Beautifully Yours: A High School Bully Romance (Voclain Academy Book Three)

by Jordan Grant

  Ian blinks at me, his gaze narrowing as he studies my face.

  “Isn’t this what you wanted, sweetness?” he asks and despite the endearment, his words don’t sound sweet at all. They drip with venom and land like a thousand papercuts across my already bleeding heart.

  His palms press on either side of my hip bones, his grip so firm it hurts, but I want the bruises on my skin in the morning to remind me of him. I want the pain of his touch and the ache when it’s gone.

  His hands start up my sides, his fingers pressing deep as they climb, bunching up the thin fabric of my dress and tugging it over my knees and then higher. Goosebumps break out across my skin as molten iron pools between my legs.

  I’ve missed his fevered touch.

  I’ve ached for his obsessive attention.

  I’ve craved him, even at his darkest.

  “Hmm?” I say, his question forgotten.

  He chuckles wryly as my eyelids flutter, and I tip my head toward the skies, trying to clear the fog from my brain. His thumb and index finger cup my chin, squeezing firm, and tug my head back down, forcing me to look at him.

  His eyes are black orbs in the dark of the night. His face is masked, more shadows than flesh. I inhale the scent of the tequila lingering on his breath, and it burns my nostrils and makes my eyes water. He promises to ruin my carefully orchestrated world of white lies and good intentions.

  I should run and hide.

  I should push him away.

  But I don’t want to do either.

  I want us to fall together in a fiery crash, and I want to remember him by the burns left on my skin and the scars on my heart.

  “Last chance to answer me, sweetness,” he says, his hands stopping their upward assault. I breathe in his words and swallow them greedily. “Tell me what you want.”

  You. All of you. Or at least whatever you’re willing to share.

  “This,” I whisper in the dark, my gaze flicking to his lips and back up again. “I want this.”

  “Good girl,” he murmurs, his breath licking across my lips in waves of hot air.

  His hands continue upward, and I reach out, my fingers wanting to feel the steel of his biceps and curl around the strong line of his back. One of his hands leaves me, and he tsks.

  He shakes his head slowly like I’ve disappointed him before, in a flash, he pins my hands by the wrists above my head, locking them to the side of the building.

  “You don’t get that,” he chides, only it doesn’t feel like a chide. It feels like a threat.

  He leaves one hand pinning mine above my head as his other starts on its ascension again. His grip grows more fervent, drawing tighter like a rope pulling taut with each passing second. When he reaches my breast, he kneads it roughly, finding my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra and squeezing the hard bud between his forefinger and thumb.

  It hurts, but I want the pain. I want his pain.

  My back arches off the side of the shed, my head knocking against the building with my moan.

  “Shh,” he rebukes. “If you scream, everyone will know what I’m doing to you.”

  I capture my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down hard. He continues to roll my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, torturing me. My dress is bunched up past my thighs now, the cool night air kissing my bare skin and peppering my flesh with goosebumps.

  The delicious fire in my belly flares and surges higher. I can barely breathe beneath its warmth. He steps closer, his fingers continuing their torturous assault. His hair falls into his eyes as he dips his head to let his lips graze across the side of my face near my ear.

  “Tell me you’re still on the pill,” he groans, the words breaking apart as though ripped from the back of his throat.

  “I…I am,” I manage with another swallow.

  “Good,” he growls before he spins me around, pushing me against the wall of the building. My hands slap against the weathered wood, and my knees knock against the wall at the same time. I am dizzy, my head swimming with the sudden change.

  My hands fall limply to my sides as I blink into the darkness, letting my eyes adjust until the stained boards come into focus in front of me.

  Ian tsks again behind me.

  “What did I tell you?” he says, and it sounds like he is so close, like he’s standing behind me, towering over me and looking down at the top of my head.

  I shiver at the shower of his words.

  Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump pounds my broken heart. Without warning, he jerks my hands up again and slams them into the wall above me, my wrists crossed. I draw in a sharp breath at the impact.

  “Move them again,” he warns, “and I’ll tie them together.”

  A delectable quiver starts between my thighs and radiates outward until I tremble before him. A fever suffuses my veins as I wait, submitting to him. His fingers go to the back of my neck, pushing my hair out of the way, and I shiver in the cold darkness. Insects buzz around us and the beat of faraway music from the party thuds in the quiet of the night. I want his lips at the column of my throat and the nip of his teeth as they leave marks on my flesh.

  My fingers curl into the wall, waiting, wanting him. Still, he doesn’t move, leaving the side of my neck exposed as he breathes down on me. Then his hand is at the back of my dress, at the start of the zipper that runs along my spine. He drags it down slowly, letting the teeth release one by one. The callused tips of his fingers, weathered from his time on the field, run along the smooth flesh over my spine, and a zap of electricity shoots through me, following the path of his fingers.

  When I am exposed and my dress undone so that it hangs open for him, he draws in one long deep breath, leaving his fingers low on my back with the pieces of my dress spread wide. I bite into my bottom lip as I try to not move, but every part of me wants to turn around and spread myself bare for him and see the way I hope he’s looking at me right now.

  “Did you miss this?” he asks me when I think I’m going to burst from the wait. “Tell me something, Harlow, did you think of me when you fucked other men?”

  “There was no one else,” I say, turning my head flat against the wall so he can see the profile of my face as I utter the words. “There’s never anyone but you.”

  He sucks in a breath and releases a guttural, satisfied groan.

  “You’re goddamn right,” he snarls, slamming his body against my back and slamming me flat into the wall. “It doesn’t matter who you spread your legs for, Stormy. There will only ever be me.”

  Fuuuucccckkk.

  He said the name, the nickname I hated the first time he said it—and not because it wasn’t beautiful but because it was too beautiful for someone so damn devilish. He said the name I learned to love.

  I can feel him there, the front of him pressed flush against the back of me, the fabric of his uniform pants cooling my exposed flesh, the warmth of his painted chest an oven against my bare skin, the bite of his fingernails into my shoulders as he pins me to the wall. I want him inside me, chasing away this emptiness, and I never, ever want him to leave.

  My lungs are working double-time and my heart right along with them as we stand there, him trapping me. A sound, just a tiny thing, more of a mewl than anything else, escapes my throat, and he jerks away from me. His hands are frenzied, and it feels like he has a hundred fingers on my legs, yanking up my dress above my hips, exposing my ass to the moonlight.

  His knee lands between my legs, spreading me wide, and when that’s not far enough, his hands grab the inside of my thighs and open me even wider. Night air nips at my flesh, and it feels devilishly wrong, standing there half-naked under the stars, but also heavenly right.

  With one hand still on me, I hear him untie the drawstring on his pants, sliding the laces through the loops as he loosens them. Fabric rustles behind me as he pulls down his pants and exposes his cock, which bounces against my ass with a thump.

  “On your toes,” he orders, and it feels like a metaphor, but I
do it instantly, stretching up like I’m in ballet, practicing my pointe. With one hand, he grabs the side of my thin panties and yanks, hard.

  Ow. It hurts!

  My flesh stings from the burn, and the cool air does nothing to soothe it, but I don’t have time to recover. He knocks my legs wider and slams into me in one go. I scream as I’m impaled.

  He clamps a hand over my mouth, buried to the hilt inside of me, his cock slightly throbbing.

  It’s so deep this way, and oh, god, I nearly explode around him.

  “Keep quiet,” he warns in a rumbled growl against the shell of my ear. “If you don’t, I’ll have to stop, and I want that pretty pussy dripping by the time I’m done.”

  OH. MY—

  He draws out quickly and slams into me again, keeping his hand over my mouth. My lips open but no sound comes out as my back arches, flattening my chest against the wood.

  His pace is merciless, pounding in and out of me like he’s trying to fuck straight through me. He’s so big this way, thrusting like he’s a jack-hammer. My neck curves backward, my head tipping against his shoulder, and I look up at the moon as we rut like animals.

  “Mmm,” he moans with his thrust, one hand at my waist to hold me steady and his other still clamped over my mouth.

  Mmm. Mmm. Mmm.

  Our skin slaps together, his balls knocking against my ass. I turn my head to the side, and I see his eyes are closed, ecstasy that looks almost painful contorting his features. His mouth falls open, his bottom lip wet and glistening under the night sky.

  Mmm. Slap. Mmm. Slap. Mmm.

  His rhythm becomes frenzied and frantic, nearly splitting me in two with his thrusts.

  Oh, God. I bite my lip to stifle my groan as his hand over my mouth tightens. The fire in my belly explodes into a blazing inferno, and I come around him, my legs trembling, his arms holding me upright.

  He thrusts into me one more time.

  Twice.

  Three times, past my shuddering walls, and spills inside me, his hips jerking with the effort.

  27

  Harlow

  We stand there for a long moment, him still pulsing inside of me, my body twitching against his, both of us out of breath. He droops like a wilted flower over me, the beat of his heart pounding against my bare back. The air smells like sex and honeysuckle. I rest my head against the wall in front of me, gulping air.

  He pulls out of me abruptly, and I feel his wetness spill out of me and start down my leg. I peel my hands off the side of the building and turn to face him, my dress falling back down to cover my knees. I reach around to zip up the zipper as he adjusts himself, pulling up his briefs and fitting himself back into his pants.

  He stops moving when he notices me though, midway through my zip-up.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he asks me, his words a warning.

  “I…”

  He takes one long stride closer, and I don’t smell honeysuckle anymore. I breathe in the bitterness of paint and the musky stench of our carnality.

  “I didn’t say you could leave,” he growls. “I told you I wanted you dripping for me.”

  “But you’re dressed,” I quip, worried this is some sort of mean trick.

  “Not for long,” he says, his lips hovering over mine. I want him to kiss me so bad it hurts. My lips miss the pressure of his mouth on mine and the knock of his teeth when we collide. My tongue craves the taste of him.

  “Come on,” he says, stepping away from me.

  “To where?” I ask.

  He gifts me a wolfish grin that reminds too much of old Ian, pre-me breaking his heart.

  “Where I can hear you scream for me,” he answers, “without attracting the attention of our classmates.” When I don’t move, he adds, “Move your ass, Weathersby, before I take it right here and now.”

  I startle away from the building. I should be asking what this means for us, but I’m afraid of the answer. I said I would take what I could get, right? And if that means taking just his cock, well, I’ll have to be okay with that, for now.

  He walks past the building, and I continue after him. I want to reach out and grab his hand and feel the warmth of his fingers wrapped around mine, but instead, I fold them against my belly in front of me, holding my own hand.

  His back is bare, no paint, no dirt from the game, just a sheen of moonlight across his skin. Even with the slight effort of him walking, the corded muscles there ripple with the movement, and I am ready again for him. I want to be sore and used and absolutely decimated tomorrow. I want to feel the ache between my legs and remember what it was like to be owned by a king. If I can’t have all of him, then I want whatever he is willing to give.

  We pass the edge of the lawn and keep going down a cobblestone path. With anyone else, I’d be scared, but not with Ian. In his world, there are no monsters to be worried about. No, he is the monster who hides in the dark. I am on his heels when he stops at a fork in the path, and I nearly collide with him as he stops and listens.

  At first, I don’t hear anything, but there’s still the echo of faraway laughter and the thump of the bass from the sound system at the party. He goes left, continuing down the path, his shoes thumping against the stones.

  I’m starting to think that this is all a cruel trick, that he’s going to disappear into the woods and leave me here to fend for myself, when we walk into an open rose garden. It’s in the shape of a circle and surrounded by enormous rose bushes that bloom white and glow like tiny orbs under the night sky. The lawn is freshly mowed and landscaped, the canopy of trees trimmed above it so that moonlight hits the center of the hidden garden and illuminates a concrete bench placed there in the middle.

  Ian stops walking, and I stop too.

  I hear nothing.

  No chatter of classmates.

  No thud of music.

  Nothing but the chirp of insects and the sound of the wind winding through the trees.

  “Why are we out here, Ian?” I ask him with a swallow, worried he’s about to leave me in the darkness to fend for myself. “Why not go somewhere?”

  Like your apartment, I think. God, I miss the smell of his apartment. I miss being with him in his space, every little thing from the minimalistic furniture to the dark sheets on his bed reminding me of him.

  He grins at me, and my heart flops in my chest because his teeth gleam white in the dark of night, and he looks savage at the moment.

  “Oh, sweetness,” he says, his words calm and collected but with a deadly undercurrent like he’s the surface of the ocean above a riptide. “Are you worried we need a bed? Because we don’t. I’m about to fuck you like the animal you are.”

  It’s an insult, I know it is, but I can’t stop the heat that floods between my legs and the pulse that sparks to life there. He steps forward, and God, he’s so close again, he could kiss me. He leans in, his lips moving over mine with his words, but he doesn’t apply any pressure. It’s the ghost of the kiss I crave.

  “Do you want to go back?” he asks, and there he goes again with the questions with a double-meaning that I don’t know how to answer.

  “I want you.”

  This seems to appease him because he smiles before he says, “Good, then strip. I want everything.”

  I swallow hard. It’s a challenge. We may not have an audience. We may not be on campus, but he’s doing exactly what he did in the cafeteria and then again in the exhibition hall. He’s pushing me to the limit and watching to see if I’ll break.

  I’ve never done this before, not for him, not for anyone. Maybe a little tease, a t-shirt dropped to his bedroom floor, yeah, but not like this, not so bare.

  “Second thoughts?” he asks, like he is enjoying watching me squirm.

  I shake my head with the lie and kick off my shoes before I reach behind me to unzip my dress the rest of the way. Maybe it’s fucked up to still want him, to crave his wrath, but I do. I want the aftermath of his fury tattooed on my skin because at least then, I’
ll have some piece of him again, and not having any of him—and knowing it’s my fault—is Hell.

  The zipper slides easily, and I undo it slowly as he stands there, watching me, his expression carefully impassive. The dress falls to the ground and pools at my feet, and I am completely bare from the waist down, my torn panties forgotten by the shed.

  He sucks in a breath as the side of his jaw tics, the bone jutting outward. He watches me with dark eyes as I reach to the front of my chest and unclasp my bra, letting it slide slowly down my arms to join my dress on the grass.

  I am naked before him, and it feels powerful standing here, watching his fists clench at his sides as he tries to ignore the way his body reacts to me. He stands before me, a painted Viking, barbaric and beautiful beneath the light of the moon, and for one long moment, all we do is stare at each other.

  I reach up and undo the tie from my dyed hair, letting the waves of strawberry blonde brush across my shoulders. He closes his eyes, his striped chest rising and falling faster than before.

  “Come here,” he commands, and I step forward, my bare feet sinking into the soft grass, my hips swaying with my steps, as he opens his eyes and watches me.

  I step before him and run a hand across his bristled jaw, and he tenses, his eyes shutting again as though he’s in pain. My gaze lowers to his lips, but I don’t want to push my luck. Instead, I reach for his pants, but he stops me, shaking his head. I see it for what it is now. He’ll never give me the control back, not like I had in the exhibition hall. He’ll never relinquish it again until he forgives me.

  “On all fours,” he tells me, his eyes flicking down over the peaks of my rose-colored nipples.

  I do as he says and kneel before him. I look over at him as he slides off his shoes and his pants until he is naked with me. He may not want to want it, but part of him craves the feel of his bare skin pressed against mine, just like I do for him.

  He goes to his knees behind me, and as I stare at the grass below me, breathing in the scent of rose blossoms, I think maybe he’ll only fuck me from behind on purpose. It’s too intimate any other way.