Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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I'm so fucked.
My head is pounding painfully as I walk through the harshly lit hall to class. We had a sunrise weight room workout this morning, and I nearly puked all over the tiled floor of the gym multiple times mid-lift. Luckily, Micah and Luke were perceptive enough to keep Coach distracted when I looked like I was going to blow chunks, so he never actually found out that I was on the verge of death the entire time. It's not the first time we all rallied to keep Coach occupied so someone wouldn't get caught hungover as fuck at practice. And thanks to their dumbass antics, they saved me from being sent out to run on the snow-covered track, which is his usual hangover punishment. But what's worse than the physical torture I just endured in the weight room is the conversation waiting for me in chemistry with Abby Ryan.
I fucked up. I fucked up big time.
I knew I was making a mistake the second I pulled her panties down her legs and saw the look in her eyes. Abby isn't a one-and-done kind of girl, and I knew that, but it didn't stop me from giving in to the damn near primal need I had for her. Her body, those sexy, breathy moans, God, just thinking about it now is making me hard.
I shake the thought of how she tasted on my tongue because that can't happen again.
One and done, that's the rule. It keeps the line from blurring. It keeps it simple. Easy.
Easy, unlike the conversation I'm about to have with the one girl I should have never let myself hook up with. Out of all the girls in that bar last night, I ended up going down on the one who I'd be willing to bet has never had casual sex in her entire life. And now, hungover as fuck, I have to tell her that last night's bathroom hookup was just that—a hookup.
So, I repeat, I'm fucked.
When I walk into the classroom, my eyes lock in on Abby sitting in her usual seat. Her head is bent down as she types on the iPhone in her hands, and when she finally glances up and locks eyes with me, her cheeks flare a dark red as she looks away.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I can practically still taste her on my tongue when I sit down on the stool next to her, and I try not to focus on the fact that she's wearing those yoga pants I've grown so fond of as I shuffle around my bag for a second, pretending to look for my pen. And then, when I've finally manned up, I turn to look at her.
Act cool. Act normal.
"Good morning." I grin, setting my textbook down on the table.
"Morning," she replies in the same overly casual tone.
Good, we're on the same page then.
"We have a pop quiz today." Hannigan stands up and starts walking down the row of tables, dropping a test in front of each student as she goes. "No talking, no books, no cell phones," she warns. "Once you're done, you can bring it up to me, and then you're dismissed for the day."
