by Layla Frost
© 2018 Layla Frost
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Formatting by Elaine York, Allusion Graphics, LLC
Table of Contents
* * *
Other Books by Layla Frost
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect with Layla Frost
Coming Soon by Brynne Asher
Other Books by Layla Frost
* * *
The Hyde Series
Hyde and Seek
Best Kase Scenario
Until Nox: Happily Ever Alpha World
The Amato Series
With Us
From the pervy mind of the author…
I know what you’re thinking.
Again with the thank yous and shout-outs?
Again with all the praise and love?
Again with talk of peni and coffee?
But this is different. I need to thank every single person I’m listing and more. Without them, this book would not be here. No exaggeration or BS flattery.
In no particular order…
Lindsay, if you hadn’t continued to cheer me on every time I sent you a doc titled ‘secret shitty shit shit’ or ‘They gonna get kinky,’ I’d have set this project aside. Again. Your encouragement was everything just as your friendship means everything. I’m so grateful to have you in my life. Also, thank you for starting my Brendon Urie obsession. You’re welcome for the Nothing More one.
Brynne Asher and Sarah Curtis, as always, you are my rocks. Our streak brings me daily happiness and laughter, and also an outlet to vent and cry. Our sprinting is the only way I don’t get distr… Oh, makeup and coffee and peni! For real, though, just as Lindsay encouraged me to finish writing, you both encouraged me to finish and publish. Thank you for being far more confident in me than I am. It’s an honor to be your friend, and all hail princess Zoe!
Gi, as always, THANK YOU! Your feedback and advice are invaluable for my stories, and your friendship is treasured.
Artistic thanks to Dark Water Covers for somehow, miraculously topping Until Nox’s cover. I didn’t think it was possible, but you did it and I’m in awe.
To the authors, bloggers, readers… I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the love and support this community provides. I’m so honored to be part of it.
And of course, thank you from the bottom of my pervy heart to my Naughty Cupcakes. I’m in awe and humbled every time I think about the fact there are people in the world who care about my words enough to join my group. You suffer through all the endless pictures of Charlie Hunnam and Jason Momoa and the other assorted hotties. You’re troopers, tolerating it all. I don’t even know how you’re still there. Okay, seriously, I love you all. Thank you for rolling with it when I said I was stepping way outside my usual style to bring you some kinkiness. I can be an author for years and years, and I’ll never get used to the fact you all want to read my words and be a Cupcake. That also means I’ll never take for granted how lucky I am. Thank you for making my dreams come true. Love you all!
To my Mister…
Thank you for humoring me every time I buy creamer and then not saying a single thing when I send you out for massive iced coffee instead. Thank you for cleaning so we don’t drown in said iced coffee cups. Thank you for cooking because said iced coffee isn’t a suitable meal replacement, despite my tendency to treat it as such. Thank you for the nachos. Thank you for staying blissfully silent while I talk out my plot problems—your lack of feedback and input is exactly what I need. Thank you for helping with the research—wink, wink, nudge, nudge. And thank you for loving me, exactly as I am. You’re forever the inspiration for all the loving and thoughtful things my heroes do.
And some of the filthy-sweet things, too.
Chapter One
* * *
Secrets
Eden
I knew I’d get caught.
It was an inevitability I’d been pushing to the back of my mind. In some regards, I was impressed.
Six months.
Not too shabby.
My first month of work, I’d thought I’d be recognized at any moment. I’d watched the door as much as possible, ready to hide if a familiar face walked in.
But I’d gotten lax.
By the time the hairs on the back of my neck had stood and I’d looked over my shoulder to see him, he’d seen me. Past the pound of makeup and glitter, he’d recognized me. And from across the crowded club, he’d glared at me.
Hard.
In my panic-inducing nightmares, it’d always been another student who’d found me. A friend or roommate. They’d rushed to spread the word while I’d struggled to run after them, my movements slow and labored no matter how hard I’d tried.
It’d never occurred to me I’d be seen by Damien Caine.
As in, Professor Caine.
My Political Theory professor.
I practically choked on my heart as it raced in my throat. My head swam, a cold sweat breaking out across my very exposed skin.
Holy shit, my life is over.
I wanted to run from the stage, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t as though he’d magically unsee me. And if my academic career was about to be drowned in a vat of glitter, I couldn’t afford to lose my financial career.
Calm down.
Think this through before your shaking legs give out and you fall.
Or faint.
Or, with your palms sweating and knees weak, go for the Eminem trifecta and lose your metaphorical spaghetti all over the stage.
Okay, not helping.
Inhaling as deep as I could, I tried to be rational.
It was highly unlikely he’d say anything to me. He’d barely spoken to me, and I doubted seeing me strip would be the icebreaker.
Plus, to say he saw me would mean admitting to being there, and I didn’t see that happening.
With that logic, I almost didn’t want to die right then and there.
But the song blasting through the speakers and the outfit barely covering my body ensured that urge remained.
When I’d first started working there, I’d just danced in a sexy bikini-esque outfit. But after a few weeks, one of the owners had suggested a persona change.
There were girls who danced in biker v
ests. Ones with leather, whips, and a demeaning sneer. Sexy vixens who owned the stage and their sensuality. Ones who looked strong and in charge.
I wanted to be one of them.
But I wasn’t.
My blond hair and blue eyes didn’t look badass. I didn’t have tattoos or piercings because they’d never been in the budget. Because everything about me was natural and believable, right down to the fact I actually was a student, innocent Mandi was created.
Well, as innocent as I could be in a tiny schoolgirl skirt, plain white panties, a see-through white top, knee high socks, and Mary Jane stripper heels.
When I’d begun using the persona, my tips more than doubled, and I’d gained a bunch of regulars. Suddenly in high demand, I’d also gotten the Friday and Saturday night shifts, which had been major. Weekdays were decent, but the weekend shifts were guaranteed money makers.
All of that, plus it was easier. Of my two songs, I only stripped during the second, Hot for Teacher. My first, Don’t Stand So Close to Me, was just a lot of coquettish teasing, so I made more money for less time naked. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be insulted by that, but whatever.
I was getting paid.
Right then, however, I wished I’d never agreed to the cliché changes.
They were the whipped cream and cherry on my mortification sundae.
And they were so excruciatingly awkward because I had a crush on Professor Caine.
A crazy, schoolgirl crush.
It wasn’t how hot he was, though he was insanely attractive. His dark brown hair was too overgrown and mussed to look professional. It wasn’t strategically styled, but rather tousled like he ran his fingers through it constantly.
His navy eyes were sharp and missed nothing. He’d always been able to tell which kids pulled excuses out of their asses. I’d bet he knew the kid who sat behind me was always stoned and the one in the back row spent most classes watching porn.
Nothing about him looked like the stereotypical professor. Over six foot four inches of solid muscle, he was intimidating as hell and intensity personified. He’d never worn a tweed jacket, wire-rimmed glasses, or even a tie, instead teaching in casual slacks and shirts.
The first week of classes, he’d gone to his office after a meeting. When word got around, it’d caused a major traffic jam. Everyone had wanted to get a look at him dressed up in slate gray slacks, a matching button vest, and a dark blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled. Girls had whipped out their phones to take pictures.
It was still talked about.
In detail.
In hushed whispers and wistful sighs.
If Professor Caine taught class dressed like that, girls would probably throw their panties like he was a rock star and they were his groupies.
But that wasn’t him. He wasn’t pretentious. And, though he looked like one, he didn’t seem to have a god complex.
Still, something about him felt… off. Dangerous. It was a vibe he put out, but I was beginning to think I was the only one who noticed. Other girls talked about how sensitive and soft he was. They painted him as some tortured hero who’d beg to make love on a bed of roses after he recited poetry he wrote about emo vampires and being misunderstood.
His lectures often turned passionate, and it was easy to become enthralled. But I’d never read him as sensitive. Most definitely not soft.
It was entirely possible I’d only been reading his intense dislike for me, though.
As my first song wore down, and my second began, I glanced his way. He was looking around, bored and disinterested. It made the situation better.
Finishing my set, I went in the back to redress and regroup.
I can’t go back out there.
No way.
I’ll just quit and find someplace new to work.
Even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn’t. I’d worked enough crappy jobs to know I had a good thing at Sinners.
Living in Boston was expensive. It didn’t matter I’d been saving for years and my scholarship was hefty. Just the basic cost of living expenses could easily blow through my money.
With my demanding school schedule, I’d been limited to working nights. Like almost all working college students I knew, that meant bartending or serving. I’d made okay money, but nowhere near enough to justify the hours I’d put in.
Something had to give. And at the rate I’d been going, that something would’ve been my health and sanity.
At my breaking point, I’d had to make a choice.
I could drop out of college and give up my dreams.
Quit working, and eventually give up my dreams because I could no longer afford college.
Or food.
Or shelter.
The third option had been to push myself out of my comfort zone, hoping it’d be worth it in the end.
Which was exactly what I’d done.
Sinners was a small strip club located an hour from my apartment. It was on the smaller side, but that wasn’t a con to me. Busier clubs had tried to poach me, but I hadn’t been interested. A bigger audience meant more money, but it also increased the risk of getting caught.
I was happy with the small club. Because the owners ran a tight ship, there was little-to-no drama. The place was clean, security was plentiful, and the money was amazing. Most importantly, it was a business and was operated as such. There were strictly enforced rules about fraternizing, drug use, and appearance.
My second night there, another new girl had come in with bloodshot eyes. I’d just assumed, like me, she was stretched thin and exhausted. Charlie, one of the owners, took one look at her and demanded to see her arm. Within thirty seconds, security had escorted her out.
No one wanted a junkie grinding against their junk.
All things considered, I liked my job. Okay, I liked the money I made.
I’d never, in the entire six months I’d been stripping, regretted my choice.
Not until that night.
Fuck it. I’m no coward.
With my head held high, I went out to work the main room.
But only the side of the main room farthest from him.
Okay, I’m a little bit of a coward.
*******
Damien
What’re the chances?
No, what’re the fucking chances?
Dave, my college roommate, was getting married. Though bachelor parties and strip clubs weren’t my thing, I’d agreed to go for him. I’d thought a night out would do me good.
Never in a million damn years would I have guessed she’d be there.
Not just there, but there dancing under the ridiculous stage name, Mandi.
Eden.
My Eden.
She was named after the garden of pleasure. The holder of untold bounty. The place where sin lurked and temptation dwelled.
She was my promise land.
My secret.
My obsession since she’d walked into my class a couple weeks before.
No, that wasn’t true. That first day I’d wanted to fuck her. It hadn’t been until she’d spoken during the following class that she’d become my obsession. Her lilting voice had been hypnotic, her movements alluring, and her answer brilliant.
It’d been the first and only time I’d called on her to answer a question. Since then, I’d avoided her.
Yet there she was.
Every exquisite inch of her.
In the back corner of the room, the party I was with sat in a half circle of chairs with a small table in front of us. From my seat, I had a clear view of the stage if I looked straight ahead.
I shouldn’t have looked straight ahead.
I told myself not to.
But I did it anyway.
Seeing her up there, it took everything I had not to yank her down and pull her to me, shielding her body from everyone else. I forced myself to look away when all I wanted was to memorize the way she moved.
Her song? The outfit? It was like a personal taunt. If I didn’t kn
ow better, I’d think she knew how I felt. I hadn’t let myself slip, though.
At least not in front of anyone.
With a practice born of necessity, I made myself relax. I stayed casual as I pretended to have a clue what everyone around me was saying.
“Christ, Caine, is that the kind of students you have?” one of Dave’s idiot colleagues asked.
I’d met him at Dave’s yearly BBQ and then his engagement party, but I couldn’t remember his name, not that I’d really tried.
He leaned forward. “Wonder if I should become a teacher. I’m sure I could teach her something.”
My fists clenched so tight, my knuckles turned white.
“Seriously, Caine.” Another guy leaned over to get in on the action. “I’m betting she could use some help from a studious professor.”
“I’m good.” I lifted my glass to my lips and shook my head. “Stripper pussy isn’t my thing.”
Glancing over again, I saw Eden’s long legs were straight and slightly spread as she bent. My eyes shot back to my beer before I could see more. I needed to get the hell out of there, but I couldn’t. And not just because it’d be rude.
I was embarrassingly hard. It didn’t matter I was a thirty-four-year-old man, my dick decided to act like I was looking at my first set of tits.
Scanning the room without seeing anything, I was relieved when it sounded like Eden was done. My reprieve was short-lived when she came out a few minutes later in an outfit similar to the one she’d started in. She stayed on the other side of the room, not even glancing my way.
I watched as she talked to men, flirting and laughing. Her smile was mesmerizing, but the spell was broken when her and an awed, lovesick kid went into a curtained-off room.
I have to get out of here.
“Another beer, sweetie?” one of the dancers asked, pointing at my empty glass.
A glass I was in danger of shattering if I didn’t ease my grip.
“I’m good, thanks,” I said, my tone dismissive.