A Deal With the Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 2)

“I’m ready,” I blurt, walking in the direction of the room. I enter the small space, the walls covered in a mix of colorful and black and white art. In the middle of the room, there’s a long chair-slash-table convertible combo, a lot like the deck chairs at the pool, except this one is padded and sturdy. Next to it stands a stainless-steel table filled with supplies. My eyes linger on the containers of ink, the small squeeze bottle of water, and the clean cloths. The nervous flutter sparks in my belly again, but it’s a different kind of anticipation than it had been before. When I turn around, Reyn is in the doorway, leaning against the frame, arms folded over his chest. He looks tired, but there’s a softness to his eyes as he watches me that I’m not quite used to.

“Where did you decide to put it?” he asks.

“I haven’t,” I admit, taking the temporary tattoo from my bag. “Somewhere bulletproof invisible, that’s for sure.” When I look up from the paper bearing the pitchfork, I catch it again—his eyes rapidly flicking away from my thighs.

“I haven’t decided, either,” he offers.

I rub my thumb over the ink on the paper, mind blooming with an idea. Just thinking about it makes my skin feel a little too hot, but I can hear Afton and Elana in my head, flaunt it. But I’m not someone who flaunts, mercilessly or otherwise, and I’m already certain that I’m about to make a fool out of myself.

“I was thinking,” I begin, backing myself up to the chair. “I could do it here.” I watch him as I lift the side of my shirt, tapping the soft patch of skin over my ribs. His eyes follow the motion. “It’s above my scar, so I already have a whole wardrobe built around hiding it.”

He meets my gaze again. “Looks good.”

“Or…” I scoot myself up, onto the chair, and plant one of my feet in the middle of it. “… I could get it here.” I have no idea how the hell I manage to keep my voice even as I hike up the hem of my skirt and spread myself open, exposing my inner thigh.

His eyes drop to the spot, face going slack. I watch as he stuffs his hands into his pockets, piercing green eyes taking it all in.

I wet my lips, explaining, “Because no one ever sees this.” It isn’t like the other times, where his eyes immediately dart away. He takes two steps into the room and freezes there, lips parting. “What do you think?”

“Me?” he asks, eyes flying up to mine before snapping right back down. His voice is husky, rough. “I don’t know.”

His eyelids are heavy now, and my thighs erupt in vicious tingles at the weight of his stare, this awareness of what I’m doing to him. I pull my hem up a little more, ignited by the way his jaw tightens. “You choose.”

His breath escapes in a loud exhale, eyes lurching away. “This is about you, V. You really shouldn’t let me choose.”

Softly, I ask, “Why?”

“Because.” From my periphery, I can see his fists clenching inside his pockets. His voice is quiet, accusing. “You know what I’ll choose.”

I drag my lip through my teeth. “Choose.”

We both know what I’m asking, and it has little to do with the tattoo. I’m completely twisted up inside as I watch him go still, eyes darting from the paper to my thigh, to my eyes, to the table.

He knows exactly what I’m asking. “Hand it over.”

I give him the paper, and although I’m preparing for him to approach my leg with the wet towel he’s preparing, I’m equally as prepared for him to tell me to lift my shirt. So when he turns to me, reluctantly approaching the chair, and rests a hand on my knee, I shudder out an exhale.

“Here?” he asks, pressing the paper to my skin.

It’s all I can do to stop myself from squirming under the light pressure. “Higher.”

He looks at me through his lashes, skittering the paper up an inch. “Here?”

I swallow and reach down, fingers loose around his wrist as I tug it higher. “There.”

His eyes watch this, and the way he’s clenching his teeth makes his features sharper, severe. “You’re sure.”

“Yes.”

He presses the towel to the paper and holds it there, thumb pushing it into my thigh. I lean back on m

y hands as we wait, watching him watch me. His eyes are all over them, crawling up one thigh and then the other. It’s killing me, the way the air is practically humming around us, charged with something heady and electric. I’m hoping he doesn’t notice how shallow my breath is, how heavy my own eyelids have gotten, but inside, I’m a complete mess of molten hot want. The way he looks, leaning over me, hand clamped around my thigh? I’ve never been so wet in my entire life.

We both exhale when he eases the towel away, peeling the paper back. A droplet of water glides down my leg and he wipes it away with his finger. I take a break from watching him to look down and see it for myself—a perfect little pitchfork pressed onto my inner thigh, six inches above my knee.

I don’t have to wonder how I’ll be able to look at this for the rest of my life. It’ll be a reminder of all the things I’d thought about before, but now it’s a reminder of this thing that passes between Reyn and I when our gazes meet.

I don’t think I’ll have any problem immortalizing the heat in his eyes.