Submitting To My Stepbrothers novel Chapter 96

4: Stella.

I’m in the front row of my political science class, head bowed

forward so I can create a little world of my own inside the safety

of my hair. It shields me from the rest of the class and stops me

from getting too overwhelmed by the sheer number of people

surrounding me. If I think about it too much, my stomach will

pitch and I won’t be able to concentrate on a single word the

professor is saying. Although this morning, it’s difficult to

concentrate no matter what, isn’t it?

What happened last night?

Humiliation is a rotating ball of fire in my belly. I can’t believe…

so many things.

Where do I start?

One, after doing some Googling while waiting for class to start, I

found out how weird it is to orgasm so quickly–and without any

stimulation between my legs. I’m a freak. A total freak. The star

of the football team breathed on me and I basically acted like I

was possessed.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, I fell asleep.

He brought me home for sex, obviously. He’s a virile athlete and

he was erect–I felt it–and I was too exhausted from being

touched, from the rush of exhilaration and pleasure, to even

keep my eyes open. God, he must have been disappointed. He

brought home a dud. A dud given to bouts of narcolepsy.

My face is crawling with fire ants. I sink lower into my seat. Tug

down my skirt to cover my knees, because I can tell they’re pink,

as well. I’m flushed everywhere. Not only from the memory of

him looking at my breasts. Licking them. No, the memory of him

holding me as I slept is enough to make me achy and restless. I‘

ve never been held before. Not like that. Not so tightly, every

inch of me fitted to hard male muscle. Not to mention that big,

stiff part of him that was wedged between my butt cheeks when

I woke up.

Did he really want to put it inside of me?

Like, all of it?

I’m ripped from my ongoing worries when everyone around me

breaks into hoots and whistles and applause. What’s going on?

I glance up and find my political science professor looking

reluctantly amused, his gaze fastened to the entrance. Carefully,

I push aside some of my hair so I can figure out what is causing

the commotion.

My breath is swiped clean out of my lungs when I see Gage

leaning against the wall, just inside the door of my lecture hall.

Arms crossed, stance cocky. He looks like the cover of those.

Sports Illustrated magazines I see sometimes at the drugstore.

Everyone is going wild, pounding their desks and chanting his

name, reciting some football cheer I’ve never heard. He salutes

the admiring crowd and they go absolutely wild. Girls are

screaming and fanning themselves. A group of guys are trying

to start a wave. But Gage….

His attention is zeroed in on me.

I attempt to breathe, but I can’t. My nipples bead inside my big,

loose button–down shirt–a hand–me–down from one of the

smaller priests at the monastery. Fists pound the desks behind

me, matching the rapid beats of my heart.

Oh God.

What if he’s here to make fun of me? To all of these people?

I’m the girl who he carried across campus last night, completely

comatose. He brought me home expecting something and I

slept like the dead, instead of giving it to him. On top of that, I

had the nerve to leave him a note. Hope I see you later. He

probably thinks I’m pitiful. Pathetic. He-

“Mr. Weston,” calls the professor, signaling for the class to quiet

down. “To what do we owe the honor of your illustrious

4 Stella

presence?”

He wets his bottom lip, those eyes never leaving me once. “Just

here to pick up my girl,” he explains in that deep, rich voice. “Wel

have plans.”

Every head in the lecture hall swivels in my direction, whispers. and full–on cries of denial rising up around me. In the matter of

a split second, I’m the center of attention. People are

speculating on my name, they’re judging my attire and asking

1. me.

“What are you doing?” I whisper, once we’re in the empty