Yours Truly: Loving the One I Shouldn’t

[Maddox]

I’ve always been the guy no one notices. Average grades, average face, average everything.  

On campus, I’m just a furniture — there when you need a seat in the lecture hall, forgotten the second you leave. That invisibility used to sting. Now? It’s my superpower.  

Because when the lights go out and everyone else is chasing parties or hookups, I’m in my tiny dorm room, fingers flying across the keyboard, writing the kind of stories that make people blush behind their phones.  

Anonymous submissions to the university literary magazine. No byline, just the pseudonym “Yours Truly.”  

Readers devour them. Comments flood the forums; filthy, hot and imaginative as hell. But there’s always that one recurring jab: “Bet the author’s a virgin. Those positions sound completely made-up.”  

It hurts because they’re right. I’ve never even kissed anyone properly, let alone done half the things I describe in graphic detail. My imagination runs wild, but reality? Locked and empty.  

That’s why I’m here tonight.  

Damian Prescott. Campus legend. Soccer captain with effortless charm, the kind of guy who walks into a room and steals all the oxygen.  

Rumors follow him like perfume. Every girl he’s ever dated leaves singing praises about his stamina, his creativity, the way he makes you feel like the only person in the world while he’s wrecking you.  

Some whispers say he doesn’t discriminate… that he swings both ways.  

I’ve never confirmed it. I’ve only observed from afar. Fantasized in secret. And now, I need real material. Something raw. Something authentic to make my next chapter stop feeling fake.  

His roommate is gone for the weekend, some family thing upstate. Don’t judge me for stalking him. You’d do the same if you were me.  

I slipped into the dorm building after midnight, heart hammering like I was robbing a bank. The door to room 312 wasn’t even locked properly. How does this guy even survive?  

Inside, the room smelled like him. Clean sweat, expensive cologne, faint laundry detergent, and something darker. Sex, maybe. Or just wishful thinking.  

The space was surprisingly tidy for a jock. Bed made, desk organized, soccer legends staring down from the posters.  

I started with the nightstand drawer. Condoms—extra large, of course—lube, and a few charging cables. No diary. No scandalous photos. My frustration burned hotter with every empty drawer.  

I moved to the wardrobe, one of those tall built-in ones with sliding doors. I slid it open carefully. Jerseys, button-downs, and jeans that probably cost more than my monthly rent hung in neat rows. I rifled through the pockets, desperate for a forgotten note, a hotel receipt, anything.  

Nothing.

I heard footsteps from the hallway, then the door handle rattles and panic hit me like ice water.

Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

I dove into the wardrobe, yanking the door shut just as the main door swung open. My back pressed against hanging shirts, fabric brushing my face. I held my breath, praying I wouldn’t be caught.  

Damian’s voice filled the room, low and amused. “Come here.”  

A feminine giggle answered and the door clicked shut.  

They crash together immediately. Lips on lips, hungry like wolves. Clothes rustle and a soft moan comes from the girl. 

My pulse thunders in my ears. This is it. This is the raw material I came for.

Through the thin slats in the wardrobe door, I watched. Damian had her pinned against the wall beside his bed, one hand buried in her blonde hair, the other sliding under her skirt. 

She arched into him, gasping his name like a prayer. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, drawing out another whimper.  

“Fuck, you’re eager tonight,” he murmured, voice rough with lust. “Missed this?”  

She nodded frantically. His hand disappeared between her thighs and her head fell back.  

I should have looked away. I couldn’t. My body betrayed me, heat pooling low in my stomach, my cock twitching painfully against my jeans. And it wasn’t because of her. It was because of HIM. The way he moved. The raw confidence. I hated how much it turned me on.  

I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood. This is research, I told myself. An Inspiration. My next chapter needed this kind of heat. This unscripted urgency.  

Damian pulled back just enough to yank his shirt over his head, revealing broad shoulders, defined abs, and that deep V-line disappearing into his low-slung jeans. He was beautiful in a way that felt unfair.  

Then he popped the button on his pants and shoved them down along with his boxers in one smooth motion.  

Holy shit.

The rumors didn’t do him justice. He was thick, hard, flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. He stroked himself once, lazily, while the blonde dropped to her knees like it was second nature.  

She took him into her mouth. Damian groaned, fingers tangling in her hair as he guided her deeper. Slow at first, then faster. Wet, obscene sounds filled the room. My breathing turned ragged. I pressed a hand over my mouth, desperate to stay silent.  

Every slide of her lips, every flex of his hips. I cataloged it all. The arch of his back. The way his abs tightened. How his thighs trembled just slightly when she hollowed her cheeks.  

This was gold. Filthy, perfect gold.  

But then something shifted. Damian’s eyes flicked toward the wardrobe. Just for a second.

Did he…?

No. Focus. She was working him harder now, moaning around his length. He was close, his hips were stuttering, and I could hear his  breath hitching.  

Suddenly, he pulled her off with a wet pop. “Not tonight,” he said, voice strained but calm. “Go home, babe. I’ll text you.”  

She blinked up at him, confused, her lips swollen. “But…”  

“Later.” He helped her up and kissed her forehead almost gently. “Promise.”  

She left and the door clicked shut behind her.

What the hell?…wait, ohmygod, he’s walking straight toward me.

Before I could react, the door was yanked open.  

I stumbled forward, my knees weak, my heart lodged in my throat.  

Damian stood there, pants still undone, his cock still hard and glistening in the light. He didn’t bother covering up.  

He just smiled slowly, knowing and dangerously predatory.  

“So,” he said casually, like we were discussing the weather, “you’re the one who writes smuts huh?”  

His smile widened.  “I’m a fan.”