Kissing Galileo: Dear Professor Book #2

by Penny Reid

  First, he wore a suit. He wore a sexy, sexy suit. I know clothes are just wrapping paper when you get right down to it, but a suit on Victor was some Martha Stewart, unobtainable, handstamped, gold leaf and crepe paper gift wrapping majesty.

  Second, he looked at me with unveiled desire, and it made me realize how much of himself he’d been hiding. Always looking away, always stepping away, always masking his thoughts. I liked this new look from him.

  Third, we greeted each other at my door with a kiss on the cheek. But then, as we slowly pulled away, and by some tacit agreement, our lips met on the retreat. Like the last time in the library, his kisses felt hungry, and things quickly began to spiral toward wild—him backing me up against my open door, me grabbing fistfuls of his hair and working through the logistics of climbing him.

  But unlike last time at the library, his tongue and lips were more skillful, purposeful, making it easy for hormones to eclipse my good sense.

  He was the first to pull away, tearing his mouth from mine and lowering it to my shoulder. “We need to go.”

  It took me a moment to decipher the puzzle of his words, during which I kissed his jaw, his neck. We were both breathing heavy.

  He wants to go? No, no, no. That wouldn’t do. “Or . . .”

  “I made reservations.”

  My hands slid under his coat and his body bowed, jumped beneath my searching fingers. “Or . . .”

  I sensed him swallow, stiffen. “Emily, you’re the only woman I’ve kissed.”

  I tensed, my eyes flying open, my jaw growing lax.

  Shocked.

  I was SHOCKED!

  “When I said I’m inexperienced, I meant it.” He leaned away, his gaze searching, wary and yet determined as it held mine. “But, this is me. This is who I am. And if this is something you—”

  I grabbed his arms before he could retreat. “It’s fine. It’s great. I’m just surprised. No leaving!”

  Victor cracked a small smile, it looked relieved. “I’m not going to leave, I meant what I said in the library. And you didn’t let me finish. I was going to say, if this is something you’re concerned about, I respectfully request an opportunity to discuss how we—both of us—can reach a level of comfort with my lack of experience. Things might be awkward or difficult for a while, but I’m a fast learner, and I have every confidence I’ll be able to come up to speed with enough time.”

  I couldn’t help it, I also cracked a smile. His tone was so official. His speech sounded practiced, like he’d given this some thought and had developed a protocol.

  It was cute.

  It was also really damn sexy.

  “You seem to have it all figured out.” I slid my hands down his shoulders to the lapels of his suit jacket.

  “I have a plan, and I’m an excellent researcher. But theory can only take me so far,” he said, his voice still serious, which was also cute. Victor enveloped my hands in his larger ones and brought my knuckles to his lips. I watched him feather kisses on the backs of my fingers for a moment. Eventually, his fiercely intelligent eyes lifted, ensnaring mine. “I want you. But I also want to excel at everything you like to do.”

  “I want to play a game.”

  “A game?” Victor split his attention between me and his plate, his expression open and interested.

  He was smiling, relaxed, and he hadn’t sent any death glares to the women at the bar who’d been checking him out since we’d walked in. Our dinners had just arrived, we’d already consumed cocktails and a bottle of wine between us, and conversation had been flowing as easily as the drinks. Then again, conversation had never been a problem for us.

  Thus far, excellent date. Best I’d ever had. And yet, I kept expecting Victor to pull the rug out from under me and leave me alone with my salmon and renewed sadness. Forgetting history, starting fresh, giving him another chance, it was both easy and difficult.

  Therefore, I had an urge to push the envelope.

  What? Therefore? What do you mean “therefore”? Why do you want to push the envelope?

  Shhh. . . Just go with it.

  “Yes. A game.” I cut into my salmon with my fork and took a small bite. “One I’ve just made up. It’s called, Ask Uncomfortable Questions That The Other Person Has To Answer Game, trademark pending. I’ll start. Victor, how many women have you dated?”

  His eyebrows lifted even as his eyelids lowered. “Including you, one.”

  My eyes widened before I could stop them, and I breathed out, “One.” One. “Not even dates? Like this?”

  He shrugged, his attention lowering to his plate. “I’ve been on first dates, but never second ones.”

  “Why?”

  He seemed to take his time considering, and I took it as a good sign that his expression remained open. “Some of them remain friendly acquaintances. I guess, there’s just never been any depth of interest beyond friendship with anyone.”

  “Until me?”

  “Yes.” His lips pulled to the side, and his gaze flickered to mine and then back to his plate. “Until you.”

  “Huh. So fascinating.”

  “How about you? How many men have you dated?”

  “Uh, dated? Well, I’ve had seven boyfriends, five in high school, two in college, but I’ve been on a lot of first dates.” I scooped a heap of spinach and salmon onto my fork and shoveled the bite into my mouth. The chef had used exactly the right amount of garlic.

  Victor seemed to be absorbing this information, his features abstracted, like he was doing long division in his head.

  Eventually, sounding honestly curious, he asked, “Why didn’t it work out with any of them?”

  I shrugged, thinking back over my “failed” relationships. Except they hadn’t really failed, they’d just changed. “I think, honestly, they did work out. I mean, in high school it was all trying to figure out what liking a person meant, you know? I think all of my relationships worked out to be what they were meant to be, if that makes sense.”

  “Friends?”

  Now it was my turn to consider the question. “Yes, mostly. I’m somewhat friendly with most of them. We’re all friends on Instagram and they’re all nice guys. But I never felt . . .” I sighed. What is this feeling?

  Although, my last ex claimed that I’d broken his heart. I’d never set out to break anyone’s heart, but I wasn’t going to force what I didn’t feel.

  That said, I’d been his first.

  “What?”

  I blinked, coming back to myself. “I’m sorry, what?”

  He was studying me. “You were frowning, and you looked like you were deep in thought.”

  “Oh.” I cut off another piece of my salmon. “It’s nothing.”

  Victor’s eyes narrowed. “What was the name of this game again?”

  I sighed, grumbling. “Okay, fine. My last boyfriend was convinced he was in love with me, and our breakup wasn’t good. He had trouble moving on.”

  “When was this?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “So you would have been—”

  “Nineteen.”

  “How long did you date?”

  “Three months.” I set my fork down, feeling oddly restless, and leaned my elbows on the table. “Let’s play another game.”

  He shook his head, his eyes growing sharp, like he had a hunch. “Why do you think he believed he was in love with you?”

  Glaring at him, I wanted to lie, or deflect, but this game had been my idea. “Ugh, fine.” I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. “I was his first—you know—and I think he confused how good the physical stuff felt with love.”

  “And you’re sure he wasn’t in love with you?”

  “Yes. One hundred percent certain, in fact.” I picked up my fork again, spearing a carrot.

  “How can you be sure?”

  Munching on the carrot, I shrugged. “You just know.”

  Again, that calculating look entered his eyes. “How can you be sure I love you? And that I’m no
t confusing the ‘physical stuff’ with love?”

  “That’s easy. First of all”—I pointed to him with my fork—“we haven’t done any physical stuff, not really, not yet.” I made sure to pause here for an eyebrow wiggle. “And secondly, you like me. You laugh at my jokes. You’re genuinely interested in what I have to say.”

  “And he wasn’t? Your last boyfriend?” Something seemed to shift in Victor’s gaze, his shoulders visibly relaxed, like I’d given him the right answer.

  “Exactly. First, he hated jigsaw puzzles and wouldn’t stop complaining whenever we’d go over to Anna’s for pints and puzzles night. He hated trivia night. He pretended to like D&D, but then it turned out that he’d never played.”

  “For the record, I was a DM in high school,” Victor interjected. “Sorry. Please continue.”

  I sat up straighter, a fissure of excitement racing down my spine. “You’re a DM?”

  He nodded, like it was no big deal, chewing his steak.

  “That’s good to know!”

  Victor’s eyes seemed to dance as they watched me over the rim of his wineglass. “You like me better because I’m a DM?”

  “No! Of course not.” I took another bite of my dinner, relishing in the dramatic/comedic pause before adding, “I’d never say that. Out loud. To your face.”

  He laughed, setting his glass down and shaking his head. “It’s fine, because I liked you better knowing you play D&D.”

  Gesturing to him with my open palm, I nodded. “See? Exactly. We share interests. Carter and I shared no interests.”

  “Then why’d you date him?”

  “He was cute and told good dad jokes. I’m a sucker for dad jokes. Okay, my turn again.”

  “Maybe we should stop playing this game,” he said, but he also grinned slyly, which meant he was teasing.

  “Nah-ah. We’re just getting started. I have several more questions, in fact.” And this next one was fairly serious. Unthinkingly, I glanced at his plate. He wasn’t actively eating, and he’d left more than half his steak. Lifting my chin to his meal, I asked, “You said at the library that you ‘stopped eating’ when we were hanging out. What did you mean by that?”

  I studied him carefully, watching a battle within him. It was the first time during our meal that he looked like he was on the edge of closing up again.

  Finally, taking a deep breath, he bit the corner of his lip and nodded lightly. “You know I see a counselor? I have for years, specifically to help me with the weight loss, to help me keep it off and focus on the right things.”

  “Yes. I remember.”

  “He said it’s not unusual for someone like me, for someone who’s gone through a dramatic weight loss, to fear gaining it back. To panic if the scale moves, even a little. I thought I had it under control, and maybe I did for a while. But when we started spending so much time together, I think a part of me wondered if you would still want to know me if I were heavier again.”

  What?

  “Victor, I—”

  He lifted a hand to stop me. “Nothing you say will be the right answer, because it isn’t a question for you. It’s a question for me. I have to like who I am and be comfortable in my skin, no matter what you or anyone else thinks, even if I gain five pounds, even if I gain a hundred.”

  My skin felt like it was covered in pinpricks as we traded stares, and I fought the urge to reassure him that it didn’t matter to me if he gained five pounds or one hundred.

  “Anyway.” His gaze drifted to his wineglass. “It’s not something that will ever go away for me, it’s something I’ll probably live with forever. Sometimes, there is no resolution, no answer. There is only doing my best.”

  He said this last part like he was reminding himself rather than talking to me, and so I gave him a moment with his own thoughts. But I found I also needed a moment with my thoughts as well.

  There is only doing my best.

  I frickin’ loved this man. I’d never been in love before, and I loved him, and he was here. With me. Doing his best. Maybe one day he’d pull the rug out from under me and leave me alone with salmon and sadness. Maybe he wouldn’t. I could spend our time together waiting for him to leave, bracing for it, protecting myself.

  Or I could trust. I could enjoy each moment.

  Those were my options.

  I want to trust him.

  Victor took a deep breath, a warm little smile on his lips, and gave me back his eyes. “Any more questions?”

  “Yes.”

  He waited a beat. When I didn’t say anything, he prompted, “Yes?”

  “Victor, I want to trust you.”

  “Okaaaay.”

  Straightening my back, I frowned at him. “How do I know you’re not going to change your mind again and disappear?”

  Something around his eyes seemed to soften and he reached across the table for my hand, curling his long fingers around mine. “Emily”—his startlingly intelligent eyes focused on mine, grew fierce—“I surrender. I’m not convinced you want me, or that I deserve you, but I surrender. I’m making this up as I go, and I can only do that because of who you are. I trust you to be kind. If you don’t want me, I trust you to be honest. But living without you—without doing my utmost to make you happy, whatever you ultimately decide about us—is not an option.”

  Ignoring my fluttering heart, I tried to force steadiness into my voice. “Whatever I decide?”

  “Whatever you decide.” He nodded once.

  I twisted my lips to the side to hide the massive grin threatening to break through. “What if I decide to be friends again?”

  Victor gathered a deep inhale. “Then we will be friends again. But you should know, I will be having dirty dreams and fantasies about my friend.”

  I breathed a stunned laugh, drawing a grin out of him. “These are just words, but they’re all I have. I will earn your trust. But please know—” he swallowed, his gorgeous eyes clear and bright “—I have no escape plan. I’m holding nothing back. The terms of this surrender are complete, because there is no alternative for me other than to give you, and this beautiful thing between us, everything I have.”

  Chapter 21

  *Emily*

  “How is it possible that I’m the first woman you’ve kissed?” I asked between kisses.

  We were in his car, and I was straddling his lap as he nipped and bit my neck, sending spikes of hot, liquid loveliness to the lowest part of my abdomen. We were supposed to be going to a movie. Instead, we made it as far as the theater parking lot and were presently making out. In his car. Again.

  This wasn’t atypical. In the weeks since our first date, we often started the evening with the best of intentions and ended it never leaving his car. Our marathon make-out sessions were why, through some unspoken arrangement, neither of us had stepped foot inside each other’s house/apartment since, like we couldn’t trust ourselves within easy access of a bed, or a couch, or a counter.

  Also, I’d never taken so many cold showers in my life. AND WHY WOULD I???

  AHHH!! THIS IS TORTURE!

  “I’ve never been interested in anyone else, that way,” he spoke against my neck, licking the spot beneath my ear, his fingers digging into my sides as he shifted his hips restlessly beneath me. He was hard. This was also not unusual. (See above, reference: torture).

  “Ever?” I didn’t know if I was trying to ruffle his composure, or if I actually wanted to know, or if the wanting him 24/7—specifically, his penis in my vagina and us stage one, bare-buck naked—but never having him was addling my brain.

  Whatever. I couldn’t seem to let this subject drop. He was such a truly excellent kisser.

  His mouth stopped moving and his hands ceased roaming. Sensing his hesitation, I leaned away, and his fingers curled into the bare skin of my upper thighs. I was wearing a short circle skirt and lace undies because I wanted to get laid. Just keeping it real.

  I could barely breathe with how much I wanted this man. My overactive imagination
was having a field day with sexy daydreams. And I know I agreed to give him time and have patience, but—FOR THE LOVE OF GOD—how much longer?

  His gaze moved over my shoulder, his breathing growing even. “There was one girl, in high school.” He spoke haltingly.

  “What happened?” I twisted my arms around his neck, telling myself not to wriggle on his lap. Or, you know, reach inside his pants.

  He shrugged, but the movement looked stiff, and seeing his tension sobered me.

  “She knew I liked her, so she asked me to homecoming as a joke. I said yes. I showed up to her house and her mother told me she’d already left with her real date.”

  “Ugh.” I WILL CUT HER.

  “It was stupid kid stuff.” He drummed his fingers on my thigh, his thumb moving in an absentminded circle. I felt everything.

  “And you’ve never tried with anyone else?”

  “Like I said, I’ve never wanted to.” Victor’s gaze returned to me, his eyes positively burning with interest. And maybe a little bit of lust.

  Okay. A lot of lust. SO MUCH LUST! I swooned a little.

  “Are we playing your game again?” He settled back in his seat, his palms sliding to my knees, his eyes on my lips.

  “Which game?” Please say the sex game. He wouldn’t say the sex game because we’d only played the necking game.

  Yes, I know. I was such a horndog. In my defense, and though I’d always enjoyed sex for the most part, I’d never been this insanely needy for another person before. Like, just thinking about him and his eyes and his smile made me pant. No lie! Last night, getting ready for bed, I was thinking about the hazy quality to his eyes and expression when he looked at my lips, and then I panted. And then I got myself off in my bed in record time, a self-O that barely scratched the surface of my agony.

  “The trademark pending game,” he said, his words sounding far away for some reason.

  I had to super concentrate to make sense of the phrase, but eventually realization dawned. “Ah, yes.” We’d shortened the title of the original game—Ask Uncomfortable Questions That The Other Person Has To Answer Game—to the trademark pending game. “I guess we are playing the trademark pending game.”