Page 4 of The Good Student (Straight No More #2)

I'M NOT SURE what to do with myself. I consider calling it a night, but as I walk around the crowded room, dodging stumbling dancers and ducking under someone's wildly gesturing hands, I can't find Monica anywhere and I can't leave without her—I promised Jake I'd look after her.

Which, now that I think about it, I'm doing a shitty job at, considering I don't even know where she is.

The strobe lights are making my head spin, casting weird shadows across unfamiliar faces.

I need to rest and cool my head, but there's no place for me to sit in peace, all couches and sitting areas full of people—some making out, others engaged in loud drinking games—so I head toward the bathrooms. The old floorboards creak under my feet as I make my way through the house.

The line is enormous which works just fine—I don't really need to use the restroom, I just need to process what happened.

The hallway is dimly lit by a single yellow bulb that casts everything in a sickly glow.

I take a spot at the end of the line and lean against the wall, the ancient wallpaper rough against my back, running my palms over my face.

What even happened out there? Images of Asher dancing flash before my eyes and I try to get them out of my head.

Because it's not the images themselves bothering me—it's the memory of my dick reacting, twitching dangerously in my pants when Asher leaned over, his cologne a heady mix of citrus and something darker, and what the fuck is up with that?

My dick isn't supposed to react like that to a man, let alone that man. ..

I decide I must be exhausted—with exams looming around the corner I've been hitting the books hard, and not getting enough sleep.

The light above me flickers irritatingly, making my growing headache worse.

Yep, that must be it. Body confusion triggered by sleep deprivation and the fact I haven't gotten laid since… fuck, it's been a long time, hasn't it?

One by one people leave the line, their frustrated sighs and muttered curses echoing in the narrow space.

They're discouraged by the long wait and I'm sure there's people fucking inside—the occasional thump against the wall and muffled moans kind of give it away.

Which, again, fine by me. For a split second I wonder if one of those people could be Asher.

I shake my head, the motion making me slightly dizzy.

So what if it is? It's not like I care. In fact, it would be better if the man got his rocks off elsewhere and stopped taunting me.

Deciding both my body and mind are sufficiently in check now, I opt to go back to the party, sighing theatrically to pretend I'm one of the people bothered by the wait.

As I turn around to leave the narrow hallway I see a silhouette on the other side of the hall, approaching.

My pulse kicks up as I recognize the shape immediately even before I can make out his facial features—Asher.

The man's movements are smooth, predatory, like he owns the cramped space.

I stop mid step, my shoes squeaking against the wooden floor.

If I move to walk now, I'll have to somehow squeeze past Asher in the too-narrow hallway, getting close to him, maybe even rubbing against him and that'd be dangerous.

The thought alone makes my skin prickle with unwanted heat.

And so I'm rendered motionless, waiting, as Asher's features grow sharper until he stops in front of me, folds his arms over his chest and leans one shoulder against the wall, the fabric of his shirt pulling tight across his chest.

"Sup?" he greets me, his voice low and smooth like honey. I don't know what to say to that. I swallow, my throat suddenly dry, send him a nod of acknowledgment and turn my back to him. Guess I'm stuck in that line after all .

For a second it seems like that's all we're going to do—wait our turn. But it only lasts a few moments before Asher's hushed voice reaches me from way too close of a distance, his breath warm against my neck. "So, are we having fun yet?"

I refuse to turn back to face him, though I can feel his presence like a physical weight against my back. "Didn't know you joined Nickelback. Good for you."

"Why? You like rockers?" Asher's voice is more hushed now, a rumble that seems to vibrate through the small space between us.

"I can play you some cords if you like." Then, my eyes fall closed as Asher leans in more, close enough that I can smell that maddening cologne again, and says straight to my ear, "Or I could play you. "

A puff of air escapes me and my cock twitches.

Fuck, I need a nap. Or a lobotomy.

"I'm not interested," I say, my voice embarrassingly shaky, exuding much less conviction than I'd like. The words seem to dissolve in the stuffy air of the hallway.

Asher chuckles behind me, the sound low and dark like whiskey. "Could have fooled me."

Shit. Does he know? Did he notice, there, on the makeshift dancefloor? Can he somehow read my mind, read all the anguish that's currently going on inside my brain? That thought is terrifying. My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I'm sure Asher must hear it.

I wait for Asher to continue speaking, to taunt me more, but he remains quiet.

Don't look back. Don't you fucking look back. It'd be fucking tragic if you turned to look back at him right now .

And even though my inner voice is right, my body refuses to comply as curiosity takes over and I turn halfway, pressing my back against the wall and look to my right at Asher.

Big fucking mistake.

Asher hasn't shifted his stance, his chin held high, looking down at me through heavy-lidded eyes. That’s a fucking bedroom stare if I ever seen one, dark and promising things I shouldn't want.

Asher raises a brow and I fight the urge to look away—I won't give him the satisfaction.

I won't show him just how much it's affecting me, how my skin feels too tight right now.

"So, I've been wondering…" Asher says, his voice low and rough like sandpaper against silk.

I swallow but keep Asher's stare for a few moments, watching the way the dim light catches in his eyes. When he doesn't finish the sentence, I ask, "About?"

Shit. Why am I encouraging him?

Asher's tongue makes an appearance as he drags the tip along his bottom lip and although he's not smiling, I can't shake the feeling this is somehow amusing for him.

He leans in closer and his smell envelops me again.

I find myself taking an involuntary whiff.

"When was the last time you got a good blow job? "

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Is he…is he really fucking talking to me about blow jobs right now? The words seem to echo in my head, making my throat go dry.

With my back still pressed against the wall I straighten up to appear taller, because apparently laws of physics don't work in this goddamn hallway. I've got a good half inch on Asher—I noticed that when we were dancing, so how on earth is he towering over me now, making me feel small and cornered?

"One you couldn't stop thinking about for weeks on end?

" Asher continues, each word falling like honey from his lips.

I try not to tremble and stay perfectly still, but I feel it—the slight shift in my pants as they become just a little bit tighter, my cock perking up traitorously.

"One from someone who really knew what they were doing? "

His voice is dripping with challenge, his words liquid, flowing out of him with ease I can't wrap my head around. I try to keep my breaths steady, but they come out shaky either way, little puffs of air between us. "Stop that," I breathe out, my tone even less convincing now.

Asher lets out a soft chuckle. "That long, huh?"

I can feel the heat creep up my neck, grateful the hallway is so dark Asher won't be able to see me blush. My skin feels like it's on fire. "Not long at all."

That's a lie. I don't even remember how long it's been since I've gotten any blow job, let alone one Asher's describing. And why do I feel the need to get defensive about it, anyway? Why am I even having this conversation?

Asher looks like he tries to conceal a smirk as he licks his bottom lip again, the movement slow and deliberate. He's doing it on purpose, I'm sure. And the worst part? It's fucking working. "You'd want one, wouldn't you?"

And before I can shout out something totally untrue, like ' No I fucking wouldn't ,' Asher continues, his voice silky smooth, "Don't worry.

I don't plan on sucking you. I don't typically suck cocks of people I don't know, despite what my reputation may say.

" It takes everything I've got to stop myself from challenging that statement, to keep my mouth shut when my brain unhelpfully supplies images of what Asher's mouth might look like wrapped around—

No! Fuck no .

His voice drops another octave, becoming something dark and rich that seems to wrap around me like smoke.

"Although," he says as he leans in closer, like he's about to tell me a secret, his cologne making my head spin.

I fight off the urge to lean in as well, though my body sways traitorously.

"You might go get some fresh air now. You look a little…

" And then, he leans back and slowly runs his gaze all along my body, from my face to my crotch where the now very obvious outline of my hard cock is, "… flustered."

Defeat.

I have never felt more defeated than I do now.

Not only do I avert my gaze, no longer able to hold Asher's stare, I have no words to offer.

My usual sharp tongue seems to have abandoned me entirely.

Somehow, during the span of one night Asher managed to twist me in knots, making me question everything I know about myself, and that… That's fucking scary.

My heart is pounding, trying to break out of my ribcage. Not able to look Asher in the eye I push off the wall, mutter an "Excuse me," and bolt, rushing down that damn narrow hallway.