NOVEL NEXT Chapter 237: morning
The morning air was crisp, laced with the faint sweetness of blooming jasmine as Lor lingered at the academy gate, his boots scuffing against the cobblestones.
The stone arch loomed above, its carved runes glinting in the early sunlight, a silent sentinel to the tide of students pouring through.
Their voices swelled around him—a chaotic symphony of excitement about the upcoming tournament, complaints about spell theory homework, and whispered gossip about rumors.
The energy was electric, a living current that pulsed through the crowd, but Lor stood still, an island in the stream, his hand tightening on the strap of his bag until the leather creaked.
Kiara might be in there, her icy-blue eyes cutting through the throng.
Miss Silvia might be in there too, her auburn hair catching the light, her glasses hiding the witch beneath the teacher's mask.
The thought made his chest tighten, a knot of anticipation and dread twisting beneath his ribs.
Walking into the academy meant stepping into their orbit, facing those eyes that made him feel both wanted and weighed down by truths he wasn't ready to untangle or didn't want to meddle in.
"Tomorrow's the tournament," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the chatter. "If I want to farm rituals, I should…"
He trailed off, his thoughts snagging on a spark of rebellion, small at first, then swelling like a fire catching in dry grass.
What if he didn't go in?
What if he bunked today, slipped away from the lectures, the crowded halls, the risk of running into Kiara's burning gaze or Silvia's glances?
Miss Silvia wouldn't report him—after last night, her flushed cheeks and trembling confessions ensured her silence.
She'd be the last to breathe a word to Mira.
His lips curled into a grin, sharp and reckless.
And maybe… just maybe… he could spend the day in a much more entertaining way.
The grin sharpened further, wolfish, as he turned from the gate, the crowd swallowing itself behind him, oblivious to his departure.
His boots carried him down the road that veered toward the residential streets, away from the academy's towering spires and the weight of its expectations.
The town was quieter here, the morning light washing across whitewashed houses with dark wooden beams, their shutters open to let in the breeze.
The smell of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke.
A tabby cat stretched languidly on a tiled roof, yawning as Lor passed, its amber eyes indifferent to his purpose.
He tucked his hands into his pockets, humming faintly.
A nasty idea—so nasty it made his cock stir in his trousers—took root in his mind, the possibilities blooming like forbidden fruit.
A long shot, sure, but if it worked…
He could almost taste it.
Viora and Myra.
Two classmates already tangled in his web and both with mothers he'd only heard whispers about—whispers that Kiara had let slip, her voice teasing as she spoke of their closeness.
Mothers who lived side by side, their lives intertwined in ways that made Lor's imagination run wild.
His heart beat faster as the houses came into view, two neat homes sharing a low fence line, their yards blooming with late-summer flowers.
Myra's house on the left, Viora's on the right, their windows glinting in the sunlight like invitations.
Lor ducked into the shade of a gnarled oak tree, its branches casting dappled shadows across his face as he crouched low, his eyes scanning the scene with a thief's precision.
He peeked through the first window—Myra's house.
The scene inside was so mundane it twisted into something achingly erotic.
A woman stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up past her elbows, her hands buried in a basin of soapy water.
Sunlight poured through the open window, glinting off the suds and bathing her in a warm, golden glow that made her skin seem to hum with life.
Her hair was a deep brunette like Myra, pinned back in a messy bun, strands clinging to her flushed cheeks where the steam had kissed them.
Her blouse, damp with sweat from the morning's work, clung to her back, the fabric stretching taut over the soft, generous weight of her breasts, the outline of her curves visible with every movement.
Her hips were full, her waist pulled in beneath the swell of her bust, her skirt swaying as she scrubbed a plate with a rhythm that was almost hypnotic.
The way her body moved—small rolls of flesh shifting at her waist, her skirt tightening across her thighs with each subtle lean—made Lor's throat dry, his pulse quickening.
She was a classic housewife, soft and lush, but there was a sharpness in her motions, a quiet command that made the kitchen her kingdom, every scrub of the plate a declaration of control.
His cock twitched, a low throb stirring in his trousers as he watched, transfixed.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely a whisper, his eyes drinking her in.
He leaned back, his heart racing, and shifted his gaze to the second window—Viora's house.
If Myra's mother was soft, warm curves, Viora's mother was the opposite: hard lines, honed edges, a body built for power.
She stood in the middle of the room, a pair of iron weights gripped in her hands, her skin glistening with sweat that caught the light like liquid diamonds.
Her green hair was cropped short, framing a strong jaw, the strands messy from her workout but deliberate in their ruggedness.
Her body was tall, broad-shouldered, her arms corded with muscle that flexed with every lift of the weights.
A dark sports bra strained against her chest, flattening her full breasts but unable to hide their weight, the fabric stretched taut over her toned torso.
Her abdomen was a map of sculpted muscle, each motion making the lines ripple, her strength a quiet, undeniable presence.
Her thighs were thick, muscular, framed by shorts that rode high, accentuating the curve of her ass as she sank into a squat, her movements precise and controlled.