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Trick Play 9
MAGNOLIA
AnotherThursdayandAsher is leaned up against his chair, arms propped on the back, with a pen between his teeth. His blue eyes never leave mine, always staring, and God knows what kinds of things are going on in his head right now. I’m sure inappropriate ones. Ones that would make me shift in my chair and have me wishing we could go somewhere alone again.
News quickly spread that Asher and I were an item. And, honestly, it was so overwhelming how many people have come up to me telling me how happy they were and that it was about time. And when I’m reading over our notes from this week, I can’t help but flick my focus up to Asher to scold him for not paying attention.
Then again, he doesn’t really need this tutoring after all, yet he keeps coming to it.
“Asher, are you going to study or just gape at me all afternoon?”
“Gape, eye-fuck, stare, wonder, fantasize on when I’m going to get you again.”
A heated and familiar blush covers my entire body as Asher’s scorching bedroom eyes look back at me. “Asher, are you trying to kill me here?”
“On the contrary, baby, it’s all you’ve been doing to me for years.” He dips his head. “I’ve been over here debating if you wore that sexy little dress for me or if it was for everyone else.”
I don’t know if I’d call this dress sexy. It does hug my body a tad, but doesn’t dip too low. The puffy sleeves make it modest against the pink floral print, but Asher keeps dropping his gaze down the length of me as if he’s going to undress me right now.
“I got you something,” he vouches.
“Don’t you want to know who I wore this dress for?” Because it definitely was for him.
Asher smiles, that perfect straight-teethed grin that makes me literally ask myself how I got so lucky with him. How he could be so attractive and kind and sweet and just…swoony. “I know it’s for me, Mags, because if it were for anyone else, I’d beat their ass for capturing your attention.”
I scoff through his alpha male possessiveness, but I can’t help how my stomach flips in tandem to it. “You can’t go walking around beating everyone’s ass.”
“Can’t I, though?” He lifts a brow and pulls his hand that was underneath the desk and hands me over a white rose. “I thought you’d like this. I know it’s not your favorite, but I saw it and thought of you.”
“Is this from behind the school?” His lips heave higher, and I chuckle because he’s absolutely impossible. “Now we’re stealing flowers?”
“It snapped off the stem because some asshole stepped on it. God forbid any of my teammates learn how to walk on sidewalks and I didn’t want it to go to waste.”
“Well”—I lean over the table to take it from him— “thank you. I love it.”
Asher follows my actions, bending over the table and wraps his fingers around my forearm. “You know what I’d love?” I slowly shake my head as his thumb rubs soft brushes along my skin. “I’d love to use this against your clit and see if I can get you to squirm. Then I’d want to shove my tongue deep inside you while this pretty little flower gives you only the smallest of outlets for relief as I hold your climax for my cock.”
My whole body laxes as his words, becoming lucid at the way he stares at me, the way he wants me all the time, always touching and being near. He had a whole slew of flowers brought to me Monday in my first hour, he opens every door for me, eats lunch with me and my friends, and always has his hand on me somewhere. We haven’t had sex since the night he came back to keep me calm from Harrison. And speaking of, I haven’t seen him all week. Nor have I received any text messages from him since that night, which has made me curious, but I’m scared to ask where the hell he is.
“What are you doing tomorrow night after the game?” I ask him as he continues his gentle brushes against my skin.
“Hopefully you, Mags, because I’ve been hard as fuck for you all week.” I cover my face with my hand, hiding more of the blush that’s decided that this would be the perfect time to show up. “Don’t hide from me, baby. I love when you’re all flustered. It’s going to only enhance the next time I get to have you all to myself.”
“Study,” I semi-chide as he slowly releases me but still gives me my flower. “We have thirty minutes left.”
“I know all this stuff,” he admits, closing his textbook with a thud. “Quiz me.”
I shrug. “Okay. When did King Henry the VIII die?”
“January twenty-eighth, fifteen forty-seven.”
“How many wives.”
“Six.”
“Which was his last one?”
“Catherine.”
