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“And what would you prefer I call you, Professor? Daddy? Doctor Buchanan?”
“I don’t have a hard-on.” I stare at the bulge in his pants as if to say, exhibit A and bring my attention back to Buchanan’s stupidly arrogant yet indecipherable gaze. “Maybe I’m just big,” he offers.
He has no idea what I’d give to turn around and see if he’s lying about his girth, but I stay strong and stare at the closed blinds across the room.
A good fuck, maybe, but I have a feeling you’re too uptight to make me come, so––” “You think I can’t make you come?” I demand.
It isn’t a handout. You have one week of bereavement leave written in your employment contract. Take it.
“Every time you wind up in the penalty box because of Shorty, I’ll give you a ten thousand dollar bonus.”
“Good. Enjoy the game. It’s gonna be a hell of a ride.”
The crowd bellows behind me as the entire Lions line is shoved into the penalty box across from me, leaving my jaw nearly unhinged. Did that really just happen?
