Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 77287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Filthy.
Fucked up.
Just how I like it.
“Satisfying,” I tell her.
It’s only a few minutes before the first students start to file into the classroom. Dr. Sellwood and I have the handouts about the French Revolution ready to pass out, and I walk around the classroom, placing a handout on each desk before heading back to the front.
I see a fuzzy hoodie from my peripheral vision before I hear his voice.
That voice.
Acid pools in my stomach, and suddenly I’m wishing the paper in my hand was a brick, instead.
Weston just walked into the classroom, side-by-side with his Onyx Society buddy Noah. Next to one another, they look like day and night: Wes with his golden hair and hoodie, and Noah looking like a young blue-eyed Keanu Reeves, with black hair and a sleepy vibe.
They walk around like they know they’re hot, rich as sin, and untouchable.
Well, Noah, at least.
Wes is bashful and desperate under that stony, serious exterior, it turns out.
“Daggers guys are going to flip,” I overhear Wes saying to Noah.
My ears perk up.
He’s saying something about Double Daggers, but I can’t figure out what.
Weston walks into the classroom without looking toward me and the professor at the front. He takes one of the seats near the middle next to Noah, and the two of them chat under their breath about society shit.
Wes looks nothing like he did Saturday night.
His hair is fresh and pushed back like normal instead of falling over at one side of his head.
I can still remember what his cheeks looked like, flushed and hot for me. What his cock looked like, fucking dripping with precum after I touched him.
You wanted it so bad, Knox.
Dr. Sellwood finally closes the door and begins class, stepping toward the desk at the center and getting everyone to shut up.
Weston finally looks up and meets my eyes, and he freezes.
Just like he froze the other night. It’s that same deer-in-headlights look, right when he sees me.
My cock responds, hardening under my pants.
“Welcome in,” Dr. Sellwood’s saying now, saying she was happy with everyone’s midterm exam scores. “And since we’re in the second quarter of the semester now, we’re welcoming our new TA. Sevan is here to assist me in class and run discussions when we break off into groups. The French Revolution is a little messy, and the coursework will be challenging.”
Wes is looking at me like he’s got me in crosshairs, and for some reason it’s going straight to my dick.
He watches me like he wants to start a war.
Does he really think he can play with me like that? A big, muscular fucking thorn in my side, sitting there in a fuzzy Crimson College sweater?
You have no idea what you are doing, Weston.
I watch his hand go up in the air, and when Dr. Sellwood nods at him to ask his question, I’m tempted to stride over and shut him up by pushing my fingers in his mouth again.
“Is it possible to schedule private office hours with the TA?” he asks. “If I need extra help?”
Fucking with me.
Like you actually can’t help yourself.
“He will always be available to you after class,” Dr. Sellwood tells him. “You’ll need to work it out one-on-one if you feel you need deeper instruction.”
Wes nods. “Thank you.”
He said thank you to me Saturday night, too, in a very different way. He gives me a pointed look, not smiling, staring me right in the eyes as the professor gets started with class.
What exactly do you want with me, Knox?
I’m three whiskeys deep later that night as I lean deep under the hood of my Mustang.
The smell of oil fills the tight space around me, a comforting smell that should be calming me down but isn’t. The Double Daggers parking lot was calm earlier, but now it’s evening, and moths are starting to beeline to my small light over the engine. I was also sober when I got started on replacing the heater box, but now I’m paying for the decision to sip whiskey while doing auto repair, screwing up simple things when I should know better.
The heater box reassembly was a bitch. Getting the fucker back under the hood should be simple, but it isn’t.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath, leaning back out of the hood and straightening my spine. I wipe at my forehead with my arm.
The air outside is in the humid in-between state that happens a lot in spring, where I’m somehow chilly but still sweating from the physical exertion of repair work.
My skin is too warm for comfort. Nothing feels right. I need to get the nuts fastened again and I can drop the hood and be done for today. I love my classic Mustang more than most things in the world, but my brain is fried.
Maybe I need release.
Why the fuck am I so pent-up?