His Curvy Obsession

If looks could kill, Miller would have been a puddle of melted ice on the hardwood floor.

Asher stood like a brick wall between me and his teammate, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone looked sharp enough to cut glass.

The dark, intoxicating fog that had just filled the space between us shattered instantly, leaving me shivering and desperately pulling my oversized hoodie back up over my head.

"I said," Asher repeated, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly quiet, jagged register, "get out, Miller."

Miller raised his hands in mock surrender, though the annoying, knowing smirk never left his face. "Hey, man, chill. I'm just passing along the word. Coach wants us at the rink in twenty. If you're too busy doing extra credit, I can tell him you benched yourself."

Miller shot one last lingering look over Asher's shoulder straight at me, his eyes tracking down my body. Before he could even blink, Asher stepped aggressively into his line of sight, completely blocking me from view. The sheer, protective territoriality of the movement made my breath hitch.

"Five minutes," Asher barked. "If I see your face in my hallway again, I'm going to introduce your teeth to the boards."

Miller chuckled, finally backing out and clicking the door shut behind him.

The silence that returned to the bedroom wasn't thick with heavy tension anymore; it was chaotic. My heart was practically drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

I scrambled backward, grabbing my textbook and slamming it into my backpack, my hands shaking so hard I could barely pull the zipper shut.

"I'm leaving," I announced, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound tough. "This was a mistake. We can do this over email. Or zoom. Or never."

"Elena, stop."

Asher turned around, but I didn't give him the chance to corner me again. I lunged for the door, but he was a hockey player-his reflexes were terrifying.

In a split second, he crossed the room and placed his palm flat against the wood right above my head, effectively pinning me between his towering frame and the locked door.

"Let me out, Asher," I demanded, pressing my back against the hard wood, glaring up at him.

He didn't look angry anymore. In fact, looking down at my panicked expression, a slow, dangerously playful glint entered his dark eyes.

The brooding bully vanished, replaced by an arrogant, infuriatingly charming bad boy who knew exactly how much power he had over my heart rate.

"Are you always this dramatic, plus-size, or am I just special?" he teased, leaning his weight against his hand, trapping me further. He was so close I could feel the intense heat radiating off his chest, completely overriding the cool autumn air coming through his window.

"I am not being dramatic! Your friend thinks-he thinks we're-"

"Thinks we're what?" Asher tilted his head, a wicked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He lowered his face just enough so that his sharp jawline brushed against the fleece of my hood. "Thinks I brought you up to my bed to fuck you? Or thinks I'm finally getting a taste of the smartest girl in school?"

"Shut up!" I gasped, my face burning so hot I was certain I was turning purple. "You're a jerk. You bully me in class, and then you act like this when we're alone? It's sick. You're unhinged."

"I'm a hockey player, sweetheart. We're all a little unhinged," he murmured smoothly, his eyes dropping down to trace the curve of my collarbone beneath the heavy fabric. "And I don't recall bullying you today. I pulled your hood back. I wanted to see your face. Is it a crime to want to look at my partner?"

"You called me plus-size twenty minutes ago!"

"Because you are," Asher said, his voice losing its playful edge, turning suddenly deep, heavy, and incredibly intense. His gaze locked onto mine, stripping away all the humor in a single second. "And I like looking at every single inch of you, Elena. So sue me."

My breath caught completely in my throat. My brain short-circuited. Did he just say... what I think he just said? I stared at him, my lips parted, completely incapable of forming a coherent sentence. He was playing with me. He had to be. This was Asher Vanguard-he lived to make me look foolish.

"You're lying," I whispered, my voice cracking. "This is a joke. Another dare."

A dark shadow crossed Asher's face at the word dare, his brow furrowing as his eyes darkened into something fiercely possessive.

He reached down, his large, calloused hand wrapping around my wrist. He didn't squeeze hard, but the grip was unyielding. Slowly, he lifted my hand and pressed it flat against the left side of his chest.

Beneath my palm, through the thin fabric of his black shirt, his heart was roaring. It was racing violently, hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal.

"Does that feel like a joke to you?" he growled softly, stepping so close our bodies fully collided. My softer curves pressed right against the hard, unyielding muscle of his abdomen. "My heart doesn't lie, Vance. Now, I have to go to practice before my coach comes down here himself. But tomorrow, third period, you're sitting in the desk right next to mine. Not in front of me."

"And if I don't?" I breathed, completely intoxicated by the wild rhythm under my hand.

Asher leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath my ear, sending a fierce, electric shiver straight down to my toes.

"If you don't," he whispered darkly, "I'll just have to carry you across the room and put you there myself. See you tomorrow, partner."

He pulled away, grabbed his keys from the dresser, and unlocked the door, stepping out into the hallway without looking back.

I stood frozen against the wood for a full three minutes, my hand still tingling where it had touched his chest. My mind was spinning, a dangerous, intoxicating mixture of fear and a wild, unbidden hunger flaring deep in my stomach.

The next morning, the hallway of Oakridge High felt louder than usual. I walked toward third-period English, my backpack feeling like it was filled with lead weights. I had barely slept, my mind replaying the feeling of Asher's heartbeat against my palm over and over again.

He's a player, I reminded myself fiercely. He's messing with your head to make you do the work.

I took a deep breath and stepped through the classroom door. The room was already half-full. I glanced toward the back row, expecting to see Asher surrounded by his usual crowd.

He was there, sitting in his usual seat. But the desk next to him-the one usually occupied by a quiet girl named Sarah-was completely empty. Sarah was sitting three rows up, looking slightly terrified.

And lying squarely in the center of the empty desk next to Asher was a pristine, glossy black hockey puck. Written across it in silver sharpie was a single word: RESERVED.

Asher looked up from his phone the second I walked in. A slow, arrogant, completely obsessive smirk spread across his face as he tapped the wooden surface of the empty desk.

The entire classroom fell into a hushed whisper, every eye turning to look at me.