Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

I shake my head, clutching his hips between my thighs, hands clamped tight around each of his biceps. “Just start slow.”

He doesn’t mention the tremble in my voice, and I’m grateful. I wouldn’t know how to explain that it’s not nerves. It’s the complete lack of them. It’s the way everything feels so confusingly right. It’s the feel of his body against me, inside me, and how I’ve spent so long with that constant, gripping pressure in the pit of my chest that it’s only now I realize that I don’t feel it anymore. Not like this. Not with him.

His first thrusts really are slow—these long, dragging motions that make me feel every single inch of him. He shifts to one elbow, ducking his head to watch himself move against me and letting out a soft groan at the sight.

Palming the outside of my thigh, he asks, “Wrap your legs around me.”

When I do, winding them around his waist, he sinks even deeper, his jaw going taut. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

I gasp out his name when his hips meet mine again, the pressure creating just the right amount of friction to make an entirely new spark of heat roll up my spine.

“Yeah,” he breathes, kissing me as he repeats the motion, but faster, a little harder, like he’s seeing how far he can take it. Pretty fucking far, if the way my hips buck back against him is any indication.

He gets his arms beneath me, around me, and suddenly heaves us back. I shoot out a hand to steady myself, but there’s no need. He’s got me in his lap now, one large palm pressed between my shoulder blades, helping me find my balance.

It takes a moment to adjust, winding my arms around his neck, but he’s looking at me so desperately, a lock of hair fallen in his eyes. “Oh, god,” I breathe, surprised at the way rocking against him like this is seriously doing it for me.

The hand on my back curls around my shoulder, bearing me down with each rock. “Yeah, just like that,” he says, bringing his other hand to my ass, guiding my rhythm. He captures my lips in a searing kiss, never closing his eyes, even as mine flutter. “You feel so fucking good. Show me, baby. Show me how hard you want it so I can fuck you right.”

I want to tell him that it’s okay. That I can take it. That I’m not scared anymore—not of this. Tomorrow will be a different story. Once we’ve done it—once we’ve had each other like this—will come the worry, but for now?

For now, I want everything.

He grunts when I meet his hips hard, the sound of our skin clapping loud between us. He bites out a low, “Fuck, Sugar,” fingers digging into my ass when he meets my next thrust, jerking me into his body. He sucks a kiss into my neck, breaths coming harder. “You want it like that? You want it hard?”

“Fuck yes,” I grit out, wanting to feel it—all of it.

Without another word, he dumps me onto my back, hovering over me with dark eyes and tense muscles. He jerks his hips back and slams them forward.

“Oh, fuck!” I cry, scrambling at his back. “Don’t stop.”

Through the fog of feeling so full of him, the sounds of the headboard slamming against the wall, the way I’m crying out with each of his shallow, punching thrusts, I’m distantly aware of how beautiful he looks. The lock of hair in his eyes sways back and forth with his sure, powerful movements. He’s watching me with an angry brow, but I know it’s not anger he feels. I can tell in the way he keeps licking at his lips as he watches me, something sharp and satisfied flashing in his eyes every time I yelp out with abandon.

I dig my heels into the tops of his ass cheeks as he fucks me, curling a hand around his neck to bring him down for a breathless, badly-coordinated kiss. It’s mostly just tongues and wild panting, and when he wedges a hand between us to press against my clit, he swallows my whimper.

“Come on,” he grunts, fingers moving expertly against me. “Give me one more.”

I dig my fingers into his back, trying to get him closer, too overwhelmed by the sensations happening to do much more than sob out a hard breath. His eyes keeping moving back and forth between my tits, bouncing with the motions of our bodies, and my own gaze. It’s crazy, but mere minutes ago, I wouldn’t have thought I could come again. Now, I can feel it building low and deep, a twisting tangle of sweet ache driving me to grind against his hand with every bed-banging thrust.

“Sebastian,” I gasp, ensnared by his piercing stare, and his ragged voice husks back.

“That’s right. Give it to me, one more. Come with me.”

I can tell he’s already close, that crease between his eyes growing tighter, but he doesn’t look frustrated. His eyes shine back at me and he just looks so fucking pleased. Like he has this absurd amount of wealth and popularity and opportunity, but being inside me like this—his hard body with all its sharp edges plunging into me—is all he’s really wanted. It’s scary and breathlessly elating, like a jump from the highest cliff into the cool, chaotic waves of the river below.

When it finally happens, that explosion of white-hot everything, I claw wildly at his back, body bowed into an arch against his pounding hips. It seems like such a cliché to say I see stars, but that’s exactly what happens, a burst of sparking phosphenes detonating behind my eyelids as my body clenches and seizes around him.

He buries his face into my throat as his movements grow frantic and wild, a hand curling into the crown of my hair to shove me down against his wake. From over his shoulder, I watch the muscles in his back shift and roll like a stalking feline, feel the punch of his breath against my skin when he grunts, slamming into me and trapping me there between the bed and the hot pulse of him inside of me.

I can see his orgasm ripple through his muscles, starting at the base of his back and climbing up his flexing shoulders. Still caught in the gust of my own, I idly card my fingers through his hair, soothing him through it.

His clenching muscles release all at once, but he doesn’t miss a beat, wedging an arm behind me to roll us smoothly to the side. I collapse on his hard chest with a damp exhalation against his collarbone. The feeling of his dick slipping out of me makes me squirm against him, already missing it.

“Shh,” he whispers, threading his fingers in my hair, tucking me up beneath his chin. “So fucking good.”

We lay there for so long that our breath evens out, his palm gliding up and down my back in leisurely strokes. Sometimes he’ll pause there, fingers tracing over something I can’t see or feel, until he presses a kiss into my hair and repeats the circuit.

It takes too long for me