My nervous giggle is the only answer I can give him. Forget? My brain went blank. I forgot about my problems, his problems, and the potential zombie apocalypse. If that’s what orgasms do, then I can’t believe people ever leave their houses. Or cars.
“I guess that’s another first for you involving me,” he murmurs. One that I will never forget.
With one light kiss on my nose, he finally moves his hand to smooth my skirt down to a respectable level. Glancing down pointedly at himself, I hear him say with amusement in his tone, “And for me, too.” When he catches my confused expression, he starts chuckling softly. “That’s never happened.”
My eye widen in shock as I drop my gaze to his lap. That only makes the chuckling turn into full-blown laughter.
It takes exactly three hours.
Three hours—lying in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my books sitting closed beside me—for the orgasmic wave to pass and for the nausea to set in as I realize what I just allowed to happen. What I wanted to happen. What I don’t regret happening.
And when I answer Connor’s call and he apologizes profusely for not taking me to New York, and promises that he’ll make it up to me, I just smile into the phone and tell him that it’s okay. I wish him good luck with his paper. I think about what a sweet, good guy he is and how much my parents would love him. I think about how I should end things with him, given what I’ve done.
I hang up the phone.
And I cry.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Thoroughbreds
“What were you thinking?”
“Not much, clearly.”
I hear the exasperation in Kacey’s voice. “I don’t know about you, Livie . . . Sometimes you’re as graceful as a one-legged flamingo in a pit of quicksand.”
I roll my eyes. Some of the stuff my sister comes up with . . . “It’s a mild sprain. It’s almost better. I don’t even need crutches anymore.”
“When did it happen?”
“Three weeks ago now, I think? Maybe four. I’m not sure.” Time seems to both drag and fly by lately. All I’m sure of is that I haven’t seen Ashton in two weeks, since he walked me to my dorm that night, kissed my cheek good night, and turned away. And I haven’t heard from him since I got a text the following morning with the words:
One-time thing. Doesn’t change anything. Stay with Connor.
“Three or four weeks and you’re only telling me now?” Kacey’s tone is a mixture of annoyance and hurt, making a bubble of guilt swell in my throat. She’s right. I can’t believe I haven’t talked to her live in almost a month. I haven’t told her about the sprain. I haven’t told her about Connor. I certainly haven’t told her about Ashton.
“I’m sorry. I got caught up with midterms and stuff.”
“How’d they go?”
“Okay, I guess.” I’ve never struggled through exams, or walked into them feeling unprepared. But I left every single one of mine last week with a queasy stomach. I don’t know if it’s just the jitters from the added pressure. I do know that I spent entirely too much time dwelling on non-school things like what my feelings are for Ashton and what Connor would do if he knew what happened. Would he dump me? Probably. I consider telling him so that he will, because I’m too weak to end it with him. But that could cause problems between Connor and Ashton, and I don’t want to do that. They’re living together, after all, and I’m the girl in the middle.
And then I’d focus on my irritation with Ashton for ever laying one of his masterfully skilled hands on me. I’d let that irritation fester into full-on anger. Then the leather belt, the scars, the tattoos, and whatever else he’s hiding would all culminate into a mess of worry inside my head and heart, dousing my anger, leaving me hurting for him. Desperate to see him again.
And then I’d get angry with myself for wanting to see him, for letting him do what he did, for being too selfish and afraid to end things with Connor. For getting lost in shades of right and wrong instead of sticking to the black and white that I can make sense of.
There’s a long pause, and then Kacey asks, “You guess?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. You’ve just never . . . guessed before.” Another long pause. “What’s going on, Livie?”
“Nothing. I’m tired. I haven’t slept a lot lately.” It’s when I’m lying in bed that I seem to think about Ashton the most. Worry about him. Crave him. I’ve been lying in bed a lot.
“Have you talked to Dr. Stayner recently?”
With a heavy sigh, I admit, “No.” Because I’ll have to lie to him and I don’t want to do that, either. Avoidance is key. Reagan is onto something. Checking the clock, I mutter, “I have class in twenty.” My English lit class. I don’t feel like going. I’ve only done a quarter of the reading, so I’ll be lost anyway. I look at my bed. A nap would feel amazing right now . . .
“Well . . . we miss you, Livie.”
I smile sadly, thinking about Storm’s growing belly and Mia’s science experiments, and nights with my sister on the back deck, overlooking the ocean, and a hollow ache fills my chest. As pretty as the Princeton campus is, it just doesn’t compare. “I miss you too.”
“Love you, sis.”
I’m crawling into my top bunk for that nap when my phone chirps with a text:
Are you in your room? It’s Ash.
A thrill rushes through me as I type:
Yes.
The response comes immediately:
I’ll walk you to class. See you in a few . . .
What? He’s coming here? Now? My wide eyes dart around our room, at Reagan’s pile of dirty clothes, at my sweats, at my pale complexion and the rat’s nest of black hair reflecting back at me in the mirror. Scrambling, I pull on a pair of jeans and a shirt that Storm bought me but I’ve never worn. It’s light blue to match my eyes, fitted, and cut in a low V-neck. Because suddenly, I feel the need to tempt Ashton. Then I set to work on my hair, struggling to pull a brush through it. Seriously, I think rats have actually nested in it.
A loud knock on my door makes my heart leap. Peeking at my reflection in the mirror one last time, I quickly smooth on Reagan’s sheer lip gloss to add some color to my face. Then, with a deep breath, I walk over to unlock and open the door.
Ashton is standing with his back to me as he scans the hall. When he turns to face me, my stomach flips the way it did the first time I saw those intoxicating dark features. Only the feeling is so much more intense now, because it’s coupled with a magnetic pull wrenching at both my body and my heart.
“I thought I’d walk you to class on account of that lame foot,” he murmurs with a wry grin, his gaze drifting down and up my frame, unashamed.
“Thanks,” I murmur with a shy smile, turning to grab my books and coat from my desk. Truth be told, my foot is almost perfect. But I’m willing to not tell the truth if it means a ten-minute walk with Ashton.
Our conversation is normal, safe. He asks me a few questions about my exams; he answers a few about his. He asks me about the twins. When I see the door to the lecture hall up ahead, my heart sinks. I don’t want ten minutes with Ashton. I want ten hours. Ten days. Longer.
But Ashton doesn’t leave. He follows me into the lecture hall, down the stairs, straight to the front row, and sits down beside me. I don’t question him. I don’t say a word. I just watch as he stretches those long legs out, once again encroaching on my space. My body turns toward him this time, welcoming him. Wanting him.