Devil May Care (Boys of Preston Prep 1)
Like I was one of her charity cases.
But a much, much smaller part of me, one that I admittedly didn’t have control over, wanted to tell her that I did hurt. That for all my talk of the importance of family and lineage, the line I walked was precarious and painfully thin. It wanted to tell her that it was all stupid—that I knew it was stupid—but it was mine. And that I’d already seen my sister fall from the tightrope of it all, clutching and clawing, and all the worse for wear because of it, and how was that stupid? It wanted to tell her that the future of the Bates’ line fell on my shoulders, and that I follow it out of fear just as much as responsibility.
Mostly, it wanted to tell her—to singe all her softness with the truth of it—that my whole life is nothing more than a never-ending string of frantic attempts to achieve the next stupid fucking thing, because I naively believe it’ll get better once I do.
It’ll be better
when I pass exams.
It’ll be better when I finish the year with the highest GPA.
It’ll be better when I make captain.
It has to get better.
And it never fucking does.
But as much as I’d love to sting her with it, Adams doesn’t deserve that truth—not from me.
The problem is that she just won’t stop arguing. She won’t stop pushing. She’s got zero fucking common sense, just standing before me with that face and body and argumentative little mouth like a gust of wind threatening to blow me right off that line.
What is it about this girl, and why the hell does she keep tripping me up?
It’d be so easy to just blame it on hormones. She’s beautiful, with that shiny, sweet-smelling hair, her full lips and round tits. The thing about Adams is that she’s pretty—she’s got this soft, open-looking face—but she’s also nice and sturdy. She’s got a great figure, of course, but she’s not fragile and delicate like some of the other twigs around here.
I could probably bend her over something. Hell, I could probably bend her in half. I could probably slam my dick into her over and over again, and she’d be able to handle it. No, she’d probably give back just as good. She could probably ride me hard and put me away wet. She’d probably twist that hot, annoying little mouth of hers into an evil smirk while she wrings it all from me, tits bouncing, hair swaying as she screws herself down onto my—
“Fuck.”
Warm jizz drips over my fist, and I scramble for a dirty shirt to clean up, panting.
That’s right. I jerked off. Again.
To Gwendolyn Adams.
Again.
I can’t keep doing this. It can’t be healthy. I’ve got Reagan so ready and willing to do whatever I want, but I just... don’t. No, my mind, my libido, my fantasies, and my fucking nightmares keep going back to Gwendolyn over and over again. I just can’t shake it.
If it’s not hormones, then it has to be nothing more than a simple case of a spoiled little rich boy wanting what he can’t have. That makes sense, right? She’s the chocolate cake on the highest shelf. The forbidden bottle of Scotch in my father’s liquor cabinet. The Porsche I took out on a midnight spin before I had a license.
She’s just off limits, that’s all.
It’s completely logical to want it.
Right?
Sighing, I toss the dirty shirt into the hamper and zip up my jeans. My knees aren’t weak as I dig around the closet for my United shirt, but I do need to take a moment to regain my bearings. The game is in a few hours and Xavier’s dad is sending a car to pick us up to take us to the stadium. Couldn’t have happened at a better fucking time. Some time away from here, some fresh air and excitement, will be just the thing to exorcise her from my mind.
My injured finger brushes against the inside of my shirt as I pull it on, and I wince. The wound isn’t a big deal, it’s just a scrape, even if it bled like crazy. But something about it had really pissed me off. It wasn’t the work. I mean, am I used to performing tedious labor? Hell no. Why would I be? Am I ashamed my family can afford a staff—which, I sneer inwardly to Gwen, creates gainful employment for skilled workers, thank you very fucking much? Nope.
It wasn’t the work that pissed me off.
It was that she was doing it faster, easier, better.
I walk into the bathroom and fish around for a Band-Aid to cover the raw scrape. Unfortunately, I don’t have any. Instead, I find a roll of gauze, which I use to wind around my finger a dozen times, tucking the end under. It’s sloppy and will probably annoy me all night, but it’ll work.
Out in the lobby, the guys are sitting around playing video games. I know that Emory and Heston will meet us there. Xavier lives on campus primarily, because his parents travel a lot, but mostly because of the big party he’d thrown at their lake house over the summer. He blames me. My dad had already demonstrated that such a punishment was becoming of the community’s unruly boys, so it suddenly became a viable option to any parent with an axe to grind. Ansel also lives on campus, but that’s only because he’s a lazy fucker who can’t be bothered to drag his ass out of bed any earlier than seven—although I’m sure being in close proximity to girls 24/7 is probably a significant part of the appeal.