Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,29

back, pushing me against the open door. I fall into it, slamming it closed, staring up into his blazing eyes.

At some point, his broad palm has found its way beneath my chin, fingertips digging into my jaw. “Tell me you don’t want it.” In a low, hard growl, he demands, “Tell me your pussy isn’t wet for me right now. Tell me that if I bent you over that desk and fucked you black and blue, it wouldn’t be the best night you’ve ever had. Tell me, and I’ll let you go.”

“So help me god, Heston,” I whisper, voice sounding just as ragged as I feel. I let my head fall back against the door, eyes sliding closed. “if you don’t fuck me at least that hard, I’m going to make you pay for it.” There’s a moment of tense silence. I don’t open my eyes. I couldn’t take his viciously smug expression.

He’s still pinning me to the door when his hand comes up to roughly yank the straps of my suit down, exposing my breasts. He palms one of them, voice dropping to a deep, harsh octave. “You’ve tricked all your friends, the cops, my brother, into thinking you’re the victim, but you’re still a whore, aren’t you?”

My eyes fly open, wide and incensed. “I’m not a whore! I’m just…” I swallow back the explanation of what I am, why I do his.

I’m just desperate.

But the way he’s looking at me makes my heart stop. It’s cold and dark. Hungry. Malicious. It’s just like that night—the look of someone who wants to hurt me.

I’ve never been wetter in my goddamn life.

It should make me feel scared, ashamed. But all I can think about is how it felt under that water, when I thought everything might end, and I don’t care. All I care about is how alive I feel right now. The way his hands feel on me when he wrenches me away from the door. How his fingers yank my bathing suit over my hips, leaving it bunched at my feet. The way he threads his fingers through my hair and snaps my head back. I hiss at the pain while pushing my hips into him. He spins me, shoving me carelessly at the desk. I go easily, but you wouldn’t know it by the way he moves, lurching and turbulent, a palm planted into the center of my back, pressing hard—too hard—making me slam chest-first into the hard wood.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says when I yelp, kicking at my ankles, spreading me open. His fingers drag roughly down my bared pussy, and with a wash of humiliation, I know he’s realizing just how wet I am for this. “You like it rough—I know you do. Take it like the bitch you are.”

“Fuck you,” I spit, hips squirming, seeking the hardness against the back of my thigh.

He responds by grabbing my hip, crushing it in his grip to steady me. “Stay still,” he growls, lining himself up.

He enters me abruptly, cruelly, making me cry out in surprise. Three months is a long time to be without this. Unstretched, unprepared. It’s almost like losing my virginity again, the sting, the feeling of being so full that I have to gulp in a series of slow breaths to adjust to it.

Heston doesn’t give me time to. He tangles one fist in my hair, smashing my head down, and curls the other around my hip, pinning me painfully close.

And then he fucks me.

I have to grab the edge of the desk to feel any sense of being grounded. “Oh my god,” I gasp. “Oh my god, oh my god.” I clench my eyes closed, tethered between two opposing forces—the pleasure of his cock and the pain of his hands, the brutality of him pounding into me with short, deep, thumping shoves. My hips knock into the wood with every hammering thrust, and I know it’s going to bruise. The sharp rumbles coming from his chest, the slap of our flesh and muscle, the way he wrenches me back when I shift too far up the desk, snapping out a curt, “Stay still, bitch.”

Holy shit.

It’s fucking art.

My first orgasm is the actual essence of gratification. It explodes through me, taking every bit of thought, every worry, every ounce of tension with it. I know I’m being loud, but I don’t care. When Heston snaps his arm up, taking a handful of my hair with it, stinging against my scalp, it just