Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 431(@300wpm)
“Holy mother of God, I missed that ass.”
I snap straight, smile gone and my body too stiff to turn toward the voice that makes my shoulders hike around my ears. “What do you want, Prescott?”
“You. Naked. Wrapped around my dick.”
My stomach caves in, and a bead of sweat trickles down my temple. I straighten my spine. “I have a better idea. How about you tuck your dick between your legs, dance like Buffalo Bill, and go fuck yourself.”
“You’re so nasty,” Prescott says with a smile in his voice as he prowls into my line of sight.
He stops an appropriate distance away, but not far enough. I step back.
His long hair stops at his jawline, the blond strands bleached by the Caribbean sun or wherever he spends his summers. If his tie and button-up are stifling him in this heat, he doesn’t show it as he takes his time unnerving me with his wandering gaze.
I don’t understand why the girls at Le Moyne fight over him. His nose is too long, his front tooth is crooked, and his tongue squirms like a worm whenever he shoves it in my mouth.
“Jesus, Ivory.” His focus zeroes in on my chest, burning my skin beneath the top. “Your tits grew another cup size over the summer.”
I fight my shoulders into a relaxed position. “If you’re asking for my help this year, try again.”
His eyes remain locked on my chest, his long fingers tightening around his sack lunch. “I want you.”
“You want me to do your homework.”
“That, too.”
The huskiness in his voice makes me shiver. I wrap my arms around my chest, hating how noticeable my boobs are, hating the way he flagrantly stares at them, hating that I depend on him.
His gaze finally lifts, landing on my mouth. “What happened to your lip? Catch it on a cock ring?”
I shrug. “It was a really big…ring.”
His expression darkens with jealousy, and I hate that, too.
“You should get one.” I tilt my head at the forced sound of his laughter. “Why not? It increases the pleasure.” I don’t know anything about piercings, but I can’t pass up the dig. “If you had one, you might actually make a girl come.”
His strained laugh cuts off with a cough. “Wait, what?” His eyes harden. “I make you come.”
Sex with him is a lot like removing a tampon. A quick tug that leads to a repulsive mess, one I discard from my mind until it has to be done again. I don’t bother telling him this. He can see it all in my glare.
“That’s bullshit.” He charges forward, crossing the boundary of what onlookers would consider friendly conversation.
When he reaches for my arm, I glance up at the Campus Center building and find the empty window of the dean’s office. “Your mom’s watching.”
“You’re a lying bitch.” He doesn’t look up, but his hand drops.
“If you want my help, I’m going to need an advance.”
He barks out a disgusted laugh. “Hells no.”
“Suit yourself.” I take off at a sprint, keeping to the grass along the track where it doesn’t burn my bare feet.
It only takes a couple seconds for Prescott’s long legs to catch up. “Hang on, Ivory.” Sweat forms on his face as he jogs beside me in his collared shirt. “Will you just stop for a minute?”
I slow my strides, anchor my fists on my hips, and wait for him to catch his breath.
“Look, I don’t have any cash on me right now.” He pulls at the pockets of his slacks. “But I’ll pay you tonight.”
Tonight. My stomach buckles, but I smile through it and pluck the sack lunch out of his hand. “This will do until then.”
Lunch is the only advance I needed anyway. He has an unlimited balance in the cafeteria, so it’s not like he’ll go hungry.
He looks at my bare feet, at the paper bag in my hand, and pauses on my busted lip. For a guy who struggles with algebra, he’s not stupid. More like disinterested. Disinterested in my problems. Disinterested in the curriculum.
None of us are here to study quadratic equations or cell biology. We came for the arts program, to dance, to sing, to play our instruments, and to get accepted at the music conservatory of our choosing. Prescott would rather devote his time to fucking and playing classical guitar, not writing a history report en Français. Lucky for him, he doesn’t have to bother with academic coursework. Not when he can pay me to do it for him.
He isn’t the only entitled prick at Le Moyne, but I limit my services to those with the biggest wallets and the most to lose. We all know the risks. If one of us goes down, we all go down. Unfortunately, my little circle of cheaters is largely made up of Prescott and his friends.