Bad Boy Blues (Get Wilde Book 3)

by Amelia Wilde

  It’s hard to tear myself away, though. Do I even want to? There’s a certain allure to being the Harvest Queen. I would get a certain pleasure out of it—having my name on everyone’s lips, the professional photos, being the center of attention. Who wouldn’t want that? I want that.

  And joining the sorority hasn’t been all bad. It’s true that some of the girls are walking, breathing stereotypes like you’ve seen in the movies, but others—especially among my close group of friends—are down to earth and genuine as fuck. I’m so glad for their friendship.

  If I throw caution to the wind for this one night, am I throwing all of that away?

  No. The answer is no, of course.

  I’d only be throwing it all away if I couldn’t break free from Jackson’s orbit when this is over. When this one, final chance is over…

  Will I be able to walk away from him?

  My body is screaming to submit to him. It’s like a weight has settled on my shoulders, and my knees are ready to buckle. But for several eternal moments, I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m too afraid to lose what I have. Even if it means getting him back.

  Holy fuck, no. This can’t be about getting him back. This is about a moment, nothing more—about giving in to a craving I’ve been living with for two long years. This isn’t a commitment. It’s just some sinfully delicious fun, here in the bedroom of a mysterious professor’s mansion. A bedroom that seems to be made for us, complete with the leather padded ottoman in front of the fireplace…

  It’s now or never.

  I make the leap.

  I tear my eyes away from his and toward the floor, where I should be looking.

  Then, with as much grace as I can muster, I fall to my knees on the carpet, my skin making contact with a floor covering so plush I want to tilt forward and bury my face in it.

  “Good girl,” Jackson growls above me, and a shock of sheer pleasure runs down my spine. He’s hardly even touched me, and I’m already miles ahead of where I was this morning, when I woke up sweating beneath the sheets, trying unsuccessfully to get myself off without thinking of him.

  He runs a rough hand through my hair and tilts my head back up so that I have to look at him. “You look fucking perfect down there,” he says, and then releases my hair. I want his hand back in it immediately, but he’s going for his belt, undoing the clasp, and unzipping his pants.

  His cock is hard as a rock and stands straight out from his body.

  “Did you miss this?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Prove it.”

  He threads his fingers back through my hair and I lean forward, letting him control my movements as I take him into my mouth and suck, lick, tease, play. It feels so natural, so comfortable, that it’s like we never spent a moment apart. I remember how he likes it, and I flick my tongue underneath the ridge of his head. Jackson lets out a low groan and his grip on my hair tightens.

  He lets me pleasure him for several long minutes, and I can feel his flesh pulsing in my mouth when he pulls away, his hands again going to his zipper. Only he doesn’t take off his pants. He zips them back up.

  I let out a little mewl of disappointment, but he only laughs. “Did you think you were going to get away with leaving me like that?”

  I straighten my back, my pussy clenching at his words. This—this is what I have needed so badly. To be punished by him.

  “No,” I say, eyes back on the floor.

  “Good. I knew you were smarter than that.”

  He steps away, toward the door, and I hear him flip the lock. The fire crackles behind me.

  “Turn around.”

  I turn to face the fireplace, and the next thing I know, his hands are on the hem of my dress and he’s yanking it up over my head. Something rips, but I can hardly bring myself to care. I’m not wearing a bra underneath, so I’m left kneeling on the floor in white high heels and a pair of lace panties.

  “Crawl.”

  I put my hands on the floor, excitement arcing through me, and crawl. I know exactly where he wants me, but I don’t do a thing without his permission. This is all part of the game—a game I’ve been desperate to play for two long years. Oh, god, how did I stand it?

  I stop in front of the ottoman and wait.

  “Up.”

  I clamber up without hesitation and position myself on hands and knees.

  “Good,” he says softly, running his hand over my naked back. “You remember.”

  “I could never forget you,” I say.

  “Mmm.” His hand travels down to my ass, and then he hooks a finger into the waistband of my panties and pulls—hard.

  Hard enough for them to tear. I yelp a little as the fabric starts to scratch my skin, but then the moment is over.

  Jackson moves behind me, pulling off my high heels one by one. When those are discarded on the floor, he puts both hands on my hips.

  “Damn,” he says softly, and I’m practically glowing with his praise. Then he says: “Are you ready to learn your lesson?”

  I automatically lower my head, my body remembering clearly the way I’m supposed to be, the position I’m supposed to hold. “Yes.” I can’t stop myself from adding: “Please.”

  8

  Jackson

  The fantasy where we have a hot, quick fuck and then I go about my regular life, cleansed of my obsession with Alyssa, shatters into a million pieces when she hops up on the ottoman and sticks her ass in the air. It’s like we never missed a beat, and I relish the tremors I feel under my hands when I run my palms over her skin. Every movement, every trembling shake.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  The words slip from my mouth like a fucking spell, and Alyssa lowers her head another inch toward the surface of the ottoman, sticks out her ass a little further.

  My heart doesn’t pound. In fact, I feel totally in control for the first time in two years.

  “Yes.”

  I run my hands down the length of her back again, and again she quakes on the ottoman, still maintaining her position.

  “Why?”

  She takes in a little breath.

  “Because I did something terrible.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Please, don’t make me say it.”

  This is all part of the script. We didn’t have to discuss it.

  “Say it right now, or I’ll add to your punishment.”

  “I broke up with you.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with ending a failed relationship.”

  “It wasn’t failed.” Her voice is a little softer now, and I can tell we’re right on the edge of play and true, stark reality.

  “No, it wasn’t. What else?”

  “I was bad.”

  “You’ve been extremely bad. I haven’t appreciated the way you’ve been acting.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re about to be sorrier.”

  “I know.”

  She looks down at the surface of the ottoman, her legs trembling as she struggles to keep herself still, and I reach the end of my rope. It’s time for this to begin.

  “You’ll hold your position.”

  Her head goes down so that her face is turned toward me, sideways, and she braces against the ottoman. Now my heart picks up speed. Now my hand tingles with the anticipation of cracking against her smooth, perfect ass.

  I don’t hesitate.

  I don’t wait.

  I pull my arm back and let my palm crash against her, right above the sit spot, right in the center of her ass.

  Alyssa cries out, and in the space of her cry I bring my hand back and let it fly again, this time landing on the other asscheek.

  She doesn’t cry out this time, but she does make a little noise that makes my cock pulse in my pants.

  I bring my hand down over and over again, and she trembles, she shakes, she grips the sides of the ottoman, but she doesn’t break position.

  After all this time, she still loves this.<
br />
  After ten strokes, she’s trying her best to hold still while also pressing her ass back into my hand, begging for more. After fifteen, when tears prick her eyes from the growing heat of her ass, she’s making little sounds with every stroke, but she never, ever moves.

  “You’re my filthy girl,” I say.

  “I’m yours,” she says, the words bursting out of her, and then she sucks in a breath and lets out a sob that almost draws me up short. It’s not a cry of pain—it’s of relief.

  “Ten more,” I say, and I don’t let up, not even for an instant, and by the time the last one lands and her ass is bright red, she’s moaning, her breasts pressed against the ottoman, her hands clutching the edges for dear life.

  “Oh,” she says. “Oh.”

  I reach between her legs—spread at the optimal distance to allow me access for anything I might want to do, including punishment—and stroke one finger down her folds. She’s sopping wet, so wet that the dampness is starting to spread down the insides of her thighs.

  “You love it, don’t you?”

  “I love it,” she sobs, and then I draw my finger through her wetness again. The sobs come to a halt, replaced by more consistent moans from deep in her throat, and I stroke her again and again until she’s pressing back against my finger, her body begging me to be inside of her.

  “Have you learned your lesson?”

  “Yes.”

  I run one of my palms over the smarting skin of her ass, and she blows a breath out past her lips. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  I move my hand down to her meticulously tended pussy and, without another moment wasted, plunge two fingers into her opening. She feels exactly the same, and her hips move spasmodically side to side, her walls clenching around my fingers.

  “Yes. Please.”

  “Please?”

  “Please, more. Please.” Her face his pink, her words unsteady, and I get the sense that she’s losing herself in this just as much as I am.

  Which is fucking perfect.

  I go to the opposite end of the ottoman, which means I have to pull my fingers from her pussy—and that does make her cry out with disappointment. But she gasps with pleasure when I put my hand under her chin and pull her upright to her knees on the ottoman, putting her level with my face.

  And then I kiss her.

  I kiss her hard and deep, like I haven’t kissed anyone in five years, and she melts into me, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me back with all the passion that I’ve been missing, all the passion that I’ve never found in any woman since, that I’ve never wanted to find in any woman since.

  She’s so dirty.

  She’s so mine.

  She always has been.

  I scoop her up in my arms, my mouth still covering hers, and walk her across the room toward the bed. Gently, so fucking gently, I put her on her back on the expensive comforter, and she stretches out, spreading herself open in front of me. Her hair is mussed from play, and her lipstick is a little smeared. I reach down and fix it with the pad of my thumb.

  And then I get to work on my own clothes.

  The best is yet to come.

  9

  Alyssa

  I feel so alive, so sparkling with need and pleasure, that it’s almost impossible to contain it in this one body of mine. When Jackson puts me on the bed, the cool fabric of the comforter—god, is that real silk or something?—slides over the hot red skin of my ass. It’s like I’ve died and discovered that heaven is a real place, and I’m in it.

  I keep my eyes on Jackson as he strips off his clothes, first the suspenders and pants, then the button-down shirt, then the white t-shirt underneath. Last he peels off his socks and kicks off his shoes and stands at the foot of the bed, a sexy, smoldering half-smile on his face, drinking me in like I’m drinking him in.

  His tattoos curl around his shoulder down to his wrist, concentrated mainly on one arm, and my eyes follow the familiar designs. There are a few new pieces, but it’s hard to sort them out because the rest of his body is so damn hot.

  He’s grown into his height since freshman year, when we were both eighteen, and clearly put some work into his body, because his muscles are tight and hard, his abs standing out like a literal fucking washboard. He had a nice body before, but now it’s drool worthy.

  “How do you not have a girlfriend?”

  He rolls his eyes and climbs up on the bed, holding himself above me with his arms, his biceps working to steady his weight. He opens his mouth like he’s going to answer me, but instead he leans down and kisses me slowly, like he’s exploring me for the first time. Only there’s a knowing edge to his touch that makes me want to melt into him entirely.

  The kiss deepens and I meet him in the center of it while a slow fire burns in my belly, heating and heating like the red skin of my ass. It’s can’t be more than five minutes before I can’t maintain the slow pace, before I start kissing him harder, nipping his lip with my teeth.

  Jackson breaks away from me with a gasp, pulling back while he runs his hand down the tattoos that decorate my hips.

  He catches his breath.

  “You haven’t added any.”

  “Not without you.”

  The truth comes out unvarnished, before I can think of something coy and flirty to say, before I can stop myself from admitting—in a way—that there’s been a void in my life where he belongs all this time.

  Shit.

  No.

  I can’t say that, I can’t admit it—I can’t go any further with these dangerous words than I already have. Tonight is the only night I can allow myself to get sucked back into him. When the morning comes, I have to be my perfect sorority self again, the kind of girl who happily dates the Harvest King, whose hair is impeccable, who doesn’t bend over on an ottoman in a professor’s mansion and practically beg to be spanked until her ass is a fiery red.

  It’s one thought, and then I put my arms around his neck and pull him back down to me, kissing him with all the fury and passion I’ve been storing up for the past two years. All the frat boys in the world—and that’s what they seem like now, boys—couldn’t hold a candle to him. All the sloppy, drunken sex after formals in the world couldn’t satisfy me like he has, without even fucking me.

  And that’s what I want.

  That’s where I need this to go, and he feels it too.

  He must, because his cock is a hard length between us, and my entire body is opening for him, begging him without words to be inside me.

  I spread my legs wide and wrap my knees around his hips, and at that same moment he lines himself up with my slick opening and plunges inside all at once.

  I make a sound between a cry and a groan at the sheer perfection of it, the way that he’s in to the hilt, on the verge of bottoming out but his size is so ideal that it’s hard not to weep with the sheer pleasure of it—the slightest give, the slightest stretch—

  I meet him with every thrust, and we’re so fucking compatible I almost lose it immediately, clenching my teeth and locking my legs around him. We never miss a beat. It’s like we’ve never missed a beat all this time, and I can feel myself falling into him, falling for him…

  But it’s too intense, and my heart hammers against my rib cage. Shut it down, I tell myself, and for once my mind obeys, the stream of incoherent warnings going to silence in my mind as Jackson rocks against me, picking up speed and strength as he goes.

  I can’t keep it in. I can’t. It feels so good, so fucking powerful, and I can’t contain it in my body any longer, not for another second…

  Arching up to meet him, I come hard, my legs squeezing tighter in a frenzied rhythm. Jackson buries his face into the side of my neck and holds on tight, pressing me hard against the comforter, just the way I like it, pressure to keep me grounded while the rest of my body takes a fucking crazy flight up and over the edge of an orgasm so powerful I wonder if I’ll ever experience another one like it again.

  Now i
t’s his turn to tremble and shake, and I know instantly what he’s doing. He’s trying to hold back, because if he lets himself go now, this dream might come crashing to the ground like an airplane with no engines, and neither of us want that.

  “Come on,” I say against his ear, my voice low and hoarse, my tone half loving and half unforgiving. “We’re not done yet.”

  10

  Jackson

  Alyssa’s words in my ear break through a haze of such intense wanting that I don’t understand them at first. When they do register, it hits me like a Mack truck. She’s fucking right. We’re not done yet.

  We’re never going to be done. That’s the absolute fucking truth.

  But I can’t focus on that now, not when I’m buried balls deep in the most gorgeous woman on the planet, my muscles tense and trembling with the effort of not coming inside her right this instant.

  If I do that, this is all over. If I do that, we both roll apart, onto the expensive-as-fuck comforter, and…what? Fall asleep? Cuddle? Talk?

  No. We don’t do any of that. We keep doing this. Two years, and I’m not going to settle for a ten-minute fuck.

  I steel myself, then pull out of her. Alyssa locks her ankles behind my back, trying to make me stay, and when the head of my cock slips outside of her clenching slit, she whimpers a little. I put one hand under her jaw and tilt her head back, my eyes locking on her vivid greens. “You’re damn right,” I growl, and she sucks in a little gasp of air, her face caught somewhere between a smile and white-hot heat. “We’re not done yet.”

  Releasing her, I move backward, giving myself the space to flip her over onto her face, on hands and knees.

  “Yes,” she hisses. “Yes.”

  She scrambles to get a holt on the satiny fabric of the comforter while I clamber back up behind her. Just as she presses her ass out toward me, the most beautiful invitation for anything I’ve ever seen, I put both my hands on her hips and line myself up with her opening.