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

I break from the kiss with a sharp inhale, feeling too exposed. “I’m glad the training paid off, but…” I bite down on my lip when he noses behind my ear, breathing me in. Scared of putting him off, I reluctantly ask, “Can you give me a second? I was just cleaning up in the bathroom.”

Luckily, he takes it in stride, pressing a deep, “Sure,” into my neck. His fingers drag as he steps away, eyes dropping to my legs. “Want me to lock the door?”

My throat clicks with a loud swallow. “Yeah, good idea.”

I close myself in the bathroom, and sure enough, my reflection is telling me what I already know. My face is beet red, eyes a little bit wild around the edges.

I brush my teeth and look down at the white bikini panties, a little horrified there’s nothing sexier in my drawer. All those trips to the mall with Sydney and never once did it cross my mind to buy something to be prepared.

Not like I’d ever have been prepared for Reynolds McAllister. In my bedroom. On a Friday night. With my parents downstairs.

I reach in my drawer and tug on a pair of soft cotton shorts, unhooking my bra. I take one glance back at the jewelry box, nerves craving a hit of something to chill me out, but I know one thing for sure.

Whatever is about to happen with Reyn, I want to be able to remember it. Every little detail.

I walk into the room and find him sitting on the cushioned chair by the window. Distantly, I’m surprised that he’s not on the bed. But it’s hard to focus on that when his sharp green eyes drink me in, roaming from head to toe and lingering heavily on my thighs. The tattoo is completely visible in these shorts.

“Is this okay?” he suddenly asks, gaze fixing to mine. “I know I just barged in. I probably should have texted you first.”

“No, it’s good! Great, really.” Quieter, I admit, “I wanted to see you.”

He smiles, fingers tapping the arm of the chair. “Yeah, I wanted to see you too.”

I step in front of him. “I just…I’m not sure if I’m ready for...” I make a gesture that’s meant to encompass the very concept of sweaty sexual relations, but instead is just a spastic jerking. “That. Yet.”

His forehead creases—for about three seconds. Apparently, my gesture was informative enough, because his face goes slack in realization. “I didn’t come here to have sex, Vandy.” His voice is low, and despite his words, he barely has to reach forward to brush his fingertips over my legs. “Just what kind of guy do you take me for?”

I give a nervous smile. “The kind of guy who has a lot more experience than me?”

His hand drops, fingertips dragging away. “Not with this,” he says, eyes boring into mine. “It’s not like I’ve exactly had an active dating life. I was trapped in a school with three

hundred other guys.”

Dating life, my brain screams.

I relax, nudging him with my knee. “That’s a good reason not to date.”

“Yeah,” he reaches out and grabs my hand, pulling me close, “but there were other reasons, too.”

He wants me to ask and, like a fool, I do. “Like what?”

“Like,” he says slowly, looking up at me through his lashes, “this girl I knew was still back home. I hurt her pretty bad, and I wasn’t going to be satisfied until I saw she was better.” He lifts my hand to his lips, and he kisses me on the back of the knuckles. “And then when I saw her, suddenly I knew why I’d waited. She was even prettier than before. Funny. Determined. Sexy.” He drags me, stunned, between his knees, hands stroking my legs. “I’m not here to pressure you, V. I just want to hang with you, and if we can’t do it in public, we’re going to have to make our own opportunities.”

His left hand trails from my thigh to my hip, pushing at the hem of my shirt. He stares at my stomach and rubs his fingers over the numb ridge of the scar. The surgeries left me with little feeling there, too much nerve damage, but I can feel his touch, the warmth of his breath as he kisses the puckered skin.

“Tell me about it.”

I swallow, already knowing my voice is thick with unshed tears. “You were there.” I wasn’t expecting him. Not like this. Not sweet and soft and the way he looks at me, like I’m something special. Chosen. I hope he understands that the wetness in my eyes isn’t bitterness or hurt. It’s an ache, for sure.

But a good one.

“Not really.” He shakes his head and looks up at me, eyes brilliant and sure. “Not for what happened after. In the hospital, at home. I want to know.” His voice is so soft that I can hardly make out the words, “I need to know.”

I reach out to touch his cheek, cupping it in my palm. “Are you sure?”

I ask, because it’s ugly and I know it’ll stab him in the heart, but he nods and says, “I’m sure.”

I take a deep breath. “Will you tell me about yours, too?” I ask, thumb rasping against the stubble covering his jaw. “Where you’ve been?”