle on the counter. Take a deep breath. Discreetly adjust/squeeze myself. "Bathroom. I'll be right back."

Emmett nods.

I hurry out of the kitchen, dash up the stairs, duck into the bathroom and slam the door shut.

Leaning against it, my hands tremble as they fumble with the button and zipper on my pants, and then I pull my jeans down a little, wrap my hand around myself, pull out of my boxers and sag against the door in relief.

Immediately, my hand is working up and down the length of my dick, my brain turns to mush and all I can do is feel the pleasure: The goosebumps rising on my arms. The pleasurable friction on my cock. Giving in to that urge to thrust my hips.

My shallow breaths begin to leave my mouth accompanied with groans, my eyes close; my fist tightens as I pump faster.

There's a knock on the door – and I freeze.

Another knock.

Just as I'm about to answer, the knob turns and the door is pushing against my back.

"Shit. Err, hold on a sec, I'm nearly done."

The person stops turning the knob, stops pushing the door.

Wincing, I carefully stuff my now painfully hard cock back into my pants. Adjust it. Check my appearance in the mirror opposite. Open the door –

To find Jasper Whitlock standing on the other side.

He eyes me from head to toe, painstakingly.

And I feel naked again.

Then his palm is on my chest and he pushes me back into the bathroom.

He slams the bathroom door, turns the lock, leans against it – smiles at me, wide, all white teeth and dimples.

"You know, if you're gonna go jerk off in the bathroom at a party, you might wanna lock the door first."

"How'd you –"

He's suddenly standing an inch before me, cutting off all coherent thoughts and speech, his chest pressed against mine – and he's no longer smiling. His blue eyes burn into mine, eyelids droop, pink lips part so I feel his hot breath against my face.

"So, Cullen." His voice is rough. Husky. Sexy as fuck. "You ever been kissed by a guy before?"


His palm runs up my jaw. He cups my cheek. His thumb brushes against my skin.

"Why not?"

I swallow thickly, and my voice is hoarse as I reply through shallow breaths. "I… I don't know."

Whitlock's other hand reaches for my face. "Do you wanna be kissed by a guy?"

I nod.

And he steps back, taking me with him, my face still in his palms. Then he turns, pushes my back against the bathroom door. Presses the full length of his body against mine.

He shifts his hips against me a little – and I feel him. Hard. Hot. Hung like a horse.

"Jesus," I breathe.

And he smirks.

"It's Jasper," he whispers, as he leans forward.

And then our bodies our connected from lips to hips.

His tongue is immediately in my mouth, pumping in and out, as his hips thrust against me to the same rhythm. I feel the tip of his soft tongue rubbing against mine as the tip of his hard cock mimics the movement. I feel the vibrations in his chest as he groans into my mouth – or wait – maybe it's the vibrations from my chest, maybe I'm the one groaning. His lips are soft, but nowhere near gentle as he sucks at mine vigorously, hands travelling from my face down to my nape, fingers burying into my hair.

He pulls back, panting, his hand still stroking my hair, hips still undulating against mine. Then he grins. Pulls back his hips. Stares silently at me, eyelids heavy with lust.

I clear my throat. Swallow air. Take in a deep breath. "How'd you know?"

"That you're gay?"

I nod.

He snickers. "Apart from the way you eyefuck me every time you see me? And the woody you were sporting that time in the locker room?" He shrugs. "Lucky guess."

I roll my eyes. "Real fucking fu –"

I inhale sharply as he pushes his still rock hard cock into mine, and he takes advantage of my open mouth by shoving his tongue in it.

I groan. Lift a hand to his head. Tug on that damn ponytail.

"Fuck, yeah," he moans against my lips.

His left hand reaches for my face again and he pulls his head back slightly, only far enough so our noses still touch, so our lips brush when he speaks:

"So, Cullen, you ever been touched by a guy before?"

This time he doesn't bother waiting for my reply before his lips are pushed against mine again, his tongue fucking my mouth, his hand travelling down my stomach…

And I gasp; just about cream myself when I feel his hand palming me through my jeans, my hips bucking into his hand desperately.


"Edward," he replies, sucking on my jaw line. "You like that?"


Both his hands travel to my groin, his lips planting kisses along my jaw, along my neck, along my collarbone, and I feel him unzipping and unbuttoning my jeans.

And then –

"Oh, God. Holy… Fuck…"

His hand begins stroking me, slowly at first. His palm circles my head, causing me to shudder every time it does. My stomach clenches. Eyes roll back. I'm groaning uncontrollably. Hips thrusting wildly –

His hand moves faster.

Knees start to shake. My hand grips his ponytail, tugs hard. Eyes squeeze shut. Eyebrows push together. Lips part. Breathing becomes erratic. Hips jerk irregularly –"

And I come.

And fuck, it feels good. So good. So fucking good I bury my face in his smooth, tan neck as my hips freeze in his hand, and I groan, loud and unabashed, and my lips can't help pressing soft kisses against him, and I should probably be embarrassed that I barely lasted five minutes, but I'm not because fuck, it felt so good, and his neck smells so good, and his skin feels so warm, and I feel fucking awesome, like I'm on E or something.

I feel his chest pressed against mine, feel his hand in my hair, stroking me, and we're silent for several minutes.

Then he chuckles. "How was that?"

My head feels too heavy to lift, so I mumble into his neck.


"Oh yeah?"


We're silent again for a while.


"So, Cullen, you ever been fucked by a guy before?"

My head snaps back at that, eyes meeting his, to find that he looks deadly serious – no hint of a smirk this time.

"No," I whisper, my heart starting to race.

"Do you wanna be fucked by a guy?"

All I can do is nod.

Then he does smile, dimples appearing lightly in his cheeks.

"C'mon," he says. Scratches at his jaw. Hooks an arm around my neck. "My car's parked outside."

When I frown at him, questioning, he snorts.

"I'm not gonna fuck you in here. Are you nuts? We'll go to my house."

We leave the bathroom, go down the stairs, slip past the living room, where Emmett and the other guys on the team are hanging out, and out the front door into the cool night air.

On the drive to his house, 'cause honestly, my gaydar is so shit I'm still not sure about this, I ask him,

"So… are you gay?"

He smirks, keeps his eyes focused on the road, shakes his head, crinkles his nose a little.

"Nah, I just like fucking Running Backs, you know? Just to say I can."

I tug on that fucking ponytail of his.

He laughs.