Why don't you get a taste?
Golden girl Alison Rivers has it all: brains, looks, money, a father who adores her, and any man she wants... Or so she thought.
When she sets her eyes on Lorenzo Visconti, her academy's Italian, irresistible principal, sh...
The first half of After Hours is a celestial masterpiece, it's so erotically dark, I can't the mix of emotions it makes me feel. But the second half, right after the instrumental? I hate it, I absolutely despise it, it ruined a song that was more than fantastic, it gives me Daft Punk vibes from Starboy and it's a hard no. Yeah I'm mad.
Anyway I aced my exams, we proud. 💅🏼
This chapter is over 1K words longer than usual, if y'all don't comment— I'm never updating again.
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"You're a loser, Enzo!" I chanted childishly, waving my racket. "A big, sore— ah!" I screamed when he picked me up and threw me over his shoulder, making my blue Babolat fall onto the ground.
Lorenzo wrapped one arm around my legs, his other one coming around my hips and his hand landing onto my ass way more harshly than necessary. "I'll show you something big that'll leave you sore." He retorted in a serious, annoyed tone, making me snort.
"Ew. When did you become a fuckboy?" I teased, squirming around in his arms in order to get him to put me down. It was so unbearably hot outside, and I was drenched in sweat after a rather long tennis match, to the point where my white sports bra— which resembled a bralette more than anything, although it still provided support to my girls while allowing them to bounce in their cups and distract my opponent, had probably become see-through, the material snugly sticking to my skin. My matching white pleated skirt was, instead, flipped over, leaving my derrière fully exposed, considering I only had a thong underneath it. I knew I looked like a tennis girl straight out of a Playboy magazine with my skimpy outfit and my high ponytail, and I also knew that my man was rock-hard and aching to put his hands on me, yet this particular position was not appreciated. At all.
"I don't know what a fuckboy is, Alison, nor do I care." He shot back, slapping my ass even harder than the last time. "All I know is that you've crossed a line."
Okay, maybe I had crossed a line when Olivia had called him before the beginning of the final set and I'd decided to go sit in his lap, moaning in his other ear while grinding against him, licking the shell of his ear and nibbling on the lobe while bringing his free hand between my legs and humping it. And maybe I had made it worse when I'd run away from him and to my half of the field, insisting on finishing the match just to beat him, without really realizing that the wait was only going to make him angrier and more frustrated. Maybe, just maybe, I hadn't fully considered the consequences of blue balls. Or had I? "Put me down already, you creep!" I complained in a shrill voice, my arms and legs flailing around. While I did dislike this position, I was only being overdramatic to rile him up more.
"Stop moving!" He thundered angrily, helping me slide down his body long enough to make me believe that I was safe before unceremoniously letting me fall down onto the thankfully soft grass, butt-first. "What the hell were you thinking?" He continued, crouching down and planting his hands on the ground on either side of me, caging me between his body and the grass. "She could've heard your fucking moans, Alison, did you think about that?" He kept on borderline yelling in my face, his eyes devoid of any emotion that wasn't related to pure, hot rage. "Did you, for just one fucking second, consider the possibility of getting us caught? Huh?" Lorenzo was mad, very mad, and I had expected anything but this.
