Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

I flash her a winning grin. “Thanks.”

“Does that actually work for you?’ she asks, reclining back in the seat, looking perfectly at ease. “Badgering girls into getting on your dick?”

“You tell me.”

“I’m never going to fuck you,” she says, but even though it’s firm and brooks no argument, it’s lacking that tight, angry tone she usually says it in.

I wonder if she really believes that. I sure as shit don’t.

“Sugar, I need you to know…” I start, watching her lips around that straw, my dick stirring. “I’m really into you. Like, really into you. Into you enough to badger you for a piece of that fine ass, and trust me, that’s not something I’ve lowered myself to for anyone else.” She’s frozen, her eyes falling to my lips when I lean closer, voice a low, soft purr. “But if you spill that drink in my car, you’ll be walking that fine ass back to campus.”

Her slack, hypnotized expression instantly vanishes, replaced with something disbelieving and annoyed. “Shut up and drive, Wilcox.”

Laughing, I obey.

Turning past the cracked and weathered ‘For Sale’ sign, I enter the wide expanse of the parking lot. The huge, vacant building sits in the middle, windows boarded up and overgrown weeds climbing the brick walls. A few cars are idling down by the shuttered department store, along with a growing group of spectators.

“This is where everyone is meeting tonight?” Sugar asks, peering out the front window. “The mall?”

“The abandoned mall,” I clarify. “It’s been boarded up for years. It’s a good spot. The view’s obstructed from the streets, not many houses around, lots of space.”

She stares at the mall, eyebrow quirked. “It’s a little creepy.”

I grin at her. “Well, then I’ll just have to keep you safe.”

That comment makes her give me this bitchy look, but I don’t miss the way her cheek quirks, another one of those secret smiles pursing her lips. Fuck, it drives me crazy knowing that Sugar Voss, maybe even a better fighter than me, can’t even fight this.

She totally digs me.

I grip the steering wheel and lean over the center console. She watches me carefully, eyes darting to my hands then back to my mouth. Her tongue darts out to lick her bottom lip and she meets me in the middle, kissing me with her soft, sweet mouth.

I pride myself on being a good kisser, but Sugar is a challenge. She makes me feel sloppy—rushed—wondering if I’m going too hard or too fast or not hard enough. But she keeps letting me do it, so I think it’s probably not the worst she’s had.

Wait, has Sugar been kissed before? God, I know nothing about this girl.

A stream of lights parades down the lot, interrupting my thoughts and the kiss itself. “Unless you just want to park over here all night—which, for the record, I’m totally fine with—I should probably go get a spot.”

She brandishes her camera, only meeting my eyes in fits and starts. “Go get your spot. I came here to sweeten up my portfolio, not neck with you like a nineteen-fifties schoolgirl.”

I internally curse, but I’m also into her being here with me—beside me, all sweet and sour in my passenger seat, like a shiny prize—even without any necking. I shift the car into gear and the muffler rumbles as I make the slow drive across the parking lot. I find a good spot between a tricked-out Honda and an old El Camino. I hop out of the car while Sugar fusses with her camera, taking the opportunity to open the door for her. She looks up at me in surprise, blinking.

I offer her my hand.

She looks at it for a long, hard minute, and then back at me. I don’t know how this whole thing works. I can’t touch her—not with my hands—but she can obviously touch me. She could touch my hand, couldn’t she? But she doesn’t, so I pull it away, stuffing it into my pocket and moving aside for her to climb out.

“So,” she says, her voice a little more quiet than usual, “tell me what’s going on here?”

I pointedly don’t mention the hand thing. “Everyone circles up where we can check out each other’s cars, see the new detailing or mods. If we want to race, we’ll throw our names in the pot.” I point to a guy over by a souped-up Toyota. “That’s Darren. He figures out who’s racing who. If there are bets on it, he’ll take the money.”

She looks around, following where I point. “People bet on the races?”

“People bet on everything,” I say, taking a chance to reach out and stroke my fingers though the hair covering her shoulder. She just watches, unflinching. “Smart people bet on me.”

She studies me suspiciously for a minute, and I feel the heat creeping up my neck. Is this going to be one of her deal breakers? It’s not fighting, but it’s still illegal. “I thought you were into cars because you like restoring them.”

“I do,” I say, shrugging, “but I think you know me well enough by now

to see that I’ve got a competitive streak. I can’t fight. I can’t play lacrosse. What else am I going to do? Racing fills a need.” It feeds the wild craving I have inside for a rush, a chase for the win. It strikes like a match, burning bright, and it’s not as good as fighting—it’s not explosively physical—but the high of having conquered something through fuel and fire is close enough to do it for me. “I’m good at this, Sugar. I’m also smart. I know how to handle my car, who to compete against, and what kind of bets to place. When I race, I’m here to win. I’m not here to do something stupid.”