One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(32)

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 . . .

I wake with a gasp, the textbook lying across my stomach sliding off and making a loud noise as it hits the ground. Ohmigod. What the hell was that? That was a dream. I just had an afternoon nap with a dirty dream about Ashton. Ohmigod. I sit up in bed and look around. I’m alone. Thank God I’m alone! A strange discomfort stirs between my thighs. It feels . . . frustrating? Is this what Storm and Kacey are always talking about?

I wish I had time to sort this out. But someone is knocking on my door. That must be what woke me up in the first place. If the dream hadn’t been interrupted, would I have had dream sex with Ashton? No . . . my brain doesn’t even know how to conjure that up.

Maybe if I weren’t so frazzled, I would have looked in the mirror. That would have been smart. But Ashton and apparently anything to do with Ashton turns me into a primate.

And so I simply throw open the door.

“Connor!” I exclaim with way too much enthusiasm, my eyes widening in surprise.

I see his eyes shift down and I follow them to appraise my pair of ratty Lululemons and my dad’s old Princeton sweatshirt—three sizes too big for me. “What are you doing here?” I stealthily drag my fingers through my hair. I don’t need a mirror to tell me that it’s a wild mess.

He steps in with an easy smile, one hand coming from around his back to reveal a large pot of green leaves. “Here.”