Page 2 of Colossal
“Um.” I clear my throat, and it sounds like a bus backfiring. “Yes.”
I wait for the girl to scoot over, so I don’t knock her over when I sit down, but she doesn’t move. She just sits there, waiting patiently. And I’m trying not to notice that she’s hot as fuck. I’m trying so hard, because if I got an erection at school, I’d probably get expelled for possession of a deadly weapon. But standing above the new girl, as I am, I can see down the front of her prim, white, button-down shirt. Her tits are small but plump, cupped in a simple bra. No frills. Just two sweet little apples that have never been plucked.
How can I tell?
I don’t know.
Maybe virgins recognize other virgins.
There’s just something so pure and breathless about her that gravitates me closer—which is a mistake, because now her head is tilted back and I’m thinking of her kneeling.
And you guessed it. My dick is getting hard.
Shit.
As fast as possible, I slide down into my chair, but she still doesn’t move out of the way, leading to my entire side rubbing against this seriously beautiful girl, the outsides of our thighs pressing together when I’m finally sat.
Oh Jesus, my body is about to rain sweat, isn’t it?
Is everyone staring at me?
Nope. Just her. She peruses the body that earned me the nickname Colossal, starting at my throat, coasting down my expansive chest, the barrel of my stomach. Then she seems to get stuck on my thighs, her legs crossing beneath the table—and that’s when I spot her black, thigh-high stockings peeking out beneath the hem of her pleated skirt.
I’ll tell you, it’s a fucking miracle that I don’t soak the crotch of my special-order jeans when I see those things. Why is a girl my age wearing stockings?
Is this a porn?
“My name is Marlow,” she whispers, her gaze traveling back up to my face, though I notice her pupils have bled into her green irises. Why? “It’s nice to meet you.”
“I-it’s nice to…” I’m breathing too hard. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m Eric. Mostly everyone calls me Colossal.”
“Is that what you wantmeto call you?”
No. No, I just want to be normal. To this one girl. Please. I shake my head.
After a moment of studying me, Marlow nods. “Okay, Eric.”
She smooths her skirt and faces the front of the class, picking up her pencil. Ready to take notes. But I already know I’m not going to hear a word of this lesson. Not with her hip pressed against mine and visions of those stockings dancing in my head. Why is she so comfortable with me when I seem to make everyone else souncomfortable?
“Where did you come from? A fairy tale?” I blurt. Loudly.
“Mr. Von Hagen,” admonishes the teacher, several students turning their heads.
“Sorry.”
I assume Marlow is going to be horrified by my outburst. Instead, she waits until the class returns to the lesson, before giving me her attention again. “Did I come from a fairy tale?” She reaches over and traces the back of my hand with her index finger. “I was wondering the same thing about you.”
Chapter 2
Marlow
I raised myself on fantasies.
Well. Sort of.
My illustrations count as fairy tales, right? My stepmother would never buy books for me, so I had to draw the pictures in my head. She probably did me a favor, because I would never have honed my beloved craft otherwise.
Beloved by me. Only me. It’s not like I’ve ever shown my illustrations to anyone.
