Bully King - J.A. Huss Page 0,38

for.

Does she have any idea how many parents would fall all over the Chairman to get their kid a spot at High Court? They put their baby’s name on the Prep preschool waitlist before the proverbial ink is even dry on their newborn’s birth certificate.

There are only five hundred students in the college and lower school at any one time. That number has not changed in more than a hundred years. This is über-elite education. Hell, the school trips in Prep are insane. Students at Prep aren’t taking buses to DC. They’re flying in private corporate jets to Rome and Athens to study ancient ruins in person. And the guest lecturers are leaders in the field. Mostly super-successful alumni—and that list might be short, but it is mighty.

You need a summer internship? How about shadowing the billionaire who owns your favorite online retail store?

An apprenticeship, you ask? Learn to paint from modern masters.

Wanna be a writer? How about we let that number one New York Times bestseller read your manuscript and put you in touch with their agent?

These are the opportunities that come from sticking it out at High Court Prep and graduating from High Court College.

Interested in a PhD from Carnegie Mellon? Or an MBA from Wharton? Or an MD from Harvard? No problem. Here’s your one-on-one meeting with the dean. You’re having dinner with them. At their house.

And Cadee Hunter just fell into this. Her parents never paid a cent.

And I get it. She didn’t go to school here. Ever. But that makes this scholarship offer even worse.

She didn’t earn it.

I actually feel sorry for Lacy Pendleton. She did the work. She’s been a High Court kid since pre-school. And one dead mother rips all that away in an instant because… why?

Why is my father bending over backwards for this average girl when all around him are exceptional kids who would die for this kind of personal attention?

She’s sleeping in our fucking house. Right now. Probably wearing Stella’s nightgown.

It pisses me off. It really does. And I have an almost uncontrollable urge to sneak down to her room and scream at her that she does not belong here.

But I control it. I’m breathing heavy with anger, but I control it.

I need to make her realize she’s not welcome. My father isn’t really interested in her. He’s using her. And I want to disrespect her the way she just disrespected me.

I reach under the sheets and tug on my cock. It’s swelling with blood, getting hard as the anger courses through me. And then I picture Cadee Hunter asleep on that chair. If I had known she was naked under that shirt while I was watching her sleep, I’d have looked a little harder. Maybe jerked one off right there.

And maybe she would’ve woken up. Her plump mouth opening up in a gasp when she saw my hand on my cock.

I close my eyes and picture her doing this as I slide my hand up and down my now-thick shaft.

She would untangle her legs and stretch them out in front of her as she leaned back in the chair. Then lift that white t-shirt up and play with her tits, slowly opening her knees to give me a peek at her pussy.

It would be wet. Glistening as her fingers played with her clit.

I breathe a little harder as I immerse myself in the fantasy.

Her eyes would be hooded and heavy. Her breasts rising and falling. Her heart pounding inside her chest.

Then I would beckon her with a finger. “Come here,” I’d say. “On your knees.”

And she would. She would not hesitate.

She would crawl across the marble floor, her eyes locked with mine, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. And then she would settle between my legs and take my hard cock in her hands. Smiling at me with her eyes as she lowered her mouth over the top of it, playfully flicking her tongue across the tip of my head. And then I would wrap both hands in her hair, gripping it so hard she would moan as she took my cock deep, sealing her lips around my shaft and gagging on me.

I come in my hand. Breathing hard and heavy from the fantasy.

But then I smile to myself in the dark as I grab a t-shirt and clean up my spilled mess.

It wasn’t a fantasy.

This really happened.

And I’ve relived it in my head hundreds of times since I left her crying in her Alumni-Inn attic bedroom