Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

“Nah,” I answer. “But this place has way better graffiti anyway. You’ll love it.”

She gives me a cynical look. “Will I, now.”

“Definitely,” I answer, feeling frenetic all of a sudden. “So you’ll come? With me?”

Jesus. How desperate did that sound?

Apparently not too much, because she gives me a small smile. It’s a little pursed, like she’s trying to hold it back but can’t. “Yeah, I’ll come.”

Ah, fuck. That smile gets me. “Can I touch you?”

The smile falls. “No.”

But I just nod, having figured as much. Her dog tags are lost somewhere beneath her uniform, so I can’t even fidget with them like I usually would when I get the urge to touch her. My eyes roam over her. “What about your hair? Can I touch your hair?”

Now that definitely sounded desperate.

She chews on her lip, eyes sliding shiftily to the side. “I don’t know.” Her eyes flit back to me for a moment and there’s something wary in them, like maybe she’s bracing for me to ridicule her for not knowing.

I don’t. “Can I try?”

“Uh…” She ducks her head to look at it—her hair—resting over her shoulders in a waterfall of shiny-black. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” I reach out slowly, watching her eyes track my hand, and touch it. It’s cool and soft, silky. When I run my fingers through it, sweeping it off her shoulder, she makes this sound—this little hitch of breath—and her eyes flutter closed.

I take the opportunity to duck in, pressing a gentle kiss to her jaw, right in the place I’d decked her that night at the docks. I linger there for a moment, inhaling the soft, honey-laced scent of her, before carefully pulling back.

When her eyes open, she looks all at once anxious and dazed.

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot at nine,” I say, giving her hair one last stroke.

She gives a slow nod. “Yeah, nine.”

I leave the room first, trying to figure out exactly when I decided to ask Sugar on a date and how in the world I got her to say yes.

The drive doesn’t take long.

I spend it with one eye on the road and the other on Sugar in the passenger seat. She looks fucking amazing in her denim jacket and holey jeans, that strip of skin on her thigh still taunting me. But every time I look at it, I also see a little dot. Birth marks? Scars? I’d sort of seen them last night in my dorm room, when she’d taken off her pants, but my brain wasn’t exactly firing on all pistons.

Not until I’d seen her back.

Nothing. Long story.

I glance at her and she’s looking down at the gear shift, blankly staring at the way my hand rests on the knob. There’s no point asking about it. Best case scenario, she’ll just duck the question. Worst case, she starts backing off. That’s okay, though. It’s not like I’m in any hurry to unload all of my shit on her, either.

“Are you hungry?” I ask, shifting down to idle at a stoplight in front of the bridge we raced under last time. “We can grab something on the way, or—”

“I’m not hungry.” It’s not said unkindly, but still feels like a rejection. And, then, quietly—almost begrudgingly, “But maybe something to drink.”

I instantly pull into the nearest fast food place, ordering us both a soft drink in the drive-through. “There,” I say, watching fixedly as she wraps her lips around the straw. “Now it’s a date.”

She sputters. “This isn’t a date, Bass.”

Fuck, I love it when she calls me Bass.

I reason, “A predetermined meeting between two sexually attracted people, which includes the consumption of something edible and-or potable? That’s a date.” I give my drink a long slurp, concluding, “And if you put out later, it could even be a good one.”

She rolls her eyes, but I can see the faint bloom of pink on her cheeks. “You’re hands down the most insufferable motherfucker I’ve ever met.”