His Little Bad Girl Read Online Madison Faye

Categories Genre: Alpha Male Tags Authors: Madison Faye Advertisement

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I shake my head and drop the thick file on the desk. Yeah, this will need dealing with. Immediately.

Something catches my eye, and I frown as I turn to glance out the large windows behind my desk. There are three of them — two boys and a girl, all summer semester students. The bell’s already rung, but there they go, off behind the gymnasium, glancing around nervously.

My jaw tightens.

My blood roars.

Because right there in the mix, is my problem student.

So cavalierly bad news, leading these other two off to do God knows what behind the gym. Showing a total disregard for the rules, and moreover, my authority. Because this damn student thinks that just because they’re eighteen, and “technically” graduated, and probably from money and privilege, that they don’t need to obey my rules.

I stand, my muscles tensing, the blood running hot in my veins.

Yeah, there goes my problem student alright — flagrantly waltzing past my damn office, knowing I can see them skipping. Blatantly breaking the rules, with a goddamn smirk on their face when they do it.

…And showing a bit too much fucking thigh under that uniform skirt, I’ll say that.

That. Little. Fucking. Tease.

Oh sorry, you thought I was talking about one of the guys, didn’t you? Nope. Wrong. Neither of those two are my problem student. You see, my problem student is a she. My problem student is five foot three, one-hundred-and-five pounds of pure, tantalizing, teasing, inappropriate, irresistible, trouble. Capital fucking T.

My problem presented herself on my first day of school, two buttons undone up top, three inches rolled up below, in my office for telling Ms. Bernard, her French professor, to go fuck herself.

In French, at least.

But there she was, sitting in my damn office waiting for me looking every inch the Nabokov tease. Knee-high socks, blonde hair up in pigtails, and her soft, pink, pouty lips wrapped around a damn pen. Those big green eyes had drawn up from my shoes, up my legs, up my abdomen, over my chest and up to my “tough” face — the one I used to give grunts in the desert who were hungry, tired, and out of line.

And she’d grinned. Those teasing, too perfect, too pouty, too tantalizing, and just this side of wrong lips had pulled back in a sultry little smirk.

…And I’ve been fucking hooked ever since.

Consumed. Obsessed. Addicted. One damn look and she managed to bring out every fucking alpha caveman desire to the surface. She brought out the raw masculine need in me — to claim her, to corrupt her, to make her mine. She brought out the depraved pervert in me — the part of me that wants to wrap those pigtails in my fists and use them to pull those soft little lips down over my throbbing cock. The part of me that wants to spread those long, lithe legs, grab that pert little ass, and drive every inch of my dick into her tight, sweet little pussy until I’m sure she’s ruined for any other man.

Forget spending my summer scoping out the single women of this town. Hell, forget getting a damn minute of work done or even being able to fucking sleep at night. My waking thoughts are filled with her doing all sorts of dirty things to me, and in my dreams, I’m doing every single one of them back to her.

Her name is Tempest Kensington.

She’s eighteen years old.

She’s my student.

And I want to know what sounds she makes when she comes. I want to know how tight she’d feel as I emptied every drop of my sticky cum deep inside her fertile young womb.

She’s off to Harvard this fall, but until then, over the summer, she and her track record are my problem. My very big, very tempting, very off-limits problem.

I don’t realize I’m gripping my hand in a fist until I feel the pencil in my fingers snap in two places. I blink out of my filthy daydreams, dropping the pencil into the trash by my desk and turning to watch her walk off behind the gym with those two shit-heads.

I feel my blood burn to a boil.

I could be reading the situation wrong, but I don’t care. And I’m probably not. Teenage guys are pieces of shit, and pieces of shit smell trouble like Tempest Kensington a mile away. A million scenarios run through my head, all of them involving those assholes putting their hands on her — on what's mine.

Because she is mine. She just doesn’t know it yet. She will bend to my authority. And I will taste that sweet fucking candy pussy of hers.

Barely legal. Entirely inappropriate. My temptation, my addiction, my need. My ruin, in a plaid skirt and knee-high socks.

I whirl on my heel, slamming her file shut on my desk and storming for the door. Time to start this summer semester off right.

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