Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“I don’t see it as progress,” I say.
“Why’s that?”
The answer is obvious. College isn’t a job. There’s no worth to it. No value in it.
I don’t know what the hell I’m doing with my life. I’m not offering anything to anyone. I’m just … here. How is that progress? It’s better for me, don’t get me wrong. It’s not better for anyone else, though.
“I don’t see the point to it.” I pause and swallow thickly, bending forward and repositioning so my elbows are on my knees. I can feel the stretch through my back, loosening my tight shoulders and coiled muscles. “I like the team, I like the gym.”
“The physical release?” he asks me, and I can’t help but think of Allison.
My fingers interlace as I nod. “Yeah, the physical release,” I say and look up at him to keep from thinking about what I’d do to her if I got the chance.
“And you think you need this physical release?”
“I need something,” I answer quickly. I don’t tell him the truth. About how all that shit puts me on edge. How it makes me need more. How that alone will never be enough. Deep inside I know it, but I don’t admit it.
“Anything else?” he asks as if he read my mind.
“Nothing yet,” I tell him and falter, but decide to talk about her. Why the hell not? It’s better than talking about my emotions. How easily the hate comes out. How I can’t control the shit I say and the shit I do sometimes.
Well, maybe not so much that I can’t, but that I don’t want to.
“There’s this girl,” I start telling him while I pick up a fidget block from the glass coffee table. It’s pointless. A block of buttons and switches that do nothing, but it keeps my hands busy.
“She’s real flirtatious and cute. We have chemistry together.” After seeing his brow raise, I add to clarify, “The class.” It’s quiet as he scribbles on the notepad.
“I keep running into her,” I tell him. “I guess she’s on my mind because of that.”
“You’re seeing her?”
I shake my head. “Nah, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Have you been physical?” he asks me.
I tell him the truth, but in my head? Fuck yeah. Imagining getting her under me has been a good distraction.
That second day of class, she was dressed in a tight shirt and a short little skirt.
The shirt wasn’t see-through like I was fantasizing about, but with the blue plaid skirt, she was working that schoolgirl look. She did a damn fine job of it too.
All during class, all I did was think about everything I could do to her. How I could bend this shy girl over the desk so easily.
Every time she readjusted in her seat, I imagined being behind her, lifting her ass up and positioning her just how I wanted. I could hear how the desk would scrape across the floor as I pounded into her.
It only took a few minutes before I was rock hard and eager to see just what I’d have to do to get under that skirt.
The second class was over, Little Miss Brunette, my personal tease, was gone before I even shoved my notebook into my bag.
“Why do you think you’re drawn to her?” he asks me, pulling me from the explicit thoughts running through my head.
“She’s got a mouth on her,” I reply and think I should elaborate on how it’s what she says, more than her body, that gets me going. Hell, either way you look at it is accurate.
“So, you’re going to pursue her?” he asks me, picking up the notebook again to jot something down.
If by pursue her, he means fuck her until my cock is spent, then yes, that’s what I’m planning.
I don’t tell him that though, I just nod my head once when he looks up.
“So, you have your workout sessions, your rugby team, you have a love interest,” he lists then pauses as I snort, but I clear my throat and gesture for him to continue.
“Have you thought about changing your major?” he asks me then adds, “It’s just something to keep in mind. I know it’s still early, but undecided is not exactly what you want from this experience, is it?”
“No, I definitely want to figure shit out,” I say and toss the fidget block back on the table. “I feel wound tight, like I just need something.”
“What do you need?” he asks me.
“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. “I want to know, though.” I nod my head, swallowing back the disappointment, the fear that I’ll never know what I need to get over this anger. Or worse, that it’s just too late.
I have a good idea why I’m like this. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. But I don’t know how to change and even worse, I don’t know what I’ll be like when I do change. And that scares the shit out of me.