I had no illusions about the romantic potential of a man who’d bang his own student during office hours, but he had a big dick and a thrilling wit. Even if he wasn’t likely to be my future husband, I could still dream.
The crowd’s excitement rose on TV, drawing my attention. I thought of tasting fine champagne on Patrick’s lips, of feeling his strong hands gripping me as the ball dropped, and my own hand idly wandered down to the growing bulge in my pajamas. I startled to my feet and blushed when I saw my stepfather smirking back at me. Just grabbing a glass of water,” He said, scratching at his bare hairy chest as he held up his empty glass. John was tall, looming over me at 5’6”, and burly as a bear.
But above all, the hefty package in his snug boxer-briefs made my eyes widen. I’d caught fleeting glances of him undressed in the hallway before, but never clearly enough to find myself dreaming of him bending me over the island counter. John glanced back toward the bedroom, thinking for a moment before he shrugged, “Why not?” “It’s nearly midnight,” I remarked, picking up a half-empty bottle from the coffee table. We met halfway between the living room and the kitchen, and my heart thumped faster in my chest with every step. He was a raw man, not unkind but quite unrefined, of the sort I rarely met in Manhattan.
I felt small and soft, emasculated standing closer before him as he accepted a healthy pour with a mischievous grin. “You’re a bad influence,” he chuckled, patting my shoulder. His palm was warm and meaty, and I thought of how it’d feel cupping my ass.