Intimate

by Noelle Adams

  Latin never changed. It was a dead language and so was absolutely stable. Translations had clear answers. If she didn’t know a word, she could look it up. An answer could always be found. Meaning could always be deciphered.

  That just wasn’t true about most of her life.

  It also wasn’t true of her current project, which was to apply contemporary literary theory to an ancient text. The assignment was for Dr. Sawyer, the professor who had given her a B- last semester, so she was determined to do a good job now.

  But the whole thing just gave her a headache.

  She hadn’t left her carrel in the library in five hours. It was almost eleven on a Wednesday evening, and the paper was due Friday.

  She felt helpless and stupid, and she couldn’t even remember a Latin word she really should know.

  With a sigh, she dug her phone out of her bag and called Caleb.

  She hadn’t seen him since the party on Saturday. He hadn’t called like he usually did. When she’d called him yesterday, he’d sounded distant and distracted.

  She hoped he was all right.

  “Hey,” he said, answering on the fourth ring. “I thought you’d be working on that paper.”

  That sounded like a reasonable excuse for not calling as much as normal, so she felt immediately better. “I’m trying.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s just hard to write a paper like this when you’re not a creative, conceptual thinker.”

  “The guy is an ass, and you’re being ridiculous to let him get to you that way. You don’t have to do everything perfectly.”

  “I’m not being ridiculous, and I’m not trying to do everything perfectly. But maybe I should have just done plain Latin instead of Classical Studies. Maybe I’m not cut out for a program like this.”

  “Then why don’t you quit?”

  “I don’t want to quit.”

  “Then stop whining and write the paper.”

  She sucked in an indignant breath at his curt tone. “Why are you in such a bad mood?” When someone shushed her, she lowered her voice. “Is everything all right with you?”

  “Why wouldn’t everything be all right?”

  “Because you haven’t called me or come by all week, and now you’re acting snotty.”

  “I’m not acting snotty. I thought you’d be busy.”

  “I tried to call earlier and you didn’t answer.”

  “I was on the phone.”

  “With who?”

  “With my mom.”

  She couldn’t help but smile as she remembered his weekly call. Every Wednesday, he called his mother. He never forgot and got too busy. They didn’t always talk long, but he never failed to call her.

  It was incredibly sweet, although she’d never tell him so.

  “How is she?” she asked, when she sensed he was getting annoyed by her reaction, however silent it was.

  “She’s fine. She told me all about her garden. She expanded it to twice the size this year.”

  “Just think how many squashes you’ll get when she comes to visit you.” She paused for a moment and made herself ask, “And how’s your dad?”

  “He’s fine too. He’s on his way to Cleveland to catch a couple of baseball games.”

  “By himself? Wasn’t he just here by himself too?”

  “Yeah. It’s nice that they can have their own space.”

  Marissa didn’t think it was nice. Caleb’s father might be fine as a dad, but he was a horrible husband. It was something she’d never say to Caleb, though.

  Caleb thought his father was great and his parents’ marriage was perfect. She’d never take that away from him.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked. “It feels like something is wrong this week.”

  “Nothing is wrong.”

  She was about to ask again—ask if he’d been drinking too much or bruising his knuckle or doing something else equally stupid—but she bit back the question. He was sounding annoyed, and her nagging wasn’t going to help. “Okay. Are you busy tomorrow? Maybe we could have lunch or something.”

  “I’ll let you know. You better get back to your paper.”

  “Yeah.”

  When she hung up, she tried to focus on applying narratology to an Ovid elegy, but she couldn’t think of anything but Caleb.

  ***

  A few days later, at nine o’clock on Saturday evening, Marissa barged into Caleb’s apartment building—the doorman knew her—then barged into his apartment with the key she had, and then barged without knocking into the room he practiced in.

  He looked up from his cello and frowned. “Doors are usually closed for a reason.”

  Marissa ignored his snide tone and perched on the arm of the sofa near where he sat, his cello between his legs. “You weren’t answering your phone, so I assumed you were still holed up here playing. And see? I was right.”

  “I’m busy,” he told her, positioning his bow again. He was acting unusually distant.

  Marissa wasn’t going to put up with it. She hadn’t seen him all week, and she’d missed him. Plus, she was worried about him.

  “That’s not an acceptable excuse. If you ignored me every time you were busy, I’d never get to see you at all. We haven’t gotten together since the party last week—so I don’t care if you’re busy or not.”

  He raised his eyebrows and looked very condescending. “Is there something you needed?”

  “Why are you talking to me in that patronizing way?”

  Caleb’s face changed. Softened. He gave her a strange, little smile. “Sorry. But I really have been busy.”

  Marissa returned his smile, accepted his apology. “So what’s been going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “Of course not.” There was no anger in his expression, so she had to assume he spoke the truth, but something was definitely wrong.

  “Are you pouting?”

  He shook his head impatiently. “Do I look like I’m pouting?”

  He didn’t really. “So that must mean you’re descending into one of your moods.”

  “I am not descending into a mood. Stop obsessing about that.” He put a hand on her knee in a typical friendly gesture, but he jerked his fingers away almost immediately.

  It was very strange.

  “Deny it all you want, but I know you too well. Something is wrong, and I’m here to pull you out of it.”

  “I’m perfectly fine. As I keep telling you, I’ve just been busy.”

  “No, you’re not fine. You’ve been avoiding me all week. You’re all stiff and uncomfortable right now—no, don’t argue, I can see it in your shoulders—and you won’t even meet my eyes.”

  He met her eyes, but something in his expression still looked off, not quite right. Marissa wished she could put her finger on it.

  Shrugging, she finally said, “I won’t let you brood all night long. Let’s go out and get something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “It’s not about being hungry. It’s about getting out.” Marissa hopped down and reached to take the cello out of his hands.

  Since he wasn’t expecting it, she was able to retrieve the expensive instrument and place it carefully in its case.

  Then she reached for Caleb’s arms and tried to heave him to his feet.

  The gesture usually worked, no matter how reluctant he was. But this time he actually resisted, holding himself in his chair.

  With an annoyed exclamation, she adjusted her stance and tried to pull him up more forcefully. Caleb continued to resist. Marissa refused to give up.

  They ended up having an extended struggle, finally resolving with Caleb—who was admittedly stronger—coming out victorious. She couldn’t get him out of the chair. When she released him at last, the excess momentum sent her falling backwards. To counteract this, she flung herself forward.

  Ended up in a heap on Caleb’s lap.

  She ga
sped and grabbed at his broad shoulders. With her face in his shirt, she complained, “See what you did?”

  He was actively trying to push her off him, but she was an awkward tangle of arms and legs and wasn’t going anywhere immediately. “Marissa, get off.” His voice was rough and rude.

  She pulled her face out of his warm chest and peered at him from two inches away. His body was stiff—completely at odds with his typical grace and ease. “See? You’re all weird and awkward.” She adjusted her fingers on his shoulders, started massaging the tense muscles through his shirt. “What’s wrong with you? You're worrying me.”

  He put strong hands on her waist and heaved her off his lap, standing her on the floor like an inanimate object. “Nothing is wrong. I’m not going to argue about this anymore. You should trust me enough to accept that what I say is true.”

  She wasn’t at all intimidated by his anger. “I’d accept it if you didn’t always try to lie to me, but I’ll let it go for now if you stop practicing and go out with me.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked in resignation, evidently realizing that she wasn’t going to give up.

  Relieved, Marissa decided that a little sarcasm was in order. Making her voice as husky as she could, she drawled, “To my den of iniquity, of course, where I’ll throw you down on my bed, tie you up naked with silk cords, and have my wicked way with you until we’re both limp and exhausted.”

  She thought she did a pretty good job with it, given that she had to generate the scenario on the spur of the moment and she wasn’t naturally sexy.

  She assumed Caleb would appreciate her creativity and irony. Maybe smile. Or chuckle a little.

  She certainly didn’t expect him to choke out, “Marissa!” with an absolutely horrified expression on his face.

  For no reason she could understand, his reaction really hurt her feelings.

  “You don’t have to look so disgusted.” She tried to mask her irrational response. “You know I was only joking.”

  Caleb still looked rattled, and he was sweating a little bit, which was very unusual. The moisture glistened on his forehead and the sides of his nose. He sat perfectly straight, upright, like a poker. She had no idea what had gotten into him. She’d never seen him like this before.

  Suddenly afraid that something was truly wrong and he really wasn’t going to tell her what it was, she said softly, “Please, Caleb, let’s go get some pizza.”

  “I don’t like pizza.”

  “Liar.” She still watched him carefully. “I’ve seen you eat ten pieces in one sitting. Please?”

  The plea must have gotten to him. “Fine. Give me five minutes to finish this one section that’s giving me trouble.”

  His tone was clearly a request for her to leave the room until he was ready. She ignored the implicit request. She stood right next to his chair when he returned to it with his cello. “Just let me know when you’re ready.”

  After two minutes of half-hearted effort, he grunted, “Fine. You win.” He stood up and looked down at her. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

  “I do,” she said, beaming at him. She was starting to feel better at the sight of his familiar scowl. She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the door. “Now, we’re going out to have fun. For the next two hours, all that’s allowed is pizza, beer, and no brooding.”

  * * *

  Two hours later, Marissa and Caleb were seated at a dingy booth in a cheap, Italian eatery. An empty pizza tray, two plates, and several beer bottles were collected on the table between them.

  They had conversed pleasantly and naturally, and Marissa decided Caleb’s weirdness wasn’t as serious as she’d feared. She still couldn’t get it out of her mind, though.

  “What was wrong earlier?” she asked at last, into a comfortable lull in conversation.

  Caleb finished off his beer and didn’t meet her eyes. Didn’t answer.

  Damn it. He looked guilty. It must have been something after all.

  She swallowed and asked delicately, “You know you can tell me anything, right? Even if you think I won’t approve or…or be happy about it.”

  “I know that.”

  “You haven’t been drinking too much, have you?” There had been times when Caleb had drunk too much. Although it wasn’t something he struggled with much, even the hint of it terrified her, made her think about her mother.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It doesn’t look like you’ve been eating or sleeping very well. Is it—”

  “Marissa, I told you to drop it!” The words had an unequivocal authority that was almost impossible to defy.

  She reacted more to the words' harshness than to their authority. She felt her throat constricting, the way it always did when he snapped at her like that. “Caleb, I know you think I’m being nosy and invading your privacy, but I’m worried about you. I really think you’ll feel better if you can share whatever's bothering you.” She eyed him beseechingly, in the way that almost always worked.

  It worked to a certain extent this time. His face relaxed into an almost fond expression. “I can’t, Marissa. I’m sorry. It’s not what you’re thinking, though. I’m not heading toward another breakdown or anything. This is something else.”

  “So you admit that there is something else.”

  He closed his eyes. “Marissa.” There was an edge of warning in his voice. “This is in my space. Stop prying.”

  She banged on the table in frustration. “Why are you acting so weird with me? You might as well tell me now. You know I’ll find out eventually anyway.”

  He didn’t answer for a long time. His handsome face looked torn, and tense, and bewildered. She wished she could help him. Something in her chest or her belly—something she didn’t understand—was urging her to move over to his side of the booth and pull him into her arms, soothe away whatever it was that was tearing him apart.

  She didn’t go to him. Knew he would resist if she did. Instead, she just waited for an answer.

  It finally came. “That’s what I’m afraid of. It’s something you don’t want to know.”

  Four

  Marissa’s toes are rubbing against Caleb’s thigh.

  It’s an innocent, unconscious gesture.

  She’s stretched out on his sofa, her head pillowed on the armrest. Her knees are slightly bent, bringing her feet up against his body, where he’s sitting two cushions away.

  As they stare at the television in silence, her bare toes keep wiggling a little, generating strangely erotic friction against his skin through the fabric of his trousers. It’s slow and constant and insistent.

  The sensations from that gentle touch radiate out in thick waves through his body.

  He’s been fully erect for several minutes now. From the sight of Marissa sprawled out on the black couch, her long skirt tangled around her legs. From the pressure of her pretty toes on his thigh, close to his hip, not very far from his groin. And from the scent of her—the fresh soap lingering on her skin, the herbal fragrance of her shampoo, and another scent he’s only just started to become aware of. Fainter. Deeper. More natural. More compelling.

  He’s not surprised that he’s aroused. He’s grown accustomed to it over the last two weeks. It hasn’t gone away, hasn’t diminished at all since the first shocking night at the cocktail party.

  But he doesn’t do anything. Just sits as still as he can. Pretends to stare at the television screen but doesn’t see anything but Marissa.

  Then her foot moves. Consciously. Purposefully. Slowly edging up and over. Into his lap. Caleb watches like it’s in slow motion. Her toes ease over the top of his leg and gently start nudging his crotch.

  She’ll know now. Can’t help but find him out. The bulge is hard and obvious, and her little foot is now rubbing into it with calculated pressure.

  Caleb closes his eyes, in embarrassment and desire. This is not what their relationship has ever been about. But now she knows, and everything between them is irrevocably al
tered.

  Change can sometimes make things better.

  Marissa’s whole body is moving now. She’s kneeling beside him. Shifting over him. Her face quiet and intentional, she hikes up her skirt and calmly straddles his lap.

  He stares. Her face is only inches from his. He’s stunned yet wonders why this feels inevitable. Like she couldn’t have made any other choice. Like something is pulling them together with a compulsion that’s irresistible, and destined, and good.

  He opens his mouth to explain, to thank her, to ask for more. But she cuts him off with a kiss.

  It’s immediately wet, deep, and needy. Her tongue is inside now, gliding across his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Exploring. Claiming. Like it’s hers. Like he’s hers.

  He responds—tries to match her, keep up with her—but she remains completely in control. Has his head between her hands, then slides her fingers up to gently stroke his hair.

  Caleb thinks he groans, but he isn’t quite sure. The ability to sort out separate actions has abandoned him in the hot, sweet insistence of her mouth, her lips, her tongue, her fingertips, her soft, pliant body.

  And it starts to feel like the entire world is throbbing with the pulse of his arousal.

  Her hands slide away from his head and a part of him mourns the loss. But the absence is quickly forgotten in growing excitement as she smoothly removes her top, tearing her lips from his in order to pull the shirt over her head. He stares at her satin-clad breasts dumbly, hardly believing that he’s allowed to see them.

  His heart is now beating in his cock, but he sits perfectly still, his hands clasped loosely around her waist.

  She reaches around her back to unhook her bra. Pulls it off, meeting his eyes deeply as she does so. Then her breasts are free—full and heavy and perfectly peaked. He wants to touch them, cup them, knead the soft flesh. But he doesn’t slide his hands up.

  Can’t move. Can only throb.

  Marissa raises herself up on his lap until she’s kneeling over him. Now her breasts are at the level of his face and she pushes one into his mouth.

  He pulls it in and suckles, teasing the hard tip with his tongue. Her motion is still graceful, still calculated, but her whole body now chafes against whatever of his it can touch.