Touched by the devil, p.25
Touched by the Devil, page 25
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
“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.
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.
I don’t.
When he peels the sides away, my open shirt reveals the satin and lace of my black bra and the taut, pebbled nipples beneath. Sebastian’s hands hover in the air, arms tensing, and I slide mine over his again. Like we agree, I direct him, moving his hands to my breasts. His chest has stopped moving, his breath caught somewhere deep inside, hands frozen, like he’s afraid to move.
I squeeze his hands and he breathes out a low, “Fuck yeah. Is this…?” When I nod, he lets out a stream of whispered, knee-buckling things, right into my ear. “God, your tits are fucking amazing, Sugar. Been thinking about them—about the night I had my mouth on them. You liked that, didn’t you? I know you did. I could see how wet you were.”
I gasp at the feel of his hands on my tits, back arching into his warm palms. He’s been so diligent about letting my hands move his own that I feel the rebellious sweep of his thumb against my nipple too late to feel anything but just… really fucking good about it.
I’ve experienced a lot of sharp, painful touches in my life. But touches like these? Spine-melting, leg-trembling touches that are all about sex and pleasure? Never. Hardly even with Toby, who was nice but impatient. Not even with myself.
No, these touches are new.
My brain almost doesn’t know what to think of Sebastian having dominion over my tits. Good or bad? Fuck if I know. But there’s no pain association, no instinct to flinch back, even when I hesitantly slide my own hands away.
I reach over my head, sliding my fingers behind his ear and into his hair. He pauses, but only for a moment, sensing the significance of the gesture. He starts soft and slow, testing, feeling the weight of me in his palms, and all I can do is let my head loll back on his shoulder, covering myself in the feel of it.
His lips press into my temple and slowly his hands start to massage my breasts. “Good?” he asks, as I fight the urge to buck my hips.
“Yes.”
“Do you want more?”
I nod, pressing my nose into his shoulder.
“You have to use your words, Sugar, or I can’t do it.”
I look up into his brilliant blue eyes, searching for the smug asshole I’ve been dealing with for weeks. That person isn’t there. This is just the guy who wants to make me feel good.
“I want more, Bass,” I tell him, arching my back. “Please.”
He reacts instantly, his big thumbs circle my nipples over the bra, then dip beneath to roll over the hard peaks. The rough pads of his thumbs grazing over my bare nipples sends a shockwave between my legs, warm and wet. I rotate my hips, desperate to relieve some of the pressure, which forces my ass to grind against his erection. He shudders behind me and lifts his hips into the motion.
Everything about this moment feels good—right. The pacing, the amount of pressure. When he’d told me that he could take his time and do it slow, I didn’t really believe him. I wanted to, but I’ve watched Bass lose control more than once. What would make this different? But here we are, my body on fire as he continues to taunt and tease my nipples.
He stills when I reach for one of his hands, letting me drag it away, down my belly. “What…?” he dumbly asks when it lands on the inside of my thigh.
Instead of answering, I guide it right to my hot, aching center.
He drags in a deep, shuddering breath. “Oh, fuck me.”
I grind his hand against me, bucking up against it, and the sound I make might be embarrassing, but I can hardly care. The friction and warmth are perfect, and if his fingers twitch, then I don’t hold it against him.
I drop my knees open and rest there for a moment, and there’s no way he can’t feel me throbbing against his palm, aching and desperate. Slowly, I pull my hand away, leaving him there, letting him take control of it, of making me feel good.
These hands can do a lot more than hurt, Sugar.
His words float back to me from that night, and I can still hear them perfectly—have been secretly obsessed with them ever since they were spoken. My hips rock up against his still palm, giving me a flash of his big hand against my black panties.
“Come on,” I say, straining up to press my mouth to his slack jaw. “I can take it.”
His blue eyes are hooded, fixed to the space between my legs, watching his own hand against me. When he finally moves it, fingertips brushing over the bundle of nerves hot under my damp panties, I moan.
His eyes flick to mine. I’m not sure what he sees there, but suddenly he’s all business, fingers massaging expertly against my clit, watching me squirm against him. “Christ, you’re so fucking hot, Sugar. I can feel it—how hot and wet you are. You like it, right? You want me to keep going? I can stop if you—”
“If you stop,” I grind out, “I will cut your fucking balls off, Bass.”
“Well, yeah,” he says, like this is entirely reasonable, and then takes my mouth in a hot, slippery kiss.
I already feel too hot for the blanket, for my clothes, but the way he presses against me sends my temperature higher and higher, belly coiling tight as my hips move with his hand. His other hand palms at my tit again, and it’s amazing, the way he’s able to have his arms around me like this, and all I feel is the white-hot spike of want that’s driving me crazy.
Every time his fingers dip low, I can feel how soaked my panties are. I know he can feel it, too. I know that every time he drags his fingers back up, it’s because he wants me to chase them, to take what I want.
I know when his fingers dip beneath the fabric of my panties that I’m excruciatingly impatient. “Yes,” I say before he can ask. “Please, just—”
He watches me, eyebrows knitted tight as his fingers slip between my folds. “Goddamn.”
I don’t know what makes me shudder more—the ragged, strained note in his voice, or the feeling of his rough fingers sliding up and down my pussy. He moves them slow, testing, almost like he’s getting to know it, acquainting himself with the feel of me. On one of those long passes, I buck my hips up, encouraging, and he hisses out a breath when the tip of his finger sinks inside me.
He goes still and I kick a foot out for leverage to push him deeper. “More,” I gasp, hands fisting in the blanket. “What the fuck do you need, an engraved invitation? Just take it slow, okay?”
There’s a rumble from deep in his chest, and like I ask, he goes slowly, sliding his finger inside. “Is this okay?” he asks, pausing. I nod. “Words, Sugar.”
“Yes, it’s okay.” More than I thought, I like the way the pressure feels as he fills me up, pushing against the walls. He takes my approval to heart and slides in further, not stopping until it hits the knuckle. He shifts around a bit, curling his other hand around my ribs, holding me close as his finger retreats and dips back in. It doesn’t make sense. The way he’s holding me… if this were another person or another time, it’d be sending me running away. But right now, all my body seems to care about is the hot throb between my legs.
Sebastian fucks me with his finger, deep and slow, the heel of his palm pressing against my clit on each thrust. I’m such a fucking mess of ‘almost there’ and ‘don’t stop’ that when he slides a second finger in, all I can think is how much I want more. But as much as I’m making sounds—god, the most embarrassing fucking little cries—I know he’s a mess, too. I can feel him hard beneath me, moving his hips in tandem with mine.
