Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

I hadn’t been joking about him going up my shirt. I figure that’s what this is all about, anyway. A guy like Sebastian is used to being with girls he can fool around with. Touch, to him, is probably just about sex. Makes no difference to me. A touch is a touch. The result is always the same.

He finally steps up to me, and it’s cold out here—colder by the second as the sun sets—but he doesn’t even have a single goosebump. His eyes stay fixed to mine as he lifts a hand, reluctantly nudging a curled finger beneath my chin. That’s not so bad, just the soft pressure of a knuckle. I swallow in response, but it doesn’t make my chest feel like it’s imploding in fear. Bolstered by this, he ducks his head to press our mouths together, thumb sweeping out to graze the edge of my jaw. I push back agains

t a flinch, surging into the kiss instead. Distantly, I’m going to miss this being enough for him. Just the warm press of our mouths, the way our tongues slide wetly, how we breathe one another, taste one another.

It was nice while it lasted.

His other hand dips into his jacket, still hanging absurdly from my small frame, and gently—so carefully that I’m already regretting what’s going to happen—slides around my waist.

He never stops kissing me, which is good, because if he weren’t, I wouldn’t be able to pretend. I can almost hide the way my body stiffens, have gotten used to clamping down on the tremors, biting back the gasp. He falters, but doesn’t stop, pressing my body to his as he palms my lower back in an embrace.

I can’t remember the last time someone tried to hold me like this, but my body’s reaction is an old, familiar thing. I barely get to enjoy the warmth of his chest, the way his arms feel, swallowing me up, shoulders curved into me like a shield, before it happens.

I try so hard to hide it, to kiss back and force this to be tolerable. My lungs are on fire, head screaming. It’s all I can do to take myself out of the moment, to crawl back to the safe, isolated place in my mind that watches but isn’t a part of it. I don’t touch him back, because I know he’d feel the way my hands shake, aching to both push him away and drag him closer.

He doesn’t notice.

If anything, the kiss and the way I’m taking it, just works him up more. The hand on my jaw goes from gently caressing the skin there to cupping the side of my neck, fingertips pressing firmly into the hard tendon and fluttering skin. He makes this rough, excited groan, hands pushing me closer, capturing me, trapping me, clutching me.

But it’s impossible to remain in that place—the safe, back-of-my-mind place—when I want this so badly. I want to feel the way he touches me. Even if it’s bad, I still want to feel the weight of his arm around me, the warmth of his skin. I slam back into the moment in a rush of panic, a hard, terrified lump wedged into the back of my throat.

He doesn’t fight when, with a sharp turn of my head, I lurch away, stumbling from his hold.

“Stop,” I gasp, unnecessarily. He’s already frozen there, palms in the air, but I still walk away from him, just in case.

Just in case that feral, eager thing in his eyes is too much to fight.

I crouch on the ground there, knees tucked up beneath my chin, and try to breathe. They’re awful, shuddery things. My heart is going off like a goddamn jackhammer, and it’s stupid—oh my god, it’s so fucking stupid—but I have this crystal-clear image in my head of Doug’s hands, just like that. Rough, big, stained with grease, grabbing my neck, choking me. The look in his eyes when he did it, so fucking full of hatred, like he wanted to kill me, but something flimsy and indistinct was holding him back.

It’s not fair, but it’s like my blood cells are turning themselves inside-out to get away from the ghost fingertips—Doug’s, Sebastian’s, my brain doesn’t care.

I barely register Sebastian coming to crouch beside me. He doesn’t touch me or watch me. Through my periphery, I can tell that he’s just lingering there, waiting, silent as I try to wrestle this fear back into the dark pit of myself.

When I can speak again, I say, “This is a waste of fucking time. It’s just going to make us both more frustrated.”

“Do you know what happened when I tried to change the battery on the Shelby?” he asks. I stare down at my hands, trying to hold back a hot tear, not interested in one of his car discussions. “It was supposed to be an easy fix, something I could do quickly, but the old one was corroded and completely welded to the inside. My instinct was to rip it out, but Merle told me that if I did that, I’d fuck up the connectors, make a bigger mess, and possibly burn myself on the acid. So, I had to slow down and use the right safety gear, gloves, goggles and all that shit, then use the correct solutions to clean off the corrosion. Something that should have been easy, a fast repair, took time and deliberation to do it right.”

I chuckle darkly. “Are you saying I’m corroded and broken inside?”

“I’m saying that I have way more patience than you give me credit for.” He shifts a little, ducking his head to catch my gaze. His face falls at the sight of my tears. “We can do this, Sugar. You and me? We’re not like other people. We don’t give up and we don’t break. All you need to give me are the right tools and the opportunity. Can you tell me what happens when people touch you?”

I shake my head, but Sebastian is right. People like us don’t get to run from our problems. It’s not the way we’re made. I think about it, closing my eyes and searching. “It freaks me out, like something bad is going to happen, or—it’s just the idea that you could—not that you would—but when… with your hands, and it feels like my body isn’t... mine? Just for a while, like you could do something, or take something, and it’s not really you, it’s just this idea of it all, when it’s… it’s scaring me, and I can’t talk myself out of—and you might… I don’t know, go too far or be too much, and it just makes me sick.” My face feels hot, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. “That made zero fucking sense. I’m sorry.” The last part comes out too soft, spoken more to the wind blowing in from over the lake than the man I’m apologizing to.

But Sebastian just looks curious. “That’s… I think I get it.”

I give him a skeptical look. “How could you?”

“Okay, I obviously don’t get it, but I think I get what it’s about. You like to be in control, right? That’s fine, that’s so fucking…” I watch the wheels turn in his head, like this is a very exciting breakthrough. “Will you let me try again? I have an idea.”

My shrug is passionless. “Whatever.”

“Perfect.” He plants a hand on each of his knees, levering himself up. “Come on, I have a blanket in the back seat.” Not knowing what the hell a blanket has to do with anything, I follow him mindlessly to the car. He opens the door for me, and I climb inside. A moment later he’s inside, slamming the door behind him, shutting out the cold. On the floor is a canvas bag. He unzips it and pulls out a soft thermal blanket.

Raising an eyebrow, I can’t help but ask, “Do you use this often?”

“My mom made me put it in the car when I bought it. She got stranded in a snowstorm in high school and almost froze to death.” He takes the bag and folds it over, creating a pillow, and props himself back against the door. “Of course, it doesn’t snow much down here anymore, but she worries a lot, and it’s just easier to give in if it’ll give her peace of mind.”

That admission is why, under all that pretty, entitled, tough-guy exterior, Sebastian is hard to read. One minute he’s a pushy, demanding brat, and the next he’s doing something sweet like feeding stray kittens or humoring his mom.