CHAPTER 4 : The First Touch
1192 Words
==Elliot==
I found her at the reception.
Not hard. She was surrounded by at least a dozen people. Professors. Graduate students. All vying for her attention like moths to a flame.
She smiled at something someone said. Laughed. Touched a colleague's arm in that casual way confident people do.
And I stood there like an i***t. Holding a glass of wine I didn't remember getting. Wondering what the hell I was doing.
This was insane.
I didn't do this. I didn't follow beautiful women to networking receptions. I didn't proposition strangers. I was a physicist who spent most evenings alone with equations and research papers.
But then her eyes found mine across the room.
Everything else disappeared.
She excused herself from her admirers. Walked straight toward me. The crowd parted without her having to ask.
"Dr. Hayes," she said. "You stayed."
"You invited me to continue our discussion."
"I did." Her smile was dangerous. "Though I'm not sure a crowded reception is ideal for the kind of discussion I had in mind."
My pulse kicked up. "What kind of discussion did you have in mind?"
"The private kind."
Someone called her name from across the room. She ignored them.
"There's a balcony," she said quietly. "West side of the building. Third floor."
"Are you suggesting we leave separately?"
"I'm suggesting you go first. I'll follow in five minutes."
"Why the subterfuge?"
"Because everyone here is already watching us. And I'd prefer not to give them more to talk about."
She had a point. I'd noticed the stares. The whispered conversations.
"Third floor. West side," I repeated.
"Five minutes."
She turned and walked back to her group before I could respond.
I stood there for exactly three seconds. Then headed for the exit.
The building was mostly empty. Most people were at the reception or gone for the day. I found the stairs. Climbed to the third floor.
The balcony was small. Overlooked the campus quad. Wrought iron railing. A few chairs that had seen better days.
And it was deserted.
I leaned against the railing. Tried to slow my heartbeat. Failed completely.
What was I doing? What was *she* doing?
This felt like something out of a fantasy. Not my actual life.
The door opened behind me.
"Sorry," Del said, stepping onto the balcony. "Got cornered by the department chair."
"It's fine."
She closed the door behind her. The click of the latch sounded loud in the quiet.
We were alone.
Completely alone.
She moved to stand beside me at the railing. Close enough that I could smell her perfume. Something subtle. Expensive.
"So," she said. "Where were we?"
"You were offering to demonstrate concepts."
"Was I?"
"That's what I heard."
She smiled. Turned to face me. "What specifically did you want demonstrated?"
Everything. All of it. Every single thing she'd talked about in that lecture.
"The part about attention," I said. "About learning someone's responses."
"That's a broad topic."
"Then pick a starting point."
She considered me for a long moment. Those dark eyes cataloging every detail of my face.
"Hands," she said finally.
"Hands?"
"You learn a lot about someone from their hands." She glanced down at mine. "How they hold tension. How they move. What kind of touch they're used to giving and receiving."
"And what do my hands tell you?"
"May I?"
I nodded.
She reached out. Took my right hand in both of hers. Turned it palm up.
Her touch was warm. Deliberate. She traced the lines on my palm with one fingertip.
"You work with your hands," she said quietly. "But not manual labor. The calluses are in different places."
"Keyboard. Mouse. Writing equations."
"Long hours." Her finger traced across the base of my fingers. "You hold tension here."
She pressed gently. I hadn't realized how tight those muscles were until she touched them.
"And here." Her thumb found the webbing between my thumb and forefinger. Pressed. Released.
A small sound escaped my throat before I could stop it.
"Sensitive," she murmured. "Interesting."
My breathing had gone shallow. She was just touching my hand. My *hand*. And I felt it everywhere.
"You have beautiful hands, Dr. Hayes." She turned my hand over. Traced the tendons on the back. The bones of my knuckles. "Strong. Capable. Surprisingly expressive."
"Expressive?"
"You talk with your hands when you get excited about something. I noticed during the Q&A. It's endearing."
No one had ever called anything about me endearing.
Her fingers slid between mine. Not quite interlacing. Just resting there. Testing.
"This is your dominant hand?" she asked.
"Yes."
"And what do you do with it? Besides physics?"
The question was innocent. The way she asked it wasn't.
"Normal things," I managed. "Write. Eat. Drive."
"Touch?"
My throat went dry. "Sometimes."
"Yourself?"
Heat flooded my face. "That's. You can't just."
"Can't I?" She looked up at me through her lashes. "We're discussing sensation. Touch. It's all relevant."
"It's personal."
"All intimacy is personal. That's the point."
She had a point. But that didn't make this any less mortifying.
Or arousing.
"Yes," I said quietly. "I touch myself."
"With this hand?"
"Yes."
"And what do you think about?"
"That's definitely too personal."
"Is it?" Her fingers pressed between mine. Fully interlacing now. "I think it's fascinating. The psychology of fantasy. What images our minds create when we're alone and vulnerable."
Our hands were completely intertwined. Her palm pressed against mine. Fingers locked together.
It shouldn't be erotic. It was just hands.
But I was achingly hard and she'd barely touched me.
"You're right," she said softly. "Too personal. I apologize."
She started to pull her hand away.
I tightened my grip. Held her there.
"I thought about you," I said.
Her breath caught. "What?"
"Tonight. After your lecture. I went home and I. I couldn't stop thinking about you."
The confession hung between us.
She stared at me. Eyes wide. Lips parted.
"Elliot," she breathed.
"I know it's inappropriate. We just met. You're probably not even. I shouldn't have said anything."
"No." Her free hand came up to my chest. Rested over my pounding heart. "Don't apologize."
"I just. You were talking about arousal being psychological. And I couldn't stop imagining. What it would be like. To be the focus of all that attention."
"All what attention?"
"Yours. The way you described learning someone's body. Being present. Curious. I've never. No one's ever."
I couldn't finish the sentence.
But she understood. I saw it in her eyes.
"No one's ever paid attention to you like that," she said.
"No."
"No one's ever taken the time to learn what you like. What makes you respond."
"No."
"Elliot." She brought our joined hands to her lips. Pressed a soft kiss to my palm. "You have beautiful hands, Dr. Hayes."
My breath stuttered.
"Delilah."
Her name was a plea. A prayer. A question I didn't know how to ask.
She kissed my palm
again. Slower this time. Her lips soft and warm against my skin.
"Tell me to stop," she whispered against my hand.
I couldn't form words. Couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
She looked up at me. Waiting.
I didn't tell her to stop.
- Writer
