by Alex Lucian
But I didn’t. There was some unspoken agreement we’d made coming up here together. A shift in the way our bodies wanted to move, wanted to feel and be felt.
Finally, I used one finger to pull the bra off of her completely, taking the tip of that same finger to smooth over the tight flesh of her nipple, making small, slow circles around the edge. Her hips shifted toward me and I pressed back, letting the painfully stiff length of my cock grind against where she wanted me most.
My pants were gone with two quick movements of my hands, and hers slid my boxer briefs down over my ass so I could step out of them. Adele went to take off her own underwear, but I stopped her.
“No,” I said, stopping her hands and pulling the lace back into place over her perfect, perfect ass, “leave them on for me.”
She smiled and turned to pull open the clear glass door the shower. Instead of following her, I stayed and watched while she stood under the steaming water, tilting her head back to wet her hair. The water sluicing down her body made her shine, every inch of her flesh covered now. Her eyes stayed closed, and her hands followed a light path that mirrored the one I’d taken earlier. Slowly circling a nipple with one finger, trailing down her flat stomach to the skin under belly button and dragging back up again.
I fisted my cock and tried to even my breathing, but it was impossible. No man, no mere mortal could stand where I was standing and look at her and not feel like the weak fleshly beings that we were. Just by being there, she was giving me everything I’d been missing, been deprived of for years.
I released my cock, let it bob back up, and entered the shower. Running my hands around her hips to embrace her from behind. When she relaxed into me, her hands folding over my arms, the simple comfort from her made me want to fall to my knees.
So that’s exactly what I set about doing.
Using my hands, I turned her so she faced me, not kissing her the way her upturned mouth begged me to. Instead I lightly pushed her back so her shoulders met the tile of the shower wall. She shivered again, the hard surface behind her probably still colder than the sultry air around us. When I used my hands to cup her ass and tilt her hips out from the wall, realization lit in her cat-green eyes.
Gripping the bar mounted into the tile next to her, Adele shifted down the wall a fraction at the same time that I sank down onto my knees. I leaned my forehead against her stomach, letting the hot water pound against my back. She wound the fingers from her free hand into my hair, smoothing back the strands in a gesture so sweet and so soothing that I almost wanted to weep.
I mouthed the skin along her abdomen, licking the water on her flesh into my mouth. When she angled her hips toward me, I smiled, trailing a hand up her leg, curling it into her inner thigh. I traced my hands over the wet lace of her underwear, using my hand to curve over her pussy, rubbing the fabric into her clit with my palm.
The lace felt scratchy over my tongue when I dragged it along the edge. Using my teeth, I pulled it down over one hip, then moved over and did the same on the other side. When it fell with a wet plop onto the tile next to us, I hefted one of her legs up over my shoulder, opening her up to me, and curling two fingers into her slick, hot channel.
The breaths coming out of her were heavy and deep, loud enough that I could hear her over the water. Glancing up, I saw that her head aimed down, her eyes lasered in on me. Holding her gaze, I kissed the mound of her pussy, sucking her clit into my mouth. Adele finally cracked, moaning in one long, drawn out sound.
I clutched at the skin under my hands, drew her deeper into my mouth, worked my fingers around, snaking my tongue against her flesh. Her hips moved in tiny circles, riding my face with shameless, wanton pleasure. The hair on my scalp was gripped so tightly in her hands that I pulled back.
“What the fu—”
“Be nice to my hair. I’d like to keep it on my head.”
She grinned, cheeks flushed to pink, and tightened her fingers again. I stood in a sudden movement, the leg that was around my shoulder dropping so that I held it in the crook of my elbow. The way it opened her to me made it so that my cock lined up right where my mouth had been.
“Are you going to fuck me now?”
I shook my head, placing a chaste kiss on her lips. “No. That’s absolutely not what this will be.”
I pushed into her with one long, smooth slide. We stayed pressed up against each other, so tightly wound that the water could barely make room between our bodies. Then I kept my movements so slow, so agonizingly slow, that when we both came, there was barely any sound between us.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The first thing I saw upon opening my eyes was his face, serene. His hair was mussed, his lips soft. I wanted to lean over, to see how his lips tasted first thing in the morning, but I didn’t. The worries he wore in the creases of his forehead were smoothed and I wanted him to enjoy the peace that sleep gave him a little longer.
Gently pulling the blanket back, I climbed out of bed and put my hair up into a ponytail. I grabbed one of his shirts from the laundry basket by the bed and slipped it on, taking small comfort in the way it stopped at the top of my thighs. It was such a cliché thing, to wear a boyfriend’s shirt, to feel small and feminine and soft.
Boyfriend. Had I actually thought of him that way? Pausing by the doorway, I looked back at the bed, his body relaxed and his breaths quiet, easy. We hadn’t discussed what we were, who we were. So much of us was secret. But something had shifted the night before. Every time we’d had sex before had been a result of something, a need we both fed. But last night had been different. More.
I glanced at the few photos that he’d hung over the stairs, landscapes in black and white, framed with white mats and black wood surround. I paused on the step, touched a photo of Boston’s skyline, featuring the John Hancock Tower. The lights reflected off the Charles River below. At the very bottom of the photograph, I saw initials: D.A.E.
I didn’t have to search my brain for who I guessed it was, because her name hadn’t left my head—Diana. Nathan’s wife. Nathan’s deceased wife. A shudder moved through me and my fingers left the frame. Moving down the stairs, I studiously avoided looking at the rest of the photographs, not wanting to see pieces of a ghost still lingering.
Nathan’s kitchen was expansive, separated from an eat-in kitchen by a large island topped with a thick butcher block. The cabinets were shiny white, the countertops a black granite. And it was tidy; whatever small appliances Nathan owned were tucked away, leaving me to marvel at all the space one could use for cooking, baking.
The fridge was stocked with juices, milk, a pitcher of what looked like real lemonade and an assortment of beer and wine. More than anything, I noticed how very neat it looked. I counted five different cheeses, several kinds of meats and full fruit and veggie drawers; everything in its place.
I was halfway through taking mental stock of his pantry when I felt the guilt creep in for having snooped. Everything was labeled with neat type face labels and it struck me as not something a man would think to do. As tidy as Nathan seemed, I couldn’t believe he took the time to label his grains and lentils as well.
It left an uncomfortable feeling in my belly and I decided I didn’t want to snoop around his things anymore. Grabbing the pancake mix and a bag of chocolate chips, I decided to make him breakfast.
Pancake flour coated the island and me by the time Nathan walked into the kitchen wearing only a pair of fleece pajama bottoms. “Hi,” I said with a grin. “Want some coffee?”
Instead of replying, his eyes swept the kitchen, not looking right at me. I turned my head and took in the mess I’d made. Flour handprints could be seen on the handle of the stainless steel fridge, and splatters of light batter like polka dots on the dark granite. But none of that was probably as alarming as the chocolate smears on the cupboards to the left of the stove. I should’ve washed my hands before grabbing plates, I realized belatedly.
Since he didn’t answer, I poured him a cup from the
pot I’d brewed earlier and topped it with a little cream. After wiping away the chocolate thumbprint, I pushed the mug into his hands. “Here, sit.” I gestured to one of the chairs at the island and pushed a plate toward him. He remained agonizingly quiet, taking in the kitchen still. “Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate chip pancakes,” I said.
Finally, he looked at me. His eyes held such wariness, confusion, like he wasn’t sure what to do with me.
“I know,” I answered his unspoken thought. Gesturing around at the mess I’d made, I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.” I pushed the plate toward him again. “Eat.”
I started busying myself with wiping down the stove and loading the dishwasher with the pan and bowl I’d used. “By the way, I’m on the pill.”
There was a choking noise behind me and I straightened, turning around. Nathan held a fist to his mouth as he stared at me.
“Your email and text, from before.” I raised an eyebrow. “We never had a chance to talk about it between coffee and sex yesterday, but I’m on the pill. And I’m clean.” The truth was, I’d never not used a condom with another man before, not even in the heat of the moment. But I’d trusted Nathan with not giving me a raging case of the warts.
“You’re choosing now to bring that up?” he finally said.
I wiped my hands on my apron. “When would be better? Over a candlelight dinner?”
He swallowed a bite and nodded. “I see your point. A pancake breakfast can suffice.” He cut into the pancake and held the bite up on his fork. “Incidentally, these are very good.” He popped it into his mouth and gave me a small smile as he chewed.
“Well thank you.” I curtsied and began wiping down the butcher block. “It’s nice to have a real kitchen to work in. Mine is so small.”
“Despite its size, it never looks like a bomb of batter went off.”
I shot him a look and he grinned, leaning over the butcher block with his cup of coffee, coming across as more relaxed than when he’d entered the kitchen.
“If you haven’t noticed,” I began, spraying the counter and wiping it, “I don’t have very many possessions. Hard to make a mess when you’re living meagerly.”
“I did notice, actually.” He took another bite and leaned back, stretching. “But thank you for breakfast, Adele. This was a nice surprise.”
I observed the way his muscles flexed as he stretched, thankful for his lack of shirt. But I couldn’t help but want to unsettle him a little bit, after seeing how much more relaxed he became as the kitchen turned from disaster zone into normal again.
Trailing my fingers along the counter as I turned toward him, I took heady pleasure in how his own fingers stilled, his eyes trailing me like an invisible cord was pulling me to him.
I dipped my finger into the syrup puddle on his plate and brought it to his jaw, sliding my finger along the edge. My lips replaced my finger and I sucked his skin, swiping it with my tongue as I cleaned up the path I’d drawn.
His hands cradled my skull and pulled my head up before his lips descended on mine, teeth biting gently into my lower lip. He tasted of chocolate and syrup and coffee and I scratched my nails into his neck, not wanting to separate our lips for even a second.
He hauled me into his lap, ran his hands up my thighs and under the shirt I wore. His fingers brushed the underside of my breast before he pulled his lips from mine. “Nice shirt,” he murmured, looking down between us as I straddled him.
His hands were warm and I arched into his touch as his fingers explored under the shirt: over my ribs, the curve of my waist, up the center of my chest. His hand gripped the center of the neckline and made a fist, forcing me closer.
Our lips just touched, not kissing—just breathing. “What are you doing to me?” he whispered.
I didn’t answer; couldn’t answer. Because whatever it was, he was doing it to me too.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In the week since I’d made Nathan breakfast, I’d become a wanton woman. After every class, I’d taken my time putting my things into my bag, hoping to steal a few moments of time with him. I’d taken a chance the last class, planting a kiss on his lips seconds after the last student had left.
Each time, he’d told me to leave but not without regret coloring his words. In an effort to protect me—in his words—we’d been hands above the belt for the last week. Students had moved into the apartment across the hall from me, which meant my place was off-limits. And though he hadn’t told me not to go to his house, he hadn’t explicitly invited me over either.
So when I’d seen the flier for a Halloween party at Sigma Chi’s frat, I’d taken a photo and texted to it Nathan.
Me: Whatcha think, Nathan?
Nathan: Looks like fun. Enjoy yourself, Adele.
Narrowing my eyes, I’d furiously typed another message.
Me: I’ll enjoy myself if you go with me. And I’ll make sure you enjoy it too.
Nathan: Tempting. But I’ll pass.
I wasn’t above whining, but I didn’t want to beg him to go with me.
Me: I have this really sweet Alice from Alice in Wonderland costume. Thigh highs, Nathan. Red heels.
His reply had come minutes later.
Nathan: Fuck. We can’t go together because I can’t go at all. It’s too risky.
Me: Not if you wear a mask. I bought one for you—the Mad Hatter. Think about it. We could be together, in the open, without anyone knowing.
Nathan: Do you have some kind of Lewis Carroll fetish?
The very idea had made me laugh.
Me: Come on, old man. Live a little.
Nathan: I’m only ‘old’ because you are so very young.
Me: Please. I’m not above begging. I’ll even get on … my .... knees. To beg, of course.
So much for not begging.
Nathan: On your knees, huh? I’ll think about it.
Me: The party’s Saturday. When will you tell me?
Nathan: You’ll know by Friday.
Me: In class? Why, isn’t that very bold of you, Professor Easton?
Nathan: You’ll know Friday.
That had been after our Wednesday class, and had been our last contact up until class on Friday, the day before Halloween.
Surprisingly, I hadn’t received any texts from Leo all week. We usually went to the frat parties together, but maybe he was realizing that distance was what we both needed. I needed to apologize for kissing him the way I had, but I was so wrapped up in Nathan that I had tunnel vision.
And seeing him in class and acknowledging the distance we needed to keep between us for that entire hour was practically torture. He’d looked at me a few times, his eyes warm, and I’d practically dissolved into a puddle in my chair. But it was always subtle because Nathan wasn’t about to let us get caught. As much as I appreciated that he was looking out for me, sometimes I wanted to see him lose some of that control and not just in private, as he’d done countless times with me.
I slid into my seat and pulled things out of my bag as students milled around me, talking about the party the following night.
“Are you going?” the guy who normally sat next to me in class leaned toward me, muscles bulging under the strain of his tight sleeves. He did nothing for me.
I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” Just talking about it put me in a sour mood and so when the door open and Nathan entered the room, it was a welcome reprieve from feeling glum.
His hair looked wet, his jawline peppered with several days’ worth of growth. He wore his glasses and looked a little preoccupied as he pulled things from his bag and placed them on his desk.
Running a hand over his hair, he turned toward the class and began lecturing on imagery, using an example from a student’s essay the previous week.
He displayed the essay on the projector and, using his mouse, he circled ‘Frankenfood.’ “Great use of a portmanteau here, Michael.”
Something about the word was familiar but before I could say anything
, another student blurted out, “What’s that?”
“Excellent question.” Nathan lifted his head. “A portmanteau word is formed by combining two words or their sounds into a new word. For example, the word ‘smog’ is formed from ‘fog’ and ‘smoke.’”
Pulling off his glasses, he rose from his chair and moved around the desk. His eyes met mine for an instant before he leaned against the front side of his desk, facing us. “How many of you have used the word ‘chillax’?”
There was a low rumble of laughter before most of us raised our hands. “That’s a great example of a portmanteau—combining ‘chill’ and ‘relax’ into one word.”
“‘Frenemy’ is one, right?”
“Precisely.” Nathan nodded approvingly toward the girl to my left. “They’re often ironic, humorous and the name itself comes from a suitcase that opens in two equal sections.”
Again, Nathan leveled his gaze on me for a moment. It was as if he was trying to communicate something with me, but I wasn’t following.
“Can anyone guess which well-known author first used what he called a portmanteau in his writings?”
The class was silent, waiting. Nathan looked at me once more before speaking.
“Lewis Carroll.”
A smile formed on my lips. But I didn’t let my lips spread, still unsure of what he was telling me with this example.
“In Through the Looking Glass, Humpty Dumpty tells Alice, ‘You see it's like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up into one word.’ And, in fact, Carroll popularized the word 'chortle’ as a blend of chuckle and snort.” He tapped his pen on the desk, smiled at me for a second. My heart galloped in my chest. “And now we’re blessed with others like ‘bromance,’ ‘infomercial,’ and ‘jeggings.’”