Devil May Care: Enemies-to-Lovers Standalone Romance: Boys of Preston Prep

by Angel Lawson

  All I manage is a hard gulp.

  He pulls back far enough to meet my gaze. “Just admit it and I’ll leave.”

  My chest clutches in panic, but I don’t let him see it. I just lift my chin and glare him down. “Why? So you can lord it over me for god only knows how long? So you can brag to all your douchebag Devil friends about how you duped The Freak into spreading her legs for you? So that you can finally run and tell daddy that he was right; all of the Adams girls really are sluts?” I take a deep breath and exhale. “Or does your ginormous ego just need the affirmation that every girl at Preston Prep wants you, even a piece of trash like me?”

  He stares at me for a long moment, his stormy gaze fixed to mine, and then finally turns and strolls to the door. I turn to my desk, fingers trembling, the sounds of the door opening and closing seeming almost distant against the whooshing in my ears. I’m not scared of Hamilton. I’m not. I’m scared of how I feel around him. I’m scared of slipping in a way I can’t come back from.

  I suspect he has the same fear.

  I wanted to murder him at detention for calling me out in front of his idiot friends, for belittling and demeaning me while we both knew that he could barely keep his hands off of me. But he also brought me coffee, and my favorite kind, at that. How did he even know? And he helped me with the swim team by buying those shirts. He also made my entire body light on fire when his hand clamped around my thigh earlier tonight, and if I closed my eyes and really focused, I’m pretty sure I could still feel the heat.

  It’s that conflict—that crazy-making mess of confusion—that makes being around him unbearable.

  Unbearable and terrifying.

  It’s also a big part of what propels me to the door. I swing it open, his name on my lips, but he’s already there. He’s standing only inches away, like he’d wanted to leave but couldn’t. He seems genuinely shocked to see me standing there—to have been caught.

  “Fine,” I say, the word coming out low and hissed. “I admit it.”

  His expression transforms slowly, from shocked stupor to victorious, creeping smirk. “Admit what, exactly?”

  My eyes narrow. “Seriously, you’re going to make me—”

  ‘Say it’ is how I’d finish that sentence if he doesn’t lunge at me, lips crashing against mine. His wet mouth swallows a low sound that feels ripped right from my chest. His arms come around my middle and he half guides, half carries me back into the room, door slamming shut behind him. The journey to my bed is muddled with the hot sensation of him licking greedily into my mouth, one of his hands coming down to palm at the swell of my backside.

  Our fall to the bed is graceless and messy. He doesn’t land on top of me so much as he sort of surges into me. The weight of him is almost too much. It doesn’t last long before he tears his mouth from mine and ducks his head, his lips burning a fiery trail down my neck to my collarbone.

  I push clumsily at his shirt, because if I’m going to do this, then I’m going to do it right, and that means finally getting to see and touch all of his ridiculously perfect body. I get his shirt up around his armpits before he finally lifts his head and yanks it off, muscles rippling in the process. He removes mine just as fast, his palms skittering up my ribs as he tugs it up my body.

  He throws my shirt aside. Quick, nimble fingers remove my bra as though he’d practiced the move as much as the cello. The lacy fabric gets tossed aside next, and then he sits back.

  His gray eyes drink me in, slow but greedy. I can almost feel the searing circuit they make down my neck, over my chest, my ribs, my tense belly. He reaches out and his fingers follow the same path, gliding down my body.

  “Jesus Christ, your tits...” He flattens a palm to my ribs, sliding it up to cup one in his hand. His thumb rubs over my nipple and I arch into the touch, teeth digging into my lip. It feels like it takes an eternity for him to finally lower his mouth to it, his lips and tongue looking stark and red against my pale, flushed skin.

  I wind a hand into his hair, gasping at how his mouth feels on me. His hand comes up to fondle my other breast, and if he’d wanted to make me want him, then this was definitely the way to do it.

  I feel him tugging at my waistband in a foggy, abstract sort of way. Every nerve in my body is pointed right toward his mouth, his tongue laving against my nipple. Eventually, it’s clear that they’re going to need a little more attention. With a soft, annoyed grunt, he pulls away.

  “These fucking things, swear to god,” he pants, rising to the end of the bed to peel the clingy fabric down and over my feet. “Blessing and a curse.”

  The tent in his jeans is obscene, and I prop myself up on my elbows to watch as he thumbs his button open, pushing them to the ground and kicking them away. I take a moment to really drink him in. The broad chest, the chiseled abs, the firm thighs, the corded arms. It’s almost too much—too good to be true.

  What am I doing? What are we doing?

  I can feel the phantom creep of panic taking me, legs tensing, knees pressing together, and I hardly register the way he’s looking at me with those dark, hungry eyes.

  He keeps his black boxer briefs on and bends, pressing a slow kiss into my ankle, my knees, the tops of my thighs. He wedges a hand between them, coaxing them apart, and if he feels the fine tremors in my muscles when I reluctantly part my legs, then he at least does me the favor of ignoring it.

  I fall to my back and stare at the top of his head as he ascends, trailing his lips closer and closer to my center. The closer he gets, the tighter my body feels, like it’s just thin skin stretched over a pile of embers waiting to explode.

  I exhale when his kisses move up to my hip, and then my belly, and I’m... surprised at all this slow attention. I’d always imagined him to be the fast and greedy type, only concerned about chasing his pleasure, but this is—

  Intent.

  And I instantly realize why I’m panicking. This isn’t some quick, impulsive, fury-driven catharsis we’re chasing here. This is intent. This is something we both mean to do. This is something we both want to do—outside of arguments or pressure or competition.

  This changes everything.

  I think perhaps he can feel it, too, because when he dips between the apex of my legs, his hand is shaking almost as badly as my legs are. He finally meets my gaze again, finger playing at the edge of my panties, and he watches me closely, like he’s waiting for me to slap him across the face or knee him in the balls.

  I could, but I won’t—can’t, really. For some insane reason, my mind and body have both decided that I need to see this through. I push at the waistband of his briefs, wanting him freed, and he lends a hand, rearing back to shimmy them down his thighs.

  I finally get a good look at him, and yes. That is definitely a dick. It is definitely Hamilton’s dick. I could have probably picked it out of a line-up long before this. I can tell it’s his, because photos of it belong in textbooks. It’s long and thick, and doesn’t even have the good grace to be disgustingly veiny or anything, it’s just...

  It’s just so Hamilton.

  He plants a hand onto the bed beside me and bends back over me, hovering. His gaze doesn’t leave mine when he presses our hips together, the long, hot length of him rocking itself against my core.

  My mouth parts on an inhale and I clutch his biceps, legs clamping around his hips. “Wait, wait.”

  “Fight with me tomorrow,” he says, ducking his head to press a biting kiss into my neck. “Fight me all week, for all I care. But don’t fight me right now, Adams. If you don’t relax, it’s going to hurt.” His low rasp sends a chill up my spine. Is that Hamilton Bates showing concern? Tenderness? His voice is low and quiet, like he’s sharing a secret. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”

  I’m not sure how I can flush any harder than I already am, but it feels like that’s what happens. As much as I want to say no, that I’m experienced and have had plenty of lovers, I don’t. I can’t. It’s not something I
can hide.

  “There’s a box of condoms in the nightstand,” I blurt, not even bothering to avoid his eyes when he looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

  “Is there, now?” His eyes dart to the drawer and he reaches for it, pulling it open and searching blindly.

  “I bought them. Not for this—not for you, I mean. Just to be safe, so I wouldn’t end up like those girls—like my mom. The kind of girl who’s stupid and impulsive and unprepared and—”

  I pause and watch him open one of the condoms, rolling it over his thick erection. It’s a quick, practiced motion, something he’s obviously familiar with. He tosses the wrapper somewhere on my floor and leans back over me, taking himself in hand. I feel the pressure of him pushing at me, nudging, ready to get inside, and I’m looking at the size of him and thinking...

  “I don’t care how relaxed I get, there’s no fucking way that won’t hurt.” My stomach flip-flops and I have to battle not to let the hysterical laughter trapped in my chest burst forth. Because I’m realizing that maybe losing your virginity to a dick that big isn’t the greatest experience.

  Not so perfect, after all.

  His nose nudges mine until I meet his gaze. His eyes are hooded, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “You’re not like those other girls, Adams. You’re strong. Resilient. Smart. Bossy.” He distracts me with a slow, wet kiss, and something just... gives, his erection pushing just barely past the resistance.

  I gasp and dig my fingers into his back, toes curling.

  “You can handle all my bullshit,” he continues, “and if you can handle that, you can handle anything.”

  He finishes his thought with another deep kiss, and pushes the rest of the way in. He part groans, part growls, burying his face into my neck as he stretches me out, filling me up.

  It does hurt.

  But I think, later, I probably won’t remember that part. What I’ll remember is the shift of his back muscles as he waits, seated inside of me, for me to adjust. I’ll remember the wash of his breath against my mouth when he pants at the feeling of being inside me. Mostly, I’ll remember the look on his face—the pucker in his brow, the tick in his jaw—and how the look in his eyes was something lost and completely undone. I’ll remember how it felt to know that it was because of me.

  I’ll remember that there’s power here. That there’s triumph here.

  I try to relax as he starts to move, gently pulling back out before pushing in again. We watch each other as he rocks into me, testing, careful, and it’s not the feral lust from the times before—it’s a slow-building heat. Each time we meet, I feel my anxiety unwind, my belly loosening, my desire building. It isn’t long before I start raising my hips to meet his, tentatively at first, and then spurred on by the ragged sound he makes in the back of his throat.

  Soon I match him thrust for thrust, all senses lost about what I’m doing, who I’m doing it with and what kind of hell I’ll have to pay when it’s over. I follow the dance of our bodies—and it is a dance. I can’t even remember why I was so nervous. It feels so natural now to lock my ankles around his waist, just blind instinct to hook a hand around his shoulder and hold on as he plunges into me, the sweet friction and new, full feeling taking my breath away with each pass.

  I can’t help but watch Hamilton over me, in me. His jaw gets tighter and sharper, eyes falling closed, shoulders eclipsing me like the sun. He’s beautiful—consumed—a side of him I’ve never seen before.

  His control starts slipping gradually, driven by something primal and animalistic, his movements growing erratic, relentless. I can see his hand in my periphery, curled into a fist in my bedsheets, and the sounds he makes—these breathy grunts that sound like they’re being forced through his clenched teeth—are doing things to me. I lose myself to the sounds, the sensations twisting deep in my own core. It’s easy to lose myself in the rhythm of our bodies, in the closeness, in the bitter energy that fuels us. I come in a hot burst of white behind my eyelids, heels digging deep into his back, pushing him closer as I grind up into him. He hisses a sharp, “Fuck,” and slams into me, his massive frame shuddering with his own release, his skin hot, his cock pulsing inside of me.

  Sheer exhaustion—physical and emotional—crashes over me as my legs slide limply from his waist. Hamilton rests there, on top of me, for a suspended moment, forehead resting against mine, face strangely serene. My mind is too numb to think of what’d just happened. Of the consequences…

  Jesus Christ.

  I jerk awake a few moments later, sharp clarity coming into focus.

  What had I done?

  I thought the kiss was a betrayal, but this… how do I explain this? How do I justify it? Hell, I’d gone after him! I’d admitted that I wanted him!

  Hamilton shifts, the look of contentment gone, face going shuttered, eyes darkening. I recognize the expression instantly.

  Resentment.

  “I should go,” he says, untangling himself from me. I look away as he cleans up, wrapping my blanket around me like a shield. He starts, “That was—”

  “A mistake.”

  He nods in agreement, plucking his shorts and jeans from the floor. He tugs them on quickly, then his shirt. As skilled as he was getting my clothes off, he also seems practiced in making a... what did he call it? ‘Hasty post-coital exit’?

  He crams his feet into his shoes and heads to the door, stopping to say, “If you—"

  I cut him off. “You don’t need to threaten me. I won’t tell anyone.”

  His eyes hold mine, but there’s more exhaustion than threat in them. “Good. Trust me, I won’t either.”

  The door opens and shuts, and then I’m alone. There’s no risk of him returning nor of me going after him. I burrow under the covers, caught in the mixed emotions of everything that just happened. I feel both full and empty—both relieved and hurt.

  I shouldn’t expect anything better after tangling with Hamilton Bates.

  By Sunday morning, I know for sure that there’s no way I’m facing my family. My paranoia reaches a fever pitch and I call my mom to tell her that I don’t feel great, that I’m really sorry I won’t be home, that I’m going to spend the day resting.

  “Do you need some soup?” she asks, concerned. “I can bring some over. I know you like Pho from the 24-hour place.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Okay, well...” She sighs and her disappointment is palpable. “Just a reminder about Micha’s dance. It’s in two weeks. Mark your calendar, okay?”

  “Got it, Mom, wouldn’t miss it. Tell the kids I’ll see them tomorrow morning, okay?”

  “Go to the infirmary if you don’t feel better.”

  “I will.”

  I won’t.

  Pretty sure the infirmary doesn’t have a cure for massive regret.

  “Love you.”

  “Love you, too,” I say and hang up the phone. I drop it on the bedside table. My eyes fall on the box of condoms halfway out of the drawer, and then to the torn wrapper on the floor. I slam the drawer and snatch the wrapper up, tucking it deep into my trash bin.

  Seriously, what have I done?

  It’s not that I think he’ll tell anyone—god forbid. He’d probably slit his throat before he admitted to even being able to stand my presence, let alone sleeping with me. It’s just the fucking mind games.

  That, and the fact that I lost my virginity to a complete douchebag. My ‘precious womanly flower’ has never been worth much to me. I don’t necessarily subscribe to some puritan concept of anyone’s first time needing to be perfectly planned with the love of their life. But not getting dicked down by the guy who’s spent the last six months making me miserable would have been a nice start to the sexually active era of my life.

  Hamilton can have sex with any girl at this school. Most, if not all, would be more than willing. Reagan alone can probably satisfy his urges. But he keeps coming back for me, over and over, and now things have gone absolutely too far. That was an act that couldn’t b
e undone. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like him.

  So, what is this?

  That’s the part that keeps hanging me up.

  Even though I’m not sick, I do feel feverish. Lethargic. Fragile. Doomed to an eternity of shame. All the usual side effects of regret, I guess. I do what I always do when I need to clear my mind.

  I head to the pool.

  There are open hours on the weekend, so after leaving my belongings in the captain’s office, I dive into the water and let the monotony of swimming laps ease my spinning mind.

  As usual, exercising helps. The dull ache in my belly grows less obtrusive as my arms and legs begin to burn from the exertion. I get into the rhythm of the stroke, gaining confidence with each push off the wall. I know who I am, what I’m good at, and what I want to do.

  I’m not just some dumb girl who lost her virginity to the school asshole. That was never my destiny. And denying my own agency in this isn’t useful, isn’t fair, and isn’t me.

  I admit it.

  I wanted it.

  Is that so bad?

  The truth is that I can handle my side of this. But what about his? What does Hamilton really want? Every move he makes is about power and control. But he had power over me long before we started getting hot and heavy. So how does this factor in? What is his endgame?

  I climb out of the pool, trailing rivulets of water behind me, and enter the office. If Hamilton wanted control last night, then I’m not sure he succeeded. He looked pretty out of it when he came inside of me. And he didn’t look particularly happy with himself when he fled.

  I promise myself while showering to just let it go. Forget about it. We can do that, right? Forget this ever happened?

  That resolve comes crashing down when I walk out of the tiny bathroom and see him sitting at the desk, broad shoulders hunched over the calendar. He glances back, eyes always assessing, then resumes his work.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, shifting uncomfortably. “I thought you went home on Sundays.”