Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131789 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
“Can’t, I’m afraid. I made a pledge.”
A slight smile pulls his lips, despite himself. “Is that right?”
“As a white male of privilege, it’s my social responsibility to decolonize my bookshelf. I’ve already met my quota of dead white guys for the year.”
“I see.” Mildly amused, if only because he hasn’t heard that excuse before, he again opens his paperback copy and begins writing on the board. “Then at least pay your classmates the respect of quietly following along.”
My gaze tracks the motion of his hand, then lowers to his ass. All sorts of ideas skip through my head, none of them respectful. I begin to imagine what’s happening under Mr. Goodwyn’s button-downs and khakis. I bet he’s one of those nice boys with a six-pack and ten-inch dick. Sensitive, rugged, and a raging-huge hard-on.
As he turns from the board to face the class, those green eyes collide with mine for just a second. A fleeting look, but it’s rich with possibility. Seems I was a bit hasty to dismiss this semester as a lost cause. Silas was right. Today was worth getting out of bed.
And Sandover’s faculty has undergone a significant upgrade in other departments too. As a laugh I signed up for an Intro to Fine Arts class, figuring some watercolors and pottery would be a minimally taxing way to grab an A. But the near-sighted, half-deaf old bag who’d taught here for three decades finally retired or dropped dead. In her place, they lured a young redhead with a set of tits that would take your eye out from across the room. Last class, she wore a paint-covered olive jumpsuit with a tight shirt barely holding back those pointed nipples. Today, it’s a gauzy white dress that doesn’t disguise the fact I can see the color of her freckled pink flesh through the fabric when the afternoon light hits her exactly right.
“Nice to see everyone again,” she says when everyone’s seated. “I’m still learning all of your names, so if you’ve forgotten…”
She writes her name again over the ghost of white chalk still on the board. For an art teacher, she has indecipherable handwriting.
“I’m not picky, so you can call me Gwen, Ms. G, Mrs. Goodwyn—whatever you’re comfortable with. And if you’d rather I use your nickname or a middle name, please tell me.”
Gwen Goodwyn. For a second, I’m sure I heard her wrong. I squint at the board, again trying to make sense of the chick scratch. I thought she’d introduced herself last class as Gwendolyn. Granted, I was still stoned at the time. Easy enough mistake to make, I suppose.
But goddamn. If this is who Mr. Goodwyn’s fucking, I’d pay money to watch.
The image of Ms. G’s cute round ass in the air, taking it from behind while he wraps her long, curly hair around his fist, both of them watching as I jerk off, nearly gets me sporting a tent in class.
Or the three of us in a car set out across the American West. Naked on the hot leather seats. His dick in my hand while she’s thrusting against my fingers.
Oh, fuck me. This is exactly what I needed to jar me from my boredom spiral.
I become fixated on the idea until Silas is standing in front of me, slamming a locker in my face.
“Where’d you go?” he asks when my eyes focus on him. We’re in the locker room where I’ve been standing with my goggles in my hands for an indeterminate time.
I sweep my tongue over my suddenly dry lips. “I think I’m going to seduce my teacher.”
“The hell are you on about?” He sighs and throws a towel over his shoulder. From the door, Coach shouts for us to all hurry up and get in the pool.
“Turns out there’s a Mr. and Mrs. Goodwyn,” I say slowly, my mind working over the implications.
“I’m not following. Which one are you seducing?”
A faint grin tugs on the corners of my mouth. “Both.”
Chapter 16
Sloane
It’s almost too hot to run. The air conditioning at school has struggled all week to keep up with the boiling heat that’s settled over us, refusing to relent. Maybe the only positive of St. Vincent’s draconian skirt requirement: at least we get plenty of ventilation.
After Casey and I get home from class, I toss my uniform on the floor and pull on a tank and a pair of running shorts. I lace up my shoes practically mid-stride and then I’m out the door. Lately, I can’t wait to hit the trails and get some miles under my feet. Just let the day drip from my pores while my playlist silences all thoughts but breathing and keeping pace.
About a half-mile from the house, I smell him before I come around the bend.
The trespasser.
Yup, here he is again, sitting on the bench smoking like it’s his personal headshop. I pull up short and catch my breath. RJ doesn’t look up from his phone as he takes the joint from his lips and holds it out toward me.