Barely: A night with my principal

Colton

She looks like heaven and moves like sin. Soft, sultry music pulses like a lover's touch over the club's sound system, and under the sensual blue and pink lights, and through a fog of fake smoke, her hips sway as her hands slide up to grip the pole tightly.

And there's something about her that has all of my attention.

Yes, you could assume it's that she's wearing next to nothing-just this sky-blue, lacy, basically see-through bra and thong panties that hug every single part of her perfectly sculpted body like they were painted on. You could say it's that she's grinding her hips and sliding her hands over her body in a way that's designed to get a guy like me hard.

But it's... it's hard to explain, but it's more than that.

For one, she's no pro, that's pretty easy to see. In fact, I'd almost say she looks nervous, even though there's not really a ton of people in here tonight, and even though she's wearing a black masquerade mask that totally obscures who she is. Her moves aren't practiced, either. It's like she just got done watching a how-to video of "dancing sexy," and this is her first time trying to remember how to do it.

Secondly, strip clubs are not my scene. Not by a fucking mile. Maybe it's that I just see through the bullshit that they are? There are guys who walk into a strip club and swallow that fantasy pill whole. The girl is "totally into them," and she "totally just gave them her real name. No, really, bro."

You know the type. But me? Nah, I'm not that type. I see through the illusion. Or maybe it's just that a woman hasn't turned my head-stripper or otherwise-in years.

Several, several years.

But in any case, with both of the reasons there, here I am just fucking staring at her. Mesmerized, hooked. Like the animal inside of me that I've kept chained up finally has the scent of prey hitting its nostrils for the first time in far too long. And now it's fucking starving.

There's the taste of overpriced mid-level whiskey on my tongue, the faint scent of cigar smoke wafting through the air. And around me, Dan and the rest of my "buddies" are cavorting around, knocking back shots, cat-calling girls, and generally doing exactly what you'd expect of a bachelor party of thirty-to-forty-year-old guys to be doing in a strip club.

But not me. I just watch, my pulse thumping in my neck and my muscles clenching and unclenching as my eyes follow her every move.

"Bro!"

I'm startled from my thoughts by two sweaty palms slapping my shoulders from behind. And that's saying something, because I never startle. I glance over my shoulder at the man of the hour, Dan, my old college roommate from what feels like a lifetime ago. A life before war. Before I met death and chaos. A life before the Special Forces.

My old life.

"Hey, man," I force a smile. "Having a good time?"

"I'm having a fucking awesome time, man!"

Hey, it's not my jam, but to each his own, I suppose.

"Great, buddy. Listen, thanks for the invite. I know it's been a wh-"

"Bro, have you checked out the tits on that Asian chick over there?"

I've changed a lot in twenty years. Dan has not.

"Must have missed that," I growl, rolling my eyes as I look away and take another sip of the twenty-dollar pour of Maker's Mark in my glass.

Dan chuckles. "Guess you were distracted."

"Hmm?"

He grins and nods at the stage I've been staring at, and there she is, still dancing. Still utterly captivating me.

"Dude, she is so fuckable."

My jaw clenches tight. Very, very tight. About as tight as my fist on the glass of whiskey, which feels like it might shatter any second. I understand the place I'm in. And I understand what her job is. But the idea of anyone-of any man at all-looking at her like that, or thinking of her like that, has my blood boiling.

"Take it easy," I growl, instead of smashing my glass over his head or throwing him across the room.

Dan just laughs. "Hey, it's cool man, it's cool. You saw her first, huh?"

He grins, and in the spirit of where I am, and allowing that Dan is wasted, and further allowing that in all likelihood, the wedding next month will be the last time I ever see Dan, I force a smile back.

"Sure."

He smiles. "Well, shit man, go get a dance."

"I'm not really into-"

"Nope! Not taking no for an answer, bro! It's my bachelor party, and if you want her, she's yours, man."

The growl rumbles in my throat, but he can't hear it over the music. The music suddenly switches songs, and when I glance back at the stage, she's walking off of it.

Fuck.

My eyes scan the room, but she's gone, and I shake my head. The fuck was I thinking anyways?

Instead, I knock back the rest of my drink and head to the bar to pay bottle price for one drink again. I thank the bartender, and I'm bringing the glass to my lips when suddenly, hands grab both my arms, yanking them back.

...And instinct kicks in.

I whirl, wrenching my hands free, grabbing one of them by the collar of his t-shirt. My fist raises, and it's only then that I'm aware of Dan's voice.

"Whoa! Whoa! Fuckin' chill, man!"

I blink, and when the adrenaline cools, and my eyes focus, I realize I'm holding Dan's best man in my hands.

Shit.

"Sorry," I growl, letting his shirt go. The guy is white-faced and looks like he's about to piss himself.

"S'cool," he mumbles, swallowing as he glances at the other guys in the bachelor party nervously. Actually, all of them are looking at me like that.

Dan's chuckling laugh breaks the silence.

"Fuck, Colton!" he whistles.

"Thought you were a high school principal," the best man mumbles, eyeing me.

"Naw, headmaster," Dan crows.

"It's just principal." That's what I am in life these days. The Principal of Winchester Academy, this absurdly expensive, exclusive private boarding high school a few towns away from here.

I clear my throat and nod at the guy I almost just killed. "And sorry. I-" I frown. "I'm not good with being surprised from behind like that."

Dan nods. "True that, bro. He was in the Marines," he says somberly to his other friends.

"Special Forces."

"Yeah, that's what I said."

I don't bother correcting him.

"Anyways, Colton, man, we just wanted to surprise you."

"Mission accomplished," I growl, reaching for my drink.

He grins. "No, buddy. I mean we surprised you with a little private room action."

I frown.

What.

One of the other guys grins and steps forward. "Yeah, bro. Dan here wanted to hook you up with a little champagne room, huh?"

His smile widens as all of the guys make catcalls and whooping sounds.

"Dan, that's... I'm not really into-"

"Well I already paid man, so, c'mon!"

I frown.

"Bro, it's my bachelor party, and I want you to go have fun!"

Fuck it.

It's not that I want to, it's that I don't want to keep standing here having this discussion. And hell, if nothing else, I'm pretty sure the private room is private. I can tell the stripper to take a break and keep the money, and I can get some peace and quiet for ten minutes.

"Sure, man," I smile thinly. "Sounds good."

"Ay! Atta boy!" Dan crows. He nods at a purple neon lit doorway. "Through there, second door on the left!"

I take a drink as I walk away, ignoring the cheers from the bachelor party as I step through into a dark hallway that smells like cheap perfume. I find the door, and step into a world of blue neon and faux crystal. There's a big-and I do mean big-guy waiting for me to tell me to keep my hands to my damn self and to take a seat and wait for my girl.

Great.

I sit, drinking my whiskey and wondering how soon I can get the fuck out of here, when the door opens.

...And my jaw tightens.

It's her. Fuck, of course it's her. Blonde hair, black mask, sky-blue lacy lingerie, and fuck-me stilettos. The door closes behind her, and when our eyes lock, I see her instantly stiffen. Actually, she flat out shivers, and I watch as her teeth rake nervously over her bottom lip.

Well, this is off to a great start.

"Listen," I growl, leaning forward. "I'm good, really. My buddies paid for the room, so if you want to go take a break or... I don't know, do whatever, that's fine."

She swallows, her chest rising and falling, and God help me, my eyes drop right to those fucking perfect tits before I drag my eyes back to hers. Fuck, she's young-younger than I thought she was on stage. And with all due respect to women who take their clothes off for a living, and I do have some serious respect for them, this girl ain't it. She just doesn't have that look.

"I'm serious," I mutter. "Honestly, go take a break. I'm just gonna sit here and-"

"I have to."

Her voice is like silk and lace, but I frown.

"No, you really-"

"Yes, I do."

She nods subtly up at a little glass bubble on the ceiling, and when I see it, my jaw tightens. It's a security camera.

"But I don't want the dance."

"I'll..." she frowns, looking down.

"What."

"I'll get in trouble if I don't," she says softly.

My scowl deepens.

"Are you in trouble?"

She quickly shakes her head.

"You can tell me if you are."

"I-" she opens her mouth and then snaps it shut, her eyes darting to that camera again.

"They paid for two songs."

"Darlin-"

But she steps right toward me, and when more sultry music comes on, suddenly, she starts to move. And just like before, I can't look away.

She sways her hips, and there's more confidence this time than she had on stage as she starts to dance. She sways towards me, reaching back and pausing for one second, and shivering, before I see her undo her bra. She holds it in place over her tits as she moves closer, and when she steps up onto the banquet seat I'm sitting in, I growl.

Fuck, why am I hard?

I don't do strip clubs. This is not my scene, and this is nothing I want. But she, on the other hand, is everything I want, and when she slides into my lap, something fierce burns through me. She grinds on me, and fuck if my cock doesn't start to respond. Swelling, thickening, bulging against her. Her breath catches, and she swallows again, her cheeks pink even in the neon blue lighting as she sways and moves.

She pulls the bra away, and I groan as my eyes drop to her perfect-fucking perfect-breasts. Full, and soft, and perky, with these hard little rosy, puffy nipples capping them. My cock pulses even harder, and I know damn well she can feel it when she gasps quietly. She moves on me, a little awkwardly, but the room is still pulsing with this sexual energy as she gets up, turns, and then settles back down on me. I growl as I feel my cock nestle against her tight little ass, and when she starts to rub and grind, my jaw clenches tightly.

One song ends, and as the second one starts, she leans back, swaying against me and letting her arm raise. Her fingers thread into my hair, and my pulse races.

Goddamnit, maybe I am one of those guys. Maybe it's not that she's this innocent little broken doll I'm obsessed with because she seems too innocent for a place like this. Maybe it's just that she's that good.

She spins again on my lap, straddling me and looking me dead in the eye as she grinds faster and harder. My cock pulses, my balls swelling with cum as the gorgeous, nubile little tease on my lap drags me into her world. I'm falling in headfirst, and I'm lost in those eyes. But as she leans in close and lets her hand slide up her body and into her hair, suddenly, the string on the mask pops, and it drops away. And my whole world goes upside-fucking-down.

...Because I know her.

Actually, it's about ten thousand times worse than just knowing her. It's how I know her. It's the fact that it's not a stripper sitting on my rock-hard cock in sexy lacy panties with her tits about six inches from my face. It's that I see her almost every day, wearing a white blouse, a plaid skirt, knee-socks, and flats.

...It's that her name is Brynn Henley, and she's a fucking student at Winchester Academy.

She's eighteen. She's a senior. Her family is beyond loaded. And yet here she is, giving me a topless lap dance in a strip club champagne room.

Our eyes lock, her face white and mortified looking before suddenly, it's like she's been electrified. She bolts off of my lap, grabbing her bra and gasping as she backs away from me.

"Brynn?" I say quietly, my eyes lo

cked with hers.

"Please... don't... I mean, this isn't what you..."

She swallows, her face paling.

"Please, Principal Kane."

And just like that, she whirls, and she's out the door, leaving me lost, shocked, and trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

Oh, and hard. She leaves me achingly, confusingly, damningly, sinfully hard.

Brynn

If life were a movie, this would be funny. It'd be one of the scenes they picked for the trailer, probably. The guy would be someone cute but harmless like Paul Rudd or Seth Rogen or something, and I'd be... I don't know. Someone quirky and fun? My mask would drop, the music would record-scratch, and one of us would say some sort of hilarious catch phrase like "I did not see that coming!" And the whole thing would be hilarious to a movie theater full of viewers.

...This, however, is not the movies. There is no catch phrase in real life, no perfectly timed music pauses or funny pop song in the background. There's only the horrible, cold, heart-clenching moment of clarity and shame.

I mean, it's not every day you walk into the champagne room of a strip club to give your first ever lap dance, only to find your Principal sitting there looking like pure sex in a white dress shirt and dark jeans.

...Thank God.

My face burns, and I cringe as I stumble into the backroom that doubles as a changing room for the girls. The door slams shut behind me as I stumble over to the disgusting sofa in one corner, slumping down on it and burying my face in my hands. And it's only then that the full weight of what's just happened really sinks in, and the tears start to brim my eyes.

No one was supposed to know. No one was ever supposed to know what I'm doing. I cringe as I sink into the crummy sofa, tears pooling in the corners of my eyes as my gut twists. And for the millionth time since I walked into this club tonight, I try and piece together how the hell I got here. How my life turned into this.

Thanks, dad.

Some people's parents get them a car when they turn eighteen. Okay, it might be a beater if you don't come from the kind of money mine comes from, but a car's a car. Some people get an investment in their future-maybe money for college, or a fund set up in their name for way later in life when they want to buy a house or something. And if nothing else, most people with parents or even a parent who loves them get a smile, or a hug, or even just a song and a birthday candle to blow out.

My parents, though? On my eighteenth birthday, four weeks ago, my parents got me a divorce and federal corruption and racketeering charges.

Happy birthday to me.

Not everyone really gets what their parents do for a living. Like, there are plenty of kids who go to Winchester with me who's moms or dads "work in finance" or "work in politics." But the specifics are vague. That was my dad to me. Frequently gone on business or locked in his office on a call of some kind. Not necessarily absent, but not exactly available, if that makes sense? And my stepmom? Well, my mom's a whole story by herself.

But you tend to overlook your parents being gone on business in China or shopping excursions in Paris when your father brings home an annual income that rivals the GDP of some countries. When you don't just have a horse stabled at the country club, you own the stable. When your first car at sixteen wasn't a hand-me-down Toyota, but custom-painted Ferrari. When vacations mean private jets, and watches, and whole floors of luxury hotels in exotic locations.

You overlook a lot when your silence and blindness is paid for from an early age. Maybe that's why I ignored all the warning lights and sirens. Maybe that's why I was blindsides when my father was pulled away from the dinner table while I was home for my birthday four weeks ago, in handcuffs by Federal Agents who'd just busted our front door in.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty. And now, it all makes complete sense to me.

I always knew my dad worked in investing. He was a money manager of some kind, I guess. Except you don't get hauled away by the FBI for managing people's money. You get hauled away for mis-managing it.

Or stealing it.

You hear the words "Ponzi scheme" a lot, but when you hear it in the context of charges being levied at your dad, it takes on a whole new gravity. And in the span of twenty-four hours, my entire world changed.

First, Geraldine, my stepmom, bailed. And she bailed fast. She emptied as much as she could from their joint accounts, took one of my dad's planes, and flew off to the Mediterranean to one of his yachts moored at Mykonos to start ramrodding through a divorce on the grounds of "mental distress and financial abuse." Whatever the fuck that means.

Then, right after he posted his fifty-million-dollar bail, dad bounced, too. And to where is the great mystery that I, Geraldine's lawyers, his own lawyers, and the United States Government would love to know the answer to.

But absent or not, dad hired some amazing lawyers who managed to bring gag orders down on the entire thing until he can be found. So, it's not in the news. No one at school knows that my father is behind one of the largest Ponzi schemes ever, or that possibly even some of their own parents are affected.

No one knows that one of my father's lawyers finally reached out to me to let me know that "my father and them" had agreed that the best place for me was to just stay at school until they could "resolve the misunderstanding."

Right, "misunderstanding." Like someone got their facts mixed up about my dad embezzling billions from the fund he ran.

So, stay at school. Keep my head down. Keep smiling and pretend everything's fine? Well, that sucks, but it's doable. Or, it was doable, until the other shoe dropped. Because you know what happens when you're wanted for fraud, embezzlement, and securities crimes and you skip out on bail?"

...They freeze your accounts. All of them. And all of a sudden, you start to realize how meaningless those little plastic cards in your purse are with nothing behind them.

I got one call from one of his lawyers telling me what was happening. But his only advice was to "keep my head down" until they reached out. A week after that though, I sort of stopped hearing from them. No one answers my calls. No one returns emails. Nothing.

I know, poor little rich girl, right? But when your entire life is credit cards and shopping accounts, it can fall apart real quick, let me tell you. I wasn't in immediate danger. I mean, I was at boarding school, which has a Michelin-chef-run dining hall. So, it's not like I was going to have to sleep on a park bench or go hungry. But, that's only good through the end of the semester. And after that, I'm not exactly sure how I'm supposed to pay the fifty grand for the second half of the school year at Winchester.

Oh, and if that wasn't enough to worry about? Well, it turns out it wasn't just rich country-club types my dad stole from. He also, in his infinite wisdom, decided to steal money from-

"Well well well! Look who we got here!"

I cringe, shivering as I look up at the sound of Lorenzo's voice. The greasy, scruffy, portly Italian man in the ill-fitting suit with a cigar hanging out of his lips, eyes me in a way that makes my skin crawl. It's that look that makes me want to wrap a shapeless blanket around myself or take a shower.

"Is it break time already?"

I swallow thickly, my hands twisting in my lap as I look at him.

"I-I just-"

He smiles wickedly. "You just... what, decided to renege on our deal? You want to pay up the other way we discussed?"

I want to throw up, and he sees the disgust on my face and starts to laugh.

"No? You sure?"

"Sorry, I was just-"

"You were fucking off is what you were doing!" he snaps, the grin vaporizing as he glares at me. He's got two of his goons with him, lurking over his shoulder, and the two of them eye with me with about as much subtlety as Lorenzo.

Lorenzo as in Lorenzo Tonelli. As in, top of the food chain in the Tonelli crime family. As in, the mob.

As in, my dad stole money from the fucking mob. And now that he's hiding out God knows where, and now that my mother is off in Greece, and now that all of our accounts are frozen?

...Well guess who's come to me to collect on what my family owes him.

So, that's where I'm at. I'm broke, my father and stepmother have completely abandoned me, I've got the mob breathing down my neck, literally, and I just gave my first ever lap dance in a fucking strip club to my fucking high school Principal.

Shoot me, please.

"Listen sweetheart," Lorenzo hisses, glaring at me. "We had a deal."

"Lorenzo-"

"Mr. Tonelli!" One of the goons barks, making me tremble.

"Mr. Tonelli," I say quietly. "I don't know where my dad is, but I know when he comes back, he'll-"

"When he comes back, it'll be in fucking leg irons," Lorenzo sneers. "And you know who they're going to make him pay back first? It'll be the IRS, then the other rich country club assholes. Then the lawyers. You see who's missing from that list?"

I swallow. "You?"

"Smart girl!" he chirps, glaring at me. "So, like I said before, there are two ways here. You work that debt off shaking that nice little jailbait ass up on that stage and in those private rooms. Or?"

He grins lecherously, and my stomach turns. He's already made it abundantly clear how else I can pay off the debt.

"This might be your first fucking night, but you damn well better know by now that walking out on a private show is a no-no," he snaps.

"He paid for two songs, and they were ov-"

"Uh-uh," he mutters. "Almost over isn't 'over.' You stopping at 'almost over' means complaints, and guys getting pissed about cheap whores like you stealing their money."

My jaw tightens, fire sparking behind my eyes, and Lorenzo spots it. He grins widely, wagging a finger at me.

"Oh, there it is! There's that fire! You mad, sweetheart? Not used to being talked to like that, huh? Rich girls don't get called cheap whores, do they?"

He moves closer to me, and I stand, shivering as he steps right up to me. The sour smell of body odor and cheap cigars wafts over me, and my stomach tightens as he grins lecherously.

"You know, maybe dancing just ain't for you. Maybe you don't want to perform for all those guys out there. And hey, sweetheart," he smiles a sickly smile. "I get it, really. So how about we go with our other deal, huh? No more dancing for all those other guys. No endless private rooms. Instead?"

He winks, and I almost throw up.

"Instead, you just be my personal fucking whore until the debt is settled."

I gag, and he grins.

"So how about this," he growls, breathing on me. "You lose the panties right here and right now, bend over, and you give Lorenzo a little taste of that sweet little rich girl pussy, huh?"

"I-" the room spins, and it feels like I'm chained to the floor-like I can't move at all. Like I'm shutting down.

"I'll just keep dancing," I whisper, shivering.

"Yeah well maybe I've changed my mind," he growls. "Maybe I don't want you dancing no more. Maybe I just want you with your mouth open and your legs spread for me any fucking time I want for the next, say, six months."

The goons chuckle, and I can feel the tears brimming my eyes.

"Please, I-I don't know where my dad is, but the money-you'll get it back. I'll pay you back."

"I know you will, sweetheart," Lorenzo grins an oily, horrible smile as he reaches out for me. "I know you-"

The door to the backroom smashes open, half splintering off the hinges, and my jaw drops. Because barging right through and grabbing the first goon that rushes him, twisting the guy's wrist until there's a snapping sound, is Principal Kane.

The first guy falls to the floor crying in agony, and when the second bodyguard rushes my Principal, he sweeps the guy's legs and shoves him, sending him head over heels into the wall with a crunch. Lorenzo swears, jabbing his hand into his jacket pocket. But Principal Kane is faster. He rushes the tubby mob boss and snarls, yanking his out and away, wrenching the little revolver out of his grip, and tossing it across the room. He shoves Lorenzo hard, knocking him over before he whirls, his eyes blazing with searing fire as they land right on me.

I swallow, panting, my skin tingling and my pulse racing as Principal Kane marches over to me. And just then, the room starts to get wobbly, and my legs start to give out.

He catches me, powerful, muscles arms cradling me as he lifts me effortlessly.

"The fuck is-"

"I'm taking her."

The words rumble out of his mouth, thundering from his barreled chest as he snarls at Lorenzo on the ground. The mob boss scowls.

"The fuck you are. You can't just come in here and grab my girls, dickwad! I'm calling the cop-"

"Be my guest," Principal Kane snarls, his face a mask of fury. "You know how old she is?"

Lorenzo scowls. "Eighteen."

"Try again."

The mob bosses face falls, paling. "She-she told me. Her ID say's eighteen!"

"Let's call the cops then. I'm sure they'll figure it out for us all, hmm?"

The room is silent, and Principal Kane nods. "We're leaving. Now."

He whirls, arms still cradling me and my pulse still racing as the room spins.

"My-my stuff," I murmur.

He stops, and I manage to nod at a purse and a trench coat hanging on one of the hooks on the walls. He grabs them both, draping the coat over me before he storms for the door. One of the goons starts to get up, but Principal Kane kicks him hard in the ribs, making him grunt and collapse back to the floor.

"You son of a bitch," Lorenzo hisses. "You're not gonna get away with-"

"Yes, I am," he growls savagely, making my pulse skip. "And I see you following me, it'll be the last thing you do. Understand?"

Lorenzo just glares at him.

"Let's go," Principal Kane growls quietly to me, holding me tight as he strides out the door. He heads further down the dark, blue-lit hallway until we hit the back door. He kicks it open and we stride through, marching across the mostly empty parking lot towards a black SUV.

The whole world in spinning, and I can't quite catch a breath with how utterly surreal this whole thing is. My eyes swivel up to look at his, and I'm opening my mouth to say, well, something, when suddenly everything starts to go black.

"Principal Kane..." I murmur, my eyelids too heavy to lift. "I-"

"I've got you, Brynn," his voice purrs close to my ear, his powerful arms gripping me so possessively and tightly, making me feel so safe.

"I've got you."

He holds me tight, the warmth of his body tingles against my bare skin, and that's the last thing I remember before it all fades away.

Colton

What the fuck are you doing.

What the FUCK are you doing?

I'm standing in my living room, arms crossed, jaw tight, and eyes blazing as I look down at the gorgeous creature laid out across my couch. She's still got that coat of hers draped over her, but the way it's barely covering a quarter of her thighs and barely covering her top, actually makes it worse. It makes it look like she's naked.

I groan, my eyes drinking her in. She shifts, her brow furrowing in her sleep as she turns. The coat pulls up, giving me a glimpse of that perfect, tight little ass and the lacy edge of her sky-blue thong, and I growl.

Fuck. I need to get my shit together.

I scowl as I reach for the throw blanket on the back of the couch and pull it over her, covering her up before I stand back and assess.

This is not good.

I'm a grown man. I'm allowed to go to strip clubs. I'm certainly allowed to bring women back to my house, and if the one I bring home happens to be passed out from shock after I took her away from the creeps who were about to do God knows what to her? Well, so be it.

Except, we have a problem here. And the problem is that she's not just "some woman." Not to me. Just like I'm not just "some guy" to her. No, it's way worse. Because no matter the circumstances that brought us here, right now, I'm the Principal of a private high school with one of his eighteen-year-old students lying passed out and basically naked on his living room sofa.

I repeat: what the fuck am I doing?

But also, what the fuck was she doing? I mean, Winchester Academy is full of rich kids, but Brynn Henley might just be at the very top. The Henley's are the kind of family that redefine your idea of what wealth is. And I get that rich kids want to act out sometimes-I mean, trust me, I get it. But acting out means getting drunk at a party, or taking drugs, or getting regrettable tattoos, or, fuck, whatever teenagers do to act out.

...It doesn't mean stripping at a skeezy strip club.

I rake my fingers over the scruff on my jaw. I need to figure out what the hell she was doing there. And really, I need to call her fucking parents.

Brynn starts to stir, and I snap out of my thoughts as my eyes focus on her. She frowns, shifting under the blanket before suddenly her eyes snap open. Her face pales, and she jerks like she's about to lunge from the couch and run, when I stop her with a calming hand on her shoulder as I stoop low.

"Hey, hey," I growl, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly. "Just relax, Brynn. It's Colto-it's Principal Kane, and you're safe, okay?"

She nods, blinking quickly before her eyes focus on me, and her face burns crimson.

"Oh, God," she groans, burying her face in her hands as she sinks under the blanket.

"Brynn-"

"Please, Principal Kane," she suddenly sobs, tears streaming from her eyes. "Please! Just don't tell-"

"Hey, hey, c'mere," I growl, wrapping my arms around her as she collapses into me, sobbing and clinging to my shirt as I wrap her in the blanket and my arms-my mind doing everything it can to forget the way she was grinding on my lap less than an hour ago.

"Byrnn, you're safe, alright? Do you want to tell me what the fuck you were doing there?"

She shakes her head, still pressing her face into my chest as I gently rub her back.

"Okay, that's fine," I say gently. "Look, we should call your parents though-"

"No."

I frown. "What?"

"No," she says softly. "We can't."

My frown deepens. "Brynn, I'm not going to-look, whatever you were doing there tonight, I'm not judging and I'm not going to say a thing to them."

I shake my head, my jaw clenching.

"What the hell were you doing-"

She starts to cry, and I hold her tighter.

"Look, I'm not telling your parents, Brynn. That's a promise. But let's just call them so they can-"

"You can't call-"

"Brynn-"

"No, I mean you literally can't," she sobs.

I frown, pulling back. "What do you mean?"

"My dad, he..." she frowns, looking down. "He's in a lot of trouble. He stole a bunch of money from a lot of people. He got arrested and then skipped out on bail, and I don't know where he is."

My jaw grinds tight. What the fuck?

"And your mom?"

"Stepmom," she whispers. "And Greece, I think. She's divorcing my dad and she's gone off the radar until it's all settled."

I blink. Jesus Christ, what. I look at her, suddenly so small and so frail seeming.

"Hang on, who's taking care of you?"

She swallows, looking down. "I don't know. I mean, I'm fine. I'm at school, so... you know, a roof and food," she mumbles.

My jaw clenches tighter. "What about money?"

She doesn't answer, and suddenly, it starts to click.

Holy fuck.

"Brynn, were you dancing there because you need the money?"

She nods quietly, and my heart breaks as I pull her tight to me, feeling her cry into my chest again as I hold her close.

"Look, I need the money, okay? For tuition next semester? I mean where else am I going to get that kind of money, Principal Kane?" she sobs. "Starbucks?"

"Jesus Christ, Brynn," I growl.

"The guy..." she cringes, looking away. "The guy in the suit from the club, he... I owe him money."

"What?!" I snarl.

"Well, my dad does, so I do now, seeing as he's missing." She looks up at me plaintively, biting her lower lip.

"That's why I was..." she sobs again as she collapses into me, and I stiffen as I pull her tight to me again.

"I've got you," I growl softly, holding her tight. "No one is going to touch you, Brynn. I promise you that."

And the second I say it, with her so frail and vulnerable in my arms, I know it's true. I know I'll fight heaven and hell to keep her safe. I know having her here like this is a terrible idea. She's a student, I'm her Principal, and twenty years older than her. And circumstances aside, she's lying here half naked in sexy lingerie. And something tells me, if this got out, any claims of just wanting to help her might go out the window seeing as I just got a fucking lap dance from her at a strip club.

...Altruism also sorta goes out the window when you are half hard hugging the damsel in distress.

I tell myself to put that aside. I tell myself to ignore the base, caveman instinct to crave her, and take her, and make her mine. But the harder I try, the harder it is to ignore, and the harder it is to forget the way she moved on me, or the way her breath caught. Or the way she gasped as her tight little ass pressed against my cock.

I groan, holding her tight and stroking her back. The blanket falls away, and my fingers brush bare skin. I freeze for a second, conflicted, but when my hand moves back against her skin, she sinks a little tighter into me.

"Principal Kane-"

"I've got you," I murmur as she breathes and holds me tight. "I've got you."