Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

There’s only one way to approach this.

When I turn to face him, I shrug out of my jacket, throw it aside, and then push him down onto the couch.

He looks more satisfied than surprised as I straddle his lap. “See?” he says, leaning in to plant a slow, wet kiss to my neck. “You know exactly why you’re here.”

The feel of his lips beneath my ear makes me shudder and I exhale, pushing down on him. His cock is already growing hard beneath me, stirring a sharp heat between my legs. When he turns his face to me, I take his lips in a kiss, and it’s not like before. It’s not rough. It’s calculated and full of intent. His warm breath fills my mouth, and then his tongue, sliding smoothly between my lips.

I lean into it, my hardened nipples pressing against the thin fabric of my tank, drilling against his hard chest. I groan into his kiss, feeling the rush of desire, the heat of his body. Sebastian’s skin is fire—so much warmer than my own—leeching through every scrap of fabric separating us.

I don’t follow when he falls back, staring up at me with heavy-lidded eyes. His hand reaches out to clutch the dogtags swinging between us, giving the chain a light tug. “Can I touch you now?” I jerk back, the chain digging into my neck as I do. There’s a roll of anxiety threatening to drag me under and Sebastian flinches against me, but doesn’t chase. “You can say no. I might ask, but that doesn’t mean I’ll—you can say no.”

“No.”

His face falls—for just a moment—but it’s quickly replaced with a restless sort of want. He slings each arm against the back of the couch, the muscles across his chest, taunt and teasing, hands out of reach. “So tell me what you want, what I can do. I’ll follow it to a T.”

I stare at his mouth, those soft lips that feel so good against my overheated skin. I run a thumb over his bottom lip. “Just kiss me.”

He doesn’t argue, surging up to recapture my lips. Fuck, he’s a good kisser. I bet he’s good with his hands too, when he can actually use them. I try not to think too hard about it—about things I can’t have—and focus on this. The little rumble in his chest when my teeth rake over his lip. The way his head tilts, shoulders shifting to guide the kiss, like he doesn’t even need hands, because this—mouths and bodies—are enough.

He’s solid and firm beneath me when I writhe against him, and I’m feeling the same restless want I’d seen on his face moments earlier.

It’s not enough.

He looks startled when I spring to my feet, but it doesn’t last long. His tight, puzzled expression falls slack when I whip my tank top off over my head, throwing it aside. His eyes dart to my chest and linger there, hands fisting against the back of the couch. The feel of his gaze is as intrusive as if he was touching me, but it doesn’t hurt. There’s no malice, only want.

He mutters a slow, appreciative, “Goddamn.”

“Kiss me,” I say again, feeling the prick of my flushed skin.

He nods, caught in a haze, but then snaps out of it, standing up and giving me a blistering, hungry kiss on the mouth. I step closer, and oh god.

There it is.

Flesh to flesh. Touch. Sensation.

I gasp, “Wait,” and hold him there, nice and still. The feel of his hot skin against so much of mine makes something collapse inside of me, tumbling into a sweet kind of chaos. He looks confused when my forehead drops to his chest, maybe even worried, because suddenly I’m trembling. He stands there frozen, arms out, like he’s about to be assassinated or something. “Just… wait.”

He obeys, still as a statue as I soak in the feeling of a body against mine. The way his chest expands and contracts, the feel of his skin, the warmth, the life.

Texture, my brain supplies in the form of Georgia’s voice. Now you need something soft.

“Did I do something?” he asks, voice stilted.

I shake my head, not knowing how to explain that I haven’t touched anyone—really touched anyone—in so long, that I’d almost forgotten what being up against another life felt like. I swallow thickly. “No, I just needed… I needed…”

Instead of answering, I stretch up on my toes—the hard, sensitive nipples sliding against the hard planes of his chest—to capture his lips in an urgent kiss. He falls back into the moment like he never left it, and maybe he hadn’t. His cock is hard, arrow-sharp in his thin shorts. He doesn’t linger on my mouth long, having been given permission to explore.

He guides me with his body to swap our positions, nudging me back to the couch. I sit and he drops to his knees, palms flat on the cushions. I can tell he’s getting a little keyed up now, knuckles white with how hard he’s fisting them as he sucks a kiss into my neck, and then my shoulder, something greedy and possessive in the way he boxes me in. He burns a hot trail down between my breasts and I don’t stop him. Even when he pauses there, his warm breath feathering over a peaked nipple, his blue eyes raise to mine—a question.

I don’t say no.

His tongue flicks out, sending a spark of fire across my skin.

“Oh, god,” I gasp, arching into him.

“Your tits are fucking amazing,” he says, clamping his mouth around the peak. I lean my head back and run my hands over his shoulders. They’re smooth and strong. Powerful. From this vantage, I can see the corded muscles flexing in his back as he dips his head to take me in his mouth, assaulting my nipple with quick back-and-forth flicks of his tongue.

I learn quickly that Sebastian doesn’t need his hands to work magic. Just feeling this—watching him—is enough to make me squirm, hips bucking unthinkingly. The movement makes him pause, and he rocks back, reaching down to squeeze the tenting in his shorts.