Endless Bonds Copyright © 2016-2018 xXMopelXx All Rights Reserved.

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Milkshakes aren't enough to slake Trent's hunger. He's still starved and running on a sugar high.

When I politely decline his invitation to go visit the fair, he suggests going back to his place. I've never seen it and truthfully, I'm curious.

Since I've finished most of my school work for tomorrow, there's no reason to turn him down.

"All right," I say with a smile. "Let's go."

The hopeful glimmer in his eyes calls at something deep and primal inside of me. Dammit, he's so excited to have me over and he can't hide it. Sometimes he still gives me this slow reproachful look, like he's waiting for me to lash out at him.

I don't blame him. After all, he and I have gone at each other's throats before we decided to give this bestfriendship thing a try again. And, fuck me if it doesn't feel right.

The more I see him, despite our altered states, pieces of the old us resurface and lock together like lost puzzle pieces. Maybe this is what he means when he said there's always an us? The easy camaraderie between us can't be erased despite the strong hostility that's been present in the prior two years.

Trent eagerly toes off his shoes and ushers me inside his doorway when we reach.

His dorm room smells like fresh laundry and it's a lot spacious than mine and Sara's matchbox-size of a place. There's two neutral-tone beds, a sofa facing a TV and a few gaming systems.

"This place is so..." I search for words to describe its pristine condition and fail. "- not you."

"Huh?" He barely pays attention to me as he whips off his hoodie. The red flannel button-down underneath rises and exposes a glimpse of his taut stomach muscles... And a dark happy-trail.

My eyes stay fixated on the brief flicker of abs I see. What can I say? The boy has maintained those amazing babies. In high-school they were sigh-worthy. In college? They deserve drool and a whole lot of worship.

I avert my gaze when he catches me checking him out. Trent knows it anyway, based on the subdued shit-eating grin he slyly tosses my way.

I clear my throat, feeling heat creep up my neck. "Your place is actually clean. I remember coming over at your place and your room always being a mess. Now you actually do your laundry."

He keeps his grey beanie on - as if to tame his hair - and I find that I really like that about him. I mean, it complements his looks. I have a feeling that if I told Trent I admire his new way of accessorizing, he'll simply glare at me.

"Well, I don't live with my momma now, do I? I had to learn to fend for myself."

"True." I'm too busy admiring his back muscles and that tight jeans-clad ass of his as he trudges his hulking frame into the kitchenet.

"You don't wanna take 'em off?" he shoots me a pointed look as he reaches into his cabinet to pull out two glasses.

I'm still in a daze, because my brain short-circuits the second I see a peak of his CK briefs as he bends down to the bottom shelf of the fridge, pulling out somewhat of a water pitcher.

Then I register that he's asked me to take my clothes off. What the fuck? "Excuse me."

My incredulous tone stops him mid-action and he looks at me like I'm ten shades of crazy.

"Your shoes, Cherrycakes. You just going to stand there all night or actually join me?" He sets the pitcher on the counter and gives me a slight dumbfounded look. "Hate to break it to you, but Wyatt is a germaphobe. He doesn't let me wear shoes indoors. It's either socks or barefoot. The rules apply to you, too, sweetheart."

Oh...wow. Okay. He meant my shoes. I thought, he... I glance down at my dress, suddenly feeling shy and self-conscious. Then slightly miffed, because why is Trent Reynolds eliciting that kind of response out of me?

With a pinched smile, I take off my white vans and saunter after him. He smiles and pours cold water into two wine glasses.

It's the only sound that resounds between us.

My eyes seem to drop from what he's doing as I stare at his feet. He's barefoot, with no socks on. His toenails are well trimmed, and his big feet look soft, like he moisturizes. I mean, God. Cheryl, you know what they say about big feet. And his are pretty fucking long. Long just like his tented, mammoth sized dic-

"What's going to satisfy you, babe?"

I jerk my head up so fast that I choke on absolutely nothing, my dirty mind only replaying the words satisfy and dick.

"W-What are you talking about?"

The blues in his eyes look darker somehow. "You said you had cravings in the car. What do you want now? What are you craving?"

I suddenly have a mental image of Trent naked on his bed, one arm curled behind his head, the other one wrapped around the nape of my neck as he tugs me closer between his thighs.

Oh my God, I haven't had one of those dreams since high school.

My mouth parts in realization. I start to get all warm and fuzzy. There's the beginning of a slow burn inside of me, a trickling heat that runs through me in lighting speed.

Trent's eyebrow arches sexily. He's got that lazy smirk inching upon his lips. "You okay, Cher?"

No. No, I'm not. Why am I having these thoughts? Am I horny? I mean, I had sex this weekend. Great, deep-in-me, phenomenal sex with my fiancée.

I blink, not understanding why my brain even conjured up such an old memory. Such an old dream. The sixteen-year-old me really loved an eighteen-year-old Trent. But even I can't remember the last time I had the recurring dream of him spreading his thighs and letting me blow him.

I'm feeling really fucking off.

"Y-Yeah, I'm fine."

Trent doesn't look like he believes me.

* * *

He remembers. He actually fucking remembers.

The smile on my face is ludicrous, but I can't bring myself to wipe it off as Trent settles next to me on the sofa, and hands me a plate with heaping warm scrambled eggs and toast.

He told me to take a seat on the couch while he threw together something quick. I just didn't know that it would be this.

"Our tradition," I whisper, taking the plate with a numb quality. I feel like I'm having an experience where I'm not all there and, instead, watching the moment unfold from the outside.

When Trent flashes me his dimples, I think back to the last two years and how I never thought we'd be here, sitting together and enjoying what we left behind.

"You remember," he murmurs back, his baby blues dancing with mischief.

I laugh around a mouthful of toast, like the lady that I am. "I never forgot. Oh - but I didn't make you a P&J."

He holds up another plate that I didn't see before, and there lies the sandwich he's made for himself. "I've got one."

I frown as I shove a forkful of eggs into my mouth. "Next time let me make it for you. It's only fair."

Trent kicks his feet up on the coffee table before us and switches on Netflix. "Sure thing, babe. Now, what are you in the mood for?"

Babe. Babe. Babe. "Um...anything. But no action tonight. I want to watch a comedy or something."

No action tonight, Cher.

"Got it." He puts on a random chick-flick from the 90's. "This good?"

"Sure." I'm too busy devouring my plate.

I realized earlier on in my life that Trenton Reynolds excels at two things: football and scrambled eggs.

I try to mask my burp and fail. It's loud...So loud that it feels like it ricochets through the entire damn place.

Trent shoots me a semi-disgusted, amused look. "You're fucking disgusting."

"Deal with it, sweetheart," I parrot his words back at him and burp again. Maybe a few weeks ago I'd be embarrassed, but I've known Trenton my whole life. He's my best friend. He knows that when it comes to food, my lady lessons always fly out the window.

Pushing a glass of water my way, he smirks. "Drink up, you pig."

He's my opposite. Handling his sandwich with grace, those long masculine fingers grab hold of a slice delicately. He even chews without opening his mouth. Most guys I know have crumbs all over them when they eat. Not Trenton. He's too proper for that.

My eyes follow the way his corded neck works with a powerful swallow. They trace the angular quality of his jawline, peppered with a few days growth. And, lastly, they fall over his laughing eyes.

"Are you done checking me out?"

I don't know? Maybe. For some reason, there's something different tonight. I can't keep my eyes to myself. Or my thoughts, for that matter. "You should keep the scruff; it looks good."

He licks his lips, his eyes still on the TV. "Noted."

Trent finishes the rest of his sandwich in silence and my attention is drawn to the movie. Yet I hear him getting up to put our plates away and then the sound of the water as he washes his hands.

The sofa decreases as he plops down. "Cher?"

"Hmm?" I look over at him.

He's taking the beanie off his head and I realize how much I like the longish strands of his hair. In high school, they were always short-cropped.

The length is perfect; it's not touch-your-neck type of long. It's slightly shaggy, and fuller on the top. Almost as if he hasn't had the time to cut his hair.

He runs his fingers through it, and I'm struck with the image of what his chocolate brown strands would look like sifting through much more feminine and dainty fingers. My fingers -

"You're sitting so far away. Come closer."

I shake the thought out of my head, grateful for the darkness in the room. This way, at least he can't notice my flushed appearance. My, God. Maybe I am a pig. A horny pig who's turning every little word into a sexual fantasy.

Trent says nothing when I curl up into his side, my head resting gingerly on his shoulder.

His response is to curve his arm around me.

I'm wafted with the scent of his familiar musky cologne. I inhale softly.

It's never changed.

He holds me tight to him.

* * *

There's an unyielding wall of muscle beneath my cheek. Stone hard. It's kind of comfortable, I guess. But it's wet. Hmm.

My eyes slowly flutter open. In the dark, I feel blinded by the harsh light emanating from the TV.

There's a groggy feeling consuming me. I croak an awkward sound as I lift my head, trying to figure out why my entire body is sprawled on a taut surface.

Something warm trickles down my chin. It takes me a second to dab at it and realize it's drool. My drool. I look down at said unyielding wall of muscle and, much to my horror, figure out it's Trent's fucking chest.

Oh. My. God. I've drooled all over him.

It takes two more seconds before everything comes crashing down. I freeze. I'm at Trent's place. We were watching a movie. My eyes float over to the digital clock in the room and I'm stunned to find it reads three a.m.

The most stunning - and admittedly, the most embarrassing - thing that drives the horror home, is the fact that I'm lying over Trenton Reynolds, with his arms bracketing me close to his chest, his face tucked into my hair. As if that isn't bad enough, I can feel his warm palm cradling the globe of one ass cheek. Dammit, I can feel the breeze and I know that the skirt of my dress, along with my pink thong, is askew.

I'm panicking now. In the midst of all my fumbling, Trent wakes up and squeezes the life out of me and my ass cheek.

"Trent," I wheeze, trying to bat his hands away, but he's encasing me too strongly. "Can't breathe."

Finally, his hands are roving over more platonic zones - my back and waist - and he's slowly sitting up, taking me with him.

His eyes are sleep-laced and confused. In that hot-as-hell, I-just-woke-up voice, he murmurs, "Cher?"

I can't hide my mortification as I try to fix my thong and dress. My arm goes around his neck as I try to steady him and I. "Mind letting me go? You've kind of, uh, got me trapped."

"Mmm?" he mumbles all gruffly, not understanding anything after our nap. Then he proceeds to close his eyes and fall back on the couch, taking me with him once more.

"No. No. No. Wake up, Trent. It's three a.m. in the morning. I need to go home."

My body is plastered to his. He's so strong that even I, in my struggle to get free, can't escape his hold. I'm raised on my arms at either side of him, but his arms are heavy around my lower back. "Trent, please. Ugh."

He mumbles another unintelligible sound and I punch him feebly in the chest. "Wake up, you moron. We don't take nap times together anymore. We're not five. Let me go, please."

With my energy drained and my mind all mushy from the three hour sleep I had in his arms (how did we even fall asleep, though), I collapse on top on him

And unceremoniously knock our foreheads together.

"Ouch, what the fuck." His entire body jerks beneath mine, and I feel every rise and slide of his honed-by-years-of-football muscles.

"Oh, nice. That wakes you up. Could you stop holding onto me? I think you're crushing my windpipes."

Immediately Trent lets go of me as if he realizes the magnitude of our situation and sits up straight so quickly that he almost knocks me off the couch. "Oh, fuck."

I flail and let out a small shriek. Trent's just in time to break my fall as he yanks me to him protectively.

The momentum is so strong that it knocks the air out of my lungs as we collide.

Our lips barely brush against one another. It's only two seconds. Yet in those two longest seconds of my life, I've felt the harshness of his stubble, the warmth of his breath and the soft touch of his lips against my face.

I gasp, and Trent lets out the deepest of masculine sounds. It's apologetic.

In the darkness, our eyes seek each other. There's nothing to say.

"I..." he whispers. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," I hush back. I'm still sitting astride of him and I don't even know why. My fingers curl into his shoulders.

"I didn't realize we fell asleep...Or that I was crushing you. I'm sorry."

For some inexplicable reason, I can't look away from his eyes as he speaks. The hungry look doesn't go unnoticed by me. It's stamped in my mind now and I know I'll be filing it away for later, just like I've done for every fantasy I've had in the last few years.

My eyes drop to his lips.

Trent's mouth parts a little and his eyes are drawn to my own lips like a moth to a flame. His hand fists the back of my dress and the other one inches towards my collarbone. "Cher, I..."

I touch my lips with my thumb, still reeling in the warmness of a mere moment ago. Knowing that this needs to end where it is. "T-Trent, I need to go. It's late."

When his hand wraps around my wrist, I drop my hand because it feels heavy. My left hand, ring finger is empty, but it's never felt heavier.

"Trent, I need to go," I say more firmly, not understanding the electrifying moment that's pulsating between us in the dark. "This was a mistake."

I no longer know what I'm referring too. Coming over. Falling asleep with him. Brushing my lips with his. It's all a blurr.

Trent's swallow looks like it hurts. Those hooded eyes never look from my lips as he rasps, "I know, sweetheart."

There isn't anything to say as I high-tail it out of his place, with fear lodged in my throat and my heart pounding a drumming tattoo against my chest.

Too close, I'm left thinking as I run down his staircase.

That's twice now. I push open the door and let the light breeze hit me.

Babe. Babe. Babe. I know, sweetheart.

I'm left dry-mouthed at the thought of Pierre and my naked ring finger.

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