Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48601 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 243(@200wpm)___ 194(@250wpm)___ 162(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | Bully (Winchester Academy #5) |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Madison Faye |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
This is a story of lust. This is a story of playing with fire. But mostly, it’s just the story of us. …buckle up. Forbidden. Tempting. Magnetic. Illicit. Jamison Scott is many things, including my tormentor, my nemesis, and my sworn enemy. Unfortunately, he’s also the only man I’ve ever wanted. Oh, right, he’s also about to be my new stepbrother. Years ago, it was pulling my hair and putting frogs in my lunch box. But now, the little boy from down the street is all grown up. Big, strong, gorgeous, and undeniably captivating. Now he’s living down the hall, smirking at me across the breakfast table, and invading my every dark, toe-curlingly forbidden thought. I want to hate him, and I should hate him. But instead, I just want him. Horribly so. Achingly so. His illicit touch makes me scream, and his forbidden, filthy words in my ears take my breath away. I shouldn’t crave him like this. I shouldn’t get all tingly whenever he growls my name. He’s the firestorm I never saw coming, and if we’re not careful, we’ll both get burned. I can do without the frogs in my lunch, but thirteen years later? …Well, something tells me I might just like it if Jamison Scott pulled my hair this time. | |
| Books in Series: | Winchester Academy Series by Madison Faye |
| Books by Author: | Madison Faye Books |
1
Ramona
I flick the light switch on in my room, and instantly, I shriek.
Dicks. Dicks as in penises, and they’re everywhere. The gym bag with my stuff from cheer practice drops to my feet as my jaw about hits the floor. My hand is basically stuck to the light switch as I just stand there in the doorway, my eyes scanning the room.
The full-color printouts are seriously all-fucking-over the place—taped to my walls, hanging from strings tied to the goddamn light fixtures. They’re taped to the curtains and posts of my canopy bed, covering my freaking windows, and scattered like x-rated confetti across the floor. There’s even a damn chain of them, like Tibetan prayer flags, strung from one wall to the opposite one—like a perverted Buddhist shrine to male anatomy.
I purse my lips as my face goes hot, my hands closing to fists as my brows knit. There’s only one person who could do this, of course.
Jamison.
That prick. I mutter swears to myself as I whirl, my pulse racing as I march down the hall to one of the back staircases. I’m not new to Jamison Scott’s juvenile bullshit, or his incessant need to tease me, or taunt me, or bully me around in that smug-smiled, infuriating way that he’s done since we were fucking five. What I am new to, is it happening in my fucking house.
A shadow hangs over my face as I storm down the stairs and then down the hallway towards the other staircase that will take me down to the garage, where I’m sure he’s working on his stupid car.
No, I’m not used to him being in my freaking house—living here, being around me always, smirking at me across the breakfast table and being there when I get home from school or practice. Because this is all new.
When we were five, it was a matter of trying to ignore him and going on with my day, at the end of which, I could go home and leave Jamison Scott and his teasing and taunting in the kindergarten room, or later elementary school, or junior high. And then at the very beginning of sophomore year, the Scott brothers and their dad moved seven-hundred-and-fifty-eight miles away to South Carolina, and I was free of Jamison and his incessant antics.
…Or so I thought. Because nine months ago, my mother decided to casually drop that she’d been seeing Bobby Scott long-distance for a number of months. And then six months ago, over dinner, she dropped the little bombshell that he’d be moving into our house.
Why?
Oh, because my mother is going to be marrying the father of my childhood tormentor. Right, and it goes without saying, Bobby Scott moving into our home meant Jamison was going to come too.
Infuriatingly cocky, obnoxiously charming, unfairly hot Jamison Scott.
…My soon-to-be stepbrother.
I scowl, shoving those thoughts away as I thunder down the last staircase and slam open the side door to the five-car garage.
“Jamison!”
I plant my hands on my hips, a scowl on my face as I glance around the room, my eyes narrowing as I look for him.
Where the fuck is—
“Moaner.”
I gasp, and in spite of everything—in spite of the years of teasing, an taunting, and going out of his fucking way to be a royal dick to me every goddamn chance he got, I shiver at the sound of Jamison’s voice in my ear, from behind me.
And therein, as they say, lies the rub. There’s the worst fucking part of all of it. It’s not that Jamison Scott is a prick. It’s not that him moving back to Southworth totally fucks with my senior year. And it’s not even that is father marrying my mom is going to mean we’re stuck together for pretty much forever. It’s that deep down, underneath the scowls I throw his way, and the flippant way I tell him off, or the prim way I ignore him when he’s trying to get under my skin, or the way I tell myself how much I hate him?
…Deep down, I know I don’t hate him at all.
Deep down, part of me—a very sick, very shameful part of me—wants him.
I shiver at the sound of his voice in my ear, even if he’s calling me by that nickname that I hate. I whirl, every intention of telling him off, but when I do, my breath catches, and my words fail me.
He’s shirtless. Goddamnit, why is he shirtless? And yeah, this would be one of the reasons that despite my total disdain for Jamison, that dark, secret part of me aches for him in this fucked up way. Because Jamison Scott is freaking gorgeous.
He was hot when he moved away those years before. He came back downright sinful. He came back as sex on a fucking stick. He left a cute guy, and he came back a stupid-hot man. Muscles for days, and tattoo ink swirling up and down both arms and across his chest. Dark hair, piercing dark eyes, and that infuriatingly cocky grin that does all sorts of things to a girl. I swallow, telling myself on repeat to stop staring at his abs before I finally manage to drag my eyes up to his and force myself to scowl.