Rawlins #2
“It could be used as the basis for setting the duration of the entire ritual…” Rawlins murmured, picking up on her point, as a grin spread over his face. “You’re brilliant,” he said, kissing her neck while she typed the latest addition to their recipe.
As they neared completion, Rawlins could not help but wish they could publish their results; it was an elegant, interesting piece of work.
Even more, the thought of publishing a paper with his name and Ellsbeth’s sharing a byline brought him a surprising rush of joy.
It was the prospect of winning together, and having someone to celebrate with.
Of course, the illegal (and tawdry) subject matter of their investigation precluded it from ever being shared with the world.
It would need to be their secret, just like their entire relationship.
And while the secrecy had been exciting before—the sneaking around, the stolen glances—he found himself wishing, on some level, that what they had could be shown off in public.
The weekend before the semester was about to start, they could both feel reality coming back toward them, like a train whistling in the distance.
They decided to test the ritual on a Saturday afternoon, creating a circle on the floor in Rawlins’s study, with Ellsbeth, the subject, at the center.
Her eyes stayed on him as he spoke the Latin of the ritual, and then he said the word that would become the trigger; to her amusement, he chose licorice.
Afterward, she fidgeted, nervous. It was unclear if the ritual had worked. “Aren’t you going to test it?” she asked, crossing and uncrossing her legs on the couch, both eager and slightly fearful at what it would be like, if it was successful, to have an orgasm with no buildup at all.
“I’m confident in our work,” he said, and made a show of looking at his watch. “I calculated the duration for eight hours, so we’ve got plenty of time. You should get home and change.”
“Change…for what?”
He feigned surprise at her question, holding back a smile. “For the ballet. I got us tickets for tonight.”
An hour and a half later, they were crossing the snowplowed highway toward their destination, a theater in Bennington.
Ellsbeth sat in the passenger seat in a dark-blue dress, her hair pinned up.
Rawlins worked hard to keep his eyes on the road while her face hovered in his periphery, drawing his gaze with a pull like gravity.
Spending so much time with her lately and studying every inch of her skin for hours in bed had somehow only deepened his attraction; he felt like a scholar whose entire field of expertise was a single person.
As passing headlights framed the delicate curve of her cheek and slid away, two thoughts came to him at once, paired in a way that delivered a shiver of pleasure.
She’s perfect, and she’s mine.
But to speak such thoughts aloud seemed excessive, bordering on psychotic, so he told her simply, “You look beautiful.”
“And you clean up nice,” she replied, reaching across to smooth his tie, fingers drifting down to his waist. It took all his focus to keep his eyes on the road. “So are you going to test it out in the car or make me wait even longer?”
He grinned without turning his head. “I’ve told you before, you need to learn patience.”
Being out in the world together, all dressed up, felt like they were getting away with something.
They hurried through the cold into the theater and found their seats moments before the performance began, a modern staging of Romeo and Juliet; Rawlins had always enjoyed the Prokofiev score and had been eyeing the performance for months.
Sitting in the dark beside Ellsbeth, Rawlins was struck by the sense of belonging that filled his entire being.
They were anonymous as ever, unlikely to encounter anyone from Newlyn so far from campus and while classes weren’t in session.
The self-consciousness of their first dinner date was a distant memory; even if they could not be a couple in any traditional sense, it seemed so natural now to be out in the world with her at his side.
She leaned into him, wrapping her arm around his and leaning her head lightly on his shoulder while the bombast of the music began below.
His hand settled onto her knee, pulling the fabric of her dress up just enough for his fingers to rest on her skin, lightly tracing her flesh.
They both gazed at the stage, but his attention was as attuned to her as he knew hers was to him, their bodies subtly straining toward each other in a shared bubble of quiet affection.
He waited long enough that he hoped she would forget the ritual entirely. Twenty minutes into the show, when he was confident she was caught up in the performance, the music swelled, and Rawlins leaned in and whispered into Ellsbeth’s ear, “Licorice.”
If he had any doubt the ritual had worked, it was dispelled instantly; he heard her sharp inhale, and the faint catch of a stifled moan in her throat; her entire body tensed and she squirmed in her seat.
Her arm tightened around his. She stifled her response enough to avoid drawing attention, but he was thrilled with the rush of power over her pleasure.
“You’re terrible,” she whispered to him in the darkness, and her hand drifted up his thigh, tracing his cock hardening through his slacks.
He did it once more during the show, and again at the final curtain call, forcing her to stay seated a moment longer when everyone else stood to applaud. He glanced back at her as though chastising her refusal to stand, and she bit her lip, shaking her head at his mischief.
He had forgotten how fun it was—or perhaps he had never known—to play like this. To amuse each other. To live with a shared joke, the premise of which was the absurd excess of their mutual desire.
After the performance, they filtered out into the lobby, borne along with the river of spectators headed for the exits, when a voice interrupted. “Ellsbeth?”
Rawlins turned along with her to see a handsome man in an ill-fitting suit.
“Oscar,” Ellsbeth said, clearly taken aback, and then self-consciously looked at him, unprepared to make an introduction smoothly. “This is, uh, my friend…”
“Thaddeus Rawlins.” He offered the young man a handshake, feeling the gaze appraising him as Oscar tried to suss out whether or not this was a date. “Nice to meet you. The…runner?”
“Yes, that’s me,” he said, visibly confused that Rawlins had heard about him at all. He looked to Ellsbeth. “So, uh…how have you been?”
“I’m good!” she said, nervousness making her overly effusive. “Just really busy. During the semester, I mean. Now, it’s nice to have some downtime, right? I like the winter.”
“That’s great,” he said. “I’m more of a summer guy. If I can’t get outside, I go stir-crazy.”
Rawlins watched the way Oscar’s eyes scanned Ellsbeth.
He could see that Oscar’s interest in her had never completely waned; he was testing the waters, uncertain if there might be something to rekindle.
It gave Rawlins a twisting sensation in his gut—not wholly unpleasant, but primal.
Jealousy, he realized. The recognition of a rival.
“You might have seasonal affective disorder,” Rawlins said, keeping his tone friendly. “Weeks without seeing the sun takes a toll.” He shot Ellsbeth a sideways glance. “You should get a blue-light lamp. Perk yourself up with a piece of fruit or candy. Personally, I’m fond of licorice.”
The word had its intended effect. Ellsbeth closed her eyes briefly and swallowed hard, her body responding to the shock of the sudden orgasm while she did her best to hide it.
“Yeah, maybe,” Oscar said, puzzled by Rawlins’s suggestion and sensing a shift in Ellsbeth, though he seemed to have no idea what was happening.
“Well, it was great running into you,” Ellsbeth choked out, giving a friendly wave in an evident effort to avoid a hug before breaking off. Rawlins nodded a farewell to Oscar and followed her into the crowd.
“Terrible,” she said once they made it outside, but he could see she was barely suppressing a smile.
He shrugged. “If we run into one of my exes, you are welcome to do the same.”
“He’s not an ex. We went on, like, two dates,” she replied. “Which only made me realize how much I wanted you. And for the record, your ex is running the department. You really want me to humiliate you in front of her?”
He raised his hands in a mea culpa. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
She looked at him incisively. “It’s okay. I like seeing your possessive side.”
“I am definitely not possessive,” he replied. But it was undeniable at that moment that he wanted her to belong to him completely—and he felt both the joy, and the fear, that came along with that realization.