Page 18 of Wicked Little Darling

What the fuck? Did he really need to take his shirt off right now? It wasn’t even hot in here.

I tried focusing my attention on my schoolwork; I’d already memorized my schedule, but it wouldn’t hurt to look it over again and then get a head start on my early morning class.

For a while, there was nothing but the faint sound of the chatter of excited students out in the courtyard below. I flipped through my philosophy textbook, carefully turning glossy pages and scanning various chapters.

I shifted slightly, then peeked at Dakota over the pages of my book. He was half-lying, half propped on his pillows, one arm behind his head, one leg drawn up. The muscles of his abdomen were bunched because of his position, and he’d set his book on his stomach, but I could still see a line of black hair that started at his navel and ran down under the waistband of his sweatpants.

I slid my gaze higher, to his chest. To the small pink nipple on his right pec. My face heated as I stared at it, so I let my gaze drift higher to his profile, over his clean-shaven jaw, long nose, lips that were slightly pursed as he read. His lashes were thick and black, his eyes barely visible as he looked down at the book. He was so still right now, but there was some kind of energy humming around him that made me think of the stillness of a predator instead of any kind of languid laziness.

Those dark eyes suddenly flashed to mine, and my heart jolted.

“You can read it after me, I’m almost done,” he said with a knowing smile.

“No, I’m—no, thanks,” I said, looking back down at my textbook. I was annoyed I’d been caught staring at him and equally annoyed with his little smile.

I saw him get up out of the corner of my eye but kept my attention on my book.

“Is that a violin?”

I lowered my book as Dakota walked toward the foot of my bed. Did he not have any work to do?

“Yes,” I said, raising my book and ignoring him once more.

“Cool. What kind?”

As if he knew the different types of violins? Actually, maybe he did. Was that his instrument?

“It’s an Eastman.”

“Ah. Not bad. What type of wood?”

“Spruce and maple.”

“Nice.”

I finally looked at him over the top of my book, and the humor in his eyes made my stomach twist into knots.

I said nothing and went back to reading, hoping he’d do the same.

But of course he didn’t.

“So you’re a violinist. That’s cool. I heard you transferred here. Where’d you come from?”

He was leaning casually against the door now, still shirtless. His hands were shoved in his pockets so deep that it pulled at the waistband of his sweatpants, revealing a small sliver of his underwear.

I’d asked him if we could just not talk, he’d agreed, and now he was acting like that conversation had never happened.

I wondered what not talking meant to him, because it’d obviously taken on a different meaning than it did for the rest of the world.

I didn’t want to talk to a shirtless, privileged jerk that had probably never heard the wordnoin his life. He was about to hear it a hell of a lot.

Didn’t he have friends he could bug instead of me?

“Tagerton,” I said, ripping my eyes from all that annoying skin and trying to focus on my book.

“Is that the college in King’s Park?”

“Yes.”