“I’m just . . .” I frown. “I’m not very experienced.”
Placing a gentle kiss on my forehead, he murmurs, “That’s okay. To be honest, I really like that you’re different.” Does different translate to virgin? With a second kiss on my brow, his hands lift to hold my face on either side as he murmurs, “Let’s keep things slow and easy.” Slow and easy. What does that mean?
“Okay.” I use my drink as a diversion, bringing it to my lips to take an extra-large gulp, thankful that Mr. Jack Daniels is helping to keep me calm.
“So, I hear you got a tattoo last weekend?”
The quick change of topic is appreciated. I still groan and roll my eyes, of course. “Looks like it. Do you have any?”
Connor’s hands fall from my face to ruffle the top of his head. “Nah, I hate needles. Ash keeps trying to get me out with him but I refuse.”
“Go drinking with my sister and you’ll end up with one whether you like it or not,” I mutter wryly, but inside I’m mentally taking inventory of Ashton’s tattoos, ones I’ve seen sober and the other ones that I somehow remember—a bird on the inside of his right forearm, the Chinese script on his right shoulder, the Celtic symbol over his left pectoral, Irish on his butt...
And my face is burning again. Dammit.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing! Do you want to see it?” I blurt out, intent on diverting his attention from me and my perverted mind.
“Sure. I mean, it isn’t anywhere . . .”
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean, it’s on my back so, yes, you can see it.” I shake my head at my flustered self as I quickly turn around and sweep my hair to the side. I stretch the back of my shirt down. “See it?”
“Yeah.” There’s a long pause as he looks at it. He doesn’t touch it, though, and I wonder whether he wants to or not. This is so unlike the caveman-style manhandling earlier with Ashton. I’m seeing very quickly that Connor is his opposite in so many ways. I don’t get how they’re best friends. “What does it mean?”
“Just something my dad used to call me,” I smile wistfully.
“Well . . .” Connor’s hand gently takes mine and my shirt falls back into place. He sweeps my hair back the way it was, smoothing it gently, before his hands settle on my shoulders. I sense him lean forward until his mouth is close to my ear. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers, his voice decidedly husky, his thumbs sliding back and forth over my back with a hint of pressure. And I know that, despite not having expectations, Connor definitely has ideas.
I think this is the part when my brain is supposed to vanish. It’s supposed to be sucked right out of my head by the sexy guy breathing in my ear. At least, that’s what I’ve always assumed was supposed to happen. When you’re in a bedroom with a hot guy for the first time and he’s all but saying, “I’m horny and I’m yours,” you’re not looking for an escape route. You’re looking for a way to lock the door so you can tear his clothes off and do all kinds of things that don’t involve your brain.
But the problem is my brain is still intact, and it’s telling me I want to go back to leaning against his chest and feeling his warmth. I can even handle another kiss. Maybe. Though, if I’m being honest with myself, something about that doesn’t sit well with me either right now.
Is this proof that I’m repressed? Maybe I need to get drunk again. Maybe then it will sit well.
Or maybe I just need time to ease myself into this.
Or maybe I should just give up now and join a convent.
The volume of the music suddenly spikes, rattling the glass in the window. With a sigh of reluctance, Connor takes my hand and mumbles, “I’m sorry. We’d better go downstairs. Ty’s going to bring the cops here if I don’t go put a leash on him.”
I feel my shoulders sag with relief, my face stretching out into a contented grin as we leave his room, knowing that I’m getting the time that I need. Until I see Ashton’s bedroom door closed and a red sock hanging on the doorknob. I remember Reagan talking about “the code.”
“I thought Dana went home.”
Connor shakes his head, looking over his shoulder at me with a knowing stare. “She did.”
CHAPTER NINE
Games
Students trickle into the cold lecture hall for the Monday mid-morning class as I make my way down to the front. The entire first row is empty but I don’t care, picking a seat near the professor’s podium, my stomach a bundle of nerves as I anticipate a semester of difficulty. I briefly considered dropping this English lit course out of spite, seeing as Dr. Stayner was adamant that I do things based on what I want—not on what others want—and this is clearly what someone other than me wants.
Everyone assumes I’m a genius and grades just fall onto my lap because I ace the hard classes like calculus and physics. It’s true that those grades come easier to me than they do to most. The material is straightforward, black and white, right and wrong. I’m all about the clear-cut choices.
Subjects like philosophy, and history, and the English lit class that I’m about to begin, though . . . they just don’t make sense to me. If there’s a formula to find a right answer, I can nail it. But in classes like these, all I see are degrees of rightness and wrongness, and I’ve had to work hard to uncover those. In the end, I always get my A—I’ve never received anything but an A in anything, including gym—but those grades certainly never fell into my lap.
The door to the side of the chalkboard opens and a graying man in a black turtleneck and wire-rimmed glasses enters, carrying a stack of books and papers to the desk at the front. I smile. Finally, one thing that’s consistent with how I always pictured Princeton to be.
“Hey, Irish.”
The Ivy League’s walking contradiction takes the seat right next to me. His tall frame fills out his space and encroaches on some of mine.
“What are you doing here?” I hiss, turning to see Ashton in dark jeans and a sky blue shirt. I’m starting to recognize it as his typical style—flawless but careless. And he can pull it off, too, because he has a body that would make leopard-print tights look hot.
Sitting up straight in his chair, he looks around the room. “This is Professor Dalton’s English lit class, right?”
“I know what class this is!” I bark, and then temper my tone, catching the professor’s eyes flicker up at us from his podium. “Why are you here?”
“I’m a student and I’m here to take his class,” he answers slowly, his expression somber. “Some of us are here for a serious education, Irish. Not just to party.”
I glare at him, fighting the urge to punch him in the face again. There’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye, which is quickly followed by the crooked smile I’ve come to know as Ashton’s trademark flirt move. One that obviously worked on me when I was drunk but will definitely not work on me when I’m sober and annoyed.
“You’re a senior.”
“You seem to know a lot about me, Irish.”
Gritting my teeth, I simply stare at him, waiting for his answer. Finally he shrugs, making a display of opening up his notebook and clicking his pen a few times. “Had a course to burn and this one was open.”
“Bullshit!” The word bursts out of my mouth before I can stop it. This time the professor looks up from his notes to stare at us directly, and I feel my cheeks burn under the scrutiny. When he looks down, I turn back to Ashton.