A Gift of Ghosts (Tassamara) (13 page)

She smiled at him demurely, and his fingers
tightened on the wrapper as he felt his body respond with a surge of pure lust.
“Exactly.”

She gestured with her head toward the couch and
he met her in front of it, dropping the condom onto the end table, as she
placed one small hand on his chest. “So what’s wrong with chemistry?” he asked
in a murmur, bending his head toward her, intending to kiss her, until she put
a finger up and across his lips.

“Not a thing,” she said. “But physics is better.”
He let her hold him off, waiting to see where she was going.

“See, physics is about touch, and then movement,”
she said, not looking him in the face. She slid her hands over his shirt, and
then, one at a time, carefully, slowly, she opened the buttons, as she started
to stroke, tracing patterns into his chest, circling her fingers delicately
around his nipples and then tracing away, down, down, and then back up again.

She looked up at him, eyes glinting with humor,
and he realized that she knew exactly what she was doing to him. “I could tell
you all about your sensory system, the way your neurons are transmitting electrical
impulses, the ions breaking through the cell walls, but we’ll just focus on
friction for the moment.”

“Friction, huh?” He shrugged out of his shirt,
letting it drop onto the ground behind him, and then brought his hands to rest
on her hips, pulling her a little closer so that he could feel her soft curves.
She wiggled against him, just a little, and he closed his eyes, trying to
resist the need to go faster. Much, much faster. But he took a deep breath, and
let his hands slide up and under her tank top, touching the warmth of her bare
skin as she continued.

“Friction,” she said, moving her hands up his
chest, “is the force that resists the motion of two surfaces against one
another. Too much friction is a bad thing, of course, but just the right amount
of friction . . .”

Her hands were stroking, caressing, around his
back and down, over his jeans, and then coming back up, pulling his head down
to hers.

He followed her lead, reaching down to let her
take his mouth with hers, letting his lips open under her searching tongue
until he couldn’t resist any longer and began exploring, caressing the soft
skin of her lips with his mouth until her head fell back and she let him nibble
and stroke his way along her chin and down the taut line of her neck.

“Just the right amount of friction,” she
continued breathlessly, “. . . and kinetic energy gets converted to heat.”

“Oh, yeah, I think that’s definitely happening
here,” Zane murmured against her skin.

“Mmm.” Her response was wordless, before she took
a step back. He let her go reluctantly, but she just smiled, reaching down to
the base of her tank top and pulling it smoothly over her head. He closed his
eyes, almost in pain at the sight of the black lace bra and her gentle curves,
but she was already reaching around herself, unhooking the bra and letting it
fall to the ground.

She looped a finger in the top of his jeans and
pulled him toward her. “May I?”

“God, yes.”

She laughed, and unbuttoned the first button on
his jeans, but then paused. “Maybe we should skip ahead?”

“To?” He reached for the clasp on her slacks, and
slipped it free, then pushed the sides off her hips, letting her pants fall to
the ground. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside, then stood there,
eyes dreamy and thoughtful, dressed only in black silk panties with lace around
the edge, and black heels. Her skin was pale and lovely, her dark curls falling
around her shoulders, her pupils dark and dilated, and skipping ahead sounded
like a really good plan to him. He wanted to bury himself in her, to feel her
wrapping herself around him, and every moment he had to wait was a slow
torture.

“Oscillation is always nice,” she murmured, still
motionless. “You know what oscillation is, right?”

“Movement?” He used his toes on his heels to pull
his shoes off without bending down, then shoved them under the couch with his
foot, before moving his hands over hers and starting to help with his own
buttons.

“Not just movement. A repetitive variation around
a point.” As he let his jeans drop, her hand closed around his warmth. He
reached for her, as she added, “I bet you can find a really good place to
oscillate.”

“Oh, God,” he groaned, taking her mouth, his
hands tangling in her hair as he kissed her, deep, intense, greedy, vitally
aware of her hand tight around his hardness, the warmth of her curves so close
to him. “I never knew physics was so fascinating.”

She laughed and dropped backward onto the couch,
pulling him down with her. He explored her body, touching and tasting her,
until oscillation became irresistible, when he reached for the condom.

He paused, fighting for control. “Science class
was not like this.”

“Shall I tell you about resonant frequencies?”
she whispered, stroking her hands down his back, as he slid inside her.

“It can’t be better than oscillation,” he
answered, as he started to move. She felt amazing, so hot, so soft, and he
wanted it to last forever. But he also wanted to move, faster, and faster, and
to feel her moving with him.

“Oh, but it is,” she said, breathlessly, arching
underneath him. “Physical systems have frequencies.” She ended with a gasp as
he stroked his hand up her body, cupping her breast, thumbing the taut nipple.

“Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, letting his voice ask the
question.

“Frequencies at which they vibrate. Hit the right
frequency . . . the resonant frequency . . . and an amplitude disturbance . . .
reinforces the energy stored in the system.”

He had no idea what she was talking about.
Absolutely none. But he loved her gasping voice, the husky breathiness, and the
way her body was responding to his. He moved a little faster, feeling how close
he was to the edge, but wanting to make it last, wanting to bring her with him.

“Resonant frequencies make music. Shatter glass.
Make bridges collapse. And—ohhh.” He could feel her contracting around him and
that was it, that was enough, that was too much, and he let go, feeling himself
exploding inside her.

“Yeah, that, too,” she murmured.

The post-orgasmic bliss lasted two or three
minutes—not bad for Akira. The post-sex anxiety started immediately thereafter.

Shit. She’d slept with her boss. And not just
slept with him, seduced him. Hell, she hadn’t even made him buy her dinner
first. And that third date rule? Smashed to bits.

But he’d bought her a pool table, she reminded
herself. Oh, not as a gift, of course, but she knew that pool table was here so
that she would play with him. A small smile crept across her face, and she
turned her head, letting her lips brush across his bare shoulder. His arm
tightened around her.

They were still lying on the couch, still tangled
together. Zane had gotten up briefly, then returned, shifting so that she was
half on top of him, tucked into the secure side of the couch, her back pressing
against its back.

“So,” Zane murmured. “How did you get so good at
pool?”

Pool, huh? That was what he was interested in?
Well, it was what she’d been thinking about, too. “Practice, practice, practice
and . . .”

“Let me guess, more practice.”

“We had a pool table in the house. My dad and I
played a lot. Almost every day before he got really sick.”

Zane stroked his hand down her back, a touch that
felt sympathetic, not sexual, but before he could say anything else, his phone
buzzed. There was a mutual pause, a hesitation born of uncertainty. Would they
let the interruption break the moment? And then Akira moved, shifting off Zane
and away, so that he could get up. With a resigned sigh, he swung his legs off
the couch and reached for his jeans. As he dug out his phone, she gathered up
her clothes, and quickly began to dress.

“Damn it,” he muttered as he read his incoming
text.

“Bad news?”

“You could say that,” he agreed, not looking up
from his phone as he one-handedly typed a response.

Akira pulled her tank top over her head and
looked around for her sweater. Where had she left it? Ah, right, across the
room, draped over the Asteroids cabinet. She grabbed it, but didn’t slip it on,
clutching it in her hand as she returned to the couch. “Well, I’ll just leave
you to it, I guess.”

“No, no, no,” Zane said, springing to his feet,
and stepping closer to her.

“No?” Akira asked the question lightly, smiling,
trying not to let the trickle of relief she felt at his words show on her face.
Navigating the territory between flirtation, casual sex, friends with benefits,
or something more was so damn hard. It wasn’t that she had any expectations: she’d
acted on an impulse, and if it was only a fun evening, well, it had still been
fun. But it was nice that he didn’t want her to leave. Maybe more than nice.

“No,” he repeated firmly. He hadn’t put on any
clothes yet, but he didn’t seem at all self-conscious about his nudity as he
took her hand and tugged her closer, lifting her hand to his mouth and pressing
his lips against her knuckles, before dropping it and sliding his hand around
the nape of her neck. She swayed into him, feeling the liquid warmth starting
again, the tingle of attraction running through her veins. Leaning down so that
his lips were only a few inches away from hers, he added huskily, “A good
teacher should never leave her pupils confused.”

“Confused?” Akira breathed the question, eyes on
his mouth.

“I’m a very bad physics student,” he confessed. “You
completely lost me at amplitudes.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, reaching up to take
his lips. She let the kiss last, long, and slow, and deep, before pulling back
and saying breathlessly, “I think you have a natural talent.”

“Um, Akira?”

Akira’s eyes widened and she stepped back from Zane.
“Dillon? What are you doing here?”

“Not looking,” Dillon responded, voice dry, as Zane’s
eyebrows shot up. Akira nodded at Zane, confirming that yes, his 15-year-old
ghostly nephew was in the room.

She was grateful to be wearing her clothes—and
that Dillon hadn’t shown up ten minutes earlier—as Zane, without rushing,
grabbed his jeans and underwear and started dressing. “Nice timing, Dill,” he
drawled. “I didn’t know you could reach my office.”

“It took some effort,” Dillon said. “And it’s not
comfortable. I feel like I’m being stretched like saltwater taffy. But it’s
late.”

“What’s he saying?” Zane asked, pulling on his
t-shirt.

Akira shook her head, not wanting to get into
explanations. “We played pool for a while, and it’s getting late. I should go.”

“Take Dillon home,” Zane suggested. “I’ll pick
you up there and we can go out to dinner. In my car. And then we’ll figure out
where we can pick up our physics lesson without interruption. I moved back in
with my dad and Grace after my mom died, so how do you feel about—yeah, I
thought not,” he finished, seeing her shaking her head before he’d made it
through the question. No way was she sleeping with him in the same house as the
CEO and Chairman of the Board of the company she worked for. Maybe they were
his relatives, but they signed her paycheck. “Your house?”

Akira thought for a moment. She still had a
pleasant little rush of desire running through her. And she wanted to spend
more time with Zane. Plus, if she started letting her ghostly companions limit
her activities, where would she stop? She nodded. “I’ll have a little
conversation with my, um, roommates, about boundaries and privacy first.”

“Hey, I can’t exactly knock, you know,” Dillon
answered as Zane grinned at her. “I got worried. I’m still worried,” he added
pointedly.

Akira gave him an exasperated look. They’d had
this conversation over lunch. Dillon thought his uncle was going to break her
heart. And even though he hadn’t said so, he was undoubtedly worried about the
consequences for him if Zane did. But Akira wasn’t afraid. Her heart was tough,
and her walls were thick. After a lifetime of keeping secrets and a few failed
relationships, she knew better than to count on other people. Even other people
who bought pool tables so that she’d play with them. “I’m fine,” she told him.

“I’ve been watching a lot of television,” Dillon
told her. “These things don’t end well.”

“What’re you and Rose watching?” Akira asked. “Soap
operas?”

“It’s some show about housewives. People keep on
dying. And relationships all end badly.”

Akira smiled at him. She and Zane were just going
to have a little fun: there would be nothing desperate about it.

***

“Hey, do you want to come to North Carolina with
me?”

He was a morning person. She could hear it in his
voice, all cheerful and wide-awake despite how little sleep they’d had. Damn.
Morning people, blah. She opened a reluctant eye, and peered at the clock.
7:47.