Total pages in book: 48
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48306 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
My phone dings.
Still there?
No. Say no, or just don’t fucking respond you fucking idiot.
We’re beyond the pale here, and way, way over the line. This isn’t just some woman I’ve got an inkling I shouldn’t be flirting with, or even speaking too. This is Waverly Owens. My barely legal, utterly forbidden, her-mom-is-my-boss, say-goodbye-to-your-career off-limits Waverly Owens.
And yet, she’s more than that, and there’s my problem. She’s also gorgeous, and captivating, and irresistible in a way I haven’t felt, well, ever. It’s more than lust, too. I wish I could just chalk this madness up to blue balls from over a week of flirty texts, and scandalous pictures, and filthy suggestions, and promises of what would happen when we met. I wish it was just that, but it’s not.
I’ve looked at the situation with clear eyes. Even before I knew that my mystery girl was actually her, I stroked my cock, came, and looked at what I thought about the whole thing with clear, post-orgasm clarity. And I was still into her. But now that I know who she is? Now that I know that the girl behind the words that got my blood boiling and had me excited for what comes tomorrow for the first time in years?
Now it’s worse.
I don’t know if it’s the forbidden nature of it, or maybe it’s that I’ve been captivated by Waverly Owens for far longer than I should ever admit. There’s a closeness between a coach and athlete—more so when you’re both half naked and wet in a pool together. But again, that’s not it. It’s not just that I’m revved up, or hard over this barely legal prick tease.
It’s that I’m hard for her, specifically. The forbidden might be part of it, but the root problem is Waverly.
…The problem here is that I fucking want her, and the more I deny it, the worse it gets.
Yeah, I’m here.
This is me stepping over the line. Because I know I just passed the last exit on this highway, and now, I know there’s no going back.
What’s your endgame here.
My message sends, and I frown, sitting back into the couch with my hand just resting on my cock, my pulse racing.
The little dots of her typing appear, and then suddenly, a picture sends through.
I growl.
She’s ditched the bra, and now it’s just a shot of her bare tits, with those perfect little pink nipples hard and begging to be sucked. I groan, my cock swelling almost painfully hard against my jeans. There’s a roaring in my ears, and before I know it, I’m yanking my belt open and tugging at my zipper.
Waverly sends an emoji of a winking smiley face, and I snap, swiping to her number and dialing.
“What the fuck are we doing,” I hiss when she picks up.
“I—I don’t know.”
The saucy boldness from her texts is gone when we’re talking voice-to-voice for real, and there’s an innocence in her tone that has my muscles straining and my pulse racing.
“Fuck, Waverly,” I groan. “We need to stop this.”
“Why?”
“Because this is wrong, and you know it.”
“So do you,” she breathes, her voice tight.
And I do. So why in the hell am I even talking to her right now?
Oh, right, because I may or may not be completely wrapped around her finger at this point.
“No more pictures,” I groan. “I’m serious, Waverly. Please.”
“Oh, there won’t be.” There’s a pause. “Not until you send some of you.”
I grin, shaking my head.
“You trying to see my tits, Waverly?”
She giggles.
“Maybe.”
What are you doing? Stop this shit right now.
But deep down, I know I stopped listening to that voice of reason in my head the second I even answered her first text. I reach down and grab the hem of my t-shirt, yanking it over my head and tossing it aside. And before I know it, I’m bringing up the camera app on my phone and snapping a shot of my bare chest and torso and hitting send.
Waverly laughs. “Wait did you seriously just text me—”
Her words catch, and I hear her breath softly.
“Checkmate,” I growl, a hungry grin on my face.
“Oh, are we playing a game?” she whispers.
One with stakes higher than I even want to admit, I groan to myself.
“Maybe I’m just curious how far you’ll go,” I growl lowly. “Maybe I’m just curious when you’ll realize you’re in over your head.”
“With you?” She swallows. “Oh, Coach.”
Fuck. The way she says my title like that has my cock straining as my hand slides under the denim to stroke my length through the cotton of my boxers.
“I was born in the deep end.”
I chuckle darkly. “You want to dance, little girl?”
Her breath catches.
“You want to play bad girl with me?”
There’s a soft whimper through the phone, and my eyes close, my jaw clenching as I grip my cock and stroke.