Time (Laws of Physics #3)(16)

“I’m going to give you a blow job.”

“Whoa, okay, stop.” He caught my roaming fingers, his breath a gasp. “First of all, we don’t have time.”

“I can be fast.”

“Hold on. I don’t want you to be fast. Like I said before, that would only frustrate me.”

I kissed his jaw again. “But—”

“No.”

I grunted, my hands going slack in his grip, and I leaned away to capture his eyes. “It’s not fair to you.”

“I’m not worried about fairness,” Abram said on a laugh, his gaze wary, like I was tricky, or had magical powers and couldn’t be trusted.

“But I—you know—and you didn’t. You didn’t get anything out of it.”

“Believe me.” His stare softened, warmed, and he released me, sliding his fingers into my hair. “I definitely got something out of it. I will be writing poetry about that moment for the rest of my life.”

I grunted again. “You should let me reciprocate.”

“I don’t want you to reciprocate.”

“I feel like . . .” Like I haven’t earned it.

Once more, he seemed to be watching me very carefully, and when I didn’t continue, he prompted, “Like?”

“It feels like an injustice, that only I should have this experience. Alone. And the next time we’ll see each other isn’t for three weeks.”

Abram’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what it’s really about? Because you don’t owe me anything.”

“I know that,” I said automatically.

“Do you? Do you know, do you understand, that I’m always going to want to pamper and please you? That making you come, seeing you blissed out and hearing you panting is like a drug for me?”

My stomach twisted delightfully at the picture he painted even as my spine straightened at the use of the word drug. “I don’t want to be your drug.”

“Too late.” He grinned, his glorious left dimple completely adorable, almost distracting me from my concern.

“Can’t I just be your person?” I asked, my eyes flickering between his and the thought-derailing dimple on his left cheek.

“Can’t you be both?” Abram slid his nose against mine, giving my lips a tender kiss. “Can’t I be both for you?”

“No. I don’t think so,” I said honestly, tilting my head such that I had his eyes again. “Drugs are altering. Addictive.”

“That seems just about right.” Another grin, a chuckle, and his arms came around me.

“But, Abram, I don’t want to alter you. I want you—who you fundamentally are—to stay intact. And being someone’s addiction automatically implies an unhealthy dependence. And—”

He stopped me with another coaxing, seductive kiss, his hands sliding into the back of my underwear and massaging my bottom, muddling my brain. God, that feels good.

Wait. What were we talking about?

I had no idea.

Must not be important.

Relative to his mouth moving against mine, his hands in my pants, the press of his erection against my belly, and the building “bliss” (as he called it), whatever I’d wanted to say didn’t seem terribly important.

I kissed him back. I floated on the high that was Abram’s mouth and hands, taste and smell. And when we were interrupted, it was the alarms we’d set on our phones.

He had to go.

Our time was up.





5





Kepler's Laws Derived





Mona





I spent the entire drive back from the airport and the climb up Lisa’s four flights of stairs calculating and recalculating the number of hours, minutes, and seconds until I would see Abram again. Was I doing this to avoid dwelling on my earlier shame-confusion? Perhaps.

Pushing aside cloudy uncertainty had been easy while Abram was here. Our time was short. Therefore, reason told me I shouldn’t waste a single second on self-assessments and second-guessing a fantastic orgasm.

I mean, fantastic orgasms don’t grow on trees. And if they did, they’d be avocado trees, where the flowers bloom only once a season as female, and then forever after as male. They’re a fruit miracle.

But now, now that he was gone, now that I’d walked him as far as I could, wrapped him in my arms and kissed him one more time, and waited until he waved at me from the other side of security, now I had no excuse. Except, I really needed to double-check my numbers with a calculator, just to be sure. Or maybe I’d make a countdown on my phone.

Yes. That was the right answer.

I was going to hard core make a countdown until Abram-time on my phone, or maybe using one of those countdown apps. Perhaps I’d even order a scrolling style marquee for my temporary housing in Geneva.

Nope. You need to save your pennies for plane tickets.

On that note, I decided sorting through my simmering shame-confusion would have to wait for a while longer as I had discount travel alerts to set up. Perhaps I would poke around a bit, see if I could fly out now for a visit. Where was he this week? Portland? San Francisco? Las Vegas? So close to LA.

After checking on tickets, I should probably check my emails, take a peek at the backend data processing requests I’d put in before leaving for Aspen, finish my lit search of two of my upcoming papers, and then—whoa, look at the time!—I should go to bed early. A good night’s sleep was the key to being well-rested, and being well-rested was the key to Satan’s liquor cabinet—