Free Four Play: A Collection of Novellas by Amalie Silver Page B

one more—one more willing participant in this game of the flesh—and then I can say I’m man enough to have her. Worthy enough. Because she’s the kind of woman that would expect only the best.
    My body still buzzes from last night’s fantasy, and it hums from her imaginary touch. One day I’d capture my Jaguar .
    The memory of our first encounter still lingers in my mind after all this time.
    It was during a party over the summer between my sophomore and junior years of high school.
    My parents were rich, so that afforded me a certain kind of status at my school. But I wasn’t a jock. And I wasn’t the fucking prom king. But in my own small world of geeks and outcasts, I was king. And the chicks ate my I’m-too-cool-to-hang-with-the-popular-crowd attitude with a fucking spoon.
    That night at the party I’d stayed outside by the pool in the backyard most of the night, alone. Kids would come and go, and I could hear the laughter and music coming from inside the house, but I never ventured back in.
    It wasn’t until about eleven o’clock that I questioned my presence there at all, and made my way around the house to get to my car.
     
    And there she stood.
     
    Miss Shields.
     
    Well, she wasn’t exactly standing. She had just stepped out of a taxi and was attempting to walk into her house next door. But she kept stumbling and sobbing. After the taxi drove away, I found myself walking toward the weeping but sexy woman. She had fallen to her knees, and something about her had me reaching out and helping her up. And yeah, I couldn’t help but notice her pink panties underneath her skirt—something that gave my dick a five-alarm jerk alert—but I covered her up to give her some dignity. Then I helped her into the house and onto her couch.
    She never did tell me why she’d been crying , but she didn’t need to tell me she’d been drinking . It was obvious. But after I served her a glass of water and she changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants, she was able to speak.
    I had no idea who she was until she informed me that she was an English teacher at my school and she coached the debate team.
    We talked well into the night. She listened to what I had to say. She acknowledged me. Now, the recollection is hazy and I can barely remember what we spoke about, but I had such a connection with her that night—so much more of one than I’d ever had with anyone. I fantasized about all the things we’d do, and all the places I’d take her. I even indulged in the thought of taking her to my getaway in the woods.
    She even gave me a hug when I was about to leave. Physical contact, even of the nonsexual variety, from a hot woman was all I needed to indulge in a marathon tug-fest later.
    You see, Miss Shields—in all of her vulnerable, hot teacher glory—had given me a glimpse of that seemingly unattainable goal that I wanted so badly I could taste it.
    Because I, Simon Blackwell, III, was hot for my teacher, and I was going to seduce her right out of her skimpy, too-sexy-for-her-own-good panties if it was the last thing I did.
    Everyone has that moment of definition, when the clarity of who you want to be is so vivid in your mind that you can’t turn back once you’ve caught that glimpse. A goal that you see and then seek: it’s the moment you decide your future.
    This was that moment for me.
    Miss Shields was my Jaguar, and I planned to have one hell of a ride.
     

 
     
    Chapter Three
    Number Nine: The Volkswagen
    September 2, 2014 (Two weeks ago)
     
     
    Andrea, the Volkswagen, tugged at her bottom lip and uncrossed her legs, leaning toward me. Tilting her head, she reached back, taking down her dark ponytail.
     
    She gave me a look —a look I’d grown familiar with in the past twelve months: she was going to let me kiss her.
                 
    I hadn’t quite figured out the third base signal yet. It seems to vary from girl to girl; I may need to start a spreadsheet on it. At our age they’re still