Page 3 of The Good Student (Straight No More #2)

THERE'S ONLY ONE thing to do considering the circumstances—dance the night away, because why the fuck not at this point.

The party's energy shifts as more people join the dance floor, the alcohol finally hitting that sweet spot where inhibitions start melting away.

Monica gets pulled into a circle of girls, their hands raised above their heads as they move to the rhythm.

I take a step back, not wanting to be that guy who crashes the girls' dance circle.

And then—because of course—Asher materializes next to me like he's been summoned by my moment of solitude. The urge to bolt hits me immediately, my muscles tensing for flight, but something stops me. Walking away would mean admitting Asher's presence affects me, and fuck that.

So I stay, letting my body move to the beat, pretending Asher isn't there. Except Asher is very much there, and our eyes keep meeting across the small space between us. There's something taunting in his gaze, a challenge I can't quite decode but feel in my bones.

The music pulses through my veins as I pour myself into the dance, my movements becoming sharper, more deliberate. I'm not trying to compete with Asher—I'm not!—but my body betrays me, matching his rhythm, creating something that feels dangerously close to synchronization.

The song transitions into something slower, more sensual, and suddenly the space between us shrinks.

Asher moves closer, not touching but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body.

Every cell in my body screams at me to back away, to put distance between us, but my pride roots me to the spot.

I won't give Asher the satisfaction of seeing me retreat.

The proximity brings with it unexpected observations. Like how Asher smells—a mix of something woodsy and clean sweat that shouldn't be appealing but somehow is. I hate my brain for even registering it, hate how the scent seems to bypass my conscious mind and settle somewhere deeper.

Movement behind Asher draws my attention. Some guy—tall, dark-haired, objectively attractive—has positioned himself behind Asher, his intentions clear in the way he moves. Something uncomfortable twists in my gut as Asher turns his head back, acknowledging the stranger with a smile that's all heat.

My mouth goes dry as Asher rolls his hips back, grinding against the stranger in a way that's practically obscene. His head falls back slightly, eyes closed, lips parted, and fuck—he looks good like that. The thought hits me like a punch to the solar plexus, unwanted and impossible to take back.

Just when I think I might actually combust from the tension, Asher's eyes snap open, finding mine immediately.

The intensity in that gaze pins me in place as he continues moving against the stranger but keeps his focus entirely on me.

It's too much—the way he looks at me like he knows exactly what this display is doing to my insides, like he can see right through my carefully constructed walls.

My movements become jerky, uncoordinated, my body forgetting how to follow the rhythm it had mastered just moments ago. My skin feels too tight, too hot, and I can't seem to get enough air into my lungs.

When Asher leans forward, my traitorous body mimics the movement before my brain can stop it.

Our shoulders brush—the first actual contact of the night—and electricity shoots through my arm.

I'm suddenly hyperaware of every point where our bodies almost touch, of the millimeters of space between us, of Asher's breath ghosting across my neck.

"Patience," he murmurs, his lips nearly grazing my ear. "The night's not over yet."

The song ends, and Asher pulls back, disappearing into the crowd as suddenly as he appeared, leaving me standing there, chest heaving, pulse racing, mind reeling.

My body feels like a live wire, every nerve ending buzzing with something I refuse to name.

Get your shit together , I tell myself firmly, but my hands are shaking and my heart won't slow down and nothing makes sense anymore.