Read Just For Now (A Flirting With Trouble Novel) for Free Online

unassuming boyish good looks. I wonder if a guy like that would even want to play dominant to my submissive. It might be so far out of his comfort zone that he couldn’t even picture it.
    But imaginary Owen can.
    As I slide the vibrator inside my pussy, I angle the small secondary nub so that it hits my clit. I alter the speed to just a bit higher, then go back to my world—a world in which Owen Marshall, my boss, is fucking me stupid on my desk in my office. He doesn’t take his jeans off. He doesn’t take his shirt off. He slides his hard cock out of his fly and pulls my legs apart. Pressing a hand to the small of my back, he slams into me. No pretense. No ease. Just one hard cock and me, keening out a low moan of pleasure.
    I increase my own pace, riding the vibrator in my hand as much as it’s riding me.
    “Fuck, yes.”
    In my mind, Owen’s gripping my hips in his hands and yanking me backward onto his cock. I want him to be fucking me in a way that leaves me no say, no ability to protest. Not because I want to protest, but because I don’t. Because nothing has ever felt so good or so necessary.
    “Oh, God . . .”
    Imaginary Owen fucks me hard. Real-life vibrator fucks me harder. And I come, climaxing in a way that leaves no doubt that it’s been a long time since I’ve had a good orgasm. This one hits me like a ton of bricks, but some kind of delicious orgasm bricks. I let the wave wash over me and I manage to flick off the vibrator and set it to the side as I continue to ride out all the incredible sensations.
    Of course, now I have no idea how I’m going to face my boss tomorrow. Somehow, right now, it feels like a small price to pay.
    ***
    “Okay, Tyson, slow down. Tell me what happened.”
    It’s Wednesday afternoon and I’m sitting on the old wooden bleachers in the BYC gym, which never cease to remind me of the years I spent in high school, cheering for the Southern High School Stingrays.
    Now, though, I’ve got bigger fish to fry.
    Tyson sniffs, then rubs his nose. There are faint streaks down his dark cheeks, and he’s clearly been crying, which is not typical for Tyson. My heart goes out to him.
    I’ve known him since my very first day at the center, and he’s been one of those kids who has continually captured my heart over and over again. His mom works two jobs and his dad hasn’t been around since he was a baby. Tyson spent most of his time alone until his mom dragged him down to the BYC when he started high school. At thirteen, he was small—way smaller than the average freshman boy. His mother was terrified he’d get beaten up on the regular or, worse, recruited into a gang.
    She asked us to keep our eyes on him. Asked if he could start coming every day after school. He’s been here almost every day since, save the week he had strep throat and the few days his mother took him to the Eastern Shore for a family get-together.
    Now, though, with the sound of basketballs hitting the floor to punctuate our conversation, Tyson struggles to tell me what’s going on at school. He’s not doing well and apparently today was midterm.
    “It’s just hard for me, man,” he says. He shoves his notebook back into his backpack and lets his head drop into his hands. “I’m gonna fail the ninth grade and my momma’s gonna kill me.”
    “Stop it,” I say, tugging his notebook back out and looking down at Tyson’s interim report card. Three Ds and a C. It’s not great, but it’s not the end of the world, and I tell him as much. But Tyson just shakes his head.
    “I just can’t do all the writing stuff. The history and English? It’s hard for me—all the spelling and grammar and stuff. It sucks and I hate it.”
    I smile at that. Writing was always something that challenged me, too. I could never get my thoughts together. I could never outline or brainstorm in a way that made any sense at all.
    “Tell you what,” I say, slapping both of my jean-clad thighs, “I’ll talk to some of