Chapter 122
Alison’s POV
The classroom door creaks as I enter into English class, late, deliberate. My golden hair catching the morning light, my blazer snug against my curves, my skirt a deliberate tease, riding high on my thighs.
The room hushes, as all eyes turn on me, but I’m unfazed, my lips curved in a knowing smirk. I feel Fig’s gaze before I look at him—hot, angry, boring into me from his desk, his book bag still obvious from his own tardy arrival.
My phone’s been silent since his desperate Sunday texts—“Can’t get you out of my head. Dying to bang you again”—and I’ve ignored every one, letting him stew, letting him burn.
I know he’s pissed, not just because I’m late, but because I’ve left him hanging, his cock hard, his ego bruised. Good. I want him to ache, to crave me, to beg for the wild, untamed fire he tasted Friday night. I walk to a desk, my hips swaying, every move a calculated seduction, fully aware of the power I wield over him, over this room.
Fig’s voice cuts through the air, sharp and biting. “Miss Blake, you’re late. This is unacceptable. Care to explain?” His eyes are dark, his jaw tight, and I know it’s not my tardiness that’s got him riled—it’s my silence, my refusal to acknowledge the way he fucked me in that club bathroom, his cock thrusting deep, my moans loud over the music, or in his car, my body riding him, my breasts bouncing, our release a shared wildfire. He’s furious, and it’s delicious, his anger a testament to my control.
I meet his gaze, my voice calm, sweet, as I lie. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fig. I overslept. It won’t happen again.” My eyes flicker with defiance, a hint of amusement, and I see his knuckles whiten as he grips the test papers, his restraint fraying. I’m playing him, this motherfucker thinks he owns me, and the thrill of it sends heat pulsing through my core, my nipples tightening under my blazer, my panties dampening at the memory of his rough hands, his hungry mouth. I take the test he hands me, our fingers brushing, a spark that makes my pussy clench, but I keep my face serene, untouchable, letting him burn as I take a sit.
The test drags my mind elsewhere—on Crew, my real target, the boy I lost to Lily’s shy innocence but will reclaim. I steal glances at him, seated beside her, his dark hair tousled, his arm brushing hers, a possessive claim that stings but fuels my resolve.
Lily’s nothing that I can't crush to get him back. I imagine his hands on me, his cock hard, fucking me with the intensity we had before I fucked it up with Javier. The test ends, and as Fig collects papers, I seize my chance, rising and sauntering to Crew’s desk, completely ignoring Lily, who’s hovering like a nervous puppy.
“Hey, Crew,” I purr, leaning in, my blazer parting to hint at cleavage, my voice low, sexy. “How’d you do on the test?” I twirl a strand of hair, my lips parted, my eyes locked on his, flirting shamelessly, my body angled to tempt him, to remind him of what we had—hot, reckless nights, my mouth on his cock, his hands gripping my ass.
He smirks, but it’s guarded, his eyes flicking to Lily. “Fine, Alison. You?” His tone’s cool, but I see the spark, the memory of us, and I lean closer, my breath teasing his ear.
“Could’ve been better,” I murmur, my voice a caress. “Maybe you could help me study sometime.” I let my hand brush his arm, a fleeting touch that promises more, my pussy tingling at the thought of him pinning me down, fucking me until I scream. Lily shifts, her presence a faint annoyance I dismiss, my focus on Crew, on breaking his loyalty, on making him mine again.
He stands, his arm around Lily, a clear signal. “Maybe,” he says, nonchalantly, and guides her out, leaving me seething, my smile tight, my desire for him a fire that burns hotter with his rejection. I turn to leave, my bag slung over my shoulder, but Fig’s voice stops me, low and commanding. “Miss Blake, a word.”
The room’s emptying, and I pause, my heart racing, a thrill of danger spiking as I face him. His eyes are dark, predatory, his anger barely contained, and I know this is about more than my tardiness—it’s about Friday, about my silence, about the way I fucked him and left him wanting. I step closer to his desk, my hips swaying, my lips parting, playing the game. “Yes, Mr. Fig?” I ask, my voice soft, teasing, my eyes daring him to make a move.
He leans in, his voice a growl, his breath hot. “Your behavior’s a problem, Alison. Late to class, ignoring… expectations.” His eyes drop to my lips, my cleavage, and I feel his hunger, the memory of his cock in me, his hands rough, my body yielding. “We need to discuss this. Privately.”
My pussy clenches, my body responding despite my focus on Crew. I know what he wants—to corner me, rip my skirt off, fuck me silly in his office, punish me for ignoring him. Part of me wants it—the raw, dirty thrill of his lust, the power of driving him wild—but he’s a means to an end, a toy to keep me high on sex until I win Crew. I smile, slow and wicked. “Of course, sir. Whenever you want.” I turn, my walk deliberate, knowing his eyes are glued to my ass, his cock hard, his anger a fire I’ve stoked.
The hallway beckons, but my mind’s on Crew, on the flirting that didn’t land, on Lily’s soft claim I blame it on.
I think of Fig as I walk slowly. He's complicated, his texts unanswered, his desire a leash I’ll tug when it suits me.
Friday’s memories—his thrusts in the bathroom, my moans in his car—pulse through me, a reminder of my power, but it’s Crew I crave, his body, his heart, mine to reclaim. I’ll see Fig later, let him think he’s got a chance, let him burn, but my sights are on Crew, on breaking him, on proving no one resists Alison Blake.
I'm so engrossed in my thoughts that I didn't see the headmaster’s PA standing beside me. “Mr Andrews Office now!” she says firmly as I look up suddenly.
I sigh weary as I follow her.