The Theory of Attraction (17 page)

“Hold them up,” he said in a hoarse voice.

I scooped a hand under each boob, lifting them up a little, not sure if that was what he wanted.

And then with a gasp, he was shooting hot jets of come all over my breasts, working himself more and more carefully until he was done. Still panting, he lowered one hand again, swiping his fingers through the stuff on my chest and spreading it over one nipple. Little circles, ringing the already hard bud, drawing my notice to the fact that I was ravenously aroused.

Ivan lifted the goo-covered fingers to my mouth next, watching as I licked them clean. He pushed them in a few times, fucking my mouth with them, and I saw his cock twitch at the same time a sharp thrill of need made me squirm in frustration.

“I didn’t even slip and crack my head open,” Ivan murmured, looking pleased but amused with himself.

“No. Why? Was that a possibility?”

He helped me to my feet and we shared the task of rinsing off. “It’s always a possibility. Most accidents happen in the home. Bathrooms are the most dangerous room of all. You should always be alert and cautious, which is why I never masturbate in the shower. Until today.”

“Wait. This was the first time you ever did that? Seriously?” I could tell the scene was over, and I didn’t even bother with calling him Professor. I was starting to get better at reading his mood about that.

Ivan nodded as he shut the water off and opened the door, handing me a towel. “It’s always scared the crap outta me. I live alone. If I fell and got badly hurt I’d be screwed.”

“
That
was your scary thing?” I still couldn’t quite wrap my mind around that one.

“Are you…judging?”

“No,” I assured him quickly. “Everybody has different things that bother them. It’s cool.”

But as we ventured back downstairs to watch a movie, I couldn’t help but wonder about Ivan’s ability to cope in the real world, and how reliant he was on the few people to whom he was close. If I hadn’t come along, would he have
ever
gotten up the nerve to jerk off in the shower? Surely that was standard behavior for guys.

Ivan, of course, was far from a standard guy. And I reasoned with myself that jerking off in the shower was not exactly a social coping behavior. Not something he’d ever be called on to do out in the big, scary, real world. Or at least I certainly hoped not.

* * *

We were in our usual places Thursday night, watching television, when Ivan popped the question.

“Will you come with me tomorrow night?”

I hadn’t expected him to ask, and it took me a second to respond. “Um…like as your coach, or a date, or—”

“In whatever capacity.”

“Sure. How dressy is it?”

“I have no idea, for a girl. I’m wearing a suit and tie, if that helps.”

It did. I was already thinking of my options. Buying something new was out, but I could make do.

“We kind of got off track. Me helping you, I mean.” It wasn’t an apology, but I did feel a little bad. The sex had sidetracked us, and although we’d tried to keep covering social interaction, we usually seemed to cut it short in favor of studying our own interaction. Which was more fun, naturally, but probably not helping Ivan get through his party obligation any more successfully.

“No. I think this has helped, in a way,” he said. “I’ve done more spontaneous things these last few weeks than I ever have in my life. Plus I’m definitely more relaxed.”

That part wasn’t too difficult to understand. We were screwing like bunnies, no matter what other bells and whistles we added, and that tends to ease anybody’s tension.

“So what have you learned, then? Do you have your index cards handy?”

Ivan chuckled. “No, I’ve memorized them. Little white lies, know the context, use transitions and don’t interrupt. Pretend I’m interviewing a new sub at the club, but don’t try to make them talk about something that’s a downer. Since you’ll be there, are you going to give me some kind of signal about that, by the way?”

“I’ll fiddle with my earring or something. It sounds like you’ve got it all down. In theory, at least. The main thing to do is stay calm. And when in doubt, shut up. People like talking about themselves. So let them do that whenever possible.”

Ivan frowned. “I hate talking about myself.”

“Well, I’m still not convinced you’re actually people, honey.”

“I’m a superior mutation?” He seemed eager to embrace the possibility.

“I was thinking more like an alien or a pod person. But sure.”

“Superman was an alien. I could live with that.”

I shrugged. “I always preferred Clark Kent.”

He waggled his eyebrows at me. “I always suspected that Clark Kent was the real personality, and—”

“Superman was the disguise,” I chimed in. “Exactly. Lois was such a fool.”

“Maybe not. Superman was duplicitous, so you can’t blame her for falling for his lies. But at least she knew what she wanted.” Ivan shrugged. “She wanted the hero.”

Chapter Eleven

Friday was surreal, as my day was a mixture of preparing for the fundraising event and preparing for a tropical storm. The thing was winding up in the Gulf, supposed to make landfall Saturday night, but the weather was already getting strange and the tension in town was running high—ever since Hurricane Ike, Houstonians had been particularly edgy about big windstorms. The local news was full of warnings and retrospectives. I had already secured two five-gallon water jugs earlier in the summer, which meant my main preparation consisted of double-checking the first aid kit and camping gear, and stocking up on some canned goods on my way home from work that afternoon.

At home I watched footage of people reminiscing about the hurricane, while I painted my toenails a soft pink. The constant drone of the news and weather reports served as background noise while I ironed the dress I’d picked out. A white and hot-pink floral sleeveless, with a modern flair that somehow saved the pink from looking too girly-girl.

It bordered on too casual but had the tremendous benefit of being a cotton-linen blend, and therefore much cooler than any of my other options. The air felt heavy and sodden, weighing like a damp, hot blanket over the entire city. As soon as I walked outside I knew I’d be covered with sweat that had nowhere to evaporate in the saturated air.

Still, I was happy with my appearance overall. The dress fit nicely and didn’t tend to wrinkle too badly. I’d curled my hair a little at the ends, knowing it would be futile to straighten it, given the humidity. It draped in soft, dark blond waves that swept past my shoulders. Silver sandals, pearl earrings, and I was all set.

I critiqued my look in the full-length mirror and decided I looked the part…whatever part I was supposed to be playing at this function. I still wasn’t really sure. Doting girlfriend, social coach, sex slave? Probably not that last one. Future faculty wife?

Where the hell did that come from?

I didn’t have time to analyze it. Giving myself a last once-over and pronouncing myself as ready as I’d ever be, I grabbed my purse and headed out the door.

* * *

Ivan cleaned up well. He looked so good in his suit and tie, I found myself wondering what he’d look like in a tux.

“White lies, context, don’t interrupt. Use transitions, when in doubt shut up,” Ivan muttered as we abandoned his car to the valet and walked to the department chair’s front door.

“It rhymes,” I realized. “Kind of, anyway.”

“You interrupted me,” he admonished. “Now I have to start over. White lies, context, don’t interrupt. Use transitions, when in doubt shut up. Interview a new sub, but don’t bring down the whole club. Pause because you can’t rewind; true, necessary, kind.”

I squeezed his hand. “You’ll be fine.”

The party was already in full swing when we walked in. In this case, full swing involved soft Latin jazz in the background, a sophisticated babble of conversation, and a sea of nearly identical dark suits broken up by dresses like colorful tropical islands.

“Oh, and remember to smile,” I threw out at Ivan as he steered me toward a tight cluster of suits accented by a peacock-blue dress. “But not too much.”

He shot me an exasperated look, but at least I’d distracted him from the extreme tension I’d sensed as he neared the group, which included his boss.

“Dr. Reynolds,” the older man said as we approached, “I’m pleased you could make it. And who is this?” I caught the flicker of surprise when he realized I was actually there
with
Ivan.

“Dr. Donovan, Mrs. Donovan, this is my friend Camilla Novak.”

I shook hands and exchanged meaningless pleasantries with the Donovans—she was the peacock-blue dress, and she seemed to view Ivan with new interest since he’d arrived with a girl on his arm—and with the three other suits they were talking to. The names went in one ear and out the other, but I gathered that two of them were alumni, so I did my best to be charming in hopes it would set a good example for Ivan.

He did very well, better than I’d expected. Other than a few too many repeats of “So I was thinking…” he managed to converse at least as well as anybody else in the decidedly nerd-heavy crowd. He remembered his manners, introducing me as he went along—”My neighbor, Camilla…My friend, Camilla…This is Camilla, she works for Dr. Agatha Spiers…”

Never “my girlfriend, Camilla.” Never “my date, Camilla.” I wasn’t aware I’d expected to hear anything like that, until I
didn’t
hear it and felt disappointed. The party kept me too busy to think too much about it, though.

Over the course of the evening, I decided that Ivan wasn’t nearly as unusual as I’d thought. It seemed at least half of the astrophysicists there were as hyper-focused and introverted as he was, and most of them didn’t even have the looks to compensate for the lack of social ability. I couldn’t help thinking of a bunch of subterranean dwellers, reluctantly emerging into the open-air world to participate in this bizarre ritual, prickling like a bunch of hedgehogs whenever anybody got too close.

That thought led to giggling, which led to Ivan looking at me like I’d gone nuts, but I decided against sharing it with him. Some things were better left unsaid, and I suspected that “hostile astrophysicist hedgehogs in suits” was probably one of those things.

An hour or so into the event, Ivan started to loosen up. I left him for a few minutes to find the restroom, and when I returned he was engaged in a lively conversation with Dr. Yu and two potential donors about the laser ablation “broom” and the many potential practical applications for miniaturized rocket components. I gave him a minute before catching his eye and tugging on my earring. One of the donors was starting to look bored.

Ivan faltered then shut it down, let Yu finish what he was saying then waved at me as if he’d just seen me.

“Camilla! Gentlemen, this is my friend Camilla.” He worked it so smoothly I was flabbergasted, spinning the introduction and changing the subject as though it was for my benefit.

My baby’s walking on his own!

That was another one of those thoughts I planned never to share with Ivan, but I really was proud of his progress. Heightened awareness and sufficient motivation, I suspected, had made the difference for him where previous efforts had failed. Still, I felt I’d played a part in it, and was thrilled with his success. Even Yu seemed pleasantly surprised by this sudden social adroitness on Ivan’s part.

A sudden commotion from the front room drew our attention, and as the buzz filtered through the crowd, my sense of vicarious achievement ebbed, replaced by a sick foreshadowing of doom.

A special guest had arrived at the party, and after a minute the excited crowd parted to reveal the famous face of Dr. Lance Leandro, science hunk.

The man was handsome, it couldn’t be denied. His looks were the modern version of clean-cut, wholesome but with a deliberate hint of scruff maintained to keep him accessible. His golden-brown hair was a little long, as if he needed a cut but hadn’t had time. His golden-brown skin had none of the orange glow that gave away fake tanning, but instead appeared to be a natural result of good fortune, genetics and time spent outside doing adorably rigorous field work. I could have sworn at one point I saw light sparkle off one of his teeth.

He was also smart, of course, and seemed as nice and amiable in person as he did on television. For close to half an hour he let Donovan introduce him to people, and his cheerful energy and brilliant smile never seemed to flag.

In short, he was the anti-Ivan, and accordingly Ivan seemed unable to remain long in Leandro’s presence. The whole focus of the party had shifted to the science hunk, however, so there was practically no getting away from Leandro without leaving.

“I don’t know why we’re still here,” Ivan said. Yu had abandoned us after a few minutes to meet the celebrity scientist, as had most of the other people at the party. They were all trying to look cool about it, though. Leandro was talking to Yu and Donovan, while several of the women in the crowd edged closer while trying not to look at him. They planned to back into the man, I supposed, then feign surprise and introduce themselves.

Whatever worked. But I’d also noticed something more interesting than the science hunk, and wasn’t about to let Ivan go out this way, as though Leandro had chased him out. What I saw gave me hope that there was one last shot at making a good impression, and I crossed my fingers as I stood on tiptoe to whisper in Ivan’s ear.

“Stop trying to walk out, and listen. You see Mrs. Donovan? She’s sitting over there on the end of that couch.” Ivan started to turn his head and I cleared my throat loudly. He caught himself and just flicked his gaze that way, finding the well-preserved blonde in peacock blue, then nodding. “The lady she’s talking to is Adele Streetford. Mrs. Bubba Streetford. You know who that is, right?”

Any Texan would know. Streetford was one of the best-known alumni of all time, and his own huge company had only grown bigger when he’d married the heiress to an oil and gas fortune. The couple had their name on buildings all over town.