The Rules (Moving the Chains)

by Kata Čuić

  I press my thighs together. A crowded coffee shop on campus in the middle of the afternoon is neither the time nor the place to imagine what those long, thick fingers would feel like sinking into my wet heat. Unfortunately, I have discovered through trial and error that the party scene is not really my jelly, so I am reduced to actual dates in the hope they will lead to what I’m seeking.

  He smiles as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “So.”

  I nod and swallow the last dregs of my latte, anticipation building. “So.”

  “I know we agreed on a coffee date and nothing more, but would you like to take a walk? It’s a beautiful day.” He glances down at the table, but the smile never leaves his pillowy lips. His blue eyes sparkle brightly as he glances up at me beneath his lashes.

  I swoon from his shy, respectable demeanor. Adam is perfect—the whole package. Truly. Smart, handsome, well-dressed, kind. He’s the TA for my Applied Cognitive Science course, so—technically—we shouldn’t be having a date at all. That is why we agreed to meet at a coffee shop in the afternoon. To anyone else, we could simply be discussing the latest coursework.

  The noticeable bulge in his jeans says otherwise.

  “I would love to take a walk with you,” I say as coolly as possible. If I appear too eager, I will scare him off. Another lesson that I have learned the hard way. My word choices also make it obvious that I am a willing participant in this liaison, so he will not be unsure of my intentions. In my experience, men do not enjoy flirting if it also involves guesswork.

  He nods then rises to stand, offering me his hand to help me up as well.

  Such a gentleman.

  The sun blinds me as we exit the coffee shop onto the bustling sidewalk of State’s central campus. Adam wraps his delectable hand around my elbow to pull me out of the path of a runner.

  I shiver from the contact. “Thank you. I did not even see her. My eyes haven’t yet adjusted to the brighter light.”

  “Your accent is fascinating,” he says as we weave our way through the myriad of bodies. “Where are you from? I’ve always meant to ask, but I didn’t want to offend you.”

  “Ohio,” I respond simply. If for nothing else than to enjoy the obvious expression of shock that crosses his face for a split second.

  There’s something inherently delicious about holding the power of mystery and surprise. Even if only for a short time. It is perhaps misleading, but I take my power where I can get it.

  “That’s not a midwestern accent,” he insists, then winces. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I just meant that you don’t sound like you’re from there.”

  My accent can be both a blessing and a curse. Even though I grew up in Youngstown, my parents weren’t born there. Until I went to public school, the only languages I heard at home were Aramaic and French. Try as I might, I can never erase the throaty rasp, lilting consonants, nor rounded vowels from my speech. My parents still insist on speaking a creole of the languages even over the phone. They never felt being labeled stupid and other in my formative years was a problem even though I had to spend years in ESL classes just to pass my studies. They weren’t entirely wrong, much as I hate to admit it. Some people are very intrigued by my accent and otherness. That lusty curiosity doesn’t usually last past a disappointing make-out session, but at least I have learned how to work twice as hard to achieve my goals.

  “My family is from Lebanon,” I admit. “My parents were born in Beirut. I was born only four years after they emigrated to the States.”

  “Ah, so you’re Muslim, then,” Adam says.

  A simmering heat that is not associated with lust takes root in my belly. Even Alex Fossoway—jock extraordinaire—knows I am not Muslim. Perhaps Adam is not as intelligent as I believe.

  I shake off that horrifying thought. “I am not, actually. It is a common misconception. Though Islam is the predominant religion in the Middle East, there are also others.”

  “Orthodox?” he guesses.

  See? Very few people would have enough geographical and religious knowledge to make such a qualified estimation. There is a considerable Orthodox Christian population in the Middle East. I am part of an even smaller minority.

  “No. Maronite Catholic.”

  “Hmm.” The vibrations from the back of his throat travel directly to the throbbing space between my thighs. The friction of my legs keeping up with his pace on our walk only enhances the sensation. He turns toward me once we reach a less traveled side path. “That’s one I’ve never heard of before. Perhaps you can teach me something.”

  “Perhaps,” I agree. I am not talking about a crash course in the religions of the world.

  He knows it. He glances around before settling his gaze on my lips. There is absolutely no mistaking the desire in his eyes. Virginity does not equal stupidity. “We could find somewhere more…private…for my lesson.”

  “We could.” Already, my mind imagines the masculine space of his apartment. I’m entirely certain it would be all dark colors, minimalist lines, and a non-dormitory sized bed.

  Adam invades my personal space until his breath washes over my face in warm puffs of air with every word he murmurs. “This should be an even exchange of goods. I’d like to teach you something, too. Do you know about the hidden alcoves in the library?”

  “What?” My fantasy fades into miserable reality. I absolutely do not know of these hidden alcoves despite spending most of my week in that building. I cannot imagine they’re as private as he believes. Thousands of students occupy that space every hour of every day. I would know.

  “Come on.” He tips his head in that direction. “I’ll show you.”

  My eagerness isn’t quite overshadowed by my hesitation. I will not be showing him much in such a public venue, but I maintain high hopes that it is possible to reach my goal through a series of smaller steps.

  Baby steps. Baby steps are the colloquial American English analogy.

  I follow him through the main doors, bumping into other bodies with muttered apologies. Up the not at all empty stairwells two, three, four floors. This level is dedicated to microfiche caches and abandoned books. Of course. It makes perfect sense. Hardly anyone uses these materials anymore.

  He grabs my hand to pull me through the aisles of out-of-date encyclicals.

  My heart pounds faster than the beat of our silent footfalls on the carpet.

  This is it, I tell myself. All the pieces are in place. It’s finally going to happen.

  It’s not an entirely accurate thought, but that’s not the point. Adam and I are building something. I don’t blame him for needing to keep our tryst on neutral ground at first. It’s safer for both of us. More proof that he’s worthy of my desire.

  The large room funnels into a series of narrow hallways that open into smaller rooms without doors or windows. They’re similar to the private study rooms on the main levels, but these alcoves are meant to hide forsaken treasures of wisdom rather than to highlight them.

  Adam leads me into the third doorway on the left.

  I don’t know if there is any significance to his choice. I am aware that he does not turn on the light, though one must surely exist.

  I am also acutely aware that his hands are not on me though we are most assuredly alone without any chance of being caught.

  “Now…” his low, throaty chuckle makes my nipples perk up in delight. “Where were we?”

  “I believe we left off with an unspoken version of ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’”

  “You are the most dedicated student I’ve ever had,” he murmurs.

  Then, his lips are on mine.

  His hands are everything I imagined when he cups the back of my neck to angle my head for his liking. His lips are even softer than they look. Firmer, made more pleasurable by the hint of the black coffee he drank earlier.

  I moan as I open my mouth for his tongue.

  “Ssh,” he chuckles against my lips. “You have to be quiet to learn.�
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  Any hesitation I had about showing him everything has fled the library. I am here to absorb anything he is willing to teach me.

  He nips at my bottom lip then licks into my mouth with the kind of well-practiced confidence I want to drink up. One hand remains clamped around the back of my neck; the other migrates to the swell of my breast where he brushes against my nipple teasingly. If he would just move his hand a little more to the front of my throat and use a little more pressure on my breast…

  He answers one of my wishes by kneading my nipple with a slow, steady pressure that builds and builds inside me. On autopilot, my body seeks relief for the ache that thrums like a living, breathing force between my legs. I spread my stance to straddle his thigh, matching the rhythm of his fingers against my flesh.

  Adam chuckles again. “I love a hungry mind.”

  “I’m starving,” I breathe, then dive back in for more knowledge.

  He walks us back until the wall settles against me. His large hands spread against the bones of my hips as if he’s holding me at bay.

  “What’s wrong?” I wasn’t quite there yet, but I was willing to take our time.

  He’s quiet for several moments before whispering, “Do you hear that?”

  I do. It’s a muffled thumping noise on the other side of the wall.

  Goosebumps spread across my skin. The rhythm is familiar—a dance as old as time. I cannot bring myself to enjoy pornography. There’s something so detached about it. Though I cannot see the people on the other side of the wall, the simple sounds of their escapade in real time connect me to them in a way that is both alarming and arousing. A female moan, a decidedly male grunt. My imagination weaves an image of them with startling clarity. I can almost feel the sweat coating their skin, smell the scent of their arousal, taste the sweetness of their pleasure.

  I want that. I want that for myself.

  I fumble with the buckle of Adam’s belt.

  He stills my movements with steady hands. “What are you doing?”

  “Freeing you of your confines?” Despite using my best seductive voice, my words come out as a question rather than a statement.

  “Maybe this was a bad idea.” He steps back, taking the heat of his body away.

  “You had your tongue down my throat moments ago,” I accuse. “What has changed?”

  “I…” He blows out a breath. “I’m sorry. This was a mistake. A lapse in judgment. I’m a TA; you’re one of my students. You have to understand. I could lose my scholarship, my job…”

  “I do not understand,” I insist. “You were more than willing even at the coffee shop in the light of day with numerous people surrounding us.”

  This cannot be happening again.

  What is wrong with me?

  I won’t ask him. That would only make me seem desperate.

  “I’m sorry. I should go.”

  And he does.

  He walks out the door without a glance back.

  “Hey, Adam. How’s it going?”

  I freeze in shock. I know the voice in the hallway.

  Buzzing with unsatisfied arousal, disappointment, and more than a little anger, I creep to the doorway to see if my ears are deceiving me.

  They are not.

  Alex Fossoway is leaning against the wall. His arms crossed over his chest, his defined biceps bulging with the position. He has one ankle hitched over the other, drawing attention to the way his muscular thighs fill out his jeans and how trim his waist is, the flatness of his obviously washboard stomach. His black hair that is normally neat and styled is mussed like someone’s fingers were running through it. Damn him, but his hair looks better this way. His piercing blue eyes that are capable of fire or ice dance with mirth. The zipper of his jeans is still undone. He’s wearing the most infuriating smirk.

  I want to slap it off his face. A little because he irritates me. Mostly, because I’m jealous.

  “How do you know Adam?” I ask.

  The man in question has already fled the scene.

  Alex shrugs. “He’s the TA for my Intro to Psych course. How do you know Adam?”

  It’s all I can do not to scream.

  Alex shakes his head and makes a highly irritating tsking noise. He pushes off the wall at the same time as he zips his fly.

  The distinct scent of latex fills my nose when he stands before me so closely that I can feel his hot breath against my lips that are still tingling.

  “Ready to ask me for help yet?”

  I did not want to have to go this route if it could be helped, but…

  I am as desperate as I don’t want to seem.

  “Yes.”

  Alex winks. “See? Was that so hard?”

  “Yes,” I repeat more emphatically.

  The jerk laughs at me. Then, he taps his finger to the tip of my nose. “Tomorrow. Our usual spot. Two. Don’t be late.”

  For the second time, I watch silently as a man walks away from me. The unsettling sensation growing in the pit of my stomach is far worse than the first time.

  This is either going to be the most brilliant idea I’ve ever had or the worst.

  Good. She’s already here. I honestly expected her to be a no-show.

  She doesn’t look happy. Her arms are crossed over her chest. Not in the obvious way women do that plumps up what they have to work with. She’s wearing more layers than usual even though it’s a balmy seventy degrees outside. Not even any pretty little buttons today. Nope. She looks as off-limits as a woman can possibly get.

  “Ready to get started?” I close the door behind me.

  “I am not even certain what you hope to accomplish here today,” she says with a clipped tone.

  I take a seat in my usual chair on the opposite side of the table from her. There’s no way she’s going to make this easy on herself, but at least she’ll make it entertaining for me.

  “What do you want?” I ask her, point-blank. No sense beating around the bush.

  “You already know what I want,” she mutters, glancing away.

  Yeah, I do. Her shitty attitude makes so much more sense. Sure, the clues have been piling up since we first met, but she handed me proof on a silver platter yesterday afternoon. I feel bad for her. Honestly. I’d be hell to deal with if I couldn’t get laid. Then again, I obviously know how to take the edge off during a drought in ways she hasn’t thought of. Or even tried.

  I slam my palm on the table to get her undivided attention. This isn’t going to work if she isn’t ready to admit shit to herself. “What do you want?”

  She startles, her eyes wide pools of blackness as she stares at me. “I don’t…what do you mean, what do I want?”

  “What do you want?” I enunciate every word like I’m talking to a preschooler.

  Amira hates being talked down to. She straightens her spine and shouts, “I want to not be a virgin anymore!”

  Finally. We’re getting somewhere.

  “Okay. That’s a clear goal. Now, how do you want to accomplish that?”

  Her expression goes from fierce to deadpan in the amount of time it takes me to run a new route on the field. “By having sex?”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing. She’s hilarious, and she definitely doesn’t even try.

  “Right. Sure. But, specifically how? How do you want to have sex?”

  “I would think you, of all people, would understand how sex works.” Her eyes flit around at the air in front of her like she’s honestly thinking about how to explain it to me. “Penile insertion into my vagina is specifically how I would like to have sex.”

  My penile appendage twitches in my jeans. This is going to be harder than I thought. Pun intended.

  “Do you want sex, or do you want a relationship?” I clarify since we’re obviously wearing the literal disguise veil today.

  “Oh.” Her shoulders relax as she catches up to me. She draws out the word again, “Ohhhh. I do not have time for a relationship. Also, I do not think it fair to a man to hide h
im as my secret. My parents are…well, my parents. I am not willing to incur their wrath by disobeying their wishes. A relationship would be too difficult to conceal.”

  The picture is coming into focus, and it’s worse than I thought. “You’re barking up all the wrong trees, Brain. And you are definitely sending the wrong signals.”

  She scrunches her nose as she squints at me. Her glasses slide down. “What?”

  “You want a hookup.” She probably doesn’t even know what that means, so I keep going. “A one-night stand, a fuck buddy, no-strings—”

  “Yes, yes.” She waves her hand through the air. “I know what a hookup is. Why do you say I am barking up the wrong trees and sending the wrong signals?”

  I wave my hand toward her the same way she did to me. Dismissively. “You don’t give off the hookup material vibe.”

  As expected, she takes offense to my statement of the obvious. She crosses her arms over her chest again and narrows her eyes at me. “That is ludicrous! I am a woman. That, alone, makes me hookup material.”

  “It really doesn’t.”

  It makes her a target.

  I don’t want that to happen to Amira. I couldn’t help the women who taught me that lesson, but maybe I can help her avoid the shitstorm before it happens. If she looks the part she wants to play, then she’s less likely to attract the assholes. I want to set her up for a win-win situation, not a one-sided loss.

  I lean forward and clasp my hands together on the table, squeezing to keep the shakes to a minimum.

  “I’m going to tell you something right now. If you get nothing else out of what I’m willing to help you with, then it damn well better be this.”

  She nods, sensing the seriousness of my tone.

  “Sex isn’t about sex at all. Sex is about power.”

  She opens her mouth to argue, but I hold up a hand to silence her.

  “Listen to me,” I beg. “You want pleasure, and that’s fine. That’s great. But, you don’t need another body for that. You can give yourself pleasure. What you’re really looking for is an exchange of power. A transfer of energy—whatever you want to call it. You cannot be on the losing end of that. Do you understand me?”