Page 1 of Never Bound
1
HER
“Whodidthistoyou?”
I noticed the blistering crater on his palm almost as soon as he entered my room on Monday, mostly because he was trying desperately—and not very gracefully—to hide it. Only one question came to mind, of course. But I didn’t ask it.
“It’s nothing,” he said, awkwardly grabbing a pen in a way that made it clear it wasn’t nothing.
But I did let it go. I hated to, but I did. After all, it wasn’t the first time someone had hurt him, and it wouldn’t be the last. And why the hell was I telling myself that to make myself feelbetter?
The burn would simply join the growing list of things I couldn’t ask about, like why he was still convinced Max Langer was the devil incarnate instead of the only guest at that train wreck of a dinner party on Friday who’d treated him with any decency.
And where his sister was. And whether she was okay. And if she wasn’t, whether saving her would in any way involve him running away and leaving me forever. Not that I was trying to be clingy or anything.
Besides, I didn’t want to know the answer. I alreadyknewit. Borrowing more time didn’t make the time any less borrowed. After all, we’d just spent the whole weekend in the same house and hardly saw each other at all.
Sunday usually meant some downtime for the slaves, and I was grateful for it on his behalf, though it hurt that we couldn’t spend it together. However, I’d really outdone myself on Saturday, when I’d reluctantly let Juliette come over to hang by the pool. November in the Valley was still warm enough to lie out during the heat of the day, and flipping through fashion magazines—or my chemistry notes hidden inside a magazine, a certain someone would be pleased to know—was feasible. What was also feasible was choosing a laughably skimpy black-and-white string bikini I’d only ever worn on spring break—far, far away from my parents and the unceremoniously departed gardener. And waiting until my chosen mark passed by the pool on his way to some quite-possibly-fictional chore. Of course I let the strings casually slide off my shoulders as if I’d simply forgotten to tie them.
My only reward for all that feasibility? Watching how fast his head swiveled. But that was more than enough—and what made it especially cute was that the poor guy probably thought he was being subtle about it.
Meanwhile, of course, I was keeping a running mental list of everything I wanted to do to him and for him as soon as we had some unstructured time. The problem was, we never had any. Even when weweren’tbeing blackmailed, the only hours we ever had together were when we were supposed to be doing something else. Plus, we still had five more chapters to review before the exam and only an hour to spare for each, and if you thought sitting at the desk fighting the unbearable urge to touch each other was awkward, try sitting there knowing youcouldtouch each other at any time, and why the hell weren’t you doing it?
“So I know we’ve gone over elimination reactions a million times,” he began professorially after he entered the room on Monday, after waving off my question about his hand. “But you also have to remember that they look a bit different when it’s a modified alcohol like a methyl group, so I want to look over those with you today, and—fuck, that bikini you were wearing on Saturday could fit in a coin purse.”
He barely glanced up from the book, just shook some hair off his face and gave the tiniest, coyest glance back to check my reaction.
I collapsed on the desk in relief. “I was wondering when you were going to say something.” I glanced longingly at the sunburst-shaped wall clock over my bed. “Ugh, how the hell are we supposed to get by with only an hour a day for studyingandeverything else?”
“Well, luckily for you, I lived in Germany, where they know a thing or two about time management,” he remarked, glancing at the clock himself before meeting my gaze with an unspoken proposal. “Also, mach schnell,Fräulein.1Are you ready for this?”
“Ready? I’ve only been trying to do this for the last three days. And I still prefer French.”
He gave me another teasing half-smile as his hand gently took mine, guiding it the rest of the way over the fabric of his shorts and up his inner thigh. He was already hard.
“With you, it doesn’t take much,” he whispered in response to my little bounce of surprise. “And if you’d ever paid any attention to what was happeningunderthe desk, you’d know that.”
“I was trying to concentrate on chemistry, just likeyouwere supposed to be,” I said indignantly.
“Oh, I was,” he assured me. “I’m just saying, there’s no reason why our approach to the material couldn’t stand to be a bit more … holistic.” He glanced at the clock again and snapped his fingers. “Shit. We’re behind. I should have taken it out thirty seconds ago.”
I giggled as he immediately reached down and took care of that. After some adjusting under the desk—no peeking—I found my fingers curled around the hard, solid length of him. Time seemed to stand still in the silent room as I let it sink in. And he just let me cup it there as if the weight of my fingers was, for now, just enough to make him perfectly happy. As for what came next, though?
“I—”
“Stop.” He put a finger to my lips. He must have sensed something—my hesitance, my performance anxiety, my sexual imposter syndrome. “Is this your first one?”
“Well—” I blushed.
“Yes? No? Sort of?” He tried to help me along.
“Sort of.”
He nodded with finality. “Okay. We can work with that.”
“But I want to make it good for you.”
He folded his hand—his unblistered hand—expertly over both of mine, guiding the movement of my fingers. I flexed and curled them as I brushed up and down that magnificent sculpted shaft that it would be a crimenotto touch.
