He slides his leg toward me and laces it with mine. Ankle-to-ankle. We’re still staring at each other.
“Don’t play with me, Stringer. I’m older, wiser, bigger, and more powerful than you,” he hisses, and a little moan escapes my lips. He’s too serious to even care about that. I sober up, shaking the weight of the lust from my shoulders.
“I can’t keep doing this. Begging for crumbs of affection when all you do is tell me how wrong we are. I can’t do the hot and cold thing. If you want me, take me.”
He pushes his leg between both my thighs, and because I’m a masochist, I spread them apart. My skirt is short, and there’s a nagging ache for him between them. The need to be filled with everything Pierce James to the brim, until I howl in pleasure and pain, is taking over every single inch of my body.
“You are a part of my life,” he says, almost with annoyance. Like he doesn’t want it to be true. And he doesn’t. I know that. In fact, he wishes he could still tell me to close those legs, take my backpack, and fuck off from his classroom. But he can’t, so instead, his angle travels upwards. That’s as much connection as we can get with a desk between us, and the door may be closed, but it isn’t locked.
“Not enough,” I say, looking at him under my thick, long lashes. My voice is a tender rasp, and his throat bobs in reaction. My hand drops between my legs, but I don’t touch myself this time. No. This time, it’s him who is going to pleasure me.
“Don’t do this,” he warns.
“Do what?”
“End this.”
“End what?” I press, blinking at him, doe-eyed and oh-so-innocent.
And just like that, without a warning, he storms up to his feet, bolts to the door, locks it from the inside, and turns around, still holding the knob with white knuckles.
“Sit on my desk,” he orders. Everything is strained suddenly. Everything. My nipples are tight and begging for me to touch myself to subdue some of the lust. My center is throbbing. My panties are completely wet. I want to keep still and play with him a little more, but my desire overrules every morsel of pride I was hanging onto. I walk over to his desk, hopping on it with my face toward the dry erase board. The word secret is still written there in red, circled with sunrays pointing out to other words: scandal, morals, mystery, and consequences. All the things we talked about in class.
It dawns on me that this is real. People are passing the locked door in the hallway. I hear shouting, the pinging of iPhones across the floor, and a few girls giggling and protesting when a bunch of guys dribble a basketball inside the school premises. I swallow hard, my eyes rolling backwards as I think of what’s about to happen.
He walks over to me. Slowly. He is still in charge. Or at least he makes me believe that he is. Pierce stops when his whole body is between my legs, his waist level with my sex.
“End what?” I repeat myself, because he still hasn’t answered me.
He leans forward and bites my lower lip with his straight, white teeth, whispering into my mouth, “Our secret.”
Then I feel his fingers—just the tips of them—drawing lazy circles on my knees. Like he’s in no hurry. Like it’s not a possibility that someone will try to open the door any minute. Like what we have is real. Shivers break down my spine and make my skin prickly when he deepens our kiss, and I lean backwards, my hands slapped on his desk, trying not to get crushed by him. His tongue devours my mouth, and he tastes like peppermint gum and the man I want inside me. One of his hands travels deeper into my inner thigh, and the other one clutches onto my hip, nailing me onto the table like I’d ever try to run away.
“I like our secret,” he growls into my mouth, his fingertips dancing in the sensitive area between my sex and my thigh. He pinches that bone there—or maybe it’s a muscle—and my whole core is about to explode.
“Why?” I rasp into his mouth, and his grasp on my waist only tightens, and it’s beginning to feel downright rough. Like he is trying to own me in some way. “Because it’s a dirty little secret?”
“There’s nothing dirty about it.” His fingers hook the damp fabric of my underwear, and I don’t even have time to feel embarrassed about my arousal that’s pretty much smeared all over his desk. “There’s nothing wrong about it.” He sucks hungrily on my throat, his stubble and teeth scratching my sensitive skin, and I’m about to lose it. “There’s nothing, Remington Stringer, but you.”
His fingers dive into me. Not one. Not two. Three.
And it’s not dirty. It’s filthy, and we both know it.
He plunges into my hot center, in and out, not rhythmically, but in a way that lets me know that he is nowhere near as in control as he wants to be. I slide forward and ride his hand, taking over the situation. His hand between my legs is heaven, and now I know why his hand is on my waist. It’s either that or unbuckling himself and fucking me raw and senseless on his desk.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” His voice is barely audible, nothing but a frustrated whisper, every time I dive in and he is knuckles deep inside me. He fills me. He stretches me. He consumes me in a way no man would ever be able to, and it’s not a stupid high school crush that’s saying this. It’s the reality of things, and we both know it.
“I’m going to come,” I moan, and it’s the first time I look down to see his massive tent of an erection pointing at me. I look up, and he is tortured. Every curve of his face gives it away. He loves it, and he hates that he loves it. He is fucking his student with his fingers, and he is disgusted with himself. Good. He sure made me feel like shit for asking for it this morning.
“Come.” He inhales deeply, his nose in my hair. “Come, my favorite secret.”
And I come, collapsing under him.
Everything becomes brighter.
The earth shatters beneath us.
And when I’m done, I stand up, smooth the hem of my skirt, rearrange my panties underneath it, sling my backpack over my shoulder, and pat his chest.
“Thanks for that, Mr. James. Oh, by the way, I won’t be needing a ride home tonight.” I unlock the door and leave. Just like that.
Two can play this game, Teach.
After school, Christian is waiting for me by the steps outside, leaning on a pillar, looking all kinds of broody.
“You’re taking me home, and then you’re hanging out with me until you tell me what’s going on,” I inform him, sticking my index finger under his nose to wiggle his septum ring. He bats my hand away and rolls his eyes.
“Fine. But, I saw you pull up to school today…” he trails off, waiting for my reaction. “With Mr. James. Seems like we both have some confessing to do.”
Well, shit.
My eyes dart around, looking for anyone who may have overheard.
“All right,” I concede. He kicks off the pillar and hooks an arm around my neck.
“Remi, Remi, Remi.” He tsks, shaking his head. “I have a feeling your sins are far worse than mine.”
“And probably a lot more fun,” I joke, wagging my eyebrows suggestively.
“Mmm, that’s debatable.” Christian laughs, then pulls me in to give me a quick peck on the forehead.
We walk to his Range Rover, and when he starts the engine, I burst out laughing. He looks at me, confused.
“What?!” he demands.
“I’m sorry,” I say, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. “You look ridiculous driving this now. You’re way too punk rock.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, pulling out of the parking lot, but he can’t keep a straight face either. “You’re just jealous of my sweet ass ride.”
“Hell yes, I am,” I admit. “So, are you going to tell me what’s up with Christian 2.0?”
Christian sighs, running a hand through his dark green hair. “It’s complicated.” I shoot him a look that says fucking duh, and he continues.
“Benton and I—”
“I knew it!” I point at him triumphantly, nearly jumping out of my seat.
“Yeah, yeah,
you’re a regular Sherlock Holmes,” he mutters. “Anyway. We…you know. We’re together. Or we were. I don’t know now. Benton is bisexual, for one. And I can deal with that. It’s not like he’s really with Mikaela, despite what she may believe. But he just cares so. Fucking. Much. About what everyone thinks. When it’s just us, everything is fine. Perfect, even. But then once he spends time with his older brother or his douchebag friends, it’s like a switch flips. He’s cold, distant…hateful. The day that we fought in the hall?” he asks, looking over at me before turning his eyes back to the road. “He was flirting with you to piss me off. The night before was the first night we hooked up, and the next day, it was like he wanted to punish me for it.”
Sounds all too familiar.
“I can’t even pretend to know how hard it must be to not only admit to yourself, but your family and friends that you’re gay, but he can’t treat you like that, dude. It’s bad enough being someone’s dirty little secret,” I say, thinking back to my conversation with Pierce. Sometimes secrets are necessary.
“I’m just so sick of giving a shit about what anyone thinks. So, to, I don’t know, prove a point or something, I decided to do something I’ve always wanted to do,” he says, gesturing to his new look. “My parents hate it. My mom doesn’t even want my grandfather to see me. Benton really hates it. But I don’t care. I’m fucking free.”
“Such a drama queen,” I tease.
“Guilty.”
“You know when Benton lashes out like that, it’s not about you, right?” I add more seriously. “He hates himself and takes that out on you.”
“I know.” He nods somberly. We pull up to my yard, and Christian lets out a low whistle.
“Damn, Remi. There’s a lot you haven’t told me.”
I gasp as I look up to assess the damage, and my stomach instantly drops. I expected more beer cans and trash, but this is so much worse.
The yard is full of broken chairs, discarded beer bottles, and Lord knows what else, but what’s really concerning is the broken screen door—lying on its side, completely detached from the frame—and my front door that’s cracked open.
Inside is even worse. The table is flipped over, and the glass still sits scattered across the floor. Alcohol containers, cigarettes, and empty pizza boxes cover every surface. My feet stick to the tile floor, and it smells like straight death in here. It’s as if Ryan hasn’t been home in days. That thought sends a shiver down my spine, and I internally panic about something happening to him. But I push the fear aside. This is Ryan. He’s invincible. The only one who could hurt him is himself, and if there’s one thing I can say for sure about Ryan, it’s that the boy is a survivor. Always has been.
I scan the rest of the house, looking for anything missing or broken. The bathroom mirror is shattered, but other than that, the other rooms seem to be mostly untouched. Thank God.
I walk back to the kitchen, ignoring the way my shoes stick to the floor with every step, and grab the trash bags from under the sink. I take one out, toss the box to Christian, and start sweeping stuff off the counter and into the bag.
“Spill it,” Christian says, bending over to pick up the bigger pieces of glass.
“It’s a long story.” I sigh. “I don’t even know where to start.”
“Look around, Cinderella. We’ve got time.”
“I called you Friday night,” I start. “You didn’t answer, so this whole thing is basically your fault,” I tease, but my smile doesn’t reach my eyes. “Long story short, Ryan had a party. I caught him doing drugs, and I don’t mean smoking weed. I called him out. He pushed me into the coffee table. I needed to get the hell out of here.”
“Shit, Rem. I’m sorry I didn’t answer. Benton—”
“It’s fine.” I shake my head. “Mr. James had given me his number. He knows how Ryan can get. So, I called him. And he came to get me.”
“No fucking way.” Christian grins like the cat that got the canary. “Tell me he came up in here all Captain Save a Hoe.”
“He totally did. If I hadn’t been so upset, it would’ve turned me on.”
Christian cocks a brow at that.
“Okay, so I was a little turned on.”
“Obviously. Proceed.” I take a deep breath before continuing. Saying this out loud makes it real. Part of me wants to gush, but a much bigger part feels protective of our secret. If I have to tell someone, Christian is the best bet. He’s got too many skeletons of his own to go around exposing mine.
“He took me to his boathouse. We kissed. A lot. But he doesn’t want it to go any further than that. We spent the whole weekend together, but then this morning, it was like he wanted nothing to do with me.” I tie the full bag of trash and toss it outside the front door, then come back to fill another one. I don’t tell him about the classroom incident from today. Hooking up in class is probably the worst thing we could’ve done.
“He’s probably spooked. I don’t exactly blame him either, Rem,” he says unforgivingly.
“Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. Always. But he could lose his career. His reputation. He could go to jail. What do you really have to lose in this situation?”
Everything. I’m already in too deep. And that’s what I’m afraid of.
“Stop making sense with your stupid logic.”
“Just keepin’ it real, baby girl. But I do think he cares for you. Call me crazy, but I don’t think he’d risk that for a piece of ass.”
“Or maybe he realized he made a mistake, and now he’s trying to do the bare minimum to keep me quiet.”
Christian snorts.
“Come on, Remington. I’m gay, and even I’m a little in love with you.”
“What?” I laugh.
“You’re hot.” He shrugs. “Not to mention cool as shit and intelligent. The perfect trifecta.”
“Well, thanks, but I think I’ll go back to dating fictional characters. Everyone knows boys in books are better.”
Christian rolls his eyes and dumps a stack of dishes into the sink. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he says, staring out the window.
“I’m serious. He’s made it pretty clear that he regrets it.”
“Is that why he’s creeping outside your house right now?”
What?!
I whip around so fast that my ponytail smacks my face. I look out the window, and sure enough, there’s Mr. James, pulling away from my house.
I don’t know why, but this has me feeling both triumphant and irrationally angry. He wants me to forget where he lives, but he can show up at my house whenever he pleases?
I snatch my backpack off the kitchen table and dig out my phone. It died over the weekend, so I plug it in near the counter and wait for it to turn on. Once it lights up, I ignore the onslaught of incoming texts from Ryan from the past two days and shoot off a quick message to Pierce.
Me: Are you spying on me now, Teach?
My phone pings not even ten seconds later.
Pierce: Yes. I figured our relationship wasn’t dramatic enough, so I’ve decided to add stalking to the list.
Reluctantly, I crack a smile at that.
Me: What relationship? You’re just my teacher, remember?
Pierce: The fact that I can still smell you on my fingers says differently.
Oh holy Jesus. I feel my cheeks heat at the memory of those talented hands on my body just an hour ago.
Me: Go home, Mr. James.
Pierce: Just making sure you’re safe. Boathouse is still all yours.
Me: Won’t be necessary.
I toss my phone onto the counter, ignoring Christian’s knowing smirk.
“Yeah, you’re totally right. He doesn’t care about you at all. In fact, I think he hates you,” he says sarcastically. I chuck an empty beer can at him, but he dodges it.
“Less talking. More cleaning.”
“I can’t believe you talked me into ditching again,” Christian complains. “You know, you’re kind of a bad infl
uence.”
“I get that a lot,” I say, hopping out of his beast of a car.
Last night, Christian helped me clean the entire house before informing me that we were having a sleepover. He ordered us a pizza, and we stayed up late talking about the mercurial men in our lives and how much they suck.
I didn’t want to go to school today for a couple of reasons. The first being that it’s my birthday. The second, well, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see Pierce, but the desire to punish him was stronger than my urge to see him today. Barely. When Christian fought me on skipping the entire day, I pulled the birthday card. He caved and took me to breakfast before wasting the whole day drinking Bloody Marys and playing video games at his house. I wanted to have a pool day, but the sky was dark and gloomy, the air uncharacteristically sticky. A storm is coming, and it’s the best gift I could’ve asked for. I love monsoon season.
Now, we’re a few drinks in, and I have a couple of hours to kill before my pops comes home.
“So, what now, birthday girl? Movie? Prank phone calls?” Christian waggles his brows.
“I turned eighteen today, not twelve.” I laugh. Even though prank calls never get old.
“Okay, tough girl. Let’s go buy you a pack of cigarettes. Better yet, get a tattoo, or go hit up a strip club,” he jokes.
“Oh my God, you’re a genius!” I say, suddenly excited about the idea.
“I was joking! I don’t wanna see floppy titties. Even if I wasn’t gay, it’s the day shift.” He shudders, and I laugh.
“Not the strip club. The tattoo!” I laugh. I still have the money Pierce stashed in my bag, and I’m feeling just childish enough to spend it.
“Fuck yeah, baby girl, let’s do it,” he says, grabbing his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling an Uber. I’m buzzed.” Oh. Right.
Thirty minutes later, I’m flashing my I.D., and then I’m lying half naked on a black leather tattoo table at some shop near the strip. We figured they’d be pretty lax on tattooing drunk people, but my nerves and the drive have sobered me right up.
The guy about to tattoo me is named Dylan. He’s tall, tattooed, and lean, but gorgeous.
Misbehaved Page 14
