15. Hartley
CHAPTER 15
HARTLEY
Day 13—Egypt
T here is an eighty-four percent chance I’m going to murder the Wise Asses before we leave Egypt.
It’s one thing for me to talk about maiming Court. I earned that right as part of the Standard Exit Clause that comes with a breakup. (It’s in section 2.A., after The Breakup-er hereby sacrifices any belongings in the Breakup-ee’s possession at the time of the breakup .)
But after barreling into us and injuring Court, the only right the Wise Asses have earned is to sit on a cactus. A huge one with spiny ribs and thorns and cute little flowers on the tips. I’d even volunteer my hairbrush at this point.
Needless to say, Operation: Elimination is still in full swing.
Also, Court never asked for a medic.
Shocking, I know.
Our clue at Bab al-Futuh instructed us to take an overnight train to Luxor. We still had one team behind us when we got to the station, but waiting for a medic would’ve meant missing the next departing train and Court didn’t want to lose our buffer. It was hard to argue with that logic, especially considering he’d be off his foot for the next nine hours.
Oddly, our room in the sleeper car is taller than it is wide. Two beds are anchored to the left wall and there’s a tiny sink and vanity on the right. The last thing we need is Court on a bunk ladder, so I sling my backpack onto the upper bunk and say, “You get bottom.”
With a smile as quick as it is mischievous, he drops his bag somewhere behind him and tugs me to his chest. “You like it when I’m on bottom.” One hand goes around my neck and the other on my jaw. “And on top.” He swipes his thumb across my lower lip. “And from behind, if I remember correctly.”
Sweet mother of Pablo Picasso.
“You have an excellent memory.”
I sound entirely too breathy for someone who had all of her faculties a few seconds ago, but that was before Court was tilting my chin up and brushing his lips against mine, so it’s obviously not my fault.
“Do you know how hard it was not to touch you all day?” he murmurs.
I reach between us and run my hand over the thickening bulge in his shorts. “I have a pretty good idea.”
The low rumble in his chest becomes a sharp hiss when the train lurches forward, shifting my body weight into Court.
“Shit, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just caught me off guard.”
Way to go, Hartley. How about you just stomp on his ankle next time? I step back to avoid another mishap when he pulls me to him again and says,
“Stop beating yourself up.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.” To prove his point, he touches my furrowed brow and the corners of my downturned lips.
“I just feel bad for hurting you. I planned on making you sit down and prop your foot up as soon as we got in here, but then I got distracted by all your”—I circle my finger in front of his body—“and forgot.”
“All my what?”
I fight to maintain my pout because I really do feel bad for hurting him, but it’s impossible when I’m in point-blank range of his adorable, amused smile. “All your sexiness. It scrambles the brain.”
“I see. And, if it makes you feel any better, you were right.”
“About what?”
He lowers himself to his bunk and pulls me onto his lap. “I should be sitting.”
Now here’s the thing about wardrobes for Xtreme Quest: It’s all decided by how well it packs and how well it layers with other items. Generally speaking, the rule is, the thinner and more breathable, the better. So when my hips instinctively rock forward, I quickly learn there isn’t much difference between now and last night because I can feel everything underneath Court’s athletic shorts.
He captures my moan in his mouth, then twists his fingers in my hair and deepens our kiss while I silently thank whoever invented synthetic fabric.
“I have wanted you all damn day,” he says when we finally break apart.
“Same.” I spread my knees, sinking further down, and revel in the appreciative groan he gives me.
“I can already feel how wet you are.”
“So much for moisture-wicking thongs, right?”
“I don’t think they included this type of testing in the product development stage.”
“At least the material is nice and silky. Makes for great grindability.”
“Is that even a word?”
“You tell me,” I say, swirling my hips over the impossibly hard bulge in his shorts.
“It’s definitely a word.”
We’re both smiling when our lips come together again. I’ve always loved that about sexy time with Court. Just because we’re in the throes of passion doesn’t mean we can’t have fun.
Also . . .
“I’m already close.”
“Yeah?”
I nod as an exquisite ache builds between my legs. “I told you, it’s the grindability. And that flexing thing you’re doing.”
“This?” He raises his hips an inch each time I rock back.
“Yep. It maximizes the dick-to-clit friction ratio. Very effective.”
“What if we added another element to your ratio?”
“Like what?”
Grinning wickedly, he slips a hand into my shorts and glides his finger along the crack of my ass.
“Ohhhkay,” I moan. “Yes, I see the value of analyzing this new element for mathematic and scientific purposes.”
“Anything for research.”
“Exactly.”
Desperate for more of whatever he’s doing, I arch my back to give him better access.
“The subject seems to like this ratio,” he says in a researcher voice.
“The subject loves this ratio,” I reply in a pre-orgasmic, scrabbling-for-breath, non-researcher voice .
He gently presses a finger against the tight muscle, and I let out a squeal of pleasure when the tip slides in.
“Early testing of this element shows promise for future experiments.”
“So. Much. Promise.” I anchor my arms around his neck and writhe against his cock, feeling him below me and behind me and everywhere else too.
“That’s it, baby. Ride me until you come.” His researcher voice is now a sexy, gravelly, lust-filled voice an inch from my ear, and I explode on a silent scream. While my body takes orbit in a mathematical nirvana, Court whispers things like,
“Good girl.”
And,
“You’re so fucking sexy.”
And,
“I love watching you come.”
All while doing that hip-flex thing and gently massaging my ass though the aftershocks.
I am now literal putty in his hands.
“We’re gonna need to take a water break,” I say to the hollow of his neck a minute later.
“Oh yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. Any good researcher knows you have to complete the experiment multiple times.”
Rested is hardly the word I’d use to describe ourselves when we roll into Luxor, but we did spend a few hours horizontal without having sex, so at least there’s that. Also, I managed to get two doses of ibuprofen into Court and his ankle looks more like an apple than a grapefruit. As long as we can keep his activity to a minimum today, I think he’ll be back to normal in another day or two.
Our first stop is Luxor Temple. We’re still racing with Boyd and Treva, who shared an essential oil blend earlier this morning that she swears helped her through a sprained ankle at mile forty-two of an ultramarathon. Court mentioned something about defeating Isaac Newton and said he’d take all the help he could get. This also includes manifesting, which means no one is allowed to mention his injury because according to him, his ankle is “just fine. ”
Anyway, Luxor Temple is about ninety-four percent less crowded than Khan el-Khalili and doesn’t sell food, so we’re far less worried about losing Boyd, who is, dare I say... delighted . Seriously. I’ve never seen him smile as much as I have in the last ten minutes. The man has talked in exclamation points since we got here, and you know what? I can’t blame him at all.
Luxor Temple is truly something to behold.
As we move through the ruins, we get what Boyd calls the “ten-cent tour,” which is more like a rundown of facts he’s learned from years of doing school projects on Egypt. Court’s even able to add a few courtesy of his time as a substitute. The best I could do was reciting a few of my favorite lines from The Mummy , and Treva just kept reminding us to stay on task and look for the clue box.
We eventually find it nestled in the Sanctuary. Boyd’s disappointment at having to leave the temple is short-lived when he sees where we’re going next.
Take a water taxi to the West Bank, then make your way to QV66.
“Holy shit,” Boyd whispers when we reconvene after reading the clue for the cameras.
“What’s QV66?” I ask.
He glances at the clue again, and this is when I notice his hands are literally shaking. “The tomb of Queen Nefertari. Remember the statues of Ramses II at the entrance to the temple?”
I nod.
“This is his wife. Her tomb is known as the Sistine Chapel of Ancient Egypt.”
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
The Valley of the Queens is incredibly, astonishingly... beige . Fifty shades of it, as if antiquity knew to save all of Egypt’s colors for what lies below the surface.
I’m buzzing by the time we jog up the dirt path toward Queen Nefertari’s tomb, partly because of what I’m about to see, but mostly from the circles Court traced on the back of my neck with his thumb on the drive out here .
It reminded me of our ride to the airport in Dallas on day one—how wonderful and awful it’d felt being crammed in the back seat together. How I’d analyzed every touch, wondering whether it was intentional. How difficult it’d been to maintain a fa?ade of imperviousness.
For the record, that last one is still a challenge because now those touches are intentional and I’m freshly and acutely aware of how skilled his hands are. I spent the final minutes of this morning’s drive staring at the sea of beige outside and trying not to look like I was praying we’d have a hotel room tonight.
Which I totally was.
“Is this it?” Court asks when we reach the tomb.
“Boyd said it wouldn’t look like much.”
“I wonder if they beat us here.”
“Guess we’re about to find out.”
The small, dome-shaped entrance is as underwhelming as everything else in the valley, and the plain metal door at the bottom of the staircase looks more like an entrance to an underground club in New York City than an ancient burial site.
But the threshold is where the similarities end.
Actually, threshold isn’t even the right word. This is a portal into Egypt more than three thousand years ago.
I gasp when I reach the bottom step and get my first glimpse of the floor-to-ceiling artwork celebrating Nefertari’s life and her journey to the world beyond.
“How is this even real?” I whisper.
Court’s hands come around my hips, ushering me the rest of the way into the chamber to make room for the crew. “I’m wondering the same thing.”
Together we move into the adjacent room, where we find two-dimensional depictions of gods and goddesses and offerings and livestock, each with a table of food. I curl my fingers into my palms to keep from reaching out and touching the walls. It’s no wonder Boyd practically wept earlier, or that people dedicate their lives to the study of ancient Egypt.
“I think this is a good time for one of your five-second appreciation breaks,” I say.
Court breathes out a laugh as he marvels at our surroundings. “We’re gonna need a lot longer than that.”
Everything in the tomb—each image, each color, each design—is steeped in symbolism and has been carefully placed by skilled artists to create a storybook on stone. The Sistine Chapel comparison makes sense now. Even the ceiling— ohmygod the ceiling . I pause halfway down the next staircase to take in the sea of tiny yellow stars painted on a backdrop of deep blue.
“Reminds me of your bedroom,” Court says behind me. “Except that we can’t make any wishes on these.”
I smile at the memory of sticking glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling on our first date. For some reason his kept coming down, which turned into a joke about wishing on falling stars. We must’ve made two dozen wishes that night.
“That’s because they know how to use sticky tack.”
He laughs to himself as we continue down the stairs and into the next room. “So do I.”
“Says the guy whose stars kept coming down.”
“Says the guy”—he steps forward, just shy of invading my space but close enough for me to feel his intensity—“who wanted an excuse to make more wishes.”
I watch him swallow and then do the same. “And did they come true?”
His eyes lose focus over my shoulder and he’s quiet for a good five seconds. I’m about to tell him never mind when he sighs and says, “There’s no ‘they.’”
“What do you mean?”
“It was the same wish every time.” Then, quieter, he adds, “I’m not sure that it’ll ever come true.”
Something in my heart twists at the somberness in his voice. Without thinking, I reach for his hand and squeeze. “Well, whatever it is sounds important, so I hope it does one day.”
He returns his gaze to me, eyes sweeping across my face like he’s searching for an answer to a question neither of us has asked. “I do too.”