by Noir, Roxie
“And what exactly are you consenting to?” I ask her, feeling my own voice dip dangerously low.
Her lips move, half-pucker, the face I’ve already learned she makes sometimes when she’s thinking.
“The art show,” she murmurs, her eyes flicking to my lips. “The sea monster.”
I tighten my fingers around hers.
“Holding hands?” I ask.
“Yes,” Thalia says.
“Tracing my tattoo with your fingers?”
“Yes.”
I hold our clasped hands up in front of my face.
“A kiss here?” I ask, lips brushing her knuckles.
“Yes,” she says, the word a little more than a whisper.
I press my lips to her fingertips, my eyes locked on hers, my pulse thrumming.
“A touch here?” I ask, pressing my fingertips into her spine.
“Yes,” she murmurs.
I leave her hand on my shoulder, run my fingers up her arm.
“Here?” I ask.
“Yes.”
To her collarbone, her neck, her pulse hot and racing just beneath her skin until my thumb is skimming along her jaw, my own blood hammering at my veins.
I watch her face for a long moment. Not because I’m unsure, but because I’m sure, and I want to remember this.
“A kiss here?” I finally murmur, and I brush my thumb along her full, lush lips.
“Yes,” she whispers.
So I kiss her.
Chapter Six
Thalia
I feel like I’ve been waiting years for this kiss.
It’s a ridiculous way to feel, and I know it. I met Caleb a couple of hours ago, so logic dictates that I can’t have been waiting any longer than that.
But when he touches my lip with his thumb and then with his mouth, when his fingers dig into my back but his lips stay gentle and warm, when I press myself against him without even meaning to, I feel like I’ve been waiting years.
I step forward, into him. I slide my hand to his neck, into his hair, feel his warmth between my fingers. I move my lips against his and he responds, pressing harder, his thumb now on my cheekbone.
We kiss. We kiss and time passes, the world spins, and I’ve got no sense of it. Could be seconds, could be hours. I don’t know.
Then, he pulls away. A fraction of an inch.
“Don’t,” I say, virtually a growl.
“Don’t what?”
“Stop.”
He kisses me again. Now, harder. Now, needier. Now he works his fingers into my hair and I open my mouth under his and the kiss deepens. He digs his fingers into my spine and I press forward, standing on my toes. His slight stubble is rough against my face, his body muscled and hard against mine, and even though the keys in his pocket are digging into my hip, I don’t stop.
Then the sea monster lights up, and we both pull back in surprise, still half-wound around each other, and I look across the pond at the glimmering, glowing beast.
“Oh,” I exhale, still panting for breath.
Caleb takes a deep breath, clears his throat.
“Thanks,” he calls out, and I finally look over his shoulder to see Vivian, standing by the breaker box where she just plugged the monster back in, gazing across the pond with her hands on her hips, the same ready-to-challenge stance she had before.
“We were working on that part,” he mutters, low enough that only I can hear him.
Beyond Vivian, the monster shines. It glows. I have no idea what its scales are made of — up close it looked like some kind of film — but it moves loosely in the breeze, shuddering this way and that, the lights in the scales designed to look like they’re rippling with the wind.
The effect is that it looks strangely alive, alive enough that I find myself gripping Caleb’s shirt in one hand, holding my breath as the monster seems to come up for air, gently shake itself off.
“It’ll do,” Vivian calls. “How’s it fixed?”
If she’s noticed what we’re doing, she doesn’t show the first sign of it.
Caleb takes a deep breath, clears his throat, takes my hand, walks to the edge of the pond where Vivian’s standing.
“Rigged it with a bungee cord and a two-by-four,” he says. “It’ll hold for a few hours.”
“Huh,” Vivian says. “Well, it’s better than it was.”
Caleb slides his thumb over my knuckles, and I swallow hard at the friction.
Leave, I think at Vivian. Please leave, we were very busy…
“DRAGON!” a kid shouts from somewhere far, far closer than I want. “Cool!”
“Oh, wow,” an adult voice says. Moments later, there are steps on the bridge and then four figures are coming across: two small, two full-size, and my toes curl with sheer irritation, like I’m a teenager on a movie date and my mom just sat down in front of me.
Then Vivian walks away without another word, just marching off.
“Thank you, Caleb,” he says, lightly, as if he’s making a suggestion. “What a nice favor you did me.”
“She’s always like this?” I ask, as the two kids practically run into the Thai building, then stand there and stare up at the light projected on the ceiling. I shoot a glare in their direction, because they are really getting in the way of my good time.
“More or less,” he says, his thumb still rubbing over my knuckles. “Usually not this bad. I think she’s one of those artists who just gets… really absorbed, you know? And forgets about everything else.”
“Such as manners,” I say, just as another family makes their way toward us, across the bridge with a chorus of wow! And cool!
I look at Caleb. He looks at me.
I’m still trying to catch my breath from before. I’m still trying to process that I’m here, that I keep saying yes to this near-total stranger who feels like anything but. I’m still half-convinced that I’m dreaming, or down the rabbit hole.
“I should put the tools away,” he says, turning to me, in a voice that feels like lava trickling down my spine. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”
Some kids shout. A parent chastises. I’m pretty sure someone screams at a sibling.
“Away in the shed behind the building?” I ask, catching on.
“The very one,” Caleb says, already walking toward the rowboat. “Irresponsible to leave them in the boat like this. They could be taken, used as weapons…”
He hands me a hammer and a bungee cord, then grabs an armful of wood himself, and with every step toward the dark back of the Thai building my pulse gets faster and faster.
I haven’t exactly had a ton of boyfriends, but when I was a high school senior, I dated Mark Muncie for three months. I don’t think we spoke more than fifty sentences total to each other because pretty much all we did was try to find dark places to make out where we wouldn’t get caught. And sometimes, he touched my boobs, though I never let him take my shirt off.
Mark wasn’t memorable, but for a long time I remembered the thrill of getting my boobs touched in the darkened parking lot of an elementary school. For a few years afterward, sneaking around with Mark was the baddest thing I’d ever done.
This feels like that times one hundred. I know we’re adults. I know that we’ve got better places than this to make out, but I sincerely think that I might implode if I have to wait long enough to get to any of them.
We turn the corner of the pavilion, and suddenly, it’s dark. We’re on the edge of the botanical garden here, marked by a fence and then the deep, dense Virginia forest. There are no lights on this side of the building but the silhouette is outlined in bright neon.
He opens the shed, puts his armful of wood in. On the other side of this wall, kids are shouting and lights are blinking. Caleb holds out one hand for the hammer and as I hand it over, the silence between us finally becomes too much.
“You’re not a serial killer, are you?” I tease.
Caleb looks at me like I’ve suddenly started speaking Japanese.
“This would be a good setup is all,” I say, already wishing I’d said nothing. “You know, you lure a girl out here, behind a building, with the hammer…”
He just looks at me, hammer in one hand, hips slightly cocked and even in the dark his shirt clings to his chest in ways that make my mouth go dry, my pulse speed up.
Then he tosses the hammer end over end, catches it neatly.
“Is there anything else you’d like to accuse me of while we’re out here?” he says, and in the dark I can’t tell if he’s smiling or not.
This. This is why I’m still a virgin.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “It was a dumb joke.”
He tosses the hammer again, then places it neatly into the shed. Swings the doors shut.
“First a pickup artist, which, all right,” he says. “Then a serial killer, which you’ve got to admit was a bit much.”
“Unless you were actually a serial killer,” my mouth says without brain approval.
“Which I’m not,” he says, grabbing the combination lock from the top of the shed where he left it, spinning it around one finger. “Anything else, Thalia?”
He whirls the dial on the lock, holding it up to catch the light, and shoots me a teasing, challenging look. I relax, just a little.
Don’t say something mean or dumb, I tell myself. Just be slightly normal this once.
“A sea monster medic?” I say.
“All right,” Caleb says, pulling the lock open and fitting it through the door.
“A renowned rowboat captain?” I lean my shoulder against the door of the shed, a foot away from him, hoping I look casual and knowing that I probably don’t.
He snaps the lock shut, spins the dial. My heart pounds.
“What else?” he asks, his voice low, teasing, as he closes the distance between us. “Come on, Thalia, one more.”
I feel like the sea monster, as if my skin is rippling with light, as if I’m unfurling at the slightest breeze.
“You’re a good kisser,” I murmur.
With that, he pushes me against the shed door and proves me right.
This time he’s rougher. Less restrained. He works his fingers through my hair, his other hand planted on the wall next to my head, and I open my mouth under his, the kiss already deep.
I have two fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him toward me, and he lets me do it. He growls and kisses me harder and his fingers leave my hair, brush down my neck. His hand finds my hip, pins it against the wall, the wood digging into my back.
There’s another noise. A tiny groan, a gasp, and after a moment I realize that it’s me, and Caleb chuckles.
“Shh,” he teases. “There’s kids out there.”
“This is still PG-13,” I murmur back. “Perfectly tasteful.”
He kisses me again. Deep, hard, and as he pulls away I catch his bottom lip in my teeth.
“What’s it take to get an R rating?” he asks, his lips already on mine again.
“Lots of bloodshed or one nipple,” I answer into his mouth.
He kisses me slowly, thoroughly. He shifts his hips and now they’re pressed against mine, pinning me to the wall behind me.
“Just one?” he asks, and now his hand is at my shoulder, fingers toying with the thin fabric of my tank top strap.
“I didn’t make the rules,” I tease.
Our hips shift again, still pressing me against the wall, and the words please God just tear this tank top right off of my body are on the tip of my tongue but I kiss him again to stop myself.
He pushes himself against me, harder, and I push back, drinking in the beautiful heat of his body, even as I wriggle a little bit because he’s got something in his pocket that’s pressing into me, and I swear it feels like a TV remote or something —
My eyes pop open in realization mid-kiss. Luckily, his stay shut.
Dick.
That’s his dick.
I freeze, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. It’s not the first time this has happened — I’m an accidental virgin, not a nun — but I didn’t handle the other instances with grace, either.
Is there boner etiquette when you’re frantically making out with an incredibly hot man behind a building at an art show? Should I pretend I don’t notice? Grab it?
Grab it and say, hey, big boy, is that a cucumber in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
Okay, clearly not that last one.
Suddenly he pulls back, our faces an inch apart. He swallows hard, panting for breath, his fingers still tangled in the strap of my tank top.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
“Fine,” I whisper back. “Very fine.”
I close my eyes again, kiss him harder, and don’t grab it. Another sigh escapes me as he shifts again, pressing me harder against the wall, and I can’t help but roll my hips, my fingers grabbing his belt loop without my brain’s permission.
My body’s pretty clear on what it wants. It’s my mind that’s wondering what’s polite in this circumstance.
“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” he says, his lips barely leaving mine.
“No one’s watching,” I murmur.
His hand skims down my hip to the outside of my thigh, warm through the fabric of my skirt. My heart skips another beat.
“But are they listening?” he asks, and I nip softly at his lower lip.
“What is there to hear?” I say.
My hips roll again, his erection like iron against my lower belly, and the sensation sends a shockwave through me: lust and surprise and excitement and nervousness, a little bit of trepidation and did I mention lust? That one for sure.
“Nothing yet,” he says, his fingers under the shoulder of my tank top, tracing my collarbone. “But the more we do this the more tempted I am to see what you sound like when you come.”
“Oh,” I squeak out, my spine going rigid and my eyes going wide.
Hello, full-body blush.
Hello, warmth flooding my entire body. Hello, getting so wet that it’s actually the tiniest bit uncomfortable.
Clearly, my body is fine with this turn of events, but I have absolutely no idea what to say to that. Literally none.
I just stare at Caleb for several long, long seconds, confused as hell and wildly turned on.
“Nothing,” I finally say. “I don’t sound like anything.”
He looks at me for another second, his beautiful green eyes studying my face like he’s memorizing me.
Then he smiles, looks down, pulls away a little more.
“I’m sorry,” he says, dimples deep. “Too much.”
“Kinda,” I admit. “I think you’re supposed to save that for the second date.”
“The second date,” he says, one eyebrow lifting. “All right. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
I’ll probably have lots of homework, there’s a meeting for my work-study project at six, and I think I’m supposed to meet someone for a group project at the library after that, but right now I couldn’t care less about any of that.
“I’m free,” I whisper.
“A friend of mine who works in the film department is putting on a free outdoor showing of The Philadelphia Story in Lafayette Park,” he says. “I’ll bring the picnic. You bring yourself.”
“Deal,” I say, and he leans in again, kisses me one more time.
It’s slow. It’s long. His body moves against mine with a grace and restrained force that I can feel vibrating through his muscles, desire radiating from every inch of his skin.
There’s no question what he wants. What I want, I think, even though it’s terrifying and insane to want it of someone I met hours ago.
Finally, we separate. He laces his fingers through mine, takes a deep breath, leans our foreheads together.
“Come on,” Caleb says. “Let’s go look at some art.”
Chapter Seven
Caleb
Caleb Loveless
Assistant Professor
Mathematics
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br /> It doesn’t look right.
I read it again, slowly this time. I double-check the spelling, the kerning between the letters, the capitalization. All fine.
But it still doesn’t look right. The problem must be with me, still not completely convinced that I’ve somehow landed here, in an assistant professor position.
It still feels strange. There were points in the past six years when I seriously contemplated dropping out of graduate school. I thought I’d become a rock climbing instructor, or a whitewater rafting guide or something, anything, that let me be outdoors and never deal with academia again.
Once, after a particularly intense round of backstabbing and drama, I’d even filled out the paperwork but my mom and brother Levi talked me out of quitting.
And now, I’ve got this brand-new sign on my brand-new office in the brand-new Mathematics Department building. Last week I moved out of my grad student apartment that I shared with two other students and into my own place, a renovated carriage house that I’m renting.
Last night, I met a girl. That part’s not unusual. I go on a perfectly average number of dates, but I’ve never been on a date like that. I’ve never been on a date with someone like Thalia.
Long after I got home and went to bed I laid there, staring at the ceiling. Thinking of Thalia’s voice saying I believe in magical, not magic, of her scraped knee outside in the alleyway, of how kissing her made my bones shake.
Of how I wanted her there, then, wanted so desperately to push her skirt up and slide my hand between her legs, make her come just like I told her I would.
But instead I stopped. Not because I thought we’d be caught or because I gave a damn about that, but because I want more from her.
In short, I want to know her before we fuck. It’s probably old-fashioned, and as I laid in bed, watching the ceiling with what felt like the world’s hardest cock, I wasn’t thrilled with myself for my own decision.
My phone dings softly in my pocket, and I pull it out.
Thalia: 7 sounds perfect.
Thalia: What do I bring?
Me: Just yourself.