by Madison Faye
Broken
Winchester Academy, Book 3
Madison Faye
Contents
Broken
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
Epilogue
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Mailing List
About the Author
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2019 Madison Faye
Cover: Coverlüv Book Design
Photography: Wander Aguiar
Models: Jonny James & Katie
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Broken
Note to self: don’t sleep with the gorgeous, tattooed, motorcycle-driving hottie after a friend’s train wreck of a bachelorette party.
Especially not when he looks at you like he wants to devour you.
Especially not when he’s a little younger looking than you.
Especially not when it turns out he’s your newest student.
…Oops.
* * *
Ethan Scott is the kind of man your mother warns you about. Reckless, cocky af, damaged, beautiful, of course, and completely irresistible. And if that weren’t a long enough laundry list of reasons to stay away?
…He’s also eight years my junior, and my student at the private high school where I teach art.
Winchester Academy’s newest bad boy student—my student—is utterly off limits. The problem is, he’s also gorgeous, tempting, addicting, and has me wrapped around his freaking finger.
The other problem is, I already slept with him.
He’s the firecracker waiting to blow, the spark that sets off the fire. He’s broken, and this whole thing could break us both. But something about him makes me go crazy. Something about him makes me say yes instead of no.
Something about him has me aching for more, no matter the consequences.
…This might be a problem.
Prologue
Ethan
Rain hammers down across the roof and hood of the car like bullets, the thunder booming like cannons. Water pours in torrents down the outside windows, mimicking the sweat running in rivulets down both of our naked bodies.
The neon from the gas-station sign and the lightening flashes turns her skin orange and then white as she writhes on top of me. And when the thunder shatters the sky again, I can feel the slick, tight walls of her pussy clamping down on my length, squeezing me as her pulse jumps and her moan catches in her throat.
Breaths pant, hands clench, lips bruise together, the windows fog up until they’re opaque with our lust.
With our sin.
My hands grip her ass tightly, bringing her up and down, up and down, plunging my cock into her over and over. Her teeth nip at my lip and her nails rake over my skin. My muscles bunch, abs clench, and my cock pulses as I grunt and rut into her, claiming her as my own.
This is wrong, what we’re doing. So very wrong. Neither of us are under any illusions, either. We both know that if people found out about this, there’d be gasps and clutched pearls. There’d be scandal and ruin.
And yet, we can’t stop. Us stopping this thing between us would be like trying to boil the ocean, or wall off the sun. Stopping this would be as improbable as stopping the world from turning. In fact, you might have a better shot at that than at taking me away from her.
“Ethan,” she gasps, clinging to me, her breath catching and her body tensing as I plunge deep inside of her.
Fuck, she feels like heaven. So fucking good, and so fucking wrong. Maybe it’s so good because it’s so wrong. Or maybe she and I were destined to be like this. Maybe every step in both of our lives have led to this one, forbidden, illicit moment, where we both push morals and decency, and social norms and her professional ethics aside and just give the fuck in to our base, animalistic desires.
Maybe I don’t give a shit what the reason is, or how wrong this is. Because she’s everything to me, and no ethics, or morals, or society or any of that shit is going to tell me otherwise.
Thunder booms, her fingers claw at my inked skin, and I growl as I feel her walls clench down on me even tighter. Lighting flashes, and when our eyes lock in the heady, neon light through the fogged-up windshield of her beat up old Jeep Grande Wagoneer, it’s like we’re in the middle of the storm itself.
We grind into each other as the winds howl and thunder splits the sky, rain pelting down and her sweet, tight, perfect little pussy bouncing up and down my cock until suddenly, I can feel her start to fall.
And in that moment, like any moment with her, none of it matters. It doesn’t matter that they’d say this is wrong. It doesn’t matter that the media would shred us to pieces.
…It doesn’t matter that I’m eighteen years old, or that the woman riding my cock and about to come so hard for me is my twelfth grade art teacher.
All that matters is that she’s mine.
Lightning sears across our retinas, thunder shakes the very car around us, and the rain slams against the roof like fucking hail. She cries out, her nails digging into my skin, her lips crushing to mine. And when I feel her tighten and clench around my length, I pull her down and plunge myself as deep into her as I can as she shatters above me.
She’s my teacher. I’m her student. Separate, we’re damaged. Together?
Well, I want to say together we’re perfect. But the truth is that it might be more that together, we’re a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.
She’s the fuse, I’m the match. And this town has no fucking idea of the powder-keg it’s sitting on.
Our lips bruise together, her body writhes against me, and the storm rage around us.
Tick.
Tick.
Boom.
1
Emily
“You want a what?”
The bartender at the Crest and Anchor gives me an odd look as he shouts the question over the screaming crowd filling the place.
“A manhattan!”
He frowns, shaking his head.
“That’s got whiskey it in, you know.”
Hell yes it does.
“Yeah, I know.”
His brow furrows and he shakes his head as he turns to make it. I could, and probably should be a little peeved at the benign sexism of his being so shocked that a girl might want a whiskey drink. But, whatever. Pick your battles, I guess. He’s older, and the bar is used to snobby golfer or yachting types and their trophy wives who drink vodka or bubbles. And honestly, I don’t give a shit as long as I can pour some more booze down my throat as soon as possible.
“Hey!”
I turn, or more specifically, I’m yanked around by Courtney, the maid of honor and tonight’s official “party queen.” Courtney and I aren’t really that close, but we’re both great friends
with Shana, the bride-to-be who’s bachelorette party we’re all out for tonight. Shana, by the way, who’s about to become one of those aforementioned trophy wives when she marries Don—twenty-five years her senior, three divorces under his belt, more money than he knows what to do with Don.
“Drink, bitch!” Courtney slurs with a huge grin on her face, shoving a flute of champagne my way.
“Nah, no thanks.” I make a face. “Gives me a headache.”
“Boohoo!” she drunkenly slurs at me. “Party pooper.”
I’m not nearly drunk enough for tonight. Not enough to deal with Shana’s sorority sisters from college. Or the fact that had history gone another way, tonight was actually supposed to be the date of my bachelorette party. But, it kinda goes without saying that canceling a wedding eight months before when you find out your fiancé is banging his secretary has a way of canceling the bachelorette party too. Duh.
Like I said, I’m not nearly drunk enough for this night right now.
Courtney tries to push the champagne on me again, but I shake my head once more.
“I just ordered a—”
“Hey!”
I blink as she seamlessly interrupts me with a sly, drunk grin.
“That guy is looking at you again.”
I groan inside.
Fuck.
“That guy” is tall, and built, yes. And clearly moneyed. And clearly has been staring at me all night. But he also clearly has “rich pompous douchebag” written all over his face.
Yeah, no thanks. Even eight months post-breakup with Jason without a single rebound fling, I have zero interest in Mr. Preppy Popped-collar Douche sipping his light beer.
“Girl,” Courtney sighs, hugging me aggressively before pulling back and giving me this sad-puppy look. “You are so much better off without your loser ex. I mean fuck James!”
“Jason.”
“Huh?”
“Ja—never mind. Yeah, fuck him.”
She grins.
“Soooo, finish my drink, and go over to that tall drink of hotness and get your freak on, girl!”
I’d rather fuck my shower nozzle, I think to myself, sarcastically at first before I realize how much better of an idea that sounds like.
“Manhattan?”
I turn, smiling at the still skeptical bartender before I drop my cash on the bar and take the drink. One sip has me sighing. Two has me smiling. A third has me actually feeling better.
Yeah, it’s been a shitty year. First, there was coming home to find Jason with his secretary’s Louboutins over his shoulders on our bed. Louboutins, as it turns out, he bought her with money from our honeymoon fund. Classy as fuck, I know.
So, that pretty much closed that chapter. Relationship gone, wedding canceled, oh, and place to live gone, since without Jason splitting the rent, I couldn’t afford the place by myself. Luckily, I’d just been hired for my new gig as the art teacher at Winchester Academy, and they actually had an option for me to live right on campus, at least temporarily, in faculty housing.
So, that’s my life right now. Single, pathetic, and finally giving up my dreams of being a professional artist in favor of teaching it to some of the most entitled, snobby, wealthy high school students on earth at the prestigious and snooty Winchester Academy.
What’s the saying? Those who cannot do, teach?
I quickly slam back another few sips of the manhattan, until I can feel the warmth of it melting through my cheeks.
The one upside to this bachelorette party is that we’re out bar hopping in Southworth, the very town that Winchester is in. Which means I’m just a quick Uber ride home. And that is fine with me, seeing how much I’m going to have to drop to get to Shana’s actual wedding in a few months, in freaking Napa.
At least when I sold out my dream for a paycheck, it’s a decent paycheck. More than professional painters make, that’s for sure. That’s what comes with working for the best of the best in private schools. Or at least, the most sought after for rich trust-fund brats. And rich trust-fund brats come from rich trust-fund parents. And rich trust-fund parents pay a lot for their brats to go to Winchester. So, the pay is decent.
Courtney dances away into the crowd of girls out tonight, but I hang back at the bar, finishing my drink as quickly as possible. And I’m pretty damn close to ordering another one, when suddenly I gasp as a hand comes down with spank on my ass and lingers there.
“So, we done playing games, honey?”
I whirl on the guy, yanking myself away from his hand on my butt as I glare daggers at him. It’s the douchebag from before, the one Courtney seems to think is a great fit for me for… who the hell knows for what reasons.
“Did you just put your hand on my ass?”
He grins, shrugging.
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, don’t do that.”
He laughs. “Oh, are we gonna play that game?”
My brow furrows. “What game?”
“You gonna pretend you haven’t been eye-fucking me all night?”
I stare at him. “If by ‘eye-fucking’ you mean ‘I-fucking-want-you-to-stop-staring-at-me-like-a-creep’, then yes. That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”
The man scowls, the grin fading.
“Your friend didn’t say you’d be this much of a bitch you know.”
“What friend.”
He nods past me, and I turn to see Courtney beaming at me, a thumb raised in the air.
Goddamnit.
“So, you wanna get out of here?”
I stare at him blankly.
“Are you serious?”
His grin widens as he spreads his hands wide.
“What can I say, baby, it’s your lucky day.”
I laugh, snorting my drink as I turn away from him.
“Okay, bye.”
I make it two steps before suddenly, it happens again. That fucking hand of his swats against my ass, and he holds it there as the fury blazes through me.
Fuck this.
I whirl and before he can say another word, I’ve tossed the rest of my Manhattan right into his smug face. The guy gasps and sputters in rage.
“You fucking cunt!”
“Keep your fucking hands to your—!”
“Fuck you!”
Fear spikes through me as the asshole charges right into me, my hands going up in defense. Suddenly though, the bartender and both bouncers are right there, pulling him back as he hurls curses at me.
“Ross! Easy now!” the bartender, who seems to know him, gets between us. “Take a breath, buddy. What happened?”
“This crazy bitch just threw her drink at me!”
I stare at him, my jaw dropping.
“Are you serious? He grabbed my ass! Twice!”
“The fuck I did, you self-absorbed bitch!”
“You ass—”
“That true?”
The bartender stares at me angrily.
“That he grabbed my ass twice and was a total creep? Damn right it—”
“That you threw a drink at him.”
I blink. “Yeah, I did.”
He glances at both bouncers and sighs.
“Get her out of here.”
“Hang on, what?!”
I shriek, swearing as the two big guys take my arms and start to pull me through the crowd.
“What the fuck!”
Ross, the asshole with my drink still dripping down his face, grins at me as he follows.
“What can I say, babe? They know me here.” He winks. “It helps that I’m an investor. Too bad you couldn’t just be a good girl and play nice.”
I lunge at him in a rage, the booze coursing through my veins as the bouncers lead me to the door. Shana rushes towards me, but I see Courtney take her arm and whisper something in her ear. They both look at me with this look of sympathy before Shana pushes her way towards me.
“Look, Em, just, you know… maybe go home and sleep it off?”
“Shana, I didn’t—”
>
“You had a rough year, hon,” Courtney chimes in from behind Shana, reaching out with a phony look on her face to pat my arm. “No one blames you, okay? But, you know, it is Shana’s night. Maybe it’s best if you go. You know, to your dorm.”
Even Shana can’t hide the little smile at that last one, and my mouth tightens as Courtney leads her away and the bouncers pull me outside.
Okay, tonight can seriously go fuck itself.
I take a deep breath, steading myself and trying to cool my tempter. I push my fingers through my dark hair, looking up into the early fall night and sighing.
I need another drink.
Okay, in truth, I’m more than buzzed and maybe on my way to drunk from the drinks I’ve had all night. But after whatever the hell just happened in that shitty bar, I need something else before I go home to my pathetic “dorm”—aka, my tiny faculty housing.
I shoot the bouncers one last dirty look before I storm off down the sidewalk in the direction of Winchester. I pass another bar, but it’s closing, and I grumble as I just keep walking, wondering if I’ve still got half a bottle of chardonnay in my fridge. I round the corner, and I’m about to grab my phone and just order an Uber back to campus, when something catches my eye.
I turn, looking down the empty, half dark alley behind the second bar, and when my eyes spot him, my breath catches.
Damn, he’s good. Really, really good.
He’s tall, and built, and I can see the ink of his tattoos rippling on his bare arms under his t-shirt as he raised them, spray-can in hand. The green hisses out, his arm moving in a slow sweep, highlighting the dark lines he’s already laid down on back wall of the bar. And I just watch, my mouth half open in surprise as I take in this man spray-painting a gorgeous mural in the alley.
And then, like my mind has gone completely insane, I take a step into the alley. And then another.
…And then I just keep going.
