Touched By The Devil (Boys of Preston Prep 3)

Once he’s situated, he says, “Come lean against me.”

I drag my eyes down his body, dubious. “Like, my back against your chest?”

He reasons, “It’ll help warm you up, and there’s like, two solid layers of clothes between us. Three with the jacket.”

I take a deep breath, and scoot my butt back, nestling myself between his legs. He then reaches over us, covering both of our bodies with the blanket. To be honest, I’m not even sure I need a blanket at this point, my skin is so overheated from the anxiety and embarrassment of it all. I still haven’t fully leaned back, my back and arms stiff and rigid, but I also feel the radiating warmth of him behind me. Sebastian’s skin is always so warm, like a human heater. And there’s also his scent; the combination of clean, soapy boy, and the oil and grease from the garage. My body, like always, is at war. I’m caught in an internal battle of want versus fear, when his deep voice fills the car.

“All I’m going to ask you to do is trust me.”

I do as he asks, feeling a little better after talking it out. I believe that Sebastian wants to treat me right. I’m just not sure he can. I look down and see that his hand is passively by his side. He hasn’t made a move yet, which is reassuring. Running my hands down my thighs, I take a deep, steadying breath, and fully lean back.

“You okay?” he asks. I nod, taking another breath and settling against the lean length of his body. We sit there for a moment and I feel his breath on my neck and hear my heart pounding in my ears.

It feels nice to be against his body again and I exhale shakily. “So, what’s your big idea?”

“You take the lead.” He holds up his hands, fingers wiggling. “Hold my hands and just put these babies wherever you want. I’ve seen you touch yourself, Sugar. You know what feels good and what doesn’t.”

All I’ve really wanted for weeks now is to feel Sebastian’s hands on me, so it’s not like I don’t want to try. Resigned to this all going horribly once again, I reach up and place my palms on the back of his large hands, linking my fingers through his, bringing them closer for inspection. They’re warmer than my own, rougher, and even though he washed them, I can still see the faint lines of grease under his nails. His knuckles are still busted up from that night of the race, and he’s got a thin scar beneath one of his nails, jagged and pale. His fingertips are wide and blunt, raspy near the thumb, like there’s an old callus.

For once in his life, Sebastian is completely passive as I observe his hands. The only movement I feel is the rise and fall of his chest behind me. Slowly, I move his hands down to the top of my thighs, over the blanket still separating us, and rest them there.

My breath stalls in anticipation of the dread that always hits, but this isn’t so bad. It’s not even against my skin, and Sebastian is still—so still that it feels like he’s stopped breathing, too. Reluctantly, I grip his hands and run them down to my kneecaps.

Nothing.

I do this a few times, getting used to the weight and feel, warmth spreading through my body. I use his hands to push at the blanket, exposing my skirt and my legs down to my knees, because I have to know. There, I pause, taking a few deep breaths.

The feeling of his rough palms against the skin

of my thighs is like a trembling fire. I brace myself against the coming tide of panic, but it never comes. Instead, it’s just skin and touch and the heat of him, so alive against me that it makes my shoulders sink into the cradle of his own. I repeat the motion, half intoxicated by the sensations and half terrified—not of the touch, but of losing it again.

“You okay?” he asks, his mouth next to my ear. A shiver rolls up my spine at the raggedness there.

“Yeah,” I breathe.

“We can stop here if you want to.”

“No, no, I’m good,” I insist, moving his hands back up my thighs, my skirt catching from the drag. He tenses, but for once, I don’t. This—me moving him how I want—is working for me. There’s no clutch of panic, no fear, just the glide of his palms over my skin.

I fall into a pattern of breathing, my rhythm matching Sebastian’s, and continue to stroke his hands up and down my legs. Fuck, it feels amazing, but also strangely fragile, like maybe the smallest error could shatter it all. Thankfully, there are none. Even when I spread my legs and sweep his hands inward, all of his calloused roughness against the soft skin there, I mostly just feel ridiculously, incredibly, painfully turned-on.

He shifts beneath me, the hard press of his cock obvious and obscene against my ass, and I freeze.

“Sorry,” he says, a hoarse chuckle bouncing his chest, “but there’s no turning off how my body reacts to you.”

“It’s okay,” I reply, secretly enjoying that there’s something else I have control over in this situation. Sebastian wants me and that’s a double-edged sword, one that grows both blunter and sharper as the minutes pass. “My body reacts to you, too.” And Jesus Christ, is it fucking ever. My hips keep twitching with the instinct to writhe against him, desperate for some friction.

He tenses again, his breath catching in his throat, and I use the surge of power to continue on more boldly. In for a penny, I figure.

I peel off the jacket, revealing the fitted red uniform shirt, and sink back into him, resting my head on his shoulder. I leave one of his hands on my upper thigh while moving the other to the crux of my neck, carefully trailing his fingers over the sensitive skin. Feeling victorious at the lack of panic, I tilt my chin up, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. Warmth rushes down my body, sensations coming from all sides, something that would normally overwhelm me, but instead, I just want to roll around in it.

“You can unbutton my shirt,” I tell him, kissing the column of his neck.

The muscle at the back of his jaw is taut beneath my lips. “You sure?”

I nod. “Yeah, I think—yeah.”

His restraint is visible in his fingertips as he gingerly tugs my shirt from my skirt and slowly slides each of the tiny red buttons, one by one, though the holes. I have no doubt if he were being left to his own urges, he’d just tear it off, but true to his promise he takes his time, pausing after each button, giving me the chance to back out.