Bad Boy Prospect (Alpha Bad Boy Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

muscles starting to bulge at the collar.
    "Well, let's see, if you hadn't been a number one draft pick, where do you think you would have gone to school? Or would you have gone to school at all?" I scoff, knowing I'm making him a bit uneasy. It's unprofessional, but his comment about the stereotypical layout of a shrink's office is still grating on me. Someone needs to put these boys in their place. They know they're not physically inferior, so going after their intelligence usually works.
    "I was accepted to the two colleges I applied to."
    "Oh, and what schools were those? Community colleges accept everyone, Mr. Markoff." That should get a rise out of him, especially if he's smart like Coach implied.
    "Harvard and MIT."
    A laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it.
    "I have the letters at home." He stands up from the chair and towers over me. His neck and chest are tight but he has a smile on his face. His large presence casts a shadow across both of us and has my knees knocking together ever so slightly as I take in all of him up close. I see his eyes dart down and notice. Damn it. I can't lie. I would let this twenty-year old do bad things to me. Wait what? No, no, no Liz. You put that idea out of your mind.
    I'm staring straight into his stomach as he towers above me and a wave of heat swarms my core, radiating to my clit. I dig my nails under the ledge of the desk and try not to bite my lip. Then I look down to see his huge length sitting tight against his leg. I'm not sure I could wrap my hands around it. I want to hold my hand out to get a better view of the fingers-around-cock situation, but it would alert him to my filthy, inappropriate thoughts. Maybe if I pretended to look out the window and formed a little telescope with my fingers it would throw him off enough to get away with it. I chuckle at my silly thoughts.
    "So let me get this straight, Doc." His voice is like sex in my ears, and my face flushes with heat. The temperature is rising to Sahara-like levels around the collar of my blouse. "A guy can't be a number one draft pick—" He leans into my ear and my eyes are locked on the huge imprint of his dick in his workout pants. "—and know what a Fourier transform is? See, you judge people based on appearances, using your pseudoscience, and it's laughable. Do you want someone using non-empirical observations and applying them to you? Defining you by them? Psychoanalysis? Hah! It's more like creative guessing. One might go so far as to say you're on par with the psychics who claim they can talk to dead people." He smirks. "Just a swindler."
    I clearly struck a nerve by questioning his intelligence, but he has me too flustered to capitalize. He brushes my hair back behind my ear and his touch has turned my cunt into a sauna. "How about we psychoanalyze you? Would you like that, Doc?"
    My pulse is racing. My blood starting to boil and I still stare at his cock and find myself fully aroused by him.
    "I see all these family pictures on your walls and no father in any of them. What's the story behind that? Daddy issues are so fucking hot."
    His words are warm breath on my neck, making me simultaneously rage and squirm on the inside. He knows right where to cut, and he does it with the technique of a master surgeon.
    "Maybe he left. You probably thought it was your fault. You had something to prove. Yeah, look how your degrees are framed in these huge ornate displays, all of your accomplishments, your superiority, your hard work contained within a fucking piece of paper. Yeah, you stuck it to the old man, didn't you? If he was here he probably wouldn't even care. He'd tell you that you could've done better. Better school. Higher starting salary."
    He's right. Not about my father. But I shouldn't have assumed he was a dumb jock. I try to speak and the words catch in my throat and come out garbled. "I'm sorry."
    "Goddamn right you are. You don't know a fucking thing about me, and I don't know shit about you."
    His