Snap Count

by Daphne Loveling

  “You look like you were in bed when it happened,” I remark, trying to keep my voice neutral. Now that the crisis has passed, it’s a little harder to ignore that I’m sitting next to a hot-as-hell woman who’s got nothing on but a flimsy cotton nighty.

  Luckily, Ivy doesn’t seem to notice anything. “Yeah. I was almost asleep,” she says, shuddering at the memory. “And then I felt something brush against my cheek. I thought maybe it was my hair, or something, so I reached up to push it away, and then that thing —“ she shudders again. “Ugh, that gross thing was flying past and I touched it with my hand.” Her face is twisted up in a horrified grimace, like she’s just touched a dead body or something. “God, ew! How am I ever going to sleep in that room again?”

  I laugh. “You’re freaked out now, but that’ll pass.” I remember something then. “Hey, did you check on Zeus’s shots?”

  “Oh! No, not yet.” She leans down and twists his collar around so the tags are on top, as I try not to look down her nightie. “The tag has this year on it,” she breathes in a relieved voice. “He’s good. I’m guessing he didn’t get bitten, but even so.”

  I nod. “You feeling better now?”

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Yes. But…” She hesitates. “Could you stay here for a couple of minutes, until I calm down a little bit?” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she seems to regret it. “I mean, you don’t have to,” she adds hastily. “I know it’s late, and you…” she reddens slightly. “You look like you were maybe in bed, too.”

  I glance down at my bare chest, and realize she’s trying not to look at it. A bell goes off in my head.

  Bingo.

  “I can stay,” I say casually.

  7

  ivy

  Knox leans back against the couch, his shirtless pecs flexing distractingly as he stretches his arms along the back. I try as hard as I can to keep my eyes on his face, but it’s a huge effort.

  “I wasn’t asleep, actually,” he tells me. “I just got home from grabbing a few beers with my teammates after practice.”

  “Teammates?” I repeat. “Are you on a sports team or something?” I figure he means like an after-work intramural baseball league or something. It makes sense, since he’s obviously in amazing shape.

  His eyes twinkle with laughter. “You could say that. I’m the new starting speed wide receiver for the Springville Rockets.”

  “You…” I sputter. “You play football? Like, pro football?”

  He smirks. “I ain’t the water boy, cupcake.”

  Holy cow. I don’t really follow football — like, at all — but still. He’s a freaking professional NFL player. And a starter. Which means he’s good. Really good.

  “How did I not know this?” I say, stunned.

  Laughter erupts from him, a low, sexy rumble in his chest that makes my stomach feel all fluttery. “Well, we weren’t exactly chatting over coffee the first time we met. And if you remember, you weren’t very neighborly to me.” He taps his chin like he’s trying to remember something. “I believe your exact words were… ‘go to hell.’”

  I open my mouth to defend myself, but I just can’t. As pissed off as I was when he saw me naked from the balcony, in all fairness he didn’t exactly try to. And in a way, it was sort of my fault for walking around in the buff in the first place — even though as far as I knew, the place next door was still vacant. And besides, except for that, really, he’s been pretty nice, as much as I hate to admit it. Even when he barged into my living room that first day, it was to clean up the mess from the glass I’d dropped.

  I take a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “Knox,” I say, “I think I owe you an apology. I was really pissed at you that day when you…” My face flushes hot. “Well, when you saw me from the balcony. I was ruder than I needed to be. And you’ve been awfully helpful, honestly, with cleaning up that glass, and helping me get Zeus up, and then now, with the bat. So,” I make myself look at him. “I’m sorry.”

  A small muscle twitches at the corner of his mouth. “Apology accepted,” he says. Something in his eyes tells me he’s amused, and I drop my gaze, feeling sort of stupid.

  “So,” he says, changing the subject. “What about you?”

  I’m confused. “What about me?”

  “What do you do, when you’re not telling NFL players to go to hell?”

  I look back up at him to defend myself, but he’s grinning now, and I relax.

  “I’m in grad school,” I tell him. “In neuroscience.”

  He gives a low whistle. “Impressive.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say ruefully. “I’m not that far into it yet. I just started my master’s this past year. I have a long way to go.”

  “So, what kind of neuroscience?” he asks. I’m surprised he wants to know. Usually, when I tell someone what I’m in school for, their eyes glaze over and I change the subject so I won’t seem boring.

  “I’m studying the neuroscience of spinal cord injuries,” I tell him. “In particular, I’m interested in new ways researchers are exploring to rewire nerve tissue, with a view to restoring function.”

  He nods. Again, I’m surprised. Most guys, even past boyfriends, if they even let me get this far into talking what I’m studying, start rolling their eyes and making jokes by now. Being a science nerd isn’t exactly considered sexy by most of the male population.

  “So, researchers think they might be able to regrow damaged nerves?” he asks. His brow furrows, and it looks like he might be actually interested in this stuff. I can’t believe he actually listened to what I just said. It’s weird.

  “Yes,” I tell him, pushing down my surprise. Now that I’m a little less worried he’s going to think I’m a boring geek, I start to get kind of excited, like I always do when I get to talk about this stuff. “See, when a person gets injured in, say, their arm or their leg, the nerve bundles at that site grow back, because growth-stimulating proteins flock to the site of injury to help them do so.” I stop to make sure he’s following. “But spinal cord axons — those are the nerve bundles that carry signals back and forth between the body and the brain — are different from nerve bundles elsewhere in the body. Spinal cord axons don’t grow back after injury, because in the central nervous system, when there’s an injury, chemicals that actively block axon growth flood the site, which prevents regrowth and recovery.”

  He frowns, then nods. “Got it.”

  “So,” I continue, glancing at him to make sure he isn’t getting bored, “Researchers are working on ways to recreate the conditions that promote nerve recovery in other parts of the body. For example, by transplanting Schwann cells — those are cells that secrete growth factors after peripheral injury — to the site of a spinal cord injury. Or, by adding nerve cells to the injury site toward the healthy nerve cells, kind of like a trail of bread crumbs, and hoping that will guide the axons at points along the spinal cord.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “So, yeah, that’s what I’m interested in studying.” I sit back and look at his face to gauge his reaction. He’s taking it all in, a serious expression on his face.

  “That’s pretty damn interesting,” he tells me. “How far out are we talking here? For finding a cure, I mean?”

  “Well, what we know about spinal cord injury has dramatically increased over the last forty years or so.” I reply. “The future looks bright, and the rate of acceleration of knowledge and improvements will continue, but we still have a long way to go.” I’m aware that I’m talking like a textbook, and suddenly feel a little silly. “Sorry,” I say with a rueful grin. “I know I can get kind of carried away about this stuff.”

  “Don’t feel weird about it.” One corner of his mouth turns up sexily. “I’ll pay you back one day with a monologue about how important low pad level and head and shoulders are for a wide receiver’s route running.”

  Laughter bursts from me. “Well, you’ll have to tell me what a wide receiver i
s, first.”

  He grins. “I can do that.”

  With the two of us smiling at each other now, something subtle seems to shift in the air between us. It’s like I forgot to keep my guard up while I was telling him about my studies. And while I wasn’t paying attention, the invisible wall I was trying to imagine separating him from me has just… evaporated. Suddenly, as his eyes bore into mine, I’m uncomfortably aware I’m only wearing a cotton nightie. God, I’m not even wearing panties. The thin cloth is barely enough to cover the parts of me that right now are starting to react to the fact that a very hot, half-naked man is sitting less than two feet away from me.

  “Um,” I clear my throat as the smile dies on my face. “I guess I feel better now.” I nod my head toward my bedroom. “Thanks again for, uh, coming to my rescue just now.”

  “My pleasure,” he drawls, and shifts forward just the tiniest bit. “It’s not the most fun way I’ve ever gotten into a girl’s bedroom, but it was definitely one of the most unusual ones.”

  Him talking about being in my bedroom is not helping me get control of myself. At all. Especially when I’m pretty sure once I’m safely back in bed, I won’t be able to stop myself from fantasizing about what else he’s good at in the bedroom, besides shooing away bats.

  Under my nightie, I can actually feel my nipples begin to harden. I clear my throat again, and try to hunch my shoulders forward a little so he won’t be able to see them through the fabric.

  “Um,” I say.

  Genius, Ivy. You really have a way with words.

  “Don’t bother,” he murmurs as he looks down at my chest. He flashes me a grin that I should find maddening but that only makes me feel more hot and bothered. “Remember, I’ve already had the pleasure of seeing you naked. That tiny nightie you’re wearing isn’t hiding anything I can’t just call back up in my mind.”

  God, his voice… How does he do that thing with his voice, that makes it feel like he’s actually touching me with it? I squirm uncomfortably as heat grows between my legs, and resist the urge to cross them protectively. Knox moves forward again, until his leg is practically touching mine. “So, for example,” he begins, his voice low and raspy, “underneath that pink cotton, I know that the buds of your nipples are just a slightly lighter shade than your nightie.”

  My lips part in shock that he’s actually saying this, but I’m too paralyzed to do what I should do, which is scoot back away from him and tell him to fuck off. “And I know,” he murmurs, “that they’re hardening for me, because you want to know what it would feel like if I bent down and licked them.”

  My breathing shallows. I can’t move. Because he’s right. Of course he’s right. I should stop this. I should stop him.

  “And I know just how creamy the skin of your belly is,” he continues. His lips are inches from mine now, but he’s still not touching me. “And how it slopes down to the mound of your sweet little pussy. And ever since I saw you like that, I’ve been dying to spread those creamy thighs of yours and plunge my tongue inside you to find out what you taste like.”

  I finally manage to gasp out, “You can’t talk like that!”

  Knox chuckles deep in his throat. “Too late, cupcake,” he says. “Too late. This has already started.”

  I try to protest, but before I can say anything more, he leans over and kisses me, his lips hard against mine. It feels like lava is being poured through me as his tongue twines against mine hungrily. Before I can stop myself I’m moaning into his mouth, my head tilted back as I open to him without resistance. My hands go up to his shoulders and grip the hard muscular force of him. His skin is hot to the touch, and the heat between my legs turns to a throb.

  Knox wraps one arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him. His other hand goes to my breasts, as his thumb finds one taut nipple and grazes it through the fabric. I almost jump, it’s so intense, and I gasp and kiss him back harder. This… this is not what I do. I am not the kind of girl to be so close to having sex with basically a total stranger. Every inch of me feels like it’s on fire, and I’m clinging to him, desperately, needing what I know he can give me. I feel like my brain has lost control of my body, like some crazy sort of thing where instead of being paralyzed, my mind just has to look on while my body does whatever it wants to. I’m seconds away from begging Knox for… it, and I send up a silent prayer that he won’t make me ask him. That he won’t make me wait that long.

  Then Knox is hauling me onto his lap so I’m straddling him, and oh, God, my core is pressed against the massive hardness of him, barely contained by the fabric of his jeans. I shudder with pleasure as my hips grind against him, the ache between my legs lessening just a little, just for a second. He grabs my hips and pulls me even closer, kissing me deeply as I continue to grind. His breath mingles with mine as he growls deep in his throat, meeting me thrust for thrust as I find myself starting to climb higher and higher. I don’t mean to go this far, don’t even realize I’m so close, and then before I can understand what’s happening I buck against him and cry out, pleasure rocketing through me with a force that’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

  The spasms continue to rock through me, and Knox holds me tight as I cling to him. When the blood rushing through my ears eventually starts to slow, I realize he’s talking to me, and I struggle to understand what he’s saying.

  “…so fucking hot, Ivy,” he murmurs. “Jesus. Jesus.”

  I take a couple of deep, gasping breaths, trying to get hold of myself. Now that my brain is starting to clear, my first horrified thought is that I’ve probably left an enormous, embarrassing wet spot on the crotch of his jeans.

  My second thought is that he’s still massively, alarmingly hard.

  As I’m trying desperately to think of something, anything to say — like, what? Thanks for the amazing brain-shattering orgasm? — Knox’s hand comes up to the back of my head and pulls me into a deep, hungry kiss. Then before I realize what’s happening, he’s lifted me off of him and onto the couch. Just as I feared, there is a massive wet spot on the front of his jeans.

  “I, uh…” I stammer. “You… you’re still…” My face flames red. I can’t make myself say the actual words erection or dick or anything else.

  “Yeah,” he growls thickly. “I’m still fucking hard as a rock for you, Ivy. Shit, can you blame me?” He shifts on the couch, adjusting the bulge and groaning softly as he does so.

  “Do you…” Good God, I’m such an idiot. How can I be almost twenty-five years old and not be able to talk about sex, like, at all?

  He chuckles and lifts my chin toward him with a finger. “Tonight was all about you, cupcake. And by the looks of it, you needed it,” he says, nodding toward his jeans. I open my mouth to apologize, but he stops me. “Don’t you fucking dare be embarrassed about that,” he rasps. “That shit was a fucking fantasy scenario.”

  Knox bends toward me and covers his mouth with mine again. His tongue probes deep, sending another wave of heat through me. Then the kiss is over, and I have to stifle a mewl of protest. “You’re welcome, cupcake,” he whispers against my neck.

  And then, before I even understand what’s happening, he’s gone, the French doors closing slowly behind him.

  8

  knox

  When I get back to my place, I stride through the living room, down the hall and go straight to my bedroom, where I kick off my jeans, flip off the lights, and lie down on the bed. My cock is so hard it’s fucking aching. I grip it in my fist, take a deep breath and let it out, and stroke as slowly as I can possibly manage. It’s no use trying to draw it out, though: my head’s so full of Ivy’s face as she came all over my cock that in less than a minute I’m groaning my release, thick, hot jets of come coating my chest.

  I lie there, gasping and staring up at the ceiling, and try to catch my breath. What just happened back there with Ivy — it was goddamn incredible. Jesus, she’s fucking sexy. I don’t think she even really realizes it. She’s pretty buttoned up most o
f the time, or at least she tries to be. But when I finally got her loosened up so that she stopped being so self-conscious… holy shit. Just watching her body as she got more and more turned on, the way she writhed against my cock — the thought of it makes me start to stiffen up again, even though I just came. God, more than anything in the world right now, I want to know what it feels like to be inside her, to press myself inside the wet heat of her. And I will. I’m sure I will. Hell, I could have made it happen tonight. The startled look in Ivy’s eyes when I pulled her off of me told me everything I needed to know.

  So why didn’t I stay? Why didn’t I pick her up and take her into the bedroom, and make her come again with my cock before emptying myself inside her?

  I don’t even know, exactly. I’ve never left like that before. Mostly, I guess I wanted there to be a next time. Usually, once I’m with a girl once, or maybe twice, I’m kind of done. But Ivy’s got more to her than most girls I meet. It sounds fucking cliché, but she’s got some substance to her. Some depth. And I have to admit to myself, I want to know more about her. More about what makes her tick.

  Plus, I want the anticipation to build. I want her so goddamn bad I can practically taste it. And I want her to be practically begging for it when I finally take her.

  My eyelids start to feel heavy, so I grab the T-shirt I was wearing earlier and wipe my chest off, then head into the bathroom for a quick shower. Suddenly, I’m fucking exhausted, and I practically sleepwalk through soaping up and rinsing off. Even so, by the time I’m out of the shower and toweling off, my cock is standing at half-mast again because I can’t stop thinking about Ivy. In bed, I force myself not to jack off again, knowing even as I drift off to sleep that I’ll wake up to thoughts of Ivy tomorrow morning and won’t be able to resist the temptation.