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

by Jordan Grant

I push myself harder, willing my legs to stretch farther, pump faster.

  10 yards.

  My feet hit the white line. Fuck. I still hear this asshole lumbering behind me.

  5 yards, and I can taste the win.

  The Admiral at my feet dives for my legs, his fingers skimming my ankle before they latch onto the back of my left shoe. But I haven’t gone down yet, and I wrangle free of his grasp, yanking with everything I have. I stumble forward and sprint, my feet hitting the goal line.

  We’ve won, but my hammering heart and the adrenaline surging inside my veins don’t know it yet. The crowd is losing their minds as the clock hits zero, and I throw the ball into the gridiron with a roar. My teammates cheer as the crowd roars back at me. Even though I know my dad will play the video for me and break down all the ways I fucked up, I don’t care.

  Nothing can ruin this moment. The flashes of cameras in the crowd and the announcer yelling through the speakers all blur together into a loud, blinding roar.

  I should probably go celebrate with the team. I should dump the water cooler over Coach’s head and pretend to be a good sport and shake hands with the Admirals, but I do none of that. Instead, I am jogging off the field and jumping the chain-link fence. I unstrap my helmet as I charge up the bleachers.

  Harlow stands there alongside Raven, smiling at me, and it is as brilliant as looking into the sun.

  “Congratu—” she begins, but I grab her and swallow the rest of the word.

  The crowd goes wild as I kiss my good luck charm.

  31

  Harlow

  I stand in front of the full-length mirror that hangs in the closet I share with Molly. A mountain of discarded clothes blankets my bed. The floor is like a minefield of boots, dress-shoes, and flats. I am nervous, but in a good way that involves tingles that race up my spine and not the darkness.

  I shouldn’t be this excited about meeting Ian’s parents, but I am. I guess it’s because he means a lot to me, and even though my family is well off now, I wasn’t born into wealth and power. I bleed red, not blue.

  Ian keeps telling me to not worry about his parents, that he—and I quote—“doesn’t give a fuck what they think,” but he’s not the one about to spend a week away from home in an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people.

  Mom and Dad were disappointed when I told them I wasn’t coming home for fall break and made me swear to come home for Christmas.

  Like most of my fellow classmates, Molly has already flown out to be with her family. The dorm is pretty much deserted, and I startle when Ian saunters into my room and eyes me from head-to-toe. I catch his eye in the mirror as he comes up behind me and looks over my shoulder at my reflection.

  “You absolutely cannot wear that, sweetness,” he says with a tsk.

  My eyes snap wide. Oh, no. I have literally nothing else left to wear. I look down at my outfit. A simple navy blue, a-line dress with black stockings and an unbuttoned peacoat and frown.

  Ian wraps his arms around me and hugs me, my back to his front. My heart lurches. Why is it that every time I am near him, it feels like the first time we met, like he is both my salvation and my damnation rolled into one?

  “You look too perfect,” he purrs against my ear. “My father will approve, and my mother will approve because my father approves.”

  I bite back my smile. “And that’s the worst thing in the world?” I ask. “Having the approval of your parents?”

  He brushes my hair away to trail kisses down my throat as his hands slide lower until he cups me. I moan and before I know it, I am shamelessly grinding my ass against him.

  “Fuck me,” he breathes before he jerks away, warmth blossoming over his cheeks like flower petals opening in spring. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “If that goes on much further, the driver will wonder where we are. We’re all packed. The car’s waiting outside.”

  “The car?” I ask.

  He’s staring at a blank area on the wall as he stands next to my door like he literally can’t trust himself within ten feet of me. The realization sends my belly somersaulting.

  His gaze latches on mine, and the somersaults roll at full speed now.

  “I hired a driver,” he says, white-knuckling the doorknob. “I don’t want to spend the ride looking at the road. I want to spend it looking at you.”

  I smile and walk over to him. He grabs my hand, and we head out of the room.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” he mutters as we walk downstairs, hand-in-hand.

  “Like what?” I ask innocently.

  And that’s all it takes. One little question, and I’m hauled against the wall, his large hands cupping my ass, and my legs wrapped around him. It’s a testament to his steadiness that we don’t topple down the stairs.

  “Like you want to go back upstairs and finish what we started,” he growls.

  I raise an eyebrow. “What did we start again? I need a reminder.”

  Ian groans, throwing his back with the sound, and lets me down.

  “She’s going to be the death of me,” he breathes, and he sprints down the rest of the stairs, leaving me alone and breathless.

  I meet him outside where he waits for me, and we walk hand-in-hand toward a black limousine. The driver opens the door for us, and I shuffle inside across the leather seat. It’s small, not a stretch limo, but there’s plenty of room and a wall of privacy glass between us and the driver.

  I grab a bottle of Evian from the door pocket. It’s ice-cold. I look over at Ian, who ducks inside the car.

  “Impressed?” he asks.

  I shake my head no, which is a total lie, and unscrew the cap. Grandma and Granddad may be worth millions, but they still don’t hire cars to give them rides home.

  Ian grins because he definitely sees right through me and disappears from view for a moment. He slides in beside me a moment later, carrying a bouquet of red roses and pink-and-white lilies.

  He hands them to me, and happiness threatens to split my chest wide open. No one’s ever bought me flowers before, unless you count family. I breathe them in, a smile on my lips. They smell like springtime.

  “What about now?” he asks.

  I give him an inch between my thumb and index finger, and he grins as the driver pulls away from Voclain.

  “Thank you,” I say, letting my fingers graze the delicate petals. “They are beautiful.”

  “They’re not the prettiest thing in this car,” he says, staring at me.

  My eyes dart to the privacy glass. I can’t see the driver, and I’m pretty sure he can’t see us.

  “You said you wanted to spend the ride looking at me,” I say, placing the flowers in a waiting vase in a cup holder, “so look at me.”

  Ian’s out of his seat in an instant and jerking me on top of him. Our jackets end up on the floorboard. His movements are wild and crazed, but I’m feeling a little wild and crazy myself.

  “You are driving me insane,” he says, his palms on either side of my face, before he crushes his lips into mine.

  He tastes like that cinnamon bubble gum he’s been devouring all morning. His tongue dives into my mouth and clashes with mine. My dress rides up my legs as I straddle him, exposing my thighs and ass.

  He breaks apart to suck at my throat, and he’s doing a very lovely thing with his tongue and teeth at the moment and—Oh!—I can’t bear for him to stop.

  Tentatively, I lower my hand. I am shaking. I really don’t want to mess this up, but I can’t be the only one undone anymore. My fingers find the bulge in his pants, and he groans, the sound vibrating low in his throat.

  His lips return to mine, sucking my bottom lip between his teeth. I fumble with the button of his trousers. The damn thing keeps slipping from my fingers like it’s covered in a can of Crisco oil. Frustrated, I break our kiss and lean back to look down between us.

  “You don’t have to do that, sweetness,” he says, his brow furrowed.

  “I want to,” I say, kissing
him again, and he groans into my mouth.

  Our hands work together to undo his trousers and pull down his boxers. His cock springs free, and at first, all I do is feel it bounce against my belly with a thump. I wrap my fingers around it, and he breaks the kiss as a hiss escapes through his teeth.

  My heart hammers inside my chest. He feels so thick and heavy in my hand, but also weirdly smooth and silky. I pump him a few times, and he throws his head back with a moan.

  It feels nice being in control, having this effect on him. I look down and stare between us for a few moments. I’m not a virgin, but I also didn’t really see…it…the time I lost my virginity. The room was too dark, and I was too drunk to care.

  Ian’s cock is not like how they draw it in health education textbooks. It is darker than the rest of him, and big—so big—and strangely pretty, but I only have a moment to consider it before he asks, “Any takebacks, Stormy?”

  I shake my head as I slide off him and onto my knees on the floorboard. There’s a drop of pre-cum at the tip, and I lick it off with a single lave of my tongue.

  Ian shudders, his hands knotting in my hair. Mustering up my courage, I bring my lips around him and take him back as far as I can until I gag.

  “Oh, God, Harlow,” he growls. “That’s so good, baby.” His eyes nearly roll back into his head. I do it again until he hits the back of my throat.

  “Fuck,” he wheezes, and I look up at him, his cock still in my mouth. “I’ve dreamed of this moment.”

  My lips let go of him with a pop, and I replace my mouth with my hand.

  “Am I living up to the dream?” I tease.

  “Better than the dream. Fucking perfect.”

  I pump him, letting the wetness of my saliva work as lube. His head hits the back of the headrest again as he says my name.

  “And what happens in your dreams?” I ask.

  His gaze is glossy and far-away. “I fuck your mouth.”

  “Then do it,” I say, pumping faster, his hips thrusting upward to meet my hand.

  I release him, and he stoops low to kiss me before saying, “Switch with me.”

  I take his seat as he stands before me, his top half stooped because of the ceiling.

  He strokes his cock, and it’s such a visceral, masculine thing to watch, the tendons in his arm flexing as he runs his fingers all the way along his shaft. He steps forward and I open my mouth.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, his words pained as he continues to stroke his cock. “I do mean fuck your mouth, Harlow. It won’t be gentle.”

  “I know,” I breathe. “I want to make you feel the way you make me feel. I’m sure.”

  “Tilt your head back then,” he says.

  I oblige and open wide.

  There’s no warning. No gentle words of encouragement. Just his iron-hard cock ramming into my mouth and his balls slapping against my chin.

  My eyes immediately begin to water. My throat wants to choke and gag, but despite it all, I love it. I love knowing that he could dominate me, but chooses not to.

  His fingers tangle in my hair, as his hips work like wild pistons, pumping into me. A moan-slash-choke escapes my lips, but he continues forward, jerking wildly.

  “Oh, fuck,” he growls, his pattern growing erratic as his fingers tighten in my hair.

  I look up at him, his beautiful vision swimming in my watery eyes, and rake my nails down his ass.

  He comes with a cry, spilling into me. I react on instinct, swallowing until he’s finished. His cum is salty and warm, but not unpleasant.

  “Holy fuck,” he groans, rearranging himself and buttoning up his pants.

  He kisses me, and it’s so hot because he doesn’t hold back. Surely, he can taste himself on my tongue. I still can.

  When we break apart, I manage, “Better than your dreams?”

  “Better than any dream.”

  We kiss and cuddle, lick and lave and snuggle for hours as we ride until at last, we turn off the interstate onto a county road and then down a private drive. Willow trees stand tall on either side of the drive as we follow the curving path.

  We pass a small pond and cross through a guard station with a wrought-iron gate that slides open for the car. We continue a little farther down the path, and I am clenching Ian’s hand.

  “Ow,” he says loudly, and I realize I’ve probably been cutting off circulation to his fingers.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurt.

  “My mom’s excited to meet you.”

  My knee starts bobbing, and he places a heavy hand on it.

  “I’m saying don’t be nervous, sweetness,” he says.

  “I’m…” What am I going to say because I can’t deny it? I am nervous.

  “My parents will love you,” he says. He holds up a hand and ticks off a finger with each point. “From a wealthy family. Beautiful. And smart, so she won’t miss any thinly veiled threats should they become necessary. You’re perfect.”

  As we follow the curve of the drive, I realize that my grandparents’ wealth is a drop in the bucket. The house, though it really shouldn’t be called that because it’s more of an estate, sprawls for acres. The front is three stories of brick and mortar with white columns along the veranda and an enormous circular driveway with a fountain.

  “I’m probably not wealthy enough,” I squeak.

  Ian laughs.

  “Well, if you were, my father would’ve already tried to arrange our marriage and charged your family a hefty dowry to make sure their wealth never surpasses his.”

  My nose scrunches. Such an archaic idea, a dowry.

  He grabs my hands and squeezes, which startles me so much that I jump and hit my head on the roof.

  Ian rolls with laughter, holding his stomach and mouthing words that I don’t understand because he stopped breathing.

  “I’m sorry,” he manages with a wheeze as we park in front of the home. He wipes away tears of laughter and opens the door.

  I follow him out onto the cement drive.

  Still chuckling, Ian catches my hand between his again and tugs me up the enormous brick steps toward the front doors.

  “What about the bags?” I ask, my heart pitter-pattering. I am suddenly desperate to avoid this.

  “The driver will get them.” He raises one thick eyebrow at me. “I told you not to be nervous.”

  We haven’t even made it to the front doors, made of wrought iron and glass, that are at least 12 feet tall, when one is pulled open. We are greeted by a woman in an emerald green silk dress.

  “Ian,” she breathes, pulling him in for a hug. She is breathtaking, and I immediately know where Ian gets his good looks.

  Straight, shiny locks of black hair dust her shoulder blades. She slightly tan, even in late fall, and she looks effortlessly beautiful. She’s got crows’ feet but no other wrinkles on her otherwise perfect face. She is slender and tall and stunning.

  “Mom,” he mumbles, hugging her back. He steps away from her to introduce me. “My girlfriend, Harlow.”

  Her blue eyes land on me, and I give her my best smile.

  “Harlow,” she repeats. Good Lord, even her voice is beautiful. “A pleasure.” She offers me her hand, which I shake quickly. “Ian has told us so much about you.”

  Told them about me, I think, and introducing me as his girlfriend? Guilt leaves a sour taste on my tongue because I just told my parents we were dating. I didn’t define it.

  “Oliver,” Mrs. Beckett presses the intercom button on the wall, “our son is here.”

  “I’m here, darling,” a man says as he enters the foyer, his polished loafers clicking on the floor. I can see where Ian gets his height, but the man is not classically handsome. He reminds me of a cougar, pretty but in a deadly way. “Buxton let me know when they passed the gate.”

  Mrs. Beckett jumps at the surprise as Mr. Beckett nods towards Ian. “How was your drive, son?”

  “I hired a car,” Ian replies. “The ride was fine.”

  “We need a
play-by-play of the final game,” Mr. Beckett says. It takes me a moment, and then I realize he’s talking about the state championship. He doesn’t even say congratulations. “Schedule it with my assistant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ian says, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “I’d like to introduce you to—”

  The elder Beckett doesn’t allow Ian to finish.

  “Harlow,” Mr. Beckett says, offering his hand and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “glad to have you. Anyone who can help Ian with that translation drivel Ms. Edmonds is pushing this year is welcome to stay with us.”

  I slice my gaze to Ian, fighting a frown. Who is helping whom with Adaptive English?

  “Thank you for having me,” I say as a butler appears and hands Mr. Beckett his suit jacket, which he shrugs on over matching tuxedo slacks.

  Mrs. Beckett smiles politely and wraps an arm around Mr. Beckett. “You’ll have to excuse us,” she says to Ian. “We have the gala for your father’s foundation upstate tonight, and we must get going. Let Rosalind know what you would like for dinner.”

  As they walk away, Ian leads me by the hand under an iron chandelier and up the spiral staircase.

  “Congratulations,” he says dryly. “That’s the most they’ve ever said to anyone, including Everett. They love you.”

  I want to ask him if he is sure, but I don’t think he’d joke about it.

  “Your house is magnificent,” I say as we top the staircase. We can choose to go left or right down more marble halls decorated with paintings that look like splatter art more than anything else.

  Ian shrugs.

  “Who’s Rosalind?” I ask.

  “My stand-in mother,” Ian replies, and this time I know he is joking.

  “I’m sorry,” I say because it just feels like the right thing to say.

  Ian glances over at me, his brow furrowed.

  “Trust me when I say this,” he says, bringing my knuckles to his mouth and laying a gentle kiss on top of them. “You are the only thing I like about being home. Thank you for coming with me.”

  “Ian...” I begin, but he silences me with a fierce kiss, and then we are practically running down the hall, or rather I am running after him and I don’t really know why.