***
Zane had been happier about finally finding a game that Akira would play before she killed him six games in a row.
“Best, um, seven out of thirteen?” he offered, leaning against the pool table with a sigh. She laughed. She’d taken off her light sweater a while back, revealing a black tank top, and he wished he could blame all of his losses on the distraction her dark curls brushing against her almost bare shoulders had caused him, but when it came to pool, she was out of his league. She’d even let him break that time, but it made no difference. “Or maybe some Halo?”
“You ready to start shooting me?” she asked, a half smile curving her lips as she finished racking the balls.
“Only virtually,” he drawled. Actually, shooting her wouldn’t be his first choice. Watching the way she moved around the table for the past hour, the concentration on her face, the graceful way she held the cue—and oh, hell, yeah, the curve of her ass as she bent to make a shot, the shadow down the neckline of her shirt—he really wanted to touch her. To taste her. To lift her up onto the edge of the table and take her lips and feel her legs wrap around him and pull him close.
But he knew he couldn’t rush her. She was wary and cautious and even though he’d kept Max away from her, refusing to allow him to try to pressure her into communicating with his dead, Zane still wasn’t sure she wouldn’t just run away one day.
“Physicists ought to be good at Halo, too,” he pointed out. “Pool isn’t the only game where angles matter.”
“Oh, pool definitely isn’t the only game physicists are good at,” Akira replied, placing her cue back in the rack.
“Oh, yeah? What other games do physicists like?” He was watching her, more attention on her legs than on her words, trying to imagine what they looked like under her pants, what they’d feel like if he could touch them.
“Sex.”
He blinked, eyes shooting up to her face. Had she just said that?
“Chemists think it’s all about chemistry,” she said, crossing to him, taking the pool cue out of his hand, taking it back to the rack and putting it away, then returning, even as she continued talking. Her words were casual, conversational, but there was a hint of breathlessness in her voice that told him they were more than theoretical.
“Hormones and pheromones. Some peptides, a little oxytocin, vasopressin, and that’s the whole story. But what do they know? Really, sex is all about physics.”
She was standing in front of him, looking up at him, and whatever she saw on his face, it was right, because she took his hand and with a little smile, started tugging him with her to the other side of the room.
He followed, saying huskily, “I don’t know. The chemistry seems to be working fine for me.” His jeans were abruptly feeling constricting, as she pushed him down onto the brown leather couch.
“That’s because we haven’t started playing with physics yet.” She retreated to the office door, and locked it, then turned back to face him. “You have no professional objections to playing my game in your office, do you?”
The mischief in her smile told him that she knew exactly how unlikely that was. “Not in the least,” he assured her.
“Oh, but—” she paused and bit her lip.
No, no, no, he thought fervently. Don’t change your mind. The attraction he’d felt the day they’d met had deepened over the past weeks: something about her mix of fragility and determination, her stubborn fearfulness, caught him like no one else ever had. He wanted to tease her, to protect her, and to make love to her, sometimes all at the same time.
“I didn’t really come prepared for, um, this type of game,” she continued. “Are you—do you—would you happen to have . . . ?” She tucked her hair behind her ear and tilted her head to the side, looking at him as if hoping he’d read her mind, her cheeks turning slightly pink. “My game requires approved protective gear.”
Oh, hell. He tried to remember if he’d ever had a reason to bring condoms to work and then realized that the travel kit he kept in his desk for quick trips might be stocked. Standing, he crossed to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, found his bag, and rummaged through it, all the while acutely aware of her eyes on him, and of his heart racing. Ah, there.
Holding up the foil wrapper, he said, “Is this what you’re looking for?”
She smiled at him demurely, and his fingers tightened on the wrapper as he felt his body respond with a surge of pure lust. “Exactly.”
She gestured with her head toward the couch and he met her in front of it, dropping the condom onto the end table, as she placed one small hand on his chest. “So what’s wrong with chemistry?” he asked in a murmur, bending his head toward her, intending to kiss her, until she put a finger up and across his lips.
“Not a thing,” she said. “But physics is better.” He let her hold him off, waiting to see where she was going.
“See, physics is about touch, and then movement,” she said, not looking him in the face. She slid her hands over his shirt, and then, one at a time, carefully, slowly, she opened the buttons, as she started to stroke, tracing patterns into his chest, circling her fingers delicately around his nipples and then tracing away, down, down, and then back up again.
She looked up at him, eyes glinting with humor, and he realized that she knew exactly what she was doing to him. “I could tell you all about your sensory system, the way your neurons are transmitting electrical impulses, the ions breaking through the cell walls, but we’ll just focus on friction for the moment.”
“Friction, huh?” He shrugged out of his shirt, letting it drop onto the ground behind him, and then brought his hands to rest on her hips, pulling her a little closer so that he could feel her soft curves. She wiggled against him, just a little, and he closed his eyes, trying to resist the need to go faster. Much, much faster. But he took a deep breath, and let his hands slide up and under her tank top, touching the warmth of her bare skin as she continued.
“Friction,” she said, moving her hands up his chest, “is the force that resists the motion of two surfaces against one another. Too much friction is a bad thing, of course, but just the right amount of friction . . .”
Her hands were stroking, caressing, around his back and down, over his jeans, and then coming back up, pulling his head down to hers.
He followed her lead, reaching down to let her take his mouth with hers, letting his lips open under her searching tongue until he couldn’t resist any longer and began exploring, caressing the soft skin of her lips with his mouth until her head fell back and she let him nibble and stroke his way along her chin and down the taut line of her neck.
“Just the right amount of friction,” she continued breathlessly, “. . . and kinetic energy gets converted to heat.”
“Oh, yeah, I think that’s definitely happening here,” Zane murmured against her skin.
“Mmm.” Her response was wordless, before she took a step back. He let her go reluctantly, but she just smiled, reaching down to the base of her tank top and pulling it smoothly over her head. He closed his eyes, almost in pain at the sight of the black lace bra and her gentle curves, but she was already reaching around herself, unhooking the bra and letting it fall to the ground.
She looped a finger in the top of his jeans and pulled him toward her. “May I?”
“God, yes.”
She laughed, and unbuttoned the first button on his jeans, but then paused. “Maybe we should skip ahead?”
“To?” He reached for the clasp on her slacks, and slipped it free, then pushed the sides off her hips, letting her pants fall to the ground. She stepped out of them and kicked them aside, then stood there, eyes dreamy and thoughtful, dressed only in black silk panties with lace around the edge, and black heels. Her skin was pale and lovely, her dark curls falling around her shoulders, her pupils dark and dilated, and skipping ahead sounded like a really good plan to him. He wanted to bury himself in her, to feel her wrapping herself around him, and every moment he had to
wait was a slow torture.
“Oscillation is always nice,” she murmured, still motionless. “You know what oscillation is, right?”
“Movement?” He used his toes on his heels to pull his shoes off without bending down, then shoved them under the couch with his foot, before moving his hands over hers and starting to help with his own buttons.
“Not just movement. A repetitive variation around a point.” As he let his jeans drop, her hand closed around his warmth. He reached for her, as she added, “I bet you can find a really good place to oscillate.”
“Oh, God,” he groaned, taking her mouth, his hands tangling in her hair as he kissed her, deep, intense, greedy, vitally aware of her hand tight around his hardness, the warmth of her curves so close to him. “I never knew physics was so fascinating.”
She laughed and dropped backward onto the couch, pulling him down with her. He explored her body, touching and tasting her, until oscillation became irresistible, when he reached for the condom.
He paused, fighting for control. “Science class was not like this.”
“Shall I tell you about resonant frequencies?” she whispered, stroking her hands down his back, as he slid inside her.
“It can’t be better than oscillation,” he answered, as he started to move. She felt amazing, so hot, so soft, and he wanted it to last forever. But he also wanted to move, faster, and faster, and to feel her moving with him.
“Oh, but it is,” she said, breathlessly, arching underneath him. “Physical systems have frequencies.” She ended with a gasp as he stroked his hand up her body, cupping her breast, thumbing the taut nipple.
“Mmm-hmm,” he murmured, letting his voice ask the question.
“Frequencies at which they vibrate. Hit the right frequency . . . the resonant frequency . . . and an amplitude disturbance . . . reinforces the energy stored in the system.”
He had no idea what she was talking about. Absolutely none. But he loved her gasping voice, the husky breathiness, and the way her body was responding to his. He moved a little faster, feeling how close he was to the edge, but wanting to make it last, wanting to bring her with him.
“Resonant frequencies make music. Shatter glass. Make bridges collapse. And—ohhh.” He could feel her contracting around him and that was it, that was enough, that was too much, and he let go, feeling himself exploding inside her.
“Yeah, that, too,” she murmured.