The Drazen World: The Lesson (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Milana Raziel
punishing schedule for three years?
"It's no harder than your schedule during the season." She shrugged and looked away, apparently discomfited by my open admiration.
Why did I ever think of her as a frumpy, snippy little schoolmarm? She's got brass balls bigger than Margie's, and she looks like a Goth Snow White. Her Docs even have roses painted on them. I've had my head up my ass for far too long.
"Why finance? Why not pro ball? Coach says you've got the goods," she said.
She keeps steering the attention away from herself. I'll let it go—for now. "Family expectations. Only son. Blah blah blah. My sister has been doing the job for years, but she doesn't have the main qualification my father's looking for—a dick. So it's all on me." And I let my bitterness show. It felt good to drop the facade for a moment. She gave me one of her secrets, so I gave her one of mine. It was only fair.
After that, I steered the conversation back to the original reason for ducking into Kovac’s—Beau's questions about California. As we talked, someone fed a handful of quarters into the jukebox. Missy lit up with the music, her body a conduit for the beat. Beau and I had invaded her personal space, knee to knee on either side of her. He managed to take custody of her chair back, draping his arm around her, but that only gave me one place to rest my hand—her thigh. Her unconscious swaying to the music was like a caress that only served to get my dick's attention. As long as the conversation flowed, we were a cozy little trio, relaxed and laughing. We spoke about anything and everything. School. Sports. Our insane families. Anything but the buzz of sexual tension that was slowly building between us.
As we neared the end of our second round of drinks, I suggested a pop-up night club of sorts in the abandoned Metropolitan Opera House near Center City
. It was definitely off the Penn social radar so no worries about prying eyes.
. The main feature was some big deal, retro alternative/house DJ from Detroit. The mention of his name got a squeal from Missy. She was in . God. I just want this girl writhing against me. If it has to be at a makeshift club with competition in tow, so be it. Who am I kidding? I want her riding my cock—I'm not settling for some fake fucking on the dance floor.
I took care of the tab, and we gathered our belongings to head out. Missy tried to get ready to brave the elements, but I snatched the black beret out of her hand and stuffed it in my coat pocket. No way was that wild, shiny mass of dark hair going to be tamed and tucked away on my watch. In that second, it was all I could do not to go completely feral, grab her by that hair, and drag her back to my cave. Instead, I gave her my hand, feeling like a wolf cloaked in a gentleman's manners.
With the snow crunching under our feet, we approached my stripped G-Wagon double-parked at the tavern's door. In Philly, the combination of the Penn athletic complex parking sticker and California plates was the equivalent of diplomatic plates. A perk of being an entitled prick that I intended to exploit as long as possible—or at least until the spring thaw.
It took some cajoling from both of us, but Missy finally jumped in and settled in on Beau's lap. Thanks to the close confines and gearshift, her head was on my shoulder. Thank God it was a short drive . All I could think about was that hair caressing my body as she lay across my lap, her ass turning a lovely shade of scarlet with each smack, and gulped down tears with each stroke. I was getting hard just thinking about it.
MISSY
It was my moment of truth: climb into Jon's ridiculous, vehicular ode to testosterone and see where the night took us, or bolt for the campus bus stop and make a beeline to my dingy, depressing suite in the freshman dorms. Not even the financial aid office had the gall to call it a perk and count it against my scholarship. After my upstairs
"It's no harder than your schedule during the season." She shrugged and looked away, apparently discomfited by my open admiration.
Why did I ever think of her as a frumpy, snippy little schoolmarm? She's got brass balls bigger than Margie's, and she looks like a Goth Snow White. Her Docs even have roses painted on them. I've had my head up my ass for far too long.
"Why finance? Why not pro ball? Coach says you've got the goods," she said.
She keeps steering the attention away from herself. I'll let it go—for now. "Family expectations. Only son. Blah blah blah. My sister has been doing the job for years, but she doesn't have the main qualification my father's looking for—a dick. So it's all on me." And I let my bitterness show. It felt good to drop the facade for a moment. She gave me one of her secrets, so I gave her one of mine. It was only fair.
After that, I steered the conversation back to the original reason for ducking into Kovac’s—Beau's questions about California. As we talked, someone fed a handful of quarters into the jukebox. Missy lit up with the music, her body a conduit for the beat. Beau and I had invaded her personal space, knee to knee on either side of her. He managed to take custody of her chair back, draping his arm around her, but that only gave me one place to rest my hand—her thigh. Her unconscious swaying to the music was like a caress that only served to get my dick's attention. As long as the conversation flowed, we were a cozy little trio, relaxed and laughing. We spoke about anything and everything. School. Sports. Our insane families. Anything but the buzz of sexual tension that was slowly building between us.
As we neared the end of our second round of drinks, I suggested a pop-up night club of sorts in the abandoned Metropolitan Opera House near Center City
. It was definitely off the Penn social radar so no worries about prying eyes.
. The main feature was some big deal, retro alternative/house DJ from Detroit. The mention of his name got a squeal from Missy. She was in . God. I just want this girl writhing against me. If it has to be at a makeshift club with competition in tow, so be it. Who am I kidding? I want her riding my cock—I'm not settling for some fake fucking on the dance floor.
I took care of the tab, and we gathered our belongings to head out. Missy tried to get ready to brave the elements, but I snatched the black beret out of her hand and stuffed it in my coat pocket. No way was that wild, shiny mass of dark hair going to be tamed and tucked away on my watch. In that second, it was all I could do not to go completely feral, grab her by that hair, and drag her back to my cave. Instead, I gave her my hand, feeling like a wolf cloaked in a gentleman's manners.
With the snow crunching under our feet, we approached my stripped G-Wagon double-parked at the tavern's door. In Philly, the combination of the Penn athletic complex parking sticker and California plates was the equivalent of diplomatic plates. A perk of being an entitled prick that I intended to exploit as long as possible—or at least until the spring thaw.
It took some cajoling from both of us, but Missy finally jumped in and settled in on Beau's lap. Thanks to the close confines and gearshift, her head was on my shoulder. Thank God it was a short drive . All I could think about was that hair caressing my body as she lay across my lap, her ass turning a lovely shade of scarlet with each smack, and gulped down tears with each stroke. I was getting hard just thinking about it.
MISSY
It was my moment of truth: climb into Jon's ridiculous, vehicular ode to testosterone and see where the night took us, or bolt for the campus bus stop and make a beeline to my dingy, depressing suite in the freshman dorms. Not even the financial aid office had the gall to call it a perk and count it against my scholarship. After my upstairs
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