Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

That’s how we end up sitting on the counter on either side of his sink, a squeaky exhaust fan to our front and the sound of chilly January wind to our backs.

He lights a cigarette and passes it to me, watching as I reluctantly take it, careful not to touch his fingers. “Looked like you needed it,” he explains.

I don’t know what the hell that means, but I suck in a drag anyway, letting it burn my chest. His eyes look about as tired as I feel, but he seems more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. Loose. Unguarded. Apparently, the post-orgasm version of Sebastian is something to behold.

“Can I ask you something?” he says, watching the stream of smoke as I aim it out the window.

I tuck my knees closer to my chest. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Can I ask you something?”

He looks surprised that I’d want to. “I’m an open book. Shoot.”

So I do. “Why aren’t you with Georgia?”

He lets out this soft, quiet laugh. “Not my type.”

“You’re friends, so you like each other,” I argue. “You’ve already hooked up with her, so you’re obviously attracted. You’re protective of her. You buy her gifts.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Jealous?”

For some reason it makes me angry, and I’m starting to suspect a part of that is that it does. “Maybe I don’t want to get into something that’s going to end in some CW love triangle bullshit. I like Georgia. She’s the closest thing I’ve had to a friend since middle school. So if there’s anything there, then I want out now.”

He plucks the cigarette from my fingers before I can bring it to my mouth, lifting it to his own. “Georgia is nice, and pretty, and yeah, she’s my friend. I’ve got her back. Not because we fooled around or because I’m into her, but just because that’s what I do for friends. I do the same for V or Caroline. Part of having Georgia’s back is knowing that we aren’t long-term material and not ruining a good friendship over something that’s just,” he makes a dismissive gesture, “never going to click. It started as a dare, for real, and after that we shut that shit down.”

I don’t even want to know what that says about whatever he’s trying to drum up with me. Casual, experimental sex isn’t something I do.

Well.

Until now.

“Good.”

He adds, “We never fucked,” and I stop him.

“Not my business. Ask your question, it’s getting late.”

Despite being the one to ask permission, a frission of dread seems to pass over his eyes. “You don’t have to answer,” he says, passing the cigarette back to me. “I was just wondering what happened to your back.”

I freeze, cigarette still outstretched between us. Fuck. How did I let him see that? How did I possibly forget about the ugly, criss-crossed mess of marks from Doug’s favorite belt? Fucking careless, stupid, sex-fueled bullshit. “Nothing. Long story.”

“Okay,” he replies, instantly backing off. “Why don’t I ever see you around with your camera.”

Blindsided by the sudden change of topic, I ask, “What?”

“You’re in the photography club. You took that picture of Abby.” He shrugs, loose and unbothered. “Just seems like you’d be taking more pictures.”

At least this is easier to answer. “I don’t really know anyone here—except Georgia. Vandy, I guess. Can’t leave campus much, so not much opportunity for landscapes. Everyone in the club takes the same four pictures of the campus.”

“Hey,” he says, smirking, “if you need a subject, all you need to do is ask.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, cause that’s what the world needs; more pictures of you shirtless, admiring yourself in a mirror.”

His eyebrows shoot up his forehead, smile widening. “Have you been stalking my profile, Sugar Voss?”

Jesus. Shouldn’t have clued him into that. “I should go,” I say, standing. Orgasms clearly turn into me a mindless fount of drivel.