Beautifully Wicked: A High School Bully Romance (Voclain Academy Book One)

by Jordan Grant

  I mewl his name.

  Bam!

  Warmth pools in my belly.

  “Give it to me!” he roars.

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  I whimper, and he shifts just a little.

  Now he’s hitting that spot just right, and the warmth in my belly spreads like a pour of warm honey. I explode around him, stars bursting behind my eyes as I cry out. He pushes through my convulsing walls and thrusts, his body jerking violently, my name a whisper on his lips as he spills inside of me.

  We lay there for a long moment, him twitching inside me as I milk every drop of his cum.

  “God damn,” he says, pulling out of me. My legs fall to the bed as he collapses beside me, his breath erratic, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly.

  He stares at me. “I want to cover every inch of you in my cum, Stormy.”

  He’s probably expecting a smartass remark, but I don’t give him one.

  Instead, I raise an eyebrow and ask, “Why don’t you then?”

  He chuckles softly and waves a hand. “Just give me a moment to catch my breath.”

  33

  Ian

  Harlow is sitting on my dick and damn do I like her being there. Last night, I fucked her in my bed with her ankles pinned to my headboard. Then we took it nice and slow before I rolled her over and pounded into her from behind until she screamed so loud I thought she might wake the whole forest.

  She let me take her over—and I do mean over—the sofa and we never even made it to the kitchen for that glass of water before we were on the floor, my head buried between her beautiful legs. After, she took me into her gorgeous mouth, and I let her lick and lave for as long as I could stand it before she fulfilled a personal fantasy and let me come all over her tits.

  My back is probably permanently scarred from the bite of her nails, and my lips are bruised from her frantic kisses. Her shoulders and neck, her ass and the inside of her thighs, are still pink from my teeth, and I’m pretty sure both of us are missing chunks of hair. The whole place smells like the fire dying in the fireplace, sex, and her.

  But I never want to scrub the memories from these walls. Hell, if I could, I’d never leave. Every time I breathe in, I smell her, and she’s my favorite dessert: apple pie.

  She has got to be sore. I am sore, but she seems to suffer the same disease I do: can’t-get-enough-of-each-other-itis.

  The first light of dawn shines through the window and lands like a spotlight on her on top of me in my bed. I have a perfect view of her blue-eyed gaze, foggy with desire and darkened by long lashes, her perfect tits with nipples the color of roses pebbled into tight buds, and the freckles that splatter like fallen constellations across her rib cage.

  I want to take a pic of her and make it my wallpaper so every time I open my phone, I see her like this—sexy as hell as she takes control. But then someone would be bound to see eventually, and then I’d have to kill them.

  She wiggles, adjusting a little and taking me even deeper as she parts her gorgeous thighs even farther.

  My fingers tighten around her pelvis, and I hiss out a breath as I throw my head back, swallowing furiously. I think about upcoming finals, football, my parents, literally anything to avoid blowing my load before I give her what she needs. My balls feel like Atlas holding back an earth full of cum.

  "God,” I manage, “you’re my favorite thing in the universe.”

  “I think you mean, sex is your favorite thing in the universe.”

  My hands skim up her thighs to her sides and squeeze there, just above her hip bones. “No, I don’t. Sex is just a physical act. You, Harlow, are what gives it meaning.”

  I can’t help myself and roll my hips just once as I steer her up my cock and back down again.

  She moans, and that moan brings a smirk to my lips.

  “It’s good, isn’t it, baby?” I say. “I told you it would be.”

  “Ian,” she draws my name out into a keen as she really starts to move. I watch as she slides up and down, my cock glistening with her wetness, her breasts bouncing as she takes me. She arches her back as she moves, her ribs rippling under her skin, and I know I’m a goner.

  I’ll never have enough of her, and that’s not supposed to be me. I’m the guy who gives as good as he gets with an honest reputation for Greet and Meats, not girlfriends. I’ve eaten a girl out in the coat closet of a yacht as we hid away from the party and her husband. I’ve fucked waitresses in the bathrooms of Michelin-recognized restaurants as they’ve bitten my hand to stifle their screams. This past summer I got a blowie from the little princess of an Italian mafioso under the threat of dismemberment if caught.

  But with Harlow, there is no turning back. Everything has meaning when I’m with her. The sun shines brighter. The music plays louder. The world is clearer, and fuck me, but I don’t want to go back to the way it was.

  Her riding my dick is the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen, and my heart hammers wildly, my pulse throbbing inside my veins. My fingers intertwine with hers as she rides me.

  “Ian,” she breathes, my name a whisper on her lips.

  “I’m here,” I growl, pumping my hips off the bed to meet her. She quivers around my cock. I take a hand away and slide two fingers into my mouth before massaging her clit.

  My name kisses her lips again.

  “I’m right here, baby,” I say, jerking beneath her, my cock desperate to flip her over and fuck her senseless.

  She rocks on top of me, the swirl of her hips fluid.

  “Fuck,” I grind out as she picks up speed, riding me hard. “That’s right, sweetness. Just like that.”

  Her hair is wild, untamed locks falling everywhere. My cock is throbbing, desperate to come. Her pattern grows hectic and unsteady. I take my hands and grab her ass, but God, I can’t just lay here.

  I want to watch her come.

  I lean up and thrust my hips against hers, fucking her back. Our skin slaps together, our bodies sweaty, our breath ragged.

  Her whole body is shaking, and I know she’s close, so close, to coming. My cock is so hard it’s almost painful. I have to come, but not before I get it from her first.

  I want every one of her orgasms devoted to me until the end of my days. I want to die buried in her sweet pussy.

  “Scream for me, Harlow,” I growl, my voice nearly unrecognizable, just grit and ash.

  My hips piston, thrusting upward, slamming the head of my cock into her core, and I must be hitting that spot just right by the way she moans. I kiss her, our teeth knocking as I taste the saltiness of my cum and the orange juice I made her drink this morning between rounds.

  She braces herself on my shoulders, and I catch the moment she looks down to see my cock sliding into her. The sight ignites her, and she’s riding me like a madwoman, her breasts jiggling wildly, her lips parted. With every rotation, she lets out a little ah that sets fire to my veins.

  My patience is gone, nonexistent. I have to come, but first I need her to come. I grab her ass and roll her over, pinning her beneath me as I slam into her.

  “Bad girl,” I growl, lifting up on my knees and grabbing each of her legs and hiking them over my shoulders. “I said I want you to scream for me.”

  “Oh, God,” she says.

  I know she likes it this way. It’s deep and hard and I give it to her just the way she likes it. She clenches around my cock, but she hasn’t found nirvana yet, so I keep pounding into her, wrapping my arms around her legs as I mercilessly fuck her.

  “Ohhhh, Ian,” she moans.

  “You like that, baby?” I ask though I know she does. I don’t stop my hips though. My cock might commit an act of treason and desert me if I stop right now. “You want me to fuck you deep?”

  “God…Oh…” she is delirious, floating somewhere among the stars as I continue to slam into her. The bed creaks with my thrusts, the headboard knocking into the wall that we dented last night.

  My balls rock against her, and I know she needs more from me
in this moment because she is not giving it up, and I will not admit defeat. My Harlow likes a little lovemaking with her fucking.

  It takes everything I have, but I stop and slide out of her so tortuously slow that we both groan, until I’m just barely inside.

  As she watches, I turn my head and pepper each of her knees with kisses, licking away the sweat that’s slick on her skin.

  Her eyes are heavy lidded, but I don’t miss the way her breath hitches with every kiss.

  Fuck. I need to come.

  I slam into her again. My hips are wild as I pound into her, grabbing the headboard with one hand and using it for leverage. Sweat slides over our bodies and by the way she moans, I know I’m hitting that oh-so-perfect spot.

  She quivers beneath me and then explodes, screaming as she fists my dick.

  I continue to drive into her, past her shuddering walls, and finally, let myself come.

  Her legs tremble and my cock pulses inside her as she takes every last drop. My heart hammers inside my chest like a runaway train as she runs her hands lazily over my shoulders.

  I look down at her.

  Her gaze is glassy, and I smirk. She’s still in outer space.

  “I think you’re going to be the death of me,” she muses.

  “How so?”

  “Because you never let me sleep.”

  I smirk. “Sleepy is for pussies.”

  “Well, all right, but technically...”

  I chuckle as I pull out of her and collapse at her side, still laughing.

  “I need a shower,” she says, wrinkling her nose as she looks down at herself.

  “Don’t you dare.” I snap my gaze to her and give her a look that normally sends grown men cowering.

  “What?” she asks.

  “I want you to smell like you’ve been thoroughly fucked,” I growl. “I want to know my cum is soaking those pretty panties of yours. I want to see you across the dining room table tonight and know part of me is still inside you.”

  “Holy fuck,” she breathes, and by the way she parts her lips and her nostrils flare, I know she’s thinking about round six? No seven, if you count by the number of times I’ve made her come in the past twelve hours, which I do. Then she shakes her head like she’s clearing away the temptation. “Wait. That’s gross. I don’t want to smell like sex.” She wrinkles her nose again. “I smell like I’ve been to the gym and,” she sniffs again, “you. I smell like you.”

  Her mouth falls open. “What about your parents?” She runs a hand over her face. “Oh. My. God. They are going to know we left last night.” Her mouth falls open further in horror. “They are going to know what we’ve been doing.”

  I wave a hand. “When I’m at home, they don’t keep tabs. They feel secure knowing they have enough friends around here to keep me from sullying the family name. I guarantee my dad is buried in work and bourbon in his office, and my mom is on at least her second Valium, floating somewhere with the Boeing 757s and private jets.”

  Crimson splotches spread across her cheeks, and it’s so fucking adorable, it unlocks the iron case around my heart. I feel like I’ve lost my balls, so I remind us both of their presence.

  “One of these days,” I muse, letting my fingers create a trail of goosebumps over the swell of her breast, “I’m going to fuck your tight little ass too.”

  She freezes. Like freezes. Is she breathing? Did she just fall into the Arctic Ocean? Do I need to place her in front of the fire until she thaws?

  She blinks once and then shakes her head wildly. “Nope, no way. Those gates are closed, bud.”

  “Don’t be scared, sweetness,” I say. She’s so damn cute right now, worried about a little anal play. Fuck, where did my balls go...again. I let my fingers trail lower until I am making small circles around her nipple. “We’ll take it nice and slow, and trust me, when the time is right, you’ll beg me for it.”

  She shakes her head like she’s an unhinged bobblehead doll. “We aren’t even to the pee with the door open part of our...our...” she chokes on the word and gestures between us. I cough back a laugh, “whatever this is yet. You are not”—she spells out her last word to emphasize her point—“about to test whether my rear hatch works.”

  I gape at her and raise an eyebrow. “Did you just call your asshole your rear hatch?”

  She slaps a hand over her face to stifle her laugh.

  34

  Harlow

  Ian lies on his bed, his back against the pillows, paper on a drawing board in his lap and scattered on the bed around him. There are no hard shields up like when he is with others at school or that suave, debonair attitude he wears so well. There’s just a beautiful man, engrossed in whatever he’s doing.

  I should say something—I am such a creeper just standing here at his open door—but I enjoy the view a moment longer.

  “Hey,” I finally say as I walk into his room.

  Ian looks up, his lips parted in surprise, and he smiles brilliantly at me. It’s not the fake smile I’ve seen him give on campus. This one polishes the silver in the gaze and shows his perfect teeth. My heart swoons for me and my lungs bottom out somewhere in my stomach.

  “Sweetness,” he purrs as his smiles fades into a naughty grin. Something low in my stomach clenches in response. Ah. There’s the guy that rocked my world last night and into this morning.

  My legs turn to Jell-O under his attention, barely holding me upright. I walk to Ian, past the guitars mounted on the wallpapered walls and the trophies that line the built-in bookshelves. This place smells like him, and I am dizzy, lost in a maze of his scent.

  It’s a beautiful room, stained hardwood floors and a bed of blue-and-silver sheets on a matching scroll rug. But even with all the pictures of him and his friends mounted on collage frames and the personal memorabilia—the jersey in a shadow box on the wall, the walk-in closet littered with his shoes—the place doesn’t entirely feel like him, not like the cabin does. This is someone else’s idea of how his room should look.

  “How was your nap?” he asks.

  “Hmm?” I haven’t been paying attention, mesmerized by his dark gaze fixed on me.

  “How was your nap?” he repeats.

  Oh, so that’s what came out of his delicious mouth.

  “Poor, I’m afraid.” I sigh and sit on the edge of the bed, careful to avoid the papers. “I had the funniest dream someone kidnapped me in the middle of the night and took me to their gingerbread house in the woods.”

  His grin widens, and he sets whatever he’s working on beside him on the bed.

  “Oh, Harlow.” Goodness, he’s good. He actually looks concerned for me. “That wasn’t a dream; nothing from a fairytale happened last night. Although you are sweet, I certainly didn’t eat any gumdrops. I had something much better.”

  He leans over and yanks me on top of him, sending loose pages floating down to the floor. I squeal and squirm, which he takes as an invitation to tickle me relentlessly. He finds that sweet spot under my chin, and I am chortling and choking at the same time as he laughs.

  He gives me a moment to breathe. Somehow I’ve landed half in his lap and half on his bed, and he looks down at me, grinning.

  “I didn’t know you were ticklish, Weathersby,” he says.

  Uh oh.

  Then he resumes, and I’m a wild animal. I thrash and try to pry his fingers away from me. At some point, my feet hit the wall with a thud, and I’m laughing so hard I’m crying.

  He stops, but he doesn’t give me a moment to breathe. He yanks me closer and his lips collide against mine. He tastes like the cinnamon bubblegum he seems borderline obsessed with, some fancy version of Big Red. He holds me there, his thumb underneath my chin, his fingers cradling my head.

  His tongue slips past my lips and explores my mouth. Tingles race down my spine and radiate like exploding fireworks toward my fingertips and toes. When we finally break apart, his eyes are shielded by long lashes. His heart beats steady beneath my palm.

&
nbsp; “I think I just ruined whatever you were working on,” I croak.

  “Impossible,” he says. “You make everything better.”

  Somehow I know he doesn’t just mean objects. He means people. He means himself. My papier-mâché heart combusts into flames.

  I glance over at the sheets crumpled next to us, glimpsing a treble clef and notes. My…my—Even my mind chokes on the word—my lover, who used to call Molly the Thing, who watched as his friends made her life Hell, isn’t made of anger and retribution and hate. He’s an artist. The thought brings a smile to my lips.

  On his nightstand, Ian’s tablet dings with a notification. He frowns, and I watch as the debate plays out. He wants to ignore it, but what if it’s his parents? What if it’s important?

  He stretches for it lazily and unlocks the screen. For a moment, I watch as he reads, the tinge of LED light painting his face blue before he stills.

  I don’t even think he’s breathing, and although his eyes blaze, he doesn’t utter a word. He’s clenching his jaw so tight, my teeth hurt for him.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  He doesn’t reply, but I already know the answer. It’s written on the furrow of his brow and the rigidity of his shoulders. I glance down at the tablet.

  He’s on a website, and from the looks of it, it appears devoted to the exploits of socialites in New York. There’s a photograph at the top of the page, dated yesterday. It’s blurry, like someone took it through a telescopic lens, but I can make out Ian’s father dressed in the same suit I met him in and his mother in her emerald ball gown.

  Ian’s mother is flush against the wall, her face turned so her cheek flattens against the silver-and-black argyle wallpaper, her teeth gritted together. Ian’s father is behind her, trapping her hands behind her back. The photograph only shows his profile, but I can see the pull of his lips over his teeth with his snarl and feel the bite of his hands at her wrists. My eyes flick to the title in bold print, Billionaire Becketts Get Kinky at Annual Auction.