Chapter Thirty

Ashleigh

Most Likely to Kill Each Other

I m not flirting with Ryan Lawal, because that s not a thing that would happen.

Ever.

Under any circumstances.

Not if we were the last two people on Earth. Not even then, would I touch this man with a fucking bargepole. This - this entitled, pompous, arrogant , slimy, butter-wouldn t-melt bastard.

I am not flirting with him, because I am not attracted to him, obviously, because this is Ryan we re talking about, but - I am playing this game. This new, less juvenile one in which he tries to make eyes at me and pretend he s the good guy he always believed himself to be, and reckons he used to flirt with me and is doing that lean , now, the one

God, that lean. Ryan or not, that lean does something to me. The hand braced near my head, the tension in the muscles of his arm as I follow that hand to his broad shoulders, the tilt of his face and the dark, wide pupils, the heat that consumes his gaze and threatens to consume me right along with it. It s like that lean is the optimal position to make me unable to do anything except smell his cologne (sandalwood base notes, a kick of something faintly peppery, something else that s lilting and softer that might be vanilla, all of which makes me want to bury my nose in the crook of his neck and inhale it deeper), or appreciate the strength and simple masculinity of his body, or

Think about kissing him, which, of course, is exactly why he s doing it, I m sure.

It also does something to me, that heady look he had in his eyes as they began to close when I leant in close like I was actually going to kiss him. Between that and the stupid bloody leaning , it s almost enough to make me wish I had.

Just to see.

An experiment, of sorts. A data-gathering exercise.

To ascertain if all that cocksure swagger would vanish, and he d be hesitant and unsure and maybe even clumsy , or if he really wasn t compensating and would know exactly what he was doing. Where would he have put his hands? Would he even have bothered to pretend to be a respectable gentleman, or gone straight for my hips to pull me close?

Heat flushes up my neck and I m so glad it s too dark for him to see. I hope to hell he can t hear the way my breathing has changed in the few seconds my imagination has run a little too wild.

I fight to keep the smirk on my face, that lofty look of victory at screwing with him, besting him at his own game. If he thinks that lean and the teasing and the - the - the constant bloody glances at my smudged lipstick are going to get the better of me, well, he s got another think coming.

I m not about to be seduced by Ryan Lawal.

So, I tell him, You couldn t handle it.

It takes Ryan a second or two to recover from my lean-in, and I relish the dazed look in his eyes as he blinks a couple of times in rapid succession. His eyebrows arch, and his head tilts. It feels like he comes in even closer, but there s still that tiny, minuscule shard of empty space funnelling between our bodies. It feels electric, charged; dangerous.

Someone thinks pretty highly of herself.

I shrug, like it s nothing. Like of course, he would be the one to fold, like I regularly go around seducing men for kicks.

What makes you so sure I couldn t handle it, Easton? Ryan asks, his voice a low, rumbling murmur that seems to caress my skin, and it s all I can do not to shiver. The sudden gruff cadence, along with his signature arrogance and charisma, would make a lesser woman melt.

Probably has. Many times.

Maybe I m not as unfuckable as you think. Maybe you d be surprised what I d drink for, in a game of Never Have I Ever these days.

I am talking a big game, in the scheme of what I imagine Ryan and his ilk would consider par for the course when it comes to sex and flirting and dating - but he doesn t need to know that.

Ryan assesses me for an interminable moment. Entire worlds begin and end in that time; stars are born and cycle through a supernova before the corner of his full lips draws up in a smirk I don t want to find attractive, but - God, I really do. He lifts a hand and I refuse to react as he traces the back of his index finger from the neckline of my blouse up to the top of my shoulder, and I have to wrestle away the urge to bite my lip as I think about his hand drifting lower again, but this time to cup my breast as he moves in closer

Except, of course, he doesn t do that.

His finger does trail back down, but only to hook beneath the chain-link strap of my clutch bag, and then he pushes the bag into my hands.

I saw you sneaking something out of a flask in the hall earlier. Put your money where your mouth is, why don t you?

All I can do is stare, and wait, as he opens the bag in my useless hands, and takes out my little flask. He unscrews the top and the sharp, potent scent of tequila chokes the air.

He meets my gaze. Never have I ever had a one-night stand.

Ryan takes a sip. He holds the flask between us. I m careful not to let my fingers brush his as I take it, and have a sip myself.

It s my turn, so I say, Never have I ever had a three-way.

Predictably, Ryan drinks. I do not.

Never have I ever hooked up with someone I work with.

We both drink.

Never have I ever hooked up with someone who works for me, I say, sure that there s no way some peppy, starstruck woman on his staff wouldn t have flirted with him at some stage, and no way that he wouldn t have reciprocated, no matter what his HR department would ve had to say about it.

Except Ryan doesn t drink, and then gives me that shit-eating grin I hate so much, and places his mouth near my ear to say, Never have I ever dated someone I work for .

Shit. Shit! How does he even know about that? That was years ago. A brief, misguided fling before I cut it off and then the guy left for another job, after he realised he couldn t embarrass me into switching to a different department or moving to another company.

That s not a lucky guess. That s

You ve been keeping tabs on me, I accuse him. Stalking my social media.

There s no way he d know unless he was keeping a very close eye on the guy I occasionally had in some of my Instagram Stories, and never tagged. He would ve had to go looking , see who liked my posts and who

Ryan doesn t even try to deny it. Just shrugs, keeps leaning, keeps that sliver of space between us, and gives a complacent half-smile like I just pointed out the obvious.

Maybe he really was being serious, when he said he still thought about me and that s part of what s driven his career. All this time he s been like a damn poltergeist in my life, cropping up when I least expect it, unable to get rid of him if I tried And he s been lurking on my socials, following my life and my career, too.

Drink, is all he says, so I do.

Never have I ever cheated, I say next, throwing the words like a punch, but Ryan just shrugs and doesn t take the flask.

Damn it, I was so sure I would ve had him there.

Ryan pretends to think over his next move, and I feel the shift in the tension between us as soon as his eyes cut back to mine. He takes the flask and is sure to let his fingers touch mine as he does so. They re rough, calloused, and the shock of it makes my breath catch - audibly, which makes me blush, and makes him

I expect him to smirk because he s won this round, only he doesn t. If anything, his expression settles into something unnervingly serious, and I can t tear my eyes away from him.

I hear the scrape of metal; he s putting the cap back on the flask.

But it s not game over, apparently, because he breathes in and opens his mouth like he s about to say something, take his turn.

And his body is crowding even closer to mine yet somehow still not touching , and it s agonising, and my back is curving away from the door to bring me closer to him, waiting, wanting, in a way I ve never wanted anybody, let alone Ryan, and - none of this feels like a game anymore, some petty fight.

It feels like we re about to ruin and raze the other.

And the exhilaration of that, combined with this unfiltered attraction, is too intoxicating to ignore.

Ryan bows his head and my eyelids flutter closed as his forehead grazes mine. His breath is hot against the side of my face, the scruff of his beard tickling my skin. It makes me tilt my head, and my nose bumps against his. His mouth is just out of reach.

Ryan murmurs, Never have I ever kissed a girl in the chemistry lab.

It s pathetic, cheesy and almost childish in its absolute line -ness, but, God, if it doesn t work. If the lean and the looks and the line don t all work on me exactly like he probably knew they would, and I can t stand it any longer.

My bag falls and I think it lands directly on one of Ryan s feet.

My free hands fist in the front of his shirt and yank him the rest of the way into me, our mouths colliding as the rest of our bodies follow suit.

Ryan, it turns out, kisses with all the arrogance with which he does anything else. His lips move languidly against mine, firm and unhurried and gentle, which makes me feel like he s won because here I am, wanting to throw myself at him - but for once, I don t mind. I am more than happy to let him win if it means this carries on. His tongue teases at my lower lip, and I feel his mouth curve into a smile when I don t give in straight away.

I angle my head to fit better against his and slide my tongue into his open mouth. He moans and it sends a rush of heat to the pit of my stomach. There s a faraway clang; he s dropped the flask. I nip his lip between my teeth, eager to hear him make that noise again. Wanting to know it s because of - for - me.

But the sound I pull out of Ryan is something rough and coarse, deep within the back of his throat, and this time I do melt. I actually understand what people mean when they say a man makes them weak at the knees.

I learn that Ryan is not the perfect gentleman he likes to pretend he is; his hands go straight for my arse, not just cupping but grabbing , and hoisting me off my feet. I m pushed back into the door, not quite sure which of us wraps my legs around his hips, but very sure that it s me who grinds down against his erection, half because I want to tease him and half because of the delirium it sends spiralling through me.

In our usual, rational world, where everything makes complete sense and I am not stuck in a science classroom during a power cut with my arch-nemesis from my school days and perpetual bane of my life, I don t doubt that Ryan would never let me live it down if he made me orgasm without even having to do anything.

But I m this close , and I really don t care.

One of his hands pinches playfully at my arse. Still bony, he informs me, hardly taking his mouth away from mine long enough to say it.

I wriggle against him. Speak for yourself.

He clutches me tighter, presses in closer - then stills, absolutely, and some of the lust-fuelled fog in my brain clears as he breathes hard, his fingers pressing into my skin like I ll slip away any second. My legs clench tighter around his hips before I can stop myself.

Fuck, Ashleigh, what are you doing to me?

Putting my money where my mouth is, I guess.

A ragged chuckle slips out of him. Don t talk to me about where your mouth is.

Why not? Wishing it was somewhere else?

I kind of do, too. I really do, actually, now he mentions it.

His grip on me squeezes, trembles, releases again. Don t tempt me. Seriously, don t , or I might actually shag you in our old chemistry classroom, which is not Not how I imagined doing that.

You ve imagined shagging me?

I mean for it to come out snide, teasing. To gloat in the fact that Ryan Lawal, who once called me unfuckable, thinks about having sex with me. But it doesn t; it comes out needy, and breathy, and the hand I push through his hair is tender enough that his eyes close when he nods, and I cradle his face in my hands, eyes wide and heart skittering as I wait for his response.

I imagine a lot of things about you, Ashleigh. How you d moan my name, the sound you d make if I just He sighs, slides a hand up into my hair beneath my updo and tugs lightly, making me arch against him. Just a little. Then he lets go, drags that same hand so feather-light down the back of my neck to follow a pattern in the freckles along my shoulder. His lips graze a kiss against my temple, another against my cheek, one more at the corner of my mouth, where that lipstick smudge was. I imagine it s smudged a whole lot worse now.

How you take your coffee in the mornings, he continues, then. What you put on TV when you get home after a long day of work. If you poke your tongue out when you paint your nails, like you used to do in art lessons, and if you still like eighties rock music.

The simplicity of it all has me speechless. I ve always seen through Ryan s bullshit act when he s hamming it up, and this isn t it. This is so very, very far from anything I know Ryan to be capable of.

I don t know what to do with it, so I deflect. Defer to old habits. Joke, Wouldn t you like to know?

He draws back just enough to look me in the eyes. Yeah. I would.

And, goddammit. Goddammit.

He s got me, hook, line and sinker.

I crash my lips back down against his and his hand tangles in my hair, pins tumbling out and strands falling loose.

Iced, extra shot of espresso, and caramel syrup. Lots of it.

Ryan kisses a path down my neck, tongue and teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, making me grip his shoulders helplessly.

I rewatch episodes of comedy shows. Friends and Always Sunny , or Ted Lasso .

His hand slides beneath my top, fumbling for the hooks of my bra, and I tug his stupid old school tie loose to get to his shirt buttons.

I never poked my tongue out.

A laugh rumbles against my neck, and he licks a stripe up the column of my throat. I shiver. Yes, you did. So, yes, you still do.

I d argue, if he weren t thrusting his hips up against mine and pushing the hard length of his erection so deliciously between my legs. I just angle my hips better against him instead.

I still like eighties rock, but not in that pretentious way I used to, when I liked it just because it made me feel better than people like you who listened solely to what was in the charts.

You wanna know a secret? Ryan s teeth catch my earlobe. You got me into liking it, too, I was always just too proud to tell you.

His hand finds its way inside my trousers, inside my underwear, while I m still lifted up with my legs around him and my back against the door. My head sinks onto his shoulder as I rock against his fingers, and Ryan mutters curses like he s the one being made to see stars when I fall apart against him. I take his face in my hands to kiss him again, deeply, both of us fighting for dominance, and my legs drop back down, feet planting unsteadily on the floor. My hands travel the hard planes of his chest, beneath and on top of his half-unbuttoned shirt, and I sink to my knees, palms feeling the contours of his muscled thighs before I undo his trousers and take him in my hands and mouth. I moan when his fingers grip my hair in desperation; my stomach swoops when he throws a hand flat against the door and gives a stuttering groan, fighting to keep his composure as he pulls away from me.

I stand back up, my body brushing the entire length of his.

Told you, I say, kissing the edge of his jaw. You couldn t handle it.

You wanna bet? Ryan growls, and it s all teeth and tongues and hands and skin, and the scatter of clothes landing on furniture or the floor or being pushed aside in our haste, the tear of a condom packet taken from his wallet, and I m laid out flat on one of the benches with Ryan over me, inside me, my arms and legs tangled around his, and it s all so fucking good that I don t know why we ever bothered to put up a fight and pretend like this wasn t always going to happen.

It wasn t. Obviously. And this is unprecedented. Unforeseen.

And I do not want to be anywhere else, except locked in this dark classroom in the middle of the night with Ryan Lawal, while he mutters pure filth in my ear and thrusts into me, and gets that insufferably smug look on his face when he makes me shatter against him for a second time and I beg him in breathy, needy pants until I can only say his name while he s saying things like, Oh, God, just like that, and, Fuck, yeah, let me hear you scream .

I wouldn t normally give him the satisfaction.

Except, you know. Normally, I wouldn t be in this situation at all, or even contemplating a reality in which it might exist. And normally, I wouldn t be quite this satisfied.

It s a battle with Ryan I am more than happy to lose, if this is what losing entails.

So I arch into him, draw him in deeper and closer with my thighs and knees and feet while my fingers dig into the hard, smooth muscle of his biceps, and his lips do something to the tender skin of my neck at just the same time his fingers touch me and he angles his hips to hit just the right spot - and I do it, just for him, just because he asked. I cry out in wordless pleasure, a keening noise I ve never heard myself make before as my whole body bucks against Ryan. His grip bites into my hips and his rhythm stutters and he groans my name in the most deliciously intoxicating sound I ve ever heard.

I don t worry if anybody might overhear, because we re drowned out by the sudden wailing of the school fire alarm.

The sprinklers overhead immediately kick on, drenching us both.

Ryan is still inside me, has barely come down off his orgasm, and blinks, stunned, as water pounds against his back and drips off him, onto me. I stare back, biting my lip until I can t hold it in any longer. A giggle bursts out of me, and Ryan gives a short, stunned chuckle, and the fire alarm continues to blare and the sprinklers keep soaking us, and we both collapse against the bench, unable to stop laughing.

Which is, if you d asked me, definitely not how I thought sex with Ryan Lawal was going to end.