an unspoken agreement that we both like fucking like this, which is fine by me. Finding a girl who likes getting fucked the exact same way I want to fuck, and on a constant basis?
This is the jackpot.
But there’s the issue of me being on probation, plus being an instructor—her instructor. I know I like to play the odds, but not getting busted here is a fool’s bet.
She fights with the clasp and I climb out of the bed, gesturing for her to turn around. She turns, pulling her hair over her shoulder, giving me room to slide the little hooks together.
“Thank you,” she mumbles. I run my finger over the Devil’s Mark on her neck and she flinches. “Oh, there they are.” She darts away, spotting her panties by the bedroom door.
Since it looks like we’re not having another go, I grab my own shorts and tug them on. “You still not going to tell me who gave you that mark?”
“What?” She pulls her shirt over her head, the torn sleeve hanging limply. She fingers it, eyes rolling. “No. I can’t.”
I narrow my eyes, tracking her as she picks around the room. “You mean you won’t.”
She finds her jeans and steps into them. “Why does it matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
“Well, don’t be,” she insists, avoiding my eyes. “It’s nothing.”
“See? That’s the exact opposite of what a Devil’s mark is. It means something. That’s the whole point.” I know from my tenure here that most Playthings get marked with a hickey. A Devil marking his girl with a tattoo is rare. They’re too permanent, too visible, to put on some casual fling. Hickeys are gone so fast, people barely have a chance to gossip about it. “Someone cared about you enough to give you that mark. You belonged to someone. Is it so wrong to wonder who?”
She shoves her feet in her shoes, looking exasperated. “It’s wrong for you to badger me about something I’ve already answered.” She stands in front of me, giving me a firm look. “You need to drop it.”
“Fine.”
It’s categorically not fine.
And it’s not fine that it’s not fine. I shouldn’t even care. So some Devil was committed to her enough to brand her for life. Who cares? Only it doesn’t make sense. Even if the guy graduated already, there’d still be some hints of him. You don’t get someone’s Devil mark tattooed on you without having some serious fucking attachment. But her phone’s lock screen is just her and six other girls—the same girls Micha had told me were sitting at the Devils’ table last year. The fuck does that even mean?
I like to think it’s just about getting information for Collins, but I’ve never been good at lying to myself. The reality is that I need to know whose dick she’s basically made Devil matrimony to.
From the depths of my brain comes a disturbing whisper: Maybe it’s Sebastian.
I give her the blandest smile I can muster. “You’re right. It’s none of my business.”
Sighing, she rests her hand on my chest, pushing up on her toes to kiss me. But I shift my head to the side at the last moment, letting her lips clumsily graze my cheek.
Yeah, I’m petty as fuck.
Who’s surprised?
She stumbles back, and even worse than this completely unwelcome investment I’ve been saddled with, is the sudden burn in my stomach when her face falls.
“Well.” She gnaws on her lip for a moment. “See you in class, I guess.”
“Yeah,” I say. “See you.” She walks out, and I let her go, both satisfied that I’ve upset her and weirdly shitty for doing so.
For the first time in days, I go into my medicine cabinet for some of that sweet, chalky disappointment.
If there’s one trait that every Wilcox man has, it’s stubbornness.
Well, and also apparently stomach ulcers.
But mostly stubbornness. It’s made my father millions. It’s what drives Sebastian to win every fight and every race. And it’s what makes me refuse to back down over this new little stand-off with Georgia.
It lasts for days.
I’d started it that night at my apartment, snubbing her when she tried to kiss me. She raises the stakes when she ‘trips’ by the faculty lunch table and spills mac’ n’ cheese all over Gina, the water polo coach. Things are chillier between us than they’ve been in a while, as though we’d let out all that heat and passion and desire, and now there’s nothing but apprehension and animosity.
You know, like every other day.
I don’t worry about it. Georgia