King of Hawthorne Prep

Why?

Why does it feel so good when he touches me?

The magnetic attraction is undeniable. Is it because he’s the first boy to give me pleasure?

I really hope so. I don’t want it to be anything more than that.

Even though I tell myself to be strong, he demolishes that silent promise with the devilish glint that enters his eyes. One stroke of his fingers against my scorched flesh, and he creates a raging inferno within. I have no idea how to flip the switch and turn it off.

Is that even possible?

A more troublesome question—do I want to?

I shove that distressing thought from my head, unwilling to entertain it.

“I missed you,” he rasps as if he’s as turned on by touching me as I am by what he’s doing. “Did you miss me?”

“No.” I force the lie from my lips, not wanting him to discover how much he affects me.

“Is that so?” Humor and challenge fill his voice. It’s a deadly combination.

Too late, I realize my mistake. Now he’ll need to prove me wrong.

A shaky breath escapes as his fingers dance along the cleft between my cheeks.

“I think you’re lying to me,” he sing-songs, his voice sounding as if it’s been roughed up by sandpaper. It scrapes something deep inside me, sparking a thousand tingles that scamper along my over-sensitized skin.

A yelp of surprise slips free when he bites the firm round muscle with his teeth. It’s sharp enough to send a sizzle of pain scuttling through me, but not hard enough to bruise or break the flesh.

“I don’t like when you lie,” he growls, warm breath feathering against me.

Another stinging slap lands on my cheek before he palms the muscle in his hand. As he works my flesh, a reluctant groan slides from my lips. My body becomes limp under his tender ministrations.

I’m so relaxed, I don’t immediately realize he has pulled the ties at my hips that hold the bikini bottoms in place until it’s much too late. Before I can protest, he’s back to manhandling my flesh. Only this time, when he pulls at the firm globes, separating them with his hands, there’s nothing to bar his view of my backside.

“Kingsley,” I squeak, a bolt of panic shooting through me.

“Shhhh,” he grunts, never once letting up on the sweet torture. “I like looking at you.”

That acknowledgment sends a second wave of alarm flooding through me.

His hands glide from my lower back to my thighs, not leaving one inch of flesh untouched, as if he’s trying to brand every single part of me. It doesn’t take long for my anxiety to retreat and I’m once again sinking into the plush cushion. I’ve never felt so relaxed and turned on at the same time. It’s a strange yet addictive combination.

What he’s doing is more of a slow burn than last night.

My eyes spring wide when his hands slide around my hips and he drags me up so that my ass is in the air. My knees fold beneath me as the side of my face gets pressed against the lounger.

“Kingsley,” I whimper, struggling to rise as I imagine the unobstructed view he has, “please.”

“You know it drives me crazy when you beg.” One heavy hand presses between my shoulder blades to pin me in place as the other strokes over my ass, continuing to knead the flesh. “Especially when you’re on your knees.”

Gulping down my rising alarm, I watch him from the corner of my eye.

His gaze never wavers as his fingers brush over the lips of my pussy. “So fucking pretty.”

Short gasping pants fall from my mouth. I’m torn. What he’s doing feels decadent, but the position is embarrassing. When I finally give in and stop struggling, the firm pressure between my shoulder blades disappears, and he’s back to squeezing my ass. The way his fingers sink into the tensed muscle before tugging the cheeks in opposite directions sends a cascade of shivers careening down my spine.

“Every part of you is pretty,” he mutters thickly.

I groan when he nips at my flank, feathering seductive little kisses along my hip and thigh before slowly making his way to the inside. My breath hitches, turning into a cry when his tongue dips into my entrance.

“One taste wasn’t nearly enough.” His warm breath feathers against my intimate flesh, creating a delicious ache. “I need more.”

As much as I don’t want to be turned on, I am. There is something ridiculously erotic about being out in the open while I’m naked and he’s wearing his school uniform. The blazer has been left behind and the first two buttons of his crisp white shirt are unfastened, revealing a slice of his throat. His sleeves have been rolled up to expose bronzed, muscular forearms. The picture we must make is deliciously dirty.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut to blot out the image of him. There is such a look of intensity on his face as he eats me up with his eyes.