Addicted to You (Addicted #1)(20)

After a couple minutes, Lo sighs in boredom and nudges my side. “Have you had sex with anyone in this room?”

“Why do you care?” I try to multi-task and concentrate on the lecture too. The little tab at the bottom of my screen also distracts: Pro Pleasures Fan, Watch Full Video HERE.

“I’m about to fall asleep.”

Huh? I concentrate on highlighting a line in my notes. “Then why’d you even come?”

“Attendance counts ten percent. I can actually control that part.” He leans his shoulder into me, his warmth entering my space, his hard bicep on my soft. A breath dies in my chest. “You didn’t answer my question.”

My eyes dart around the hundred bodies compacted into the auditorium-styled room. I land on a short guy with a fedora, brown hair peeking beneath. Two years ago. His apartment. Missionary. I spot another with nearly black hair tied into a tiny pony. Five months ago. His beat up VW. Reverse cow-girl. The moments bleed into my brain, replaying. My heart quickens at the images, but my stomach sinks at the answer to Lo’s question. In a hundred person class, I at least slept with two guys. What does that say about me? Slut, whore. I hear the condemnation.

Yet, I glance back at that little tab on my computer, my chest fluttering in excitement.

“So?” Lo presses.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

An eyebrow quirks. “You don’t know?” Before I can unmask his expression, he smiles with that familiar bitter amusement. “That’s hilarious.”

“You need to get laid,” I shoot back. Think about your nonexistent sex life for a change.

“And you need a drink.”

“Ha. Ha.”

“You started it.”

I bang on my keys and he edges out of my space, the weight of his arm gone. The warmth replaced by cold. I inhale strongly and try not to think about the emptiness in my belly or the spot between my legs.

My finger slips, hitting a random button.

“Ahhh, baby, right there, right THERE!”

The entire room goes silent. And heads turn to the back, towards the source of the sexual noises, towards me.

Oh my God. My porn stays in the tab, but the sound heightens as the pro-athlete reaches his climax. Her moans. His groans. I click buttons as fast as my finger will allow, but my computer expands the porn window and says Not Responding every time I try to exit out.

Lo presses his knuckles to his lips, trying desperately to hide his grin.

“Take me in the ass. Please, please!!! Ahhh!” the girl cries.

RESPOND!!! I internally shriek. No, my computer has decided to rebel against human intelligence. So I slam the screen shut and close my eyes, praying for my teleportation power to kick in. I know it exists.

“aaaahhhhHHHH!”

I bury my head in my arms. Finally, the noise dies off, leaving the lecture hall in dead, awkward silence. I peek up from my arm-fort.

“I have a virus,” I mumble and cringe, too embarrassed to rephrase it to my computer has a virus.

The professor’s dark eyebrows draw into a hard line, not pleased at all. “See me after class.”

People steal glances back at us, and the exposure sends my skin into red disgrace.

Lo leans in again, but his masculine presence no longer tempts me. I feel like I’ve been electrocuted. “I didn’t know you watched anal porn.”

He tries to cheer me up with the words, but I can’t even laugh. An army of fire ants just crawled across my body. “I’m dead,” I mutter, and a horrifying thought hits me. “What if my parents find out?”

“This isn’t high school, Lil.”

The words don’t make me feel much better. I stare at my palms and retreat inside myself. My shoulders curving forward, my head slightly bent.

“Hey.” Lo gently turns my chin to meet his gaze, one full of understanding, narrowed with empathy. I begin to relax. “He’s not going to call your parents. You’re an adult.”

It’s hard to remember that when my parents cling to my future with such diligence and force.

“How often do you do it in the ass?” Lo banters with a crooked grin.

I groan and bury my head into my arms once again, but my lips upturn in a small smile. I hide that as well.

After another half hour of fearing my computer and producing paper notes at a snail’s pace, the class ends. People take the opportunity to glance my way as they stand to leave, like they want a full mental picture of The Girl Who Watches Porn (In Class).

I rise and my hands shake by my sides. Lo passes me my backpack, and I sling it over my shoulder. His palm spindles across my waist, for a brief second, as he says, “I’ll see you later. Maybe we can grab lunch during your break.”

I nod, and he pulls away, leaving me to wonder whether that was real or fake. Whether he meant to really touch my hip or if it was an unconscious movement, trained from all these years of pretending.

The scary part, I almost hoped it was real.

I watch him disappear with an old JanSport backpack, nearly empty. No notebooks. No pens. No computer. Just an iPad, a phone and a thermos in his possession. He walks without worry or care, tapping the height of the doorframe on his way out. Something about his self-assured nature, his unhurriedness, mesmerizes me.

“Name?”

I break out of my trance. The professor stands at his podium, waiting for me.