Devil Incarnate (Boys of Preston Prep #4) - Angel Lawson Page 0,8

hard as hell to get verified. This is the better way—vetting someone carefully instead of caving to an impulse.

“Wow,” I mutter when I see the attached photo. Over course I’ve seen the picture on his profile before, but it’s no less blood-stirring. It’s one of the primary reasons I’d swiped him. My eyes skim over the broad, well-defined chest. It’s not one of those cheesy bathroom pics, either. He’s waist deep in a clear blue swimming pool, revealing a ladder of impressive abs and a delicious happy trail. He’s got a long, lean, well-toned swimmer’s body that’s already been featured in my late-night relief sessions a dozen or more times.

His screen name is admittedly the epitome of cringe.

HotWetCox

But that photo alongside his bio was a sure seller.

Not looking for any weak bitches. If you can’t take a good rough fuck, then don’t bother wasting my time. I fuck hard and I make it hurt.

The photo was good, but it’s the bio that got me. I’ve been waiting—hoping, praying—that he’d swipe on my profile, too. I’m not stupid enough to think that one lay will get me through the next three months, but a good, rough fuck will certainly be as close as I could get.

I pause, staring down at the photo, feeling warm heat spread through my limbs. One dick to get me through the next three months, and this is it.

Looking around me to make sure no one is watching, I swipe across the screen. Like I told Mrs. Gilbert, I’m ready to make this my best year yet.

Meet me at Underworld. 9pm. You’ll be on the list. Wear something red and short.

I tuck the phone into my purse, adjusting the short hem of my dress. Underworld is a shady, lame-ass club that no one at Preston would ever deign to step within five blocks of.

Or, at least, it used to be.

Last time I saw this place, it was full of tweakers and rollers, shitty rave music pulsing from the cracks in the windows. It’s been completely overhauled, repainted, new lights, a distinct class of cars parked out front. I step out of mine, gaping up at the glowing ‘Underworld’ sign hanging over the entrance.

When the hell did this happen?

There’s a line at the door, maybe two dozen people waiting for entry. I’m not about to go to the end of it. A burly man is guarding the door—bouncer, I assume. A grumpy guy at the front of the line gives me a look as I approach him.

“Oh, come on,” he says, the stench of bad cologne hanging around him like a cloud. “If you’re twenty-one, then I’m a poodle. Get to the back of the line, little girl.”

I hide my nerves with a raised eyebrow, striding confidently up to the bouncer. “I’m RedFox.” I’m not vain—not exactly. I just come from a world that understands exactly what it takes to achieve a certain level of beauty. I’m thin but curvy. My tits are big and real. My eyes are a deep, emerald green that I know how to flirt with. My hair is a shiny, almost metallic kind of red that people pay a lot of money to replicate. Tonight, I’m wearing a dress that shows off my cleavage and legs. Stacked sandals give me another four inches of height, and I left my long hair down, grazing midway down my back.

I don’t need to be on the list to get into this place.

The bouncer shrewdly holds my gaze as he pulls a clipboard from behind him. It only takes one flick of his eyes for his expression to neutralize. “Welcome to Underworld, Miss Fox.” I follow the sweep of his arm into the door, shooting the surly cologne man a smirk from over my shoulder.

God, I love rich guys.

Inside, it’s both dark and bright. There’s still pulsing music—that hasn’t changed—but it’s less frantic. The club is crowded, but it’s still early. There’s an energy in the air, like it’s still charging, lights jumping around like smoky lasers.

HotWetCox hadn’t told me where to find him—or how to find him—but I know he’ll find me. Red dress. Short. So horny that my back molars ache from grinding. I decide my best bet is the bar, so I weave between a group of rowdy college students to make my way there.

I choose a spot far away from the action and don’t bother sitting. I lean my elbows on the bar top and give the woman behind the counter a cool