Brat: Winchester Academy Book 2

  Brat

  Winchester Academy, Book 2

  Madison Faye

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  Brat

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek - Broken

  Also by Madison Faye

  Mailing List

  About the Author

  Copyright Notice

  Copyright © 2019 Madison Faye

  Cover: Coverlüv Book Design

  Photography: Wander Aguiar

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  Author’s Note

  Dear reader,

  Due to content guidelines on some retailers, Brat is available in two versions. A slightly edited, censored version (the nature of the relationship between the two heroes) is available on Apple, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo. The original, uncensored version is available on Eden Books and Payhip.

  You are about to read the censored version. But please know that there is nothing inherently different about it story-wise, I’ve just had to edit the nature of the relationship between the two main male characters a touch to comply with guidelines.

  Thanks for reading!

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  xoxo,

  Madison

  Brat

  The head cheerleader hooking up with the star quarterback? Totally normal.

  But accidentally bedding and giving her v-card to his best friend, the school’s newest, hottest professor?

  Yeah, not so normal, and all sorts of scandalous.

  Oh, and that’s before they decide to “share”…

  Cheerleading captain, social royalty, daughter of a senator, and maybe a bit of bitch? As the reigning queen bee of Winchester Academy, it makes sense that I might hook up with Beckett Truman—the gorgeous, cocky, king-of-the-school star varsity quarterback. I mean that Hollywood script writes itself.

  But a party dare gone wrong turns into something hotter than I’ve ever imagined when I accidentally give my v-card to his best friend, Porter.

  …As in, possessive, dominant, and totally hot Professor Truman, my new freaking math Professor. Eight years my senior, completely off-limits, and utterly irresistible.

  I know I should be horrified, or mortified. But it’s a little hard to feel anything but bliss when this Queen finds herself in the arms of not one, but two kings. Because Porter and Beckett want to share…

  I slept with the wrong man, and it just might be the hottest mistake of my life.

  Each of the Winchester Academy books are completely standalone stories, with no cliffhangers.

  Hot, wild, and insta-love galore, with TWO utterly obsessed alpha heroes and an untouched, very, very off-limits heroine. If you love over-the-top, slightly unrealistic, and wildly dirty stories, this one’s for you!

  This mfm romance is all about her – no m/m. As with all my books, this steamy novella is safe, with no cheating, and a HEA guaranteed.

  Prologue

  Porter

  Her body undulates against mine—the smooth, young, sweat-slicked skin of her back sliding against my rock-hard chest and abs. The smell of vanilla lavender shampoo fills my senses as I bury my nose in that fiery red hair, held in my fist and pulled away from the bare nape of her neck. My lips taste that skin, and she gasps this achingly broken moan of pleasure.

  Her tight little ass grinds back against my thick, hot, hard cock, and I grunt as I feel it twitch and pulse against her. My hand tightens in her hair, my lips teasing over the back of her skin. My other hand grips her waist, pulling her against me before it slides up her supple body. My big hand feels like it could wrap around her waist, like I could pick her up with one damn hand and sink her back down onto my aching cock.

  Fingers tease over her pale, freckled skin, making her squirm and whimper heatedly as my hand skims higher to cup one soft, full, pert breast. I can feel her puffy pink nipple harden to a point against my palm, and when my fingers tease over it, she cries out and turns her head, eagerly seeking my mouth with hers. I growl as I give her what she needs, crushing my lips to hers and tasting her tongue as our bodies grind together.

  This is wrong. Very, very fucking wrong. In the thinnest sense of the law, yes, she’s legal. She’s eighteen. She’s willing. She’s so fucking eager I can feel it dripping down her thighs. But “legal” and “right” aren’t the same thing. I know that, and I keep telling myself that, but the devil inside of me just will not fucking listen.

  Touching her is wrong. Hell, thinking about this girl the way I’ve been thinking about her is filthy enough to send me straight to hell. Or, fuck, jail, if this was just a few months ago. She’s eighteen. She’s legal. She wants this so fucking bad I can smell it in the air. And she’s mine.

  But that doesn’t make this right.

  The fact that I’m nine years her senior is messed up. The fact that she’s a senior at Winchester Academy is worse. But if you think that’s the worst of it, buckle the fuck up.

  She’s not just a student at Winchester. She’s my fucking student at Winchester. The tight little ass grinding against my bare cock, turning my blood to liquid fire in my veins is my student. My barely legal, very off-limits, very-fucking-untouchable, very bratty little prick-tease of a student.

  And tonight, she’s going to be mine. Tonight, I’m going to bury my cock in that sweet little cunt until she’s moaning for more and coming all over me. Wrong or not, there’s not a power on this earth that could stop that from happening. Not with the smell of her hair in my face, or the feel of her sweat-slicked skin against mine. Or the feel of her tight little body rolling under my touch.

  …Not when I already know how she’s going to feel. Because this isn’t the first time. And that may be the worst of it. This isn’t me giving in to temptation for the first time. It’s the second time. Fuck, no, it’s the third. I’ve already had her, and tasted her sweet honey from between her legs, and watched her face as she came for me. I should have felt guilty. I should have been remorseful. I should have wanted to keep my distance, or fuck, quit my job and move across the country.

  But I didn’t feel or do any of those things, because the only thing I want is more. I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit, and consequences be damned, all I want is more of the sweetness.

  “You want this cock, bad girl?” I growl into her ear, her cry of pleasure floating through the air as my teeth rake the lobe of her ear.

  “Yes,” she gasps eagerly, pushing her ass back against my hard cock. “Yes!”

  My pulse jumps, and I look up past her shoulder and nod at the other person in the room, sitting on the edge of the couch.

  My adoptive brother and best friend.

  “Then suck his cock,” I whisper heatedly in her ear. “Suck his cock and show me how bad you can be, naughty girl.”

  1

  Kempton

  Every high school has its “roles” that people fill. The nerd. The jock. The outcast. The Queen. The real world is a little more blurred than The Breakfast Club might have you believe, but trust me, it’s all there, and in a place like Winchester Academy, the hierarchy is only harsher, the lines in the schoolyard dug even deeper.

  For me, it’s Queen—the Queen. Queen, with maybe a sprinkling of “prick tease.”

  Except, not really on that last part. My reputation is much more… well, let’s say “X-rated” than what’s actually fact. To most of the school, yes, I’m a cock tease, but a cock tease that eventually delivers, so long as you’re popular enough—high enough on the social spectrum to turn heads and create whispered gossip that will echo through the ivy-covered halls of Winchester Academy for the rest of the semester. Only the highest of the popular echelons of school royalty get in these panties. Prom kings. Footballs stars. And if you believe the rumor mill, much, much older men who put these school boys to shame.

  Except here’s the real truth of it. All of those rumors?

  Yeah, they’re all bullshit. None of that happened. No, I didn’t bag the football team captain my freshman year—the one that went on to become a Senator’s aide. There isn’t this harem of older, rich men with yachts and sports cars and glass penthouse apartments who have my number and lavish me with new lingerie and cash.

  It’s. All. Bullshit.

  To be fair, I’m at least partially to blame for these rumors, and this dubious crown of basically being a walking, talking Cosmo magazine to the rest of the girls at Winchester in terms of sexual know-how. Okay, more than partially. How I got
this title and how I’ve worn it proudly is a bit of a comedy of errors, I guess you could say. It started with Bobby Adams, the aforementioned Senator’s aide and former Raiders team captain here at Winchester. It was my freshman year, his senior, and at some lame but “popular” party, he and I found ourselves locked in a bathroom. He was drunk, I was mostly just nervous, and everyone else at the party was assuming that uber-popular Bobby Adams was relieving me of my virginity over the bathroom sink.

  What actually happened was the exact opposite. Bobby, drunk and about to head off for college at Cornell, ended up breaking down and tearfully telling me he couldn’t do what he knew I’d come into the bathroom for him to do. As it turns out, Bobby’s family was very, very strict and religiously hardline. It also turns out; Bobby was as gay as a Village People & Freddie Mercury sandwich.

  He begged me not to tell anyone, since no one knew, and he had a reputation, after all, of being this lady-slaying, bedpost-notch-collecting alpha jock. And that’s when it clicked for me. That’s when I saw my road up to the very top of the social tower at my new boarding school for the next four years.

  So, I made Bobby a deal that night. I wouldn’t tell a soul, as long as he told everyone else that he’d bagged me. He was about as surprised as you’d imagine, but I think he got where I was headed with it. After all, he was the King of Winchester, and there I was a gawky newcomer with a famous and rich dad, and no friends at the school. We waited twenty more minutes, walked out to cheers, and the rest is history.

  I “dated” Bobby for the next few months, showing up at parties with him, and very publicly “sneaking away” to bedrooms with him, where he would actually meet up with Sean Parsons, the debate team captain while I watched Netflix on my phone in the next room. It was a weird situation, but we both got what we wanted. Bobby got to be with the person and gender he actually wanted to be with but couldn’t publicly, and I dialed my social standings from a neutral four out of ten to more like an eleven out of ten.

  From there, it all sort of snowballed. When Bobby graduated and I “dumped” him, I moved on to another guy. This time Luke Paredi, Bobby’s replacement as team captain. Luke I actually did intend to hook up with, until he came in his jeans after about four seconds of clothes-on kissing. Twice. So, we struck a new deal. I wouldn’t tell a soul about Luke’s easy trigger, and he’d make sure every single cheerleader football groupie in school knew he’d rocked my world and given me the screwing of the century. It made him a rockstar, and it firmly cemented me as the queen bee of underclassmen. Not to mention, it got me a spot on the varsity cheer squad too.

  After that, I just started skipping the middle man, so to speak. Instead of trying to find another situation where I’d have to “make a deal” with some boy from school, I just started to make shit up. “Ron” was the man—the “real man”—I told the cheer squad I was dating halfway through sophomore year. Ron was a thirty-year-old hedge fund manager and owned a yacht that he loved taking me out on. He was married, so it was all very hush-hush, and he loved buying me jewelry and lingerie. The whole thing was very scandalous to the girls at Winchester, and by junior year, it made me goddess of the popular crowd.

  Ron, by the way, never existed. Neither did Brad, the oil tycoon I “dated” after Ron. And it goes without saying, neither did Nigel or Alan, the two Englishman and heirs to various crowns and titles who I “dated” at the same time after Brad.

  And that about brings us up to speed to senior year, with me being the unchallenged queen of the popular crowd and of the school at large. I’ve been careful and strategic in my lying. I don’t have a reputation as a slut or anything, just as this cosmopolitan sex goddess who dates rich, scandalously older men. The type of girl the boys at Winchester want to be with and the girls want to be.

  It’s all built on bullshit, but I’ve never cared. After all, high school boys—even ultra-rich private school high school boys—are, well, high school boys. Yuck. Lame, handsy, arrogant, cocky with nothing to back it up, and honestly not attractive to me in the slightest.

  …All of them, that is, except one. And that one is starting to become a real, real problem.

  His name is Beckett Truman, and he’s as much a god of this school as I am. Maybe even more so. Blond, the kind of blue eyes that make a girl’s knees get wobbly, the kind of chiseled jaw that makes her forget how to talk, and the kind of arms that make her panties get very, very wet. He’s the star quarterback for the Raiders, Winchester’s division-dominating football team. He’s popular, he’s smart, he’s beautiful, and as if all that wasn’t enough to make him the undisputed king of the cool kids, he lives off campus, with his older adoptive brother Porter, an alumnus of Winchester who just started as our newest Math and Statistics professor.

  The problem has been building for months, and it’s coming to a head I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep covered. See, as King and Queen of the school, everyone else assumes we’ve either already hooked up, or that it’s an inevitability. Me with my bullshit backstory as too-cool-for-school temptress, and his very real exotic background of a British billionaire father and a Russian model/actress of a mother.

  The old me might have figured out a way to set up a new “arrangement” with Beckett. But that was the old me. And the new me? Well, the new me has a big, big problem.

  …The new me wants him.

  Badly. Horribly. Achingly. And for the very first time in my life, I think I may have met my match. That and I’m now a victim of my own fake backstory. Beckett Truman is a god. And I’m just a fake. Sure, I could just throw myself at him, and as the queen bee of school, there’s no way he’d say no. But, then what? I’ve never actually done much of anything with a guy, since it’s all been lies. What happens when the hottest stud in school takes me to bed and realizes I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing? My whole reputation and this seductress persona I’ve built up for myself would all come crashing down.

  We move in the same circles, and we talk here and there, but that’s it. So for now, I just sit, and I watch him. Tonight, quite literally, because Beckett Truman just walked into the very party I’ve snuck out of the dorms to get into, along with Ramona and Kara from the cheer squad. Kara’s older brother Justin, nine years out of Winchester himself, is temporarily renting a house on the water the town over from the school. Naturally, parties thrown by guys ten years older than me is exactly where the Kempton everyone knows should be. But seeing Beckett walk in is little bit of a surprise. After all, he might be king of the school and the star quarterback, and alpha as all hell. But he’s not the type to be caught drinking at some big party off campus during the season. Even if he does live off campus.

  “Have you seriously not hooked up with him yet?”

  I scowl, as I yank my eyes away from the blond-haired, model-hot quarterback nodding his perfect chin at someone across the room. I turn back to Kara, still scowling.

  “What?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Beck Truman. Mellissa Cruz swears she heard that you fucked him after the first home game this year.”

  I shake my head. “Melissa Cruz is a skank and a liar.”

  Part of me rolls my eyes inside. I don’t know why I’m so vehemently denying this. The old me would have found a way to say “yeah, I rocked his world and he’ll never be the same” before finding out a way to secure him backing me up on that story. But the new me is too, well, smitten, I guess I have to call it. Too wrapped up in my own fantasies of him. Too wanting him all to myself to be part of rumors concerning him and I casually hooking up.

  Ramona flashes me a friendly smile and touches my arm. Kara is the drama-hungry clinger, but Ramona is actually a real person of substance. She’s in the popular crowd, but she’s not “all in” like I am. She’s also in the marching band, and in Winchester’s model government club. Popular and gorgeous, but probably the most likely at school to be a lawyer or politician.