Psyched (Taboo 101 #2)

by Havana Scott

  “I know.” He smiles. So devilishly good-looking. I don’t know why, but now I can’t stop imagining it—he knows what it’s like to live with a woman, he knows about feminine products, he probably even went to the store to buy them for her, he knows how women look at our best and at our worst, he knows the ins and outs of everyday life, he probably had sex every day…and ALL OF THIS before I was even out of elementary school.

  “Dude.”

  “Yep. That’s one big difference between us, Blondie, but other things, not so much. We’re both nervous about relationships, though we’re pretty compatible sex-wise…” He gives me playful side-eye, and I feel a swoony knot in my stomach. “We both struggle in a career we’re not sure is for us…”

  Did I ever say I didn’t want to be an engineer?

  I don’t think I have, but it’s something I’ve thought about. At one point, I wanted to be an artist. At another point, I wanted to go to film school. Suddenly, the flood gates crack open, and I want to share so much with him. Though I’ve never shown anyone my drawings, because they suck, I feel he might appreciate them.

  “Did I tell you I also draw?” I pull up my phone and find my camera roll folder full of sketches and charcoal drawings.

  “No, you haven’t. Let’s see them…” He leans in with interest. One by one, I slide through them, watching his expression as he studies them. “You did these?”

  “Yep, they’re terrible.”

  “They’re wonderful. You draw these all the time?”

  “Not all the time, just whenever I need a break from studying.”

  “You’re good. You’ve got an artistic eye. Why aren’t you considering an artistic career? Or at least one that uses both sides of your brain? Logic and creativity together. Disney Imagineering or something.”

  I shake my head. “They’re super hard to get a job with.”

  “A TV studio, anything.” He gives me an earnest look. He has no idea how hard it is to land some of these jobs, but then again, Tesla is hard to get into. “I love them. You’re more balanced than I thought.”

  I laugh out loud. “Well, thanks, doctor. I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “I’m serious. You’re ambi-brained. When people think of engineers, they think about robot design, car design, computer network systems, the analysis and input-output of data. But some engineers are artists. You’re in the middle. I admire that about you.”

  Some people, like my father, call that being a “Jack of All Trades, Master of None.” I call it being multi-talented. But you can tell. You can tell when someone is blowing smoke up your ass, because they’re just nice or they want something from you, but Roman means it. It’s the crinkle in his eyes when he says it, the little nod of reassurance, and the fact that he doesn’t dwell on it or belabor the point.

  Shortly after his comment that’s left me thinking, he stands and holds out his hand. “Walk with me?” And just like that, we’re strolling hand-in-hand like any other romantic couple, which blows my mind. What do people think when they see us? Do they see an older man taking advantage of a younger woman or do they see a cute couple? Finding a secluded spot at the end of the plaza near the little bridge, he swoops me in close and does that thing where he renders me useless.

  It begins with my face getting scooped into both his big hands, then he leans down and takes my mouth with his. He doesn’t ask permission, doesn’t inch his way in, testing the waters. No—he just commandeers me, issuing the kiss I crave, delivering goose bumps like they’re a part of his every day menu. If this is how he makes me feel daily, I shudder to think how I’d feel over the long-term. If I was his woman. My legs get weak, and I become lightheaded.

  We kiss so hard, deep, and long that I’m reduced to a pile of mush in this girly black dress. I wish he would lift my skirt here in the shadows, slide his fingers into me, and feel the wetness I’ve served up just for him, but there are too many people around. The fact that he makes me feel so out of control, though, is what amazes me. I don’t care where I am. I only want more and more of his mouth, hands, and deliciously imposing body.

  When my body can’t possibly press up against his anymore, when you hear catcalls and whistles in the near distance, and feel his smile up against yours, you know it’s time to go.

  “Let’s get home,” he says. The idea of going home with Roman blows my mind, and I smile at the thought.

  Twenty minutes later, we’ve sped through the streets and made it back to his townhouse, stumbled past the living room into his bedroom. It feels odd being back here again. I’m hit with the memory of four weeks ago when it was a completely different scenario. What was I thinking that night at Taco Paco? He must’ve thought I was such a slut. Because he told me not to think of myself that way, I revise that word in my mind. Not slut—healthy young woman.

  It hasn’t been easy coming to this conclusion, but I think Dr. Roman Lee is—wait for it—good for me. He’s good for me when he hovers in bed, kissing me deeply, turning my body into an electrical circuit all lit up in bright white, a wet circuit that sizzles and sparks from the applied heat. He’s good for me when he inches his way down my body, lifts my skirt to admire my thighs, and kisses them adoringly. He’s good for me when he brushes his fingertips across my panties, grazing my sensitive spot, and smiling up at me. He’s good for me when he slides them off and takes in my secret scents in an excruciatingly slow dip, making me wetter than I ever thought possible.

  He’s good for me when he slides a teasing pass of his hot tongue through my cleft, making me beg for mercy, when he parts my legs with his strong hands, and takes the time to explore every inch of my pussy with his tongue, bringing me close to the edge. When he slides back up my body to drive me crazy, peel down my dress straps, taking both breasts into his hands, feeding them to his hungry mouth, taking the time to appreciate each one separately, my hands lock into his hair. And he’s good for me when he explores my mouth and searches my gaze, waiting for the right moment to slide his straining cock into my folds.

  “I’ve been wanting you all night,” he groans. “To feel myself in you, nice and deep, just like this.” He slams himself once, making me cry out and reach for his ass, driving him into me again, but he makes me wait. He makes me want it. He makes me appreciate every precious second we’re together.

  And then, once he decides I’ve been good and deserve it, he rams into me, holding my knees apart, kneeling between my legs with that taut body made of dreams and pure strength. My hips match his, beat for beat, my core pounds against him, sending me higher with each thrust. He fucks me so good, I can hardly take it.

  Oh, make no mistake—Roman is good for me.

  It’s in the way he touches me, the way he kisses me, the way he controls me. I give up and let him drive, an overwhelmingly satisfying feeling. Nobody has ever made me feel this lost in love before.

  Every day is a risk. Every night is torture without him. But not for long, as we enter this uncharted territory. Love doesn’t work. Love doesn’t last. Love is a false chemical reaction designed to get you to make babies, then once you have them, it’s over. For him, love is intimacy he can’t handle. The real kind. The emotional kind. The kind that failed his marriage. So, why would we do this? Why would we plunge this way?

  Maybe neither of us is in control. Maybe fate led us here…

  I don’t know what else to call this energy spiraling us together. While simple pheromones brought me and other boys together, this…this is something else entirely. With Roman, I feel the universe spin somersaults. I feel stars and planets align, as they tumble along the same orbit in perfect synch. I feel balanced and right with the world, peace in this bedroom, if that’s where we are, because I’m not even sure. It’s all a blur when I’m with him. Driving rhythms, heavy need, and dedication to pleasure—both his and mine—ease my fears.

  We make love. There’s no other name for it. This is what they write songs about. Nothing hurried, no desperation to get it over with so I ca
n run off and cry myself to sleep. No power play, no role play, no urgency. Just Alice and Roman, taking big risks every new time we get together. Where is he taking me? Where am I falling to next? I’m on the Rockin’ Roman Rollercoaster, flinging my hands into the air.

  I never thought I’d say this, but there’s something to be said for losing control.

  For letting an experienced man guide you. For letting him enlighten you, show you what you were missing. For teaching you things about yourself you didn’t even know. I’m Play-Doh in his hands—malleable, eager, and happy Play-Doh—and that night, I sleep more solidly than I have in a long time.

  12

  ROMAN

  That wall she put up to stay away from me? Gone, for the most part.

  Alice comes over every day after work and class now, and I won’t lie—I do love it. We have the kind of after-work hours I need: walking into the house together, throwing down our things in silence. Sometimes we get straight to vegging on the couch, sometimes to having sex, sometimes watching her sketch with charcoal, sometimes to making dinner while music plays. My favorite is the lasagna she learned to make from her mother. My other favorite is her sloppy blowjobs.

  Lasagna and Blowjobs. Sounds like a great album.

  No questions, no more jealousy over clients—just perfect evening after perfect evening. It’s almost too good to be true. In the two weeks since our first official date, we’ve gotten along awesomely, but I won’t hold my breath. Cognitively, I know the truth—relationships start out strong, then slowly they collapse. But I also know that sometimes there’s magic, and maybe Blondie is the woman to change all that. It’s not fair to compare her to Bridget just because things didn’t work out.

  So I just enjoy. Right now, we watch the newest Doctor Who episode, the one where Nardole accompanies the Doctor and Bill to a space station to answer a distress call. Most of the crew have been killed by their smartsuits, but they’re the only source of oxygen left, so everyone has no choice but to wear them. I love when she laughs. It’s this tiny giggle, and it’s the cutest darn thing you’ve ever heard.

  “You know what would be so cool?” Blondie says during commercial break, her smooth legs lying in my lap. “To be that guy.”

  “Who, the Doctor? Well, yeah.”

  “No. The guy who gets to build the TARDIS for the show. The guy who gets to actually make those buttons and panels.” Her blue eyes reflect the TV screen, making them seem even brighter and her more enthusiastic about the topic.

  “Who says it’s a guy? Maybe it’s a girl. Maybe…it’s an alien,” I say in my most dramatic voice.

  She slaps my arm. “Maybe…you’re a dork.”

  “Self-admittedly, I am.” I smile. “Keep talking.”

  “Like, who decides how many holes the set designers have to punch into that sheet metal?” She flings her water bottle around for emphasis, enthusiasm exuding from her pores. “Who gets to build the control panel, the walls, or the temporal vortex transducer in the middle?”

  “Is that the official term?”

  “I say it is.”

  “Brilliant.” I sip from my elixir over ice. “And who gets to build that room the actors get in to shake them up like they’re being tossed around through time and space?”

  “Exactly!” Her eyes bug out. I was kidding, but I can see she’s not. “Whoever gets to decide that in a meeting, whoever gets to design and execute that—I want that job.”

  I stare at her. “You should look into a career in set design. I mean, holy shit, Blondie, I’ve never seen your eyes light up that way talking about building overpriced cars.”

  Her enthusiasm dampens, as she sips her wine glass. The show comes back on, and her attention is diverted. “Nah.” She shrugs. “My degree’s too advanced for that.”

  We continue watching Peter Capaldi wire the crew members’ life signs to the stations, but silently, it worries me that Alice isn’t going to live up to her full potential. Because of her father, she might be resigned to a life she never wanted, all to please him, to prove that women can make it in a highly male-dominated field.

  What about being inspired?

  I’ve seen it happen time and time again. Many of my clients, the ones who come in for real, are all suffering the same disillusionment. They’re halfway through their college courses when they realize they’re not studying what they truly wish to be studying, and they become paralyzed with fear. Usually, parents play a major role. I always ask what’s more important to them—pleasing Mommy and Daddy or being happy?

  You’d be surprised how many people choose the former.

  During the episode, she snuggles closer. I hold her against me, her warmth so comforting. With the windows open and the cool desert night seeping in, I toss the blanket over us and nearly fall asleep. Until her hand starts to rove, slipping into my shirt to feel my chest. When Blondie suddenly up and slides into my lap to start making out with me, I feel like I’m in high school again when make-out sessions began randomly and for no reason, just because.

  It’s spontaneous, but it makes me laugh because it’s fucking awesome. I remember nights wishing that Bridget would randomly initiate sex, or even just affection, instead of always leaving me to the task. Would the same happen with Alice over time?

  Blondie gets me worked up. In less than a minute, I’m flustered and wanting to strip her naked to do unmentionable things to her body. But then, a commercial for some camera comes on, where a couple is getting married, smiling into the camera’s lens. I flash back to when I was Alice’s age and almost engaged. I was a lot like her back then, only I thought I was ready for marriage when clearly, I wasn’t. She watches the commercial—half admiration, half disapproval. “I don’t think I’ll ever have a big wedding like that.” She lays her head on my shoulder.

  “Because you don’t want to get married?” A loaded question, but we’ve been drinking for the better part of an hour now.

  “Because I always imagined, if I ever got married, that it’d be later in life like my thirties. After I’ve built a steady career. I don’t want to be a burden to anyone taking care of me, you know?”

  “A burden?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I can’t imagine you ever being a burden on anyone, Blondie. Where did you get that idea?”

  She shrugs and says, “I don’t know.” But I think she doesn’t want to say.

  “We talked about this. The right man will make you feel taken care of. He’ll enjoy taking care of you.” Why am I reminding her of these things? Because I want her to feel comfortable with the idea of marriage? Or because I want to be that man for her?

  “And in theory, that sounds nice, but you didn’t grow up in my house, Roman.” Here comes Mr. Verano’s voice again, deep and authoritative. I hold down a laugh. “‘Don’t make any man work for you, Alice. You put in just as much effort as he does. Got it? Fair is fair, and no one feels taxed.’”

  “Did he really say ‘taxed?’”

  “Yes, taxed.” She laughs, biting at her nails. I pull her hand away from her mouth.

  That piece of paternal advice doesn’t sit well with me. If I had a daughter, I’d tell her to make sure the man she loves treats her like a queen. Sure, it’d be nice if she contributes, but I’d never feel right making my wife work as hard as I do. We’re talking about the woman who’s going to give birth to my children. That’s a hard enough job as is.

  Maybe that’s old school, but it’s what I’ve always wanted and expected.

  “That’s insane,” I say.

  “My dad’s insane.”

  “You know what I’ve always wanted?” I’m alarmed that I’m even sharing such a thing. I never thought about it so much as I have this summer, especially after meeting Alice. “To move to California. Maybe another place and time.”

  “Really? You mentioned it once, but you also said Las Vegas or Denver.” She stares at me like a new person has materialized before her pretty eyes. “Why California?”

 
I remember mentioning it briefly, but I didn’t go into it at the time. I didn’t want her to think that I would follow her wherever she went. “My sister’s there. The ocean’s there. I tried getting Bridget to want the same—we could move out to LA or San Diego, start a new, exciting life near the coast, but she never wanted to. Her family’s in Tucson, so we never got around to leaving.” I can’t believe how much I’m telling her. These are things I’d locked away. “It really bothered me that she couldn’t see herself going wherever I went.”

  Alice stares at me a moment before laying her head on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Does she still live here?”

  “Yes.” Luckily, I rarely run into Bridget, but it’s hard when so many of our friends are the same. A fresh start somewhere else would be great, but what would that mean to me and Alice? California’s a huge state. Even if we both move there, there’s no guarantee we’d be anywhere near each other.

  I stare at the TV, thinking about how long ago the Bridget era feels. Like another lifetime. And here I am, fast-forward to the future, talking about my dreams and failures with a new woman. She’s not perfect, but she’s perfect for me.

  Alice mumbles against my neck. “I’m sorry you never got to go. But hey, if I work for Tesla, I’ll only be five and a half hours away. I’ll come visit you.” I feel her smile against my shoulder, but nothing could make me sadder.

  She’ll visit me six hours away?

  I suppose she doesn’t see her future with me either.

  I know we’ve only been seeing each other a month—all of July, in fact—and only recently every day, but the thought of not being with her makes my stomach a bit sick. She doesn’t want to get married anytime soon, and I don’t blame her. She won’t have time for a longer commitment.

  An inkling of doubt works its way into my brain. Fuck, are we on the same path? What will happen after graduation? I sigh and close my eyes. Don’t think about it too much. Enjoy what you have while you have it. Probably better this way anyway.

  She must not want to talk about it anymore either, because suddenly, she’s straddling my lap, taking my face into her hands like I do to her and kissing me intensely, with purpose. I love the smell of her hair when it forms a curtain around my face, the taste of her sweet wine-infused lips, the way the heat between her legs bears down on me, waking me up at a moment’s notice. I especially love when she crosses her arms and pulls her shirt off, doesn’t wait for me to do it, just unhooks her bra, then tantalizingly pushes those amazing, massive tits into my face. Crushed by deliciousness.