Time (Laws of Physics #3)(59)

“How am I looking at you?” His question was a deep rumble.

I couldn’t answer, the words stuck in my throat, viscous with lust, heart humming happily. Harlot heart.

“I’m looking at you the same way you’re looking at me. If you want the whole truth, and not to put any pressure on you, because that’s the last thing I want to do, I’m—selfishly—trying to figure out a way to get inside your pants without making you feel guilty afterward. I’m conjuring ideas, wondering how you’d feel about dominating me, tying me up.”

I had to swallow, because lust. “But, would you want that? Is that something you’d like?”

“Oh yes.” His mouth curved, a flash of teeth, his dimple deeper on the left than on the right. But I knew it would be. “Yes. I’d like that very much.”

“Even though you wouldn’t be in control?”

“Uh, sign me up.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed, shaking my head at him. “You want to be dominated?”

“By you? I would love it. Just think, I sit back, let you do all the hard work, sounds amazing. We could even get a blindfold and some handcuffs. I’d like that, you teasing me, making me crazy.”

I laughed harder, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes, shifting my leg to kick him lightly with my foot under the water. “Now you’re just being funny.”

“I’m not.” His voice, tired and raspy as it was, dropped an octave and he caught my foot, his hand sliding up my ankle to my calf, his touch calming and soothing the part of me that had been frantic about losing him. “Please, have your way with me. You’re so clever and sweet. I bet you would come up with some very interesting, and probably educational, carnal activities. I swear, I am a million percent serious right now.”

“A million percent?” I twisted my lips to the side, crossing my arms.

His eyes darted to my chest and then back up. He held my foot on his lap and was massaging the arch with his thumbs. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. Except that I love you.”

I huffed another laugh, but—after inspecting him closely for another few seconds—I believed him. My body definitely believed him, but it was biased, so it didn’t count. My brain believed him. Most importantly, so did my heart.

Endeavoring not to smile like the sex-with-Abram-crazed lunatic that I was, I said, “Fine.”

His eyebrows jumped. “Fine?”

“Let’s do it.” I pressed my lips together firmly.

“Yes, let’s.” He grinned, his eyes dancing. However, seconds later he blinked, and his stare sobered. “Also, you’ll call your therapist? Talk to her about everything?”

Trying not to groan, I settled on a sigh instead, the reminder submarining my buoyed mood. But—strangely—not by much.

“Yes,” I agreed, earning me a bigger grin.

“Promise?”

“Yes. I promise. I’ll call.”





16





Infrared, Ultraviolet, X-ray, and Gamma-Ray Astronomy





Mona





I’m beginning to suspect that I have a tendency to overthink things (and don’t roll your eyes at me, I CAN SENSE YOU ROLLING YOUR EYES!).

Take Abram and his desires, thoughts, and motivations as an example. It was morning o’clock. Or quite possibly afternoon o’clock. I couldn’t be certain without looking at my phone or an actual clock, and this B&B didn’t have one next to the bed. Anyway!

Here we were, nebulous time of day o’clock. In bed. Together. Except, when I woke up, instead of being tangled in each other like I’d been led to believe is standard for lovers upon waking, he was on one side of the bed, facing me, and I was on the other side of the bed, facing him. Also, we were both fully clothed in unsexy yet comfortable pajamas.

Uh, rather, let me amend that. Abram was always sexy. His Iron Man flannel PJ bottoms and no shirt were quite sexy. Whereas my pink cotton PJ bottoms with Albert Einstein sticking out his tongue rendered in cartoon, plus my baggy white T-shirt, were not sexy.

But back to nebulous time of day o’clock.

Blinking, I scowled at his handsome slumbering face. What, pray tell, did this bed distance and lack of tangling mean? Did it mean he’d changed his mind? Or that his subconscious didn’t want me? Evidence suggested I ought to be in service as a femme pillow au extraordinaire. But I wasn’t.

Were they not pillow material?

Twisting my lips to the side, I reached up, beneath my shirt, pushing it up, and tested my breasts. Grabbing and squeezing, I considered the value of a breast malleability quotient scale, where breasts could be tested and ranked for skin softness and general pliability.

Not that I wanted to give women another thing for society to tell them to fret over. But, if there existed women like me, who enjoyed having data to do with what they pleased, then I’d be very interested in a random sample normalized curve of bosom to suppleness ratio, and here is why: The last romance novel I’d read, and the seventeen before that, always included a scene where the hero and heroine woke up embracing, invariably with the man cradled against the female’s chest.

Therefore, why wasn’t Abram cradled against mine? Were they a non-pillowy shape? Not pliable enough? Where had they failed me?