Touched by the devil, p.37
Touched by the Devil, page 37
part #3 of Boys of Preston Prep Series
I take a deep breath, carding my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. “I’m ready.”
I feel him take himself in hand, guiding his dick to where I’m wet and open for him. Despite my assurances, he still watches me closely as he pushes forward, sinking his dick slowly into me.
It’s nothing like that first time, which had felt a bit like being split open—a long, arduous sting that never quite ended. With Sebastian, it’s like being filled up, holding something inside me that I hadn’t even realized was missing.
My jaw falls slack on a gasp at the feel of it, and he breathes out a low, “Fuck yes,” as he sinks deeper and deeper, inch by inch, until there’s no space between us. He rests low on his forearms, letting me feel our chests pressed together as I get used to the stretch of him. Curling an arm over my head, he sweeps my hair back, planting a sweet, lingering kiss to the corner of my mouth.
“You good?” he asks, and even though his eyes are lazy with that lust-sex-glaze, lips loose as they pluck leisurely at my own, I can tell from the way his muscles flex and roll that he’s holding himself back. “Need a minute?”
I shake my head, clutching his hips between my thighs, hands clamped tight around each of his biceps. “Just start slow.”
He doesn’t mention the tremble in my voice, and I’m grateful. I wouldn’t know how to explain that it’s not nerves. It’s the complete lack of them. It’s the way everything feels so confusingly right. It’s the feel of his body against me, inside me, and how I’ve spent so long with that constant, gripping pressure in the pit of my chest that it’s only now I realize that I don’t feel it anymore. Not like this. Not with him.
His first thrusts really are slow—these long, dragging motions that make me feel every single inch of him. He shifts to one elbow, ducking his head to watch himself move against me and letting out a soft groan at the sight.
Palming the outside of my thigh, he asks, “Wrap your legs around me.”
When I do, winding them around his waist, he sinks even deeper, his jaw going taut. “Fuck, you’re tight.”
I gasp out his name when his hips meet mine again, the pressure creating just the right amount of friction to make an entirely new spark of heat roll up my spine.
“Yeah,” he breathes, kissing me as he repeats the motion, but faster, a little harder, like he’s seeing how far he can take it. Pretty fucking far, if the way my hips buck back against him is any indication.
He gets his arms beneath me, around me, and suddenly heaves us back. I shoot out a hand to steady myself, but there’s no need. He’s got me in his lap now, one large palm pressed between my shoulder blades, helping me find my balance.
It takes a moment to adjust, winding my arms around his neck, but he’s looking at me so desperately, a lock of hair fallen in his eyes. “Oh, god,” I breathe, surprised at the way rocking against him like this is seriously doing it for me.
The hand on my back curls around my shoulder, bearing me down with each rock. “Yeah, just like that,” he says, bringing his other hand to my ass, guiding my rhythm. He captures my lips in a searing kiss, never closing his eyes, even as mine flutter. “You feel so fucking good. Show me, baby. Show me how hard you want it so I can fuck you right.”
I want to tell him that it’s okay. That I can take it. That I’m not scared anymore—not of this. Tomorrow will be a different story. Once we’ve done it—once we’ve had each other like this—will come the worry, but for now?
For now, I want everything.
He grunts when I meet his hips hard, the sound of our skin clapping loud between us. He bites out a low, “Fuck, Sugar,” fingers digging into my ass when he meets my next thrust, jerking me into his body. He sucks a kiss into my neck, breaths coming harder. “You want it like that? You want it hard?”
“Fuck yes,” I grit out, wanting to feel it—all of it.
Without another word, he dumps me onto my back, hovering over me with dark eyes and tense muscles. He jerks his hips back and slams them forward.
“Oh, fuck!” I cry, scrambling at his back. “Don’t stop.”
Through the fog of feeling so full of him, the sounds of the headboard slamming against the wall, the way I’m crying out with each of his shallow, punching thrusts, I’m distantly aware of how beautiful he looks. The lock of hair in his eyes sways back and forth with his sure, powerful movements. He’s watching me with an angry brow, but I know it’s not anger he feels. I can tell in the way he keeps licking at his lips as he watches me, something sharp and satisfied flashing in his eyes every time I yelp out with abandon.
I dig my heels into the tops of his ass cheeks as he fucks me, curling a hand around his neck to bring him down for a breathless, badly-coordinated kiss. It’s mostly just tongues and wild panting, and when he wedges a hand between us to press against my clit, he swallows my whimper.
“Come on,” he grunts, fingers moving expertly against me. “Give me one more.”
I dig my fingers into his back, trying to get him closer, too overwhelmed by the sensations happening to do much more than sob out a hard breath. His eyes keeping moving back and forth between my tits, bouncing with the motions of our bodies, and my own gaze. It’s crazy, but mere minutes ago, I wouldn’t have thought I could come again. Now, I can feel it building low and deep, a twisting tangle of sweet ache driving me to grind against his hand with every bed-banging thrust.
“Sebastian,” I gasp, ensnared by his piercing stare, and his ragged voice husks back.
“That’s right. Give it to me, one more. Come with me.”
I can tell he’s already close, that crease between his eyes growing tighter, but he doesn’t look frustrated. His eyes shine back at me and he just looks so fucking pleased. Like he has this absurd amount of wealth and popularity and opportunity, but being inside me like this—his hard body with all its sharp edges plunging into me—is all he’s really wanted. It’s scary and breathlessly elating, like a jump from the highest cliff into the cool, chaotic waves of the river below.
When it finally happens, that explosion of white-hot everything, I claw wildly at his back, body bowed into an arch against his pounding hips. It seems like such a cliché to say I see stars, but that’s exactly what happens, a burst of sparking phosphenes detonating behind my eyelids as my body clenches and seizes around him.
He buries his face into my throat as his movements grow frantic and wild, a hand curling into the crown of my hair to shove me down against his wake. From over his shoulder, I watch the muscles in his back shift and roll like a stalking feline, feel the punch of his breath against my skin when he grunts, slamming into me and trapping me there between the bed and the hot pulse of him inside of me.
I can see his orgasm ripple through his muscles, starting at the base of his back and climbing up his flexing shoulders. Still caught in the gust of my own, I idly card my fingers through his hair, soothing him through it.
His clenching muscles release all at once, but he doesn’t miss a beat, wedging an arm behind me to roll us smoothly to the side. I collapse on his hard chest with a damp exhalation against his collarbone. The feeling of his dick slipping out of me makes me squirm against him, already missing it.
“Shh,” he whispers, threading his fingers in my hair, tucking me up beneath his chin. “So fucking good.”
We lay there for so long that our breath evens out, his palm gliding up and down my back in leisurely strokes. Sometimes he’ll pause there, fingers tracing over something I can’t see or feel, until he presses a kiss into my hair and repeats the circuit.
It takes too long for me to realize he’s feeling the raised edges of my scars.
I’d forgotten they existed at all.
Rolling over, the glare of blinding daylight creeps through my eyelids, forcing them to flicker open. I’m bundled up in Bass’s comforter, engulfed in his delicious, Sebastiany smell. The day before rushes up to me like a gently crashing wave. The ice, the kittens, Sebastian’s ridiculous house, and then finally having sex with him. I stretch slow and easy, waiting for an ache that doesn’t come. Part of me worried I’d end up regretting not waiting longer, but in the light of day, laying here in his bed, all fucked out and reenergized, mostly I’m thinking that I want to do it again.
There’d been a couple times in the night I’d woken to the feel of him slotted up behind me, arm curled around my waist, cock hard and insistent against my ass. A couple times, we’d stirred enough to trade a few slow, wet kisses, but we never stayed awake long enough for it to escalate into anything.
I roll over and run my hand along his side of the bed, but it’s empty and already cool to the touch.
“Bass?” I call, ignoring the flicker of anxiety that passes through my chest. I’m so used to him being there—pressed up against me and hounding me—that it’s weird that he’s not in the bed. A flicker of irrational panic shoots through me and I sit up and scan the room. His clothes are no longer on the floor. My eyes land on the closed bathroom door.
Duh, he’s probably with the kittens.
I pull on the LAX sweatshirt and cross the room, noticing that the sun is out. The drip of melting ice taps out on the balcony, and I trip over a discarded pillow in my haste to grab my camera. There’s only six days until the exhibit, and I’ve been like a madwoman capturing image after image. Most of them are going to be shit, but there has to be something in there worth keeping.
Outside, it’s still cold as fuck, my feet stinging against the chill of the balcony floor. But in his ‘yard’, everything is melting. I get up against the rail to drowsily land a few shots. The branches are weighed down with ice, but beginning to lift with the thaw, like the yawn of a world waking up, stretching its arms high above its head.
It’s typical southern weather, freezing enough to cause a shit-ton of problems one day, then eighty degrees the next. The good news is that the roads should be okay to drive on. The bad news is that the road should be okay to drive on. There’s no getting out of returning to the Briar Cliffs.
Putting my camera away, I tap on the bathroom door before slowly pushing it open. The first thing I see is my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a mess, disheveled from our night in bed. I get this crystal-clear memory of Sebastian’s fist wrapped up in it as he fucked me, somehow both tender and relentless. It makes me shiver, wrapping my arms around myself as I poke my head, hoping to find him.
But the bathroom is empty.
As I gather my hair up into a loose knot, I hear the tiniest little peep from the box we’d given Abby and her kittens.
“Hey, mama,” I say bending down. The babies are wiggling around, nursing on Abby’s belly. At some point during the night, she had one or two more. There are clearly six kittens in the box now, all dry and fluffed up. I spend a long moment internally squealing over the cuteness as Abby lazily kneads a paw in the air, spreading her belly as if to say, ‘Look what I made’.
“You did good,” I assure her, chancing a slow, cautious pet on her head. She flinches a little but ultimately pushes into it, looking too tired to keep up her street cred.
Her food bowl is empty. I grab the Preston boxers he’d given me the night before and tug them on, collecting the bowl from the floor. Her head lifts, nose twitching at the sight of it in my hand. “Let me go see if I can find you some more tuna.”
Securing them in the bathroom, I enter the hallway, trying to remember how to get down to the kitchen. Left or right? This place is so big it’s like a maze. Other than a door across from his, Sebastian seems to have an entire wing of the house to himself. I peer into that open door when I walk toward a staircase. The room smells like expensive, musky cologne, the kind that burns my nostrils when I inhale. The walls are painted deep blue and the furniture is a heavy, dark wood. On the floor is a pile of clothing, spilling out of a half-emptied duffle bag. Over the massive, king-sized bed, is a flag emblazoned with an image of a devil with the words, Preston Prep Swim Devils, underneath. Three empty beer bottles crowd the bedside table.
Heston’s room, I assume.
And from the looks of the unmade bed, he’d spent some time in here.
Very recently.
The realization makes my skin prickle, knowing how much he and Sebastian don’t get along. I glance back at Bass’s room, wondering if I should go back inside, but Abby does need some food, and honestly, it’s freaking me out that Sebastian is missing. That he left me here in this strange place all alone, after...
Maybe something is wrong.
I make the decision and continue down the hallway. I take the steps slowly, warily, the scent of pancake batter and butter wafting up the staircase. My steps falter when I hear voices below.
“So?” a guy asks, his voice deeper than Sebastian’s.
“So what?” Bass replies, voice flat and low.
“Don’t be dense.” The other guy sounds mean, taunting. “Who’s the girl you were banging headboards with all night? All the noise coming out of there, she sounded like a screamer.”
I practically feel my own face pale at the realization we hadn’t been as alone as we thought last night. Did he really hear us?
“Jesus, shut the fuck up.” Even from a distance I can hear the fury building in his tone. “It’s none of your business.”
The guy hums, like maybe he’s considering it. If he does, he quickly discards the idea. “I don’t think I will. Bringing a chick home? Not your usual MO, baby bro.” He’s interrupted by the sizzle of the frying pan. “Don’t tell me you even let your precious mommy meet her, because that really would be a first.”
The truth is that he hadn’t. He mentioned her. He talked about her a lot, but seemed careful—maybe too careful—to keep me away from that side of the house. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, figuring he just didn’t want to disturb her, but now it feels like an intentional avoidance.
“Hes,” Bass says, voice painfully tight, “I don’t know why the fuck you’re home right now, but trust me, had I known you’d be here, I never would have brought anyone.”
“Hiding her from me? Why? Is she ugly? Stupid? Is she poor?” He drags out the last one.
“She’s just a friend,” Sebastian barks out.
I press a hand to my lower belly, still able to feel the lingering sensation of him inside of me from the night before. That’s twice now he’s introduced me as a ‘friend.’ Once to Liesel and now to Heston. Not at all to his mother. I know in my heart, my soul, that we’re definitely more than friends. He said he loved me. My mind spirals, thinking back to how he only told me that before or after we fooled around, each time breaking my barriers a little bit more.
“You make friends breakfast after fucking them? I don’t think so.” Heston laughs. “Afraid she’ll see me and want a real man instead of some jacked-up pretty boy, like Sydney did?”
I grip the railing, face twisting in confusion. Sydney? Rakestraw?
Bass’s laugh is like barbed wire. “You’re so fucking deluded. You and Syd deserve each other. I bet you didn’t even delete that video of you fucking her like a ragdoll.”
“Why would I? Our faces aren’t even in it, and Sydney knows her place in our relationship.”
“Relationship?” Bass asks, voice getting louder, more irate. “Everything you say is bullshit, Heston. You’re not in a relationship with Sydney, you’re in some kind of abusive, twisted, manipulative flirting-with-prison situation that’s not going to end well for either of you. You’re just too fucking sadistic to give a shit.”
I blink, heart pounding in my ears, and ease down the stairs, getting to a place where I can see the two of them. Bass is standing over the industrial-sized range, pouring dollops of pancake batter on a large griddle. His movements are oddly brittle, automatic. There’s a plate of burned pancakes pushed to the side, and a smudge of flour across his forehead. Despite the domestic look of it all, his shoulders are tight, face set like stone.
Heston leans against the counter with his legs crossed at the ankles, watching his brother closely. “This whole diversionary tactic is bush league. Tell me about the girl.” His voice makes a shiver of fear crawl up my spine. Not a question, but a slow, threatening demand.
Sebastian cuts him a look, hand gripping the spatula. “Stay out of my fucking business.” Now that I can see him, I realize that he’s not just pissed off. He’s nervous. When he goes to flip a pancake, his hand is clearly shaking.
“You’re the one who brought her home,” Heston reasons, shrugging. “It’s not like I barged into your dorm and sniffed her down like a dog. You delivered her, right here to my doorstep.”
“I told you, I had no idea you’d be here.”
His brother just continues, “It’s probably a good thing I came. You’ve been ignoring my texts about next weekend, but now…?”
Sebastian seems to shed some of the pretense, gripping the edge of the counter with both hands, back swelling with his breaths. “I won’t be there.”
“Hm,” Heston says, head tilting as he observes his brother. “Why don’t I just go up and see her for myself?”
In an instant, Sebastian is in front of him, nostrils flared wide. “You go near her and I swear to fucking god, Heston…”
Heston laughs, seemingly happy to get such a rise out of his brother. It dies out on a long sigh. “See? You’ve been out of action for too long. You need it. We both know you do. You need to imagine they’re all me, because that’s as close as you ever get to beating me.”
The air around Sebastian crackles like an impending lightning strike. Fear ricochets through me and I stumble down the step unthinkingly.
Heston’s eyes whip to mine, and he’s frozen for the briefest moment before his face splits into a wide, overjoyed grin. “Well, well, well, look who came to say hello.”
I can see Sebastian stiffen, turning his head just enough to see me. When he does, his eyes slide closed, shoulders deflating. He mutters a low, “Fuck.”
