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A LESSON IN BLACKMAIL
Black Mountain Academy / a Club Alias Novel
KD ROBICHAUX
 C ON T E N T S

Also by KD Robichaux

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue

Also by KD Robichaux
 ALSO BY KD ROBICHAUX

All Links Available *Here*

THE BLOGGER DIARIES TRILOGY
Wished for You
Wish He Was You
Wish Come True

THE CLUB ALIAS SERIES

Confession Duet (Before the Lie & Truth Revealed)
Seven: A Club Alias Novel
Knight: A Club Alias Novel
Doc: A Club Alias Novel

ALSO AVAILABLE IN THE CLUB ALIAS WORLD

Mission: Accomplished (Knight Novella Boxed Set)
Scary Hot: A Club Alias/Until Series Crossover
Moravian Rhapsody: A Club Alias Novella
A Lesson In Blackmail (A Black Mountain Academy Novel)

STANDALONES
No Trespassing
Dishing Up Love

COWRITTEN WITH CC MONROE

Steal You
Number Neighbor
 CHAPTER 1

Nate

Skittish little mouse. That’s what she is. With her thick-rimmed
glasses perched on her cute, slightly upturned nose. Her light-brown
hair falls around her face, and she doesn’t bother pushing it back,
instead using it as a curtain to shield herself. When someone
approaches her circulation desk here in the school library, Ms.
Richards quietly helps them with a small smile on her face, her full
lips slightly twitching in the corners with nervousness, even though
she’s supposed to be the authority figure here. This is her domain,
as Black Mountain Academy’s librarian. Yet, she reacts to us students
as if we’re the boss of her.
Skittish little mouse.
I sit at a long wooden table surrounded by five other chairs filled
with fellow upper crust students in my class. My six-three frame
takes up more than my half of this side of the table, my arm laying
across the back of Lindy’s chair next to me. She’s talking across me
to Reese Trenton, who’s pretty much the only true friend I’ve got in
this place. Everyone else just wants a piece of me, being Nathaniel
Jacobson Black IV, great-grandson of the founding father of Black
Mountain Academy. Hell, our family founded Black Mountain—period.
Lindy’s hand frequently brushes against my abs, even as she tries to
flirt with Trenton, leaning over me to get closer to the both of us.
Fucking ho. She’s slept with three quarters of the swim team, me
included.
I allow a second to think about if she knows we all call her an
initiation to the team, not that she’d care. She wears her skank
status like a badge of honor.
But my mind quickly turns back to who I’m actually infatuated
with.
Ms. Richards.
Ms. Evelyn Richards.
Evie to her fellow staff members.
She’s younger than the rest of the teachers. Twenty-two, maybe
twenty-three. Yet she seems so much younger than even my
eighteen years. She radiates purity, innocence, and it calls to the
darkness inside me that wants to dirty her up.
My favorite part of the day is study hall, when I get to come to
the library and fuck with her. I live for the hour in which I get to
make her squirm. Nothing is better than leaning far over the
circulation desk, forcing her to meet my eyes, only inches away from
her delicate features, and asking the virtuous Ms. Richards in a low,
gravelly voice where I can find a book on the Kama Sutra. And then
hearing her stutter trying to get the words out that nothing like that
can be found in the academy’s library.
I’m sure half the things I say and do to her could be labeled as
sexual harassment, but who’s going to turn me in? The descendant
of the very people she works for.
So I sit here and stare at her, like I always do, watching her try
to ignore the heat of my gaze I know she feels, because every once
in a while, she can’t help but to look up and check to see if I’m still
staring.
“Stop being a creeper,” Trenton tells me when Lindy finally gives
up and turns to face Megan in the other direction, and he punches
me in the arm closest to him. “You’re going to make that poor
woman piss herself one of these days.”
“It’s just too easy,” I murmur, catching her purse her lips as if she
heard my voice but is still fighting not to glance this way.
 “I’ve done some fucked up shit in my day, but this? This is low,
man. Pick on someone your own size. She’s like… half of you.”
I can see him shake his head in my peripheral vision, never
taking my eyes off Ms. Richards.
I smirk. “There’s just something about her. She’s nothing like the
girls we’ve grown up with. The hos we’re surrounded by,” I tell him
low enough only he can hear. “She’s so innocent-looking. So quiet.”
“Well… she is a librarian. It’s kind of in her MO to be quiet. And
innocent? I don’t know about all that. Don’t they say it’s the quiet
ones you need to watch out for? I bet she’s a freak in the—”
Two things happen simultaneously at that moment. Ms. Richards
turns a startled expression our way, having clearly heard Trenton’s
assessment, and the bell rings, cutting off what he was about to say
and indicating study hall has come to an end.
But I don’t move. My eyes narrow on her flustered features.
What was she so startled by in his words? That two young men were
talking about her in a sexual light, or was it that Trenton hit the nail
on the head with his warning about the quiet ones?
She whips around to face away from us when she sees my
measuring look, and I finally glance away from her to gather my
books and stuff them in my backpack hanging on the back of my
chair as I stand. I stick my pen behind one ear and lace my arms
through the straps of my bag before shoving my seat under the
table like a fucking gentleman, rolling my eyes when everyone else
besides Trenton just leaves theirs out for anyone to trip on, for Ms.
Richards to do their dirty work. He knows this shit makes me crazy
and is a good enough friend not to fuck with me.
When everyone else makes their way to the door, I circle the
table, pushing in all the other chairs, and I don’t do it quietly, letting
my frustration with everyone be known. A few look back at me as I
grimace in their direction, having the decency to look a little guilty
for acting like children who don’t clean up after themselves.
I shove under the last chair, loudly skidding it across the tile floor
and letting it smack into the wood of the table to drive my point
home for them not to make the same mistake next time—not that
they ever remember, spoiled, lazy-ass fucks. That’s when I hear the
sweet, timid voice come from the circulation desk, shocked that
she’s actually gathered the courage to initiate a dialogue between
us, when usually it’s me who begins our conversations with
something that purposely makes her uncomfortable.
“Thank you, Nathaniel. You don’t have to do all that. I’ll get i—”
But I cut Ms. Richards off with a stern look, and her jaw snaps
closed. I take slow steps toward her, allowing everyone to finally file
out through the door of the library before I approach the desk. And
then with the tone I know makes her squirm the most, I bend over,
place my elbows on the surface, and grip my hands together as I
lean toward her and tell her, “It shouldn’t be your job to pick up
after the senior class, Ms. Richards.” I feel a thrill go straight to my
dick from the way she shivers at the sound of her name from my
lips. “If we’re old enough to be consenting adults—” I pause, letting
the message behind my words take hold in her mind. “—then they’re
old enough to fucking clean up after themselves.” I don’t include
myself in that last part, because I always take care of my shit, and
she knows it.
She nervously pushes her hair out of her face and her glasses up
the bridge of her nose, her eyes closed tightly behind the lenses
while she swallows thickly. She nods in quick, shallow jerks of her
head before she meets my eyes. “Th-thank you then, Mr. Black. N-
Nathaniel. Better hurry before you’re l-late for your next class,” she
responds, the same way she always tries to dismiss me after I’ve
fucked with her.
“You’re welcome, Ms. Richards.” I trail my gaze from the top of
her straight hair, down her white blouse primly buttoned to the
hollow of her throat that just screams for my hand to be wrapped
around it, over her small breasts and narrow waist, the gentle swell
of her hips encased in navy slacks that hug her luscious thighs
before the material flares at the knee, and end my perusal on her
little leather flats with the rounded toes. When I meet her eyes
again, she’s practically panting with her anxiousness—and I can’t
help but fantasize her breaths coming out in this way if I were to
drive my cock deep into her pussy.
 “Have a good day,” I finish before standing to my full height.
When I hit my palm against the surface of the circulation desk, she
jumps before nodding in response, not saying another word.
Skittish little mouse.
 CHAPTER 2

Evie

I don’t turn my head to watch him exit, but I can’t stop my eyes
from following his obscenely tall form as he makes his way to the
door of my library before shoving his way through it. My library—I
snort. It’s not my library. It’s his family’s library. Nathaniel Black the
fourth, heir to the Black throne upon their very own mountain the
academy is nestled beside. Because if your family is rich enough to
live there, high over the towns surrounding the mountain or in the
neighborhoods nearby, then you’re loaded enough to attend the
private school his family built over a century ago. That boy… man is
going to be the death of me. No really—he’s going to give me a
freaking panic attack that leads to my eventual demise.
He’s done nearly everything to taunt me that I could possibly
think of aside from actually putting his hands on me. Yet the words
he uses along with his tone feel like a caress and a slap at the same
time. Since the first day of the school year, my first day as the
librarian of Black Mountain Academy, it’s like he’s made it his mission
to… not quite bully me, but make me super damn uncomfortable.
And what exactly could I do about it? After the first few weeks of it
happening, I’d gone to report him to the principal, and he made it
very clear that anything written up about a member of the Black
family would be brushed under the rug so not to waste my time. I
hadn’t even gotten anything but Nathaniel’s name out of my mouth
before I was cut off and dismissed.
And as this is my dream job, I figured I could put up with him for
a year, seeing as he’s a senior and will no doubt graduate at the end
of it. Because that is one good thing about Nathaniel Black IV—he’s
brilliant. Top of his class. Star athlete. Everything about him is
perfect. Scarily so. Obsessively so. Aside from my degrees to
become a librarian and a teacher, I took extra courses in psychology
because I found the subject fascinating and even halfway considered
becoming a school counselor at some point. It was easy for me to
spot the clear signs of OCD in the young man. But having basically
been muzzled when it came to this particular student, I kept my
observations to myself.
His school uniform is always pristine. I once saw a food fight
break out in the cafeteria, and he stormed out after something got
on his shirt. He changed into a clean one he obviously kept stowed
in his locker for such an occasion. He aligns his textbook, notebook,
and three pencils just so at his place, at the same exact seat he sits
in every study hour. He wears a pencil behind his ear between
classes, as if to always be prepared in case he has to write
something down in the hallway. Not to mention he always pushes in
all the chairs every day as if he can’t leave the library until it’s back
to the way he found it—the way I had it. I thought about testing a
theory, leaving chairs out before his study hall group comes in to see
what his reaction would be, but I found myself hesitating, as if afraid
to catch his look of disappointment in me or something.
Which is utterly ridiculous. He’s an eighteen-year-old high school
student. I’m a twenty-two-year-old woman with way more life
experience than he’s had. Why should I care if anything I do
disappoints him?
I will admit it was quite startling when Reese Trenton mentioned
that it’s the quiet ones like me who are the freaks. Quiet, yes, but
it’s taken years of therapy to come to terms with the fact that what I
am is not freakish. If it weren’t for Dr. Walker, I’d be lost, thinking
these feelings and urges inside me made me the freak Trenton
spoke about. Thank goodness the bell rang and snapped me out of it
before I could correct what I heard. Because speaking about
personal and sexual things with my students is obviously a no-no.
I spend the next hour returning books to their shelves and
sending out email notices of books being late from students. Today
is Friday, and there are no afterhours available to students, so I get
to leave earlier—3:30—than every other day at 5:00 p.m. I’ll open
again early Monday morning as usual, an hour before school starts.
I love the fact that I get to go home early on Fridays. It gives me
a chance to relax and prepare for the night at Club Alias, pretty
much my weekly reward for getting through another five days as a
functioning adult.
Oh, Club Alias. My happy place, my escape, my oasis. It’s the one
place I can go and shed the worries of my daily life and relax. As
soon as I walk through that door, it’s like the rest of the world just
disappears. I’m no longer scared of my own shadow. All my anxiety
fades away as soon as the darkly lit space swallows me up and I
inhale the scent of leather and expensive colognes and perfumes.
My hesitations disappear when I no longer have to make decisions
for myself and allow the Doms to take away the responsibilities that
weigh heavily on me. I let them make all the hard choices and just
follow their instructions, trusting they’ll make everything good for
me. As long as I’m a good submissive, everything always turns out
wonderful. I don’t even have to think, just do. And since every single
member of Club Alias has been vetted by a team of experts,
including my therapist Dr. Walker, who is a co-owner, I trust every
member wholeheartedly.
After the hour commute home, I lock my door behind me and
hang my purse on the hook on the wall in the little foyer. I’m proud
to say at twenty-two I own my own home. It’s a small two-bedroom
house in a nice little town I’ve called home my whole life. When my
parents passed away a few years ago, they left me a small fortune in
life insurance policies. The giant house I lived in growing up held
way too many memories and was entirely too large for just me to
live in and take care of, so I downsized to this adorable place I’ve
slowly made my own. Each room has been a fun project to
makeover, with only my yard and the kitchen left to go.
 I walk past the first room I ever redid, the formal dining room I
converted into my personal library, my dream room. Three of the
walls are lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases full of nearly every
genre. There’s a writing desk in the center of the room, and an
overstuffed chair with a large ottoman in one corner where I spend
hours getting lost between pages. A thick rug covers the wood floor
that I love to squish between my toes. And there’s a small side table
next to the chair that’s only large enough to hold a diffuser and my
coffee. Yeah, it probably is weird to fill the room with relaxing
lavender-scented steam and then hop myself up on caffeine, but
that’s just who I am as a person.
I pass through my living room and past my kitchen, making my
way to my bedroom, where I toe off my ballerina flats and nudge
them into the closet. I strip out of my blouse and slacks then
shimmy out of my panties tossing them into the hamper beside my
dresser. I unhook and let my bra fall down my arms, catching it in
my hand before putting it in the top drawer where it goes with all
the rest. I didn’t sweat today, seeing as it’s air conditioned in the
school and a wonderfully mild temperature in the middle of autumn,
so no need to wash my bras after every wear and wear them out.
Those suckers are expensive. And while I have enough money to live
comfortably for years to come if I don’t splurge, thanks to my
inheritance, undergarments are not something I want to waste
money on.
Although there was one splurge I made, but I’ve definitely gotten
my money’s worth out of it—the five-figure membership fee for Club
Alias. An extravagant amount to most people, but priceless when it
comes to my mental health. I’d pay it over and over again for the
peace it brings me, but luckily, it’s a lifetime membership unless one
breaks the rules and gets banned.
I, for one, am anything but a rulebreaker, so I won’t ever have to
worry about getting booted from my happy place. The rules of Club
Alias are like Fight Club—you don’t talk about it. You don’t tell
anyone about it unless you trust them to join, at which time you
have to be their sponsor. You’re responsible for them, and if they
break the rules, it’s on you. No one wants to get kicked out, so
everyone is super cautious about the people they’re willing to vouch
for.
I personally learned about Club Alias through my therapist, Dr.
Walker. After years of being his patient, he had me sign a non-
disclosure agreement before telling me all about the club, where he
thought I’d benefit more from than on any type of medication. And
he was right. As long as I get my weekly dose, it gets me through
the rest of the time without having to zombify myself with anti-
anxiety and anti-depressants, which I’d taken various cocktails of
since my parents died and never found the right combination for me.
The club was the perfect prescription for me.
I pad into my bathroom and turn on the shower, letting the water
heat up and making sure I have the right scented shampoo for my
Dom of the evening. He prefers the fruity to the floral. After I’ve
washed my hair, shave everything from my neck down, and soap up
with my citrus body wash, I give everything one last extra rinse
before stepping out and toweling off.
I wrap my hair up in a towel and slide my arms into my robe,
tying the belt at the waist. I have a few hours to relax before I’m to
be at the club tonight, and I plan on spending it in my comfy chair in
my library, devouring the next VB Lowe book. Turns out, one of my
favorite romance authors is a member of Club Alias and married one
of the owners, so I get signed copies whenever she releases a new
one. Which is quite frequently, if I think about it. I heard her talking
one time about how her husband uses her word count as a game at
home. I didn’t stick around to hear the details, but there was
something about sexy punishments if she didn’t meet her goal for
the day.
It sounded romantic to me, enough to make the tendrils of
jealousy creep along the edges of my consciousness. And while I
was having the greatest orgasms of my life every week, it made me
uncomfortable to think about the loneliness I tried not to
acknowledge when I was at home.
What would it be like to be in a relationship with someone who
actually understands my needs? Someone who I could live this life
with daily instead of having to wait for my weekly fix on Friday
evenings. Sure, I could go any other day of the week if I wanted,
but having to wake up so early during the work week—be there an
hour before school starts plus my hour-long commute—doesn’t really
allow for me to go more often. And normally I’m so exhausted after
my Friday night adventure that going back Saturday evening is just a
no-go for not only my ladybits but also my psyche.
Being on the receiving end of a Dom’s scene takes a lot out of a
submissive, especially when those Doms are some of the best in the
world thanks to Club Alias’s initiation rules and training. Yes,
aftercare goes a long way right after you’re done to bring you back
to reality from post-coital bliss, but I swear I need the whole rest of
the weekend to feel halfway normal again by Monday. And that half-
life high gets me through the rest of the week until Friday comes
along once again.
But I’m not talking about having a relationship and doing full-on
scenes every day. I’m talking about being with a man who
understand my needs for submission in all aspects of my life. While
I’m proud to be an independent woman, that doesn’t make it any
less exhausting. That doesn’t make my anxiety any less, having to
always be the only one there for myself, having to make every single
little decision every moment of every day. For once, I’d like someone
to be like “Hey, I’d like a burger tonight. Want to come?” Boom!
Decision made about dinner and I didn’t even have to waste any
brainpower on it. Or like “Hey, babe. The house is a wreck since
we’ve been so busy. Let’s start with the kitchen and work our way to
the bedroom, where we can reward ourselves when we’re done.”
Sweet! Perfect! Plan made instead of having to wonder where the
hell to start.
I bet Nate Black’s room is never a wreck.
Um, whoa. I don’t know where the hell that thought came from,
but it needs to calm down with all that. I have no business
wondering about anything having to do with that… guy. I don’t even
know what to call him. He’s not really a bully. He’s never done
anything to actually hurt me or anyone that I know of. He’s just…
intimidating. Overwhelming. Definitely daunting and unnerving.
Sometimes even menacing and straight-up terrifying—like when he
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