Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
The only place I see his rage emerge is when he’s in the gym. I lift heavy, but Tate pushes his body’s limits like he’s trying to break himself.
“I’m glad you spotted me following you,” I tell him. “It means you’re paying enough attention to your surroundings.”
“I’m not oblivious.”
“Good. Next time I’ll come correct your shitty form on the bench press.”
He gives me a hard stare. “My form is perfect.”
“It’s almost perfect, but it is not.”
“Did you like it when I punched you in the fucking head? Because I kind of want to do that again right now.”
I can’t help but smile a little bit again as my cock perks up again under the table. “Try it, Tate. See what happens.”
The idea of it is delicious.
I want him to try to fight me so badly it’s confusing my entire goddamn body, and if I don’t fuck someone soon, I’m bound to get hard every time Tate challenges me like that.
My cock has always had a thing for bratty attitude and people who provoke me ‘til I fucking blow. But until now, that’s only been that way with women.
Tate leans forward, putting his arms on the table.
I catch another glimpse of his torso through the deep armholes of his shirt.
I want to grip him there again.
Yank him toward me.
Pin him down on this tabletop and watch him try to land a single punch on me.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, cutting through my thoughts.
“You.”
“Same.”
His eyes are so beautiful. My pulse quickens and my cock strains against my denim uncomfortably.
I bite my inner cheek.
“You bother me.”
“I know,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “You’re cute when you feed the birds on the bench outside my dorm, by the way.”
Something flips in my stomach, like a bright spotlight exposing my fucking soul.
“You saw that?” I ask.
Chyort voz-mi.
Damn him.
Sometimes I bring a packet of cheese crackers so I can break off some to give to the sparrows as I wait in the mornings. It’s something Mom and I did, when I was a kid, and she smiled at the way I made sure each bird got its own piece….
“I need to leave,” I tell him, getting up so fast I knock my knees into the edge of the table. “Are you done eating my food?”
4
Tate
Tate
Good morning.
Your Guardian Fucking Angel
Good morning, Blondin.
Did you sleep well?
I set my phone down on the blanket beside me, stretching out on the bed and squinting in the early morning light.
I look down and see the massive tent my morning wood is making under the sheets, and I wrap my fist around my dick, giving it a tight squeeze.
I’ve been texting Roman.
Every day.
It was initially a joke when I told him I’d send good morning texts, but… I started doing it after that day in the dining hall, and now I can’t stop. I’ve lost count of how many good morning texts I’ve sent him at this point, and usually the conversation doesn’t go much further than that.
Finally, my phone buzzes again.
Didn’t sleep much. Did you?
I had a dream about you.
Hm. Tell me.
I don’t think you want to know about it. I was sitting on your lap.
That’s pretty G-rated, Tate.
...I was sitting on your lap completely naked, facing you, while I sank down onto your cock.
My cock throbs as I send the message.
I don’t know if I should have sent it.
I’m too honest with everyone, and I always say too much, but at the end of the day I’m not trying to piss Roman off or push a boundary.
I reach below my sheets and grip my cock, and finally, my phone vibrates again.
Your Guardian Fucking Angel
You could not handle my cock.
I moan out loud when a photo comes through, and it’s a picture of Roman’s groin. He’s wearing thick grey sweatpants, and there is a distinct outline of his cock pressed up against his leg beneath.
It’s massive.
I had gotten an impression of it that night at the party, but I had no clue it was like this.
Obscenely fucking huge, lying against his leg as it presses through the grey cotton. I don’t even know if I’m seeing the entire thing, because the picture is dark and probably taken while he’s still in bed.
You sent that fucking picture just to brag. Holy shit, Roman.
You brought it up. I am not shy about my body.
How many inches is that?
Quit texting so much. I am busy.
Doing what?
He doesn’t respond for a solid ten minutes, and I idly stroke my cock as I wait for him to reply, feeling like I’m edging myself into oblivion every time I glance at his picture again.
When I get another message from him, I’m desperately hoping it’s a full, nude photo of his shaft, but instead, it’s just words.
I am going to class now. Stay safe for one hour, Tate, and contact me immediately if you feel unsafe.