“You’d be surprised what these bunks will hold.” The secretive smile tells me that I don’t want the details. So I stay quiet while he pulls the covers up over both of us, adjusts all the pillows so they’re under him, and then forces his arm under my head so that I’m tucked in against his side with my head resting on his chest.

He doesn’t say a word. He simply lies there quietly, his fingers drawing lazy circles along my back while he gives me a chance to calm down. I close my eyes and listen to the rhythm of his heart—slow and steady and therapeutic.

“I’ve never had a C minus before. I’ve never had anything but an A.”

“Never?”

“Never. Not one.”

“Your sister was right. You are too f**king perfect.” I tense at the words. “I’m kidding, Irish.” He sighs. “I know you don’t believe me but you don’t have to be perfect. No one’s perfect.”

“I’m not, I’m trying to be . . . remarkable,” I hear myself murmur.

“What?”

I sigh. “Nothing. Just . . .” Something my dad used to say. “What if it doesn’t stop here? What if I get bad grade after bad grade? What if I can’t get into med school? What will I do then? Who will I be?” I’m starting to get frantic again.

“You’ll still be you. And trust me, you’ll always be remarkable. Relax.”

“I can’t!” I burrow my face against his chest. “Have you ever failed anything?”

“No, but that’s because I’m brilliant, remember?” His arm squeezes around me to tell me that he’s teasing. “I’ve had a couple of Cs. One D. Bell curves can be a bitch.” He scoops a spoonful of melting ice cream out and slides it into his mouth. “Have you gotten any other tests back yet?”

I shake my head against his chest in response.

“How are you feeling about them?”

“Before today, I was a little worried. Now?” My hand finds its way up to wrap around his shoulder, wanting to be closer to him, to sop up this sense of security he’s offering me, if only temporarily. “Terrible. Awful. If I did this bad on my best subject, then I definitely failed English.”

“Well . . .” Another spoonful goes into his mouth. “Did you do something different preparing for these than in the past? Did you study?”

“Of course I studied,” I snap.

“Easy.” I hear his hard swallow. “Were you . . . distracted?”

I close my eyes and whisper, “Yes.”

There’s a long pause before he asks, “By what?”

You. I can’t say that. It’s not Ashton’s fault that my hormones and my heart are wreaking havoc on my brain. “Lots of things.” My hand absently shifts down to his chest to settle where the tattoo is. Where the scar is.

Ashton’s muscles against my cheek automatically tense. “I told you, I wanted you to forget about that.” For a long time, I hear nothing but his heartbeat as my fingers first draw, then rub that spot on his chest, memorizing the ridge. It’s enough to lull me into an almost-sleep.

“Dana’s dad is a significant client of my father’s, and keeping her happy keeps her dad happy.” My hand falters for a second at the sound of her name, as guilt slams into my gut. But I force it back in motion as I pace my breathing. “If her dad is happy, then that makes him happy. And if he’s happy . . .” He says that as if it makes complete sense. All it tells me is that this man—his father—abused him as a small child and still has control over him as a grown man.

Keeping my hand moving slowly, I whisper, “So, you’re still with her . . . but not by choice.”

“As far as an arranged relationship goes, she’s perfect. She’s sweet and pretty. And she lives far away.” He’s numb to it. I hear it. He’s acquiescent and numb.

“Does she know about this arrangement?”

A small derisive snort escapes. “She thinks we’ll get married. And if—” He clamps his mouth shut. But I think I know where that train of thought was going. If his father wants Ashton to marry her . . . A shiver runs from the base of my neck down my back, around my ribs, into my throat, enveloping me with icy dread. God, what is he holding over Ashton’s head?

My body instinctively curls into his, pressing against him. I roll my head just enough to lay a sympathetic kiss against his chest. Or is it more of a relieved kiss? Relieved that I’m not wrecking a happy home because it’s all a sham?

“Can’t you get away from him?”

“Eventually. It could be months, years. I won’t know until I know. I was managing okay, though.” He pauses. “And then the most beautiful girl on this planet punched me in the jaw.”

A small half-giggle slips out. “You deserved that, Jell-O thief.”

The sound of his chuckle vibrates through my body. “I’ve never had a girl tremble like that for me before while fully dressed, Irish.”

“Shut up and give me that ice cream.” I lift my body up and reach for the spoon, but his long arm span makes it impossible to reach.

“I think you’ve done enough damage to yourself for one night.”

“I’ll be the judge of that. Why are you here and not at practice again?”

“Because I knew there’d be a hot chick with a terrific rack and chocolate ice cream smeared all over her face here.”

I freeze. My eyes drop to my shirt. My threadbare white cotton pajama top does nothing to hide the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. And my face? Based on the side of Ashton’s shirt, I’d say he’s telling the truth. “How bad is it?”

“You know how clowns have lipstick around the outside of their lips . . .”

Ohmigod! I jab my palm into his solar plexus as I move to get up.

His hands around my biceps stop me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To wash my face!”

In a split second, Ashton has me lying on my back again with no effort, my wrists pinned beneath his hands and his weight. “Let me help you with that.” He leans down and lets the tip of his tongue run leisurely around the outside of my mouth, beginning at the top, going from left to right, and then the bottom, from left to right, gently lapping up ice cream as he goes.

If there’s such thing as a virgin slut, I believe I fit the description.

How did I get myself into this again? I close my eyes, the urge to both giggle and scream at the top of my lungs overpowering. I woke up this morning, as I have every other morning since I last saw Ashton, telling myself to let go, to stop thinking about him and stay on the course that I’ve set out on. The slow-and-easy Connor course.

How, then, do I end up in my bed, struggling not to pant while Ashton licks chocolate ice cream off my face, while I try my own Jedi mind tricks to get a repeat of our night in the car? I haven’t said a word to stop him and I could. I could tell him to stop. I could call him a male whore. I could tell him that he’s making me feel like a whore.

But I don’t do any of that because I don’t want him to stop.

I let out a tiny whimper as he pulls back slightly. “It’s almost better,” he murmurs, his breathing shallow. He moves on to my lips, running his tongue along my top lip from left to right, followed by my bottom lip, left to right. I can’t help my mouth parting open for him. I can’t stop my tongue from automatically sliding out, reaching for him.