Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

I don’t want to. I want to hold on to the good feelings. The warmth underneath the anxiety. The crazy zings happening between my legs. The impulse to sink deeper and deeper. I push a breath from my lungs in a long, tremulous exhale. The fear and self-doubt and worry are there, but there’s something else, too.

Defeat.

“Oh, fuck it.” I climb over the gear shift and clamber into his lap. I capture his lips with mine before he can do more than inhale. My kiss is aggressive and vaguely hostile, punishment clear in the way I crush myself into him.

He instantly surges back into the kiss, all defiant tongue and soft lips, meeting my fight with one of his own. The hard length of his cock presses between my legs when I settle against him, and I grind down, thighs trembling. He groans hot and rough into my mouth, and I can feel his hands lifting to grab my hips.

I rear back, panting, “Rule number one,” and wait for the inevitable. An argument. A confused expression. A look that says I’m crazy.

But he sits there beneath me, chest heaving, and just nods. “Hands to yourself, yeah, yeah, got it, just—” He lurches forward to capture my lips, and I let him, licking back into his mouth.

The rules here aren’t even, though. I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself and get lost in running them down his chest, feeling the expanse of his defined muscles. He breaks away just to drop to my neck, pressing hard, wet, open-mouthed kisses up to my ear. With my eyes closed, I grind down on him again, chest hitching when his hips buck upward in response.

“Jesus, Sugar,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?”

You’re a fat, ugly bitch.

Lazy, ungrateful freak.

Stupid little cunt.

The slurs I’m used to echo past Sebastian’s question. My skin prickles, waiting for the blow, the kick, the stinging whip of a belt against my back.

But he kisses my mouth, and his lips are warm and soft. There’s no pain following the words, and I rub against him, seeking the good feelings, the temporary rush of euphoria that I can normally only give myself. Sebastian’s hand reaches out, but not for me. He grabs the back of the passenger seat, fingers curling tight around the top as he lifts his hips into my rocking grinds.

He mutters things between kisses. Idle, mindless, impossible things. “Knew you wanted this.” He licks deep into my mouth. “Been hard for you for weeks.” A kiss to my throat. “Christ, I wanna fuck you.” A long, sucking lip lock. “Come on, let me fuck you.”

I fist my hand in his shirt, grunting, “Shut. Up.”

Incredibly, he does.

He lets me ride him like this, rocking against the hard cock I can feel beneath his jeans, and it’s sweltering. I can feel a bead of sweat running down the small of my back. Sebastian’s skin is like fire. His mouth works greedily over my neck and lips, taking and taking, like he’s afraid it might get snatched away, so he’s grabbing whatever he can.

I press my palm against the foggy window when a whimper slips past my defenses, sliding into his kiss. He makes a sound back, something guttural and unrestrained, and the throb between my legs grows into an urgent pang. He feels so hard between my legs, he has to be getting chafed or crushed, but he keeps thrusting into it, breaths coming in ragged spurts.

When I take a chance to open my eyes and finally look at him—at his red cheeks and swollen lips and glazed, heavy-lidded sex-eyes—it’s almost enough to send me right over the edge. But that’s not what triggers the coil to spring.

It’s the way he’s watching me so closely. There’s a sweet sort of agony in his face, like the way we’re rocking against each other hurts, but there’s also a flash in his eyes. A sharp delight. Like someone who’s being given something they really wanted. Like he’s enthralled by it. Like maybe all those sweet, dirty words before weren’t just about getting into my pants. Like maybe he actually does think I’m beautiful. Someone worth having.

That’s what takes me to the precipice, sending the wave of an orgasm shuddering between my legs. I’m quiet, gulping my pleasure down, but Sebastian is anything but.

He bites out a sharp, “Oh, fuck,” and groans, slamming a fist into the ceiling. His hips thrust harshly upward, lifting me with him. His razor-sharp jaw tenses and then he exhales, head falling back on the seat.

He never looked away from me once.

It’s in that post-orgasm haze that my stomach drops. The panic floods my chest like rolling waves, building and building. I fumble away from him, limbs shaking.

“Hey, hey, no,” he rushes out, tensing beneath me. “Sugar, just wait.”

I push against the driver’s side door, releasing the latch and tumbling outside. Too stunned by his own orgasm—or possibly the simple fact that I’m just a freak—he doesn’t move quickly enough to stop me. And like I should have done when I first walked into this garage, I run, and never look back.

13

Sebastian

Sugar Voss wants my dick.

Just thinking about it kept me up all night—both my dick and my brain. Even three jerk-off sessions later, I’m still thinking about it. About Sugar. About how she totally wants my dick.