“There’s a law I learned in physics a long time ago that I’d like to demonstrate, if that’s okay with you.”
“I’m all ears.”
I point to my beer. “I bet that I can drink the rest of my beer here and the full one next to it”—I point to Chandra’s intended beverage—“faster than you can drink your two shots.”
He squints, looks to the sky, assesses the beverages on the table, and then peers at me once again. “This is a little too simple. You aren’t serious, are you?”
“I sure am. There are a few rules though—to be fair, of course.”
“Like what?”
“Well, since the volume of my drinks are more than yours, it would only be fair that you allow me to finish my first beer before you start on your shots. And you can’t touch your first shot glass until my glass is back on the table. That’s it.”
He puckers his mouth. “Okay…that sounds fair.”
“Also, we can’t touch each other’s glasses—at all. That’s an automatic forfeit. I’m not allowed to touch your glass, and you can’t touch mine.”
“Anything else?”
“You can only hold one glass at a time. So, neither of us can pick up our second drink until the first one is finished and back on the table.”
“You make this too easy.” He unbuttons the cuffs on his sleeves and begins to roll them up his forearms. “I’m game. What’s the wager?”
“If I win—”
“EJ!” Chandra’s voice echoes, approaching the table. “There you are. I thought you might have left.”
“Nah, I just ran into a coworker.” I point to my left. “This is Foster. We work together at the engineering library. And these are his friends—Graham, Peter, and James. Guys, this is Chandra, my roommate.”
In symphony, out of tune and not even close to harmonic, they all share a “hi,” and “hello.”
“So, what’s going on?” Chandra asks, standing near my shoulder.
“These boys just kicked my ass in a drinking game, and Foster and I were just about to place a wager on the law of physics.”
“What do you know about physics?” She laughs.
“Plenty.” I smile, feeling confident about the bet. I turn back to Foster. “Back to our wager, I think we should bet one—”
“If you lose,” James slurs, the alcohol consumption beginning to take hold, “you and your friend have to make out…and we get to watch.”
“James,” Foster warns. “That’s stupid. She’ll never agree to that.”
“Never hurts to ask.”
“You’re cut off.”
“I accept that bet,” I say without any thought. Even if I do lose this bet, which is highly doubtful, swapping a little spit with Chandra doesn’t give me the heebie-jeebies. I peek up at Chandra, and she shrugs, agreeing with the terms as well. “And if Foster loses…” I glare at James. “You have to make out with him, and we all get to watch.”
“No fucking way!” Foster contests. “James has chronic garlic breath. Sorry, man, but you do.”
“Scared?” I taunt.
“No. I just hate garlic.”
“La-ame.”
“I say, take the bet,” Graham encourages. “I don’t see how you could lose, and I could use a little girl-on-girl visual.”
“Whose side are you on?” Foster scowls at Graham.
“Yours…and my dick’s.”
“Typical men,” Chandra comments, amused.
They’re all so drunk.
“Do we have a bet?” I ask with my hand outstretched.
Foster reluctantly clasps my hand. “Fine. You’re on, and I want tongue, lots of tongue.”
“Ditto.” I slide his two shots out in front for everyone to see along with my beer, which is almost empty, and the completely full glass that was intended for Chandra. “Do you remember the rules?”
“Of course.”
“No drinking any of your shot until I’ve finished my first beer and the glass is resting on the table.”
“Right.” Foster removes his dark-rimmed frames, setting them on the table. “And no touching each other’s glasses, and we can only have one drink in our hands at a time. I got it.”
“Awesome.” I pick up my drink. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“Remember, you have to wait until I’m finished with this before you can start.”
“I got it.”
I tauntingly raise my brows and then touch the glass to my lips, slowly consuming the hoppy ale. Savoring the anticipation building among the men as they intently watch me, I relish in my soon-to-be victory.
“You know,” Foster begins as I continue to consume the first part of our bet, “according to kinematic viscosity, the flow rate of liquid greatly depends on the temperature of said liquid—the warmer the liquid, the faster the flow. Essentially, even if we were drinking the same volume of liquid, which we aren’t, your beer would take longer to consume since it’s been kept at a near freezing temperature while my shots have been stored at room temperature. So, even with the odds of volume being in my favor, from a scientific standpoint, you would lose, no matter what.”
Closing my blue eyes, I drop my head backward and finish off the last drops of beer.
I wink at Foster. He’s in for a world of hurt.
The moment my empty glass makes contact with the wooden surface, Foster reaches for one of his shot glasses, remembering the rules. As he’s lifting the vodka to his mouth, I casually flip over my pint glass and cover his remaining full shot still resting at the center of the table.
At my side, Foster slams the empty glass on the hard surface and then instinctually reaches for his other shot, now covered by my empty pint.
“Remember,” I remind him. “The rules state that we aren’t allowed to touch the other person’s glass.”
His hand hesitates over the tempting shot surrounded by my glass.
Picking up my second beer, I add, “This is an example of Newton’s first law of motion. An object is either in constant motion or remains at rest until acted upon by an external force. According to the rules, it looks like your shot will have to remain at rest while my hand will gladly act upon my beer, allowing me to consume it at a much higher rate than you anticipated.”
Foster runs his fingers through his caramel-brown hair, leaving it completely disheveled. “Holy…damn.”
I lower my glass and turn to James. “Don’t forget. We want to see lots of tongue.”
Tongue. Lots of tongue.
Excessive tongue.
Slippery.
Deeply plunging.
My tongue.
Foster’s tongue.
Our tongues.
His mouth is on mine, impassioned and solid, as my eager hands clench his remarkably solid ass.
Holy hell, what in the shit is going on? What am I doing? What is he doing?
“Fozzie,” I mumble against his mouth, gasping for air.
“Yes, Evelyn?” he pants, pressing me harder against the wall.
The pressure of his blaring erection against my hip bone has my groin area seeking his. I’m like a teenager in the backseat of her parents’ car, looking for a stolen moment.
“What are we…”
“Do you want to stop?”
My head is screaming nothing in the negative or positive, but my body is yelling the same as I say, “No, not at all. You?”
“Not really.”
How did we get here?
Full of alcohol, Foster clumsily lifts me by my thighs, using the wall at my back to catch his balance. I wrap my legs around his waist, securing my body to his, and we continue to lock lips like savaged beasts on one of those animal-mating documentaries. With stumbled steps, he maneuvers us away from the kitchen in his apartment and down the hall toward what I assume is his bedroom.
I should be questioning what we’re doing.
I should be stopping this right now.
I should be ripping his clothes off beca
use I’m so blazingly horny, and my vibrator is out of batteries.
He just feels so good.
The heat of his body.
His mouth on mine.
His hands on me.
His breath commingling with my own.
Fuck, it feels good.
Turning a corner, my knee collides with the doorframe.
“Ow. Fuck,” I cry out in protest.
“Sorry.” His sinful mouth drops to my neck, distracting me from the recent injury. “Do you want me to get some ice?”
“Only if you’re going to get kinky with me.”
“Are you into that sort of thing?”
“Not ice. That shit’s cold.”
Foster drops us to the bed, half-falling on top of me with a mistimed and misjudged thump.
“No ice,” he confirms, righting himself a bit. “Got it.”
He removes his black frames, and I grab them from his hand before he has a chance to stash them away. I settle them over my face. The prescription on the lenses is so minor that my already drunken vision is barely distorted.
“Do I look smarter?” I ask, playfully pointing my index finger to my cheek.
“Definitely.”
Ducking his head, Foster connects his lips to the skin on my neck and then the space under my chin while slipping his hand under my blouse and over my bra-covered breast. I fumble with the hem of his shirt tucked into his pants. Then, I pull his clothing upward, and like a total amateur, I manage to get it stuck around his neck. He lets out a half-gagging, half-choking sound before rescuing me from my sloppy seductive efforts by removing the layer of fabric himself.
My hands are like magnets being drawn to his firm chest, and they connect with his comforting skin.
Skin. Skin. Skin.
Warm skin.
Toned.
Fucking sexy-as-hell and all-over-me skin.
I-want-to-feel-more-of-it skin.
My mouth runs along his collarbone.
He tastes good, too—a combination of man and mint.
Foster lifts my top over my head before dropping it to the bed, and then he reaches behind my back. I sit up to assist him in the effort of de-clothing me. He tugs at the hooks on my bra a few times.
“Fucking girl clothes,” he says, flustered, yanking at the force field of intimate apparel. “These damn hooks.”
“You can formulate a hydrogen bomb, but you can’t undo a bra?”
“The university doesn’t offer classes on this shit.”
“I’ll complain to the dean.”
The garment finally unhinges, and my breasts are freed. With apparent frustration, Foster removes the bra from my body in one fell swoop and then cups one breast with his palm while mouthing the other. He tweaks a nipple with his fingers and nibbles gently on the other with his teeth as we slowly lower back to the mattress.
I arch my back, encouraging him to keep fondling me the way he is, because fuck me the feel of his body touching mine is giving me incredibly salacious ideas. And I genuinely don’t care if what we’re doing is wrong because I’m adopting a new rule until morning. If it feels good, it is good.
My hands skim and press along his lean arms and firm back as he continues to suck and lick my chest. Reaching his waistband, I follow the line of denim to the front of his pants and attempt to undo the button.
“Need help?” he asks, kissing his way up to my ear.
“Yes. Your pants are like a chastity belt. Are you trying to keep me out?”
Foster laughs against my cheek and snakes an arm between us, popping open the button. I unzip his pants and grip his length under his boxer shorts. He growls into my ear, and holy fuck, does that ever make me want to pump his dick.
So, I do.
What is he doing to me? Foster Blake, the library and chemistry geek?
He’s making me hot and bothered. That’s what he’s doing. My wet panties are accumulating the evidence.
“Shit!” he whisper-shouts. “Evelyn, is this what you want?”
I pause, my hand stilling around his cock, as he lifts his head from the crook of my neck and searches my features. He removes the glasses from my face and sets them aside.
He waits for me to respond.
“I don’t know what I want,” I say without a thought.
“Me neither.”
Our breaths slow in unison as a slight seriousness takes over the mood.
“I don’t want to stop,” I add as I begin to push down his boxers and pants together.
“Neither do I.”
“You’re very agreeable.” I laugh.
He releases an adorable grin. “Only on special occasions.”
“And this qualifies?”
“It’s notable.”
Foster pushes back from the bed, undoes my pants, and slides them down and off my legs. He then slips off my panties.
“I guess that part didn’t get a new dye job,” he teases, referring to my non-tinted but well-groomed trail.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?”
“Not really. I’m more surprised it doesn’t match your hair.”
“There’s not much there to dye.”
“Touché.”
Quickly, he drops his pants and boxers to the ground and then steps out of them and toward the bureau. There, he opens the top drawer, searching hastily through the contents. When he returns to me, he tosses a condom on the bed and then begins to crawl over my waiting form.
“That’s quite an impressive beaker you have,” I say in the most non-seductive way possible.
“You were checking out my instrument?” he questions, dragging his mouth north of my hip to my breast.
“Just doing my research.”
Hovering, he kisses me on the mouth a few times, almost like he’s still making sure I’m not backing out. I realize that I need to make the first move. I reach to the side of the mattress, find the condom, and tear it open. Making my intentions known, I nudge his shoulder, so he’s lying on his back. Sitting up, I roll the latex contraceptive over his instrument and then straddle him.
“So, what do you think?” I question.
Confusion crosses his face. “About what?”
I tease his length with my sex, gyrating over his lower body. “My tits? They’re pretty great, right?”
“Your tits are fucking amazing.”
“Just checking.”
Taking control, Foster rolls us over, so he’s on top, demanding missionary position. I’m not complaining one bit.
Without wasting any more time, he eases into my entrance, filling and touching an unrecognized void. He slides his hands under my shoulders. I circle my arms over his and then wrap my legs around his waist.
Rocking into me and moaning into my hair, Foster pounds away my recent frustrations from the last few days.
Apparently, a good dicking helps with that.
As we continue to move our bodies in cadence with one another, a strange sensation comes over me.
Foster is different.
I feel different.
The sex is different than any I’ve ever experienced before.
It doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel wrong.
It just…feels.
Under the yellow lights, Foster leans in toward James, licking his lips a few times in preparation for their inevitable kiss. The men waggle their brows at one another as the table chants, encouraging them to lock lips. We all can’t wait to watch them swap spit.
Taking the plunge, their mouths collide, and we all hoot and holler in astonishment and laughter. They stay joined for some time as we continue to cheer them on, like it’s some sort of circus act.
“Where’s the tongue?” I demand. “Tongue! Tongue! Tongue!”
The men and Chandra join me in chanting, “Tongue! Tongue! Tongue!” with full knowledge that it’s part of the bet.
Foster lost, and now, it’s time for him to live up to his end of the bargain. After all, we shook on it.
&nbs
p; They disconnect their lips, and then James licks Foster’s face—twice, once on each side, salivating all over his cheeks.
“Ew,” cries everyone watching, all in different tones ranging from disgust to delight.
“There,” James announces, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Lots of tongue. Happy?”
“Not really,” I say, laughing. “But it will do. Technically, the bet has been fulfilled.”
I turn my attention to Foster as he dries his face with the sleeve of his shirt. He lifts his eyes to mine, shakes his head, and then teasingly draws the shape of his lips with his tongue.
More tongue.
The room darkens and shifts until I’m seated at the bar with Foster at my side and a line of shots before us.
Another drinking game.
“Go,” I say. “Your turn.”
“Never have I ever kissed two girls on the same night,” he says.
Shit. He’s got me. I take the shot.
“You have?” he asks, astonished.
“I was a freshman once,” I reply nonchalantly. “My turn. Never have I ever shaved all of my pubic hair.”
He laughs. “I think you’re lying.”
“So? Who cares? Have you?”
“Yes.” He pauses and then takes the shot.
“Foster, you’re a kinky, kinky shit.”
He places the glass on the bar’s surface. “Or I swam competitively in high school. My turn. Never have I ever walked in on my parents going to town.”
A discerning sound escapes my lips in disgust. “Thankfully, neither have I. So gross.”
“No kidding.”
“Hey, girl,” Chandra says, appearing at my side. “Are you ready to go?”
In contrast to earlier in the evening, I’m actually having a lot of fun, and the night still feels young. I’m certainly not ready to go.
“No. You go ahead,” I tell her.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, you were planning on going to Jeremy’s anyhow.”
“I don’t want you walking home alone,” she states since we always have a safety-first rule. “It’s pretty late.”
“I’ll walk you home,” Foster offers to me. “I don’t mind.”
“Or I can call a cab.” I shrug and then address my roommate, “Go on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Darkness.
The scene shifts as I open the ladies’ room door into the dimly lit wooden hallway. Foster is exiting the men’s room at the same time, cleaning his glasses with the end of his shirt. A sliver of skin peeks out between his garments. I follow his hand as he returns the black frames to his face. His hair is slightly disheveled, his eyes are dilated, and his cheeks are tinged a slight shade of pink from the excessive amounts of alcohol we have been consuming over the past few hours.
More Than Water Page 7
