by Madison Faye
His Little Bad Girl
Madison Faye
Contents
His Little Bad Girl
Mailing List
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
Epilogue
Featured Content
Also by Madison Faye
About the Author
Mailing List
Sugar & Spice
Sugar & Spice
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
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Beasting Beauty
Beasting Beauty
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Sneak Peek - Stealing Beauty
Stealing Beauty
Chapter 1
His Little Bad Girl
She's mine, she just doesn’t know it yet.
Her name is Tempest Kensington.
She’s eighteen years old.
She’s my student, and I want to know how sweet she tastes when she’s claimed for the first time.
I’m her headmaster. I’m twenty years older than her. But damn the implications. Screw the consequences. I know I’m blurring the lines, but I. Do. Not. Care.
Tempest Kensington is a grade-A brat. And she’s about to get a very thick, very firm dose of my discipline – over my knee and on hers.
Barely legal. Entirely off-limits. My temptation, my addiction, my obsession. My ruin, in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks.
It’s time for this little tease to learn exactly what happens to bad girls who look for trouble.
Sweet, filthy, and oh-so-wrong in the best kind of way. If you’re looking for something extra hot and wildly over-the-top, this one’s for you! Utterly obsessed alpha hero, sassy, untouched heroine, and enough insta-love, kindle-melting steam, and sugary-sweetness to make you beg for more. HEA with NO CHEATING!
Copyright © 2017 Madison Faye
All rights reserved.
Cover: White Rabbit Creative
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains extremely sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. This book is strictly intended for those over the age of 18.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
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1
Christian
Aggressive towards authority.
Prone to acts of disobedience.
Truancy. Vandalism. Petty theft.
My jaw tenses as I glance over the student file in front of me. Suspended twice senior year — once for ditching school and smashing the shit out of a professor’s car, and the other for being caught drinking during fifth period.
This student, Jesus Christ.
I wasn’t expecting to take over as Headmaster of Thornbull Academy until this fall, but here I am barely two months into the job — a full summer earlier than expected, I might add — and I’m going to have to deal with this shit. Wonderful.
Academia is hardly the career path most guys who get out of Marine Corps in one piece choose, but for me, it was a calling. After all, my dad may have been a military man, and that's the path I took young, but it was my mom who was the reader and the studious one. She taught preschool. Maybe it was a combo of both of them that’s led me from squad sergeant in Afghanistan, kicking down insurgent doors and dodging bullets, to be the firm hand of control and discipline at one of the richest, most academically focused private schools in the country. The studiousness from my mother, the discipline from my dad. The courage and firmness to carry through from the USMC.
But like I said, I wasn’t supposed to start until fall. That was before ancient Doctor Lindon, my predecessor, passed away two months before the end of the school year and his retirement day. Not a bad way to go — quietly in your sleep next to your wife — I’ll grant him that after some of the shit I’ve seen in the Middle East. But still, it sort of put a damper on my plans to settle into West Haven and enjoy a summer living amongst the phenomenally wealthy and connected residents of this affluent seaside town.
On top of that, Thornbull Academy is so academically prestigious, and it’s students so insanely driven, that it offers a post-senior-year, pre-college “summer semester.” For some schools, summer school is a last chance for the fuck-ups — a hail Mary for the slackers to get their shit together and graduate.
Not at Thornbull, let me tell you. At this place, it’s a way to add even more pages to a resume before you start in at Yale, or Harvard, or Cornell, or wherever. It’s a way for go-getter students to pack in as many college-level freshman credit classes as they can, so all these little valedictorians and salutatorians can hit the ground running at Ivy League schools. I mean hell, apparently last year, three guys used their summer program to build a stock-trading algorithm, and before they started college in the fall, they cashed out for a cool billion dollars.
Fuck, right? These kids are eighteen, rich, connected, and have their whole lives taken care. I mean they should be out chasing tail and drinking beers on the beach, not cramming more shit into their trust fund brains.
Not exactly the best mindset maybe for the new Headmaster, but fuck it, those are my thoughts on the matter.
I tap the desk in front of me before stretching my arms up and straining my muscles, feeling them pull against the still not-quite-familiar feel of a dress shirt and tie.
Whatever my feelings on this summer school thing though, it's my new duty to oversee it and all the students attending, all while prepping for a very big jump into the deep end come fall. Let’s just say Dr. Lindon left some big damn shoes to fill, and as progressively liberal and forward thinking as this town lik
es to think it is, I’ve seen the way most people around here look at my physique, or my combat record, and hell, at the tattoos that even a full suit won’t hide, and wonder just how the fuck I got a job as Headmaster.
And I’ll tell you how: because I’m a goddamn smart motherfucker.
That’s not just a boastful brag either. Stanford undergrad, top of my class and an MBA from Wharton that I worked my ass off for in-between tours. Yeah, papa may have raised a good little soldier, but mama didn’t raise no fool, that’s for damn sure.
But, this fool has a long damn summer ahead of him. Because on top of everything else, there’s this — the file on my desk.
This student.
Most of the kids in this summer program are goody-two-shoes, straight-as-an-arrow go-getters. This one is here because not taking the two classes necessary means no graduation. And seriously, this file is bad. Back-talking. Swearing at teachers. Drinking in an empty lecture hall at twelve in the afternoon. As a recently “graduated” senior, this student should be out of my hair already. Except, here we are.
I glance through the reports, and the police write-ups for the vandalism to Professor Hershman’s car last year. I mean Jesus fucking Christ, breaking the windshield was one thing, but pissing on the steering wheel afterwards?
I shake my head and drop the thick file on the desk. Yeah, this will need dealing with. Immediately.
Something catches my eye, and I frown as I turn to glance out the large windows behind my desk. There are three of them — two boys and a girl, all summer semester students. The bell’s already rung, but there they go, off behind the gymnasium, glancing around nervously.
My jaw tightens.
My blood roars.
Because right there in the mix, is my problem student.
So cavalierly bad news, leading these other two off to do God knows what behind the gym. Showing a total disregard for the rules, and moreover, my authority. Because this damn student thinks that just because they’re eighteen, and “technically” graduated, and probably from money and privilege, that they don’t need to obey my rules.
I stand, my muscles tensing, the blood running hot in my veins.
Yeah, there goes my problem student alright — flagrantly waltzing past my damn office, knowing I can see them skipping. Blatantly breaking the rules, with a goddamn smirk on their face when they do it.
…And showing a bit too much fucking thigh under that uniform skirt, I’ll say that.
That. Little. Fucking. Tease.
Oh sorry, you thought I was talking about one of the guys, didn’t you? Nope. Wrong. Neither of those two are my problem student. You see, my problem student is a she. My problem student is five foot three, one-hundred-and-five pounds of pure, tantalizing, teasing, inappropriate, irresistible, trouble. Capital fucking T.
My problem presented herself on my first day of school, two buttons undone up top, three inches rolled up below, in my office for telling Ms. Bernard, her French professor, to go fuck herself.
In French, at least.
But there she was, sitting in my damn office waiting for me looking every inch the Nabokov tease. Knee-high socks, blonde hair up in pigtails, and her soft, pink, pouty lips wrapped around a damn pen. Those big green eyes had drawn up from my shoes, up my legs, up my abdomen, over my chest and up to my “tough” face — the one I used to give grunts in the desert who were hungry, tired, and out of line.
And she’d grinned. Those teasing, too perfect, too pouty, too tantalizing, and just this side of wrong lips had pulled back in a sultry little smirk.
…And I’ve been fucking hooked ever since.
Consumed. Obsessed. Addicted. One damn look and she managed to bring out every fucking alpha caveman desire to the surface. She brought out the raw masculine need in me — to claim her, to corrupt her, to make her mine. She brought out the depraved pervert in me — the part of me that wants to wrap those pigtails in my fists and use them to pull those soft little lips down over my throbbing cock. The part of me that wants to spread those long, lithe legs, grab that pert little ass, and drive every inch of my dick into her tight, sweet little pussy until I’m sure she’s ruined for any other man.
Forget spending my summer scoping out the single women of this town. Hell, forget getting a damn minute of work done or even being able to fucking sleep at night. My waking thoughts are filled with her doing all sorts of dirty things to me, and in my dreams, I’m doing every single one of them back to her.
Her name is Tempest Kensington.
She’s eighteen years old.
She’s my student.
And I want to know what sounds she makes when she comes. I want to know how tight she’d feel as I emptied every drop of my sticky cum deep inside her fertile young womb.
She’s off to Harvard this fall, but until then, over the summer, she and her track record are my problem. My very big, very tempting, very off-limits problem.
I don’t realize I’m gripping my hand in a fist until I feel the pencil in my fingers snap in two places. I blink out of my filthy daydreams, dropping the pencil into the trash by my desk and turning to watch her walk off behind the gym with those two shit-heads.
I feel my blood burn to a boil.
I could be reading the situation wrong, but I don’t care. And I’m probably not. Teenage guys are pieces of shit, and pieces of shit smell trouble like Tempest Kensington a mile away. A million scenarios run through my head, all of them involving those assholes putting their hands on her — on what's mine.
Because she is mine. She just doesn’t know it yet. She will bend to my authority. And I will taste that sweet fucking candy pussy of hers.
Barely legal. Entirely inappropriate. My temptation, my addiction, my need. My ruin, in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks.
I whirl on my heel, slamming her file shut on my desk and storming for the door. Time to start this summer semester off right.
I’m claiming what’s mine.
2
Tempest
God these two are dorks.
I mean, summer school — ugh. I could roll my eyes. Or puke. Trust me when I say spending more time at freaking Thornbull — after I should’ve graduated and been done with this place — is the very last thing I’d like to be spending my summer doing. But obviously, it’s not my idea to be here. It’s Paul and Carrie that have me coming to this. Well, them and the fact that actually graduating from this snob-factory of a school and going off to college at Harvard is contingent on passing two stupid classes this summer.
I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong on a few levels.
No, I’m not off to Harvard — insert effected accent here — because of who my parents are. My parents are dead, actually. Paul and Carrie were their best friends, and in the will to take over as my guardians in the “unlikely event of a two-parent loss.” Well, that “unlikely event” turned out to be more likely than anticipated — a car crash when I was eleven, and, ironically, being babysat for the night by Paul and Carrie.
Carrie and Paul never wanted kids. That’s not to say they haven’t done a pretty admirable job with me. They’ve been great, really. Just, you know, not “parents.” More like a cool aunt and uncle. Or scratch that, maybe even more removed than that. More like cool friends of your parents, ‘cause that’s what they were. But cool friends of your parents give you fun birthday presents and maybe your first beer. They don’t raise you.
Until they have to, I guess.
So, no, it’s not because of who my parents were, though they did leave me some money. But, I’m going to Harvard in the fall because I’m smart. Yes, I have a rep here at dorky Thornbull, and in this town. And it’s a reputation that I like, a lot. I’m the instigator. The outsider. I don’t really belong here, and this town has enjoyed reminding me of that for seven freaking years. But whatever, I know it, they know it, so why pretend otherwise? I made the decision years ago that instead of trying and failing to fit in with all of these phonies and snobs
, I’d just fuck with them instead. Them and their sensibilities.
I like sticking out. I like being the bad influence they don’t want their little Stepford children hanging out with. And I’m fine with that. Which is why I’ve bullied, coerced, and basically shamed these two poor dorks into ditching first period to smoke cigarettes behind the gym with me.
The two of them look like they’re about to commit a felony. I watch as Jon, and then Mike — sorry, Jonathan Fillmore Price the third, and Michael Charles Lewis Sterling — wait for it — the fifth, fumble with the pack of cigarettes. Mike finally awkwardly pulls one out, and sticks the wrong end in his mouth before I roll my eyes and snatch it away.
“No, like this.”
I shake my head as I show him. God these two are lame, and these are like the two most popular guys in this school.
I know, it’s insane.
In a normal high school, go-getter nerds like this would be, well, nerds. Not at Thornbull — an “institution of academic and personal excellence.” And the people who go here really take it to heart. There are sports teams, but no jock culture. The real rockstars of this school are the math-team wizards and the model United Nations masters who’re going off to whatever token Ivy League school next year before coming back to West Haven to run their fathers’ mutual funds or whatever.
“Here, like this,” I mutter as I show both of them how to light a cigarette, and then take a shallow drag of mine.
I don’t actually smoke, I was just bored today. Bored enough to finally do something about “my problem,” which, as I start in on another whole semester here, is only going to get worse. My problem who I know watched me come back here with these two. My problem that the dirty, excited, nervous, and toe-curlingly wanting part of me just has to do something about.
