Pretty Dirty (Dirty Bad Things Book 2) Read online

  Whatever my feelings on this summer school thing though, it's my new duty to oversee it and all the students attending, all while prepping for a very big jump into the deep end come fall. Let’s just say Dr. Lindon left some big damn shoes to fill, and as progressively liberal and forward thinking as this town likes to think it is, I’ve seen the way most people around here look at my physique, or my combat record, and hell, at the tattoos that even a full suit won’t hide, and wonder just how the fuck I got a job as Headmaster.

  And I’ll tell you how: because I’m a goddamn smart motherfucker.

  That’s not just a boastful brag either. Stanford undergrad, top of my class and an MBA from Wharton that I worked my ass off for in-between tours. Yeah, papa may have raised a good little soldier, but mama didn’t raise no fool, that’s for damn sure.

  But, this fool has a long damn summer ahead of him. Because on top of everything else, there’s this — the file on my desk.

  This student.

  Most of the kids in this summer program are goody-two-shoes, straight-as-an-arrow go-getters. This one is here because not taking the two classes necessary means no graduation. And seriously, this file is bad. Back-talking. Swearing at teachers. Drinking in an empty lecture hall at twelve in the afternoon. As a recently “graduated” senior, this student should be out of my hair already. Except, here we are.

  I glance through the reports, and the police write-ups for the vandalism to Professor Hershman’s car last year. I mean Jesus fucking Christ, breaking the windshield was one thing, but pissing on the steering wheel afterwards?

  I shake my head and drop the thick file on the desk. Yeah, this will need dealing with. Immediately.

  Something catches my eye, and I frown as I turn to glance out the large windows behind my desk. There are three of them — two boys and a girl, all summer semester students. The bell’s already rung, but there they go, off behind the gymnasium, glancing around nervously.

  My jaw tightens.

  My blood roars.

  Because right there in the mix, is my problem student.

  So cavalierly bad news, leading these other two off to do God knows what behind the gym. Showing a total disregard for the rules, and moreover, my authority. Because this damn student thinks that just because they’re eighteen, and “technically” graduated, and probably from money and privilege, that they don’t need to obey my rules.

  I stand, my muscles tensing, the blood running hot in my veins.

  Yeah, there goes my problem student alright — flagrantly waltzing past my damn office, knowing I can see them skipping. Blatantly breaking the rules, with a goddamn smirk on their face when they do it.

  …And showing a bit too much fucking thigh under that uniform skirt, I’ll say that.

  That. Little. Fucking. Tease.

  Oh sorry, you thought I was talking about one of the guys, didn’t you? Nope. Wrong. Neither of those two are my problem student. You see, my problem student is a she. My problem student is five foot three, one-hundred-and-five pounds of pure, tantalizing, teasing, inappropriate, irresistible, trouble. Capital fucking T.

  My problem presented herself on my first day of school, two buttons undone up top, three inches rolled up below, in my office for telling Ms. Bernard, her French professor, to go to hell before storming out of the classroom.

  She did it in French, at least.

  But there she was, sitting in my damn office waiting for me looking every inch the Nabokov tease. Knee-high socks, blonde hair up in pigtails, and her soft, pink, pouty lips wrapped around a fingernail. Those big blue eyes had drawn up from my shoes, up my legs, up my abdomen, over my chest and up to my “tough” face — the one I used to give grunts in the desert who were hungry, tired, and out of line.

  And she’d grinned. Those teasing, too perfect, too pouty, too tantalizing, and just this side of wrong lips had pulled back in a sultry little smirk.

  …And I’ve been fucking hooked ever since.

  Consumed. Obsessed. Addicted. One damn look and she managed to bring out every fucking alpha caveman desire to the surface. She brought out the raw masculine need in me — to claim her, to corrupt her, to make her mine. She brought out the depraved pervert in me — the part of me that wants to wrap those pigtails in my fists and use them to pull those soft little lips down over my throbbing cock. The part of me that wants to spread those long, lithe legs, grab that pert little ass, and drive every inch of my dick into her tight, sweet little pussy until I’m sure she’s ruined for any other man.

  Forget easing into my new job. Hell, forget getting a damn minute of work done or even being able to fucking sleep at night. My waking thoughts are filled with her doing all sorts of dirty things to me, and in my dreams, I’m doing every single one of them back to her.

  Her name is Tempest Kensington.

  She’s eighteen years old.

  She’s my student.

  And I want to know what sounds she makes when she comes. I want to know how tight she’d feel as I emptied every drop of my sticky cum deep inside her fertile young womb.

  She’s off to Harvard this fall, but until then, over the summer, she and her track record are my problem. My very big, very tempting, very off-limits problem.

  I don’t realize I’m gripping my hand in a fist until I feel the pencil in my fingers snap in two places. I blink out of my filthy daydreams, dropping the pencil into the trash by my desk and turning to watch her walk off behind the gym with those two shit-heads.

  I feel my blood burn to a boil.

  I could be reading the situation wrong, but I don’t care. And I’m probably not. Teenage guys are pieces of shit, and pieces of shit smell trouble like Tempest Kensington a mile away. A million scenarios run through my head, all of them involving those assholes putting their hands on her — on what's mine.

  Because she is mine. She just doesn’t know it yet. She will bend to my authority. And I will taste that sweet fucking candy pussy of hers.

  Barely legal. Entirely inappropriate. My temptation, my addiction, my need. My ruin, in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks.

  I whirl on my heel, slamming her file shut on my desk and storming for the door. Time to start this summer semester off right.

  I’m claiming what’s mine.

  2

  Tempest

  God these two are dorks.

  I mean, summer school — ugh. I could roll my eyes. Or puke. Trust me when I say spending more time at freaking Thornbull — after I should’ve graduated and been done with this place — is the very last thing I’d like to be spending my summer doing. But obviously, it’s not my idea to be here. It’s the fact that actually graduating from this snob-factory of a school and going off to college at Harvard is contingent on passing two stupid classes this summer.

  I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong on a few levels.

  No, I’m not off to Harvard — insert effected accent here — because of who my parents are. My parents are pretty normal, actually, and in this town, that’s saying something. No, they aren’t hedge fund managers, or trust-fund investors or whatever. We moved here when I was eleven, after a distant uncle of my mom left us his house. We don’t live in a huge mansion like most people, and we don’t have any European sports-cars in the garage, but that works out okay with me.

  Mom and dad never wanted kids. I mean, no parent will ever say that, and it’s not say they haven’t done a pretty admirable job with me. They’ve been great, really. Just, you know, not “parent-like” most of the time. If anything, they’ve always acted as more like a cool aunt and uncle, or worse, like we’re peers. But “cool aunts and uncles” give you fun birthday presents and maybe your first beer. They don’t raise you.

  Call us the exception I guess.

  So, no, it’s not because of who my parents are, though they do have some money. I’m going to Harvard in the fall because I’m smart. Yes, I have a rep here at dorky Thornbull, and in this town. And it’s a reputation that I like, a lot.
I’m the instigator. The outsider. I don’t really belong here, and this town has enjoyed reminding me of that for seven freaking years. But whatever, I know it, they know it, so why pretend otherwise? I made the decision years ago that instead of trying and failing to fit in with all of these phonies and snobs, I’d just fuck with them instead. Them and their sensibilities.

  I like sticking out. I like being the bad influence they don’t want their little Stepford children hanging out with. And I’m fine with that. Which is why I’ve bullied, coerced, and basically shamed these two poor dorks into ditching first period to drink peppermint schnapps behind the gym with me.

  The two of them look like they’re about to commit a felony. I watch as Jon, and then Mike — sorry, Jonathan Fillmore Price the third, and Michael Charles Lewis Sterling — wait for it — the fifth, fumble with the bottle. Mike finally awkwardly twists the cap off the gross, sugary drink, and brings it to his lips. He takes a pull, and immediately spits it out, coughing and wheezing like I’ve just fed him poison instead of shitty booze.

  “No, like this.”

  I snatch the bottle from him and shake my head. God these two are lame, and these are like the two most popular guys in this school.

  I know, it’s insane.

  In a normal high school, go-getter nerds like this would be, well, nerds. Not at Thornbull — an “institution of academic and personal excellence.” And the people who go here really take it to heart. There are sports teams, but no jock culture. The real rockstars of this school are the math-team wizards and the model United Nations masters who’re going off to whatever token Ivy League school next year before coming back to West Haven to run their fathers’ mutual funds or whatever.

  “Here, like this,” I mutter as I show both of them how to take a real sip. I’ll admit, I almost wheeze and cough too, but I force myself not to - determined to show them how it’s done.

  So, here’s the thing: I don’t actually drink. I mean, I did that once, but today I’m just bored. Bored enough to finally do something about “my problem,” which, as I start in on another whole semester here, is only going to get worse. My problem who I know watched me come back here with these two. My problem that the dirty, excited, nervous, and toe-curlingly wanting part of me just has to do something about.

  My problem wasn’t ever going to be my problem, until the day I was waiting in his office and felt my whole body turn to mush when he stepped in. I’d been expecting old Dr. Lindon.

  He was not who I was expecting.

  He who made me blush and tingle all over — who made me lose my ability to speak, and who made me just grin at him like a stammering idiot while my body grew warm in places that made my pulse skip a beat.

  Those piercing blue eyes. That dark hair. That body and oh my God those tattoos. He was everything I’d always secretly lusted for, which is exactly what I’ve been doing ever since that day.

  Lusting.

  Badly.

  For two months, even just passing the new Headmaster’s office door, or — fuck — hearing that deep, powerful, baritone voice of his over the intercom system was enough to make my panties soaked. Actually seeing him in the hallways was enough to get me to almost risk getting caught skipping school again so that I could get home and get my fingers to the places on my body that he lit on fire with need.

  And after two months of melting over the untouchable Mr. Knolls, I thought I was free. That is, until I found out about the bullshit classes I had to take this summer. Until I realized that while my parents went on a tour of Asia for the summer, courtesy of my Dad’s work schedule, I’d be here — back in West Haven, back in Thornbull, and back to turning into a wet, sticky, whimpering puddle every time my Headmaster looked at me.

  His name is Christian Knolls.

  He’s thirty-eight.

  He’s the Headmaster of my school.

  And literally everything about him makes me want to drop to my knees in front of him and worship his body. Every single thought I’ve had since that day in his office has revolved around wanting him to tear my clothes from my body, bend me over his desk, and do every single filthy, depraved, wrong thing to me that he wants to.

  My “bad” reputation at this school is all built on bullshit and stories I’ve spread myself. You see, half the school might think I’m a whore, but despite that bad girl rep, there’s just one, tiny thing:

  I’ve never actually done it.

  You know, “it.”

  Any of it actually. True story. I mean even Jon and Mike here had steady girlfriends all through school. But not me. No boyfriends, no flings, no one-night-whatevers. None of it.

  Me pretending to be bad has always just been an act — a way to distance myself from the lame, cookie-cutter crap of this town and this school. Except now, there’s one little problem: Christian Knolls makes me want to actually be bad.

  He makes me want to be very, very bad, and I want to be bad all for him.

  And today, I’m going to do something about it.

  3

  Tempest

  The bottle trembles in my hands as I take a slow sip. I know he saw me come back here. I know because I know when he’s in his office, and I know I “snuck” behind the gym in full view of his window. I know a man like him — a firm, hard, dominant, alpha of a man — won’t be able to let something like skipping class go. I know he’ll investigate.

  I shiver again.

  I know he’ll catch me being bad, and I know what that means.

  …Or at least I hope it’s what it means.

  I know I’m wearing my skirt pulled up too high. I know I’ve got one too many buttons of my uniform blouse undone. I know I’ve got an extra layer of slick, wet, pink gloss on my lips.

  I know I’m wearing the sexiest black thong I could find at the mall last weekend.

  I know when Christian Knolls catches me skipping class and smoking behind the gym, he’s going to be mad. I know his gorgeous, chiseled jaw is going to clench and I know that his thick, muscled shoulders are going to bunch and tense, making the sexy as fuck ink around his neck and his wrists ripple in a way that makes me melt.

  I know he’s going to be punish me for being bad.

  …And then I’m going to show him just how bad I can be.

  I take another sickly pull of the bottle, wrinkling my nose at the taste but hoping to God it’s worth it, when I see Mike and Jon pale in front of me. Mike looks like he’s just shit his pants, and Jon looks even worse.

  I feel his presence behind me even before he speaks. My body tingles, and trembles, and tenses before that deep, powerful, commanding baritone even rumbles from his lips.

  “What the fuck is this,” he hisses, the “s” sound of his words sending a lighting bolt from my ears to right between my legs and instantly soaking my panties. I bite my bottom lip between my teeth and squeeze my thighs together. I can feel the sticky heat of my need for him clinging wetly to my thong and molding it to the lips of my pussy.

  “You two,” Christian growls, jabbing a menacing finger past me — I still haven’t turned — at Jon and Mike. “You two will report to vice-Headmaster Dalton’s office immediately.”

  The two dorks just stare at him with horrified looks on their faces.

  “Now, gentlemen!”

  Mike and Jon all but jump in the air, scrambling over each other to actually sprint back across the lawn to the main building.

  And then we’re alone.

  “Turn around, Ms. Kensington,” the gorgeous, dominant Headmaster growls from behind me.

  I swallow thickly, trying to force myself not to actually shiver. I drop the bottle to the ground and kick it away with the toe of one of my black wedges.

  “Tempest.”

  My name on his lips makes me break, and this time, I do shiver. And I know he see’s it. I turn, slowly, feeling my pulse beating a million miles a minute and feeling my body turn to absolute mush in front of the much older, very off-limits, impossibly sexy, rough and dominant Headm
aster, who also happens to be the one man on the planet who I want to make me his.

  I hesitate in actually looking at him, but then suddenly, his arm extends, and his large, powerful fingers touch my chin. He raises it, forcing my eyes to slowly drag up every inch of his firm, muscled body until my eyes meet his.

  And I’m lost.

  “Well,” he growls, the faintest hint of a smirk on his chiseled jaw as his eyes burn right into mine.

  He doesn’t say anything else, he just lets the word sit as he stands there towering over me. His mere presence makes me so wet I’m sure it’ll actually run down my leg if I stand here much longer, and the way he’s staring at me like he’s starving and I’m a last meal isn’t exactly helping.

  Finally, the silence and him staring at me, and me getting so turned on I’m sure he can smell it on me hits a breaking point.

  “Whatever,” I say flippantly, pumping as much bratty attitude into the sneered word as possible. I want to push him, because I want him to snap. I can see the power in his arms and shoulders, and the way those hints of tattoo ink ripple under the edge of his shirt. I see the fierceness in his eyes, and the tightness in his jaw when he sets his gaze on me, and I can see the way flaunting his authority and taunting him like this pushes him right to his boiling point.

  And I want him to.

  The thought both terrifies and electrifies me like nothing else ever has. Because I want to see what Christian Knolls does when he snaps and stops holding back.

  …And I want to see what he does to me.

  “You can’t tell me what to—”

  “Watch me,” he rumbles out. Suddenly, just as I’m pulling my eyes from him and turning away, his powerful hand shoots out and clamps down on my wrist. Raw heat blazes through me, and I swear the feel of his hand on my bare skin for the first time sends a knee-shaking bolt of electricity right to my pussy.

  I gasp, my breath catching in my throat as I drag my eyes up his broad chest, up over his chiseled jaw, and then lose them in that fiery, heated gaze of his.