The Hookup Equation: A Loveless Brothers Novel

by Noir, Roxie

  I make a soft, uncontrolled noise into his mouth. My back arches and my hips push back, against the chair, because my body knows what to expect next and it’s ready.

  “You finish your paper?” he asks, still fondling me softly.

  I take a deep breath and try to focus.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  Surely I can write one single conclusion while I’m at home, right?

  “Good,” he says, growly, gravelly, his voice traveling straight to my core. “Because I just realized how long it’s going to be until I see you again.”

  “It’s four days,” I tease.

  “I know,” he says, mock-seriously. “Ninety-six whole hours.”

  “You did that math fast.”

  “How unexpected.”

  He kisses me again, then releases me. I shove all my stuff into my bag, put on my jacket, sling the bag over my shoulder. Caleb takes my hand as we walk through the dark stacks toward the elevators and my heart skips a beat even though there’s no one around.

  On the elevator he leans against the wall, grabs my hands, pulls me in and we make out slowly, teasingly, one of my hands underneath his jacket and shirt. When the elevator dings I pull away, but he keeps my hand in his, and we walk to his car like that: sweetly, dangerously, even though campus is practically a ghost town.

  Then, when we’re in the car he says, “I should tell you something.”

  “If you’re married, I’ll kill you,” I say, the first thing that pops into my head, and I instantly shut my eyes and make a face. “I’m sorry. That was nonsense. I’d kill you, though.”

  He releases the parking brake, pulls away from the curb.

  “I’m not married,” he says. “I mean, I think.”

  “Not funny.”

  “That was kinda funny,” he says, glancing over at me.

  “Caleb.”

  “Hand to God, I’m not married,” he says, raising his right hand from the steering wheel as he stops at a stop sign. “I’ve been getting emails, though.”

  I sit up a little straighter, look over at him.

  “What kind of emails?”

  He doesn’t answer right away, looks through the windshield like he’s thinking of the best way to answer.

  “Short ones that say they know my secret and tell me I’m a bad person,” he says.

  My heart leaps into my throat, and I try to swallow it back down.

  “Who are they from?”

  “Secret Knower at gmail dot com,” he says.

  “How creative,” I say, leaning my elbow against the window ledge, looking out at the dark university buildings going by.

  “So far, nothing’s come of it,” he says, and sounds calm, calmer than I am right now. “Whoever it is just… seems to want to make sure that I know what I’m doing with you is shitty.”

  “It’s not.”

  He’s silent, one thumb tapping on the steering wheel.

  “It’s complicated,” I amend myself, tapping the knuckle of my pointer finger against my lips.

  After the organ concert incident, we’ve been careful. I’ve barely made eye contact with him in class, only texted, never sent emails. Maybe someone’s seen me walking into his house or coming out in the morning, but he lives in a neighborhood that’s mostly student-free.

  It could be another professor. Caleb’s told you how vicious academia is.

  “You think they’ll do anything else?” I ask, softly.

  “I think if they were going to, they’d have done it already.”

  Already?

  “How long has this been happening?”

  Caleb turns down a residential street, slows, then turns into his driveway.

  “A little over two weeks,” he finally admits.

  I pause. It’s not the answer I was expecting. I thought he’d say two days, maybe.

  “That long?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  He turns the keys, pulls up on the parking brake, turns and looks at me.

  “They seemed mostly interested in me, and I didn’t want you to worry,” he says.

  I take a deep breath, then get out of the car and walk around the front. By the time I get there, Caleb is standing in his driveway, hands in the pockets of his peacoat, waiting for me.

  “I need something from you,” I say, stopping in front of him, looking up.

  “Anything,” he says.

  “Don’t shelter me,” I tell him, my voice soft in the cold, dark night, but it’s quiet except for the wind rustling the nearly-barren trees, so the sound carries. “I know that on paper, this relationship looks pretty off-balance, and there’s nothing I can do about that. But I need the truth of the matter to be that you’re my partner, not my protector.”

  His eyes search my face. Then, slowly, he smiles.

  “Of course, Thalia,” he says. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper.

  He reaches out, takes my hand, lifts it to his lips.

  “As long as I can protect you sometimes,” he says, lifting his eyebrows.

  “As long as I can reciprocate.”

  He kisses my hand again, shifts his, laces our fingers together as we’re standing there, facing each other, and I feel an echo of that first warm night we met, standing by the sea monster on the pond.

  “We can stop the affair if you want, now that someone knows,” he says, quiet, low, serious.

  “I don’t.”

  He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, pauses, smiles.

  “Good,” he says. “I don’t either. Ladies first.”

  * * *

  Inside, coats off, bags on the floor next to shoes. He kisses me before the door is shut, after it’s shut, while I’m unlacing my shoes and trying not to fall over. I leave my sweater on the railing of the stairs, my shirt on the floor, and by the time we’re in his bedroom I’m in a tank top and jeans, Caleb shirtless.

  We don’t bother shutting the door. The room is lit by bedside lamps and Caleb walks me in, backward, one hand on my back and one twisting in the front of my skin-tight tank top.

  “You know what the hardest part of Thanksgiving is going to be?” he asks, hands on my ribcage, his thumbs already brushing my stiff nipples through my bra.

  “You?” I ask, and he laughs.

  “I’m afraid watching my brothers argue isn’t terribly erotic,” he says, as I take my hands off him, reach for my bra clasp.

  “What, then?” I ask, pulling it off through the arm holes of my shirt.

  Caleb doesn’t answer, just runs the length of his hands over both nipples, from fingertip to palm, and my eyes slide closed at the friction.

  “I like this shirt,” he says, his voice rough as he’s tracing the outline of my nipples with his thumbs. “You should wear it all the time, and you should never wear anything under it.”

  I drape an arm over his shoulders, dip my fingers into the waistband of his jeans.

  “To class, maybe?” I tease, and he looks at me in slight alarm.

  “No,” he says, pinching my nipples between his fingers. “Jesus, never to class. You want me to forget what three times three is?”

  “You’ve got a calculator,” I murmur, and slide my palm down the long, hard, thick ridge of his cock.

  “Don’t you dare,” he growls, playful, pushing me back again toward the bed. “You’re supposed to be my partner, not my temptress.”

  The backs of my knees hit the bed and instead of falling over, I climb on, kneeling, facing him, one hand on his cock and the other pulling at a belt loop.

  “I’m not your temptress?”

  “I’d prefer if you weren’t in class,” he says. “Just give me two more weeks, and then you can have your nipples out in class all day long. Wait. No.”

  I laugh, tugging at the button on his jeans, practically tearing the zipper down.

  “Shut up and take your pants off,” he teases, already s
hoving them over my hips.

  I fall backward, wriggle out of my jeans, and Caleb leans over the bed and pulls my panties down too. I shove at his pants as he crawls on top of me and a few moments of maneuvering later, he’s naked and I’m wearing nothing but this shirt, my legs wrapped around him, his thick cock bumping against my clit, my hands on the hard muscles in his back.

  I am aching with need and every touch, every thrust makes it worse, like he’s taunting me. I reach between us and grab his cock, the underside already slippery with my juices, and he thrusts into my hand and groans into my shoulder. I stroke him hard once, twice, and then I’ve made up my mind.

  “Roll over,” I murmur, and he does, catching my wrist, dragging me on top of him. He pulls my shirt off as I straddle his hips, hands on his chest, automatically grinding against him, my body pleasure-seeking.

  In the back of my mind, something ugly and old whispers good girls don’t, and I squash it.

  Instead I kiss him again and I push myself against him and think of his list: make sure she’s aroused.

  Yeah, check.

  I lean over, stretching away from him, open the drawer, and grab a condom.

  Then I remember the first bullet point and go back for a bottle of lube. I straddle him again, lower, tear the condom wrapper with my teeth because my hands are too slippery, then pull it from the wrapper.

  I’ve never done this part before. I know the theory, and it’s not rocket science, but when you’re putting a condom on a banana as practice you’re never so turned on you think you might explode. You’re never tempted — so, so tempted — to toss the condom away and bareback a banana because you’re just that impatient.

  I make sure the condom is right side out, center it on the head of his cock, and it slips a little but then Caleb pushes himself up on one hand and his fingers are on mine as we unroll it onto him.

  He grabs the bottle of lube, drizzles it on himself, pours some into his hand and strokes himself a few times, lies back on the bed, his hand on my thigh.

  “C’mere,” he says in a voice that turns my insides even gooier.

  I lean forward, kiss my lover, push away that tiny voice telling me I shouldn’t because I know, completely and unequivocally, that it’s wrong.

  He moves his hand from my thigh, grasps himself, guides himself to my opening.

  At last, I take him. I take him a millimeter at a time I ease myself down, my hands spread on his chest as the tip of his cock slides into me and I open, stretching, filling.

  It almost hurts, but not quite. It’s a sensation right on the edge of pain, right at my limit.

  If he moved it would hurt. If I went too fast it would hurt but he’s gentle, patient, lets me go at my own pace. After a moment he lets his cock go, touches my clit with his thumb lightly.

  “Is this okay?” he asks, and I nod. He strokes me and I keep moving, up and down, slowly working him inside me, and then he hits the spot.

  I groan and Caleb moves the tiniest bit, his hips flexing and his cock throbbing. I gasp at the quick pinch of pain but then it’s gone and he’s deeper, pressing against a spot I’ve found before on my own but holy shit, never like this. Never anything like this.

  “Did I hurt you?” he murmurs, and I just shake my head, dig my fingers into his shoulders.

  “I’m fine,” I murmur.

  I’m fighting with myself, caught between the almost-pain, the knowledge that I’m on the edge of it, and the instinctual, primal urge to ride Caleb as hard as I possibly can.

  I know I need to be careful, take it slow, this first time at least, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to at all.

  “Fine?” he asks, thumb still drawing slow circles over my clit, his hand slippery with lube and my own wetness.

  “Good,” I say, voice low and rough, and as I say it I flex my hips and move back and for one second there’s another pinch but then it moves his cock against that spot again, harder and longer.

  This time I moan out loud, and this time I don’t care that it might hurt and I take him deeper, harder.

  Caleb groans, and even though it was too deep and too hard and I should stop, I don’t because it also feels so good that I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can do anything but ignore the sensation that I’m at my limit and take all of him, every last millimeter, my fingers and toes curling and his thumb moving faster on my clit.

  I’m whimpering, my eyes half-closed, my lips parted. My hips are barely moving against his but it’s all I can take, stretched and filled, my whole body a live wire.

  “Still good?” he rasps.

  “So good,” I half whisper, half whimper. I swallow, gulp air, lean in, rock back on his cock.

  I find that perfect angle again and I groan, my eyes going closed and slowly, carefully, I ease into a rhythm of small, shallow strokes as he strums my clit.

  “Fuck, it’s so good,” I breathe, barely aware of what I’m saying. “God, you feel so good.”

  “Tell me how much you like it,” he growls, and his other hand wanders up my body, caressing me. His cock twitches and I inhale sharply then moan, every single movement magnified times a hundred.

  “Do that again,” I say, taking his hand, sliding his palm over one breast, his callouses skipping over my nipple. “Please?”

  He moves, barely, and my body trills a quick warning but it’s lost among the feeling that I’m a symphony in crescendo.

  “You like that?” he says, doing it again, his voice raspy and heavy, his breathing hard and fast. “Just like that?”

  “Yes,” I breathe. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop. God, more, don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop…”

  Now I’ve got his hand in both of mine, his knuckles pressed to my lips, eyes closed, and I can barely move but I’m rocking back and forth on his cock and he’s thrusting barely, just barely, and it almost almost hurts and I can barely breathe but I manage to whisper I’m gonna come oh God Caleb I’m gonna come so hard, and then I do.

  I come so hard it hurts, so hard I nearly fall over, Caleb’s hand clutched in mine. I shout into his knuckles and whimper and say oh God oh God. I’m wracked. I feel like I’m melting, like I’m a bell being rung for the first time.

  It fades slowly, into an afterglow that makes me dizzy, lightheaded. I kiss Caleb’s knuckles again and he stops stroking my clit, moves both hands to my hips, pulls me down another millimeter.

  “I love the way you feel when you come,” he whispers, and then he explodes inside me, throbbing and pulsing. He grabs my hips even harder, the muscles in his arms flexing and I rock back, wanting more of him. I need more. In this moment, fuzzy-headed and sated, I feel powerful and wildly possessive, like I’ve been blessed that he’s mine and this is mine, and also like I want to go exact blood revenge for anyone else who’s ever seen him this way.

  He slows, stops. He pushes himself up on his hands, still breathing hard, looking wild and untamed and sexy as hell.

  “Kiss me,” he says, and I do.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Caleb

  When I come back from tossing the condom Thalia’s still lying on my bed, one knee up, her arms overhead. She’s naked and beautiful and on display, and I pause for a moment, just trying to memorize this moment.

  I wonder if she has any idea how she looks right now, whether she knows that she’s temptation come to life, desire personified. I wonder if she knows my bed looks like there’s a goddess in it.

  “You’re sure you can’t stay?” I ask, glancing at my bedside clock. One-thirty in the morning.

  “I shouldn’t,” she says, glancing at the clock herself, then making a face. “I still have to pack for break, and my ride’s gonna pick me up at nine so we hopefully don’t hit too much traffic in Richmond or the Tidewater.”

  I get into my bed next to her, ignoring the large, sticky spot where I used way too much lube. Thalia looks at it, then rolls over, onto her stomach.

  “Also, I should shower,” she says.
/>   “The instructions said lots,” I point out, perching two fingers on her shoulder, then running them softly down her back, to her tailbone.

  Just barely, her back arches, hips rising to meet my touch. I flatten my palm against her.

  “Well, the instructions worked,” she says, laughing. Her cheeks are faintly pink and I can’t tell whether she’s still flushed from sex or whether she’s blushing anew.

  “Once more proving the power of research,” I say.

  “Is that what we just did?” she teases. “Prove the power of research?”

  “I don’t hear you complaining.”

  “I’ve got nothing to complain about,” she says.

  Then she catches my eyes, pauses for a beat.

  “That was really good,” she says, and now she’s definitely blushing. “Thanks.”

  “You don’t have to thank me.”

  “What if I want to?”

  “Trust me, I got all the thanks I need,” I say, sliding a finger back up her spine, watching the way she rolls her shoulders as I do.

  She’s addictive, this girl. The more I get of her the more I want.

  “Can I shower here?” she asks, glancing at the clock again.

  “No,” I say.

  She gives me a look, and I laugh.

  “What, you can sleep in my bed and hop on my dick but not shower? Of course you can shower here.”

  “I think I’m gonna need to work up to hopping,” she says, then leans in, gives me a long kiss on the mouth.

  “I’m available for practice,” I tell her.

  “Good,” she says, her lips still against mine. “I’ve brainstormed some ideas for next steps.”

  “Already?”

  “I’m a planner. I like to think ahead,” she says, then pushes herself off the bed, stands, and walks for the bathroom, still utterly naked. A few minutes later, still on my bed, I hear the hiss of the shower and even though I’m tempted to go in there and offer to get started on those next steps, I don’t.

  Instead I change the sheets and set an alarm for six, so she doesn’t miss her ride. When she gets out of the shower I take one as well, then crawl into bed next to her already-sleeping form.