One Tiny Lie
Page 23
“Relax, Irish. At least you know one person in the room now.”
He has a point, I think, as I look around at a sea of unfamiliar faces. “And I suppose you’re going to sit beside me every single class?”
“I don’t know. You seem like an angry student. I’m not sure I want the prof associating me with you.”
I shift away from him intentionally, earning a derisive snort. “So the fact that you saw my schedule has nothing to do with picking this course?” I ask.
“What? You think I’m taking this just because you’re in it? Why would I do that?” There’s a playful quirk in his brow.
Good question. But I still know it plain in my gut: he’s here because I am. I just don’t know why. “How’d you get in, anyway? I thought there was a wait list for this.”
I see his fingers running back and forth over that worn leather band around his wrist. “I know one of the ladies in the registrar’s office.”
“Perhaps the one you had over on Saturday night?” I blurt out, the image of that stupid red sock still burning in my mind, reconfirming how wrong he is.
He pauses and then turns to look at me, cocking his head. “Are you jealous, Irish?”
“Of what? That you’re such a douche bag that you drop off your girlfriend and have another woman in your bed within hours?”
“I didn’t have anyone in my bed,” he says defensively, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip slowly. I fight the urge to look down at it.
“You didn’t?” I sigh with relief. And then I realize that I just sighed with relief. Why am I sighing with relief?
He shakes his head, clicking his pen a few more times. “Up against the wall . . . in the shower . . .”
I start gathering my books in order to change seats before the professor begins, but Ashton’s hand lands on top of mine, holding it in place. “What does it matter? You were with Connor in his room anyway, weren’t you?”
“No, I . . .” Heat creeps up my neck. “We were just talking.” I shake my head. I don’t know why it matters, really. What he does behind his girlfriend’s back is sleazy, but he’s right—it’s none of my business. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. “It doesn’t matter, Ashton. I just thought you regretted messing around on your girlfriend.”
“I never said that,” he answers softly, releasing his grip of my hand and shifting in his seat as the professor affixes a microphone to his collar, ready to begin the lecture. “I said I regretted messing around with you.”
My jaw clenches as my pride takes another hit. “That makes two of us,” I mutter, hoping that came out convincing, knowing that it doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Nice skirt, Irish,” he murmurs, his eyes now very obviously on my thighs. I instinctively smooth the simple black skirt, wishing it were longer.
I struggle to keep focus for the next hour, Ashton’s words weighing on me. I grab onto bits and pieces of what Professor Dalton says, sometimes even an entire point. And then a brush against my knee or my elbow makes me jump. I adjust in my seat. I squirm. Several times I glare at him, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. And he doesn’t take notes, I notice. I see him scribble a few lines on a page, but I doubt they have anything to do with this lesson.
By the time the class wraps up, I’m ready to run up the stairs. Or stab him in the leg with my pen.
As the professor writes our first assignment on the board, I hear Ashton mumble, “Now I remember why I never wanted to take this class.”
“There’s still time to drop it,” I snap back.
Mock horror twists Ashton’s distractingly beautiful face. “And not enjoy your pleasant company twice a week for an entire semester? Heavens, no!”
I shake my head with resignation. “Okay, seriously, Ashton. Back off.”
“Or what?”
“Or . . . I’m going to tell Connor.”
“No, you won’t,” he says softly.
“Why? Because you think he won’t want me after? I have a feeling you’re wrong.” I don’t have that feeling at all. In fact, I have the feeling that Ashton is right. But I also have the urge to have the upper hand on him. For once, dammit!
Leaning to the side until his shoulder presses against mine, he murmurs, “No . . . because you’re in love with me.”
A strangle gurgling sound escapes my throat.
Upper hand gone.
My heart hammers in my throat. I’m really not sure how to respond to that but my gut says that I have to, partly to defend myself, partly because I know he likes embarrassing me. It takes a few swallows to form words. “If loving you means wanting to rip your balls off, then . . .” I turn to lay what I hope is a steely gaze on him. His face is inches away from mine but I don’t back off. “Yes. I’m madly in love with you.”
Kacey would be so proud.
I’m not sure what I expected in response. I’ve never threatened anyone like that before. Maybe a flinch, maybe a shift away from this crazy girl who talks of maiming his genitals? Definitely not that damn smirk again. And I think he may have leaned in even closer. “I love getting you all riled up, Irish.” He grabs one of my books and scribbles something on the inside cover, and then tucks in a folded piece of paper. “I just remembered . . . I already took this course three years ago. I aced it. Call me if you need help with your papers.” With that, he scoops his notebook up. I turn in my seat and watch as he bounds up the stairs before the prof officially releases us, earning glances from pretty much every female and a few guys in the class.
I shake my head as I flip open the book to read “Irish loves Ashton” with a big heart and a phone number scrawled across the inside of the front cover. “Dammit,” I mumble. He just defaced a two-hundred-dollar textbook with this nickname I still haven’t asked about. On the plus side, he’s no longer in the class.
Curious to see what the note says, I unfold it.
The only thing I regret is that it ever ended. And I’m the one who’s jealous. Insanely so.
My heart rate skyrockets.
“Nice skirt,” he says as his hands slide up my bare thighs, sending fire shooting upward. I’m standing in front of him as he sits on the edge of his bed. And I’m shaking. Strong fingers curl around the backs of my thighs and squeeze, dangerously close to where I’ve never been touched before. My body’s reacting to him, though. My heart rate is racing, my breathing quickening, and I feel myself getting wet. Sliding his hands up, he hooks his thumbs under the band in my panties. He pulls them down until they fall to the ground on their own. I step out of them.
“Come here.” He gestures to his lap and I comply, letting him guide my one knee to one side of him and the other to the other side of him so that I’m straddling him, my hands gripping his shoulders, marveling at their strength. He pushes my skirt up to pool around my waist and I’m instantly self-conscious. “Look at me,” he orders and I do, watching his dark eyes bore into mine, holding them there. Never shifting. I hold that stare as he reaches around to settle one hand on the small of my back. I hold that stare as his other hand moves up my inner thigh. My breath hitches as he touches me. “Don’t look away from me, Irish,” he whispers as his fingers push inside, first one, then another . . .
He has a point, I think, as I look around at a sea of unfamiliar faces. “And I suppose you’re going to sit beside me every single class?”
“I don’t know. You seem like an angry student. I’m not sure I want the prof associating me with you.”
I shift away from him intentionally, earning a derisive snort. “So the fact that you saw my schedule has nothing to do with picking this course?” I ask.
“What? You think I’m taking this just because you’re in it? Why would I do that?” There’s a playful quirk in his brow.
Good question. But I still know it plain in my gut: he’s here because I am. I just don’t know why. “How’d you get in, anyway? I thought there was a wait list for this.”
I see his fingers running back and forth over that worn leather band around his wrist. “I know one of the ladies in the registrar’s office.”
“Perhaps the one you had over on Saturday night?” I blurt out, the image of that stupid red sock still burning in my mind, reconfirming how wrong he is.
He pauses and then turns to look at me, cocking his head. “Are you jealous, Irish?”
“Of what? That you’re such a douche bag that you drop off your girlfriend and have another woman in your bed within hours?”
“I didn’t have anyone in my bed,” he says defensively, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip slowly. I fight the urge to look down at it.
“You didn’t?” I sigh with relief. And then I realize that I just sighed with relief. Why am I sighing with relief?
He shakes his head, clicking his pen a few more times. “Up against the wall . . . in the shower . . .”
I start gathering my books in order to change seats before the professor begins, but Ashton’s hand lands on top of mine, holding it in place. “What does it matter? You were with Connor in his room anyway, weren’t you?”
“No, I . . .” Heat creeps up my neck. “We were just talking.” I shake my head. I don’t know why it matters, really. What he does behind his girlfriend’s back is sleazy, but he’s right—it’s none of my business. He’ll get what’s coming to him eventually. “It doesn’t matter, Ashton. I just thought you regretted messing around on your girlfriend.”
“I never said that,” he answers softly, releasing his grip of my hand and shifting in his seat as the professor affixes a microphone to his collar, ready to begin the lecture. “I said I regretted messing around with you.”
My jaw clenches as my pride takes another hit. “That makes two of us,” I mutter, hoping that came out convincing, knowing that it doesn’t make me feel any better.
“Nice skirt, Irish,” he murmurs, his eyes now very obviously on my thighs. I instinctively smooth the simple black skirt, wishing it were longer.
I struggle to keep focus for the next hour, Ashton’s words weighing on me. I grab onto bits and pieces of what Professor Dalton says, sometimes even an entire point. And then a brush against my knee or my elbow makes me jump. I adjust in my seat. I squirm. Several times I glare at him, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. And he doesn’t take notes, I notice. I see him scribble a few lines on a page, but I doubt they have anything to do with this lesson.
By the time the class wraps up, I’m ready to run up the stairs. Or stab him in the leg with my pen.
As the professor writes our first assignment on the board, I hear Ashton mumble, “Now I remember why I never wanted to take this class.”
“There’s still time to drop it,” I snap back.
Mock horror twists Ashton’s distractingly beautiful face. “And not enjoy your pleasant company twice a week for an entire semester? Heavens, no!”
I shake my head with resignation. “Okay, seriously, Ashton. Back off.”
“Or what?”
“Or . . . I’m going to tell Connor.”
“No, you won’t,” he says softly.
“Why? Because you think he won’t want me after? I have a feeling you’re wrong.” I don’t have that feeling at all. In fact, I have the feeling that Ashton is right. But I also have the urge to have the upper hand on him. For once, dammit!
Leaning to the side until his shoulder presses against mine, he murmurs, “No . . . because you’re in love with me.”
A strangle gurgling sound escapes my throat.
Upper hand gone.
My heart hammers in my throat. I’m really not sure how to respond to that but my gut says that I have to, partly to defend myself, partly because I know he likes embarrassing me. It takes a few swallows to form words. “If loving you means wanting to rip your balls off, then . . .” I turn to lay what I hope is a steely gaze on him. His face is inches away from mine but I don’t back off. “Yes. I’m madly in love with you.”
Kacey would be so proud.
I’m not sure what I expected in response. I’ve never threatened anyone like that before. Maybe a flinch, maybe a shift away from this crazy girl who talks of maiming his genitals? Definitely not that damn smirk again. And I think he may have leaned in even closer. “I love getting you all riled up, Irish.” He grabs one of my books and scribbles something on the inside cover, and then tucks in a folded piece of paper. “I just remembered . . . I already took this course three years ago. I aced it. Call me if you need help with your papers.” With that, he scoops his notebook up. I turn in my seat and watch as he bounds up the stairs before the prof officially releases us, earning glances from pretty much every female and a few guys in the class.
I shake my head as I flip open the book to read “Irish loves Ashton” with a big heart and a phone number scrawled across the inside of the front cover. “Dammit,” I mumble. He just defaced a two-hundred-dollar textbook with this nickname I still haven’t asked about. On the plus side, he’s no longer in the class.
Curious to see what the note says, I unfold it.
The only thing I regret is that it ever ended. And I’m the one who’s jealous. Insanely so.
My heart rate skyrockets.
“Nice skirt,” he says as his hands slide up my bare thighs, sending fire shooting upward. I’m standing in front of him as he sits on the edge of his bed. And I’m shaking. Strong fingers curl around the backs of my thighs and squeeze, dangerously close to where I’ve never been touched before. My body’s reacting to him, though. My heart rate is racing, my breathing quickening, and I feel myself getting wet. Sliding his hands up, he hooks his thumbs under the band in my panties. He pulls them down until they fall to the ground on their own. I step out of them.
“Come here.” He gestures to his lap and I comply, letting him guide my one knee to one side of him and the other to the other side of him so that I’m straddling him, my hands gripping his shoulders, marveling at their strength. He pushes my skirt up to pool around my waist and I’m instantly self-conscious. “Look at me,” he orders and I do, watching his dark eyes bore into mine, holding them there. Never shifting. I hold that stare as he reaches around to settle one hand on the small of my back. I hold that stare as his other hand moves up my inner thigh. My breath hitches as he touches me. “Don’t look away from me, Irish,” he whispers as his fingers push inside, first one, then another . . .
