“I’m not freaking out,” I argue, even as his eyebrow raises skeptically. “I’m not. I just…” I shove the laptop at him again. “I can’t take this. It’s too expensive and just… way too much. It’s too much, Bass.”
He looks down at the laptop but doesn’t take it. Instead, he rocks back on his heels and says, “You know, I’ve worked really hard to understand you, Sugar, because there’s something about you that has me so fucking infatuated, it’s borderline embarrassing. You’re fun and sexy and snarky as fuck. I don’t care that you drive a shitty car, or that your boots are scuffed, or that your laptop is old. I actually like all those things about you, and you want to know why? Because they make you who you are. It’s the true you. You don’t apologize for it and you aren’t someone who tries to hide it. I accept it all, even when some of those 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 thought waking up at the ass crack of dawn and driving twenty miles to the closest Apple store to buy something shiny for Sugar would settle this buzzing beneath my skin. Maybe help me think of something other than finding a nice, warm hole to get my dick into, too.
No fucking dice, on either count.
I storm out the door, feeling the tension coil in my chest. Being with Sugar is pretty much the only thing that’s helped me feel better these past few days. But then last night, feeling her tight little body writhe against mine as she let me touch her—let me inside her—was such a fucking thrill. I’ve been thinking all morning about one phrase to sum it up: Sexual adrenaline. That’s all I’ve got. It fits. I almost came in my pants just from watching her, head thrown back, mouth opened in a soft, tortured cry as she came apart on my fingers.
I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone as badly as I wanted to fuck her right then. I couldn’t stop thinking about how easy it’d be to work my pants down, roll a condom on, and just sink into that tight, wet heat of hers. God, and I would have made her feel so good, too. She has no idea.
But that was the point. Reyn had been right about that. I need to stop making everything about my dick. That whole thing was about showing Sugar just how good I could make her feel. Bad enough that I’d already caused her pain—had already been the catalyst to her being unable to handle touch at all—I had to count my dick out of the game.
Yeah, it was hard.
Literally.
Limping back to my dorm with balls bluer than a smurf was a new low for me. I jerked off though, and it was… fine. Even if the back of my teeth are set on edge, even if I’m still hard all the damn time, even if I can’t stop thinking about it—pussy, pussy, dick, dick, fucking, fucking…
It’s fine.
I took second period to deliver the laptop, skipping class to get it up and running for her, setting that cute as fuck picture of Abby as the screen-saver, and leaving it in her locker, just so. But because my luck is just swinging that way recently, Dean Dewey caught me ‘skulking around the lockers suspiciously’. It took me an hour to talk my way out of that one.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a thank you? A smile? A kiss? A hug, if I was really fucking lucky?