He lifts his head and blinks once, twice, then sinks his teeth into the cushion of his lower lip as if he’s just realized who he’s talking to.
“Not important,” he mutters, finishing his last bites in silence.
As he eats, I watch him.
This seemingly perfectly imperfect prince with broken insides has never had a homemade family meal—despite the high-end chefs—thinks his mom died because of him somehow, and has some deep unresolved issues with his dad.
And it takes everything in me not to devour him whole. Disassemble him into tiny pieces, then put him back together again.
As he swallows the last bite, I’m getting really distracted by a smidge of sauce on the bottom corner of his lips.
“Can I have more?” he asks, but I’m already half standing, reaching out to him.
His eyes widen, turning a shiny expectant green. “What are you doing?—”
I grab his jaw and lean in, sealing my mouth to his, then suck his lower lip, licking the sauce away as my balls vibrate.
Just a taste, and I’m about to combust.
As I pull away, Preston’s watching me with shivering, glistening lips.
And I realize with damning reality that I’ll probablyneverget enough of him.
Maybe I should just trap him, so he won’t get the chance to leave.
23
PRESTON
“Look, Pressie! I have wings!”
I laugh because Mileydoeshave wings, neon-pink like her skates, and a headband with antennas stuck on her shiny curls.
She made me buy that bullshit on the way to the rink, or more like demanded it, because she’s a spoiled little shit who knows she can get whatever she wants from me if she pouts cutely.
It’s Sunday, and the ice rink at the edge of town is packed with people of all ages skating away. And, of course, Miley wanted to be part of the crowd. Maybe because her life is full of nannies and teachers, but she loves going to places where normal people hang.
“I’m gonna be so cool like you when I grow up, Pressie!” she announced today during the tedious breakfast I had to endure with our extended family.
Let’s just say I’m sort of under house arrest.
Okay, not sort of. Itotallyam. Dad sends Lenin with me at all times. Even now, he’s waiting outside.
The reason is actually stupid. Don’t ask Dad, though. He’ll say it’s serious. But anyway, I may have skipped meds for a few days after spending that night at Marcus’s place a week and a half ago.
Not sure why. Maybe because I wanted to feel normal. The meds override my senses sometimes, trapping me in a sort of enclave where emotions don’t penetrate correctly.
And while I was fine with that in the past, using humor and violence to make up for the chained feelings, it hasn’t been enough lately.
I selfishly wanted to experience everything in full detail.
Well, that might have been a mistake. My head chose the freedom to bubble over and decided, “Let’s fuck shit up!”
Of course, I obliged and joined some Vencor members for a killing mission outside of our turf in one of NYC’s clubs.
I might have gone a bit overboard—by slashing the fuck out of those people and making a scene.
Sowhat? It wasn’t a big fucking deal.
