by Edie Danford
My dick is hard as a broom handle, poking its way out of the waistband of my sweats, ready for work. When Mar’s fingers stroke my belly—the heat of his hand mixing with my sweat and my dribbling cock—I buck. Don’t mean to. I want to stay still. But my muscles have different ideas. A single jerk of my hips and, bam, I’m in the cup of Marek’s palm.
I grunt—a protest, I’m pretty sure. A hand job is probably way more than a standard make-out move, isn’t it? Maybe research is necessary, after all. But Marek gazes into my eyes, smiling with those damn twinkles. His hand tightens on my shaft.
My head falls back, my eyes closing.
It’s been forever since a guy has touched me like this. Takes me like point-zero-three seconds to remember why I’d been such a fiend for sex. I open my eyes. Beyond the tousle of Mar’s fancy new hair, I see my heaving torso, and his hand, those studious fingers, totally sexy-looking as he strokes and explores my cock and my balls.
“Not gonna take long,” I mumble. “You should…” He strokes the ridges under my glans, first carefully, then confidently. “Fuck.” His evil thumb performs the same treatment on my slit. “Maybe now would be…”
He plants his mouth over my left nipple, his lips drawing the nub between his teeth. The bite has just the right amount of sting to draw my attention away from my dick.
The zap on my chest combines with the zip on my dick and combusts. “Glag!” The word erupts from my mouth at the same time jizz explodes from my cock.
I hold Marek tight. He’s taking me on this ride, making me buck and shout crazy words, but his body is a solid presence above me, familiar and good.
He’s moving up and over me, his lips sliding over my collarbones and up the side of my neck. Whispers hit my ear, words I don’t know, but I absorb them like dry, thirsty soil.
I turn my head as my heartbeat begins to steady. I want to taste him.
Our mouths meet and he moans, a sound that seems to begin deep in his core, reverberate through his torso, and come out in his heated breath. My body understands the vibe and shudders right along with him.
I fix my hands on either side of his head, holding him still so I can plunder his mouth, show him with kisses how great he’s made me feel.
He returns everything I give him tenfold. Again, I have that dizzying feeling, drowning in Mar’s intense, utterly thorough way of throwing himself into something.
Suddenly he stills, his lips wrenching from mine as he cries out. I look up into his face. His eyes are scrunched shut, his jaw tight. He’s either coming or trying not to come.
I stroke his temples, his ears, his neck.
He takes a heaving breath. “Shit.” It’s the same tone he uses when he’s spilled something, made a mess.
I stifle a smile of commiseration as I continue to pet him, getting him through it. I told him I would take care of any messes and I mean it. “Let me,” I whisper when his breathing begins to regulate, gently pushing him off, settling him against the mattress.
His cheeks are pink, his eyes and lips squeezed shut. He’s bumming. “It’s okay, baby,” I reassure him. “It’s all good.”
“Yes,” he breathes. “It felt much, much better than okay or good. But still. I need to recalibrate—adjust my brain’s wishes to my dick’s wishes more closely.” He snorts loudly. “Recalibrate my tool.”
I laugh. Mar-jokes are awesome. “You feel what you feel,” I tell him. “And feeling so intensely about making out…it’s sexy. Hot. You don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not worried so much as sad. Making out is over. Now we nap. Then statistics.”
I kick off my sweatpants, letting them fall to the floor. “But first—messes.”
“Messes.”
I straddle his thighs, plant my hands on his abs, and smile. His eyes go wide as I begin to undo his belt buckle. “Pete,” he murmurs reverently. Like I’ve handed him the most amazeballs gift ever, only by touching him.
My heart fires up. Oh my God. There are so many things we haven’t done, so many ways I can make him feel good. So many things to show him.
But this is gonna get complicated. I need to take it easy—dial it way down for me, and then dial it down a couple more clicks for him.
I cannot bite off more than I can chew, especially in this situation. There’s a whole bunch of shit—his family, my family, my past mistakes, the contract I’d signed six months ago—that will have to be dealt with. I have to take one thing at a time, so that I can recalibrate this whole idea, if need be.
I free his dick, which, okay, isn’t small, but I give it a very small kiss. I really want to blow him, clean him up with my tongue, feel him come back to life in the heat of my mouth. But those things definitely go beyond the standard rules of making out.
I sigh. Rules blow. And not in the good way.
“There,” I say, following the kiss with a pat. “Now you won’t get stuck to your underwear.”
“Mmm. Step one of mess-cleaning. I can’t wait to see what the other steps are.”
More things that I want to do to him flash through my mind. Marek in the tub. Marek in the luxurious shower stall upstairs. Marek soapy and slick with warm water, my hands running over every inch of him. But none of that falls into the “small step” category.
Ignoring our perky dicks, I climb off him. “Back in a minute.” I head for the bath, moving fast as the cool air hits my bare ass.
“More calibrations,” Mar’s voice follows me.
I make quick work of preparing a washcloth and then return to the bed. “More?” I ask. I run the washcloth over his dick and any surrounding areas that looked jizzy.
He sucks in a breath, and I slow down. I’m being too enthusiastic with my scrubbing.
“Yes,” he says, lips quirking. “Adjustment to the variables. I have noted that you do not appear to be brain dead or sleepy. In the slightest.”
“Hmm.” I press my lips together, taking stock of the way I feel.
The clock on the bureau says it’s close to two. I remember the way my eyelids had drooped and my brain had stalled when I’d been out in the kitchen before rushing out to rescue Marek. Weird. I don’t feel drowsy at all at the moment.
I glance at him. He looks done. In the best way possible. Professor Mellow. I smile. His sparkly eyes are shut. His eyebrows, which are frequently smashed together—evidence of brain cells buzzing behind them—are relaxed and soft-looking. His lips are puffy and parted. We’ve done a lot of kissing.
“Hey,” I say.
He blinks up at me. “Hey what?”
“You should sleep in tomorrow. Your schedule says lab in the morning. Maybe you could shift a few things to later.”
“Mmm. This is a brilliant idea.” His eyes drift closed again.
I unfold the throw at the base of the bed and gently snug it around him. Like the weak human I am, I bend and press a kissed to his temple. So handsome.
I think, not for the first time, about what things would be like for him if Cal had matched him with a different housekeeper. Dour David or Sweet Simon. Marek would likely be fast asleep upstairs in his big, luxurious bed right now. In clean pajamas. Full of a good, basic dinner. Hair still shaggy. Ready to get up to go to work at seven a.m.
Yeah, a voice in my head whispers, but he wouldn’t have that cute, satisfied smile on his luscious mouth. And his eyes wouldn’t twinkle at Dour David or Sweet Simon when he woke up ready for breakfast. Not like they twinkle at you. You’re good for him. And he’s good for you.
I can’t pay attention to the voices in my head right now—they don’t seem trustworthy. So I quietly leave the room and get to work doing things that will shut that shit up. Cleaning and cooking. Getting the house and the fridge and breakfast and snack fixings in perfect shape for tomorrow.
I have pro status when it comes to avoidance. But maybe while I work, I can figure out what the hell I’m going to do about this situation.
Chapter 7
Marek
“I did s
ome thinking in the shower.” I sit across from Pete at the kitchen table. There’s a bowl set out for me—granola, blueberries, and yogurt. Coffee with precisely one-point-five teaspoons of heavy cream. The measuring spoons are still resting by the coffee maker. In front of Pete are his own mug of coffee and his statistics textbook.
We went over chapters one through three after I finally wrenched myself out of his bed—he, disappointingly, had not been in it—at nine and stumbled into the kitchen.
An hour later, we’d broken for my shower and breakfast. Soon, we’ll go over Chapter Four and review. Pete knows the material better than he thinks. He just needs…confidence.
He glances at me. His eyes are red-rimmed. His lips are deep pink—I like to think it’s a leftover effect from kissing, but he tends to bite at them while he’s reading. He didn’t sleep last night, something for which I feel guilt and concern.
“Where is your breakfast?” I ask.
“I ate earlier.”
“Hmm.” I doubt this. But he finds it annoying when I question him on these things, and he doesn’t need to be annoyed right now. I take a drink of coffee.
“So what were you thinking in the shower?”
I set down my mug. Smile a little. “Oh. Yes. The next time we make out I will wank ahead of time. Maybe twice.”
He laughs. “I thought you were going to tell me some studly brainiac way to remember the bullshit formulas at the end of Chapter Two.” He gestures at his textbook.
“I never think of statistics in the shower. I always think of you.” I have the pleasure of watching his cheeks get as pink as his lips.
“Did you leave any jizz on the tiles?”
Damn it. Now my cheeks are turning pink. “Um. No.”
“Good.” He winks. “Shit’s a bitch to clean off after it dries.”
My phone—which Pete has placed on the charging station next to the table—chimes. I twist around to get it.
“Finish your breakfast first.”
“I will eat, don’t worry. But I remembered I’d promised Lia I’d set her up for phase two of the new study this morning.” I glance at him before firing up the phone. He’s scowling. “Yes, yes, I know I should’ve put that on my calendar. But I didn’t think of it. Probably because Lia’s desk is five meters from mine, and I didn’t think it would be a big deal to handle this meeting casually.”
“I’m not going to nag,” he says.
“Mmm-hmm.” I don’t think of Pete’s reminders or promptings as nagging. I had to look up the word a few months ago to make sure I knew exactly what it meant after he apologized for doing it.
Nagging has negative connotations. Pete takes care of me and does it very, very well. Nothing negative about it. He would say it was his job and that he takes pride in doing his job “awesomely.” I would say he takes such good care of me because he genuinely cares about me. Easy and logical conclusion. My uncle and likely a few other people would say it was a foolish conclusion. But they’ve never been the recipient of Pete’s gentle touches—with his hands and with his eyes.
“Glag,” I mutter, reading and re-reading the text.
“From Lia?”
“No. Stephen Novak. Regarding our date on Saturday. He’s invited me to a small lunch gathering after viewing the exhibit.”
“Oh.”
“Yes. I think I should cancel. The exhibit-viewing and the other.”
Pete shakes his head. “No. You need to go. Steph will be an excellent addition to your data set.”
I sigh. This data-set business is going to get cumbersome. But if it makes Pete feel more comfortable about exploring the idea of being with me, then it will be worth it. As I pick up my phone to put it back, it chimes again.
I hold back another sigh as I read the new text. My uncle.
“Lia this time?” Pete asks. “Maybe you should leave now—”
“No. It’s Jakub. He’s been held up in Prague and isn’t sure when he’ll be back in the States. He wants me to email him my latest research proposal.”
Pete scowls. “Why does he want to see that? Would he even understand that stuff you write about?”
“No. He wouldn’t understand much of it. He wants to make sure it will get the right attention from the right people.”
“Don’t the people you work with at the university take care of that?”
“Yes. There is a whole department that takes care of such things. Jakub is…overprotective.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
I sit back in my chair. Pete carefully—too carefully—studies his book. He doesn’t like Jakub. I understand why, but still I hope they can get along someday. I think they might like each other if given a chance. After I text a reply to Jakub and set the phone down, Pete looks at me, eyes a little worried.
I explain, “Jakub wants to know I am busy and well cared for. Made happy by my department and by you. That’s why he checks in. And it’s all good because my department and you make me very happy.”
“Happiness is good.” He says this with a serious expression that doesn’t seem to ask for a response. For a few minutes he stares at his textbook and I eat. I ignore the phone. And the tension both the phone and Pete are emitting.
He’s tired. Worried about his test. He will take the test, do well on it, and then nap. And then we can talk about Steph Novak and my uncle. Last night happened, and I’m hopeful. And, yes, happy. We’d kissed. We’d made out. I’d touched him—not everywhere I wanted to touch, but in many places. I’d slept in his bed. All of that—and more—will happen again.
“Um, Mar?”
“Hmm?” I meet his gaze over his book again.
His fingers play with the edge of his textbook.
“Have you ever…”
He doesn’t seem in a hurry to complete his sentence, so I smile and say, “I don’t know if I’ve ever. Maybe?”
He doesn’t smile back. “Do you think that someday you might take care of your finances and the townhouse, and um, all the stuff your uncle takes care of for you?”
“Well.” I carefully scrape a yogurt blob from the edge of the bowl. “I don’t know. I find my relationship with Jakub…convenient. I can trust him. And he enjoys doing many things that I hate. Spending money on handy things, for example. Like houses and housekeepers.” I try out another smile on him.
Again, no return smile. In fact, I get a frown.
I say quickly, not liking the direction his mood and his words are taking us, “He has no control over our friendship, of course. Or over my day-to-day decisions. He handles the boring bank accounts and investments and being alive things that I’d rather not think about.”
“Yeah. Well. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you and your uncle aren’t very similar people. I’m not sure he gets you, Mar. His personality can be a little…dictatorial.”
“I’ve noticed. But I happen to like bossy people.”
He looks at me for a moment. “Is that a dig?” One side of his mouth is maybe trying to smile.
“A dig?”
“You calling me bossy?”
I smile. “No. I mean, yes, you are on the bossy side of the personality spectrum, I suppose. But you are also kind. Caring. So your bossy nuances are positive.”
“Positive.”
“Yes.”
“What if I told you I thought your uncle’s bossy nuances are negative?”
I trace the edge of my bowl. “I’m sorry that he’s been a dick to you in meetings the two of you had.” My uncle likes to come over without warning, when he knows I’ll be at work. It’s his way of checking on Pete, and, yes, I can see how that could be considered bossy in a negative way. “But with Jakub—it takes time to get to know him, you know? And then he becomes…friendlier.”
“He’s actually never been a dick to me. I mean, yeah, he’s stern and to-the-point and all that. But he’s a pussycat compared to the Hollywood types I worked with. What I’m trying to say…” He takes a deep breath. Lets it go. “I wo
rry about how he treats you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. He thinks you don’t know what you want or need when it comes to your personal life. He acts like because you’re gay and young and single—and living in a country where you weren’t born—that you can’t be trusted to make good choices.”
I put down the spoon. I’m not hungry anymore. I understand why Pete thinks these things. It’s time I explained. I take a breath. And then another.
Finally, I say, “My uncle helps me so much now because of trouble I had in the past.” I take a drink of coffee and grimace.
Pete asks, “Are you okay? Can I get you anything?” His eyes are concerned.
“No. No, I need to tell you something, but I don’t want to.”
He swallows audibly and nods. “I know how that can feel. And I know how it feels to tell somebody something and then be ignored.” He reaches over and squeezes my fingers. “If you need to tell me something, I promise to be a good listener.”
I believe him, so I start to speak slowly. “When I moved to the U.S. to attend Stanford, I had a relationship with the man I told you about, the one I met on an app. By the time my relationship with him ended, I had no house, no car, and some important data from my research projects had gone missing.”
Pete’s eyes widen. “Holy crap.”
“Yes. It was, unfortunately, a very holy-crap situation.”
“So, like, he stole from you? Cleared you out?”
I nod. “The projects were actually the things I felt worst about. He stole some data, some schemes for a new invention. He took my laptop and some USB drives. Luckily, he didn’t have access to my bank account.” My laughter sounds sad, embarrassed. “He told me he was handling rent on the place we shared, told me he’d take care of the car I’d purchased. But then, um, he…cleaned me out? Fucked me over. He was a lousy boyfriend, but an excellent thief.”
“Oh, man. That fucking sucks. I’m so sorry, Mar.”
My cheeks heat. I don’t like revealing my idiocy. Don’t like remembering how foolish I’d been.
