Page 28 of The Equation of Us

She doesn’t strike me like the type of girl who goes around suggesting fuck-buddy situations very often.

“I think we could try.” She meets my gaze steadily. “We’re both adults. We both know what we want. We set parameters, establish boundaries, keep communication clear.”

Something tightens low in my gut, a hot coil of desire mixed with disbelief. The way she says it—clinical, matter-of-fact, while her eyes hold that challenge—makes me want to show her exactly how far from clinical this could be.

“You make it sound like another research project,” I say, a hint of amusement in my voice.

“Maybe that’s the only way I know how to approach something this… complicated.”

I run a hand through my hair, weighing her words. The logical part of my brain is throwing up red flags, listing all the ways this could go wrong. But another part—the part that’s been aching for her since the first time she looked at me with those clear, challenging eyes—doesn’t care about the risks.

“What are your parameters?” I ask, curious despite myself.

She straightens slightly, and I recognize her organizing thoughts, preparing bullet points. It’s endearing and maddening all at once.

“We keep our academic relationship professional. No mixing the two.” She counts off on her fingers. “We tell no one. Not even Sadie. Especially not Daphne. We’re clear about what this is and isn’t. And—” she hesitates “—either of us can end it at any time. No questions, no hard feelings.”

I consider this. It’s rational, sensible. Exactly what I’d expect from her. But there’s something missing.

“Those are your boundaries,” I say. “What about your desires?”

She blinks, caught off guard. “What?”

“You’ve told me what you don’t want. What about what you do want?” I take another step closer, close enough now that I can see the golden flecks in her brown eyes, the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. “From me.”

Her lips part slightly. “I want…” she begins, then falters.

“Tell me,” I say, my voice dropping lower. “Be specific.”

She swallows, and I watch the delicate movement of her throat. “I want to know what it feels like. To let go. To not be in control for once.” Her voice drops to nearly a whisper.

Her words hit me like a physical force. I’ve been holding back, maintaining distance, but at this—at the naked vulnerability in her voice—something in me shifts.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I say, even as I close the remaining distance between us.

“Then show me.”

My cock twitches in my jeans.

It’s a challenge, and we both know it.

I reach up slowly, giving her time to back away, and cup her face in my hand. Her skin is cool from the evening air, but her cheek warms under my palm. She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. Just watches me with those clear, steady eyes.

“Last chance to walk away,” I murmur.

She doesn’t move. “I’m not walking away.”

I lean in, pausing just before our lips meet. I can feel her breath, quick and shallow, mingling with mine.

“Tell me you want this,” I say. A command disguised as a request.

“I want this,” she whispers. “I want you.”

The last thread of my restraint snaps.

I kiss her—not gently, not tentatively, but with all the hunger I’ve been suppressing for weeks. My hand slides from her cheek to the back of her neck, tangling in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss. My other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her against me.

For a heartbeat, she’s still, and I wonder if I’ve miscalculated. Then she makes a small, desperate sound against my mouth and melts into me. Her arms wind around my neck, her body pressing closer. Her lips part, and the first touch of her tongue against mine sends raw electricity racing down my spine.

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