Broken Boy

Chapter 8

This may just be the worst day of my life.

I'm in Nyla's apartment, seated at a large mahogany desk overlooking Central Park. It's—hell, I don't even know what time is. I do know I've been sitting at this desk long enough my ass hurts despite the pretentiously cushy leather desk chair I'm in. Even the bright rays of sunshine glazing all of New York before me, mocks my unfortunate state. I sulk like small child because I don't know what else to do.

Nyla sits on the edge of the desk, her power suit an afterthought. Blond hair loose, cascading over perfect breasts, black lace corset, garter belt, black stockings. Every sinful thought filling my head. If I'd known she was hiding all that underneath her work clothes maybe I'd have forgone my misbehavior. Then I think about how much fun this morning was.

Nah, who am I kidding.

"A.J..."

I glance up from my day dream and into a pair of blue eyes. Nyla purses her lips then leans further across the desk, her cleavage directly in my eye line. "Hmmm," I grunt.

"Please, finish the task at hand."

I'd prefer a different task at hand—one that includes Nyla moaning my name, but by the expression on her face, I doubt we're referring to the same thing. This is her brand of torture, and I'll be damned if she doesn't know me better than I know myself—my weaknesses, my desires.

A laptop is open in front of me, logged into my personal email through the Club. Two emails stare back at me from my near empty inbox: one from my finance professor, the other from my marketing professor.

I have homework.

Nyla crosses one leg over the other, the whisper of nylon between her thighs rubbing against each other directs blood right to my groin. I glance from the swatch of lace between her legs to the devious smile spreading across her full pink lips. She's enjoying what she's doing to me.

I'm screwed. And not in a good way.

"We take your education very seriously, A.J." Nyla pokes her manicured finger into my cheek and redirects my head to face the computer screen. "Every day you'll finish your assignments first before you train—I'll make sure of it."

"How did you manage this? Do all my professors hang out at this club? It's a long drive from Harvard to get laid."

"Something like that." She smiles then her face is all business. "The utmost discretion is taken to conceal our members' identities. But you can count on the Club attracting some very high profile people. Ones that have a lot of control over your university, who make large monetary contributions, who have the power to make exceptions or grant favors."

I lean back in the chair, the leather protesting under my weight, as I cross my arms over my chest. "Then why not sign me over my diploma."

"Do you not get it, A.J.?"