Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,43

hair is in a loose, damp knot behind her head, and I thread my fingers into it and pull. “Look at me,” I tell her, I want to see her face while she degrades herself. This bitch owes me more than a fucking blow job. Her green eyes lurch up. “That’s right,” I rumble, enjoying the way her eyes glaze over when I give her hair another sharp tug. “You’re a good little cocksucker, aren’t you?” She stares back in defiance, cutting and dark, but her mouth never falters, sucking me down greedily.

She might hate me, but she loves my dick.

My hips buck forward, driving hard into her warm mouth. I hear her own pants, breathy little moans that float around my cock. I look down and see that she’s pushed her fingers under the crotch of her suit. I want to be mad that she’s not focused solely on me, but the scrunch of her nose and the sucking of her mouth, tits jiggling as she moves, are doing things for me.

I reach down and push the strap of her suit off her shoulder. Her tits, already barely contained by the stretchy fabric, spill out. I graze the top of one with my fingertips, bending over to get a better handful. Her groan vibrates all around me, but that’s not what has me frozen, my balls tightening.

From here, I can see the bite mark—my bite mark. It’s been a few days, but it’s still a vivid, dark purple against her fair skin. Holy shit. It’s so well defined that I could probably count my teeth. I run my fingers over her shoulder, grazing them over the mark—barely a brush against the skin. My shoulders jerk in a shudder and I grab the base of my dick, yanking it from her slick mouth.

She makes a sharp, affronted sound. “Hey!”

I grunt, squeezing the base of my dick to stave off my orgasm. “Get up.”

Her eyebrows are knitted angrily together, but she does what she’s told, climbing to her feet. My hands are on her bathing suit before she’s even upright, shoving it down, over her hips, down her thighs.

I regret doing this in the closet.

Not because it’s risky, or because Coach James is probably right across the natatorium, but because the lighting is fucking awful. Even so, the purple marks on her hips are goddamn breathtaking.

“Look at you.” Wetting my lips, I reach out to graze a bruise that’s still in the perfect shape of my fingers. “Fuck.”

“What are you…?” Georgia pauses, realizing in a burst of a whisper, “Oh my god, you’re getting off on that!” She punches me in the chest, but I don’t even feel it.

Keeping my eyes fixed to the marks, I demand, “Turn around.”

She hisses, “No way, you psychopath!” and strikes out again.

This time I catch her wrist, annoyed enough that I wrestle her against the shelf myself, spinning her. Her suit is at my feet and I snatch it up, grabbing her other wrist and wrenching them both behind her back.

As I jostle her into place, tying the lycra around her wrists, I growl, “Stay still and I’ll fuck you hard enough that you won’t even care about where my eyes are.”

She stills, chest heaving, shoulders pulled back against the bind of her wrists. “Damn it,” she whines, teeth clenched, fingers wiggling. “You’d better make this worth it, asshole!”

I groan when I look down, because the back of her hips are even better. Two perfectly defined thumb-shaped bruises crown a larger mark—the heels of my palms. Slowly, I put my hands on them, matching them up, soaking in the warmth.

Her shoulders tense, head turning to show me her profile. “Not so hard,” she whispers, lashes fanning on a slow blink. “Just…not there. It’s still sore.”

I stop just shy of telling her to shut up. These marks are mine to look at, mine to touch, but the last thing I want to do is alter them. It’s the opposite, actually. I want to take a picture, freeze them in time. It occurs to me it’s been a few days now. Maybe they were even better before, although I can’t imagine how.

They’ve already got my dick twitching impatiently.

I grab her by the back of the neck instead, palm pressed against her Devil’s mark, and shove her down. “Keep your mouth shut this time.”

“Wait!” she bursts in a high-pitched, frantic whisper. “Do you have a condom?”

I answer, “Nope,” and then I enter her, hard and fast.

A small sound