Page 106 of The Longest Shot
Jesus fucking Christ.
I watch, hypnotized, as she works the button free with agonizing patience. Then the second button. Then the third. Each reveals another inch of pale skin, a glimpse of black lace. By the time she reaches the last button, I’ve forgotten my name and possibly the entire English language.
She doesn’t remove the blouse, just lets it hang open like curtains framing the best view in existence. The black bra is simple, elegant, and absolutely devastating against her skin. I can see the defined muscles of her abdomen, each line carved from years of brutal training, andfuck,do I want her.
“Weber’s three types of authority,” she says, snapping me from my thoughts, ignoring that she’s standing there looking like every fantasy I've ever had.
“Traditional,” I croak out. “Based on… on custom and history. Legal-rational, based on rules and laws. And charismatic…”
She slides the blouse off her shoulders. “Charismatic?” she prompts, letting the blouse fall.
“Based on… on personal qualities of the leader.” Words tumble out desperately. “Their ability to inspire devotion.”
“Perfect.”
She reaches for her waistband, and I have to grip the couch arm to keep my knees from buckling. The button comes undone with a soft pop that echoes in the silent apartment. The zipper follows, each tooth separating so slowly it's torture.
She pushes the slacks down her hips, revealing matching black panties that make my mouth flood with want. Her legs are fucking perfect, with powerful thighs that could crush a man’s skull (and what a way to go) and defined calves that speak to thousands of hours on skates.
As she steps out of the slacks and kicks them aside, she hits me with the next one. “Describe Goffman’s dramaturgical approach to social interaction.”
How the fuck am I supposed to remember dead sociologists when she’s standing there like that? When I can see the faint bruise on her hip from last week’s game, purple-green and absolutely beautiful in its imperfection? When the light through her spotless windows is making her skin glow?
“People… people perform roles,” I stammer, my voice discovering new octaves. “Front stage is how we act in public, backstage is private. We manage impressions, and control what others see. Personally, I'm currently experiencing complete performance failure and would not receive positive reviews.”
“Excellent comprehension.”
She reaches behind her back, and I know what’s coming, but I’m still utterly unprepared when the bra comes undone. She holds it in place for a moment, those analytical eyes dark with something that has nothing to do with academic assessment.
Then she lets it fall.
Her breasts are perfect. Not airbrushed-magazine-perfect, but real, touchable, devastatingly perfect. Soft and small with pale pink nipples already hard, begging for my mouth. At the sight, a sound escapes me that might generously be called a whimper but probably more accurately resembles a dying moose.
“One more question,” she says, hooking her thumbs in her panties. “Then you get your first real reward.”
“Morgan…” My voice is wrecked, like I’ve been screaming at a game for three periods plus overtime.
She shakes off my attempt to interrupt. “Explain the relationship between institutional power and individual agency.”
It’s complex, the kind of question that would normally send me spiraling into academic panic. But something about the way she’s looking at me—patient, expectant, utterly confident in my ability, sexy as all fuck—makes everything crystallize.
“Institutions shape our choices but don’t eliminate them,” I say, words flowing easier despite my complete distraction. “We operate within structures of power but maintain the ability to resist and to create change from within, so agency exists even under constraint.”
“That’s absolutely correct.”
The panties slide down with the same deliberate patience she’s applied to this entire exquisite torture. She steps out of them and stands there, naked in her pristine apartment, looking at me with an expression that makes my chest feel too small for my lungs.
She’s magnificent. Every inch balanced between strength and softness, like the V of muscle at her hips pointing down to paradise, the gentle curve of her waist, or the confident way she holds herself. Between her legs, she’s bare except for a neat strip of that same shocking red, and the sight has my cock painfully hard.
“You’ve earned your first bonus reward,” she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper that bypasses my ears entirely. “Do you want to know what it is?”
I can only nod, probably looking like one of those dashboard dogs, except significantly more aroused and infinitely less dignified. But I can't do any more than that, because a moment later she’s crossing the room and pushing me back onto her couch.
Then she’s kissing me.
No—kissing is too gentle. She’s consuming me, her mouth hot and demanding, her tongue sliding past my lips with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they want and how to take it. She kisses like she plays hockey—aggressive, strategic, utterly committed to winning—and it makes me groan.
Her hands attack my clothes. My T-shirt gets yanked over my head with enough force to cause whiplash. My jeans might be made of tissue paper for how quickly she gets them open and shoved down along with my boxers. Cool air hits my cock and I hiss, already leaking embarrassingly.
