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  Schooled by a Senior

  Copyright © 2016 K. Webster

  Cover Design: All By Design

  Photo: Dollar Photo Club

  Editor: Premier Romance Editing

  Formatting: Champagne Formats

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Note from the Author

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Books by K Webster

  Acknowledgements

  About Author K Webster

  For my dirty talkin’ man…thanks for the inspiration.

  “She had not known the weight until she felt the freedom.”

  —Nathaniel Hawthorne, The Scarlet Letter

  Note to my studious readers,

  This story was created originally for an anthology therefore it had to meet certain size requirements. It is all kinds of smokin’ instalove that’ll have you fanning yourself until the very end.

  Please take a seat and open your book…

  Class is now in session.

  Your naughty teacher,

  Mrs. K. Webster

  Monday

  I’m a bastard.

  This whole goddamned town reminds me daily with their upturned noses and silent sneers. Fatherless. A poor kid in a rich man’s world. Out of place.

  It used to bother me. For the first fourteen years of my life, it truly fucking did. There was a time I’d let those other kids tease me or pick on me. They’d throw punches at the kid whose mother didn’t work at all but instead lived off the money of her baby daddy—a daddy I had no clue about. I didn’t even know what his name was.

  By the time I turned fifteen, I’d had enough.

  Brock Henderson teased me one too many times about my mom being a whore, and I lost it. Sent my fist right through his nose and leveled his ass in the school gym. When he’d gotten back up with blood spurting from his now crooked nose, he narrowed his eyes at me and told me, You’ve got balls, kid. And from that moment on, he and I were friends. I no longer took shit from anyone else, and with a kid like Brock as a friend, life became tremendously easy.

  I’d like to say that at eighteen, life is perfect. That I’m happy and eager to be going off to Dartmouth along with my buddy Brock. That my future is bright and that one day I’ll meet the right girl and be a father to my own children…and they’ll know my fucking name.

  But I’m not happy.

  Life isn’t perfect.

  I’m furious and always raging on the inside. The need to know who my father is consumes me. Not so I can become his friend or forge a relationship with the loser. No, I want to punish him. I want to find the rich shithead and ruin his life. Show him you can’t ignore the sperm-come-to-life you shot into some random woman.

  That sperm will come back to fucking haunt you.

  “Aut. Aut. Aut. Author.”

  At hearing my full name, my entire body thrums to life with fury. My dumbass mother wanted to name me Arthur but apparently the woman was better at getting knocked up by deadbeats than spelling. Another thorn in my side. Having to explain to everyone my name is pronounced Arthur but spelled like Author. Most people call me Aut—pronounced Ott—unless they don’t know me. Fuck, sometimes I want to legally change my name.

  “What?” I snarl and jerk around to glare at Brock.

  He laughs and quirks up a dark eyebrow. “What’s got your panties in a wad this morning? You on the rag? Should I have brought some Ben and Jerry’s as a peace offering, bitch?”

  I roll my eyes and flip his trig book shut, knowing it will annoy him. “Fuck off and don’t say that shit, or I’ll break your nose again.”

  Irritation mars his features as he dutifully opens his book back to the page we’re supposed to be working on. Brock is like me. We’re studious as hell but we’ll also beat anyone’s ass who looks at us the wrong way. Nobody messes with either of us. In fact, everyone wants to be us. The chicks certainly want to be with us or on us…

  “Can you break it straight this time? Every time I look in the mirror, I think of you,” he grumbles.

  I smirk. “Do you whack off when you’re thinking of me?”

  Before he can answer, our first period trigonometry teacher, Mr. Ludkin, comes waddling in. Ludkin is old as fuck—probably in his early seventies and eccentric as hell. He drinks his coffee black and his hair is white. We’ve learned more about his garden gnomes than we have about actual useful information that will help us in college. His tests come straight from the book, so Brock and I call this our fuck-off class because we can literally text each other the entire time and not miss a damn thing.

  The day goes by quickly. Second period AP Physics. Third period Mandarin III. Fourth period is another fuck-off class—gym. Lunch off campus is next. Fifth is AP US Government and Politics. And finally, sixth period, my favorite, AP English.

  Mrs. Lovell is in her late sixties and snappy. She knows everything—believe me, I’ve tested her—and isn’t afraid to put anyone in their place. After a few weeks of badgering her at the beginning of the school year, we sort of came to an agreement. She’s smart as fuck, and I’m almost there. I soon became her trusted grading assistant and official carrier of shit to her car after school each day.

  I stare out the window from my desk as I wonder how she gets all her crap into the school in the first place. Personally, I think she just likes making me work. But that’s not true, either. Over my entire senior year, I’ve watched her health decline. She was once vibrant and actually pretty funny. Now, her skin is sickly grey, her hair is patchy and thin, and her smiles are fewer and further between with each passing day. The old bat refuses to talk about what’s wrong, but I’ve deduced it’s cancer or some other deadly disease. She isn’t simply aging. My grandma aged and did it quite gracefully—over many, many years. Mrs. Lovell is sick. One simply doesn’t get old in a matter of months. Only an illness could take someone like her downhill so fast. Last Friday, she could barely stand without effort and put on a movie instead of lecturing.

  “Hi, Aut,” a sweet voice purrs from behind me.

  I look over my shoulder to see Dahna blinking innocently at me. She and I have fucked a few times, but despite her rockin’ body with tits as big as melons, she’s kind of boring in the sack. Just lies there with her fingers tangled in my hair trying to make eye contact. I don’t fucking do eye contact. The problem was solved when I started fucking her over tables and shit. Whatever I could find. Hard to make eye contact when your face is smashed into your father’s expensive living room furniture.

  “Hey,” I tell her and turn my head to look out into the parking lot. Usually I can see Mrs. Lovell’s old, grey Honda from here. Today, the spot remains empty. An uneasiness settles in the pit of my stomach.

  “Daddy’s going out of town for business not this Friday but the
next and taking Mom with. My little brother is staying with a friend. I’ll have the house to myself. I thought maybe you and I could…” She drones on but my attention is no longer on her. My attention is instead on the sleek, black Audi TT coupe that whips into Mrs. Lovell’s assigned spot. The old woman doesn’t splurge on new slacks despite how worn they are, refuses to buy Starbucks here at the school because it’s too expensive and therefore brings her own coffee, and has driven the same car since she drove it off the lot back in ‘95. There’s no way that’s her car.

  “So, what do you say, Autty? You, me, some wine coolers, and your cock in my mouth?”

  Dahna’s words jolt me and my cock to attention. She may be a terrible lay, but I quite like fucking her face from time to time. “Yeah, sure. No wine coolers, though. Buy some real shit, babe.”

  She lets out a breathy gasp and agrees too quickly—too fucking desperately for one of the hottest chicks in our school. “Yes! Of course. Whatever you want.”

  “And don’t call me Autty,” I order lowly, a slight growl to my voice before looking back out the window.

  The car door flings open, the late March wind catching the damn thing, and slams into Mr. Dickerson’s minivan. I let out a snort. I’m amused until a long, creamy, slender leg in a black stiletto sticks out of the car. Another leg joins it, equally as sexy as the first. Smooth and shiny. Hot as fuck. My cock twitches in my pants, and I discretely adjust myself so Dumb Dahna doesn’t notice and think it’s because of her. The woman eventually climbs out of the car, so I can take a decent look at her.

  Tall. She has to be at least five foot nine or ten.

  A flowy black skirt that would hit most women at the knee, but for this one, given her height, just reaches her mid-thigh. She’s matched it with a white cardigan that demurely hides her full B, maybe C-cup sized breasts. And her shoulder-length light brown hair blows wildly in the wind.

  She appears frustrated and frazzled. I know this by the irritated way in which she swipes her hair out of her mouth and bends over to inspect the damage of Mr. Dickerson’s piece-of-shit minivan. I’m staring at her nice ass when the wind picks up again and blows that little skirt of hers straight up in the air. The glimpse at her simple white panties makes me hard as fuck. I straighten in my chair and lick at my lips. I’m hungry for this woman who is now desperately trying to straighten her clothes while she frantically looks around to make sure nobody saw.

  Tearing my gaze from her, I glance at my peers. Everyone is engaged in chatter, talking about college plans and summer vacations that we’ll all no doubt be partaking in once school ends in six weeks. Even Dahna is babbling to her friend Karly about manicures or some shit. Nobody saw the long legs and her white panties.

  No, that was all for me.

  Smirking, I return my gaze to the window but am disappointed to see she’s no longer there. I resolve to stalk the whole school until I find her as soon as this last class of the day is over. I want to talk to her. To fucking look at her some more.

  I’m still lost in thought when a clack of high heels drags my gaze to the door of the classroom. Long Legs is striding into the classroom, a bright green bag with a turtle emblem on her shoulder. Her cheeks are blazing red and her hair is messy. She glances quickly over the other students, no doubt gauging whether or not anyone saw her wind mishap outside. Since nobody seems to be paying her any attention, she seems relieved and her shoulders relax.

  Until me.

  The moment her golden light brown eyes the color of honey meet mine, they widen. She glances from me to the window where her car is visible. I flicker my gaze to her car, as well. When our eyes meet again, she bites on her lip. I know she made the connection.

  I fucking saw her panties and I’m still hard over that fact.

  Surprise flashes over her features. Maybe even fear. Whatever it is, she tenses back up and tears her eyes from mine, opting for the floor instead.

  She’s intimidated and afraid.

  It’s written all over her. Hunched shoulders. Shaking hands. Quivering body. Wobbling lip. If she could, she’d tuck her head in her turtle bag and hide.

  I’m not going to hurt you, little turtle. I just want to taste you.

  She takes a deep breath and straightens up. Her eyes refuse to meet mine again as she drops her things on the desk and takes purposeful steps over to the board. I can see her panty line through her skirt. It makes me want to lift it just so I can see those plain white panties again—panties no girl in this school would be caught dead wearing. But this woman is no girl. She’s older and hot as fuck. Her simple panties only make her more alluring.

  Her throat clears as she writes her name on the board.

  Mrs. Macmillan.

  Married.

  That should bother me, but it doesn’t. Nothing deters me when I want something.

  “Hello, everyone,” she says, her voice a bit of a squeak before she strengthens it. “I’m Mrs. Macmillan. I’ll be your substitute teacher for the rest of the year.”

  My thoughts are back on Mrs. Lovell. Worry seeps through me.

  She continues on. “Your regular teacher is ill. She assures us that she’ll be okay but will need more rest. You’re more than welcome to email her with your well-wishes.”

  “How old are you?” Jack Turner questions from the desk directly in front of her.

  Her neck heats and blazes crimson. “I’m twenty-ei—” She cuts off and swallows. “Actually, it doesn’t matter how old I am. I’m your teacher and you’re my student.”

  He turns and flashes his friend a grin. A smile that says, I’m going to hit that. No, fucker, you won’t be hitting that. That is mine.

  “Anyway,” she rushes out and yanks a notebook from her turtle bag, “we’re going to pick up where you left off last week. Looks like you’d been assigned to read Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. Why don’t we discuss the story?”

  Why don’t we discuss the story?

  This woman has no idea what the fuck she’s talking about. You can’t just ask the class to discuss an entire book. Those shitheads will just use it to talk about anything and everything. Sure enough, the class becomes a dull roar as everyone speaks at once. Her light brown eyes become slightly glassy and a frown plays at her lips. Those expressive eyebrows of hers furl together in frustration. I’m not sure if she’s ever taught a class before, but she certainly doesn’t belong in front of a class of AP English students who are mere weeks away from attending college.

  Her weak attempts to silence the class fall on deaf ears. After several moments, she gives up. Simply throws in the towel four minutes into her first day and sits in Mrs. Lovell’s chair. Her chin tucks down against her chest, and she reminds me of a fucking turtle retreating into her shell—hell, she even has a damn turtle bag.

  After another minute of the irritating roar of my class, I stand abruptly. The class, used to my being the teacher’s assistant and taking roll, turns their attention toward me. The sicker Mrs. Lovell would get, the more she’d rely on me to grade papers and to calm the class when she didn’t have the energy to do so. They’re used to my commanding presence.

  “Who feels more guilt? Dimmesdale or Hester?” I question, my voice loud and nearly a bark, demanding all eyes and ears on me.

  The class silences and a few thumb through their notebooks. Mrs. Macmillan still refuses to lift her gaze as I stride over to the board.

  “Hester was the whore,” Stan Wickerson suggests. “Right?”

  Rolling my eyes, I ignore his comment. “Dahna? Who feels more guilt?”

  Her bright blue eyes widen at being called on, and I can see the frantic look in them. She doesn’t want to disappoint me because she wants my cock in every one of her holes. I bore my gaze into hers—Miss I Love Eye Contact—and am disappointed when she looks down at her desk. “I don’t know. I didn’t really pay much attention.”

  Finally, Jack answers. “Hester learned to come to terms with what she’d done. So I’m going to say Dim
mesdale. He’s the one who violated his own values he preached against.”

  “Exactly,” I tell him with a nod. “Therefore, Hester forgives herself for the crime. It’s Dimmesdale who cannot.”

  Several students take notes. As Mrs. Macmillan remains silent at her desk, I continue the lecture and then assign them to read the next two chapters. And the moment the last student leaves, the classroom, I fucking pounce.

  “You’re lucky Principal Harden didn’t witness your stage fright stint back there. You’d be fired on the spot. You do realize parents pay over twelve thousand a semester for their children to learn from the brightest teachers here. Substitute or not, you did a crap job,” I tell her bluntly.

  She flinches at my words but finally lifts her gaze to me. Her lashes flutter as her honey eyes widen in shock. Now that I’m closer, I can see a smattering of freckles over her cute nose and cheeks. “What’s your name?” she questions in a whisper.

  I sit down on the edge of the desk, my knee brushing up against the arm of the chair she sits in, and frown down at her. “Author Banks. Call me Aut.”

  Her brows scrunch together in confusion. “Who’s your father, Author?”

  The sudden mention of my father has anger boiling inside of me and me ignoring the fact that she called me by my full first name only my mother gets away with saying. “I don’t know him. What the hell does that matter?”

  She drops her head again. This whole cowering-when-spoken-to-firmly is starting to really piss me off. Reaching toward her, I start to grip her chin but think better of it. Instead, I give her a little wave until our eyes meet again. “Stop doing that. Look at me, lady.”

  She swallows, and her lip wobbles as if she might cry. With a sigh, I soften. “Just look at me. I’m trying to help you. If you appear intimidated, the class will eat you for lunch. You’re scared of your own shadow. Mrs. Macmillan, you need to chill the hell out.”

  “I think I’m in over my head,” she admits, her light eyes flickering up to mine.