I lean my head back against the padded arm of the couch, overwhelmed by his touch. He presses his face in my cleavage, burying himself in my flesh, then yanks at the cup of my bra, tugging it down so my breast spills out. He squeezes them together, and I feel the heat of his mouth—his tongue—as it licks between them and then latches around a nipple, sucking and tonguing the peak.
Needing to feel him, I push resolutely against the hem of his shirt, seeking the heat of his skin. He rears back and reaches behind his neck, yanking his shirt over his head.
Fucking hell.
Talk about perfection.
Bass’s upper body looks carved from stone, a conglomeration of fine genetics and hard work. I run my hand up his abdomen, over his chest, and then lurch up to kiss the Devil symbol inked there. A big piece of Sebastian, one I didn’t fully understand until the game and the stairway and right now, clicks into place. This is why he walks around like he owns the place. This is why his classmates love him. This is why he gets away with murder.
He’s Preston royalty.
I look up into his face and see that he’s watching me closely. “Thank you for bringing me down here,” I say quietly. “I know it’s a big risk.”
His lips are a bright, vivid pink, eyes darkening as he holds my stare. “The first initiation into the Devils,” he begins, propping himself up with a hand beside my head, on the arm of the couch. The other hand glides over my chest, across one breast, down to my ribs. “We had to tell our worst sin.” His fingertips climb back up, eyes flicking down to watch its ascent. “It was recorded, so that if any of us spilled the secret, the people in charge would leak it.”
My stomach sinks, even as I surge into his touch. “Mutually assured destruction.”
He nods, blond hair falling into his face. “Do you know what mine was?” I shake my head, sucking in a slow breath when he bends, pressing a lingering kiss to my jaw. “You.” His fingers replace his lips, blue eyes boring into mine. “This. What I did that night.”
My stomach sinks even further, but this time it’s a bittersweet sort of ache. “Sebastian,” I say, reaching up to cup his cheek.
But his jaw just tightens as he says, “I don’t want to have any secrets between us, Sugar. I want you to trust me.”
I run a thumb over his cheek, nodding in understanding. “I do.”
“Good.” His tongue darts between his lips and he places a hand on my lower stomach, pushing me back against the cushions. “Do you trust me enough to make you feel good?” His fingers curl around the waistband of my leggings and his eyebrow raises. “I know you hate it when I do shit for you, but I really, really want to do this. Just let me…” He seems at a loss for words for a moment, lips forming around an aborted reply. “Just let me show you. Please?”
I nod, pushing past the twist of anxiety in my chest. “Show me.”
He peels off my leggings, struggling to get the tight fabric over my feet. “Fucking spandex,” he mutters, before going back for my panties. His frustration makes me laugh, easing a bit of the intensity. I do trust Bass, more than anyone else, but letting him take control of my body like this is hard for me. It’s the loss of control and security, sure. But it’s also something new to begin craving. Something new to miss when it goes away.
Despite my agreement, my body fights against me like usual, knees clamping shut once I’m bare. Bass sits before me and kisses each knee before stroking up and down my legs, coaxing them to part. “Can you relax for me?”
I take a deep breath and let my legs fall apart, one against the couch, the other on the seat. This time, he runs his hands up my thighs, eliciting a spark that travels to my core. He switches to gentle kisses, while kneading his fingers into my thighs. I focus on his shoulders, the way the muscles tense and retract, the tattoo inked around his collar. I feel his eyes on me like a branding iron when they rise to my center, a soft groan pouring from his chest.
“So fucking hot, Sugar.” His eyes flick up to mine as he moves closer, and when his tongue flicks out and swipes against my clit, I seize and grab for his thick blond hair.
“Oh!” I gasp, pulling harder. He hums in response and flattens his tongue, coating my pussy with wet warmth.
It’s hard to reconcile, the squirming feeling of wanting to both let him in and shut him out. My knees keep wanting to close, even though my hips happily writhe into him, giving him more of me. He takes it in stride, curling a hand around my thigh and easing it away, spreading me, tongue working me over in expert ways.
He whispers things as I watch him, breathless and captivated. “So fucking gorgeous. Do you like that?” Some of it is completely nonsensical. “I want to, but I won’t. I’m not gonna ask.” Sometimes he’ll mutter a low curse and reach down to squeeze the tent in his pants. Mostly, they’re sweet things, though. Sweet and dirty things. “Been thinking about this for days. Always so fucking hard for you.”
When his fingers join the party, two sinking right into me as his tongue works my clit, my knees don’t even think of closing. They just spread wider and wider, until I’m nothing but an open mess of whimpers for him, hand fisting into his hair.
Fear fades into a tingling, good sensation and I lift my hips into his face. Sebastian reacts by sucking my clit with his open mouth, and it’s all so good, so right, that whatever I’d been worried about, whatever part of my body had been not cooperating, completely vanishes. I barely have time to enjoy the weightlessness of it—the ‘oh god, I’m coming’ part of it—as the orgasm rolls over me quickly, furiously, and I buck into him with a loud cry.
Sebastian breathes hot and heavy against my body until the spasms stop. Then he jolts to his knees and unbuttons his jeans, reaching inside. Through the foggy, post-orgasmic haze, I watch as he runs his hand over his erection in jerky, fast strokes. When he slides a finger back inside me, hooded eyes fixed to where it disappears, still gripping his cock, I don’t even have the presence of mind to feel weird or self-conscious about it.
His eyebrows sort of collapse as he fucks his finger into me, like he’s imagining it’s not his finger doing it. Like he wants to fuck me so bad that it doesn’t even take much to pretend this is his cock.
He doesn’t ask, though.
Maybe all that talk before wasn’t so nonsensical, after all.
It’s not the first time I’ve seen him do this, but we’re long past the slow foreplay we’d experienced that night in his room. He’s so close I could touch him if I wanted to, almost hovering over me, and if I could, I’d catch up to his quick movements. But by the time I shake out of the haze, he’s pulling his finger out of me, jaw tensing, eyes slamming closed as he heaves forward. His hand jerks to a stop. “Fuck,” he grunts, spilling over his fist, dripping hot and sticky on my stomach. His eyes open and he looks down with a grimace. “Fuck. Fuck, Sugar, I didn’t mean to…”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, pushing up to watch the hot cum dribble down my belly. I reach for his neck and pull him down. “It’s fine.” I kiss him, because it is fine. The fact that he did that for me, and that I got to see him go there... it isn’t even gross. If anything, it just makes me like it even more, wearing him like this. Marked, again.