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

by Angel Lawson

  A slow awareness crosses his face and he sits up, pushing the pizza aside. He shifts until he’s in front of me, the knees of our crossed legs touching, and then gently plucks my hands from the floor, lacing our fingers together in the space between us. I let him do this, my eyes warily tracking his controlled movements.

  He looks at me with an intent expression, lip caught between his teeth. “Alright, let’s make a deal. Whatever we talk about in here, stays in here. No judgements, okay?”

  My biggest concern this whole time has been about betraying my family to this boy—this Devil. But over the last few days, I can’t deny a shift has taken place. He’s been kind. Sweet, even. He’s looked out for me and even defended me to the point of making his friends suspicious. If he can do all that, can’t I trust him?

  Well, he did tell me about his sister.

  “Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “So, my mom is obsessed with us all maintaining relationships with our birth parents. The other kids are open to it, with frankly mixed results. But I’ve resisted.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” I say defensively. “Who wants to foster a relationship with someone who sees them as easily disposable garbage? With someone who’s been nothing but a source of toxicity and hurt?” Hamilton seems to grow paler, going rigidly still, but I barely register it. “Someone who can’t tell their child who their father is, or wouldn’t even try to get off drugs, or do any of the things a real parent needs to do in order to raise a child.” Hot tears prickle behind my eyelids, vision going blurry. “Why should I? I like the mom I have, because... yeah, she’s not perfect, but even her worst traits are just a product of her love for us. My real mother is the person who raised me—not the one who birthed me. I don’t want to meet that person and I sure as hell don’t want a relationship with her. I don’t know why my mom can’t understand that.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment, my outburst settling into a heavy silence between us. I’ve never spoken so freely to him about anything, let alone my very personal baggage, and I instantly regret doing it now—more than any of the other things I’ve done with him, by far. I try to unlace our fingers, to move away, but he doesn’t let me.

  “Hey, no,” he says coaxingly, gently pulling my hands back. “I get it. That’s some really heavy shit, and yours is the only opinion that matters. I’m no expert or anything, but I don’t think there’s a wrong answer there.”

  I shrug, trying to sniffle covertly. “It’s a whole complicated thing.”

  His steel gray eyes bore into mine. “Look at that, we do have things in common other than sex.”

  I let out a surprised laugh. “What? Parents we can’t please?”

  “That,” he lists, fingers playing between mine, “our love of swim, and our unrelenting desire to win.” His lips tug in a tentative smile. “Oh, and we both like artichokes and feta, the weirdest combination.” He picks up the last piece and pushes it toward my mouth, like he wants me to take a bite.

  It’s goofy and strange, but so is everything about this moment, so I lean forward. But before I can get to the pizza, he pitches toward me, eyes locked on my mouth. He blindly throws the pizza back to the box, hand coming up to cup my neck. I can’t help the staggered, shuddery breath I release as my eyes drop to his lips in anticipation.

  He whispers, “Okay?”

  I press a palm to his chest to hold him at bay. “We shouldn’t,” I say.

  He licks his lips. “Because you’re sick? We already went over that.”

  “No, because...” I meet his gaze, heart hammering. “Because it’s getting really confusing.”

  His gaze darts between my eyes and my mouth, and I swear I can feel his heart beat faster beneath my hand when he replies, “I’m not confused, Gwendolyn. I know exactly what I want.”

  I look at him, really look at him, and he’s a different Hamilton Bates entirely. And maybe some part of me, buried deep inside, still has doubts about this, but in this moment, my heart is running the show. I drop my hand and he ducks his head, finally brushing my lips with a soft, lingering kiss. He pulls back far enough to meet my gaze, assessing my reaction, and I feel the ghost of his kiss like a blaze of heat.

  I press forward, returning the kiss, and then climb into his lap. His hands grab my hips and pull me against him, tongue licking into my mouth. I settle in the curve of his hips, and it’s nothing like it was. Something’s changed. I know, because I can still feel the bright spark of want for him in my belly, but I feel something else, too: The bloom of a breathless swoop in my chest. I knit my fingers into his hair and deepen the kiss, as if I could push the wild swooping feeling into him, share it with him, even though a dark, frightened part of me wants to keep it safe and hidden.

  22

  Hamilton

  Surreal.

  That’s how I would describe the next 24 hours.

  Who knew that eating, sleeping, and binging Netflix while cuddled up next to Gwendolyn Adams would be the best day of my life?

  Gwen frowns at the closed laptop. “I can’t believe Hopper’s dead.”

  “You did see the extended scene, didn’t you?” I reach out to push a strand of hair behind her ear. I’ve been touching her constantly; I just can’t help it. “Because I’m pretty sure you were sitting right next to me when I watched it.”

  Ever since that kiss on her floor, feeling the weight of her in my lap, I’ve been perpetually hard. We spent a few long minutes doing that—just trading kisses—but we didn’t go any further. And the weird thing is, I don’t even mind. I’ve been enjoying the low-key closeness all the same.

  She turns to me and her eyes are so wide and guileless that it’s all I can do not to smile. “I did, but what if it’s a trick! What if Hopper really is dead? What if Will and his family are moving away, and Johnathan and Nancy are going long distance and Elle… oh my god, poor Elle.”

  Truthfully, it had completely escaped my mind that watching that plot point would likely be upsetting to someone who’s both adopted and currently entangled in a bunch of emotional stuff surrounding it all. I watch shows like that for the monsters and cool fight scenes, what can I say? It just didn’t occur to me. She tried to hide her tears when Elle read the letter from her ‘adopted’ dad, but I could tell. It didn’t feel good. I had no idea what to do.

  When she’d revealed her feelings about her birth mother to me, I felt it like a punch in the gut.

  Who wants to foster a relationship with someone who sees them as easily disposable garbage? With someone who’s been nothing but a source of toxicity and hurt?

  The parallels were nauseatingly impossible to miss. How many times have I called her trash? A reject? Tainted blood? How many times have I sneered at her, laughed at her, been a toxic asshole to her? I couldn’t count them if I tried, and I sure as hell can’t make up for any of it. Which is a hell of a thing to realize just as I began feeling like...

  Like maybe we could be something?

  Only now, I’m not so sure. It’s not like I could blame her. Aside from the parentage stuff, I basically fit the same bill as her mom. I’d thrown her away, discarded her, and then rubbed it in for... Jesus.

  For years.

  It’s only just now that I’m realizing these are probably some serious sticking points, and how completely fucked up is that? It’s just that Gwendolyn Adams has always been the picture of self-confidence, strong and assertive, so loyal to her family, and always seeming unconcerned about their different lifestyle. It never occurred to me that there might be pain, trauma even, lurking under the surface. That my actions had bigger, lasting consequences.

  Of course, I’d dumped a shitload of unresolved Bates family drama on her as well, so maybe... maybe she’ll see. Maybe she’ll understand that being a Bates has always been about the name, never about the people who bear it. The Adams are a family. The Bates are a brand. That’s all I’ve ever known family to be.

  I turn to her, deciding to save that introspective nig
htmare for another time—preferably when I’m not comfortable and enjoying myself. I clear my throat. “It’s a TV show, Adams, and a kid’s TV show, at that. They’re not going to kill the dad.” My brow puckers in confusion at her gaping stare. “What?”

  “It’s like you’ve never seen The Lion King.”

  It’s the look on her face that makes me drag her in my lap and wrap my arms around her. “When the next season comes out, we’ll watch it together, and you’ll see that everything will be fine.”

  The look she gives me is wide-eyed, surprised. I realize a beat too late that I’d accidentally made a declaration about the future. But in the moment, I meant it. Now that I have Gwendolyn Adams in my life, I don’t plan on letting her go. Not if I can help it. And I always get what I want. There are a million reasons this wouldn’t work, a hundred obstacles, but in this room, just the two of us? Fuck it, why not?

  She touches my cheek and lifts up to kiss me, her lips warm and sweet from the candy she’d been eating. She kisses me again, deeper, full of an unmistakable intent. These are not the small, restrained touches we’d shared since that kiss. Her hands rub down my chest, sneaking beneath the hem, her fingers hooking into my waistband. Her teeth tug at my bottom lip, begging for entrance. Happily, I let her in, and when her tongue sweeps against mine, I groan in relief.

  Days of pent-up desire well up inside of me, but I shake the lust fog from my head, frame her face with my hands, and ask, “Are you sure? You feel okay?”

  “Yep. I had a really good nurse.” She straddles my hips, and then pulls her shirt over her head, exposing her perfect tits. Just like that. No frills, no bra, no fanfare. Just instant tits in my face. It’s like she knows exactly how to drive me crazy.

  I think I know exactly how to make her feel the same.

  I roll her over, making sure neither of us fall off the bed, and quickly remove my own shirt. Her eyes rake over me hungrily, lip trapped between her teeth, and I can’t help but take my time getting back to her, letting her drink her fill. She likes my body. I see it written all over her face on the regular. It’s not much—it’s not a long history of me being a good guy who does good deeds—but it’s what I’ve got, something I’m proud of. I put a lot of time into training, staying fit, sculpting my body into an exacting tool. Her eyes gloss over as her gaze sweeps down my chest, fingertips following the reverent path. I wonder if this is how she feels when I look at her—wanted, powerful, triumphant.

  I’m only mildly surprised to find that I hope she does.

  I start my journey with a kiss, from her mouth to her hips, taking my time, tasting her skin, teasing her flesh. She writhes under me, hips pushing impatiently upward. When I get to her belly, I kiss from one hip bone to the other, smiling when she squirms from the sensitivity. I’m too long, too tall for this little bed, so I hook my hands beneath her knees and pull her toward the foot of it with a single, powerful tug.

  She inhales in surprise at the motion, but I don’t miss the way her eyes track my shifting muscles. It distracts her long enough for me to shuck her shorts and panties, sliding them down her creamy thighs in one smooth yank.

  “Bates,” she says, realizing with a start exactly what I plan to do. She pushes up on her elbows and looks at me in alarm. “I don’t—”

  “Yeah,” I say, kissing the insides of her thigh, “I think you do. Come on, let me do this for you, okay?”

  I know this is different from that day in the chem lab—that this isn’t the dark, shadowy, hasty under-skirt deal we were working with before. This is her spread out before me, as bare as she can be, in the stark light of day. I’m asking her to really trust me, to expose herself in an intimate way—a way I’ve never even wanted from another girl before. I’ve eaten out exactly two girls, and each were for nothing more than the novelty of it. The first, for the novelty of just having the experience under my belt, and the second, with Gwen herself, for the novelty of having—taking, owning—as much of her as I could get.

  Now, I just want to taste her, bring her a pleasure so intense and all-consuming that she calls me by name. My first name.

  I nudge her legs apart, my palms sweeping up her thighs, never breaking her gaze. This is a question, a request. If she doesn’t want it, I’ll back off, and I’ll never look. I’ll let her keep this. I won’t take it.

  She watches me, and after a long, breathless moment, exhales shakily. “Okay.”

  I press my thumbs into the juncture where her legs meet her hips, finally allowing my gaze to drop to her center. I wet my lips at the sight of it, shouldering in between her legs, and hold her wide gaze as I press an open-mouthed kiss to her core. She tenses in surprise, mouth parting, but her eyelids grow heavier as my tongue peeks out, prodding into her deep folds. She shivers, fingers twisting hard in the blankets, and releases a soft cry when I flick my tongue against her clit.

  She moans, “Jesus, Bates.”

  Well.

  That won’t do.

  I take my time, and why shouldn’t I? It took us weeks—no, years—to get here. I set to the task more diligently than I would anything else, learning what makes her tremble, what makes her back arch, what elicits small, agonized sounds from the back of her throat, what makes her buck up against me. Her hands thrust into my hair and her legs gradually relax, falling open around me, completely without shame. Eventually, I learn just the right way to kiss and tease her, and from the way her legs shake and her stomach tenses, I’m certain she’s almost to the edge, very nearly ready to topple over.

  Until she starts squirming away, whining, “No, no, I want to come with you inside me. Please.”

  She doesn’t have to ask me twice.

  I stand and shuck my pants, flinging my shorts off my feet with a clumsy kick. I bend over her, sliding a hand under her back and inching her up the mattress. Her hands grab my ass, pulling me close, her legs spread, hips pushing upward.

  I sweep the hair from her sweaty forehead, soothing her. “Wait, fuck, I have to—” I fumble to open her bedside drawer and something clatters to the floor in my haste to clutch for the box of condoms, but I eventually find it, quickly rolling one over my aching dick.

  Her legs lock around my hips, the heels of her feet pushing me forward, eyes heavy yet demanding. I enter her swiftly, thrusting in deep, and I can tell that she’s so close already, hissing at the quiver of her around me, tightening against my cock. I fight every instinct to drive hard and fast into her, instead clenching my teeth with the effort of keeping my movements slow, measured, purposeful. I want to savor her and the way she looks right now, her raptured gaze staring up at me, mouth agape with her panting breaths. I want to have this, and I want to keep this, and I want her to—

  “Say my name.” I press my forehead to hers, hips twisting forward. She gives me a glazed, questioning look. I can’t help the way my voice sounds, low and ragged and pulled thin, when I ask, “Call me by my name.”

  Understanding flickers in her eyes and she opens her mouth, but no words come out. I continue moving, slowly, almost pained with the restraint I need to stop my hips from just slamming mindlessly forward. She cries out and once more I plead, “I want to hear my name, Gwendolyn.” I want to make this real.

  She shudders beneath me, nails puncturing my back. I buck against her, trying desperately to control myself, but every second pushes me closer to the precipice. She groans and presses her mouth to mine, the word “Hamilton,” a hot, keening whisper between our lips.

  “Oh my fucking—” I shake, eyes screwing closed in pleasure, shocked at the effect it has on me, how much just hearing my name on her lips feels like a physical wrench. I bury my face into her neck as my orgasm draws helplessly near, hand cupped possessively around the long column of her throat.

  Her breaths are thin and shallow in my ear, and she whispers, “Hamilton,” once more before trapping my earlobe between her teeth and tugging, just the way I like it. The combination sets off a wave of feral need that devours all sense. I grab her
knee and press it to her chest, spreading her, opening her thighs to me, and giving in to the impulse to thrust wildly into her.

  There’s something all at once surprised and awestruck in her eyes when they hold mine, and the feeling of her clenching around me, orgasm rippling through her in a full-body convulsion, makes me grunt a low, “Fuck.”

  I follow her over the edge, coming in a trembling final thrust.

  Pleasure turns to ecstasy, and then flows into warm, consuming contentment. I look down at the girl below me, who is gazing at me with dreamy eyes. This isn’t someone staring up at me with reluctance and anger. The way her fingers card through my hair isn’t the behavior of someone refusing to forgive.

  Even if I’m lying to myself, I have to believe that. Because the emotion that shoots through me is unexpected, entirely unfamiliar, but absolute and true.

  I’m in love with Gwendolyn Adams.

  Leaving Preston the next day is harder than I thought it would be. Sure, a huge part of it is going home to a dysfunctional family celebrating another empty, joyless holiday, but even I can’t deny the biggest factor is Gwendolyn. I really don’t want to leave her, but most of all, I can’t help the grip of fear that, the second we leave this room, the spell will be broken. That we’ll go back to being Adams and Bates, enemies. That we’ll return to ignoring each other, at best, and at worst...

  I rub a hand down my face.

  “Got everything?” she asks, glancing around her room. Her bag is packed on the bed. I’d watched her carefully pick out different shirts and jeans, skipping over the lacy underwear for the more practical—yet still sexy—white. At least that means she’s probably not planning on impressing anyone while she’s home. That thought made me both anxious and relieved.

  “I think so.” I look around once more. I’d had to go back to my room once for a change of clothes, but everything fit easily in my backpack. There’s not much I need to take home with me, anyway. I have a full closet of clothes there. I look at her and something comes to me. “Oh, wait. Here.”