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Broken (Winchester Academy #3)
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Note to self: don’t sleep with the gorgeous, tattooed, motorcycle-driving hottie after a friend’s train wreck of a bachelorette party.
Especially not when he looks at you like he wants to devour you.
Especially not when he’s a little younger looking than you.
Especially not when it turns out he’s your newest student.
Ethan Scott is the kind of man your mother warns you about. Reckless, cocky af, damaged, beautiful, of course, and completely irresistible. And if that weren’t a long enough laundry list of reasons to stay away?
…He’s also eight years my junior, and my student at the private high school where I teach art.
Winchester Academy’s newest bad boy student—my student—is utterly off limits. The problem is, he’s also gorgeous, tempting, addicting, and has me wrapped around his freaking finger.
The other problem is, I already slept with him.
He’s the firecracker waiting to blow, the spark that sets off the fire. He’s broken, and this whole thing could break us both. But something about him makes me go crazy. Something about him makes me say yes instead of no.
Something about him has me aching for more, no matter the consequences.
…This might be a problem.
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Rain hammers down across the roof and hood of the car like bullets, the thunder booming like cannons. Water pours in torrents down the outside windows, mimicking the sweat running in rivulets down both of our naked bodies.
The neon from the gas-station sign and the lightening flashes turns her skin orange and then white as she writhes on top of me. And when the thunder shatters the sky again, I can feel the slick, tight walls of her pussy clamping down on my length, squeezing me as her pulse jumps and her moan catches in her throat.
Breaths pant, hands clench, lips bruise together, the windows fog up until they’re opaque with our lust.
With our sin.
My hands grip her ass tightly, bringing her up and down, up and down, plunging my cock into her over and over. Her teeth nip at my lip and her nails rake over my skin. My muscles bunch, abs clench, and my cock pulses as I grunt and rut into her, claiming her as my own.
This is wrong, what we’re doing. So very wrong. Neither of us are under any illusions, either. We both know that if people found out about this, there’d be gasps and clutched pearls. There’d be scandal and ruin.
And yet, we can’t stop. Us stopping this thing between us would be like trying to boil the ocean, or wall off the sun. Stopping this would be as improbable as stopping the world from turning. In fact, you might have a better shot at that than at taking me away from her.
“Ethan,” she gasps, clinging to me, her breath catching and her body tensing as I plunge deep inside of her.
Fuck, she feels like heaven. So fucking good, and so fucking wrong. Maybe it’s so good because it’s so wrong. Or maybe she and I were destined to be like this. Maybe every step in both of our lives have led to this one, forbidden, illicit moment, where we both push morals and decency, and social norms and her professional ethics aside and just give the fuck in to our base, animalistic desires.
Maybe I don’t give a shit what the reason is, or how wrong this is. Because she’s everything to me, and no ethics, or morals, or society or any of that shit is going to tell me otherwise.
Thunder booms, her fingers claw at my inked skin, and I growl as I feel her walls clench down on me even tighter. Lighting flashes, and when our eyes lock in the heady, neon light through the fogged-up windshield of her beat up old Jeep Grande Wagoneer, it’s like we’re in the middle of the storm itself.
We grind into each other as the winds howl and thunder splits the sky, rain pelting down and her sweet, tight, perfect little pussy bouncing up and down my cock until suddenly, I can feel her start to fall.
And in that moment, like any moment with her, none of it matters. It doesn’t matter that they’d say this is wrong. It doesn’t matter that the media would shred us to pieces.
…It doesn’t matter that I’m eighteen years old, or that the woman riding my cock and about to come so hard for me is my twelfth grade art teacher.
All that matters is that she’s mine.
Lightning sears across our retinas, thunder shakes the very car around us, and the rain slams against the roof like fucking hail. She cries out, her nails digging into my skin, her lips crushing to mine. And when I feel her tighten and clench around my length, I pull her down and plunge myself as deep into her as I can as she shatters above me.
She’s my teacher. I’m her student. Separate, we’re damaged. Together?
Well, I want to say together we’re perfect. But the truth is that it might be more that together, we’re a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.
She’s the fuse, I’m the match. And this town has no fucking idea of the powder-keg it’s sitting on.
Our lips bruise together, her body writhes against me, and the storm rage around us.
“You want a what?”
The bartender at the Crest and Anchor gives me an odd look as he shouts the question over the screaming crowd filling the place.
He frowns, shaking his head.
“That’s got whiskey it in, you know.”
Hell yes it does.
“Yeah, I know.”
His brow furrows and he shakes his head as he turns to make it. I could, and probably should be a little peeved at the benign sexism of his being so shocked that a girl might want a whiskey drink. But, whatever. Pick your battles, I guess. He’s older, and the bar is used to snobby golfer or yachting types and their trophy wives who drink vodka or bubbles. And honestly, I don’t give a shit as long as I can pour some more booze down my throat as soon as possible.