Part 13 (1/2)

I shrug but in my mind I answer the question.

Chemistry is the sparks that ignite inside me when Mr. Dade's fingers brush against my neck. It's the quickening of my pulse when he kisses that same spot, tasting my salt, licking that delicate patch of skin. It's the throbbing I feel between my legs when his hands travel from my shoulders to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to my stomach . . . lower. . . .

”It's the study of atomic matter,” Robert says, pulling me out of my thoughts. ”It's the description of how different chemical elements react. But more importantly it's the study of the makeup of those elements.”

”I think I should go.”

”In order for two elements to react to one another, they have to meet,” he continues. ”They quickly latch on to and, in some truly primitive way, recognize the details of the other element that will lead to a chemical reaction.”

”I have no idea what you're getting at.”

”We wouldn't react to one another the way we do if we weren't able to sense something fundamental about one another's nature. When I saw you . . . when I touched you, I sensed that there was something in the very makeup of who you are that would cause me to react in ways that I simply wouldn't, couldn't react to others. We're baking soda and vinegar, Diet c.o.ke and Mentos-”

”Scotch and soda?”

He smiles at my unexpected contribution to his monologue.

”I don't know that scotch and soda actually cause a chemical reaction.”

”Maybe not,” I admit. But now I'm thinking about the cool, mild sting of the scotch when he had dabbed it between my legs, I remember the taste of it on his tongue.

Chemistry.

”I love him,” I say again. The sun is getting higher in the sky. I feel it beating on my shoulders. A small bead of sweat rolls down from my hairline. It's the sun I'm reacting to. I say the words to myself. It's the sun . . . not the heat.

”I almost believe you,” he says. For a moment I think he's hearing my thoughts as well as my words.

”You should believe me.” I brace myself, find my courage, and tear my eyes away from the horizon to meet his. ”I have never lied to you.”

”But you lie to him.”

”I love him,” I explain. ”Everyone lies to the people they love. They're the only ones worth the effort.”

”Then you must love yourself very much.”

Something catches in my throat. I don't know if it's a giggle or a scream.

”Does Dave love this freckle as much as I do?” He stands again, puts his finger on the freckle that rests above the scoop neckline of my s.h.i.+rt, right where my breast begins to swell.

”Do you s.h.i.+ver when his hands slide to your waist, when his hands slip underneath the silky fabric of your top?” His hands are on my waist; his thumbs slide underneath the bottom of my s.h.i.+rt so that they now press into my flesh.

”Does he make you tremble when he pulls you to him.” His hands move to the small of my back and apply just enough pressure to move me forward, into him. ”When he lifts you up.” I'm in his arms; my feet are lifted from the ground as I cling to him. ”When he takes you-” He's carrying me down into the cabin, through a kitchen, a living room, into a bedroom. . . .

And just as he predicted, I s.h.i.+ver.

He has left his words on the deck of his yacht. In the cabin there is just the sound of each one of our breaths mingling together to create a pressing but jagged rhythm. As he lowers me onto the bed, I forget. Dave, my work, my ideals . . .

. . . and I remember . . . the kisses, the taste of him, the feeling of him inside me.

I exhale as my s.h.i.+rt falls to the floor; my bra isn't far behind. I gather the blankets beneath me into my fist as he grazes his teeth over one nipple, then the next.

Some feelings are almost too strong. They can't be harnessed. Some desires can do nothing short of overwhelm.

I arch my back as his hand slides up the inside of my thigh.

I can't think. . . . I won't think. . . . Just the quiet scent of his aftershave screams seduction to me now.

My pants are still on but they might as well not be. They offer no protection from the heat of his touch as he presses his hand into me.

His radio is on, playing softly through the speakers-cla.s.sic rock; the genre fits him. He's the grit of Jimmy Hendrix and the eerie mystery of Pink Floyd and the groovy elegance of the Doors.

He has the top b.u.t.ton of my waistband undone; I feel my pants loosen as he pulls the zipper down and the air on my thighs as he pulls them off of me.

”Stairway to Heaven” is fading into something else . . . ah yes the Rolling Stones. It's ”Ruby Tuesday.”

Rubies.

My eyes open and suddenly I can see, not just the room around me but the path I'm on. I reach down and cover his hand with mine just as he's about to pull my panties off of me.

He pauses, hoping that the gesture isn't the stop sign he senses it is. But I keep his hand still, gripping it firmly, not with pa.s.sion, but with resolve.

”Kasie,” he says, looking into my eyes.

”I love him,” I say. The boat sways ever so slightly; Mick Jagger croons good-bye to ”Ruby Tuesday.” ”I love him . . . and that's not just a feeling, it's a decision.”

”You're choosing prison over the unknown.”

”We're all in some kind of prison,” I point out. ”But I can pick my cage, and the cage I'll live in with Dave is gilded.”

And with that, I pull away, sit up, and reach for my bra, the remnants of his touch still warm on my breast, my body still aching for him; my devil is still pulling me toward him. . . .

But I've made my decision. This is not my place. Robert is right; he is the unknown. And I reject the adventure of discovery. Maybe my life with Dave really will be a sort of prison but it's the Ritz-Carlton compared to the dingy prison of my guilt.

”Don't go,” he says.

I whirl around. I'm still wearing nothing but my undergarments but I feel an invisible armor building up around me, s.h.i.+elding me from the attacks of temptation. ”Why are you doing this?” I ask. ”Why me? Is it that you want what you can't have?”

”I thought . . . I hoped I could have you,” he says quietly. ”Every taste of you intensifies the craving. Like the Turkish delight the White Witch gives to Edmund in Narnia. I just have to have more.”

”So that means you're Edmund, a modern metaphor for Judas, and I'm the personification of evil.”

”No,” he says with a sad smile. He stands and carefully lifts my s.h.i.+rt and pants from where he dropped them on the floor, but he doesn't hand them to me. Instead he holds them like they're a treasure, or a last hope. ”My metaphor isn't holding up. Obviously what we have isn't anything like a children's fairytale. What we have is . . . darker, richer . . .”

”It isn't right.”

”But it's us.”

I shake my head, staring at the s.h.i.+rt in his hand. I could pull it from his grip but I'm not ready. I can't bear the idea of being so aggressive and violent in this moment. He will never see me in any other form of undress again. I'm determined to make sure of that.