Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

*

The ride with Campbell is awkward. I try to strike up a conversation three times, but it falls flat. She barely answers me. I give up, spending the rest of the drive staring at my phone, full of excited nerves. I’ve been to parties before, but nothing like one thrown by the Devils.

And definitely nowhere like the Wilcox Compound, which is what everyone jokingly tags it as on social media. This place is insane.

When we arrive, Campbell all but leaves me to scurry after her in my heels. About the only thing that makes me feel a little less like an out of place loser is the way Heston looks at me when his eyes find me.

He smiles. “Hey. You made it.”

Breathlessly, I say, “Yeah. Hi.”

His eyes have that little gloss to them, like maybe he’s already a bit buzzed off something. I don’t blink an eye when he hands me a beer, a hand landing on my lower back to lead me into a room with a billiard table.

We spend a long time like that, him leading me around the party, talking to people here and there—people I know of, but don’t actually know. None of them really pay attention to me, but sometimes, Heston will bend down to say something into my ear, like, “You have nice legs,” or, “See that guy over there? That’s Carl. He can get you anything you want,” or, “Want another drink?” Every time he does, I get a small shiver, and the hand on resting on the small of my back rubs a little, like he knows.

I wasn’t totally expecting it, so it’s surprising to find that I’m definitely the girl on his arm for the night. The other girls seem surprised at the way he keeps me at his side too, throwing me the occasional confused or jealous glance. Even when he starts up a game of pool with his boys, he still returns to me, leaning in to talk some whispered smack about Ansel’s form.

Never one to be bashful about these things, when the game winds to a close, I play it up, straining to give him a kiss on his cheek for good luck.

When he sinks the eight ball, his eyes find mine, mouth slanting into a wicked grin.

It’s such a thrill. Heston isn’t just good looking and popular. He’s a Devil. He’s one of the Four Horsemen of the school. He and the other guys have reputations beyond being smart and athletic. The Devils have impossible standards. Each one is rumored to have a ‘test’ girlfriends are supposed to pass to even be with them. Passing a test, getting ‘marked’ by one of them, is the fastest way to the top of the social ladder.

But that’s not why I’m here. I don’t really care about status. I’ve had my eye on him for a while—there’s something magnetizing about him. Dangerous. Sexy. I’ve heard the rumors about his cock and I’m positively dying to give it a spin.

Sometimes you see the big, life-altering events barreling like a freight train down the track. Other times it happens in a blink, no warning sound, no flashing light, no barricades keeping you off the tracks.

I should know this is one of them, but it’s hard to think when his lips are so warm, tasting bitter-sweet like beer when he kisses me, right in front of everyone. It’s impossible when he whispers in my ear, “You’re so pretty. Want to go upstairs?” And I’m too far gone by the time I’m up in his room, taking in the boyness of everything; the scent of his body spray, the box of condoms on his dresser, the grinning Devil on the flag hanging over his messy, unmade, bed.

“Do you live out here by yourself?” I ask, chills running down my spine from the feel of his lips on my neck. “Not in the main

house?”

“I like how it’s quiet,” he answers, voice deep and smooth. “Private.”

It’s not quiet now—well, not downstairs. Down there, the party is in full swing; alcohol, skinny dipping, loud music. The bass vibrates through the guest cottage walls, shaking the dresser mirror with every thump and thud. It’s a crazy party, one made even crazier by the fact I was invited by Heston Wilcox himself.

He crosses the room and stops in front of his desk, fussing with a laptop. Music streams through the speakers, covering up the rowdy rap from downstairs. The curve of his shoulders, the way he moves—sure and masculine—makes something low in my belly spark.

I know how it is for guys. They have to flirt and put on a bunch of pretense to get into a girl’s pants. I’ve seen the games.

I’m not here to play.

I know what I want and I know how to get it. No frills, no bullshit. I want on Heston’s dick, like ten minutes ago, and I’m not about to make him work for it.

I take off my sweater and take a quick glance in the mirror to adjust my purple lace bra. The bra makes my tits look fantastic, probably my best feature. Guys are super into them and I know it.

When Heston turns back to me, he blinks once, slow and long, as he takes me in.

My stomach flips at the intensity of his gaze. “It seems so grown-up to be out here alone. No parents, free to do whatever you want.” I watch as his fingers tug at the zipper on his hoodie, and he shrugs it off, tossing it on the back of a chair. Next he removes his shirt and I’m treated to his lean and long body. The perfect swimmer’s physique. “It’s cool that you can have parties like this, even though you’re only a junior in high school, and no one cares. My dad is pretty strict—"

His mouth is on mine, cutting me off, tongue pushing through my lips. His fingers move quickly, confidently, under my bra strap. “Fuck, you’re stacked,” he says eyeing my tits hungrily. He’s right. My tits are big. He circles my nipple with his fingers, sending a tremor between my legs. He pinches it and grins. “You like that?”

Electricity zings through my body. Pain and pleasure. I arch back against it. “I do.”

“I heard you like it dirty,” he says, biting on my earlobe.

I’m distracted by his upper body. The hard lines of his chest and abs. I parse his words and look up, feeling dazed. “What?”