Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 34698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 173(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34698 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 173(@200wpm)___ 139(@250wpm)___ 116(@300wpm)
“This week was an introduction,” he warned. “Today…today, baby, I’m marking you as mine.”
It sounded crazy. And hot. Crazy hot, actually. I was immediately game. If I was going to fuck up my career, better enjoy the ride, right?
“Let’s see your ballerina’s balance as I fuck every other guy you’ve ever had out of you.”
With that, I heard his zipper rolling down as he freed his cock from his pants. His bulging head found the lips of my pussy, and I quivered in anticipation, lifting up slightly to gain more balance.
“Hands. On. Toes.” He bit the crook of my neck from behind and drew circles with his tip around my pussy, making me mad with need. He was also fucking bare.
“Jaime, wrap up and get in before I die.” My voice trembled.
“Shh,” my stalker said, ripping the condom wrapper with his teeth, still teasing my entrance from behind. “You just keep holding on to those toes, ballerina. I’ll take care of the rest.”
He went in slow. Painfully slow. Every inch of him took a second to go in, then slid back even slower. My legs quivered. I cried out in pleasure and frustration. This was torture of the highest level, but I was enjoying every minute.
“Faster,” I begged under my breath.
He wouldn’t listen. The next time he went in, it was even slower.
“Jaime.” I bit my lower lip. “Fuck me like you mean it.”
“Then act like you fucking want it,” he growled, grazing my shoulder with his teeth. “Don’t stand me up. Don’t give me shit when I’m ten minutes late, and don’t try and act like you don’t want this.”
Inch. Another inch. Another inch. It was a beautiful torture. I wanted to push him away and run to my bedroom to finish my business with my plastic boyfriend, Victor the Vibrator. But I wasn’t strong enough to resist him, no matter what he did to me.
“Fine,” I grunted. “Fine, I promise. Now fuck me.”
“That’s better,” he murmured, thrusting himself all the way in and making me stumble. He gathered my hair into a ponytail and jerked my head upward, pulling my body close to him so I wouldn’t crash. Then he fucked me so hard I felt numb from the waist down before he was done with me.
That’s what happens when you come seven times in one night, I thought as I wobbled toward my bed. By the time he went home, around midnight, I couldn’t feel my clit. Or my legs. Hell, not even my feet.
But he’d made his point crystal clear. And me? I wanted him to make it all over again.
DAYS FILLED WITH CHAIN ORGASMS and hurried kisses in hidden corners and deserted classes ticked by. A blur of bliss and danger, abandoned lust. The trick was not to think about it. Any part of it. Not about my future—as a teacher and an adult—or about what I was doing. And definitely not about who I was doing it with.
No longer in detention, Jaime found other creative ways to stick around after school and spend time with me. Mostly, we fell into a routine where he visited me at my apartment after his football drills with next year’s team.
Three weeks into our affair, when another Saturday rolled around, I was glad he had other plans. I finally mustered enough fake bravado to collect my thoughts and try and make sense of it all. The Saints were playing an exhibition scrimmage against the Kings of Sacramento, and technically, I could’ve supported my local team and watched Jaime play but decided against it. Putting some space between us and reminding myself that this was just casual fun was in my best interest. His too.
Besides, I’d made my own plans to meet my parents at an Italian joint in downtown Todos Santos this evening.
I did pass by the game on my way to Target that afternoon, taking the long way just so I could catch a glimpse of the game. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t about Jaime. Football was a big deal at All Saints High. But no matter how you looked at it, when I stopped at the red light and glanced across the road to the field, I was looking for number four. For Jaime Followhill. For the HotHole who always made my stomach dip like I’d just gotten on a rollercoaster. For the boy who felt too much like a man. And, sadly, for the guy who filled the void in me with more than just his arousal and hot flesh.
I found him standing on the sidelines, chewing on his mouthguard with his hands on his waist while nodding at something coach said to him. He looked distracted, and if I had the courage, I’d want to believe it was me he was thinking about.