Pretty Dirty (Dirty Bad Things Book 2)(64)
Fuck, right? These kids are eighteen, rich, connected, and have their whole lives taken care. I mean they should be out chasing tail and drinking beers on the beach, not cramming more shit into their trust fund brains.
Not exactly the best mindset maybe for the new Headmaster, but fuck it, those are my thoughts on the matter.
I tap the desk in front of me before stretching my arms up and straining my muscles, feeling them pull against the still not-quite-familiar feel of a dress shirt and tie.
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.