Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111610 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 558(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
“Yeah,” one of the boys says. “Miss Redding.”
There’s approximately zero respect or manners on my name in his mouth, and I have to choose how to deal with that. Right now. Because it’ll set the tone for the whole class.
“Thank you,” I reply stiffly and equally disdainfully, stepping forward until I’m right in front of him and staring directly into his eyes. “And you are?”
“Lucas Walker,” he says, reluctantly sticking out a hand when Evan glowers at him. We shake, and I go around the room, meeting more of the boys.
I give back the same energy I get from each one intentionally. Some, more warmly. Some, flat-out bitchy. When one guy leaves his foot out in the aisle, purposefully in my way, I low step over him to slide my sharp heel over his shin, knowing it won’t hurt him, but it’ll make my point clear. It works, and every other guy moves his legs quickly, some even sitting up straight as I approach.
By the time I’ve walked the room, I’m in charge, though there are several who aren’t happy about it. Chance waves me forward, and I join him at the podium. “Gentlemen, I wanted to let Miss Redding tell you herself what she’ll be doing here. So please, Miss Redding?”
He’s intentionally repeating my name, drumming it into the guys’ heads. And maybe later, there’ll be something sexy about him calling me that . . . while on his knees worshiping at my vaginal altar. But right now, it’s showtime.
Swallowing my nervousness, I take a deep breath as Chance leaves me alone at the podium. But I’m not sinking, I’m rising to the occasion like a rocket-fueled dick on a birthday. Pulling my laptop from my bag, I sync it to the screen behind me and up pops my presentation, complete with slides.
“Okay, boring stuff . . . I’m Samantha Redding, a graduate student at the university, finishing my degree to become a psychologist specializing in relationships. Specifically, intimate relationships.” I click a button, moving from my introduction slide. “Less boring stuff . . . Mr. Harrington asked me here to help you with issues relating to sex, gender, and relationships.”
“That gonna involve demos with your toys, Barbie?” Anthony mumbles. It’s quiet, under his breath, but he makes sure it’s loud enough for me to hear.
“Anthony!” Chance shouts from the sideline, ready to jump in, and by the looks of it, jump Anthony to teach him a lesson. The guys around Anthony go from giggling quietly to zipped up silent in an instant at Chance’s rebuff, but Anthony looks proud of himself.
I hold up a hand, staying Chance’s defense. I don’t need him to handle this for me.
“I’d be happy to show you how some of the toys work to improve your sex life and make your partner happier. Or . . .” I drop my voice, stage whispering conspiratorially, “I can help you decide on a fleshlight for your personal use yourself since I’m pretty sure a pocket pussy’s all the action you’re getting. And it’s Miss Redding, Mr. Cordram.”
“Oooh . . .”
“Slick burn, Miss R!”
“Fuck, she got you good! Like she knows you ain’t got no game, A!”
Approval for my management style abounds, but Chance and Evan seem uncertain. And Anthony looks embarrassed, so I pull the attention away from him, hoping he learned a lesson about trying to goad me in class.
“On that note, I thought today’s topic needed to be bold. You don’t want to hear me talk about how you should ask girls on dates, what to say in your DMs, and how to get out of the ‘friend zone’—which doesn’t actually exist.” I throw out the declaration, knowing it’ll get their attention, and am rewarded with several ‘what?’ and ‘huh?’ responses throughout the group. “Though, if this goes well, I will cover all those topics and more in future classes. But today, I thought, what do you need to know right now, today, to be better that I have the knowledge, experience, and education to teach you?”
I click to the next slide and read aloud, “Be a Great Fucker, Not a Fuck-Up.” There’s a gasp of shock across the room, but I smile mildly as if I’ve said nothing unusual. “My sister-in-law came up with the title, though I don’t think she actually thought I’d use it.” I pretend to be contemplative because I knew the instant Luna said that what I was going to cover for this class to get the guys on the hook so I can do more emotional intelligence type classes in the future. If I go in talking feelings, they’ll check out. Go in promising orgasms, they’ll come back for more every time.
“What do you guys think? I’m planning a no sugar-coated, step-by-step lesson on how to be the best lay your partner’s ever had. Because newsflash, women like sex too. And fun fact number one, if you’re out there in these streets with women sounding like a porn soundtrack and you’re feeling like a rockstar, I can guarantee you, she’s faking and you’re shit in the sack. Anyone interested yet?”