Speak No Evil: A Secret Society Student Teacher College Romance (The Society Book 3)

by Ivy Fox

  Pity they’re fake. Not exactly what I’m in the mood for, unfortunately. I’ve had enough of fake ass bullshit to last me a lifetime, so I’m in desperate need of a fucking break from the norm. Tonight, I want something real—whatever the fuck that means.

  Sorry, sweetheart.

  No use shoving those gorgeous tits in my face, but I appreciate the effort, though.

  Once she’s finished filling up my glass, I throw her a flirtatious wink for her troubles. She does that thing that girls do when they want something and bats her pretty eyelashes at me, thinking that will pique my interest. It doesn’t. However, when she turns around in her little pirate costume and moves her heart-shaped ass away from me, I take a moment to reconsider and put her down as tonight’s plan B.

  I turn around in the barstool and lean back onto the counter, my eyes scouring the nightclub, searching for someone worthy of warming my bed tonight. Nothing will get me out of the current bad mood I find myself in better than getting lost inside a woman’s thighs.

  My eyes land on a Marilyn Monroe lookalike across the room, with plump red lips sucking on her straw, giving me a little preview of what her mouth can do. Her gaze screams ‘come here and fuck me already,’ and although the offer is tempting, I rather avoid blondes if I can help it.

  In fact, if I could do away with all the golden-haired women in my life, it would make me the happiest motherfucker there is. All of them are a pain in my ass in their own particular way—starting from my stubborn best friend to my annoyingly perfect debutante sisters, and ending of course, on the bane of my existence—the ice queen herself—my mother.

  Yeah, tonight I need an escape from blondes in general, so Miss Marilyn won’t cut it.

  My eyes continue on their search amongst the crowded nightclub until they land on a redhead in a sparkling red Jessica Rabbit costume that reminds me of the knockout hostess back at the Brass Guild—a place Easton spends most of his time nowadays to do The Society’s bidding. In retrospect, I could have gone there tonight in search of some female companionship since they have quite a stellar collection to choose from. However, since I know that my father has a habit of frequenting the clandestine club, the Brass Guild lost all its appeal to me.

  Besides, I’ve never once paid for pussy. Like hell, I’m going to start now.

  Coming to Charlotte to look for someone to fuck is definitely a new low for me, though, but I needed a fucking change of scenery. Asheville only reminds me of the shitstorm my friends and I are in. Sooner or later, East will be done with his task, meaning The Society will next set their sights on either Linc or me. Unfortunately, my intuition tells me those fuckers are coming for yours truly sooner than I want them to, so I might as well enjoy the last remaining days of freedom I still have before I become The Society’s bitch boy.

  I comb the room hunting for anyone who will catch my eye, but as the minutes’ tick by, I come out empty-handed. Even though the dancefloor promises to be packed with gorgeous women, I’m unable to get a good view from where I’m seated. I could just get my ass off my stool to get a closer look, but that sounds like too much work. I rather my hookups come to me than put in the added effort of going to them. It’s worked so far for me these past twenty-two years, so why fuck with a winning formula?

  Frustrated that I’ve probably made the two-hour long drive for nothing, I turn around in my seat and take a long swig of my drink. The music in the club is starting to grate on my nerves, perforating my eardrums with its repetitive high-pitched beat.

  Worse still. I’m starting to get bored. That happens a lot.

  When you’ve lived your entire life getting everything you ever wanted, it gets awfully tedious coming up with new ways to get excited about anything. And if I’m really hand-to-God honest with myself, The Society coming into my life has been a great reprieve from the endless dull days of being a Richfield heir.

  Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that I still want those fuckers gone and dealt with properly. It doesn’t sit well with me knowing that someone out there knows what happened that night with Aunt Sierra and my fucking prick of an uncle. I’m all about the adrenaline rush of a new thrill, but being blackmailed with the threat of going to prison for the rest of my life doesn’t get me hard. In fact, it kills my libido completely. And no one likes a limp dick.

  I take a second look at the bartender, who is knowingly swinging her hips left to right to grab my attention as she goes about her business. If nothing better comes along, then she’ll have to do. I try to stay clear of fucking bartenders or staff of any kind as a rule. The term ‘don’t shit where you eat’ comes to mind. It makes for bad publicity when I tell them that I’m not looking for anything serious and that a quick fuck is all I have time for. Sure, my definition of quick could be having a woman’s pussy in my face for three whole days straight, but it’s a far cry from being the beginning of a promising relationship. Nothing’s worse than someone bitching to the media that they didn’t get their claws in you. Most women appreciate my level of honesty. And those who do, I make sure to reward them for their understanding with as many orgasms as their limber bodies can handle. But then there are always a small few who throw a tantrum. The ones who spend their days dreaming of landing a Richfield Heir to sweep them off their feet and fling them into the lap of luxury like they’re some kind of Cinderella or some shit, and I’m fucking Prince Charming.

  I am not Prince Charming.

  Prince Charming is a fucking pussy.

  Gold-diggers who think they can fool me into their bed don’t deserve even a finger-fuck from me, let alone my dick. A fact they soon realize and villainize me for on every social platform there is, just to get a reaction from me—or worse—my family. Not that I give a rat’s ass what anyone thinks about me. I’m perfectly content in being the cold prick that I am. It’s helped me survive the burdens that come with having my last name. But if I want to avoid the migraine of my mother bitching that I’ve stuck my dick in the wrong hole again, then I have to take precautions. Hence, I only go out with women who won’t make too much of a fuss when I give them their marching orders. My preventative measures have served me well so far, leaving satisfied women left and right to boast about how a quick fling with me is better than a lifetime fucking anyone else.

  Maybe that makes me cold.

  Or egocentrically callous.

  I prefer the term survival of the fittest.

  And my opinion is the only one that counts. So there’s that.

  I crack my neck to the side, easing the tension in my shoulders. In one fast tip of the glass, I empty its contents, ready for another round. If tonight’s excursion to Charlotte proves to be fruitless, then at least the buzz of the alcohol will lessen the disappointment of going back to my hotel room with no one on my arm. I prefer an empty bed to fill it with someone not worth my time anyway. This is the precise thought running through my mind when I hear a low gravelly voice close by, making my cock instantly twitch in recognition, springing hope that tonight’s excursion isn’t a complete bust after all.

  “Water, please.”

  Well, hello there.

  The pretty brunette bartender struts along with a water bottle in tow, and I make sure to follow her every step to see exactly where she’s heading. My lingering gaze is no longer enticed by her suggestive sway of the hip, but curious to see if the owner of that deep Yankee voice belongs to the no-nonsense woman who I’ve imagined under me more times than I can count.

  “Thank you,” Professor Harper says, giving the girl a ten-dollar bill before opening the bottle cap and taking a long pull of the cool liquid.

  I look up at the heavens and thank the big guy upstairs for sending me this treat. Discreetly, I lean away from my seat so that my eyes can fully appreciate the college professor’s get-up. Tonight, she decided to ditch her usual naughty librarian look for the sex-on-a-stick dominatrix vibe. My throat tightens as I take in the black leather mini dress that ends in the middle of her thighs and hugs
all her curves like a second skin. The two thin straps pretending to hold the dress up are just for show, when in fact, it’s her impressive C cups that keep the provocative fabric in place. Her long legs and sculpted ass look fucking amazing in that tight dress, but it’s her man-killer spiked heels that really get me going.

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  I think we’ve found tonight’s winner.

  I get up from my stool and walk the small distance between me and the sexy as hell professor. Her temple is coated with a sheen of sweat, testifying to her previous hardcore dancing, and I can’t help wondering if this is how she’ll look after she’s been ridden long and hard. She’s still drinking her water, her sights fixed on the dance floor, completely unaware of my approach. When I get close enough to stand behind her, the sensual scent of jasmine combined with glowing amber and sun-kissed marigolds, swirled with just a touch of sweet vanilla, has my mouth watering. Not only does Emma Harper look good enough to eat, but she smells fucking delicious, too.

  “Professor, fancy meeting you here,” I whisper in her ear.

  Any other woman would have startled at a stranger leaning so close to her. The good professor, though, doesn’t seem at all bothered by it. It is probably because half the men in this place have already hit on her at one point or another during the night, and I’m just the new nuisance who is keeping her away from her beloved dance floor.

  She takes a step back and cranes her head up just a smidge to put a face to her new bothersome pest. When her impassive bronze glower finally meets my wolfish smirk, she offers a stiff nod in greeting before going back to staring at the dancers on the main floor.

  “Mr. Turner,” she retorts dismissively.

  My cock instantly throbs at her indifference. Any other teacher caught on a night out by one of their students would have awkwardly come up with a million and one excuses as to why they were here in the first place. My ethics professor, however, is another breed of pedagogical academic. She doesn’t give a fuck about her students’ opinion where she’s concerned, and she isn’t shy in letting them know it either. She owns her bitchiness, leaving most of her students confused if they want to murder her, fuck her, or aspire to be her. As for me, I’ve always been undecided in the first two options, since the last one I’ve already mastered.

  “Didn’t take you for the Halloween type.” I venture on, excited with the prospect of toying with the stiff upper-lipped professor.

  “I’m not.”

  “Is that so? I haven’t seen you here before. So either you needed to blow off some steam tonight, or you’re celebrating something.”

  “That’s a very astute observation. Such a shame you don’t use the same analytical thinking in my classroom.”

  “That wasn’t an answer, professor. So which is it? Did you feel the sudden urge to let your hair down, or is this outing a celebration?”

  “It’s the latter,” she replies sternly, not once looking up at me.

  Although I’d love nothing more than to have a closer inspection of her stunning whiskey eyes again, right now, I don’t mind that she’s doing everything in her power to ignore me. I quite prefer it, actually. This way, I can admire all her luscious curves up close without running the risk of her biting my head off for it.

  “And just what are you celebrating?” I lean closer to her ear and ask once I’ve had my fill.

  She slants her eyes, turning them to meet mine head-on, unimpressed with my inquisitiveness.

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but it so happens that today is my birthday.”

  “And drinking water is how you decided to celebrate?” I tsk.

  She looks at the bottle in her hand and frowns, her manicured brows creased into a sharp v on her forehead.

  “Point taken. I guess water doesn’t yell celebration, now does it?”

  “No, it fucking does not. It screams old maid, and you’re anything but.”

  I grab the bottle away from her hand and place it back on the counter, snapping my fingers at the pretty bartender, who briskly rushes over. “Give me your best Pérignon.”

  “That isn’t necessary,” Emma chimes in, shaking her head in refusal.

  “I think it is. I mean, you only turn… how old are you?”

  “Nice try, but I’m not telling you my age, Mr. Turner,” she retorts, crossing her arms under her ample chest, making the swell of her creamy breasts that much more evident.

  By the end of the night, I’ll have them marked with either my teeth or my cum.

  I haven’t made up my mind yet.

  “Fair enough, but whatever it is, you only turn it once in a lifetime. You might as well enjoy it.”

  She purses her lips but lets me buy her a bottle of bubbly anyway.

  “Should we grab a seat?”

  “The place is packed. I don’t think we’ll be able to find one.”

  My predatory grin threatens to appear back on my lips because that wasn’t the outright ‘no’ I was expecting from her.

  “Follow me,” I reply, throwing her my best panty-dropping smile instead.

  I watch her hesitate for a split second, but ultimately, she gives in to her curiosity.

  “Send the champagne to the VIP room, will you, darling?” I wink at the bartender.

  Her stare bounces from me to the hot teacher at my side, the lust-filled stars in her eyes instantly vanishing with the realization she’s been replaced as tonight’s entertainment.

  ‘Yeah, babe, you’re not getting lucky tonight. Rain check, though,’ my smile tells her.

  I walk up the stairs to the VIP section, the bouncer pulling the red velvet rope in double time when he sees me approach. When we step into the secluded lounge, I verify that it’s busier than it was an hour ago when I came in here. Thankfully my corner table is secluded enough to guarantee some privacy as well as having a perfect view to the dance floor downstairs, something I think the good professor will appreciate. I sit down on the white leather cushion while Emma sits across from me, making it clear that we aren’t together.

  For now, anyway.

  All in due time, professor.

  “I’ll have one glass with you, and then I’m going back down,” she explains firmly, making sure that I don’t get any funny ideas.

  Too late for that.

  She’s just made this night interesting, so like hell, I’ll be satisfied with the five minutes it will take for her to drink her champagne. Still, I don’t say anything on the contrary and just lean back, my arms spread wide on each side of the couch so she can get a good eyeful of all of me. Only fair, since I’ve been checking her out non-stop since the minute I laid eyes on her.

  Unfortunately, Emma doesn’t take the bait, preferring to keep her sights down on the dance floor rather than taking in my broad physique. She only turns her attention back to the table once the champagne arrives. While the waitress pours some out for us, I take advantage of the distraction and slide my way next to her. I purposely stretch my arm behind her back, pleased when I see goosebumps coat her naked shoulders. She can pretend all she wants that she’s unaffected by my proximity, but her body tells me a different story.

  “I think a toast is in order,” I propose with a mischievous smirk.

  “Happy birthday to me,” she mumbles under her breath, downing her drink in one go before I’ve had time to even take a sip of mine. “Thank you for the champagne, Mr. Turner. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she adds, quickly getting up from her seat.

  “It’s going to be like that, huh? Take advantage of a man’s hospitality and not even placate him with a little small talk for his trouble.”

  She lets out a long exhale, her hands finding purchase on her hips.

  “What could we possibly talk about, Mr. Turner?”

  “Well, for starters, you could start by calling me Colt and not Mr. Turner. Every time you call me that, I half expect to see my father standing behind me. I really hate the bastard, you know. So for the sake of having a good time tonigh
t, how about we ditch the formalities and just call me by my name. I’m sure one night won’t hurt you, will it?”

  “Fine. Colt it is.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Emma?”

  She chews at her inner cheek but doesn’t berate me for using her first name. Still dubious of my intentions, she sits back down on the couch beside me but makes sure to keep a significant berth between us.

  “So tell me, Emma, why are you celebrating your birthday all by your lonesome?”

  “Who says I am?” she rebukes, taking the champagne bottle out of the ice bucket to refill her glass.

  I arch a brow, calling bullshit on her insinuation she’s here with someone. Any man lucky enough to convince this woman to go out dancing with him would be glued to her ass the whole night. And if this were a girls’ night, then her friends would have come running the minute they saw her come up to the VIP section. Just like me, Emma came to this club alone, and by the sexy dress she has on, I don’t think she planned on leaving it the same way.

  “It was a last-minute impulse,” she finally explains.

  “Really? You’ve never struck me as being the impulsive type.”

  “Mr. Tur… I mean, Colt, I hardly believe you know anything about me to make such an assumption.”

  “True. How about we remedy that and get to know one another a little better so I can make a fact-based judgment. Tell me, what other impulses have you had tonight?”

  Her shrewd amber eyes fix on mine, making my cock swell restlessly in my slacks with only one look.

  “Do you honestly think that’s the type of question you should be asking your ethics professor?”

  “Why not? You already gave me an F on my last exam, so I don’t see how my grade can get much worse with me speaking my mind.”

  “I don’t see how your mediocre grade is my fault,” she quips in annoyance, running the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass.

  “You’d be surprised how at fault you are.”

  This time I don’t hide my gaze traveling up and down her long legs. I lick my lips, remembering how I imagined them wrapped around my head when I was trying to do that damn exam. All the studying in the world wouldn’t have helped me pass that test with her in the room.