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

by Jordan Grant

  “Have you ever played strip Mario Kart before?” he says. “Because I’m about to rock your world, Harlow Weathersby.”

  I giggle because he has no idea William and I played Mario Kart all the time growing up, and I’m about to own his entire universe.

  32

  Harlow

  A hand shakes my shoulder, rudely interrupting my slumber. I grumble, feebly slapping at the hand, and scoot away. Far away from my dreams, someone chuckles.

  I snuggle into the covers. My feet find a cool spot and I roll the comforter around me, tucking it under my chin.

  I am weightless, lulled until I am once again settled.

  I am unburdened, floating in calm waters.

  I am floating down.

  I am almost…

  The covers are ripped away from me, and the cold of the house nips at my skin. My matching pajamas—a black-and-gold tank top and shorts—do little to keep out the chill.

  I grumble, searching blindly for my blanket and coming up empty.

  “These are pretty,” a low voice murmurs in my ear. Fingers play with the hem of my shorts and dawdle across my skin where my belly is exposed below my top. Heat stirs inside my belly and rises like a dust devil whirling to life. Ian. My eyes blink open, greeted by darkness. “But I think they would look better on the floor.”

  I turn to find Ian staring at me, the black of his hair tinged blue by the moonlight filtering in through the row of windows on the opposite side of the room. His eyes aren’t gray in the darkness of night. They are pitch black chasms, filled with lascivious designs and naughty promises.

  His warm hand lingers on my belly, just below my navel, as we stare at each other. The dust devil inside me is gaining speed and turning into a tornado, a gale force wind, a freakin’ hurricane.

  The bow of his lips is full and perfect, the line of his jaw distinct and dusted with the prickles of a soon-to-be stubble, the curve of his cheekbones sculpted by Michelangelo himself. He’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him.

  It’s like staring at the sun and trying not to blink.

  It’s like stepping closer to the bonfire and stopping just before the flames lick your skin.

  It’s like closing your eyes and trying to feel the spray of the sea as you teeter on the edge of a cliff.

  I can’t stop myself.

  I stare. I step closer. I teeter on the edge.

  And I do it time and time again.

  My heart gallops, the ringing in my ears so loud I am sure he can hear it too. My lungs take off for the finish line, my breasts rising and falling with each breath. His gaze flicks to my exposed belly button and his hand resting there and then to my heaving breasts.

  “The things I could do to you,” he says, the words sounding like a confession. He lifts his hand off me and places it carefully on the comforter. He meets my gaze again. “But I can’t. Not now. I need you to get up, Stormy. There’s something I want to show you.”

  He stands and walks to my closet, riffling through my things until he tosses a pair of jeans, a cable-knit sweater, and a pair of fluffy socks at me. He stoops to rifle through my shoes, gives up, and says, “I’ll grab you a pair of my hiking boots and a jacket. I’ll be right back.”

  He disappears so quickly, I wonder if this place holds secret corridors inside its vast walls.

  I sit up slowly, my joints still heavy from sleep, and my heart ricocheting as it slows to a more normal beat. I shove the sweater over my head. I should probably find a bra, but my pajama shirt is sort of the same thing, and if Ian walks back in here mid-bra change, I’m pretty sure one of two things will happen—1. I’ll combust into flames or 2. He’ll combust into flames—and neither of those is preferable.

  I take off my shorts and slide into my jeans. I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s a little after midnight. No wonder I feel like crawling back into bed and staying there.

  I’m not a morning person.

  I’m not a night person.

  I’m an 8-hours-of-sweet-dreams-please person.

  Ian returns. It’s hard to see him in the shadows, but I watch from the bed as he kneels and shoves boots over my toes that weigh down my ankles. He cinches the laces tight. I stand, and he helps me into a jacket that swallows me whole and zips it up nearly to my chin. Then he pulls the hood over my head before pulling on his own downy jacket.

  “Where are we going?” I ask as he leads me by the hand toward the door.

  “My favorite place on earth.”

  Our footfalls are loud in the cavernous halls on the waxed marble floors, but I don’t see the housekeeper or Ian’s parents, much to my relief, running toward us, demanding to know why we are trampling about at this hour. I wonder if this is normal for him, having little adventures in the dead of night, and knowing Ian, I think it probably is.

  I follow him, his warm fingers intertwined with mine, down the maze of intersecting halls and two flights of stairs until we are outside.

  Our feet pitter-patter on the stone patio as we continue forward off it onto frozen blades of grass that crunch like tiny twigs beneath our boots. Our breath steams in the air, ethereal clouds under the stars.

  We walk through the manicured lawn, past the flower gardens and the pergola until we are at the edge of the woods, where the evergreens take over.

  “Watch your step,” he says as we continue forward into darkness.

  I squeeze his hand tight. The forest is lit only by the stray slivers of moonlight that make it through the canopy overhead, and the place smells of moss and pine needles. A branch brushes my shoulder as we walk.

  Ian doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t stumble or get out his phone to use it as a flashlight. He walks like he has walked this path a thousand times before and knows it by heart.

  “Duck,” he says, stopping to help me miss a low hanging branch.

  There’s something in front of us off in the distance, dark and looming. My heart flops inside my chest, but then Ian is at my side and grabs my hand again, and it calms.

  “What is that?” I ask as we draw closer, but just as the question leaves my lips, I notice a gleam from a window pane and the shine from the brass knocker on the front door.

  “Whoa,” I breathe as he leads me down a path clear of underbrush and the prickly things that wrap around your ankles.

  “This is it,” he says as we climb the steps of the front porch. “Welcome to my favorite place in the world, sweetness.”

  He unlocks the door and with the click of the bolt, the lights inside the cabin turn on, intimate and low.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathe, taking in the stained hardwood floor under my feet and the bookcases built into the walls above a fireplace. A small piano sits flush against a wall of the den near a modest kitchen.

  Ian shrugs off his jacket and helps me with mine. He hangs them inside a closet near the door. “I found it when I was kid. It was a mess. The roof had caved in. A family of raccoons was living in it. The old man wanted to tear it down. He thought it was dangerous.”

  My hand slides across the worn leather of a sofa in the middle of the room. I glance back at Ian to find he’s standing near the door, watching me.

  “How did you convince him to let you keep it?” I ask, walking to read the titles of books that line the shelves.

  Ian heads for the fireplace.

  “At first, I told him I’d do all the work.” He frowns as he strikes a match and tosses it over the kindling. It ignites, crackling in the quiet of the cabin. “When that didn’t work, I told him if he didn’t help, I would tell Mom he was fucking his secretary.”

  I freeze and turn toward him. “I’m so sorr—”

  Ian stands and raises an index finger to his lips. “You have nothing to apologize for, Harlow. That is,” he gives me a mischievous grin, “unless you are also sleeping with my father’s secretary.”

  “Ian,” I say with an eye roll.

  His grin widens and he steps closer, erasing the distance between us. I st
are at him, captivated. His grin wanes, and he looks down at me, abruptly somber.

  “I come here when I need to get away from everything,” he says. “No internet. No television. No distractions. Just me—and now you too.”

  “No one else has been here?” I breathe, my heart knocking against my ribs. God, he smells so good.

  Ian shakes his head slowly, sending a black lock of hair into his eyes, which he ignores. He cups my face between his hands. His hot breath cocoons me in warmth. “Just you, Harlow.”

  I force out the word. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  A single tear escapes down my cheek. Then another. He wipes them away with his thumbs.

  “You are everything, Harlow,” he says, his voice low and soft like he’s in confession. “You are my gravity and stars and air and life. You are my entire universe.”

  My throat squeezes. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to stand here in his arms. It hurts to exist. I can never get close enough, be near enough, because I will always wants to be closer to him.

  I stretch up on the tips of my toes and kiss him. His hands tangle in my hair, his thumbs gently pressing at my temples.

  I have to feel more of him, and my hands crawl underneath his sweater to run along the rigid indents of his abdomen. Heat explodes inside my belly as something hedonistic takes over. I am a bundle of nerve endings and desire.

  He breaks us apart and looks down at me, his gaze like rolling thunder, his cheeks wet with my tears.

  “Don’t cry,” he murmurs, devastation shattering his perfect face. “Please.”

  “I’m crying because I’m happy,” I manage, the words strangled.

  He studies me, his gaze darting between my eyes, before he dips his head to kiss away my tears, one cheek and then my other.

  When his mouth meets mine again, it’s like the universe has finally set things right for once. The kiss is sweet and tender and gentle, and I taste the salt of my tears and a hint of toothpaste. I pull up his sweater, and he allows me to tug it over his head, lifting up his arms to help me.

  He stands there in nothing but his pants and built, bronzed glory. I think he’s never been more beautiful or vulnerable in this very moment. He doesn’t make a move, staring at me, his lips pursed.

  I cross my hands over the hem of my sweater and tug it off me, my pajama shirt coming along with it.

  He sucks in a breath and reaches out a hand to run the back of his knuckles against my bare arm, brushing the side of my breast.

  We’ve been intimate, but not like this. Those three little words hang in the air and embrace us both.

  “Christ,” he says, the word a prayer, “you’re perfect.“

  The fire crackles as I move to undo the button on his pants. His hand stills my fumbling fingers.

  “Are you sure?” he asks, closing his eyes. “Don’t—” When he opens them, they are trained on me. “Don’t do it because you think it’s what I want. I want you so bad, Harlow.” His words are low and growled. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined this, how many times I’ve fucked my hand, imagining it’s you.” He closes his eyes again and rests his forehead against mine. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I just...I just want you to be sure. There’s no coming back from this, not for me.”

  “Ian...” I feather a kiss across his closed mouth. His fists ball at his sides as he stands there, waiting for my reply. “I want this. I want you. I’m positive. I’ve never been more—”

  “Fuck,” he growls, tugging me into his arms and slamming his mouth down onto mine before ripping his lips away to feather kisses across my neck and bare shoulder. Little fireworks pop along my skin.

  I wrap my arms around him, holding tight, my breasts flattening against his chest. He helps me with my jeans, kicking off my boots and shoving off my socks, and then his pants and boots are next. I giggle as I trip over a sock and fall against him. He is so sure in his movements, yet I notice the slight tremble in his hands.

  We stand there, naked in front of each other, his cock rock hard and long. The thick head bobs against my belly.

  He reaches for his jeans on the floor and pulls a condom out of his wallet. He holds it like a quarter between two knuckles.

  “You don’t have to use that on my account,” I say, swallowing the knot clogging my throat. “My mom took me to get the pill after last time…” I let the sentence trail off. “They did the…an exam and everything, so I am”—Shit. What’s the word I’m looking for?—“healthy.”

  Ian chuckles, and I realize I’ve used the wrong word. “I’m clean too. The old man couldn’t have his name marred by a son known for passing around the clap, so he makes get an exam and a blood draw every month.”

  My eyes go wide. “Every month?”

  He nods. “I told him I hadn’t slept with anyone since summer, but either he doesn’t believe me or he likes knowing that every few weeks someone judges my junk and stabs me in my arm.”

  I must look horrified because he says, "Harlow, can we talk about anything else right now besides my father?”

  “How about we don’t talk?” I offer.

  He smiles, and it’s entirely wicked. “Oh, sweetness, you’re going to talk all right when you scream my name.”

  Holy shit.

  I launch myself at him, and he rocks back on his heels with the blow, before wrapping his arms around my ass and picking me up so that my legs intertwine around his back. His cock presses right at my entrance, and we both moan.

  He carries me down a dark hall to a bedroom. He turns on the lamp before he sits me on the bed, and I lay down, melting into the soft sheets. He takes a moment and just stands there, completely naked, staring at me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. I am not super shy, but I feel the blood rushing to my cheeks.

  “Memorizing the way you look in my bed.” He says the words matter-of-factly, but the throb between my legs takes it as an invitation, so I spread them, letting my knees fall open.

  “Fuck,” he growls, grabbing his dick and rubbing himself head to shaft. His eyes are glossy, and I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. “I’m going to ruin you, baby.”

  He grins wickedly, and then he’s on top of me, his head buried between my legs, devouring me. He licks and laves, feasting wildly, until I tremble beneath him.

  “Ian!” I cry out as he nips at my clit. He lifts his head just for a moment, my wetness glistening on his face, and growls, “I am going to tongue-fuck you until you come for me, sweetness, and then when you’re still coming down, I’m going to fuck you until we both can’t walk.”

  Oh. My. Go—

  Then he is on me again, my thighs quivering as his tongue slides across me, over my clit, and then inside me.

  I arch, rubbing against him, helpless as my fingers claw at the comforter. He moans, a purely guttural sound of pleasure, and continues to feast on me like a starving man at a buffet.

  I whimper and my legs try to shut, desperate to do something...anything. He clamps a hand down on each of my knees and pins me down as he runs his tongue down the length of me and back up again before taking my clit into his mouth and beginning to suck.

  Sparks of white light explode behind my eyes as warmth unfurls in my belly and explodes outward. I breathe in the heady aroma of him and my sex and the wood burning in the fireplace as I convulse, crying out.

  He climbs on top of me and doesn’t hesitate. His hands pin mine to the bed, our fingers intertwining. His lips collide into mine with the grace of a car wreck, and he plunges into me, earning another wordless cry from my mouth.

  He’s so big and hard and God it feels so good to have him there, throbbing slightly inside of me.

  “Ian,” I mewl, wrapping my legs around him as I try to pull him deeper.

  He doesn’t say a word. Instead, he goes completely still, his head hung low, his hair falling into his eyes.

  He meets my stare and asks, “Are you ready for this?”

  A chuc
kle slips past my lips. “Isn’t it a little too late to ask me that?”

  Ian moves his hips, slowly, excruciatingly pulling out of me before impaling me again.

  “I thought I could,” he clenches his teeth together, and a hiss erupts past them. “I need you, Harlow. I don’t think I can take it slow.”

  I lock my ankles together at the small of his back.

  “I’m not porcelain doll, Beckett. I’m not going to break.” I bring my lips close enough to kiss him, but I don’t. It’s the best kind of torment. “Who said I wanted you to be gentle anyway? I just want you. All of you.”

  His lips slam into mine again before he releases my hands. He falls to his knees, pulling out of me as he yanks my legs further apart and shoves my ankles against the headboard.

  My ass is in the air and I’m bent like a pretzel as he slams into me again, no warning, no gentle words, just him in his element, raw and savage as he fucks me into the mattress. If the bed spontaneously disintegrated right now, I’m pretty sure he’d still be going at it, fucking me straight into the floor and then if it disappeared, into the core of the Earth.

  He slams his cock into me as my palms latch onto his shoulders, his hands still around my ankles.

  “Oh, God,” I cry out. It’s so deep this way, so visceral, as he pounds in and out of me, his head thrown back, his chest slick with sweat, his stamina never ending. I want to lick the sweat from his skin and taste the salt, but I can’t do much except lay there and watch as he plunges in and out of me.

  My head hits the headboard with the ferocity of his thrusts, but I don’t care. His balls rock against me as he pistons his hips, his abs rippling with the effort, his cock, large and weirdly beautiful, disappearing inside me.

  Bam goes the headboard.

  He draws back, every muscle on him going rigid as I latch onto his shoulders, my fingers biting into his pecs, before he slams into me again.

  Bam!

  “Give it to me, Harlow,” he growls.

  He continues his merciless pace. Bam! Bam! Bam! It’s like he’s doing battle with his dick, and he’s never going to surrender.