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

e way he touches me—god, the way he looks at me, so soft and intense, like I’m the only thing that exists here and he’s so grateful for it. His thumbs hold me down, anchoring my body so that my desire can build.

The sounds coming from me are unexpected; grunts and moans, words I can’t place, sharp fricatives. Slowly, we fall into a rhythm—our rhythm—one that’s coursed between us from the beginning. It all led to this. To this pounding. This pain. This pleasure.

His hips buck harder, frantic, and I know he’s close. I can see it in the pucker of his brow, the tremor in the arm that’s holding him up. “Baby,” he groans through gritted teeth. His sweaty forehead lands on my neck, mouth hot on the skin of my collarbone. He pushes out a long, raggedly whispered, “Fuuuuck,” before coming, back ramrod straight.

He collapses on me with heaving breaths, and I swear I can feel his thudding heartbeat against my chest. Before I have a chance to process the weight of him, solid and sure, his hand dips between my legs, circling my wet, aching clit. My body shudders from the sensitivity. It’s overwhelming. Too much.

“It’s—” I start, wanting to beg him to stop, to say that it’s enough for one day, but he leans over me and swallows my breath with a kiss. I sink and just when I think I’m going to drown, he pulls away and travels down my body, ultimately replacing his hand with his mouth. My hips buck, and his hands slide under my ass, tilting me upward. This, god this, is nothing like I’ve ever felt before. My orgasm, coiled tight, releasing like a pounding heartbeat, is so close, so near, that when it finally happens it’s like a breaking wave, crashing hard. My head presses into the pillow, heels digging into the mattress. My nails sink into his skin, needing something to hold onto so I don’t get washed away.

When I open my eyes, he’s looking down at me, lips shiny, curved into a smirk.

The feeling in my chest, in the pit of my stomach, I recognize it. It’s fear.

Not of pain. Of how much I love Reyn McAllister. I’d always thought we were connected, linked. But now? Now there’s no going back.

Homecoming Friday is a big day. There’s a tangible buzz in the air of Preston Prep. Dates are set, dresses are bought, and the pep rally scheduled, and even if it only means getting out of last period, what’s not to love?

But none of that matters to me.

I’m flying high. So fucking high. Way better than any drug I’ve ever taken. I’m high on Reynolds McAllister and from the smug look he gives me when I pass him on the way to Art, he feels the same way.

I pass Caroline on the way to my seat and wave hello, while ignoring Syd’s too-loud laughter coming from the other side of the room. She’d moved to another table last week, which leaves an empty chair next to mine. The bell is about to ring when a body slides into it.

“Hey, Vandy,” George says. “No one’s sitting here, right?”

I look around, shrugging. “Nope, it’s all yours.”

“Cool, cool, cool,” he mutters, pulling his sketch pad and pencil pouch out of his backpack. He zips and unzips the pouch a few times, dipping his fingers inside, yet never retrieving a pencil. I get my own pencil and eraser out and start on the morning assignment.

“So, I was wondering,” George says, finally having chosen a pencil, “if you’re going to the dance with anyone?”

Half-focused on the assignment, shading technique, I glance up. “Uh, yeah, I’ll probably swing by.”

“Swing by.” He moves the pencil wildly in and out of his fingers, until it flies across the room. “Oops.”

He scrambles to get it and all I can think is that Reyn was right. Not only did I do the right thing not giving this awkward, clumsy boy my first kiss, I probably dodged a bullet.

“Anyway,” he says, jumping back in his seat. “I thought, you know, maybe we could go together?”

“Together?” I slowly repeat. Shit. How did this happen? I glance back and see Caroline smiling in amusement.

“Right. I’d pick you up. We’d get some food. Then head to the dance.” He taps his pencil on the table, a rapid tattoo that’s drawing annoyed stares. “Together.” He looks at me hopefully. So very hopefully that I feel a little bad for him even if he’s been a touch too presumptuous in the past.

“That—” I spot Sydney from the corner of my eye. She’s focused on her sketch pad but it’s obvious she’s listening. Screw her. “That’s really nice of you to ask, but I’ve got to cover all the homecoming activities for the newspaper, and I don’t think I’d make a great… uh, date.”

“The newspaper.” He nods rapidly. “Right, right. I get it. Duty calls and all that.”

“Yep,” I tuck my hair behind my ear, feeling oddly embarrassed. “Mr. Lee’s a hardass. Deadlines and all.” Even I can feel the weakness of my smile.

Caroline, two rows back, gives me a thumbs up. It’s pretty obvious from George’s fidgeting that he’s regretting his seat choice right about now.

Two hours later I’m at lunch, Reyn on the opposite side of the table, tipping a can of soda to his mouth. He’s been eating cookies out of a bag that was left in his locker by one of the cheerleaders this morning. It doesn’t exactly make me jealous. It’s just some dumb homecoming tradition, cheerleaders showering the players with locker goodies on game day. But it does make me want to snatch the bag out of his hand and throw it across the room.

Okay, maybe it makes me a little jealous.

I could have left him food in his locker. And it would have been good food, too. Something other than empty calories. Protein, because Reyn is an athlete. Something with a sauce, because he likes stuff in a sauce. It’s bad enough I have to sit all the way over here, unable to touch him, do I really have to watch him eat some other girl’s food, too?

He’s not near enough that it completely rattles me—not close enough for me to accidentally brush up against his leg under the table. Or, you know, lick that sugary soda off his lips. Conversation floats. The guys are deep in discussion about the game. The girls are gossiping about who’s taking whom, some muttered worries of the weather possibly being bad and ruining hairdos. None of it penetrates. I just keep thinking about the way those hands of his were on me last night. The way he—almost obsessively—showered my inner thighs with obscenely wet, open-mouthed kisses. How his mouth felt between my legs. How his hard cock was—