by Logan Chance
“Does this hurt?”
I want to be strong, say it doesn’t. But I don’t. I speak the truth, “Yeah, a little.”
He stands and heads into my kitchen. “Where’s your aspirin?”
I point to the cabinet above the sink in my galley style kitchen. He pours a glass of water, and after a minute or two, he returns.
He lifts my leg onto his lap, applying ice to my ankle with an impartial doctor’s touch. Two Advil and the glass of water are shoved at me when he’s done. “Here, this’ll help.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
Aw, a knight in shining armor, rescuing the princess from a great fall. But, I shake off that idea. I’m no princess, and this is not a romantic fairy tale. If it were, he’d probably kiss me.
I glance at his lips as he focuses on my ankle. Soft, full lips. I want them all over me. The couch holds me close as I lean back against it. Mixed emotions tangle up inside me. I want to move away from him, and I want to straddle him all at the same time. Lick the skin along his neck, just a little innocent lick.
He stares at my shirt, the words ‘Kiss Me, I’m Irish’ in green print across my chest, and he grins. “Nice shirt.”
I tug at the material. “Thanks.”
He leans in, brushing his lips against mine in a feather-light kiss. My breath catches. Pulling back, he gauges my reaction before colliding his lips with mine. All of the emotional turmoil I’ve been feeling pours out of me and into this kiss. This kiss is all I have to show him how much I want him. My tongue swipes along his lips and he opens to me.
His hands fly into my hair, grabbing, twisting, and clinging onto every strand. I moan into his mouth, my body’s message to him to take things further.
If this wasn’t so wrong, I’d invite him to my room, lie on my bed and beg him to touch me.
But, as if Houston can read my thoughts, he breaks the kiss. His hands trace down my jaw in apology. “I need to go before I can’t stop.”
I want to plead with him not to leave. It’s horrible wanting something you’re not supposed to. ‘Don’t stop,’ ‘Keep going,’ are words I want to shout. But, fear keeps my mouth shut, my eyes wide with wonder at the way his lips felt against mine.
He kisses the corner of my mouth, his tongue swiping along my lower lip. “Let me get you to bed.”
Score. I want this. He cracks a smile at the excitement on my face. “To put you to sleep.”
He sweeps me in his arms and carries me into my room.
“Nice room,” he says, glancing around at my collection of handbags and medical journals strewn haphazardly everywhere.
He drops me on the bed, my fluffy, purple comforter cool against my skin, and the room spins for a moment. I let him drape the covers over me, and he rubs my ankle once more through the blanket.
“Sleep well, Marley.”
Chapter 8
Houston
March 18th
As the day approaches I become a mad man. My thoughts and actions have gone out the window and I can’t control them anymore.
I throw on my tie. Damn, I don’t want to do today. Last night, rushing to Marley’s house was an easy decision for me. She was drunk, she was hurt…but why did I kiss her? Good question.
Her lips spoke volumes to me, begging me to kiss her. I’d never wanted anything, or anyone more.
If I don’t stop, Marley could potentially be kicked out of school. But I don’t care about any of that. Why? Because she’s different. A force has come out of nowhere causing my actions and reactions to misfire.
I grab the PATH train into Princeton, I dread seeing my parents. It’s always the same thing with them.
Pity. Sadness. Pain. Emotions I’m growing sick of. Emotions I wish would go away. And, every day I try to force them out. Who needs feelings?
The train pulls into Princeton, and I grab a cab to my parent’s house.
“Hey, Mom,” I greet her as I enter the happy home I grew up in. And again, I feel nothing.
“Hey, you,” she says, beaming. She hugs me. I hug back.
My father strides into the large entryway and smiles. His posture is strong, and his dark hair mirrors my own.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, releasing my mom.
It was a mistake to come here.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. I love my parents so much, but sometimes they just don’t understand.
No one does.
“Go sit down,” my mom says. “Lunch will be ready soon.”
Dad leads me into the living room. Natural light pours in through the great bay window, and I smile at the cheery atmosphere it creates. My mom is sunny, like the room. Her personality exudes from all the furnishings: the yellow couch standing strong in the center, the bright multi-colored rug covering the hardwood floor, the paintings dripping with bright reds and yellows. And here I stand, the dark thundercloud in her colorful world.
Dad eases down into the large, brown leather recliner and we pass the time with small talk about sports and superficial topics until my mom interrupts. “Let’s eat,” she beckons. She smiles the endearing smile that always made me feel safe as a kid. The smile whenever I was hurting from falling off my bike, or afraid of the dark, made me feel better. Right now, it does neither.
I follow my father into the large kitchen. The stainless-steel appliances gleam and fresh flowers peek out from glass vases on the granite countertops. The warm and inviting ambience is a psychological trick my parents always try to accomplish whenever I come to visit.
“How’s NYU treating you?” my father asks, pulling out a chair at the oak kitchen table.
I shrug, taking a seat. The sun’s rays filter through the blinds on the French doors making me sweat. “Same as always.”
Of course I don’t clue my family in on Marley or my questionable attraction for her. “This looks great, Mom.”
The sounds of eating and more superficial pleasantries fill the room until my taste buds go numb at my mom’s next words, “I saw Jennifer while she was visiting her family. She says you won’t return her calls.” I stop mid chew and look over at her. “I really think you should talk to her.” She appears nervous as the words leave her lips. And she should be.
My mind shuts down.
My expression turns cold. “Ok, maybe.”
I have no intention of calling her, ever again.
We finish our lunch but it’s overshadowed by the tension filling the air. My parents both have something on their minds, but they’re too afraid to ask.
“Just say it,” I finally tell them.
They exchange a glance, and my mother turns to me.
“We just want what’s best for you,” she says, her hazel eyes filled with concern. “We want you to be happy.”
“I’m as happy as I am going to get,” I lie.
I don’t need my mommy and daddy to kiss away my boo-boos. I don’t need anyone.
My father coughs before speaking, and here it comes. I feel the words slice through me before he even says them. It’s always the same thing.
“Houston? Why won’t you call her?”
I close my eyes, wishing the world away in this moment. “I don’t know.” My go-to answer. The chair hits the wainscoting as I push myself from the table. “I need to go.”
“How are the appointments going with the therapist?” my father asks the words, but I’m not really listening as I zero in on the front door. I’ll walk to the damn train station if I have to.
Escape is so close as my father grabs me by the arm. “You need to face this. You can’t continue on this way.”
I stop, dead in my tracks and turn to face him head on. “Are you kidding me? I don’t need you or anyone telling me how to deal with things. I’m fine.” My voice is low, with an edge of distaste.
“I just think…”
I cut him off. “I don’t care what you think. I’m fine.”
My mother stands between us, rubbing my arm as she tries to stop the words. “Houston, it’s ok
. Let me take you to the station. Harold, just drop it,” she pleads with her husband.
“Carol, I just want him to understand,” my father says.
That’s it. I’ve had it. “Understand? It’s you who needs to understand.” I point my finger in his face. “You have no idea. You think you can lecture me and it’ll make everything all better? It doesn’t work that way.”
He steps back. “You need to move on.”
“Move on? Fuck you. You have no clue.” Never in my life have I ever spoken to my father like this. I can feel his hurt he wears in his expression. I shake my head and rush off down the steps, my mother trailing off behind me.
The ride to the train station is a silent one. She doesn’t offer any advice. As I leave her car, she hugs me and tells me she loves me.
“Houston, go easy on your father,” she says, after I kiss her on the cheek.
“Mom, I just can’t anymore.”
On the train ride home, I think of nothing but Marley’s green eyes. Mesmerizing and magical. When I stare into them, I completely lose myself. And I like being lost.
Chapter 9
Marley
Immaculate-adj-(especially of a person or their clothes) perfectly clean; free from sin.
Two days later, I woke still a confused mess with the imprint of Houston’s lips still burned into mine. His kiss changed things for me. I’m deeper in like. Now I know the sounds he makes when he’s turned on. The intensity he kisses with. The look in his eyes when passion consumes him. I’m fucked. How can I forget those things? How can I not want more?
It’s like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, and now I don’t know what to do. It’s almost laughable I think I can go into psychiatry when I can’t even tell myself what to do. I feel like Alice wandering an alternate universe. Maybe, like in Wonderland, there are no logical answers here. I’m searching and searching for answers that don’t exist. Maybe it just is. I’ve always thought of Professor Dale in an unattainable fantasy capacity, but, the man who pressed his solid body against mine, not to mention his hard cock, was real. He was full of emotions and desire for me. Is that so wrong?
All day yesterday, I couldn’t erase the kiss from my mind. I sat my Saturday away with my ankle iced and thoughts of Houston running rampant. A little part of me was disappointed he didn’t call. Now, it’s Sunday, and I’m resolved to not waste another minute analyzing. It happened, and it was a great kiss. A really, really great kiss. I have more important things to do besides wonder if he’s thinking about me too. Like laundry.
My ankle feels better while I gather my laundry, only a slight twinge of discomfort. When I get to the laundry room, of course every machine is out of order. Dragging my laundry bag, I walk to the Coin Clothes Cleaner the next block over. It’s slightly outdated, but it’ll have to do.
Finding a machine in the back of the empty laundromat, I toss my bag onto the large folding table and pull out my clothes. I throw my first load in as I sort through more clothes.
“Marley?” I freeze when I hear the voice that has been playing over and over in my head.
I turn my head to him and smile. “Hi, what are you doing here?” I ask. His hands are empty, so clearly not laundry. Besides, Houston doesn’t strike me as the type to do his own laundry. He’s too polished. I imagine all his clothes sorted by color, brand, and occasion in his closet. Most likely sorted by sexy. Even his jeans and worn Van Halen t-shirt are as sexy as his professional attire on campus. It’s a different sexy, and one I like just as much.
Giving me a half grin, he answers, “I had a quick meeting this morning with Anna Tompkins to discuss some research she’s working on.” Oh. I school my face into one that I hope resembles not jealous. Because honestly, I’m a little jealous. Anna Tompkins, Microbiology professor, is the female Houston. “We were getting coffee next door. I saw you and decided to check in on your ankle.”
That’s nice and all, but what about the kiss? Did I not cross his mind at all? A little knot ties itself in my belly that she is his peer and perfectly acceptable to fraternize with. I’m a dirty little secret, which he’s clearly going to pretend didn’t happen.
“Ah,” I say, shoving my clothes in the machine. “I’ve heard she’s brilliant.”
“She is,” his deep voice says behind me. “I should go. She had to run a quick errand and then I’ve agreed to accompany her to the library.”
Well, isn’t that perfect? He doesn’t have to hide with her in a corner or feel guilty about crossing any lines. I turn to face him. His grin falls when he looks down at my hand. Pink panties dangle from my fingers. I ball them in my fist and bring it behind my back.
“So, how’s the ankle?” he asks.
“Barely hurts at all,” I tell him, turning back to my laundry. What does hurt is the way we’re apparently going to pretend the kiss didn’t happen. Well, that suits me fine. This is too complicated anyways. You know what? Fuck that. I spin around, panties still in hand, ready to address what happened the other night. But, before I can, he leans in and whispers against my ear, “Let me see them.”
My eyes widen as I cling to the material in my hand. “See what?”
His hand touches my neck and travels higher, fingers splaying into my hair. “Let me see my favorite pair.”
My mouth goes dry. His favorite pair. Face it, I can’t say no to him when he’s so close and touching me.
His full lips lift as I bring the panties from behind my back. I open my hand, and he snatches the panties from my palm.
“Mine,” he asserts, his deep voice dropping an octave.
“Um, no. Houston.” I say, reaching for them. “Let me have them so you can get going.”
The tip of his tongue glides out, wetting his lips. “Start your machine, Marley,” he instructs me, sliding my panties in his pocket. Part of me thinks it’s hot he’ll have my panties in his pocket while he’s researching with Anna Tompkins. The other part is afraid they’ll fall out, and somehow everyone will know they’re mine. “Start your machine,” he demands again, this time in his husky authoritative voice. “I want to show you something.”
“Show me what?” I ask, turning to start the machine. When I turn around, he leans in, his nose running along my neck. He nips at my collarbone, and I take a quick glance around to ensure we’re alone.
We are. Thank God.
When my attention focuses back to him, he’s already hoisting me up onto one of the machines. “Did you know these machines give the perfect stimulation to your clit when they vibrate?”
He steps between my legs. I want his hands all over me, and he grants me my wishes. It feels so good as he runs his hand under my shirt.
“Houston. What are you doing?” I take a deep breath, hoping he doesn’t stop.
“Risking my career.” He grabs my chin, crashing his lips to mine.
“Don’t stop,” I moan.
Oh fuck. The machine rocks gently beneath me sending a vibration to my clit. He’s right. The sensation is temporarily overshadowed by his warm hand sliding inside my bra. What if someone sees us? What if Anna Tompkins sees us? My hardened nipple doesn’t care about the repercussions if we get caught. It wants to be squeezed and it gets what it wants.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, nipping my earlobe with his teeth.
“Yes,” I answer, tilting my head to give him access. My legs find their way around his waist, pulling him into me. Now my pussy is lined up with his cock perfectly.
“You know this is wrong,” he whispers against my ear.
“I don’t care,” I whisper back.
It’s foolish not to care. Years of school tossed away for an orgasm? I know the answer, yet, I’m still doing it. Still grinding myself against his cock. Still craving him, despite the risk. Funny how we can want something so much we throw every ounce of sensibility away. He’s no better, he has more to lose than me, and yet, he’s still slipping a finger inside my panties. Risking his career to run it along my bare lips, dipping it insid
e. We groan at the same time.
“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he murmurs against my skin. “I need my cock buried inside you.”
The machine beneath me hits the spin cycle and the vibrations drive me faster against his hand. He slips another finger inside me and bites down on my shoulder. A biter. Fuck, it’s hot. I’ve wanted him for so long, my orgasm is already looming, tightening in my belly. The pleasure is overwhelming when I rock along his hand, and his fingers pick up speed. “I’m so close,” I grind out.
“I want to see your face when I make you come.” He leans back a bit, his fingers never slowing.
The machine vibrates faster beneath me, and he brings me to the best orgasm I’ve had in a long time, or ever.
After, he kisses me gently, I see it in his eyes. Regret. Not again. My phone rings, and I slide down from the machine and away from his turmoil. “Sorry,” I say, wanting to crawl inside the washing machine to escape the look on his face. “I have to take this.” I point to the phone in my hand.
He opens his mouth to speak and then snaps it shut. Why are men so difficult? Whoever said men speak what’s on their mind was wrong.
“Go ahead,” he finally says, giving a nod toward the door. “I’ve got to get going.”
Once again, I have no appropriate reaction. He just finger fucked me, and I don’t know what to do besides let him go. So, I give him a smile and a tiny nod in agreement. Houston looks relieved and gives me a reluctant grin before turning and striding out.
Sadness settles over me. “Hey,” I say into the phone.
“Hey, you,” Erik says. “I’m in town on a layover. Come meet your brother for coffee.”
He gives me the details and when I hang up, a text comes through.
Professor Dale: Ice that ankle.
Chapter 10
Houston
March 18th
Madness steeps in like a ghost in the night. My thoughts are not my own. The days blur together and nothing seems real. It’s as if I’m in a dark tunnel and Marley is the light at the end. I can’t explain the thrill I get when I touch her. The spark which ignites when I feel her.
