Page 36 of Chemistry: The Chemist

He checked the clock next to the bed, finally realizing how long he’d slept since we’d eaten hours prior. Our fetish for one another led us back to bed where we’d started, but not before we revisited the room decorated with a lone pole.

I slid down it a few times before sliding down his. My walls were tender. My breasts were sore. The signs of a well-fucked woman were upon me. I hadn’t experienced such pleasurable soreness since I’d first opened my legs at twenty years old.

“I should be leaving. I have work in a little over two hours.”

He said nothing. His silence was agonizing. I wanted to know what he was thinking. I needed to know what he was thinking.

When he rolled out of bed, I was on his heels, quickly remembering I was nude. Chills stalked my body, instantly.

With his features contorting on his face, he pushed out a fresh stream of air as if I’d pushed the wrong button. The sheets came flying off the bed. The flat one coated my skin. Our eyes met as he tucked parts of it between my index fingers and thumbs.

He made it so hard to consider I brought him anything but discomfort. The frowns. The stewing. The brooding.

It all left me wondering and feeling as though I was doing everything wrong. His lack of satisfaction made me thirst for his gratification, validation of some sort.

The flirty vixen he’d met the night before was a pile of mush this morning. She was vulnerable. She was submissive.

I searched deep within for the stellar version, summoning her before I made a fool of myself before and revealed the sheepish girl who still longed for things she was unsure of.

“Say something.”

She was making it so hard for me. My exposure was pending.

“Quit.”

Quit? His demand was incredibly stunning.

“Quit?”

My brows crinkled as I rushed behind him. Every step I took, it seemed as if he took five.

My God, where are you?

“You heard exactly what the fuck I said, Eden.”

“I will do no such thing,” I responded as a smirk tugged at my lips.

About time, girlfriend. I cheered, inside, feeling my power return.

Swiftly, Mister turned around, stopping in his tracks. I almost ran into him, but I halted in time to stop right in front of him. I could feel the heat radiating from him.

It made me slippery down below. Hadn’t I been recovering from the last twenty-something hours, I would’ve encouraged him to dive in. But, I had a job and he had… I wasn’t sure what he had, but business felt plausible.

“Eden, don’t test me, baby. I have no problem having your locker cleaned out and banning you from every club in Clarke.”

“Clarke isn’t the first or last to build strip clubs. Forcing my hand will only make me forget the night we had and the fact you exist, no matter how hard it might be,” I divulged, feeling the hair on my neck stand. “Let’s not become a tragedy so soon, Mister.”

His eyes turned to slits. He contemplated what would come from his mouth next. And I waited, impatiently, needing him to say something.

He was well-calculated. Nothing came from him that he hadn’t studied in his head a hundred times. He was always in his fucking head. And in mine.

“Forcing my hand will fill your conscience with guilt and have you paying your respects at a new funeral every fucking weekend. You won’t have time to have your black dress dry-cleaned before you’re putting it on again. And again. And again.”

“For a man whose name I can’t have, you are territorial.”

“What’s mine is mine, Eden. Understand that.”

“I’m not quitting. Not yet. When I’m ready, y–”

---