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

18

Reyn

If this girl doesn’t close her legs right now, I might have to just walk out, or find a bathroom, or close myself up in the car and lose myself in some seriously deep breathing.

She looks like absolute sex, sitting there with her foot kicked up on the table and her skirt hiked so far up that a little sliver of panties is actually visible. In like five seconds, Vandy Hall took my top ten erotic moments and just swept them all into the trash can. I’m sure part of it is that I’ve been ragingly horny since stepping off the bus from Mountain Point, but the big picture is a high-resolution shot of her legs parting, those blue eyes watching me hawk-like.

She knows just what she’s doing.

My eyes zero in on this stray drop of water from the towel, running down her inner thigh, and look. I’m trying really hard to be stone here. Inside, I’m fucking losing it. I rub at the damp sweat springing up on the back of my neck.

“What about you?” she asks, her other foot swinging casually. “Where are you going to put it.”

“I don’t know.” I should tell her to close her legs. Instead, I pull the tattoo design from my pocket. “You should choose for me, too.”

That’s probably the most senseless thing about this. I couldn’t even choose which jeans to wear two hours ago, but apparently whatever’s messing with my executive function is completely immune to a choice between Vandy’s smooth, open thighs and literally anything. Maybe I could make that choice because there really wasn’t one.

I watch as she chews on her lip for a moment, eyes roving over me. Finally, she swings her leg back around, hopping off the chair. I look at her thighs when she stands, just to make sure it’s really not visible.

She approaches me, cheeks tinted pink, and pushes up my sleeve with a delicate touch, holding the tattoo against the curve of my bicep. Before the night at my house, I wouldn’t have let her touch me like that—afraid she’d see the scars—but that’s moot now.

“You can get away with it,” she notes about the tentative location, “jocks always get leeway.” But she drops my sleeve, her eyes darting down to my stomach. “Can you lift up your shirt? Just a little.”

I do as I’m asked, because if she touches my stomach, things are going to get out of control. This is very different from our ‘I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours’ scar exhibit the other night. That had been about revealing the painful secrets that only we share. This is very much about now, like there’s this charged, sex-fueled bubble surrounding us. I’m silently begging my body to behave, something I know is mostly futile. I’m already half-hard.

I pull up my shirt and watch as she stares at my stomach, those blue eyes drinking me in. For once, I’m grateful for the years of mandatory sit-ups. I’m not stupid. I know exactly how I look.

Her eyes dart to mine briefly, and there’s a question there. Like she wants permission. I look back at her, an answer in the curve of my brow. Whatever you want. Worshipping at the altar of Vandy’s thighs is the closest I’ll ever get to an organized religion. She has no idea how much power she has over me.

She takes the permission for what it is, and two fingers bury themselves beneath my waist band, hooking into the denim. I gnash my teeth—stone stone stone—but there’s no calming down with this girl. That’s the problem. I knew it when I was fourteen. I knew it when she kissed me under the shadow of the tree house. I knew it when I woke up and found her asleep on my chest. All these things I feel for Vandy can’t just be locked away, and the more I try, the worse shit gets.

She tugs at my pants, the waist loose enough to get over my hips. I bite my bottom lip as she explores the area. There is zero doubt about her inexperience, because she’s toying with all the hot zones like it’s nothing for her to ghost over the hair of my happy trail. Her thumb settles on my hip, just outside the cut of muscle I’ve worked so hard to possess. She rubs a small circle and says, “There.”

I look down as she presses the paper to it, testing. It’s sort of halfway between my hip and stomach, easily hidden. I have to wet my lips before I rasp out a quiet, “Yeah?”

“No one will ever know it’s there, and also…” Her fingers graze the muscle, eyes growing heavy when my stomach twitches. “This is your second hottest feature.”

My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. “Really now?”

Her face is flaming red, but she just meets my gaze and gives a casual shrug. “Absolutely.”

I have to ask. “What’s the first?”

Her grin is this slow, sort of wicked thing that I never really thought her capable of. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She reaches for the damp cloth and pours fresh water on it. I watch with my belly caved in and my cock hard as a motherfucking rock, as she carefully applies the tattoo right where she wants it. There’s no way she’s not seeing what she’s doing to me.

We wait for it to take hold, her hand clamped around my hip, pressing the towel into my muscle. She’s looking at my abs again, and she’s so close that I can see the way her eyelashes flick and twitch as her gaze climbs and dips. She’s not particularly trying to hide it.

This is totally an eye-fucking.

She carefully peels the paper away, skimming her fingers around the Devil’s mark. She says, “All good,” and her voice is this breathy, trembling thing that makes me want to push her against something sturdy and vertical.

She steps back, but my hand impulsively curls around her neck, fingers threading in her hair, keeping her close. She freezes, watching me, but my eyes zero in on the delicate patch of skin beneath her ear. I think about marking her there too, this time for all the world to see.

Mine now.

It’s a seductive falsehood, but it doesn’t make me want it any less. I rest a thumb under her chin and lift it, searching her eyes to see what this is. Is she toying with me for the fun of it? I wouldn’t hold it against her. I’d play along, shrug it off. Or does she want to feel whatever this thing is between us spark and catch fire?