Defy (Sinners of Saint Book 2)

by L.J. Shen

  “I’ve just fulfilled a fantasy.” He slanted his head so we were looking at each other. “I think I’m allowed a moment to regroup.”

  “I was your fantasy?” How could that be? He was perfect, rich, and handsome. Young and sexily dangerous. And I was…his boring teacher.

  “Ms. Greene…” he started, cupping my cheek.

  I leaned into his hand before I realized what I was doing. By the time I felt his warmth against my skin, it was too late to pull away. “Please, call me Mel when we’re alone.”

  His lips twitched, but he fought his smile. “Mel,” he corrected. “You’re it. You’re so. Fucking. It. Smart, sassy, and witty, and unimpressed with all the wealth and bullshit drama around you. You have no idea how hot you are. Which makes you even hotter. This is fucking happening, baby. We’re happening.”

  I nuzzled into his neck, knowing that I was fueling a delusion that was just waiting to explode into calamity but not giving a damn anymore. His words moved something inside me. Not gently, either. They shook me to the core.

  “Just until school ends,” I whispered into his warm muscular shoulder, trying to convince myself more than him. He brushed his thumb along my back, sending goosebumps to my arms and scalp.

  “This ends the last day of school,” he agreed.

  We had a deadline.

  We had a plan.

  And for a moment there, our warm bodies on that cold floor, with the haze of sex and bliss clouding our minds, I believed we were going to keep our careless promise. There was a little earthquake—a literal one—that moved some of the boxes as we made this agreement. I thought it was a coincidence. It wasn’t. It was the devil in hell down below, rattling the earth with his laughter. Laughing at me.

  At how wrong I was.

  THE NEXT WEEK AT SCHOOL was paradise. My classes were perfectly behaved. I didn’t struggle to hold the students’ attention, because my new fuck-buddy, an intimidating senior jock who made people fall in line with his stare alone, spread the word not to mess with Ms. Greene. No one was ballsy enough to ask why. Everyone naturally assumed my fucked-up car and his freshly painted Range Rover and its retreat to the student parking lot were the answer to that question. To them, Jaime wanted to keep me happy since he bumped into my car.

  No one suspected we were bumping a few other things in our free time.

  I taught all my classes then sat with Jaime in detention. I used the time to work, while he used the time to text. On the last day, I kept glancing at my watch, tapping my Sharpie against my desk. I couldn’t concentrate on anything with him in the room. There were no words spoken between us. When his time was up, we both picked up our belongings and walked out of the classroom. I went to my car, he went to his, but by the time I got home, he was waiting inside my building, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

  “Would you like to come in?” I sloped my chin down, biting a smile. He, too, grinned at his shoes. We were giddy. I liked that. I liked that and I hated that I liked that.

  “Nah…I can’t. Football practice for the exhibition. The Kings are going to kill those pussies playing next year for the Saints if we don’t pull their shit together. Trent’s pissed. A scout’s coming to watch the game and look at his leg. They might reconsider his scholarship now that his rehab’s done. Seven okay?”

  “Seven’s perfect.”

  He nodded. We stood there, staring at one another, before he shrugged and closed the space between us with a long step. “Screw this shit, I missed those lips.”

  Then came a hard, desperate kiss where his lips assaulted mine for a good minute.

  Breathlessly, I unlocked my door and disappeared behind it, pressing my back against it with a sigh.

  That didn’t feel forbidden, or bad. Just a boy and a girl liking each other.

  He came back at ten after seven, and for every extra second I waited, anxiety and disappointment built in my gut. I opened the door, frowning. “You said seven. I hate tardiness.”

  “That makes two of us.” He roughly pushed me into my apartment, oozing charged energy. “So, about that missionary position…” The quarterback giant stepped into my orbit.

  His cut lip and new purple welt were even more prominent with the pink flush on his cheeks after a grueling workout, and his hair still wet from the shower. Between footfall and Defy, there were a lot of injuries among the HotHoles. A broken ankle had ended Trent Rexroth’s football career in the fall. That happened in a locker-room accident. But it was almost like Jaime wanted to fuck up that pretty face of his. The Saints practiced and scrimmaged even in the winter, but he was a senior. He and his friends wouldn’t be part of the team next year.

  “Flip your dress up.”

  I did, without even blinking. He should’ve been the teacher with that kind of authority. Exposing my baby blue panties, I awaited further instructions.

  “Turn around and bend down to touch your toes, Little Ballerina.”

  I had no fucking clue how he knew I was a dancer, and asking him about it would force me to deal with the truth.

  That he was a crazy stalker.

  And that I absolutely liked that about him.

  So, I just did as I was told, my ass in the air, presumably level with his groin. The throbbing ache between my thighs demanded release. I felt his fingers clutching my pussy from behind. He ripped my underwear off in one go and served them to me from behind.

  “Still wet, despite my tardiness.” He rubbed them against my lips. “Not that mad, I see.”

  Shit. The wet spot was obvious, even now, when my panties were merely a string.

  “Can you please stop tearing my stuff apart? Not everyone’s under mommy and daddy’s financial wing.” Goodie. The cat was out of the bag now.

  He laughed, his abs bouncing against my ass, then thrust three fingers at once into my entrance, making me stumble forward. He caught me by the shoulder before I fell headfirst.

  “This week was an introduction,” he warned. “Today…today, baby, I’m marking you as mine.”

  It sounded crazy. And hot. Crazy hot, actually. I was immediately game. If I was going to fuck up my career, better enjoy the ride, right?

  “Let’s see your ballerina’s balance as I fuck every other guy you’ve ever had out of you.”

  With that, I heard his zipper rolling down as he freed his cock from his pants. His bulging head found the lips of my pussy, and I quivered in anticipation, lifting up slightly to gain more balance.

  “Hands. On. Toes.” He bit the crook of my neck from behind and drew circles with his tip around my pussy, making me mad with need. He was also fucking bare.

  “Jaime, wrap up and get in before I die.” My voice trembled.

  “Shh,” my stalker said, ripping the condom wrapper with his teeth, still teasing my entrance from behind. “You just keep holding on to those toes, ballerina. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  He went in slow. Painfully slow. Every inch of him took a second to go in, then slid back even slower. My legs quivered. I cried out in pleasure and frustration. This was torture of the highest level, but I was enjoying every minute.

  “Faster,” I begged under my breath.

  He wouldn’t listen. The next time he went in, it was even slower.

  “Jaime.” I bit my lower lip. “Fuck me like you mean it.”

  “Then act like you fucking want it,” he growled, grazing my shoulder with his teeth. “Don’t stand me up. Don’t give me shit when I’m ten minutes late, and don’t try and act like you don’t want this.”

  Inch. Another inch. Another inch. It was a beautiful torture. I wanted to push him away and run to my bedroom to finish my business with my plastic boyfriend, Victor the Vibrator. But I wasn’t strong enough to resist him, no matter what he did to me.

  “Fine,” I grunted. “Fine, I promise. Now fuck me.”

  “That’s better,” he murmured, thrusting himself all the way in and making me stumble. He gathered my hair into a ponytail and jerked my head
upward, pulling my body close to him so I wouldn’t crash. Then he fucked me so hard I felt numb from the waist down before he was done with me.

  That’s what happens when you come seven times in one night, I thought as I wobbled toward my bed. By the time he went home, around midnight, I couldn’t feel my clit. Or my legs. Hell, not even my feet.

  But he’d made his point crystal clear. And me? I wanted him to make it all over again.

  DAYS FILLED WITH CHAIN ORGASMS and hurried kisses in hidden corners and deserted classes ticked by. A blur of bliss and danger, abandoned lust. The trick was not to think about it. Any part of it. Not about my future—as a teacher and an adult—or about what I was doing. And definitely not about who I was doing it with.

  No longer in detention, Jaime found other creative ways to stick around after school and spend time with me. Mostly, we fell into a routine where he visited me at my apartment after his football drills with next year’s team.

  Three weeks into our affair, when another Saturday rolled around, I was glad he had other plans. I finally mustered enough fake bravado to collect my thoughts and try and make sense of it all. The Saints were playing an exhibition scrimmage against the Kings of Sacramento, and technically, I could’ve supported my local team and watched Jaime play but decided against it. Putting some space between us and reminding myself that this was just casual fun was in my best interest. His too.

  Besides, I’d made my own plans to meet my parents at an Italian joint in downtown Todos Santos this evening.

  I did pass by the game on my way to Target that afternoon, taking the long way just so I could catch a glimpse of the game. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t about Jaime. Football was a big deal at All Saints High. But no matter how you looked at it, when I stopped at the red light and glanced across the road to the field, I was looking for number four. For Jaime Followhill. For the HotHole who always made my stomach dip like I’d just gotten on a rollercoaster. For the boy who felt too much like a man. And, sadly, for the guy who filled the void in me with more than just his arousal and hot flesh.

  I found him standing on the sidelines, chewing on his mouthguard with his hands on his waist while nodding at something coach said to him. He looked distracted, and if I had the courage, I’d want to believe it was me he was thinking about.

  His body looked cut and perfect, even through his jersey.

  It was worrisome. I should have known right there. The way I smiled to myself, like I owned him in some way. Like this perfect creature, that was now yelling to his friends from the sideline, looking animated, looking perfect, was under my spell.

  I kept on staring until someone behind me honked and I had to speed away, hitting the gas pedal too hard. Just then, Jaime twisted his head in my direction, as if he heard it too.

  It was ridiculous. There was no way he could know I was watching him. The place was crowded as hell and the parents and students of All Saints High were very vocal about their local team.

  But that didn’t soothe the blush that crept up my neck and spread through my cheeks.

  Nothing did. For the remainder of the day.

  My parents and I had dinner, during which they asked about when my contract with the school would be renewed (probably never?), when I might find a man (ditto, but hey, I found a hot boy who knows how to go down on a woman thirteen different ways), and why my cheeks were so flushed (see the answer to question number two).

  It wasn’t bad, per se. The food was great. The company…well, made me feel like the biggest letdown humanity had to face.

  That was the thing about being Celia and Stewart Greene’s daughter. The minute my dream of becoming a ballerina died, so did their pride in me. I was never quite good at anything else, and I guess they knew that.

  They made sure I remembered it, too.

  It wasn’t an excuse for why I was like this. Unmotivated and sarcastic, but it definitely didn’t help.

  The three of us walked back to our cars and passed by the central fountain in downtown Todos Santos across from Liberty Park, the home to a semi-famous lake and alarmingly aggressive swans. Teenagers were always roaming there on weekends, playing loud, shitty music. (Guess that was one reason why the swans were prone to attacking.) Not that night, though. That night, it was worryingly quiet.

  My parents and I were about to round a corner and head to the parking lot when I saw Vicious’s silver Mercedes-Benz McLaren slicing past us. I couldn’t miss the 500K vehicle because HE WAS DRIVING ON THE FUCKING SIDEWALK opposite from us.

  The kid was honking his horn at people like his daddy owned this town. Unfortunately, his daddy did own this town. Vicious’s father was so rich he hit lists like Forbes and shit every single year.

  Maybe that’s why his son felt entitled to hit everything and everyone else, I thought bitterly.

  Pedestrians made way and let him pass through, accepting his behavior with bent heads. Everybody knew who he was, and more importantly, who he was going to be—a powerful, lawless cretin and the heir to a huge portion of the business interests in Todos Santos.

  My parents and I skidded to a halt, our mouths shaping into stunned Os. We stared as my student parked on the grass, got out of his car, and strode toward a row of kids on their knees near the lake.

  Well, fuck me sideways scissor-style. The older jocks were standing above the teenagers on the ground, yelling animatedly and pushing each other, on the verge of breaking into a huge fight.

  I saw Jaime there. My eyes were drawn to him immediately, on instinct, before my mind even processed what I was staring at. He was leaning against the gazebo, exchanging hushed words with Dean Cole and Trent Rexroth, the former captain of the football team, who had his leg in a fresh-looking cast. Shit. He’d broken it again? What happened at the game today?

  Jaime, Trent, and Dean kept to themselves, furrowed brows and brooding expressions on their faces. I recognized some of the kids on their knees, their heads down in surrender and their arms behind their backs. All failed, aspiring, or younger football players at All Saints High.

  The Four HotHoles were up to something, I knew. And it didn’t look like this was a voluntary game, like Defy.

  It looked serious.

  Vicious unrolled the sleeve of his white tee and took his soft Camel pack out of it, lighting a cigarette and squatting down, blowing smoke into the face of one of the kids who sat on their knees, awaiting the verdict. The guy gasped and choked on a cough but didn’t dare move an inch. It looked like an ISIS execution line, and I knew I had to do something. The police chief was a kiss-ass friend of Baron Spencer Senior, Vicious’s father, so calling the cops would have gotten me nowhere. But I couldn’t just stand there and watch this happen. Right?

  Right?

  Vicious walked slowly along the row of suspects, his arms behind his back. “Listen up, fuckers. I know the Kings weren’t the dickbags who greased the floor under Trent’s locker. That’s twice someone targeted him. The captain of your fucking team, you sorry-ass bitches.”

  He was so mad, he spat as he spoke. I watched the saliva flying out of his mouth, illuminated by the Victorian lamppost.

  “Last time I figured this was an attack from a rival team to keep him from playing. Eliminate the competition.” Vicious took another drag and spat near one of the meatheads on the end with a red varsity jacket and a baseball cap turned backwards. “But Trent’s graduating. No reason for another team to take him out now.”

  Some of the teens were crying as they looked down to the dewy grass, and some were moaning in pain. They weren’t bleeding, they didn’t look beaten up. Well, not physically, anyway. But Jesus, this kid was as fucking intimidating as Satan himself.

  “I. Will. Find the fucker who greased the floor!” he shouted.

  The jocks on their feet behind him roared, pumping their fists in the air. Jaime, Dean, and Trent were still deep in conversation. Luckily, they weren’t feeding the troll.

  “I WILL punish the motherfucker,” Vicious scream
ed maniacally, thumbing his chest and looking around for support.

  “Fuck yeah!” The jocks raised their hands, slurring into the night.

  “And by the time we’re done with him, he will be sorry his whore of a mother ever gave birth to him!”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

  I had chills up and down my arms. I hated Baron Spencer. According to Coach Rowland, he wasn’t even a very good football player, and I doubted he cared about the team that much. No. This whole nightmare of a night was orchestrated because he was a sadistic, violent fuck.

  My mother yanked my white blouse and gritted, “I know some of these kids. They go to All Saints High. They are your students, Melody. You can’t let this happen.”

  “The screaming one in the skinny jeans is Baron Spencer,” I whispered back. “His daddy owns this town.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” My father shook his head, resting his hand on my shoulder. It felt so much heavier than it actually was, and I knew why. “This is about your integrity, Mel.”

  Oh, fuck. That old thing.

  I knew I had to step in. I also knew I was about to be royally humiliated in front of my parents. Vicious feared me just a little less than he feared a Chihuahua in a pink tutu. Meaning, he wouldn’t give a damn about me butting into this mess.

  I crossed the road on shaky legs. Vicious’s ruthless voice was still booming in my ears, getting louder with each step I took. My spine crackled, but I moved forward.

  “Rat out the asshole who’s responsible, or each and every one of you fuckers goes back home with a permanent mark.” He pointed his cigarette at his potential victims. A few ballers behind them hauled them up to their feet by their hair, and the captives cried in agony.

  Vicious stopped in front of a heavy guy, who had tried to make it onto the football team last year, and inched the burning ember of his cigarette toward the guy’s forehead.

  They are your students, Melody. You can’t let this happen.