Page 37 of Forbidden Property
“Perfect. I’ll use that time to escape.”
“You won’t,” Renzo says calmly. “You’re going to get off the table and bend over it. I’ll use my last fifteen minutes to sketch your ass and dripping lips from behind.”
“My lips are not dripping.”
It’s a dumb argument. Not only can he see the cum dribbling down my legs, but I can feel the warmth as my juices trail a forbidden path down my inner thigh. My breasts can at least rest on the table if I’m bent over and the position will be a lot less painful to keep up than perching up on the dining table with my pussy out and holding a split.
I hop off the dining table and shake my feet out to move the pain through my tight hamstring muscles all the way down to my toes. Renzo taps his charcoal pencil impatiently.
“I’m not an object, Renzo.”
“You’re a model,” he replies quickly. “And not a very obedient one.”
“I don’t have to obey you. This is an equal exchange.”
“It’s not very equal if you’re sabotaging my time.”
I bend over the table and stick my ass out towards Renzo the way he wants. It takes all my willpower not to build up the nastiest most bubbly fart imaginable and direct it towards him. I can’t fart on command like a demented frat boy, so I just end up tooting my ass up at a more appealing angle and positioning my body on my tiptoes. Renzo likes it even more than I expected.
“Perfect,” he exhales with genuine excitement and a tone of admiration that he doesn’t even bother to hide. It’s the slightest crumb of validation from him and although I know I shouldn’t let it get to me, it’s hard to ignore the crazy high I get from any part of my body being called “perfect”. That’s a word guys normally reserved for my best friend, Nicki.
I squeeze my thighs together and Renzo clears his throat. He can’t stifle the effect I have on him and just knowing that he’s secretly turned on while drawing me causes more of my juices to dribble out. I can hear charcoal sliding across the paper and the silence filling the dining room gives me a strange sense of peace that I haven’t felt since I woke up in Renzo’s arm.
The last fifteen minutes fly by faster than I expected. Renzo stays true to his word and makes no efforts to cheat me for time.
“It’s time to study,” he says. “If you want to be more than a janitor.”
He hasn’t lost that cutting sense of superiority throughout our time together, and there’s still an edge to Renzo’s voice that I despise. The growing responsibility I feel for the life growing inside me provokes me to do more than quietly seethe about how much I hate Renzo or tease him for my own entertainment.
“Don’t talk like that,” I respond to him assertively, unwilling to let another classist or racist comment slide from this man’s lips without putting my foot down. He shockingly submits to my request, shrugging his shoulders as he stands up and shuts his sketchbook.
I unravel my position bent over the dining table and grab the robe I have hanging over the arm of a dining chair.
“Fine,” he says. “If you want to get into law school. Does that pass your little wokeness test?”
“Shut up, Renzo.”
The words come out of my mouth easily and he doesn’t retaliate. Renzo’s efforts to break my spirit only make me stand up to him more. His efforts to torture me won’t work and neither will his efforts to make it up to me later with his tongue.
“I can’t shut up,” he responds. “I have to help you study.”
The dining room is a decent enough place to study for the LSAT, so we don’t move too far from Renzo’s art supplies. He sits next to me, holding study materials to the side and looking very much unlike himself. At least he’s not staring at my naked body. We review practice questions and seemingly break the tension that built up earlier during Renzo’s drawing session.
Thankfully, my LSAT routine stops him from turning every drawing session into an opportunity to slide between my legs. There are only so many times we can actively pursue sleepingwith one another without it getting hard for me to believe we still hate each other. Which we do. Of course we still hate each other.
Renzo’s criticisms during our study session finally push me over the edge during my “reasoning section” practice quiz. I can hear the timer counting down when Renzo adds his own stupid and unhelpful comment, “You’re taking too long.”
“Don’t you have a body to throw in the harbor?”
“Aside from Nicki’s?”
“Not funny,” I grumble. “I would get the questions done if you didn’t interrupt me.”
The timer beeps annoyingly. I slam my pen down on the table. I’ve lost so many brain cells over the years to the stresses of adult life that I can’t envision myself getting the score I need on the LSAT to make it to law school and have a job that doesn’t just make a difference in the world, but makes my whole family proud.
Renzo stops the timer beeping.
“Geralynn.”
