Hard Facts by Penny Clarke

23

Grayson

“West quad?”

“Too muddy. What about the stadium?”

“Ugh, that’s so boring. And you know guys from the team will be there, and you’ll get distracted teaching Cooper how to perfect his throw—”

“It went just a bit too much to the left at the last game—”

“Distracted. What an ironic use of the word,” I announce, tapping my pen against my notebook. “Considering it’s exactly what you’re doing now, Natalie.”

She glances up from her phone. Cross-legged on the edge of the bed in running shoes and pink hair in a bun, she grins at Morris’s back. “Oh, no, Theo, did you hear that? We’re being distracting.”

“Somebody needs to study,” Morris’s muffled voice replies in the same dramatic tone from the closet.

“We’re ruining his concentration.”

“We’re so bothersome.”

“You guys are dicks, that’s what,” I slam my textbook shut as they cackle at each other. Opening my laptop, I decide if I can’t study, I can at least check on my latest midterm grades.

A towel flies out of the closet, landing over the back of my desk chair—and why the fuck is it damp? Morris finally emerges from the closet, tugging on a lightweight running hoodie. I make a show of picking the towel up by two fingers and dropping it in the laundry basket.

Morris rolls his eyes. “This is freshman year all over again, isn’t it? ‘Morris, your protein shake was point-two-four millimeters on my side of the mini-fridge, so I threw it out’.”

“You intentionally put it on my shelf.”

“And I still allege that Nat did it—”

“How dare you even insinuate such a thing,” Natalie scoffs. To me, she says, “If you’re so annoyed that we’re here, then why don’t you go to your girlfriend’s?”

I stub my toe on a navy-and-gold football helmet, and the pain saves me from having to respond.

Because I’m kind of avoiding Summer.

Morris raises an eyebrow at my non-answer, but says nothing. And I know he’s wondering about our bet. Whether or not he’s close to winning it. I look away from him.

“Speaking of,” Natalie pats the bed. “You’ve cleaned these sheets since you guys boned here, right?”

“Out,” I point at the door. “Both of you.”

Morris searches for his running shoes. I grab them from the top of my dresser and toss them into the kitchen. One smacks into the coffee maker Spencer bought Kennedy, though I’d been aiming for the sink, and I earn another eye roll out of Morris.

Natalie ushers him out the door, cutting him off from remarking on my childishness. “Here’s what we’re gonna do. We’ll start down Cedar. Make a pit stop at the stadium—but only long enough to run the track, I’m serious, Theo. Then we’ll take that road that hooks onto Anderson, past Bourbon Legends and House of Booze—”

“Conveniently ending at Busy Beans.”

“Huh, that is convenient, now that you mention it.”

“We’re not getting donuts—”

I shut the door after them. Then take a look around my room.

Which, as of the storm passing through the other night, is no longer just mine.

On this side of town, the storm cut off power, leading to the inevitable failure of our house’s sump pump mechanics. Even after I’d been able to figure out how to get it working again, the damage had been done. Luckily, working together, we’d salvaged most of Morris’s things from the flooded basement, and even now, I hear the hum of several dehumidifiers below, drying it out. Save for larger items like his bed and the entertainment system, all of which his dad has already ordered to be replaced, everything else…

Wound up here. In my room. Football gear and athleisure clothing and gym bags littering my floors and closet. Rolls of athletic tape and an assortment of cold packs crowd my bathroom counter. An overwhelming amount of Natalie’s crafting supplies and projects, meaning there’s glitter up in every square fucking inch.

With an aggravated huff, I slump in my chair, knocking over three water bottles from the desk. How many fucking water bottles can one fucking guy own?

Leaving them on the floor, I return to my computer. Here I thought it was bad with Rylie and Levi popping up naked where least expected, or having Spencer’s creaking bedframe overhead. But this…

I’m at my wit’s end.

And the one place where I would go—my Fortress of Solitude, as it were—well, I’m not going there.

I can’t go there.

Because if I go there, then I have to relive those memories. The storm. The window. Summer’s mouth on me. Her pewter eyes, lit by lightning and desire. All those words. That mouth. Every last desperate, devastating thing she said while I’d tasted her. Her body, all arching curves under my hands. And that fucking mouth.

I’m terrified it will happen again.

Because once is an aberration. Twice is a pattern. And if I fall into a new order, of wanting her and needing her, of putting aside all reason and logic, while we veer right towards not only the end of this semester, but the finality of our arrangement…

Where does that leave me when it’s over?

I shake my head, clicking on a bookmarked tab on my computer. I can’t think of it any more. I need to let things cool down between us. To ignore those dark nights where we’d kissed and touched and shared things more real than I dare admit. Better to focus on studying and my grades and the Prescott internship—

Ice runs down my spine. My back. Arms. My blood comes to a complete standstill as I stare at my bioinformatics midterm results.

C.

I got a C.

I wipe my glasses off. Put them back on and—No. I was wrong.

C-minus.

All at once, suffocating heat comes rushing back through my veins. I shove through everything on my desk. Throwing aside more fucking water bottles and textbooks and papers and pens, some of it Morris’s, most of it mine. I need my bioinfo text. My notes. I don’t fucking remember that test, and what questions did I miss and when the fuck did I—

I know what day. The very morning after that night. The night of the storm. The night Summer had her mouth on my dick, and I had my head between her legs, instead of on my studies, where it fucking should have been all along and where the fuck is my bioinfo textbook.

Fuck. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

I know exactly where I left it last.

* * *

Unease washes over me the moment I open the door to Summer’s apartment and I hear her voice, not in the living room or down the hall in her bedroom.

But from the kitchen.

Here’s the thing about Summer and her kitchen: unless it’s to get a drink or one of Francie’s meals or leftover takeout, Summer avoids that area like two south ends of a magnet repelling one another. While my culinary expertise amounts to what I can make in a microwave, Summer’s has been severely neglected after years of housekeepers and personal chefs.

So that she’s in there now feels like a clock’s just been set, counting down to doomsday.

I’m even more aware that something’s wrong when I see her at the marble island, surrounded by an arsenal of rubber spatulas, measuring cups, and wire cooling racks. Carefully, she levels out a scoop of powdered sugar into a bowl, eyes flicking up to barely glance at me before returning to her task. The sunny, daisy-print apron tied around her waist is completely at odds with the black dress beneath it, or the dark look on her face.

“What are you doing?” I frown at a rolling pin.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she clips. “Baking, Rowe. It’s basically chemistry. Read off a recipe. Mix your ingredients. Make something new. Natalie says it’s therapeutic. Or so I heard her say. Because she still hates me.”

She picks up a pan filled with chocolate batter, spins on her heel, and shoves it into the oven with a clatter. Slamming it shut, she stands with her hands on her hips and watches it, as though waiting for it to instantly rise and be ready for her to take out again.

I round the island. “Did you heat the oven?”

Her back stiffens more. She pushes a few buttons. “There. Is it on now?”

“… I think so?”

I come to stand by her side, and we both stare at the stainless steel hunk, unsure if the slight hissing sound from within means it’s working, or it’s about to explode.

“I need to make the frosting.” Sharply, she turns away from me. “How’s the basement?”

“Fine,” I wave it off. She’s cool. Too cool. Practically glacier, as she picks up a paper recipe from the counter. “Listen, Summer, about the other night—”

“No,” and her voice is thick with feeling. The recipe shakes and she lays it flat, reaching for a sauce pan and a stick of butter. “I didn’t text. I didn’t call. I gave you time and space to process that night. But if you’re about to tell me that you regret it, or that it won’t happen again, or how nice it was, then walk right back out the fucking door.”

She sets the baking items next to the stove, turning away from me. “I don’t regret it. And it sure as hell felt way better than nice. You’re the one who said we need to be partners. That we need to tell each other stuff. So I’m telling you now. I want—”

I snap, her cold anger riling mine. “Is that why you told me about that photo Hunt Hammond sent you?”

I throw out a hand. Accidentally hit the rolling pin. It clatters to the ground. Summer kicks it across the kitchen floor, before setting her glare on me.

“Is that what this is about?” She leaves the stove. Slides her phone across the island to me. “Check. It’s gone. I deleted it. That same morning he sent it. I never fucking asked for it. Come up with a better excuse. That one’s bullshit. Because the only dick I’m interested in right now is the one you stuck in my mouth the other night. Remember? I couldn’t get enough of it. Still can’t.”

“Sum—”

“Can’t get pregnant from that, Rowe.” She returns to the stove, fiddles with one of the knobs. “Or your tongue in my pussy. There goes another excuse. Try harder.”

“It can’t happen again,” I grit, tightening my arms over my chest.

“I don’t see why not. I want to have sex. With you.” She smacks her palm on the knob. Somehow, the burner flares to life. “Or is that you don’t want to have sex with me?”

My teeth clench, a vein twitching in my neck as my blood pressure rises.

She gestures over her body with the other. “I’m good for a high hookup, or maybe to suck you off, but you’re not actually attracted to all this, right? I’m not your type. I’m not the girl you notice. Fuck, you didn’t even want to kiss me at first.”

There’s an accelerating force in my chest when those pewter eyes meet mine, blazing and beautiful in mercurial temper.

I don’t notice. I don’t notice. I. Don’t. Notice?

When I notice every fucking damn thing? Her eyes and her hair, and every pair of heels she’s ever worn, and all those dresses with their floral patterns, and those curves and her lips and the way she felt under me and her taste and her moans and all those. fucking. curves—

I pinch my nose, trying to remain calm. Now’s not the time to fly off the handle. Because I can’t give in to those weighty emotions in my chest. I can’t risk everything on—on something I’m not completely sure about. Something I don’t know I can’t absolutely win.

“I got a C on my bioinfo midterm,” I tell her.

That, if anything, only sets her off more.

“And there it is.” Carrying the bowl of powdered sugar to the stove, she picks up the sauce pan and claps the two together in a metallic clang. “I’m a distraction. Never mind that you probably didn’t get a wink of sleep that night because you were busy helping your roommates. No, it’s because of a blowjob that you couldn’t focus.”

She throws the sauce pan down. It bangs the edge of the stove and crashes to the floor in a loud clamor. Hitting my foot when I step forward to turn off the burner.

But Summer’s there again, in my face, pushing me back with her bowl of sugar. “Wrap your head around this fact, Grayson: Outside of this university, no one gives a shit. Your grade point average does not define who you are or what you’re capable of. They’re just fucking numbers.”

“I think—”

“You think. Wanna know what I think? I think you think too much. You make me think too much. I think we should just stop fucking thinking—”

I see it in slow motion. Summer. Throwing her hands up. Powdered sugar, sailing from the bowl in a cloudy arc. Over the stove. The burner. An open flame.

And I know, in a moment, the science. The chemical reaction that happens next.

Fine powder, small particles. Spread over a large surface area. Oxygen. Fuel. A single spark. And in a flash of heat and light and energy—

It explodes.

Summer screams. I grab her arm. Throw us both to the floor. Shield her body with mine. She squirms under me and I have to check, I have to see, is she, is she okay and fuck fire, there’s fire and—

“Extinguisher, I need—” But Summer’s already shoving it in my hands, having yanked the red metal cylinder from a nearby kitchen cabinet. I rush to my feet, shove her behind me. Aim the nozzle low. Squeeze. Sweep over the flames.

Until they’re all gone, leaving only a scorched black smudge on the kitchen wall. Adrenaline fading, my hold on the fire extinguisher loosens, and it slips to the floor, among the wreckage of Summer’s baking attempts.

Breathing hard, I check on her. Leaning against the island on shaky legs. Eyes wide, sugar in her hair, on her forehead. But she’s fine. She’s okay.

She’s beautiful.

And I’m a fucking idiot.

It comes rushing back—all that adrenaline. Those chemicals. Surging through my veins, as rapid and burning and sudden as the fire that had erupted from her impromptu experiment.

I let it course over me.

Push away all my reasons. My bullshit excuses.

I stop fucking thinking.

Of anything but her.

“Francie’s going to flip her—”

I march over. Pull her head to mine and claim her mouth. And I feel—I let myself fucking feel her. All soft curves and soft lips and even softer heart. Because she’s so fucking soft. She doesn’t want anyone to see it. But I notice. I notice every fucking thing. About her. Especially about her.

She moans into my mouth. Clasps my head. Tugs my hair in a desperate grip. And I hold her just as strongly. Winding my arms around her and holding her as close as two bodies can possibly fit together.

I undo the apron tied around her neck. The back knot’s more stubborn, and I stop kissing Summer long enough to turn her around. Caging her against the kitchen island with my hips, grinding my hardening erection into her ass.

“Gray—” she moans.

“I like when you say my name like that,” and I rip at the knot. Untie it and yank the apron off her. I clasp her back to my front, brushing blonde curls from her neck so I can slant a kiss over the skin there. “Like there’s no one else you want more.”

“There’s not,” and I reward that by nibbling her earlobe. Squeezing her hips, I push her back to meet my gentle thrusts.

There’s another knot. On one side of her waist, holding her dress together. I give it a few teasing plucks. But then I slow down. Bury my head in the crook of her neck and inhale the rosy scent of her perfume. “I like that you like bees and old people and foster kids. That you work hard for those who don’t have it so easy.”

One of her hands lifts to cradle my head against hers. We stand together for a moment, holding each other in a tight, tender embrace. And she turns her head. Kisses my temple. My forehead. My eyebrow. Anywhere her lips can reach, until I lift my head and bring my mouth down on hers.

It doesn’t take long for that kiss to heat us up again. For her tongue to coax that stirring ache in my cock when I think of where it had been last. Licking my cum off her lips. Begging me for more. And I know, I just know, I’m going to make her do that again. Over and over. Until she’s drained me of all my senses.

Plucking at that knot again, I pull away from her lips. “I like that I have no idea what’s under this dress.”

“Why don’t you find out?” she murmurs. So, with a pleased growl, I unravel that knot. Peel back the gauzy material to see only a lacy bra and thong.

I smooth my hands over her bare skin. Over her soft belly. Then lower. Into that tiny scrap of fabric hiding her from me. As my fingers find her heat, she gasps and pushes herself into my palm.

“You’re right for calling me out. For telling me when I’m being stupid,” I whisper gruffly in her ear. “But if you think I don’t notice you—”

“Then why—”

“It’s called being subtle, Summer. There’s plenty of you to admire without ogling you like you’re just a pair of tits. Although…” I kiss her shoulder, making her whine when my hand leaves her panties to travel up. With both hands, I squeeze her breasts, rolling her pebbled nipples through the thin lining of her bra. “I really like these. And your ass. Your hips. That mouth—Fuck, I can’t get enough of your mouth.”

We lock lips again, moaning in agreement as I play with her body. Listening to Summer’s cues every time my hands move. Her soft gasp when I pinch each nipple. The glitter of excitement in her eye when I bring one hand to my mouth, before sinking my wet fingers back under her thong. That deep groan of satisfaction as I simultaneously caress her clit and her breast.

“Do you know how many times—how often—I stroked my cock thinking of that mouth?” And when she asks how many, I kiss her with a debauched grin. “No fucking clue. I stopped tracking it. Felt like every fucking minute, I was thinking about it. About you.”

She tears herself away from me with a frustrated growl. For a moment, I’m confused. But then she lets her dress fall off her shoulders, unclasps her bra, and pushes her thong down in a rush. Naked, she leans on the marble counter, sticking her ass out.

“Grayson James, you need to fuck me. Fuck me right now.”

Needing no more prompt than that, I take off my own clothes. Seams rip as I pull my shirt over my head. I push down my jeans only to realize my shoes are still on. Summer giggles as I fall to my knees, tripping over my feet in my rush to take everything off at once. She’s still laughing when I give her a quelling look, only to pause when I’m met with the ample curves of her ass.

I don’t even think. Gripping those sweet round cheeks, I open my mouth and run my wet tongue over her hot slit. Her laughter instantly evolves into a hitching gasp as my tongue discovers her clit. Ends on an uncontrollable shriek of pleasure the more I eat her out from behind. I pull back. Rub over her folds with one hand, before sinking my thumb inside her. Fuck, so wet. So hot and wet. For me. All for me. Just for me. I watch as she throws her head back, blond curls spilling over her shoulders, and I fist my cock inside my shorts as she cries to the ceiling.

“Give me your cock,” Summer pleads. “I need it, Gray. I need to feel you.”

I stand up, letting my hand drop from her pussy to squeeze her ass. “Condom?”

“Purse,” she mumbles desperately, knocking measuring cups and a whole bag of flour off the island as she searches for it. “Where’s—I have some in my—Where the fuck is my purse?”

I spot it. On the coffee table. So I turn Summer back around and lift her into my arms.

“Holy shit, Gray,” she gasps, wrapping her legs around my waist as I hike her further up, hands gripping her ass. I carry her to the living room, but one of my pant legs is still caught around my ankle, and Summer’s wiggling in my grasp, pressing kisses to my neck, my lips, bumping my glasses, clasping my shoulders and—

We go tumbling over the back of the couch. Slide right off the cushions to the carpet. My hand catches the edge of the coffee table, and that flips. Sending her purse and my bioinfo textbook and a vase of flowers crashing down over us.

Summer squeals with laughter. “You are wrecking my apartment!”

“Me? You started a fire—”

“You made me so mad I tried to bake—”

And I kiss her, until we’re both laughing too much to kiss. So Summer grabs her purse, rifling through it. Taking too long. I grab it and upend the whole thing. Shaking out makeup and pens and even an extra pair of heels—how much fucking stuff is in this thing, anyway?—until finally, fucking finally, it gifts us what we want.

Summer grabs the condom as I peel off my shorts and the pants around my ankle. When I return, she takes me in hand, rolling the rubber over my cock with smooth, deft movements. I kiss her breasts, leaning forward. Watch her face, slackening in pleasure as I push slowly inside her. I retreat, before I’m fully seated. Drawing out her slick desire, making sure she’s ready for more, before sinking in even deeper.

“Hard… Fuck me hard…” she breathes against my ear, meeting me. “You’re so hard, Gray. So fucking hard inside me. Fuck, you feel good.”

And fuck, I almost shoot my load, right then and there. As she arches her back, tilts her hips, and takes me to the hilt. I clench every muscle inside my body, and silently recite mathematical equations. Pythagorean theorem. Quadratic formula. Logarithms. Second law of thermodynamics. Euler’s motherfucking identity.

That feeling passes. Enough for me to keep moving. To slide my cock into wet, tight, heat. Fuck, she’s so hot. So warm on my cock. Warm and wet and fuck, how easily, how eagerly, she meets each of my thrusts. And fuck, it’s—I’m close, I’m still so close already.

But she’s not. I know by her voice. That she’s nowhere near as close as I am, and I—I can’t let this be a repeat of what happened last time. Or the time before it. I need her to come first. I need to see her come before I can let myself go.

“What, why—Oh, fuck,” she whines as I leave her. Slide down her body and kiss her, right on her clit. And I know exactly what to do this time. What she likes. What she taught me the last time I tasted her like this. Drag my tongue there. Nestle my mouth like that. Fuck, dive right in. Smother myself in her wet heat, lapping up the taste of her sweet pussy. Focusing only on those breathy moans and sighs, ever increasing, building her up, sending her over the edge…

Until she yanks me up by the roots of my hair. “No, no, no, not like that.”

“What? What’d I do wrong?” I lift my head, adjusting my glasses to try and see her through foggy lenses.

“Nothing, fuck, Gray, you’re amazing,” she pants, cheeks flushed and breasts rising and falling hard. “But I don’t want to come like that.”

And when her eyes fall to the throbbing length between my legs, I know exactly what she wants. I sit up. Rub the hard tip between her folds. “Like this? You want this cock?””

“Yes,” she growls, reaching down to stroke me. To make sure the condom’s still in place, as she guides me lower, lower… We both moan as she pumps me inside her pussy again.

Summer pulls me down on top of her. There’s another floral hint mixing in the air with her rosy perfume, with the musky scent of sex. I glance over her head at dark burgundy blooms over her head. The flowers from the coffee table, fallen from their vase, water soaking into the rug.

Chrysanthemums, I distantly recall. Panting, I hold myself over Summer, buck my hips into hers, and say, “Chrysanthemums, Summer… Are a type of firework. My favorite kind. All big and bright and bursting—fuck. I want—I want to make you—”

“Explode?” She wraps her arms around my shoulders. Gathers me closer, until I feel her breasts and her hips and all those beautiful curves crushed under me. As close as we can get. “Do it, Gray. Make me come. Make me come with that hard cock.”

Crying out, I drive myself into her. Focus all my attention, all my powerful plunges, into drawing out more of those sweets moans. She digs her nails into my ass, holding me fast to her, brushing against her clit with every penetration.

The night of the storm… Our stargazing in my bedroom… Every kiss where we’d pressed this close, before abruptly ending before it went too far. Those had all been preludes. Firecrackers. Mere sparklers. Bright bursts, dazzling in their showery sparks. But over at a moment’s notice.

And how could I ever have sustained myself on their brief, fleeting light, when I could have witnessed the absolute spectacle that is Summer coming apart under me? Her pleasure escalating, strengthening, and intensifying in magnitude. Saving the best for last. A visual and lyrical sensation as I pound my cock into her. Tensing and clenching around me, hissing and humming and bursting with awe. I rush to meet her. Feel my cock swell and her body tense, and together, we careen in an explosion of sparks and vivid, blazing heat.

After, I brush my mouth down her neck. Kissing and appreciating her body for bringing such pleasure to mine. She pets the hair at the nape of my neck, pressing her cheek into mine, before I roll off her and fall to my back on the floor beside her.

“Only four girls, right?” Summer asks after catching her breath. “Because that… Fuck.”

“Yeah, well,” I nod, even though she’s staring at the ceiling and can’t see. “When you’re not having sex, you imagine it happening. A lot.”

“With me?”

“Definitely with you.”

She giggles, shifting to lay her body along mine. One of her hands comes to rest on my chest, and she watches it rise and fall under her palm. “So I have a theory. More rather, this hypothesis.”

I match her pose, propping my head on one hand and using the other to untangle a lone chrysanthemum caught in her curls.

“I know good sex,” she says. “And this was great sex. But it was only once, right?”

I nod, twisting a blond corkscrew in my fingers.

“But you can’t prove a hypothesis with one test alone. Once doesn’t provide us with conclusive evidence that this was, indeed, great sex.”

“So, you’re saying…”

“This needs further testing. Experimentation, if you will.”

No longer able to hold back my grin, I say, “Let me get this straight. We need to have more sex—”

“A lot more.”

“Right. A lot more sex. For experimentation purposes.”

“For science.”

And I laugh, so content and relaxed and free of any cares but the gorgeous woman smiling right back at me. “I think—”

“Stop it,” she taps my nose. “See what amazing things happen when you stop thinking, Grayson James?” Then, she trails her hand over the hill of her hip. Down to the valley between her thighs. When she brings her gaze back to mine, she grins wickedly. “I have a whole box of sex toys under my bed.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” I get up, helping Summer to her feet, and we pick our way through living room debris towards the hall. “Let’s experiment.”

And we forget everything else. To the point of distraction.

At least, until the smoking remains of her baking endeavors sets off the kitchen fire alarm.