Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)

I dart over and quickly bend, eyes now level with Hamilton’s crotch. Reagan’s hand is resting possessively on his thigh, her sharp red nails pressed into the fabric of his khakis. I grab the spoon and lurch upright, smoothing out the back of my skirt as I go. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end when I realize he’s still watching me.

Closely.

“See you at practice,” I tell Tyson, parting from him in the hallway. I duck into the bathroom and silently berate my reflection in the mirror. Before that little scene in the cafeteria, this had been shaping up to be a really good day. The swim team was treating me... well, not good, but they weren’t making snide comments around me all the time, and that was a pretty big upgrade.

When I exit, I notice that the hall is pretty empty, which makes sense, since most everyone is still at lunch. I’m passing by one of the science labs when the door opens and I’m yanked inside.

“What the f—!” I shout, heart pounding. I’m not even surprised to see Hamilton standing a few feet away with a strained expression, back to the door. It’s not the first time he’s cornered me alone. “I know you don’t want to be seen talking to me in public, but seriously? A text would work—”

A heartbeat later, he’s closed the distance and has his hand tangled into my hair.

Hamilton’s mouth crashes against mine, and it’s an increasingly familia

r feeling, just as warm and insistent as ever. But he doesn’t stop there, not like in the car. His hands roam down my backside, tickling the back of my thighs. A flash of red fingernails flits through my mind and I jerk back, gasping.

“Shouldn’t you be doing this with Reagan right now?”

He licks his bottom lip. His voice is gravelly when he replies, “Reagan didn’t prance around in front of me in the cafeteria in that tiny little skirt, flashing me her panties.”

“I did not,” I insist, aghast. “I barely even—”

“They’re white,” he rattles off simply. “Utilitarian, yet disturbingly sexy.”

I stare at him evenly, throat bobbing with a swallow, which is enough of an admission for him.

“You drive me crazy,” he breathes in a rush, burying his face into my neck, pushing his wet mouth against my jaw. “God, I fucking hate it, and it’s like I can’t stop. You acting completely clueless about what you’re doing to me every time you walk by doesn’t make it any better.”

His hands move again, this time under my skirt. My whole body is warm and the spot between my legs is well past that—damp and hot.

“So this is my fault?” I accuse, but it must seem pretty weak given the way my hands instantly roam up his shirt. “Typical.”

His fingers push under the edge of my panties, invasive and intruding. I should be affronted—annoyed at the very least—but just like last time, I can’t feel much of anything beyond that liquid-hot, bone-deep need to feel him touch me. I want to feel the wind up and the impending implosion. I want to combust, to be consumed, to feel him around me and inside me, over me and beneath me, and it’s all just insane.

Him knowing exactly how to accomplish this is a mystery—stupid freak of a libido—but he plays me like the strings on his cello. The pads of his fingers graze against the hot bundle of nerves in between my legs and I shiver, knees buckling. His strong, muscular arm wraps around me, holding me up.

“Careful,” he says, pushing a breathy chuckle against my mouth in another kiss. “We’re not finished yet.”

The bulge in his pants pushes against my thigh and I reach for him without much thought, sliding my hand down his length. He hisses and returns his attention to my neck.

I knew he was big, even before what happened in the Stairway to Hell. I’d felt him, and geez, I’d basically seen him through the thin, clingy fabric of his Speedo countless times. But holding him like this, it’s just not the same. It’s not the same, and it’s not enough.

I tug frantically at his shirt, freeing it from his pants, and then shove my hand under his waist band. He exhales raggedly when I slide my hand down the hot, smooth skin. It twitches in my hand, his hips pushing eagerly into my palm.

He pulls back to look me in the eye when he says, “I’m not coming in my pants again.”

My hand goes still, because I can’t give Hamilton a blow job. I won’t. I won’t fall in line like the other girls he hangs out with, the ones that want to be his girlfriend. I will not take the test.

“I just wanted to make that clear,” he adds, fully unaware of my mental war. And then he drops to his knees, forcing my hand to slide abruptly away.

Even with him on his knees in front of me, his hand tugging down my panties, it still takes me an extended moment of disbelief to understand what he’s about to do.

“Bates.” My voice is reedy and panicked, and I’m not actually sure why. Here I am about to get eaten out by Hamilton fucking Bates, and I can’t seem to pry my damn knees apart.

“Hey.” He looks up at me, mouth red and swollen, and gently guides my hips back, until I’m leaning against the lab table. “Just relax,” he says, running his warm palms down my bare, trembling thighs. He licks his lips. “I just want to taste you.”

I swallow hard and press my weight into the table, casting a worried glance at the door. It takes a few moments of Hamilton touching me like that—hands stroking gently between my thighs—before he finally coaxes my legs to part.

He holds my gaze as his fingers return to my center, thumb pressing against my clit, and then licks his lips again and disappears beneath my skirt.