The Hookup Equation: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

  “Thanks,” I say, casually, as if I didn’t spend a full forty-five minutes shoving through my closet over and over again, as if somehow the perfect outfit would magically appear among the jeans, t-shirts, two going-out outfits, and a recent deluge of business-appropriate clothing.

  What says I really want to have sex with you but also have a twenty-minute walk from my place to yours, during which I might well see someone I know?

  What says I quite enjoyed being fingerbanged on a staircase last weekend and would like a repeat performance, but not in a trashy way?

  Apparently, a deep red knee-length long-sleeved wrap dress and the same high-heeled ankle boots I was wearing the night we met.

  “You look covered in flour,” I say, and he looks down at himself.

  I also look down at him. He’s covered in flour but the black shirt is tight across his shoulders and hugs his biceps in a way that makes me feel… things.

  That’s not even mentioning the sweatpants. If you’d asked me before this moment whether I like men in sweatpants I’d have give you a resounding ew, no.

  But now, I’ve seen Caleb in sweatpants. They hug his hips enticingly. They skim his thighs attractively.

  And there’s a bulge.

  A notable one. My thoughts turn NC-17.

  “It turns out I have terrible kitchen time management skills,” he says. “I meant to put on real clothes half an hour ago. Here, come in.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s just me,” I say, stepping in as he closes the door behind me.

  “Just?” he says, then leans in and kisses me.

  His fingertips just barely brush my face, and after a long moment, he pulls back.

  “I don’t want to get flour on you,” he says, apologetically.

  “This dress is washable,” I tease, running one hand over his shoulder.

  “Are you asking me to get you dirty, Thalia?” he asks, pressing his lips to mine without waiting for an answer, and this time his body follows suit, his heat melding to my skin from chest to knee.

  And the bulge. Sweet Jesus, the bulge. I never want Caleb to wear anything but sweatpants again, because I can feel practically every ridge and curve, every hardening inch—

  “I did promise myself one thing about tonight,” he says, his free hand skimming my hip, his lips brushing mine as he talks.

  “Only one?” I ask.

  He puts the pad of his index finger in the hollow of my throat, then drags it slowly downward, over my chest, until it hits the V of my dress.

  “I swore up and down that I’d have dinner before dessert,” he says.

  “What’s for dessert?” I ask, as innocently as I can. “Pie? Ice cream?”

  “It’s a euphemism, Thalia,” he says, laughing softly. “You’re dessert. Obviously.”

  “How subtle,” I tease.

  “I was trying to be classy.”

  “In a flour-covered shirt and those sweatpants?”

  “I told you, I meant to change before you got here,” he says, and kisses me again.

  Then, after a beat, he pulls away.

  “What’s wrong with these sweatpants?” he asks, suddenly suspicious.

  I can feel myself color instantly.

  “They’re sweatpants,” I say. “That’s all.”

  “No, you said these sweatpants,” Caleb says, eyes narrowing. “Spill it, Thalia. Do you not like gray? Is there an enormous mustard stain on the back?”

  “Have you looked at yourself in a mirror?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, still suspicious.

  “They’re obscene,” I tell him.

  Just then, there’s a loud, repeated beep from further inside the house, and Caleb grins his most rakish grin down at me.

  “I’ve gotta go get dinner from the oven,” he says, dropping a quick kiss on my lips. “You’re welcome to come along if you can handle the obscenity.”

  “I’ll try,” I answer, and he leads me into the kitchen.

  I also note that the sweatpants highlight his ass in a way I never would have predicted.

  Sweatpants. Who knew?

  We walk down a short hallway, over creaking wood floors, and take a left into the kitchen.

  It smells incredible. It’s also a mess, which does explain Caleb’s current state.

  Every burner on the stove has a dirty pan on it, the scent of browned meat hanging in the air. There are two separate chopping boards on different parts of the counter top, one covered in flour and one strewn with discarded vegetable parts. There’s also a food processor, a colander, mixing bowls, a roll of aluminum foil, a couple of empty plastic clamshells, and a spilled bag of pistachios.

  All the way at the end of the kitchen, alone on the table, is a square brownie pan with something in it.

  Caleb grabs two hot mitts, then flips his oven light on and peers in.

  “Golden brown is so subjective,” he says, staring intently.

  “Baking’s an art, not a science,” I say, walking behind him, toward the brownie pan.

  “Baking is essentially chemistry, which absolutely makes it a science,” he counters. “At the very least, each recipe should give you a color chart with their definition of golden brown.”

  I walk back, crouch next to him. In the oven are two things that look a little like pizza, but clearly aren’t.

  “That’s golden brown,” I say, with somewhat more authority than I feel.

  “All right,” he says, and we both stand as he opens the oven, pulls the baking sheet out. He balances it on top of a pot on his stove, and since I don’t want to watch something tragic happen to something that smells so delicious, I investigate whatever’s in the brownie pan.

  It’s not brownies. I looks like some sort of pudding or maybe a cake, with a thick layer of cocoa powder dusted on top.

  Experimentally, I reach one finger out and very, very gently touch the powder.

  Caleb’s hand wraps around my wrist, pushing my fingertip into something white and gooey.

  “No stealing,” he says, his voice surprisingly close. I look over my shoulder and he’s standing over me, his right hand over my right wrist, the length of our arms touching to the shoulder.

  “I wasn’t stealing until you interfered,” I protest. “I was just gathering information.”

  “Well, now you’ve put a dent in my perfect tiramisu,” he says.

  “Call it a sample if it’ll make you feel better,” I suggest.

  “Samples are offered. That was purloined.”

  His hand is still around my wrist and there’s a wicked, teasing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He doesn’t let go, fingers gritty with flour and crumbs.

  “So I’m doing something I shouldn’t?” I ask. “Here? Alone with you, at your house?”

  He laughs, his voice low and raspy and melodic, and lets my wrist go.

  “Touché,” he says, leaning one hip against the counter, arms folded over his chest.

  I look down at my fingertip, then back up at him.

  Slowly, I put it into my mouth and suck it off. It’s sweet and tangy, followed by the bitterness of the cocoa powder, and I keep my finger in my mouth longer than I need to.

  Caleb’s just watching me. As I pull my finger out of my mouth, he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.

  “Thalia,” he says. “You are trouble with a capital T.”

  “Good trouble or bad trouble?” I ask.

  “I thought there was only the one kind.”

  “I’m bad trouble, then.”

  “You disagree?”

  Caleb steps toward me, anchors his hands on the counter on either side of me, leans in. I’m wearing heels and he’s barefoot, and he’s still got a good six inches on me.

  “I think I’m at least neutral trouble,” I say, anticipation prickling down my spine.

  There’s a swipe of flour on his cheek, so I reach up and brush it off.

  “You’re the most dangerous kind,” he says, in a voice so low I can practi
cally feel it in the soles of my feet. “Bad trouble that feels good.”

  The bulge makes contact just before his mouth does, and I summon all my willpower and grab his shirt in my fist instead. He presses me backward, into the counter, and he kisses me harder and I open my mouth under his and he’s got one hand in my hair, fingers sifting through it, the other around my ribcage, his thumb stroking the spot just below my bra’s underwire.

  Tentatively, I put one hand on his chest, over his shirt, and I slide it down, feeling the warm muscles under the fabric as he pushes into me a little harder, the countertop digging into my back.

  I think of what he said last time we were like this. My body is yours. My breathing’s gone erratic as his thumb slides up and over the curve of my lower breast until it finds my nipple, and even through two layers of fabric I inhale sharply, heat twisting through me.

  My hands dip under his shirt, wandering, exploring. He runs his thumb over my nipple again, now a stiff nub, and he circles it slowly, his other hand skimming down my body, landing on my thigh.

  I kiss him harder, deeper, and he grinds against me, very hard and very big against my lower belly, and I don’t mind or panic or wonder what I should do.

  I just like it. I like the effect I have on him. I like that he so unabashedly wants me, and he twists my skirt between his fingers, drawing it up and I hook my fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants and I pull at them, ever so slightly.

  He groans, softly. He flicks his thumbnail over my stiff nipple and now his palm is against my thigh, moving up, and then he pulls his mouth away from mine as his thumb slides under the elastic of my panties, over my hip.

  “How serious were you about dinner before dessert?” I ask, pulling his sweatpants another millimeter lower over the hard muscles of his hips as he rocks against me.

  Caleb hooks one finger through my underwear, twisting it, playing.

  “I’m willing to reconsider,” he teases, his voice raspy.

  “And?”

  “And my bedroom’s upstairs, first door on the left.”

  He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just gives me one more kiss and then releases me, takes my hand in his, and pulls me through the kitchen and into the dark upstairs, then through a door and into a bedroom.

  The bed is made. The only light is from a small lamp on one of the two bedside tables, books stacked next to it. The room also has a bookshelf crammed with books, more books stacked on the floor, two dressers, and a shelf with a few plants on it.

  It’s simple, clean, cozy, a far cry from the dorm rooms and student apartments that my few other experiences have been in. Everything feels at home, like it’s exactly where it should be, including me.

  The door clicks shut, and I turn just in time to se Caleb pulling his shirt over his head.

  At exactly that moment, I realize I’ve never seen him with his shirt off before. Even in the stairwell he was still dressed — we both were — half-blind and in the dark, exploring each other by touch.

  No professor should look like this. It should be illegal to have a Ph.D. and a six pack, shoulders that broad, arms that muscled, and an Adonis belt.

  That’s the pelvic V that points right to the dick. I learned the name in an Art History class I took, but this is the first time it’s ever come in useful.

  Oh, and the bulge is still there, only now it’s less of a bulge and more of a sideways Mt. Everest.

  “Ta da,” he says, walking toward me. “I forgot to offer you the tour. This is my bedroom. Office is over there.”

  He jerks one thumb over his shoulder as he closes the distance, my fingers find the tie on my dress.

  I pull, slowly.

  “Is that going to be on the quiz?” I ask.

  He watches my fingers as I pull the bow undone, then release the square knot at its base.

  “Quiz?” he echoes after a long pause, stopping midway to where I’m standing, by the bed.

  “Dumb joke,” I say, and let my dress fall open, pulling the tie loose from around my waist. My heart is pounding and I feel like I can barely breathe, but it’s not from nerves or anxiety. I’m not afraid of what’s about to happen, not even a little.

  I’m just excited, breathless with anticipation. Caleb’s staring at me, stopped in his tracks, all his attention utterly focused on me.

  It’s a powerful feeling, the sensation that right now I could tell him to walk to me on his knees and he’d do it. I push my dress over my shoulders, pull the sleeves off, let it drop to the floor.

  “Jesus, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, still motionless.

  He takes one tentative step forward, then another.

  “Can I touch you?” he asks, reaching out, curling his fingers around the back of my neck, his thumb across my jaw.

  “Please,” I whisper back, a shiver snaking through my body, carrying pure heat with it.

  “Here?” he asks, sliding a finger under my bra strap, a slight smile tugging at his mouth.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  His hand continues down, over my stiff nipple, sliding down my belly.

  “Here?” he rumbles.

  “Caleb,” I say, stepping forward into him, my hands on the warm hard flesh of his torso. “Touch me anywhere you want.”

  With that, his lips crash into mine, needy and powerful, and I’m in his arms so hard I can barely breathe. He touches me and groans, the noise low and deep in his chest, and I slide my hand down and find his erection as it throbs against me and I squeeze him through his pants from tip to root and he pulls away from the kiss, panting, his lips to my ear.

  Then my bra is off. I’m still stroking his cock as he pushes me backward, and then I’m against the bed and then I’m on the bed and he’s on top of me, between my legs, his erection right against my clit so that every pulse of his hips sends a jolt of pleasure through me. He holds himself up on one elbow and kisses me feverishly and rolls my nipple between his fingers, palming it, pinching.

  He shifts, kneels. I lock my legs around his hips and squeeze, and I reach down into his pants and when I grab his cock he presses his face into my neck, biting me softly as he groans. We rock together, our hips bucking in time, my hand stroking him.

  Finally, he shifts again, and this time he’s upright on his knees, still between my legs as I lie back on the bed, and he hooks one of my knees over his shoulder, turns his head, kisses the inside of my knee.

  With his other hand, he skims his thumb over the thin fabric of my panties, his light heat on my lips and clit, the fabric probably soaked through.

  “Anywhere?” he says.

  “Anywhere,” I say, and before the word is out of my mouth he’s sliding my panties off, both legs in the air, and then he’s pushing me further onto the bed and grinning like he just won the lottery.

  Fingers brush my lips, teasing them, pushing them apart, exploring the length of my slit as Caleb drops a single kiss on my belly, next to my belly button, then another on the curve of my hipbone.

  I inhale and just as I do, his tongue finds my clit at the exact same time that his fingers slide inside me.

  I make a noise. It’s half moan and half grunt and half shout and it’s loud, and Caleb digs his fingers into the soft flesh of my inner thigh and doesn’t slow down.

  His tongue circles, flicks, laps, and I don’t know what exactly he’s doing but it feels incredible, his fingers inside me stroking my sensitive inner wall in the exact same rhythm.

  It doesn’t take long. With every stroke, soon my whole body is trembling, both hands fisted in his comforter, my back arched, my head to one side as I whimper and moan and say things like oh my God that feels so good.

  I come hard and fast, my body an unstoppable rush as I shout oh! oh! oh! again and again until I regain my senses, panting for breath, in a haze of satiety. Caleb pulls his fingers out and kisses the inside of my thigh again, my hip, my belly. He briefly sucks one nipple into his mouth and swirls his tongue around it, moving my legs around his hips. />
  “Turns out the answer is sexy as all hell,” he says, leaning over me, taking my mouth again in a kiss. He tastes like me, but it’s not off-putting.

  It’s actually kind of hot, like I’ve claimed him.

  “What answer?”

  “To what you sound like when you come,” he says, as if it’s obvious. “I told you I wanted to find out the night we first met.”

  I kiss him harder, my tongue in his mouth. I snake my hand downward, realize he’s still wearing pants.

  “Get these off,” I order.

  “I’ll need a proper data set of your orgasms, of course,” he says, standing on his knees, pushing his pants and boxers over his hips, releasing his cock.

  Hypothesis confirmed: it’s very big.

  “And we’ll need to control for variables, obviously,” he goes on, that rakish smile back on his lips. “It’s not as if I can compare the second or third orgasm in a session to the first.”

  I push myself up on my hands, look up at him as he pulls his pants the rest of the way off, tosses them on the floor behind the bed.

  “Caleb,” I say, my voice still raspy, sultry. “If you try to get data from a control group I’ll kill you.”

  He leans forward, kisses me. I grab his cock in one hand and stroke it and bite his lip, and just like that the fire inside me reignites.

  “Never,” he says. “Why, when I’ve got you?”

  We kiss again, and we move together and I pull him against me as hard as I can, and then we’re going over and suddenly I’m on top, straddling him, both my hands on his chest and my clit pressed against his cock, already slippery with my wetness as I’m pressed against him.

  In the back of my mind, a warning light flashes. I ignore it but for the first time since I got to Caleb’s house I hesitate for a split second before flexing my hips again and pressing myself into him.

  “You like that?” he asks, a quiet growl.

  “Yes,” I say, the word escaping me in a breathy whisper as I roll my hips over him again, savoring the pressure and the friction.

  I keep ignoring my sudden hesitation. Stupid nerves.

  “You’re sexy as hell,” he says, one hand wandering over my thigh, fingers closing around my hip. “Especially when you’re using my cock to get off.”