Dirty Dark Prey: A Dark College Bully Romance (Elite Royal University Duet Book 2) Read online

  L.J. Woods

  A DARK COLLEGE BULLY ROMANCE

  Copyright © 2021 by L.J. Woods

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover by: Cosmic Letterz

  Contents

  Stalk Me

  Blurb

  Prologue

  1. Lexi

  2. Isaac

  3. Lexi

  4. Isaac

  5. Lexi

  6. Lexi

  7. Isaac

  8. Lexi

  9. Isaac

  10. Lexi

  11. Lexi

  12. Lexi

  13. Isaac

  14. Lexi

  15. Isaac

  16. Lexi

  17. Lexi

  18. Lexi

  19. Isaac

  20. Isaac

  21. Lexi

  22. Lexi

  23. Isaac

  24. Lexi

  25. Lexi

  26. Lexi

  27. Isaac

  28. Lexi

  29. Lexi

  30. Isaac

  31. Lexi

  32. Isaac

  33. Lexi

  What’s Next?

  Dirty Dark Playlist

  Also by L.J Woods

  About The Author

  Stalk Me

  Goodreads

  Reader’s Group

  Facebook

  Instagram

  Blurb

  Forbidden. The enemy. Murderer. The “King” of the campus is more than a bully. He’s a monster. My roommate. And I’m his new obsession.

  Lexi

  Mischievous. Menacing. Murderer.

  Isaac Johnson is the heartthrob hockey player every girl wants to puck.

  And he’s obsessed with me.

  No, not in the way you think.

  I found out his secret and now the self-proclaimed “King” wants to see me burn.

  I should hate it when he touches me, loathe him when he uses me.

  But break me? That’s one thing he won’t do.

  He thinks I’m no match to his designer duds,

  His seductive smirk,

  That velvety voice.

  But he’s the enemy.

  Taking this mother-pucker down is my only choice.

  Isaac

  Pain? I bask in it.

  Pleasure? I invented it.

  Punishment? I dish that out raw and she has it coming to her.

  I won’t stop until Lexi Lyon is on her dirty knobby knees.

  She’ll scream.

  She’ll cry.

  She’ll pay for what she did.

  On her back or her flawless face, she’ll learn never to mess with a “King.”

  This is more than hatred.

  This is more than a forbidden fling.

  This. Is. Revenge.

  Hey, Lexi - you only have one job now, baby.

  Being mine.

  “Nothing is perfect. Life is messy. Relationships are complex. Outcomes are uncertain. People are irrational.”

  — Pietro Aretino

  Prologue

  Isaac

  “You can’t take a dead woman’s thong.”

  Shoving the red lace in my blazer pocket, Perez eyes my hand, blood staining my skin. “Don’t think she’ll miss it in hell.”

  The carnage from our night sits at the tip of our designer shoes as blood pours from her skull to her sparkly heels.

  “Wait, you’re really taking it?” Perez asks, his brows raised like I’m the most fucked up thing he’s seen tonight. “Her blood was all over it, Johnson.”

  My stomach churns but my gaze won't shift. “With how much she loved my Johnson. I can’t risk anyone finding out I’m connected to this shit.”

  “No one will find out,” Damien King walks by, the third to our royal brotherhood. He doesn’t even look at her as he heads towards the Rover like the stone-cold motherfucker he is. Like the body of his aunt isn’t splayed out on his driveway, blood pouring from her corpse like a fucking red carpet. “We need to go. Don't mourn over that French carcass, she had it coming to her.”

  “Dude, chill.” Perez grimaces. “He loved her.”

  Love? That shit doesn’t last. No one gets out of it unscathed. Either you fuck it up, or you die. So, “Love can suck my massive dick.”

  Following King to Perez’s ride, I don’t know how he’ll fix this, but when he promises to do something, he makes it happen. No matter how twisted, immoral or fucked up. And to that, I pound back another bump as our crew speeds through the spotless streets of Eden Gardens.

  Passing massive mansions and flawless hedges in a car worth more than some mortgages, there's no doubt Eden glitters. But we’re far from glamorous. Marion's body on that driveway proves it. What we had was taboo. Demise was our destination. But I never expected it to end in death. And when Perez finally drops me off in front of the door of my modern mansion, I don’t know if the pain will ever go away.

  “Don’t. Say. Anything,” he reminds me. “We’ll get through this. You know we will.” And as reassuring as my best friend is, my hands still shake all the way to my front door.

  Stepping inside, the sleek foyer is as cold as my skin, an old R&B song blaring through the halls. Dad’s chart-topper from the nineties. His baritone voice bounces off the walls in a house built for that. Him. Dragging my loafers along the concrete tile, I’m as messy as my Armani suit when I stand at the entrance to our living room. “Dad?”

  A girl half his age perches on his white linen slacks. Another sits on his left in lingerie, her slender body sprawled across the leather with her hand in his curls. The skunky stench of pot fills the air along with their giggles. They don’t even notice me until I repeat his name, my voice weak. Tired.

  “Dad …” I cough out the nerves. “We need to talk.” Words foreign between us.

  Lionel Johnson looks up through the fog in a red robe, his legs spread like he’s on his throne. “Will it take long?” He brings his pipe to his lips.

  “It’s uh …” The scenes from the night flash through my mind. One minute we’re picking up my best friend’s girlfriend from the dump across the tracks. The next, his aunt, my—whatever, is dead on the pavement. “This, uh, girl … she—”

  “Oh son, grown men don’t talk about that mess.” He puts up a hand as he gestures to the woman on his left. “Why don’t you take Marisol upstairs and tell her about it?” She takes a step towards me before a leather flask hits my chest. A grin spreads across my dad’s face, one far from sober. “The best way to get over someone? Get under someone else.”

  Two Years Later

  “Call me tonight?”

  She flutters her eyes as I lean against the front door with a joint as big as my cock hanging off my lip.

  I don’t remember her name but she did the job to my satisfaction. So what if the orgasm wasn’t mind-blowing, or her banter was shit? There’s no attachment. No strings.

  No bullshit.

  And this way, there’s always a happy ending.

  Pulling my silk robe around me, I’m about to give her one of my charming replies when I hear it …

  The first lines to Etta James’ “At Last” croons from the kitchen. A classic.

  My head turns towards the singing that tickles my ears, a knot twisting in the pit of my gut. Musicians know th
ere’s nothing like hearing that perfect sound and I’m already thinking about getting that voice in my booth.

  But it’s not the song that stops me in my tracks. It’s that tone. That perfect pitch.

  The way the singer holds that note makes goosebumps rise to the surface of my brown skin. Call me insane, but it’s better than the original.

  “Isaac?” Last night’s entertainment beckons for my attention, pulling me out of my trance. The singing stops.

  Moving my eyes to the double-d’s in the doorway, I lean a little closer until she steps back over the threshold. “I’ll see you when I see you, baby.”

  Which is never. I don’t do re-runs.

  My father was right. The best way to get over someone is with some pain relievers and a distraction. And I’ve been distracted ever since.

  Her confused face is the last thing I see as the door swivels closed.

  Then that emptiness takes over me again, my chest tightening as that night flashes in my mind.

  Blood.

  Darkness.

  Her wide-eyed face.

  No matter how many girls I’m with, I’ll never feel that way again. True intimacy? That’s not a thing for me anymore. So frequent pussy will do.

  “Really?” A snort comes from my right. “That’s your final line?”

  When I see who else is in my house, my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and that knot tightens some more.

  This girl looks like caramel dipped in rose gold.

  She flips her shiny blonde hair to one side standing tall in beige Dior slingbacks.

  A smirk spreads across my face, my Johnson ready for another round. Today’s party has only begun.

  By her relaxed stance, it’s clear she doesn’t care about the minimal fabric she’s wearing or that it’s not even noon and she has a martini in her hand. While she stacks those designer labels well, there’s something about her. A twist.

  She’s not from here.

  Not in the way an out-of-touch person asks “where are you really from?” She looks and sounds as American as I am. But the tone of her golden skin and unique features tells me she’s never had her shade of “nude” in a crayon box either.

  “I thought Lionel Johnson’s son would have more game.” The smile on her glossy pout grows as the foyer brightens around me. Her white-lined eyes wander my frame and when her teeth disappear behind that plump pout, I know she’s thinking what they all do.

  She wants a piece of this.

  Luckily for her, there’s another twitch beneath my robe.

  So I undo it and let it all hang free. “Why? You wanna play?”

  CRASH!

  Now I’m the one to smirk as clear liquid and glass spew all over the gray concrete tiles. Those glittering eyes widen—a little green, a little gray like an emerald crashing into a diamond. They land on my hardening cock, and stop there.

  “That’s the usual effect.” I wink.

  Goldie stoops down to pick up a shard of glass. “Explains why I hear you’re a giant dick.” She turns on her heels towards the kitchen, a little smile still on her face. And there’s no way I’m not following the sway of that plump ass.

  “That’s because I have one.” Taking the cloth from her hand, a spark shoots through my arm as I call for our housekeeper. “Anna! Some help, please.”

  “Is that another one of your conquests?”

  “A king needs his servants, baby.” I can already hear Anna sweeping behind me, my hands falling on the concrete counter on either side of Goldie.

  Her perky tits and exposed midriff can only mean one thing as she backs into the green cupboards.

  She’s down to fuck.

  “I don’t need anyone cleaning up my mess. I’m too independent for that. And baby?” She snorts again, not even bothered that I have her trapped. “Does that usually work?”

  “Looks like it.” I give her the same wink I gave … whatever her name was moments ago.

  “And what makes you think it’ll work when I just saw someone in knockoff Fendi run towards an Uber?” She says this with a smile like she’s throwing no shade at all. But they always are.

  So I tell her what they always want to hear. “That’s not what you think it was.”

  “That wasn’t a walk of fame?” She points a powder-pink nail towards the window overlooking the driveway.

  “You mean shame?” I ask, grabbing a fresh martini glass from the cupboard behind her. Our spacious kitchen feels ten times smaller with Goldie here.

  She laughs, reaching for the vodka bottle next to us but my hand lands on it in time to feel that spark again. Keeping my eyes on hers, I pour her a new one and that intense gaze is enough to make me want to bend her over right here. Right now.

  “No, I meant fame.” Her eyes are like heat lamps burning through my skin. “Sex isn't shameful." She takes her new drink, grazing my finger that ignites another tingle through my arm. "So if she bagged Isaac Johnson, it’s definitely a walk of fame. Bet she’s told four of her friends by now.”

  Tapping the vodka bottle against her glass, I take a swig before I ask, “And who will you tell?”

  “Depends on how good it is.” She leans in closer, those velvety lips an inch from mine as the smell of vodka and coconut overtakes me. Bitter and sweet. Something tells me that’s exactly what she is and I want to taste it all.

  “With that voice, if I put you in the booth and give you the Johnson you’ll be hitting those high notes, baby.”

  Those diamond eyes glimmer as she twirls a strand of her golden hair. It’s dyed. It has to be. Mixed kids don’t usually sport natural blonde. So, is she trying to fit in or stand out?

  “A musician,” she says, those eyes dropping to my lips. “That depends. Are you better with your hands or your mouth?”

  She’s as cheeky as I am. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Goldie laughs, another melodious sound that’s easy to get used to. Leaning back against the counter, her eyes fall to my taught abs. “So it’s true what they say. Isaac Johnson is a world-class slut.”

  “Some would prefer to call it free love.” Including my dad who still brags about his participation in Oakstock ‘79.

  “It wasn’t a derogatory statement. The idea of sluthood is an outdated tool used to keep society, mostly women, down.”

  “So, you’re a slut?” My specialty. And that explains her risque attire.

  Her skirt stops mid-thigh and the spaghetti straps holding her outfit together don’t do much for the imagination.

  She smirks. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  “Something tells me I’ll find out.”

  “Maybe …" With her palm against my chest, she pushes me back enough to scoot around my exposed body. It’s only then I realize the chills on my skin and the tingle sitting on my chest. "But for now, I have to sort through my mom’s wardrobe and find out what to donate or alter.”

  “Bet she’s grateful for it, by the looks of it, you’re into fashion.”

  “Honey, I am fashion.” She does a twirl, glass in hand and while her labels tell me she fits into Eden … there’s something off. Something different.

  Something I want.

  “That you are. Dior shoes, Balenciaga skirt, but I can’t quite make out that top.”

  “A Lexi Lyon original.” She strikes a pose, proud of her work. “It even looks good on the floor.”

  “I bet you look good on the floor. Or on this counter.” Lyon. Why have I heard that name before?

  She snorts again. “Romance isn’t your thing, is it? Not surprised because—”

  “Love doesn’t exist?” Her plump lips move with mine before I realize we’ve said the same true words. My eyes narrow. She just smiles.

  “Tell my mom that,” she says. “She’s been looking for it in every bank account over a million.”

  I chuckle. “And my dad’s been looking for it in every woman under thirty.”

  “Lionel Johnson’s a man-whore?” Lexi feigns her shoc
k, slender fingers by her lips. “Who would’ve thought? Wait.” She laughs, taking another sip. “Does your dad pretend to give you the time of day but rather you shut up and do as you're told?” She mimics a yawn, looking at her nails before a tired posh accent escapes her. “Head up, darling, no man likes to see you frown.” That makes me chuckle as she continues to mock who I assume is her mother. “He only touched you because he thinks you’re pretty, it’s a compliment.”

  My stomach tightens as I take a step closer. “Someone touched you?” Something takes over like someone touched me and I get this urge to protect her. One I haven’t felt since—

  “You try one,” she blinks, the golden sparkles above her eyes matching the glow of her skin. “What’s some shit your dad says when he doesn’t wanna deal?”

  I let her change the subject, that smile on her face too pretty to fade. “You mean like …” Tilting my chin to the ceiling, I pretend to hold a pipe. Then I mimic my dad’s baritone voice. “Chin up, Johnson, men don’t show emotion.”

  Goldie plays along, lowering her voice. “You don’t need feelings when you have a johnson as big as mine.” She grabs the bottom of her skirt like she’s grabbing her crotch.

  That makes me almost spit out my swig. “Fuck, it’s like you already know him.”

  “I kinda do …”