TIME

by Penny Reid

  Her gaze—a mixture of disappointment and worry—turned scrutinizing. “Abram, you’re exhausted. Have you slept?”

  “I slept a little on the plane from LA.”

  She flattened her hand over my heart. “You have to take better care of yourself. Tours are stressful and exhausting. Please promise me you’ll get sleep tonight after the concert.”

  “I will try.” Try being the operative word. Performing in front of thousands of people was an indescribable high. But four nights in, and the tour had only made the longing, my craving for her, worse. My attention and patience had narrowed, leaving room for nothing but filling my hands and mind and memory with Mona.

  “You’ll try?” She narrowed her eyes, one side of her mouth tugging upward.

  “I will. But after a concert, all the energy, and I’m thinking about you, wishing you were there, knowing it’s not possible. It’s . . .” I slid my teeth to the side, unable to stop my self-conscious grin.

  “What?”

  “Hard.” The word slipped out before I could stop it.

  Her head tilted slightly to one side. “What’s hard? Going to sleep?”

  She has no idea what she does to me.

  My grin became rueful and I swallowed, my eyes moving between hers. “Please don’t make me say it.”

  Mona’s eyebrows slowly pulled together. I could almost see the gears turning, and the hand still loosely fisted in my shirt slid down to the front of my pants, as though she were unthinkingly confirming a hunch. Her curious fingers gave me an investigatory stroke, but it was more than enough. I sucked in a breath through my teeth as my cock swelled, lengthened, hardened, greedy for her.

  “You—you shouldn’t do that.” Not trusting myself to hold her and not tear her clothes off, I braced my palms and forehead on the door behind her, again willing my heart to slow.

  “Ah! Sorry. Sorry!” Mona completely removed her hands from my body, yanking them away. “Sorry. I should’ve asked permission.”

  Lifting my head, I peered down at her. She’d covered her face with her hands and was peeking at me from between her fingers.

  “No.” The single word came out gruff, raspy. I cleared my throat, reaching for her wrist and pulling it away from her face. “No, Mona. Not permission. But, if we’re going to talk at all, you shouldn’t—do that—today.”

  She was nodding before I’d finished speaking. “Yes. Sorry.”

  “Please don’t apologize.”

  “Okay, sorry—ah! I mean, okay. Okay.” Mona rolled her lips between her teeth, still nodding, her eyes wide and remorseful, but also bright, like she found my situation a little funny.

  A pretty, pink blush was creeping up her neck, and it was fantastically distracting. I wanted to pull the neck of her shirt to the side again, peek inside, find out where the blush started.

  Instead, I stepped away—one step, and then another—clearing my throat again and forcing firmness into my voice. “We need to talk.” It was as much a reminder to me as it was to her.

  “Of course.” Her voice was also firm, but her attention flickered quickly to the front of my pants, her cheeks now pink, as were her ears.

  I shook my head at her, increasing the distance between us out of necessity. “Do you want to talk?”

  Shit. Where had that question come from? There was no choice. We had to talk.

  Mona, staring at me, her eyes slowly narrowing as she chewed on her bottom lip, didn’t answer.

  “Mona?”

  “What are my options?”

  My mouth dropped open and I exhaled a laugh. “What are your options?”

  “Yeah.” She took tiny steps forward, her eyes once more dropping to my fly, and then back up. “I mean, we only have two hours, probably less now. Other than talking, what are the options?”

  I stared at her, struggling, standing between the steady voice of reason and a raging hard-on. My eyes lowered to her baggy shirt, simultaneously both wishing it were see-through and hugely grateful it was so shapeless.

  “First, we need to be—we need to be on the same page here.” I choked out, my leg and foot conspiring to take a half step forward.

  “About what?”

  “About us.”

  This had been phase two of Kaitlyn’s plan, and I’d been kicking myself all week for not being more explicit about what I wanted before leaving Aspen.

  “Okay. What page are you on?”

  Crossing my arms, I gathered a deep breath. If Mona could be brave, vulnerable with me, then I could be the same with her. “If it wasn’t obvious, I want to make sure I’m clear now: I am not interested in anyone else. I want a commitment from you that we’ll be completely exclusive.”

  She grinned, her eyes brightening. “Fine. Done. We’re exclusive.”

  EXCELLENT!

  “Okay.” I nodded, having a hard time not grinning like a fool. “Good.”

  “Good.” She edged closer, and her goofy grin made me feel better about mine. “Anything else?”

  What else?

  “Um.”

  Her beauty was distracting, and I fought to regather the ends of my wits.

  Just as she took another half step, I remembered. “Wait. Yes! We need to make plans, so we know when we’ll see each other again.”

  But it was more than just making plans. If we did anything now, I really would drag her out of here, take her with me to the West Coast, keep her in my hotel room, hide her clothes, and eat her out for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. And snacks.

  We have plenty of time, plenty.

  The hard-on was winning.

  “Yes. Plans. Of course.” Mona twisted her fingers in the hem of her T-shirt, showing me a sliver of smooth olive-toned skin at her stomach.

  I’m sure it wasn’t purposeful or meant to make me crazy, but it was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. My body lurched forward, already consumed, while I stood perfectly still, besieged, so close to giving in.

  “But—and hear me out—we could make plans over the phone, or via email. However, it’s much, much harder to do other things over the phone.” She paused for a beat, staring at me as though hoping I would read her mind, and then added, “And basically impossible via email.”

  I swallowed around the scorching, thick knot in my throat, unable to do anything about the one low in my stomach. Yet.

  “Mona,” I started, stopped, winced, closed my eyes, then began again. “Mona, I want you. The things I want to do to you, to your body, they require more than two hours and a ten-by-ten room. As much as I missed you, as much as I crave you, as much as I’ve fantasized about being close” —bare and touching and fucking your brains out— “we need to take things slow. Two hours in the cramped guest room of your sister’s apartment? No. That will only frustrate the hell out of me.”

  I opened my eyes, stared at her pants, waited a beat, and then lifted my gaze. Her lips were parted, her eyes hazy, reminding me of that insane, primal moment between us in Aspen, in the pool.

  The memory haunted me. I’d imagined so many different endings more than a thousand times. Fantastically filthy, wonderfully selfish endings. But I had zero regrets.

  Gathering my self-control and a deep, calming breath, I shook my head. “And these things I want to do, they also require trust.”

  Her eyes sharpened, sobered, and she frowned. “I trust you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why have you been crying?”

  Her mouth snapped shut.

  “No, Mona. You don’t trust me. And you were right, in Aspen. We don’t know each other.”

  She blinked once, hard, and took two stumbling steps forward. “I thought you said I should cry.”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Cry if you need to, but don’t ignore what the tears are about.”

  “What? Abram—”

  I held a hand out to stop her advance. “I’ve been thinking, and I know you have too. A little less than two weeks, twelve days. You can’t t
rust someone you don’t know, and trust takes time.”

  Mona’s frown deepened, her lips pinching together. “We don’t have time.”

  I laughed lightly, because her words were a direct echo of my desperate thoughts. But we were both wrong.

  The one thing we finally, finally had was time.

  “We have all the time. We have the rest of our lives.”

  “I’m confused. You want to be exclusive. Now you say you don’t know me? Are you saying—are you saying you don’t lo—that you don’t feel the same as—as—” She crossed her arms, her chin jutting out, a flash of vulnerability and hurt behind her eyes.

  It was the vulnerability that had me heedlessly crossing the short distance, as though yanked, compelled and panicky to touch her before she could build any walls between us.

  “No. No. Absolutely not.” I held her face in my hands, ignoring how the gentle touch made her flinch, and stifled the urge to take back my words. Instead, I committed to honesty, no matter how much the thought of losing her now scared the hell out of me. “I love you. I’m crazy about you. I want you, only you. But, Mona—” I touched my forehead to hers, “—God, I don’t want to rush a single moment. I want a first date, and a second date, and a third, and a twenty-third, and an eighty-seventh. I want phone calls and text messages. I want to hear about a day in the life of Mona DaVinci, every day.”

  I leaned away, needing to see her eyes, my heart giving a sluggish, painful beat at the conflicting emotions there.

  Despite my pledge not to rush, I hurried to add, “I want to get mad at you, and fight, and make up—I can’t wait to make up with you. It’s going to be so great.”

  That pulled a hesitant little smile from her and she swallowed, her gaze less stormy. “That does sound nice.”

  I grinned at her reluctant reassurance and didn’t miss how her attention shifted to the left side of my face, the deeper of my two dimples.

  While she was distracted, I pressed my mouth to hers, stealing a tender kiss and whispered solemnly, “I want to take care of you, when you want me to, when you need it. I want to trust you’ll be there, that I can count on you to take care of me too.”

  She sniffed, nodding, her fingers gripping my forearms. “That also sounds nice.”

  “Good.” Cautiously relieved, I let go of her cheeks. Smoothing my hands down her shoulders to her sides, I pulled her against me. She came willingly, going soft, lax, just as she’d done before, and my body hummed happily in response.

  Well, happily and hornily.

  I felt myself calm. “No. My feelings haven’t changed. I’m still insane about you. But . . .” I stroked her hair, kissing her temple, inhaling her sweet scent. “I want to be sane about you too.”

  4

  Atomic Physics

  *Mona*

  “That takes us through September,” he said, the bed depressing as he claimed his spot on the edge.

  I nodded distractedly, again scrolling through the calendar app on Abram’s phone for August and July, hunting for a possible span of time where we might be able to arrange a quick meet-up. We’d both set timers on our phones, a countdown to the moment I’d have to drive him back to the airport using Lisa’s car.

  I felt good-ish about February through June, but July and August were still a problem. We hadn’t been able to find even one rendezvous over those two months. Abram would be in New Zealand and Australia and I would still be in Europe. No face-to-face time for over two months felt like a rendezvous dearth of ginormous proportions.

  Of note, I did rather like the word rendezvous and planned to overuse it in the future.

  “How long is the flight from London to Dubai again?” I gazed longingly at the seven-day period of free time he had between Brisbane and Perth in mid-August. Unfortunately, it just so happened to be the same week as my Spectroscopy Symposium in London, where I’d be presenting at three sessions and moderating two graduate-level panels. Dipping into my parents’ travel fund to visit my boyfriend—especially when international tickets were so pricey—didn’t sit right with me. However, if I skipped avocado toast for the rest of my life, I’d be able to afford the plane ticket.

  Abram covered my hand, drawing my eyes back to his. “We’ve spent a half hour on just those two months. Let’s move on to September through November.”

  We were situated adjacent to each other on the twin daybed in Lisa’s guestroom. It doubled as a small couch, but I’d left all the throw pillows piled up behind the headboard. I was sitting against the wall, my legs crossed, with just my regular sleep pillow behind my back. Abram sat on the edge, one foot propped on the floor. He stood at intervals to pace while studying the calendar app on my phone.

  Keeping it real, Abram’s pacing was a problem, because I loved, loved, loved watching his body move. Which meant that I was staring at him when I should’ve been studying his calendar. He didn’t seem to notice my staring. Or, if he did, he didn’t say anything about it.

  “We have to move on.” His brown eyes flickered between mine, and—just like all the other times we gazed at each other for any length of time—I had to remind myself not to tackle him to the ground, rip his clothes off, and kiss and lick and bite every square centimeter of his rock-hard physique.

  Especially his bottom.

  That’s right. I wanted to sample his bottom. Every time he paced away, little pheromone pixies danced on my pelvis, gleefully, wickedly smashing my concentration into a million pieces of agitated yearning. I wanted to touch it, stroke it, massage it, bite it.

  Whew.

  Clearing my throat, swallowing, I sucked in a breath and tore my eyes away from his, fanning my T-shirt. “Is it—” I had to clear my throat again because my voice cracked. “Is it hot in here?”

  The thing is, I wasn’t this person. No one, not even me, would ever describe me as physically focused, or fixated on touching an attractive or alluring exterior. Ever. I actively rejected external beauty as a contributing factor to how or if or when I interacted with people. I’d never been tactile. I observed. I calculated. I analyzed. I didn’t even like playdough as a child.

  But with Abram, I couldn’t stop noticing. I couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t stop wanting.

  “Mona.”

  Think of the Queen! Isn’t that what the British always said? What was the US equivalent? Think of the first lady?

  I worried my bottom lip, breathing in through my nose, endeavoring to get my brain out of his pants. “Okay. Okay. Where are you going after Perth?”

  “Mona.” He leaned close, using his hold on me to pull both my hand and his phone toward his chest.

  My gaze darted up and then away, cheeks heating, because if I looked at him again, I’d be—again—fighting the impulse to tackle him and we still had three months to—

  “Mona, look at me.”

  I did. I gave him my eyes. I also held my breath.

  His gorgeous amber irises seemed to glow as they moved over my face, dropped to my mouth, lingered there. They felt hot yet controlled, self-possessed, and for some reason the self-possession took my heat level straight to plasma.

  “I think—” He licked his lips, taking his phone from my grip and placing it on top of the throw pillows piled by the headboard. “I think we need to do something.”

  “Something?” I asked, still not breathing so the words came out more like a hitching whisper. I didn’t know if it was the lack of oxygen or Abram that had me feeling so dizzy.

  Abram. Definitely Abram.

  On my sixteenth birthday, I’d had an IUD implanted, a gift from my sex-positive parents. Lisa had received one too. Leo had received a reversable vasectomy for his.

  Even with the IUD, I’d always used a condom for sexual intercourse as well as spermicide I would procure after triple-checking the lot numbers and packaging date. Anything older than three months, I would throw away.

  I’d administered two blow jobs, again always with a condom, and the second one only because I was convinced
I’d missed something the first time. Once, a guy attempted to conduct cunalingus using a female condom. I’d insisted after discovering he hadn’t been vaccinated against HPV. It wasn’t enjoyable. I’d stopped him after the timer denoted the agreed upon two minutes was over, not liking how messy and wet on my thighs it had become.

  I mean, saliva. Do you know how filthy the human mouth is? Disgusting.

  I’d done many, many things with my seven sexual partners—working my way through a checklist of positions and techniques, toys and gadgets—and everything I was open to exploring had been attempted at least once. Notes had been made. Items had been crossed off. Second and third attempts at pleasant activities had yielded varied results, leading me to the conclusion that masturbation utilizing a LELO vibrator was the only consistent—and therefore worthy—method of satisfaction.

  But with Abram . . .

  I wanted to do it all again, try it all again, even the items I’d crossed off my lists.

  “We have twenty minutes left, before I have to leave,” he said, the words rough. His palm came to my knee and my body jolted at the benign touch. A small smile tugged his mouth to one side, his delicious dimple making an appearance, and his voice was low and rumbly as he asked, “Do you want me to touch you?”

  “Touch me?” I squeaked, clearly incapable of brain function higher than a parrot. Forced to exhale because my chest felt like it might burst, not a half second later I was gulping air again.

  “Yeah.” His hand slid higher on my leg, sending hot spikes of twisting tension straight to my center, and he leaned closer, rising slightly above me, filling my vision, his warm palm shifting to the inside of my upper thigh.

  My feet did something weird, arching and pointing uncontrollably, almost like they’d been tickled, the muscles of my legs and stomach flexing. I sucked in an involuntary breath just as his large hand stopped at my hip, his thumb drawing a firm line over my thin cotton pajama pants from my lower abdomen straight to my clitoris.