I felt myself calm. “No. My feelings haven’t changed. I’m still insane about you. But . . .” I stroked her hair, kissing her temple, inhaling her sweet scent. “I want to be sane about you too.”
4
Atomic Physics
*Mona*
“That takes us through September,” he said, the bed depressing as he claimed his spot on the edge.
I nodded distractedly, again scrolling through the calendar app on Abram’s phone for August and July, hunting for a possible span of time where we might be able to arrange a quick meet-up. We’d both set timers on our phones, a countdown to the moment I’d have to drive him back to the airport using Lisa’s car.
I felt good-ish about February through June, but July and August were still a problem. We hadn’t been able to find even one rendezvous over those two months. Abram would be in New Zealand and Australia and I would still be in Europe. No face-to-face time for over two months felt like a rendezvous dearth of ginormous proportions.
Of note, I did rather like the word rendezvous and planned to overuse it in the future.
“How long is the flight from London to Dubai again?” I gazed longingly at the seven-day period of free time he had between Brisbane and Perth in mid-August. Unfortunately, it just so happened to be the same week as my Spectroscopy Symposium in London, where I’d be presenting at three sessions and moderating two graduate-level panels. Dipping into my parents’ travel fund to visit my boyfriend—especially when international tickets were so pricey—didn’t sit right with me. However, if I skipped avocado toast for the rest of my life, I’d be able to afford the plane ticket.
Abram covered my hand, drawing my eyes back to his. “We’ve spent a half hour on just those two months. Let’s move on to September through November.”
We were situated adjacent to each other on the twin daybed in Lisa’s guestroom. It doubled as a small couch, but I’d left all the throw pillows piled up behind the headboard. I was sitting against the wall, my legs crossed, with just my regular sleep pillow behind my back. Abram sat on the edge, one foot propped on the floor. He stood at intervals to pace while studying the calendar app on my phone.
Keeping it real, Abram’s pacing was a problem, because I loved, loved, loved watching his body move. Which meant that I was staring at him when I should’ve been studying his calendar. He didn’t seem to notice my staring. Or, if he did, he didn’t say anything about it.
“We have to move on.” His brown eyes flickered between mine, and—just like all the other times we gazed at each other for any length of time—I had to remind myself not to tackle him to the ground, rip his clothes off, and kiss and lick and bite every square centimeter of his rock-hard physique.
Especially his bottom.
That’s right. I wanted to sample his bottom. Every time he paced away, little pheromone pixies danced on my pelvis, gleefully, wickedly smashing my concentration into a million pieces of agitated yearning. I wanted to touch it, stroke it, massage it, bite it.
Whew.
Clearing my throat, swallowing, I sucked in a breath and tore my eyes away from his, fanning my T-shirt. “Is it—” I had to clear my throat again because my voice cracked. “Is it hot in here?”
The thing is, I wasn’t this person. No one, not even me, would ever describe me as physically focused, or fixated on touching an attractive or alluring exterior. Ever. I actively rejected external beauty as a contributing factor to how or if or when I interacted with people. I’d never been tactile. I observed. I calculated. I analyzed. I didn’t even like playdough as a child.
But with Abram, I couldn’t stop noticing. I couldn’t stop thinking. I couldn’t stop wanting.
“Mona.”