things have historically been a massive pain in my dick.”
He touches my arm gently, making a point. “But you have to be willing to accept the true me too, and I’m sorry, but a part of that is being stupidly rich. I’m talking trust fund, stocks and bonds, off-shore accounts, type of rich. At least my father is, and his father was, and there’s just no end to the fucking money, and that’s something you have to accept if we’re going to be together.” I open my mouth to argue but he holds a finger to my lips. “Seriously. Money means fuck-all to me. It isn’t going to go away, and as long as I have it, I’m going to shower you with gifts, because that's what my mother taught me, not to be greedy, to share what I have and give freely. No-strings-attached gifts to the people I care about is just how I roll.”
He bends down and kisses my forehead before turning and walking back toward the cafeteria, with that same cocky swagger that’s impossible to hate. The embroidered devil on the back of his jacket is the last thing I see before he vanishes around the corner. I hold the laptop against my body, realizing that part of what bothers me the most is that Sebastian is always giving me something; the decal for the Mustang, rides when I need them, help with the kittens, and yeah, okay? I admit it.
The epic fucking orgasm, too.
It was this huge, monumental thing that I thought I might never get to experience with another person. I’d written off ever being able to feel like that. I’d already accepted that no one would ever touch me like Sebastian does, and not even just what happened in his car, but also what happened after, and again today. Someone willing to be patient, to not give up, to keep touching me like this, even when it’s hard—even when I can’t accept or return it in the way I’d like—is the biggest gift of all.
It’s just that I have nothing to offer in return.
Maybe, I think as I head toward the art hall, I need to stop refusing his gifts and figure out the best way to even out the scales.
19
Sebastian
Sitting at the end of the long table, I try once again focus on my turkey sandwich instead of thinking about sex. It’s like a fucking sickness, all of a sudden. People always talk about that statistic where guys think about sex every three-point-something seconds, and fucking hell. A three second reprieve is actually sounding really good.
The glaring eyes of the other Devils are a helpful distraction. I haven’t said a word to them since I’d spoken to Sugar in the hall, but they’re all a bunch of nosey bitches, so in between absurdly detailed daydreams of sinking my hard dick into a wet pussy, I brace myself for their commentary. For once, they may have gotten the hint, because no one says anything until Aubrey asks, “My dad said he’d see if he can get use of the box seats at the stadium for the Twenty-One Pilots show. Anyone want to come?”
“What night?” Carlton asks, as if he has anything else going on.
“Wednesday. We’d have to drive into town, but there’s free food and stuff.”
“Sounds fun,” Vandy says. “Reyn, you want to go?”
“Eh, they’re a little too emo for me, but free food sounds good.”
“They’re not emo,” Georgia argues, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m definitely in. Do you mind if I ask Sugar? I know she’s into them because she has a sticker on her lap—” My gaze flicks up to hers and she rolls her eyes. “Come on, Bass. Did you really think she wouldn’t get mad about you buying her a laptop? She got pissed about the little thingy you got for the car. Not everyone can be wooed with money.”
“I’m not trying to woo her. That laptop she lugs around is a piece of fucking trash. I was trying to—” I throw my sandwich on my tray and stand. “Forget it. You wouldn’t get what I was trying to do.”
I kick the chair back under the table and grab my tray.
“Where are you going?” Georgia asks, taken aback. “Wait, are you seriously mad?”
I give her a look and keep going. I’m not mad. I’m just… I don’t even know. Too full of energy. Irritable. Wound up. I need to work out, fight, race, do something with my hands. I