Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I lick my own palm, gather spit, and with my other hand slide it down between my legs, wetting my fingers even more. I want it messy. I want it filthy. I want to be the kind of girl who writes her own rules.
I run my fingers over my clit, then slip two inside my heated cunt, the stretch making me gasp. I pump slow, then fast, picturing Liam behind me, pinning me to his desk, fucking me hard enough to bruise. I want him to fill me up, to breed me, to make me his.
I lick my palm again, then gather it on my fingers, and smear it all over my pussy, working it in. I imagine my saliva is his come, hot and thick and meant for me, and the thought makes me clench, my whole body bowing off the mattress.
“Oh Liam,” I moan as my lashes drift shut. “Yes, use my body. Trash my pussy to make yourself feel good. It’s all yours.”
I rub faster, my thumb circling my clit, the fingers inside me twisting and curling, hunting for that spot. The sheets bunch under my ass, the air in the room is cold but my skin is burning. I want to come so bad it hurts.
“Liam,” I pant. “Suck my tits. Put your big cock in… mmmm, just like that.”
I press down, harder, rougher. My teeth sink into my lip, the taste of iron blooming behind my tongue. I moan, soft at first, then louder. I don’t care if the neighbors hear. I want them to.
The orgasm builds, thick and wild, and I hold onto it as long as I can, hips grinding, toes curled, every muscle tight and perfect. When it hits, it slams through me, a white-hot shock that makes me see stars. I clamp a hand over my mouth and scream into it, riding the wave until it flattens me.
“Mmmph!” is my wild moan as my pussy clamps and spasms, hot gusts of nectar dripping down my thighs. “Mmmmm!”
I twist and moan, shivers running through my sweetest spot as I see the huge man before me, his face coated in my juices as he ejaculates as well, filling me with thick, virile male cream.
Afterwards, I lie there, ruined, the sheets a disaster, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat. My heart is a runaway train, but for the first time all night, my head is clear.
I pull my pajama bottoms back up, sticky and cold now, and close my eyes. I can still feel Liam inside me, in my mouth, in my blood. I want more, but for tonight, this is enough.
I drift off, hand between my thighs, dreaming of the next time he calls me to his office, the next time he lets me kneel for him.
I sleep, finally, and the moon keeps watch.
7
QUICK, LOCK THE CLASSROOM DOOR!
SIMONE
It’s American Lit, again. I’m watching the second hand on the clock, willing it to crack the glass and cut a hole in time. The lecture hall hums with quiet energy and someone’s unzipped backpack is leaking Skittles onto the floor, each one hitting tile like a gunshot in the silence. I’m wearing my lucky white tee—it’s flattering and hugs my tits, makes them look like the kind of problem that should come with a trigger warning—and a navy skirt that barely covers the topography of my thighs. The sneakers are canvas and baby pink, like something a preteen would wear to cheerleading camp, but that’s the joke. I’m very aware of what I look like, but if Professor Thomas is, he’s doing a better job hiding it than I am.
It’s been too long since my “study session.” Five days, seventeen hours, and enough minutes for me to invent a conspiracy where he’s ghosting me on purpose, like the whole thing was an elaborate test and I already failed. No text, no DM, not even a glancing, “stay after class” in that voice that made my spine go jelly. I have refreshed my email exactly 73 times since last weekend. Nothing.
If he thinks I’m going to come crawling, he’s right, but I’m going to make it look like a victory lap.
He’s up at the podium, talking about Hawthorne’s “Young Goodman Brown,” which I already skimmed twice. I can recite the plot backwards: small town, fucked up woods, evil everywhere, and nothing is what it seems. Subtle, professor. Real subtle.
I prop my chin on my palm and stare at him. His hair looks longer today, a little mussed, the kind of look that costs a hundred bucks at the right barber. He wears these blue dress shirts that look like they should be illegal in Minnesota, sleeves rolled to the elbow, heavy forearms on display. When he gestures at the board, his veins twitch and everyone in the front row sighs in unison, like they just witnessed the birth of Venus.