Page 6 of He Loves Me Not

"What the fuck?" I scowl at her. "Who the fuck told you that?"

She blinks, clearly caught off guard. "I…"

I turn, striding back toward her. "I don't hate you, sweetness," I say softly when I'm standing in front of her. "Never have."

"Oh." She gulps. "You're always cranky. I just…"

I lean forward, pressing my lips to her cheek. "You aren't ready for that conversation, Ava."

"What conversation?"

"The one where I tell you how goddamn hard it is to walk around with my cock throbbing all day, every day because of you." I nuzzle my face against her throat for a split second, unable to resist when she whimpers again. And then I pull back, trying like hell to give her a little space. "Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen."

When I glance back at the door, she's still standing right there, her feet rooted to the floor, her hand pressed to her cheek like she can still feel my lips there.

I groan softly, adjusting my dick.

This is going to be a long fucking night.

Chapter Three

Ava

Getting dressed takes longer than I care to admit, and it isn't because I'm frozen in place for a good five minutes after he leaves my bedroom. Emelia calls, freaking out about Royce Elliot. He swindled her into a date last night. As much as she doesn't want to admit it, she loved every minute of it.

I may leave out any mention of finding Dawson in my bed. And any mention of what he said.

I don't know what else to do! My world is still shaking on its foundations. I am not mentally prepared to hear my best friend tell me, in that infuriatingly smug tone, that she told me so.

No, thank you. It'll ruin my high. And right now, I'm floating ten feet off the ground.

The petals lied. Dawson doesn't hate me. Judging by the look on his face when he said it, he wasn't joking, either.

"What is even happening right now?" I whisper to my reflection. The woman staring back at me doesn't have an answer. She looks shell-shocked. Who knew my eyes could even get that big?

Dawson likes me. And by likes, I mean he wants to fuck me.

If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. I think I have to, though. This can't happen. Even if it is every fantasy I've ever had come to life, it's impossible. He's my stepbrother—my famous athlete stepbrother. And I'm a teacher.

Believe me, it matters.

Half the parents at my school will be scandalized if this were to get out. The other half would rally to have me tarred and feathered. He could be booted from his team or from the league in general.

In no world does a relationship like this get to happen without consequences, not when our parents are married.

I groan to myself and reluctantly step out into the hall, prepared to face him and tell him…something. I don't know what. I'll wing it.

Instead, I linger in the kitchen doorway, watching him prowl around my space like he owns it. He's humming, actually fucking humming, like he's in a good mood. It's weird and unnatural. Dawson doesn't hum. He growls. He scowls. He glares. He absolutely does not hum.

Except…he is.

My stomach flutters when he glances over his shoulder, his hazel eyes locking with mine. His dimples pop out, and the panties I just put on damn near spontaneously combust.

Why couldn't he be a swamp troll living under a bridge instead of six-foot-four inches of muscles, tattoos, and unholy hotness? There's a reason half the women on the planet want to fuck him. He's the reason. That smirk is the reason.

"Damn," he mumbles. "And here I was, hoping you'd take my suggestion to lose the towel."

"Dawson," I groan, my fingers all twisted around each other. "Are you drunk?"