13: Untouched

Asher’s POV

The college soccer field was a hive of focused energy, a vibrant green stage where the sharp, rhythmic sounds of cleats digging into the lush grass echoed under the late afternoon sun. Coach Vic’s sharp whistles and booming instructions punctuated the air, a familiar soundtrack to years of relentless training. Long shadows stretched from the goalposts as the sun began its slow descent, the air still carrying the lingering warmth of the day, a warmth that did little to soothe the firestorm raging within me.

I went through the motions of the passing drill, my body moving on autopilot, years of ingrained muscle memory guiding my feet and the precise angle of my passes. But my focus was a shattered thing, each fragmented thought, no matter how I tried to steer it towards the game, inevitably veering back to Cecilia. Her. I glanced towards the stands, a constant, almost masochistic habit I couldn't seem to break. I spotted her instantly, the familiar curve of her shoulders, the way she leaned forward, her gaze fixed intently on Julian down on the field, her hands clapping with what looked like genuine enthusiasm. A searing jolt of jealousy ripped through me, a physical blow to my chest, a tight knot forming in my gut. Each cheer she directed at my roommate, at him, felt like a shard of glass twisting inside me. She was cheering for him. She was looking at him with that soft, adoring expression. A primal possessiveness, a fierce, territorial instinct I hadn't known I possessed, clawed at me, tightening my groin with a frustrated, aching need.

Isla’s bright cheers reached me from somewhere down the stands, a distant, meaningless sound that barely registered. I vaguely felt her pat me on the back as I jogged past the sideline during a water break, the touch as significant as a fly landing on my arm. My entire world had shrunk, the edges blurring, leaving only the sharp, agonizing clarity of Cecilia watching Julian.

I had always been in love with her, a slow burn that had ignited years ago in the awkward hallways of middle school, intensifying with every shared laugh, every whispered confidence under the bleachers, every late-night study session where our knees would brush accidentally. That night… the memory flared, unbidden and potent, a vivid, almost tangible thing that made my breath catch. The unexpected softness of her skin beneath my hesitant fingers, the tentative exploration that quickly turned desperate, fueled by years of unspoken longing, the raw, visceral connection I felt as she tightened around me, her inner muscles clenching with surprising strength. I remembered the surprised gasp that escaped her lips when I first thrust deep, the way her nails dug into my back as her pleasure mounted, a wild, untamed response that had momentarily convinced me… For a fleeting, glorious moment, when she had come to my dorm, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something else, something that had felt undeniably like desire, I’d dared to believe she finally saw me, really saw me, as more than just a friend, as someone she wanted. But then… Julian’s name, a strangled cry that had ripped through the fragile intimacy at the peak of her release, tainting the most exquisite sensation I’d ever known with a bitter, unwelcome reality.

A fierce wave of longing washes over me now, a desperate, aching need. I want to grab her, pull her close until her breath mingles with mine, feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest, the scent of her shampoo filling my nostrils. I crave the feel of her legs wrapped tight around my waist, the possessive grip of her inner muscles milking my cock until I’m shuddering and weak, I wanted to hear her scream my name the same way she screamed Julian’s that night. The memory stirs a potent ache, a physical need that threatens to become dangerously visible in the tight confines of my soccer shorts. I clench my jaw, forcing my attention to the worn leather of the ball, to the repetitive drills, anything to ground myself before my burgeoning arousal betrays me to the world.

I catch a glimpse of Isla making her way up the stands towards Cecilia and Maya. A cynical smirk touches my lips. Isla,  the concerned girlfriend, was probably trying to decipher the sudden shift she and Julian sensed at lunch. I never truly cared for Isla. She was… pleasant enough, easy company, a pretty face to take to parties. But the truth, a truth I’d buried deep for years, was that I’d only pursued her because Cecilia had casually suggested it once, years ago, a misguided attempt at normalcy, at suppressing the unyielding fire I felt for her. I’d clung to Isla, a pale, unsatisfying imitation of the real, consuming desire that raged within me for Cecilia. I’d never wanted anyone the way I wanted Cecilia – with a fierce, possessive need that bordered on obsession, a yearning that had taken root in our shared history and blossomed into a desperate, all-consuming love. And now, having tasted that forbidden fruit, even for a stolen, intoxicating moment, the craving was a constant, agonizing torment, a phantom limb that ached with a need that could never be fully met.

I had to see Cecilia the morning after. The memory of her soft cries, the way her body had responded to mine with a mixture of hesitant wonder and escalating passion, the sheer impossibility of it all had haunted my sleep. I had to see her, had to know it wasn’t just a fevered dream born of years of unrequited longing. The faint, almost invisible bloodstain I’d found on my sheets that morning, a stark and unexpected testament to our hurried, desperate joining and her untouched innocence, had confirmed it wasn’t a dream. It had happened. And the raw, visceral need to hold her again, to explore the uncharted territory we had briefly stumbled upon, was a constant, gnawing ache. The realization of her virginity added a layer of profound significance to our encounter, a weight of responsibility and a burgeoning sense of protectiveness mingling with the raw desire.

During lunch, seeing her sitting with Julian, the intimacy they shared was a fresh stab wound. I had to know if I was the only one tormented by the memory, if I was the only one who wanted more. Wrapping my arm around Isla, pulling her close, had been a calculated move, a desperate attempt to gauge Cecilia’s reaction. The flash of jealousy in her eyes, quickly masked by guilt, had been a small, twisted satisfaction. She felt it too. She was as tormented as I was. That knowledge, that shared burden of desire, offered a sliver of perverse comfort amidst the agonizing reality of her being with Julian.

I force another pass, the ball connecting with my cleat with a dull thud, my movements jerky and uncoordinated as my gaze flickers back to the stands, a silent, desperate plea etched in my eyes, a raw yearning directed at the woman who unknowingly held my entire world – and my constant, throbbing desire – captive.