Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,204

to the couch and bend me over the arm, slapping one of his handprints into my ass until he pounds ruthlessly into me. Maybe, like he sometimes does, he’ll take me to bed and make it soft and achingly slow, forcing desperate pleas from my mouth as he teases me, relentless and deliciously wicked.

By the time I climb the stairs, I already feel fit to burst. My life is pretty structured these days, designed around minimizing any opportunities to fixate on anything detrimental. My compulsions haven’t gone away, but I’ve learned how to better manage them. It doesn’t hurt that my boyfriend has an insatiable appetite of his own and is willing to sacrifice to my needs.

Our apartment is my favorite place to be. Even having just spent a weekend at my parents’ giant manor, I find that years spent living in dorm rooms has conditioned me for the coziness of places like this. Heston and I spent weeks finding the perfect one, because although I’m content with small spaces and a lack of luxuries, he still has a bit of that Wilcox snobbishness.

I wouldn’t have him any other way.

I rush into the apartment, breathless from my sprint up the stairs.

But he’s not waiting for me.

Sagging in disappointment, I set my bag down and call out, “I’m home!”

Nothing.

I shrug out of my jacket, feeling my chest twinge worriedly by the lack of greeting. “Where are you?”

There’s a bang and a muffled curse before his voice responds, “In the kitchen!”

Oh.

Oh no.

I pad carefully into the room, peeking at him around the corner. As I suspected, he’s red-faced and sulky, darting from one pot to another, stopping to tell something inside, “Oh, fuck you.”

“Babe?” I ask, cautiously stepping inside. “You making dinner?”

He throws me a look. “No, I’m playing soccer.”

“Okay,” I say, holding my hands up. “Stupid question, fair enough.”

He flings a hand at the pot. “The bechamel is all grainy, and I can’t find the wooden spoons, and this,” he throws the whisk in the direction of the sink, “is completely useless.”

I finally enter the room, going to the drawer with the wooden spoons and pulling him out a pair. Heston always needs two of everything when he cooks. One will inevitably get chucked somewhere.

Wilcoxes.

“What’s the occasion?” I ask, sliding onto the counter.

He gives me a bland look. “Hunger.”

“Oh.”

More elaborately, he explains, “I spent lunch dealing with a Freshman’s menstruation crisis, so now my stomach is kicking my ass.”

“Oh my god,” I laugh, covering my mouth. “I would have paid money to see that.”

“I had to take her to the office and call her dad, who, for the record, was about as prepared to deal with that as I was.”

“You’re an excellent teacher,” I decide, and hey, I should know. I was his first student, after all. Sometimes when he goes to the pool for some laps, I’ll even get in with him, clutched tight to his neck as he gently guides me beneath the surface, showing me that his world can be more than an icy, black maker of nightmares. Sometimes, I’ll even press my lips to his while we’re under there, bubbles of air tickling our noses. The water still scares me. I just know that Heston will always lift me to the surface.

I peer into the pot, making happy sounds at what’s happening inside. “You’re getting better.”

“No, I’m not.” Heston looks hopelessly into the sauce. “But it’s not like I can help it. My housekeeper always brought me prepared meals.”

Wryly, I point out, “You haven’t had a housekeeper in like three years.”

He shrugs, stirring the sauce, and I find my stomach clenching with unease. Heston always greets me at the door when I send him the emoji. It’s not the lack of sex that’s upsetting. It’s the deviation. How harried he looks. The fact that he tossed and turned all night.

Not for the first time, I wonder if I should call Warren.

“Hey,” I say when he passes, tugging him between my legs. “Hi.”

He finally stops then, taking a breath to rest his palms on the counter against my hips, bracketing me in. “Sorry.” His eyes go soft when he looks at me, eyes slipping closed when I cup his cheek in a hand, searching the lines of his face. “Just a weird day, I guess.” He tastes like the sauce when I kiss him, humming into my mouth. It’s a slow, testing kiss—a question.

He answers by deepening it, licking hot and wet into my mouth. When he breaks