17. Matching Malfunction
17
MATCHING MALFUNCTION
Mountain Cabin, Outside Seattle, WA
GRAYSON
Technically, eight days until Valentine's Day, and I'm lying awake at 2 AM calculating the numerical probability of getting any sleep while knowing Rosalind is just down the hall.
The cabin's emergency generators hum steadily, mixing with the storm's white noise to create a soundtrack for insomnia. Every time I close my eyes, I remember how she felt pressed against me, the soft sound she made when I kissed her, the way her hair slipped through my fingers...
"This is statistically inefficient," I inform my ceiling, then immediately wince at falling back on data-speak.
The fire needs checking anyway. At least, that's what I tell myself as I head to the great room, definitely not hoping to run into anyone else who might also be having trouble sleeping.
I'm halfway there when I spot warm light spilling from the kitchen. For a moment, I consider the professional thing to do.
Return to my room. Maintain appropriate boundaries Create an algorithm for optimal sleep patterns...
Then I see her .
Rosalind stands at the counter in what appears to be stolen hotel pajamas, her auburn hair loose around her shoulders as she stirs something that smells like cider. The cabin's emergency lighting casts everything in soft gold, making her look like something from a dream I shouldn’t even be having.
"Can't sleep either?" she asks without turning.
"Sleep is statistically unlikely given current variables." I pause in the doorway, suddenly very aware that I'm wearing nothing but flannel pants and an old Stanford t-shirt. "Though apparently I'm not the only one experiencing optimization issues."
"You're doing it again." She glances over her shoulder, and something in her expression makes my carefully regulated pulse skip. "The robot talk."
"Defense mechanism," I admit, moving closer. "Apparently I resort to algorithms when nervous."
"And what do you have to be nervous about?" But she's gripping her mug too tightly, betraying her own tension.
"Currently calculating approximately seventeen different factors contributing to elevated anxiety levels." I reach past her for another mug, deliberately brushing against her in a way that sure as hell isn’t professional. "Including but not limited to the way you're avoiding me right now."
"How am I avoiding you?"
"Like you're also running probability scenarios about maintaining appropriate distance."
Turning to face me this time, she laughs softly, pushing the cider toward me across the counter. "Is it that obvious?"
"Statistically speaking—" I stop at her look. “Fuck. Sorry. Old habits."
"Try again. Without the data analysis."
I take a breath, then her mug, setting both aside. "I can't stop thinking about kissing you. "
Her pulse jumps visibly at her throat. "Very unprofessional of you."
"Completely inefficient." I step closer, backing her against the counter. "Though lately I'm starting to question my optimization priorities."
"Are you saying the great Grayson Dixon might be wrong about something?"
"I'm saying some variables can't be computed the old regular way.” My hands find her waist as if they belong there. "Like the way you feel right now."
"How do I feel?" Her fingers trace patterns on my chest that absolutely aren't algorithmic.
“Fantastic.” I lean down, brushing my lips against her temple. "Warm." Her cheek. "Statistically significant."
She laughs against my mouth as my lips wander to hers. "You almost made it."
"Old habits," I murmur, then kiss her properly.
This time there's no hesitation, no careful calculations. She makes that soft sound again – the one that short-circuits all my fucked-up wiring – as I lift her onto the counter. Her legs wrap around my waist like they were designed for it, and suddenly all those compatibility metrics seem very far away.
"Wait," she manages as I trail kisses down her neck. "We should?—"
"Be professional?"
"Talk about this."
I pull back slightly, though it takes considerable effort. Her eyes are wide in the dim light, lips slightly swollen from kissing.
"Okay," I say. "Let's talk."
"You first."
"Very efficient of you." But I keep hold of her waist, needing the contact. "Fine. I'll go first. I think I've been wrong."
"About?"
"Everything." I rest my forehead against hers. "All those algorithms, all those carefully calculated compatibility factors... They don't account for this. For the way my pulse races when you laugh, or how I can't focus when you wear those vintage dresses, or?—"
"Or how you kiss me like you're forgetting to calculate optimal pressure ratios?"
"Exactly." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "I built an entire company on the idea that anything, even love, can be quantified, but being with you... It's changing everything I thought I knew about predictions and patterns and?—"
She cuts me off with a kiss that definitely won't fit in any pivot table.
"My turn," she whispers against my mouth. "I think I've been wrong too."
"About?"
"Protecting myself. Maintaining distance. Trying to control everything after Joel..." She threads her fingers through my hair. "Some things are worth making a mistake.”
"Even a robot-obsessed tech CEO?"
"Even him." She kisses me again, soft and sweet. "Though his AI might need therapy after this."
I laugh, then lift her off the counter. She wraps her legs tighter around my waist as I carry her toward the great room, where the fire's still burning low.
"Very caveman of you," she observes.
"I told you before: I’m a man of many talents.”
"Just remember—" Her breath catches as I lay her on the obscenely expensive couch. "No optimization algorithms allowed."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
The fire paints patterns across her skin as I kiss her again, and suddenly all those careful systems and protective walls don't matter.
There's just this. There’s just Rosalind .
Her hands in my hair. My name on her lips. The way we fit together like we were designed for it.
I slide my hands under her pajama top, feeling the smooth, warm skin of her back. She arches into me, her breath hitching as my fingers trace the curve of her spine. I can feel her heartbeat, rapid and strong, matching the rhythm of my own.
"Grayson," she whispers. I love the way she says my name, like a secret she's finally allowing herself to share.
I pull back just enough to look into her eyes. "Yes?"
"Don't stop," she murmurs, her gaze locked onto mine.
I don't need any more encouragement. I slip her top over her head, revealing her in the soft glow of the firelight. She's beautiful, her skin flushed and lightly freckled. I lean down, kissing her collarbone, then trailing kisses lower, until I reach the swell of her breasts. She gasps, her fingers tightening in my hair as I take one pink, pebbled nipple into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue.
Her body responds to mine like we're two parts of a whole, finally coming together. I can feel her heat, her need, and it matches my own. I move lower, kissing her stomach, her hips, before hooking my fingers into the waistband of her pajama pants and sliding them down.
She lifts her hips to help me, a strangled gasp escaping her mouth. I discard the pants, then pause to take in the sight of her, naked and wanting in the firelight. She's perfect, every curve and line of her body calling out to me.
I start at her feet, pressing soft kisses to her ankles, her calves, the inside of her thighs. She squirms, her breath hitching as I get closer to her center.
This close, I can smell her arousal—sweet and musky. I look up at her, meeting her gaze as I press a kiss to her inner thigh.
"Grayson," she whispers again, her voice barely more than a breath .
I don't make her wait any longer. I dip my head, running my tongue along her folds, tasting her. She cries out, her hips gyrating into circles against my mouth, and I hold her steady, exploring her with my tongue, learning what makes her gasp, what makes her moan.
I find her clit, circling it with my tongue as I slip a finger inside her.
God, this woman is everything I didn’t know I needed.
Hot and tight, her body clenching around me as I was meant to be there.
I add another finger, moving them in time with my tongue. Her moans fill the room, her body writhing, twisting and turning beneath mine.
"Grayson," she gasps, her voice urgent. "I'm going to?—”
I don't stop, don't slow down. I want to feel her come undone around me. I want to taste her pleasure.
I curl my fingers inside her, stroking that spot that makes her cry out.
Her limbs lock, her breath sputtering, and then she's coming, her body pulsing around my fingers, her soft sounds of pleasure echoing over the walls.
I ride out her orgasm with her, slowing my movements as she comes down. When she finally stills, I press a soft kiss to her inner thigh, then move up her body, kissing her stomach, her breasts, her neck, before finally claiming her mouth.
I rest my forehead against hers, making sure she sees me. Making sure she knows…that this—that she—is something I’m not sure I can longer live without.
“My God, woman, you're amazing," I whisper.
She smiles, her fingertips sliding up and down my back. "You should see the view of you I have from here.”
I chuckle, then kiss her again. This time, it's slow and deep, and her body responds immediately, her hips lifting to meet me. Her hips find me hard and aching .
I’ve been so desperate, so fucking…needy.
Sitting back on the couch, I pull off my shirt, chucking it across the room. Roz’s eyes roam over my chest, her fingers following the path of her gaze.
Reaching out, I capture her hand, bringing it to my mouth and pressing a kiss to her palm.
"You're sure about this?" I ask, needing to know she's with me, that she wants this as much as I do.
She smiles. “My body has already calculated a 100% certainty rate.”
I grin back. “Well, good. Then we wouldn’t want to disappoint it, would we?”
Standing, I shed my pants and boxers in one quick movement. In only a few steps, I find the convenient ottoman near the coffee table.
I open it. The world’s largest reservoir of condoms greets me. Grabbing one from inside, I turn, heading back to Roz’s slumped body on the couch.
I raise the foil packet. “Alex’s old stash from back in the day.”
She shakes her head. “Boy, do I not want to know the things this cabin has seen.”
“Trust me: It hasn’t seen any of those kinds of things in many, many years. But it is lucky tonight.” I rip open the foil. “Because it gets to see you.”
Removing the condom from the slip, I roll it over my cock, watching Rosalind as she watches me, her amber eyes glowing under the fire’s golden glow.
Her eyes widen as she takes me in, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
I take a step forward.
“One last time, sweetheart. You sure?” I ask, my voice gravely enough to scrub away all shame .
She nods. "Yes. I want this. I want you, Grayson.”
Just those simple words make my already-hard cock throb, and within seconds, I close the distance between us. Rejoining Roz on the couch, I settle between her legs, feeling her heat against me. She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer.
"Please," she whispers, her voice a plea.
I look into her eager stare, holding her gaze as I slowly push into her. She gasps, her body stretching to accommodate me. I go slow, giving her time to adjust, until I'm fully seated inside her.
"You feel incredible," I murmur, my voice barely more than a growl.
She wraps her legs around my waist, drawing me deep enough to make me groan. "So do you."
I start to move, slow and steady, feeling her body mimic mine. It’s like the dance at the gala.
No thoughts. Only rhythm. Only the thrum of our hearts.
Only the subtle strings syncing us together like a samba in our souls.
With Rosalind, I am someone else—something else.
I’m like a fucking animal with no need for numbers.
Acting on instinct, I deepen the stroke. My fingers tangle inside her reddish-brown mane of hair as she bites into my shoulder.
I can feel her breath, hot and fast against my neck. I can hear her moans, soft and desperate in my ear.
I pick up the pace, my body driving into hers. She cries out, her nails digging into my back.
Her body jerks, her full breasts squeezing into my chest.
"Don't stop," she breathes out.
She's close, so close. I want to feel her come undone around me again .
I reach between us, finding her clit with my thumb. I circle it, matching the rhythm of my thrusts. She cries out, her body clenching around me. I can feel her orgasm building, her body spiraling into a sensuous that draws me deeper, grips me tighter.
"Come for me, Rosalind.” The words are as anguished and deliciously tortured as I feel.
And Roz’s body obeys. She comes, her fingertips digging deeper into my skin as she gasps into the open air, her walls tightening around my nearly numb cock. I ride out her orgasm with her, feeling her body squeeze me dry.
It's too much, too good. I can feel my own orgasm building, my body tensing, tightening, muscles locking into place.
“Roz,” I rasp, every ounce of my body feeling owned by the woman I’m inside, “you are everything, sweetheart.”
I thrust into her, once, twice, then groan, my body pulsing, shaking, shuddering with the force of my climax as I come inside her. I can feel her body, warm and snug around me, a subtle whimper falling from her full lips, as I lower my brows to hers, looking into her hooded gaze.
I chuckle, then kiss her again, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“Jesus Christ. That was..." I start, but words fail me.
"Statistically significant?" she suggests with a soft laugh.
I press a kiss to her forehead. "Definitely not something that can be quantified."
"I think we just proved that some things are better left to chance."
I nod, pulling her closer. "I think you're right."
As we lie there, the fire casting warm light over our bodies, there's no room for algorithms or calculations. There's just this – her body against mine, her heart beating in time with my own .
There's just us, together, in a way that can't be crunched into what I now know are insignificant fucking numbers.
Sometimes, the best things in life can't be predicted. Or computed. Or assessed.
But they can be felt.
Absolutely, perfectly felt.