“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.”
I tilt my head and frown as I examine it. “Clover?”
“To remind you of me while you’re in here, being a good student.”
“Wow.” I swallow as my cheeks burn. Yes, that’s what I was doing in here. Being a good student. “Thank you.” I try to slow my breathing and act normally.
“How are classes so far?”
“Busy. I’m already swamped with English lit.”
“Are you liking it?”
“It’s . . . interesting.” A hand unconsciously brushes against the folded note in my pocket. The one permanently creased from all the times I’ve folded and unfolded it, running my fingers along the edges, trying to puzzle it out. Trying to make sense of my reaction to it and why it’s made me so giddy when it should make me angry. It’s as though Ashton telling me that he doesn’t regret what happened has now given my brain license to flash inappropriate memories from that one night at an alarmingly more frequent rate, leaving me flushed and scattered and unable to focus. Even Reagan has noticed.
“I won’t keep you, then.” I squeal as, grabbing my waist, Connor lifts me up onto the top bunk. Considering I’m about 125 pounds, that’s not easy. Then again, I shouldn’t be surprised, I realize, noting the definition of his arms in that gray-striped shirt he’s wearing today. He’s not quite as tall or broad as Ashton, but he’s built almost as well as him.
Ashton . . . my thoughts always veer back to Ashton.
Sliding his hands from my waist, Connor rests them on my knees. “We’re going out tomorrow to Shawshanks. It’s a local bar. Do you want to come?”
“Sure.” I smile and nod.
“Are you really sure? I mean, Ty’s going to be there.”
“In his kilt?”
“Nah, they won’t let him through the door in that,” Connor chuckles, shaking his head as if remembering something. “Well, not again, anyway.”
“Well, I can handle Ty.”
“Yeah? And what about Ashton?”
My stomach does a flip. What does he mean? What does Connor know? What—