Page 22 of The Equation of Us
She hesitates, then shakes her head slowly. “No.”
My heart rate kicks up. I should say something neutral, something safe. Instead, I hear myself ask, “What did Daphne tell you? Exactly?”
Nora’s eyes widen slightly. “What?”
“In the tutoring center,” I clarify. “You said you heard her talking about me. About why we broke up. I want to know what she said.”
I’m playing with fire. I know it. But I can’t stop myself.
Nora swallows, her throat working. “She said… that you were intense. That you like control. That you—” she pauses, searching for words “—that you give orders. In bed.”
Her voice gets quieter on the last part, but she doesn’t look away.
“And that made you curious,” I say, not a question.
She nods, the movement almost imperceptible.
“Why?” I ask, even though I should stop, should change the subject, should remember all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Nora takes a deep breath. “Because I’ve never been with someone who wanted…” she hesitates, searching for the right words, “…a power dynamic like that. Someone who would just let me shut my brain off and feel.” Her voice gets quieter, but her eyes stay locked on mine. “And I started to wonder what it would be like.”
The admission hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning. And my cock twitches in my pants.
I lean forward slightly. “And you think I could give you that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Could you?”
I’m looking at her mouth now, can’t help it. Her lips are slightly parted, her breathing shallow. I want to taste her so badly it’s a physical ache.
“Yes,” I say, my voice rough. “I would.”
She makes a small sound, almost inaudible. Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up.
I’ve never wanted to kiss someone more in my entire life.
But before I can move, there’s a loud bang in the hallway, followed by a swell of laughter. The sound of a group of studentsreturning from dinner, oblivious to the moment they’ve just interrupted.
The spell breaks. Nora blinks, looking away. I lean back in the chair, putting space between us.
“We should, um,” she gestures to her laptop, “probably get back to the project.”
“Right,” I agree, even as every cell in my body screams in protest. “The project.”
She tucks her hair behind her ear again, her movements slightly jerky now. “So, for the experimental design…”
We spend the next hour working on our proposal, methodically avoiding any hint of what just passed between us. We’re professional, focused, productive. On the surface, nothing has changed.
But everything has.
Because now I know that Nora Shaw wants exactly what I want to give her. Now I know that beneath her careful control is a hunger that matches my own. Now I know that she sees my intensity not as a flaw, but as a promise.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
When I finally leave her room at 9:45, our project outline is complete, our bibliography formatted, our timeline established. Everything is neat, organized, and accounted for.
Except for the unspoken thing between us.
The thing neither of us is brave enough to name.
