The kid was about as exciting as a bowl of cold oatmeal. He went to class, did his homework, chatted with friends he’d made—which aggravatingly included Miranda—and got to and from school by running and jumping over every fucking thing in his path. I spent so much time thinking about him, I’d started dreaming about him too. And some of the dreams were wicked hot. My favorite was when Drake waited for me in the bathtub after school, his naked, smooth body dripping water as he played with the white towel that hid what I longed to see the most. He pulled me into the tub, but before I hit the water, I woke up. That happened far too often. Right before I was about to touch him or feel his lips against mine, something interrupted us. When he walked down the empty hallways at school, performing a striptease, my alarm would go off as he was about to lose his underwear. When I got him into the backseat of my car after ripping off his clothes, the annoying beep would wake me for school before I could grab his dick.
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