Pretty Dirty (Dirty Bad Things Book 2)(63)



Now what if I said a year later, they had that house built they’d been talking about, up there on the hill overlooking the ocean? What if I said they taught me to surf during the day, and taught me to come more than I thought was possible at night? Would that be too clichéd?

And what if a year after that, I gave birth to our first son, and our daughter a year later?

What if I said we fell in love that day when they pulled me over? What if I said somehow, I’d found the two men that completed me that day — the two missing pieces to make my puzzle whole?

And what if I said we were happy, no matter what anyone else thought?

Too clichéd for you?

Well too bad, cause that’s exactly how it went down.

And I still ask for the handcuffs…





His Little Bad Girl





His Little Bad Girl





She's mine, she just doesn’t know it yet.

Her name is Tempest Kensington.

She’s eighteen years old.

She’s my student, and I want to know how sweet she tastes when she’s claimed for the first time.

I’m her headmaster. I’m twenty years older than her. But damn the implications. Screw the consequences. I know I’m blurring the lines, but I. Do. Not. Care.

Tempest Kensington is a grade-A brat. And she’s about to get a very thick, very firm dose of my discipline – over my knee and on hers.

Barely legal. Entirely off-limits. My temptation, my addiction, my obsession. My ruin, in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks.

It’s time for this little tease to learn exactly what happens to bad girls who look for trouble.



Sweet, filthy, and oh-so-wrong in the best kind of way. If you’re looking for something extra hot and wildly over-the-top, this one’s for you! Utterly obsessed alpha hero, sassy, untouched heroine, and enough insta-love, kindle-melting steam, and sugary-sweetness to make you beg for more. HEA with NO CHEATING!





Copyright ? 2017 Madison Faye

All rights reserved.

Cover: White Rabbit Creative



No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.





1





Christian




What a little fucking brat.

My jaw tenses as I digest the shit-storm that’s just been dumped on me by my assistant principal concerning a very particular problem student.

Suspended twice senior year — once for ditching school and smashing the shit out of a professor’s car, and the other for being caught drinking during fifth period.

This student, Jesus Christ.

I wasn’t expecting to take over as Headmaster of Thornbull Academy until this fall, but here I am barely two months into the job — a full summer earlier than expected, I might add — and I’m going to have to deal with this shit. Wonderful.

Academia is hardly the career path most guys who get out of the SEALs in one piece choose, but for me, it was a calling. After all, my dad may have been a military man, and that's the path I took young, but it was my mom who was the reader and the studious one. She taught preschool. Maybe it was a combo of both of them that’s led me from squad sergeant in Afghanistan, kicking down insurgent doors and dodging bullets, to be the firm hand of control and discipline at one of the richest, most academically focused private schools in the country. The studiousness from my mother, the discipline from my dad. The courage and firmness to carry through from the SEALs.

But like I said, I wasn’t supposed to start until fall. That was before ancient Doctor Lindon, my predecessor, passed away two months before the end of the school year and his retirement day. Not a bad way to go — quietly in your sleep next to your wife — I’ll grant him that after some of the shit I’ve seen in the Middle East. But still, it sort of put a damper on my plans to settle into the affluent seaside town of West Haven.

On top of that, Thornbull Academy is so academically prestigious, and it’s students so insanely driven, that it offers a post-senior-year, pre-college “summer semester.” For some schools, summer school is a last chance for the fuck-ups — a hail Mary for the slackers to get their shit together and graduate.

Not at Thornbull, let me tell you. At this place, it’s a way to add even more pages to a resume before you start in at Yale, or Harvard, or Cornell, or wherever. It’s a way for go-getter students to pack in as many college-level freshman credit classes as they can, so all these little valedictorians and salutatorians can hit the ground running at Ivy League schools. I mean hell, apparently last year, three guys used their summer program to build a stock-trading algorithm, and before they started college in the fall, they cashed out for a cool billion dollars.

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