Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110351 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Santi’s hand gently shifts from my mouth to my jaw, his thumb brushing soothingly against my cheek.
“Relax,” he mouths.
Relax? Is he serious?!
Given that I’m currently pinned against his team’s locker room wall with my panties shoved to one side and his cum leaking out of my freshly-fucked vagina while someone stands right outside, I am anything but relaxed.
The handle of the door rattles slightly, and my breath catches in my throat. My nails dig further into his shirt as I brace myself for the worst; but then, the sound of the footsteps resumes, retreating back down the corridor.
We stay frozen for a moment longer, listening as the sound fades into nothingness.
When it’s clear the coast is finally clear, I let out a shaky exhale, my hands unclenching and releasing the material of his shirt as I rest my palms flat against his taut chest.
“That was way too close,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
Santi chuckles softly, his fingers brushing against the small of my back.
“Told you it would make it more exciting.”
I swat at his arm, my cheeks flushing.
“This isn’t funny, Santi. Someone almost walked in on us.”
“And yet, they didn’t,” he says. “Admit it: you enjoyed the thrill.”
“Can you put me down now?” I mutter, though my voice lacks conviction.
“Hmm,” he muses, tilting his head as if considering. “I could. But I like you right where you are.”
“Santi,” I warn, though the soft laugh that escapes me ruins the effect.
He finally relents, lowering me gently to the ground, his hands lingering at my waist as I steady myself.
As I pull my panties back into place, smooth my dress and glance toward the door again, I can’t help but feel like I’ve just stepped off a rollercoaster: breathless, exhilarated and slightly unsteady.
“Next time,” I say, shooting him a pointed look, “we’re not doing this anywhere near your workplace. Understood?”
He seems to be completely unbothered by the near-miss.
“Noted, profesora. But don’t act like it wasn’t worth it.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Cute?” he repeats, feigning offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m devastatingly handsome.”
I shake my head, laughing softly as he slings his gym bag over his shoulder and offers me his hand.
“Who told you that?”
“I’m pretty sure you did, actually.”
“Yeah, well. Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I grumble.
“Why not? That was worth every second of risk,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to send another shiver through me. “Come on,” he continues, breaking the moment as he motions toward another door. “I’ll show you the tunnel. It’s even creepier when it’s empty.”
“Creepier than this?” I tease, gesturing around the locker room.
“You’ll see,” he says, taking my hand in his and squeezing it gently.
Chapter Eighteen
Wednesday starts off like any other working day. My morning alarm blares at six-thirty am, pulling me from the depths of sleep, and by seven fifteen, I’m dressed and out the door, coffee in one hand and a tote bag full of notebooks, pens, post-it-notes and my diary in the other.
The school day unfolds as predictably as always, a steady stream of classes, conversations, and mounting exam prep. My students are a combination of eager and distracted, their attention spans thinning as the end of the year slowly draws closer. I spend my lunch break catching up on marking, eating a slightly squashed sandwich at my desk while jotting down notes for the next lesson.
It’s almost too busy to think about anything else.
Almost.
By the time I duck into the staff room for some hot water to make myself a cup of tea, my brain feels fried, and I very much welcome the moment of peace.
But as I stir the milk into my mug, a snippet of conversation in Spanish catches my attention and well and truly pulls me out of my work haze.
“I’ll be watching tonight,” Miguel says, leaning casually against the counter as he sips his coffee. He’s one of the quieter teachers at the school, though I know he teaches advanced maths. “It should be a good match. Big stakes.”
“Yeah,” Pablo replies, dropping into one of the chairs and stretching out his legs. “They’ve been on a roll lately. If they win this one, they’re basically guaranteed a spot in the finals.”
“Ortiz is thriving this season,” Miguel says, shaking his head in what looks like admiration. “I mean, he’s always been good, but this year? He’s on another level.”
“Did you see the clips of him in training this week?” Pablo adds, his tone animated now. “Nobody can keep up with him. The guy’s a machine.”
My ears perk up at Santi’s name, but I keep my eyes fixed on the teabag I’m dunking in my mug, willing myself to look disinterested.
“It’s not just his skill,” Miguel continues. “It’s his leadership. You can see it on the field, how the other players look to him. He’s the one setting the pace. Even Lopez can’t compete.”