"Good, because I like you being here." He reaches out and cups my chin, running his thumb across my bottom lip. I think he's going to kiss me, and my breath hitches in anticipation, but he switches focus instead. "So, how's school going?"
"Uh, okay." We've mentioned school before, but it's the first time he's outwardly asked me about it like this. "Most of my classes are going well."
"How's philosophy?"
"Terrible."
"Huh." He pulls his hand away from my face. "If it gets too bad, let me know and I'll take care of it."
"You going to take my tests for me? Do my homework?"
"Whatever you want me to do."
A loud chime echoes through the house, and suddenly he's tense again, his back stiffening and shoulders squaring. He sits freakishly still, like he's been turned to stone by Medusa's stare, as the chime rings yet again.
"Pretty sure that's probably the pizza dude at the door," I say.
He cuts his eyes at me as he stands up, mumbling "stay here" before stalking out. I stay where I am, twiddling my thumbs, until he returns with the food. He sets the pizza box on the table with two smaller containers on top of it. Nosey, I pop them open, seeing it's chocolate mousse and tiramisu.
"You like chocolate," he says, waving toward it as if to explain. He got them for me. "Eat up. I need to make a few calls and handle some things."
"You're not going to eat?"
"Not right now."
"Afraid it's poisoned? Because the way you talked to the guy on the phone, I might be a little worried, too."
He laughs as he turns on the TV, turning the volume up, before dropping the remote on the couch cushion beside me. "It's safe. I'll be back in a bit."
He walks out, leaving me in the den alone again.
I eat and flip through channels, eat some more and flip some more, going again and again until I'm stuffed and I've been through every show a few times, settling on some reality program I'm not really paying attention to. I tinker with my phone some more before getting up and strolling around the den, once more migrating to his bookshelves.
I don't know how much time passes—fifteen minutes, maybe thirty—before he strolls in, catching me as I pull an old, worn book off the shelf. Crime & Punishment.
"Good book," he says, sitting down in his chair behind his desk, setting his phone in front of him. "Ever read it?"
"No."
I'm suddenly regretting everything I said to Melody earlier this afternoon. I want to read the damn book just so I don't look like an idiot to him. "Huh."
I return the book to the shelf, my fingertips skimming the spines of those near it. "You have enough philosophy books I think you probably could do my work for me."
"It's an interesting subject," he says. "When you don't overthink it, anyway."
I turn to him curiously. "Do you believe in the death penalty?"
"Yes."
He doesn't even have to think about it.
"Do you think murder is wrong?"
I expect another emphatic answer, an outright yes, but this time he hesitates. "That's too broad of a question. Are you excluding justifiable homicide?"
"Is killing ever justifiable?"
"Of course it is." He gazes at me, and he looks like he wants to say more, but he hesitates again. "Have you heard of the Plank of Carneades? Santino teach you it?"
"No."
"Let's say we're shipwrecked, and we both see a plank floating in the water, but it's only big enough to hold one of us."
"This sounds eerily like the end of Titanic."
He laughs and continues. "You get to the plank first, but knowing I'm going to drown if I don't do something, I shove you off and steal it for myself. Because of that, you die. Was that murder?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
His question makes me pause. "You killed me for the plank."
"Or did I just defend my own life?" he asks. "It's kill or be killed, so yes, Karissa, sometimes killing is justifiable."
"But I wasn't threatening you."
"Maybe not, but you were still a threat."
He stares at me pointedly. I don't know what to say to that. I don't know what to think.
"It's irrelevant in this case, though," he says. "I'd give you the plank."
"Because you couldn't kill?"
"Because I couldn't kill you."
Those words should freak me out, and I do feel a tingle creep down my spine, but I get a strange thrill at the protectiveness in his voice. Every girl wants her very own Jack Dawson.
Slowly, I stroll over to him and climb onto his lap, straddling him in the chair. I wrap my arms around his neck, gazing into his eyes, drinking in the hint of emotion I find.
He's a whirlpool of darkness, and I feel myself getting sucked deeper and deeper into the depths of his abyss.
I'm drowning in him.
His hands run up my back as he pulls me to him for a kiss. I can feel him hardening, straining the crotch of his pants, heat rushing through me at the sensation. To know I have the same effect on him that he has on me is intoxicating. My fingertips tingle with the urge to touch him.
My hands drift down between us. I reach for his belt, fumbling with the buckle for a second before he restrains me. I pull back and start to pout when he undoes his belt, making work of his button and zipper, before pulling me back to him for another kiss.
I don't waste my chance. The second he lets go, my hand slips into his pants and wraps around his cock. I pull it out between us, stroking it as I kiss him back with everything in me.
He's warm, so damn warm. I can feel him growing in my palm, hardening like concrete. My thumb grazes the head, feeling the bead of wetness. I suddenly want to taste it, run my tongue along the slit and take him in my mouth, but he doesn't give me the chance.
He grasps my hips, pulling me toward him, grinding himself against me. "Let me inside of you."
The words make me shiver.
I don't undress, slipping the skimpy fabric of my thong aside, grateful I wore this damn dress, after all. I lift up and sink down onto him, my eyes rolling in the back of my head.
I shift my hips, kissing him deeply, savoring every second he's inside of me. It's unlike any other time, a stolen moment of passion, no rushing for the finish line or desperately jumping hurdles, merely enjoying being in the race. My hands seek out his, our fingers entwining, as he presses them against his chest.
It's the most intimate thing I've ever experienced. Fully clothed, I somehow feel completely exposed, sliced open and vulnerable, yet so, so valuable. The man could snap me like a twig, but he holds onto me like I'm the strong plank, like I'm that lifeline in the water, his means of survival, his only chance of rescue. He holds my hands so tightly my fingers ache, but his face looks relaxed, like he's not worried at all about drifting away.