Touched by the devil, p.15
Touched by the Devil, page 15
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
“It’s not money, Sugar,” he argues, jaw clenching. “It’s a thing.”
“It’s a thing that costs money!”
He flings the rag aside, throwing his hands up. “There’s no winning with you, is there?”
“It’s not about winning and losing. It’s about the fact I don’t want,” I wildly gesture between us, “this kind of thing. Between us.”
His face screws up. “What kind of thing?”
“The kind of thing where…” I clamp my mouth around a dozen aborted replies as he watches me, waiting, but I can’t find the words. I growl in frustration. “I don’t want you buying me shit!”
He’s unimpressed by this. “Well, I’m not taking it back. It belongs on the car.”
Hot annoyance runs down my spine, but I reach for my wallet. “Fine. I’ll pay you for it. How much was it?”
He shrugs. “It cost barely anything at all. I went to the scrap yard and salvaged it myself. It’s the real deal. It’s vintage. I’m not taking it back.”
He walks back toward the tool bench and starts hanging a variety of wrenches and pliers on the peg board. I stare at him, fully aware that I’m gawking. Finally, I ask, “What’s wrong with you?”
He laughs, not bothering to face me. “How long do you have? The list is pretty extensive.” He holds up his dirty hand and starts ticking off fingers like he’s going over a shopping list. “Entitled, selfish, petty, way too good-looking. I have this stupid fucking temper, as you well know. I’m too competitive. Then there are the concussions, which to be fair, I can’t exactly help. Fucks with your personality, though. Pretty sure my friends are tracking it behind my back.” He hangs the last wrench, turning to lean against the bench, arms crossed. “Oh, and then there’s the baggage, and do not even bother trying to unpack that shit. I mean, if you think I’m bad, be glad you haven’t met my brother. He’s the fucking worst.”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, trying desperately to figure out how I got involved with this guy. Oh right, he punched me. In the face.
I look down at the emblem, and who knows? He’s probably lying. The whole thing is ridiculous. Sebastian wading through a sea of junk cars just to find me something like this—not money, just his time and effort—makes zero sense to me. For what? Some girl he barely knows? Some chick who hates his guts?
But the thing is, I can see it.
It’s just stupid and pointlessly difficult enough to be something he’d do.
I take a deep breath. “Look, if I accept this and let you put it in the Mustang, will you promise not to buy anything else for me? Will you promise to just leave me alone?”
He stares back at me, those blue eyes sparking, searching. “That’s what you really want?”
“Yes!”
Liar.
I know it’s a lie in the same way telling him I didn’t want him to kiss me was a lie. It’s one of those things I refuse to look too closely at. Something that’s just going to twist me up inside and make an unbearable situation even worse. Something I can’t afford to acknowledge.
I need him to leave me alone, so I’ll stop wanting him to not leave me alone.
But he wouldn’t get it. He’d find the frayed thread and tug at it, pick at it, until it’s all unraveled.
“Fine,” he finally says, holding out his hand. “Give it to me.”
I give him the box, and without another word, he strides over to the Mustang, opening the driver’s side door. That gets my hackles up even more. That’s my seat. How fucking dare he. Territorialism rushes through me and I go to the other side, hopping in the passenger seat, looking on resentfully. He’s focused on the steering wheel, holding the Mustang emblem over the center.
Goddamn it.
It’s so pretty and shiny. It looks right.
He slides me a grin—this absurd, smarmy tilt of his lips—like he knows exactly why I’m so annoyed. “Pretty sweet, huh? Blue ones like these are really rare. I think there was only a limited run. Usually, they’re red, or red with blue.”
“Why did you do this for me?” I ask, unable to hold it in. “Is this a pity thing because I told you about my dad? Because I don’t want your fucking—”
“It’s just a gear head thing.” He cuts me off, adjusting the emblem just-so. “That’s all. This is a sweet-ass car, she deserves to be spoiled a little.” This idiot, talking about cars like they’re people. Pretty sure that’s grounds for a psych evaluation.
My shoulders are tense as I watch him work, painstakingly cleaning the metal, applying a liberal amount of adhesive. I feel even more annoyed that the emblem fits perfectly, like the empty void behind it is a scar being wiped away. It looks right, but everything in my body tells me this is wrong. I look around at all the little dings and scars on this thing. The knob of the stick shift has a star-shaped chip, right in the middle, that’s probably older than I am. I know it’s not much, but it’s mine.
He’s admiring his handiwork, wiping a rag over the shiny bubble, when he randomly asks, “Do you get tired of it?”
I frown. “Tired of what?”
“Fighting all the time.”
Startled, I sputter, “I don’t fight. What are you talking about?”
“Sugar, all you do is fight.” The fine details of his face are lost to the low light, but I can make out the edge of his furrowed brow in his silhouette. “Mostly with yourself. I figure you have to get tired eventually. Hell, even I’m tired of fighting with you, and fighting is what I do.” He pauses, adding, “Well, it’s what I did. I mean, I’ve been fighting with my brother my whole life, and I could probably go another eighteen years with that prick. But you?” He shakes his head, rolling it sluggishly against the seat. “Damn, girl. You are some kind of exhausting.”
My only saving grace is that he’s not looking at me when he says it. Facing him head on makes me want to fight. His blue eyes cut through me, and he’s the kind of attractive that hurts to see. But it’s not just that. We’re in this car, so close together, but it’s never been more obvious to me that he’s so far out of my reach. Even if I’ve been lying—even if I wanted a guy like Sebastian Wilcox—I couldn’t have him. These fights with myself are exhausting. But the fight I’d face by giving in would be so much worse.
“Hey, Sugar?” He says my name slowly, apprehensively. When I look over, his lips are pressed into a tense line, making me wary.
“What?”
There’s a long beat of silence before he asks, “Why can’t people touch you?” It hangs there in the air, all sharp and too-exposed. The garage lights don’t fully reach to the inside of the car, but a sliver of it catches on a lock of hair that’s fallen over his eye. If I were doing less of that lying-to-myself thing, I’d admit that my fingers twitch to sweep away.
It takes me a long moment to give him this. “I just don’t like it.”
“Is it because…” Knuckles going white around the steering wheel, his low, rough voice grinds through the silence. “Did someone hurt you?”
You did once, I want to say.
But it’s not the same. Taking a hit, leaning into the blow, that’s something I’m good at. Hiding the bruises. Tending the wounds. Working through the aches. No, it’s the hate behind it that gets me. That’s the hurt that festers, the wound that scabs but never quite heals. As much as it pains me to admit it, I know the difference between that and what happened with Sebastian. I know he didn’t mean it. I know he feels bad about it. I know, in a way, that he wouldn’t do it again. What happened that night at the docks made this wild, scared storm inside of me so much worse, but it’s not his to claim.
It never really was.
“Yeah,” I say, swallowing around a tongue that feels swollen and parched.
He bobs his head in reply, the motion loose and unsurprised. “I hope one day you’ll tell me who.” When he finally turns to look at me, I feel my lungs constrict at the raging fire in his eyes. “So I can fucking kill him.”
His voice, harsh and firm, sends a shiver down my spine, and I don’t doubt for one second that he means it. It should scare me. It should grab onto this particle of anxiety sitting dormant in my chest and pull it out, bring it forward. This is worse than anger. This is purpose and promise, a threat of a vengeance that isn’t even his to give. It should be terrifying.
Instead, it makes my belly spark with a different kind of nerves.
I wish I didn’t have to lie. I wish I didn’t have to trade one fight for another. Leaning into blows is something I’m good at, but I wish I weren’t. I’d rather feel the things currently going on in my chest—these fucking fantastic, blood-blazing things—and be good at leaning into them instead. I’d rather see that hard, certain look roaring in Sebastian’s eyes and just… fucking do something about it.
Because god, he’s right.
I’m so, so fucking tired of fighting.
It takes a fraction of a second for Sebastian’s face to change when I lean in. When it does, slacking into a shocked expression, I don’t give him time to put voice to it. I clear the space between us and press our mouths together.
This should be stilted and halting. I haven’t initiated a kiss with a guy in a long time, and Sebastian is clearly caught off guard, lips parting on a surprised inhale. But there’s nothing halting about it at all. Our lips slide together like puzzle pieces. He tilts his face to surge into it so smoothly that my stomach dips.
I hear him shift, and I can feel his hand lifting to my face in that way I can always anticipate a touch. He stops before it makes contact—before I can ever flinch away. It must land on the steering wheel instead, because I can hear the creak of the leather when he grips it.
I try to focus on his mouth and not the panic that threatens to bubble over. On the warmth and how into it he is. On the way his tongue licks against the seam of my lips and slowly enters my mouth. This isn’t the erratic, impulsive boy I’ve watched fight and race his way through life. His movements are strong and sure, full of careful intent. The fight might rage on inside my chest, but it’s so easy to sink into him, lost in the rush of sensations; heat, smell, taste, the sound of the Mustang’s old seats creaking beneath us.
I pull back to catch my breath and see the blue of his eyes glazed over.
“Sugar,” he says, my name a low whisper, reverent. “Please don’t run from me. Not this time.”
I don’t want to. I want to hold on to the good feelings. The warmth underneath the anxiety. The crazy zings happening between my legs. The impulse to sink deeper and deeper. I push a breath from my lungs in a long, tremulous exhale. The fear and self-doubt and worry are there, but there’s something else, too.
Defeat.
“Oh, fuck it.” I climb over the gear shift and clamber into his lap. I capture his lips with mine before he can do more than inhale. My kiss is aggressive and vaguely hostile, punishment clear in the way I crush myself into him.
He instantly surges back into the kiss, all defiant tongue and soft lips, meeting my fight with one of his own. The hard length of his cock presses between my legs when I settle against him, and I grind down, thighs trembling. He groans hot and rough into my mouth, and I can feel his hands lifting to grab my hips.
I rear back, panting, “Rule number one,” and wait for the inevitable. An argument. A confused expression. A look that says I’m crazy.
But he sits there beneath me, chest heaving, and just nods. “Hands to yourself, yeah, yeah, got it, just—” He lurches forward to capture my lips, and I let him, licking back into his mouth.
The rules here aren’t even, though. I put my hands on his shoulders to steady myself and get lost in running them down his chest, feeling the expanse of his defined muscles. He breaks away just to drop to my neck, pressing hard, wet, open-mouthed kisses up to my ear. With my eyes closed, I grind down on him again, chest hitching when his hips buck upward in response.
“Jesus, Sugar,” he rasps. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?”
You’re a fat, ugly bitch.
Lazy, ungrateful freak.
Stupid little cunt.
The slurs I’m used to echo past Sebastian’s question. My skin prickles, waiting for the blow, the kick, the stinging whip of a belt against my back.
But he kisses my mouth, and his lips are warm and soft. There’s no pain following the words, and I rub against him, seeking the good feelings, the temporary rush of euphoria that I can normally only give myself. Sebastian’s hand reaches out, but not for me. He grabs the back of the passenger seat, fingers curling tight around the top as he lifts his hips into my rocking grinds.
He mutters things between kisses. Idle, mindless, impossible things. “Knew you wanted this.” He licks deep into my mouth. “Been hard for you for weeks.” A kiss to my throat. “Christ, I wanna fuck you.” A long, sucking lip lock. “Come on, let me fuck you.”
I fist my hand in his shirt, grunting, “Shut. Up.”
Incredibly, he does.
He lets me ride him like this, rocking against the hard cock I can feel beneath his jeans, and it’s sweltering. I can feel a bead of sweat running down the small of my back. Sebastian’s skin is like fire. His mouth works greedily over my neck and lips, taking and taking, like he’s afraid it might get snatched away, so he’s grabbing whatever he can.
I press my palm against the foggy window when a whimper slips past my defenses, sliding into his kiss. He makes a sound back, something guttural and unrestrained, and the throb between my legs grows into an urgent pang. He feels so hard between my legs, he has to be getting chafed or crushed, but he keeps thrusting into it, breaths coming in ragged spurts.
When I take a chance to open my eyes and finally look at him—at his red cheeks and swollen lips and glazed, heavy-lidded sex-eyes—it’s almost enough to send me right over the edge. But that’s not what triggers the coil to spring.
It’s the way he’s watching me so closely. There’s a sweet sort of agony in his face, like the way we’re rocking against each other hurts, but there’s also a flash in his eyes. A sharp delight. Like someone who’s being given something they really wanted. Like he’s enthralled by it. Like maybe all those sweet, dirty words before weren’t just about getting into my pants. Like maybe he actually does think I’m beautiful. Someone worth having.
That’s what takes me to the precipice, sending the wave of an orgasm shuddering between my legs. I’m quiet, gulping my pleasure down, but Sebastian is anything but.
He bites out a sharp, “Oh, fuck,” and groans, slamming a fist into the ceiling. His hips thrust harshly upward, lifting me with him. His razor-sharp jaw tenses and then he exhales, head falling back on the seat.
He never looked away from me once.
It’s in that post-orgasm haze that my stomach drops. The panic floods my chest like rolling waves, building and building. I fumble away from him, limbs shaking.
“Hey, hey, no,” he rushes out, tensing beneath me. “Sugar, just wait.”
I push against the driver’s side door, releasing the latch and tumbling outside. Too stunned by his own orgasm—or possibly the simple fact that I’m just a freak—he doesn’t move quickly enough to stop me. And like I should have done when I first walked into this garage, I run, and never look back.
13
Sebastian
Sugar Voss wants my dick.
Just thinking about it kept me up all night—both my dick and my brain. Even three jerk-off sessions later, I’m still thinking about it. About Sugar. About how she totally wants my dick.
Sure, she ran away after getting a small preview of it, which is unfortunate. With girls, I’m usually the one bailing after the post-orgasm glow fades, but you know. Whatever. I didn’t do anything wrong here.
She kissed me.
She climbed into my lap.
She wanted my dick.
And yeah, she looked fucking gorgeous when she finally let go for a second and let me help her feel good. For a moment there, she actually stopped fighting. Whatever the hell it is that always holds her back was just… gone. Fucked off to orgasm land, I guess. But then just as fast, the wall was back, and there she went. Skittering away. Again. Leaving me with spunk-soaked boxers.
The problem is that I’m just really—fucking monumentally—confused here.
I can’t get it out of my mind when I walk into Dr. Ross’s class the next morning. Naturally, my eyes go right to her seat. It’s not like I wasn’t always checking her out before, but now everything’s jacked up to eleven. I know what she tastes like now. I know what she looks like writhing in my lap. I know that her cheeks get crazy pink when she’s turned on, a lot like when she’s pissed off. Most of all, I know the way her face looks when she comes, and fuck. It’s breathtaking.
I’d almost written off having her altogether. She wasn’t budging. I was just making shit worse and worse, and weirdly, if I couldn’t fuck her, I still wanted to know her. Now that she wants my dick—fuck, I’m so pretty, not even the Ice Princess herself can resist this shit—all the cards are back on the table.
If I thought I wanted her bad before, then now I’m like a man possessed.
I cross the room, eyes sweeping over her, taking in the soft curve of her calves in direct contrast to the worn leather of her combat boots. Her hair is shielding her face like a curtain, so I can’t make out her expression. She’s been wearing this wide leather wrist cuff and it undulates as her fingers twirl a long strand of her hair. I want to ask her what the fuck, but there’s no time.
Dr. Ross will be walking into class in about thirty seconds, and as much as I’d love to corner Sugar and demand to know why she bolted like that, I’ve got other shit to worry about. I take a moment to enjoy the very last of my ‘Sugar Voss wants my dick’ elation, because I’m pretty sure that’s about to come to a swift end.
I whistle, catching most everyone’s attention, but it’s Elana and Afton I point to, jerking my head toward the hall.
Afton holds my gaze and pinches her cheeks, getting them all red.
Then, she starts crying.
Like full-out sobs, snot and tears and all. It’s borderline scary how she can do that shit on-demand, but I give her a loose, appreciative salute as she rises from her seat. Elana swiftly moves to follow her, both of them disappearing into the hall to distract Dr. Ross.
