The Hookup Equation: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

  I fold forward, give him a deep, long kiss, keep rocking and grinding, try my best to ignore the alarm that’s slowly getting louder.

  I tell myself that Caleb’s not taking advantage of me. I tell myself that virginity is a cultural construct at best and a tool of the patriarchy, used to control women, at worst.

  I tell myself it doesn’t matter and I’m not actually losing anything. Practically speaking, this changes nothing.

  “You okay?” Caleb asks, his hand still on my hip.

  “Yeah,” I say, and take a deep breath. “Do you have any condoms?”

  He stretches one arm out, opens the drawer on a bedside table, and grabs a small foil packet and a bottle of lube.

  My heart hammers, slamming into my ribcage, and there’s a knot in my stomach. Caleb rips the packet open, takes out the condom, tosses the wrapper back onto the bedside table.

  Then he looks at my face and stops.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t, just — not yet. I’m sorry, I know I just —”

  “Don’t apologize,” he says, pushing himself up on his hands, the condom disappearing somewhere.

  “Sorry,” I say again, then shake my head. “I mean, I don’t — I don’t know. It’s just…”

  It’s just I have no idea what my problem is, other than at the very last moment I suddenly just couldn’t. In the most perfect moment ever, I just couldn’t.

  I’m gonna die a virgin.

  “It’s okay,” he says, cups my head in his hand, brings my lips to his. “Thalia. It’s fine.”

  I kiss him, and the knot in my stomach unwinds slowly.

  “It’s not you,” I whisper. “I swear.”

  “I didn’t think it was.”

  “Virginity’s not even real,” I go on, eyes closed, my forehead against his. “It’s a made up thing, and I doubt I even have a hymen any more, I’ve ridden bikes and horses, I don’t know why…”

  “Made up things can still be important,” he says, his voice soft. “I get it.”

  He kisses me deeply, his lips still tasting faintly of me, and I kiss back and after a moment my hips move again, like they’ve got a mind of their own, gently bucking against him, still pleasure-seeking.

  After a moment he pulls back and I can tell he’s half-smiling again, even though he’s too close to see.

  “Can I eat you out again, though?” he asks.

  My insides swirl at the thought.

  “Please?” he says, and finally, I just nod.

  Then he’s lying down again and he grabs me, pulls me forward. I yelp and grab the headboard of his bed, surprised at his strength, though I probably shouldn’t be. He loops his hands over my thighs, pulls me down to his face.

  This time there’s no fingers, only tongue. Before he was controlled, steady, but this is fast and hard and furious. In moments I’ve got my forehead against the wooden headboard of his bed, leaning against it, arching my back as he pulls me in harder and licks me.

  I’m moaning. I’m gasping, whimpering, and I put my arms over my head so I don’t grab Caleb’s hair like I want to.

  The only phrase I manage to gasp out is don’t stop, and I say it over and over again: don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop don’t stop don’tstopdon’tstop and then I’m coming again and it’s nothing but a single long moan, shouted into the headboard.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Caleb

  I love watching her. Even from this angle I love seeing the way her chest heaves, the way her back arches. I love the way she sounds, all breathy moaning and gasping, telling me not to stop like there’s some possibility I was considering it.

  When I’m sure she’s done, I stop. She relaxes, slumping against the headboard, drawing a long breath, and I slide out from underneath her, kneel behind her, wrap an arm around her and plant a kiss on the back of her neck.

  I’m disappointed, but barely. As much as I admit I’ve been thinking about watching her while she rides my cock, it’s not as if licking her until she comes twice is a step down.

  Thalia looks over her shoulder, still kneeling, resting against my headboard, and she smiles.

  “You’re delicious,” I tell her, my chin resting on her shoulder. “I could get addicted to making you come over and over again, you know.”

  “Oh, no,” she deadpans, turning around, still on her knees. “Sounds terrible.”

  “I wouldn’t want to interfere with your studies,” I offer as she puts one arm over my shoulder, tilts her face up to mine.

  “I can make time for that,” she says innocently, and bring her lips to mine.

  As she does, her other hand wraps around my cock, and I groan. It’s involuntary but it only makes her squeeze harder, stroking me from root to tip.

  “You’re not the problem,” she murmurs, still stroking. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not you.”

  Thalia pushes me backwards until I’m sitting and she’s on all fours, kisses me again, and then she’s spinning me around and I’m on the edge of the bed and she’s standing, her lips on mine and her hand on my cock and then she’s kissing my neck, my shoulder, my chest, and then she’s on her knees in front of me.

  I groan as she takes me in her mouth, one hand still wrapped around the base of my cock, and then she slides her lips down until I hit the back of her mouth and I whisper oh, fuck and there’s a second when I think I might come on this, the very first stroke.

  But I don’t and she pulls back, her lips moving down my shaft, and when she reaches the head she flicks her tongue over it and looks up at me, wicked and innocent all at once.

  I want to burn the image of Thalia with my cock between her lips into my brain forever. She’s beautiful and sweet and seductive all at once, and somehow she’s here and she’s mine and even if this is dangerous, I don’t care.

  Then she does it again, and again, and in no time I’m seeing stars and I’m grabbing the bedspread so hard with both hands I’m afraid I might tear it.

  “I’m gonna come,” I tell her, my voice rough.

  She just looks up at me again, and her tongue swirls around my cock and then she pushes her lips down my shaft one more time and I hit the back of her mouth, warm and wet and tight.

  “Thalia —” I manage to growl, but then I’m already coming. She pulls halfway back but then she swallows, her mouth working around me, and she swallows again and I’m coming for her harder than I’ve ever come before.

  When I finish I feel wrung out, half-melted, like I’m floating in space. I lean forward and kiss Thalia, my musky taste still on her lips as she stands.

  I pull her to me, still naked, press my face into her belly, lips against her soft skin. She gives a short laugh of surprise, and then I put my arms around her, hold her close.

  “You okay?” she asks softly, sounding puzzled.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “I’ve never been better, and I mean that literally,” I tell her.

  “Never?”

  “Never,” I say, and I mean it. “You’re staying the night, aren’t you?”

  “I brought a toothbrush,” she says, running a hand through my hair. “Just in case.”

  “Just in case?” I tease.

  “You weren’t a sure thing,” she says, laughing. “I didn’t know if you’d want me gone right away or what.”

  I sigh, tighten my grip, and then lean backward. Thalia yelps as she falls on top of me, then rolls off, laughing.

  “What, exactly, about me says wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?” I ask.

  “People have uncharted depths,” she points out.

  “Those aren’t mine.”

  “All right, fine, I didn’t think that,” she admits. “I was pretty sure I’d be staying over but didn’t want to jinx it. Happy?”

  “Yes,” I say, and I kiss her, and I’ve never meant it more because for the first time since we met, she’s not my student and I’m not her professor. She’s not the forbidden object of all my most fervent desires, and I
’m not the dirty old man who should know better.

  She’s just Thalia and I’m just me, and the outside world can go fuck itself right now. She’s lying here completely naked with her head on my shoulder, black hair fanned around her, the fingers of her left hand unconsciously tapping against my hip.

  Even the email from earlier doesn’t bother me, not right now. I know I should have told her. If someone knows and thinks I’m morally bankrupt, she should know, but not right now. Right now I’m selfish and I want her to myself, fully here, fully present, not thinking about some anonymous email.

  Just then, my stomach rumbles, and Thalia laughs.

  “I didn’t even ask what’s for dinner,” she says.

  “Too distracted by my obscene sweatpants?” I tease.

  She turns her head and looks at me, her cheeks still flushed, a strand of hair stuck to her. I reach over and brush it from her face.

  “I’m just saying, maybe don’t leave the house in those,” she laughs.

  “They were less obscene before you showed up.”

  “Less obscene is still obscene, Caleb.”

  “Leek, goat cheese, and steak galettes with sesame-dressed snap peas and tiramisu for dessert,” I say.

  “That’s so fancy I don’t know what it is,” Thalia says, both her eyebrows rising. “Of course you’re also some sort of amazing cook. You do triathlons too, don’t you? And spend your weekend rescuing puppies from burning buildings?”

  “I’m an adequate cook with a brother who’s a chef, triathlons sound exhausting, and I’ve never in my life rescued a puppy,” I correct her. “C’mon.”

  We both sit up, slowly. I gather my discarded clothing, toss it into my hamper, then pull a fresh shirt and jeans from my dresser.

  When I turn back to the bed, she’s still sitting there, one foot tucked under her, reading a piece of notebook paper. Next to her, the bedside drawer is still open.

  It takes me all of two seconds to realize what she’s reading.

  “I’m not a serial killer,” I say.

  She looks up at me, brow slightly furrowed.

  “Should I have been worried?” she asks, and I just nod at the paper she’s holding.

  “I did some research,” I admit. “And I’ve always found that the best way for me to truly learn information is to rephrase and summarize it myself, and then I left that there in case I needed a quick refresher.”

  I’m not making myself sound good, because what kind of weird dork keeps his notes on first-time intercourse in his bedside table, even though they’ve also memorized it? Me, that’s who.

  I can’t see it from here, but I know that the piece of paper says:

  Lots of lube

  Go slow

  Be sure she’s aroused

  Make her come first, it’ll help her relax

  Let her be on top so she can control speed, depth, &c.

  Thalia flips it over, checks the back to see if there’s more writing, then puts it back in the drawer on top of the condoms and lube, then closes it carefully.

  “Sorry,” she says. “It was still open and… I really like lists?”

  “Did you like that one?”

  She laughs, stands, grabs her bra and underwear from the floor.

  “I did,” she says, still laughing, face still flushed. “It’s sweet.”

  I walk over and give her a quick, soft kiss on the mouth.

  “Come back in a few days,” I tell her. “I’ll make a flow chart. Maybe a PowerPoint, too, if you’re lucky.”

  She’s still laughing, still naked, head cocked to one side.

  “I can’t wait to see the clip art,” she says.

  * * *

  We have dinner at the kitchen table, then dessert on the living room couch. We each have a glass from the bottle of wine she brought, and while we drink we talk, and talk, and talk.

  We talk about nothing: about which Marvel movies are good and which ones are dumb, about which dining hall on campus has the best chicken fingers, about what the weird smell in Hayes Hall could possibly be.

  Together, we decide that some enterprising biology student is farming magic mushrooms in the basement, then selling them to other students. It’s much more exciting than my real answer, which is mold, probably.

  We talk about everything: about her brother who’s gay and her brother who’s missing, about how every time she gets a phone call from her family, she imagines that he’s dead. About moving constantly when she was a kid, about her grandparents who immigrated from Mexico to south Texas, about how sometimes people tell her she could pass for a “really tan white girl” and then expect her to think it’s a compliment.

  We talk about my brothers. I tell her the whole story about Rusty coming to live with Daniel, the story of Eli and Violet almost-eloping, the saga of Seth and Delilah and how much I wish she would just leave town again.

  And then, somehow, it’s two o’clock in the morning and we’ve been sitting on the couch with empty wine glasses for three hours, so we leave the dishes for the morning and go upstairs to bed.

  * * *

  Just like that, I’m having an affair with a student.

  I hate thinking of it that way. I much prefer to just think of Thalia as my girlfriend who happens to be in a class I’m teaching, but I know that’s glossing over the murky truth of the situation.

  The truth that it’s wrong, even if nothing’s ever felt more right. The truth that this is unethical, immoral, reprehensible; the truth that I shouldn’t be getting blowjobs from the girl whose papers I grade.

  Three days a week, she sits quietly in the back of my class and takes notes. Sometimes, she asks questions. She got an A on the midterm and she gets mostly A’s on her weekly quizzes, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that she’s naked in my bed several times a week and everything to do with the fact that she’s smart and studious.

  A week passes, then two. She comes over a few times a week, sometimes for dinner, sometimes not. I learn her body as well as I possibly can: what makes her gasp, moan, what makes her eyes roll closed, what makes her bite her lip and curl her toes.

  Technically, she’s still a virgin, a fact which throws the entire concept of virginity into question. And technically, I don’t care. She knows where the condoms are, and she knows I’ll do anything she asks of me.

  I also keep getting the emails. Every other day, like clockwork. Always vague. Always one line.

  Taking advantage of her like this is wrong.

  This is against university guidelines, isn’t it?

  If you had a shred of decency you’d stop.

  Et cetera, et cetera. I still don’t tell Thalia. They’re squarely aimed at me and my wrongdoings, as if the writer thinks I’m a supervillain with a maiden chained to the tracks.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Thalia

  I lean back in the creaky old wooden chair, stretch my legs in front of me, my arms over my head. It’s one of those chairs that doesn’t feel so bad when I first sit down, but after a few hours I always feel about seventy. I swear every joint in my body pops when I stand up.

  The worst part is that it’s the best chair on this floor of the library. I know this because, at one point or another over the past two years, I’ve sneakily tested out every chair on this floor and taken the best one.

  On the desk, my phone buzzes.

  Caleb: What are you up to?

  I lean further back in the chair, let my head hang down, and smile to myself. Even though I just saw him last night for a date — sex, pizza, and a movie, because it’s not like we can go out — for the past hour I’ve been debating sending this very text.

  Me: Finishing up a response paper for my comp lit class.

  Me: I swear this class is more work than my actual thesis.

  Me: But I’ll be done in twenty minutes, if you’re asking what I think you are.

  Caleb: You’re at the library?

  Me: Yup.

  Well, there’s my incentive to
type this as fast as humanly possible. I get out of my chair, joints popping, do ten jumping jacks, sit down again, and type like the wind. I’m not completely sure that my opinions on bird imagery in Urrea’s work make much sense right now, but this isn’t even due for another week, so I can edit later. I just wanted to get it out of the way before I leave tomorrow morning for Thanksgiving break, because I know better than to think I’m going to get much work done while I’m home, particularly since my mom’s still in a cast and God knows my father can barely make a peanut butter sandwich.

  I’m four and a half pages into a five-page paper when I hear soft footsteps moving through the stacks, so I instinctually hit save and then turn.

  Moments later, Caleb emerges from between two bookshelves, twenty feet away.

  “Are you the only one up here?” he asks, looking around, keeping his voice low in case I’m not.

  “If you were anyone else that question would be terrifying,” I point out, and he glances over his shoulder, then walks toward me, smiling.

  “Good thing it’s just me, your dirty old professor,” he says.

  “You’re not old,” I tell him as he stands behind my chair, puts his hands on my shoulders.

  “Just dirty, then?”

  A ripple of excitement splashes through my chest, and I tilt my head back, look up at him as his thumbs dig into the knots in my shoulders.

  It feels really good.

  It feels even better when he leans down and kisses me, the angle new and a little strange, slow and sensuous.

  And public. Even if no one else is here, and I’m pretty sure they’re not, this is the most public we’ve ever been and it sends a thrill spiraling through my whole body.

  I reach up, hook one hand over his shoulder, catch his lower lip between my teeth. He responds by taking a hand off my shoulder, skimming it along my throat, then under the sweater and shirt and tank top I’m wearing, under my bra, sliding two fingers around my nipple.