Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64887 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Hot Teacher: The pleasure’s been all mine, Grayson.
She attaches a blowing-kiss emoji to the end of her message, which I return in kind. She replies with a basketball emoji, clearly referencing my comment that the ball is in her court, so I respond with a net emoji and praying hands, letting her know I’m praying she’ll dunk the ball. And that’s how our boner- and smile-inducing conversation finally comes to an end. Hot Teacher doesn’t send another message, so neither do I, even though every molecule in my body wants to send her another ten texts explaining why our age gap is absolutely meaningless.
I stare at my phone for an eternal moment, just in case Hot Teacher surprises me at the eleventh hour with another text. But when it’s clear our conversation is truly over, I force myself to toss my phone onto my nightstand and scream into the void of my ceiling, “Please, God, make her show up!”
I’ve never felt this much chemistry with any woman in my life. Not in person. Not on a dating app. Not even with Audrey, my girlfriend of five fucking years! And certainly not with a woman who’d received the embarrassingly long, rambling dinner invitation I’d stupidly sent to a woman who’d actually wanted nothing to do with me.
I get up and pace my bedroom, feeling too electrified to sit still. What should I wear to the bar? Should I call Max to go with me to Captain’s—my buddy from work who always comes with me on Singles Night? I wouldn’t invite Max on an actual date, of course, but if Hot Teacher shows up tonight, it’ll likely be with a bunch of her friends. So, shouldn’t I have at least one friend with me, too, so I don’t seem like an overly eager, friendless loser?
“Fuck!” I shout toward the emptiness of my small bedroom, before grabbing my phone off the nightstand again. My heart pounding, I pull up “Stacy’s Mom” and get it cranking. And then, as the campy song blares, I head into my bathroom, hop into the shower, and jerk myself off, all the while fantasizing about a confident, sexy older woman in a bathtub—a smoking hot MILF I’ve never laid eyes on, but who’s already managed to rock my fucking world.
2
GRAYSON
A little before eight, I stride through the front door at Captain’s and stop to look around. I’ve never been here on a Friday night, and it’s bumping!
After surveying the packed room, I don’t spot Max, who said he’d arrive around eight. But more importantly, I don’t see anyone who strikes me as a likely candidate to be Hot Teacher.
I turn around and take two steps toward the bar behind me, figuring I’ll grab a drink while I wait for Max, and that’s when I see a woman who stops me dead in my tracks.
That’s got to be her.
At least, I hope it is.
The woman commanding my full attention seems to be in her late thirties. If she’s older than that, she wears it well. As she sits poised at the end of the packed bar, she’s ordering from the bartender—smiling and talking to him with the kind of sensual, easy confidence I’ve been imagining Hot Teacher wears like a magic cloak.
She has shoulder-length, raven hair, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. She’s wearing a clingy, red dress that shows off the shape of her ample curves without baring much flesh. She doesn’t have a tightly cinched waist and flat belly to go along with her generous bust and round hips, like so many women featured in ads and entertainment. On the contrary, everything about this woman is voluptuous—which I find incredibly sexy. Even more so, because her body language makes it clear she’s exceedingly comfortable with her every curve.
I’m sure I’d find this woman physically attractive, even if she came across as shy and unsure of herself. But as it is, her evident comfort in her skin makes her even more compelling to me, providing “proof of concept” of what Hot Teacher said about confidence turning an attractive person into an irresistible one.
As my heart pounds, I continue watching the woman as she accepts her drink—some sort of martini, based on the shape of its glass. I remember Hot Teacher saying Captain’s has the best martinis in town. So, did this brunette order a martini to out herself to me . . . or am I assigning meaning to a simple coincidence as a result of wishful thinking?
With my pulse beating in my ears, I watch the woman take a long sip of her drink and say something to the bartender that makes him smile. They chat briefly, until he walks away to serve another customer, at which point the brunette nonchalantly checks her phone.
I shift my weight while continuing to brazenly stare. If that brunette were Hot Teacher, wouldn’t she scan the bar looking for me rather than looking at her phone? But I’ve no sooner had the thought than the woman looks up and begins surveying the packed bar.