Tempting (15 page)

The lace felt scratchy over my tongue when I dragged it along the edge. Using my teeth, I pulled it down over one hip, then moved over and did the same on the other side. When it fell with a wet plop onto the tile next to us, I hefted one of her legs up over my shoulder, opening her up to me, and curling two fingers into her slick, hot channel.

The breaths coming out of her were heavy and deep, loud enough that I could hear her over the water. Glancing up, I saw that her head aimed down, her eyes lasered in on me. Holding her gaze, I kissed the mound of her pussy, sucking her clit into my mouth. Adele finally cracked, moaning in one long, drawn out sound.

I clutched at the skin under my hands, drew her deeper into my mouth, worked my fingers around, snaking my tongue against her flesh. Her hips moved in tiny circles, riding my face with shameless, wanton pleasure. The hair on my scalp was gripped so tightly in her hands that I pulled back.

“What the fu—”

“Be nice to my hair. I’d like to keep it on my head.”

She grinned, cheeks flushed to pink, and tightened her fingers again. I stood in a sudden movement, the leg that was around my shoulder dropping so that I held it in the crook of my elbow. The way it opened her to me made it so that my cock lined up right where my mouth had been.

“Are you going to fuck me now?”

I shook my head, placing a chaste kiss on her lips. “No. That’s absolutely not what this will be.”

I pushed into her with one long, smooth slide. We stayed pressed up against each other, so tightly wound that the water could barely make room between our bodies. Then I kept my movements so slow, so agonizingly slow, that when we both came, there was barely any sound between us.

T
he first thing
I saw upon opening my eyes was his face, serene. His hair was mussed, his lips soft. I wanted to lean over, to see how his lips tasted first thing in the morning, but I didn’t. The worries he wore in the creases of his forehead were smoothed and I wanted him to enjoy the peace that sleep gave him a little longer.

Gently pulling the blanket back, I climbed out of bed and put my hair up into a ponytail. I grabbed one of his shirts from the laundry basket by the bed and slipped it on, taking small comfort in the way it stopped at the top of my thighs. It was such a cliché thing, to wear a boyfriend’s shirt, to feel small and feminine and soft.

Boyfriend. Had I actually thought of him that way? Pausing by the doorway, I looked back at the bed, his body relaxed and his breaths quiet, easy. We hadn’t discussed what we were, who we were. So much of us was secret. But something had shifted the night before. Every time we’d had sex before had been a result of something, a need we both fed. But last night had been different. More.

I glanced at the few photos that he’d hung over the stairs, landscapes in black and white, framed with white mats and black wood surround. I paused on the step, touched a photo of Boston’s skyline, featuring the John Hancock Tower. The lights reflected off the Charles River below. At the very bottom of the photograph, I saw initials: D.A.E.

I didn’t have to search my brain for who I guessed it was, because her name hadn’t left my head—Diana. Nathan’s wife. Nathan’s deceased wife. A shudder moved through me and my fingers left the frame. Moving down the stairs, I studiously avoided looking at the rest of the photographs, not wanting to see pieces of a ghost still lingering.

Nathan’s kitchen was expansive, separated from an eat-in kitchen by a large island topped with a thick butcher block. The cabinets were shiny white, the countertops a black granite. And it was tidy; whatever small appliances Nathan owned were tucked away, leaving me to marvel at all the space one could use for cooking, baking.

The fridge was stocked with juices, milk, a pitcher of what looked like real lemonade and an assortment of beer and wine. More than anything, I noticed how very neat it looked. I counted five different cheeses, several kinds of meats and full fruit and veggie drawers; everything in its place.

I was halfway through taking mental stock of his pantry when I felt the guilt creep in for having snooped. Everything was labeled with neat type face labels and it struck me as not something a man would think to do. As tidy as Nathan seemed, I couldn’t believe he took the time to label his grains and lentils as well.

It left an uncomfortable feeling in my belly and I decided I didn’t want to snoop around his things anymore. Grabbing the pancake mix and a bag of chocolate chips, I decided to make him breakfast.

Pancake flour coated the island and me by the time Nathan walked into the kitchen wearing only a pair of fleece pajama bottoms. “Hi,” I said with a grin. “Want some coffee?”

Instead of replying, his eyes swept the kitchen, not looking right at me. I turned my head and took in the mess I’d made. Flour handprints could be seen on the handle of the stainless steel fridge, and splatters of light batter like polka dots on the dark granite. But none of that was probably as alarming as the chocolate smears on the cupboards to the left of the stove. I should’ve washed my hands before grabbing plates, I realized belatedly.

Since he didn’t answer, I poured him a cup from the pot I’d brewed earlier and topped it with a little cream. After wiping away the chocolate thumbprint, I pushed the mug into his hands. “Here, sit.” I gestured to one of the chairs at the island and pushed a plate toward him. He remained agonizingly quiet, taking in the kitchen still. “Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate chip pancakes,” I said.

Finally, he looked at me. His eyes held such wariness, confusion, like he wasn’t sure what to do with me.

“I know,” I answered his unspoken thought. Gesturing around at the mess I’d made, I said, “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up.” I pushed the plate toward him again. “Eat.”

I started busying myself with wiping down the stove and loading the dishwasher with the pan and bowl I’d used. “By the way, I’m on the pill.”

There was a choking noise behind me and I straightened, turning around. Nathan held a fist to his mouth as he stared at me.

“Your email and text, from before.” I raised an eyebrow. “We never had a chance to talk about it between coffee and sex yesterday, but I’m on the pill. And I’m clean.” The truth was, I’d never not used a condom with another man before, not even in the heat of the moment. But I’d trusted Nathan with not giving me a raging case of the warts.

“You’re choosing
now
to bring that up?” he finally said.

I wiped my hands on my apron. “When would be better? Over a candlelight dinner?”

He swallowed a bite and nodded. “I see your point. A pancake breakfast can suffice.” He cut into the pancake and held the bite up on his fork. “Incidentally, these are very good.” He popped it into his mouth and gave me a small smile as he chewed.

“Well thank you.” I curtsied and began wiping down the butcher block. “It’s nice to have a real kitchen to work in. Mine is so small.”

“Despite its size, it never looks like a bomb of batter went off.”

I shot him a look and he grinned, leaning over the butcher block with his cup of coffee, coming across as more relaxed than when he’d entered the kitchen.

“If you haven’t noticed,” I began, spraying the counter and wiping it, “I don’t have very many possessions. Hard to make a mess when you’re living meagerly.”

“I did notice, actually.” He took another bite and leaned back, stretching. “But thank you for breakfast, Adele. This was a nice surprise.”

I observed the way his muscles flexed as he stretched, thankful for his lack of shirt. But I couldn’t help but want to unsettle him a little bit, after seeing how much more relaxed he became as the kitchen turned from disaster zone into normal again.

Trailing my fingers along the counter as I turned toward him, I took heady pleasure in how his own fingers stilled, his eyes trailing me like an invisible cord was pulling me to him.

I dipped my finger into the syrup puddle on his plate and brought it to his jaw, sliding my finger along the edge. My lips replaced my finger and I sucked his skin, swiping it with my tongue as I cleaned up the path I’d drawn.

His hands cradled my skull and pulled my head up before his lips descended on mine, teeth biting gently into my lower lip. He tasted of chocolate and syrup and coffee and I scratched my nails into his neck, not wanting to separate our lips for even a second.

He hauled me into his lap, ran his hands up my thighs and under the shirt I wore. His fingers brushed the underside of my breast before he pulled his lips from mine. “Nice shirt,” he murmured, looking down between us as I straddled him.

His hands were warm and I arched into his touch as his fingers explored under the shirt: over my ribs, the curve of my waist, up the center of my chest. His hand gripped the center of the neckline and made a fist, forcing me closer.

Our lips just touched, not kissing—just breathing. “What are you doing to me?” he whispered.

I didn’t answer; couldn’t answer. Because whatever it was, he was doing it to me too.

I
n the week
since I’d made Nathan breakfast, I’d become a wanton woman. After every class, I’d taken my time putting my things into my bag, hoping to steal a few moments of time with him. I’d taken a chance the last class, planting a kiss on his lips seconds after the last student had left.

Each time, he’d told me to leave but not without regret coloring his words. In an effort to protect me—in his words—we’d been hands above the belt for the last week. Students had moved into the apartment across the hall from me, which meant my place was off-limits. And though he hadn’t told me not to go to his house, he hadn’t explicitly invited me over either.

So when I’d seen the flier for a Halloween party at Sigma Chi’s frat, I’d taken a photo and texted to it Nathan.

N
arrowing my eyes
, I’d furiously typed another message.

I
wasn’t above whining
, but I didn’t want to beg him to go with me.

H
is reply had come
minutes later.

T
he very idea
had made me laugh.

S
o much for
not
begging
.

T
hat had been
after our Wednesday class, and had been our last contact up until class on Friday, the day before Halloween.

Surprisingly, I hadn’t received any texts from Leo all week. We usually went to the frat parties together, but maybe he was realizing that distance was what we both needed. I needed to apologize for kissing him the way I had, but I was so wrapped up in Nathan that I had tunnel vision.

And seeing him in class and acknowledging the distance we needed to keep between us for that entire hour was practically torture. He’d looked at me a few times, his eyes warm, and I’d practically dissolved into a puddle in my chair. But it was always subtle because Nathan wasn’t about to let us get caught. As much as I appreciated that he was looking out for me, sometimes I wanted to see him lose some of that control and not just in private, as he’d done countless times with me.

I slid into my seat and pulled things out of my bag as students milled around me, talking about the party the following night.

“Are you going?” the guy who normally sat next to me in class leaned toward me, muscles bulging under the strain of his tight sleeves. He did nothing for me.

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” Just talking about it put me in a sour mood and so when the door open and Nathan entered the room, it was a welcome reprieve from feeling glum.

His hair looked wet, his jawline peppered with several days’ worth of growth. He wore his glasses and looked a little preoccupied as he pulled things from his bag and placed them on his desk.

Running a hand over his hair, he turned toward the class and began lecturing on imagery, using an example from a student’s essay the previous week.

He displayed the essay on the projector and, using his mouse, he circled ‘Frankenfood.’ “Great use of a portmanteau here, Michael.”

Something about the word was familiar but before I could say anything, another student blurted out, “What’s that?”

“Excellent question.” Nathan lifted his head. “A portmanteau word is formed by combining two words or their sounds into a new word. For example, the word ‘smog’ is formed from ‘fog’ and ‘smoke.’”

Pulling off his glasses, he rose from his chair and moved around the desk. His eyes met mine for an instant before he leaned against the front side of his desk, facing us. “How many of you have used the word ‘chillax’?”

There was a low rumble of laughter before most of us raised our hands. “That’s a great example of a portmanteau—combining ‘chill’ and ‘relax’ into one word.”

“‘Frenemy’ is one, right?”

“Precisely.” Nathan nodded approvingly toward the girl to my left. “They’re often ironic, humorous and the name itself comes from a suitcase that opens in two equal sections.”

Again, Nathan leveled his gaze on me for a moment. It was as if he was trying to communicate something with me, but I wasn’t following.

“Can anyone guess which well-known author first used what he called a portmanteau in his writings?”

The class was silent, waiting. Nathan looked at me once more before speaking.

“Lewis Carroll.”

A smile formed on my lips. But I didn’t let my lips spread, still unsure of what he was telling me with this example.

“In
Through the Looking Glass
, Humpty Dumpty tells Alice, ‘You see it's like a portmanteau—there are two meanings packed up into one word.’ And, in fact, Carroll popularized the word 'chortle’ as a blend of chuckle and snort.” He tapped his pen on the desk, smiled at me for a second. My heart galloped in my chest. “And now we’re blessed with others like ‘bromance,’ ‘infomercial,’ and ‘jeggings.’”

There was a collective laughter but my heart was thundering, competing with the commotion in the room.

When the class ended and the last student departed, Nathan remained on the other side of the room, still leaning against his desk.

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?”

Slowly, a smile lifted the corners of his lips, bringing with it an ache within me. He looked so young, boyish even, when he smiled like that.

Rising from my desk, I walked slowly down the step to the floor, my heels clicking as I approached him. “You seemed very relaxed—dare I say even happy—today. I wonder why?” Biting my lip, I knew my eyes still smiled, happy.

His hands were tucked in his pockets and he shrugged.

“Do I maybe bring a little something out in you? Some crazy kind of recklessness akin to going to fraternity Halloween parties?” I wanted to touch him, but I knew he wouldn’t invite the touch when we could easily be walked in on.

“Maybe you do,” he said softly, thoughtfully. His eyes softened and before I knew what he was doing, he’d reached forward and pulled me to him. “Kiss me before I bend you over this desk.”

A thrill raced up my spine and though it was against my nature, I complied, kissing him softly first before pressing my entire body hard against him. When he gently pushed me away, he looked as tortured as I knew I must have. “Where’s my mask?”

Pulling it from my bag, I handed it to him, my fingers lingering on his. “The mad hatter.”

His eyes lingered on the mask, long fingers running over the grooves and curves. So softly I nearly didn’t hear him, he asked, “Have I gone mad?”

My heart tumbled in my chest, tripping right over the Alice in Wonderland quote.

He looked at me, eyes patient, as if he was seeing right through me.

I brushed the hair from his forehead. “I’m afraid so. You’re entirely bonkers.” My lips spread. “But I’ll tell you a secret.” My hand moved down his face, cupping his jaw, my thumb brushing over his bottom lip. I tilted my head to the side, lowered my voice. “All the best people are.”

I kissed him again—my idea this time—and he didn’t push me away. When I finally pulled back, he stopped me, a hand on my hair. Angling his head down so his eyes were in line with mine, he said, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”