From: [email protected]
To: BLINK-CORE-ENGINEERING@MAILSERV, [email protected]
Re: BLINK—Monday
I’ll be taking personal time and I won’t be in at all today (Monday). I uploaded three designs for you to work on. Bee came up with a great solution to the hardware/software incompatibility issues, and I want to finalize its implementation ASAP. Reach me via text if you have questions.
LW
I read the email for the seventh time, and for the seventh time I marvel that I was given credit for my idea. Goes to show how low the bar is for cis dudes in STEM, doesn’t it? Thank you, Oh Penised Overlords, for the recognition I deserve.
Not that I’m not grateful he introduced the idea, since I’m not sure his underlings would have taken it seriously if it came from me. Remember June 1903, when the Royal Institution invited Dr. Curie to give a lecture and then didn’t allow her to lecture because of her inferior lady brain? Pierre ended up speaking for her, even though she was sitting in the audience.
Anyway: the more things change, the more they stay the same. Sausage Referencing™ is still a thing, and sometimes I get angry at myself for the way I accept it.
Sometimes I get angry at myself for other things. Like the fact that I should be working, instead of checking my phone to see if Levi texted. Or the fact that I’m upset he hasn’t. Or the fact that suddenly I care to be updated about what he’s doing every second of every minute of every day.
It’s not my business, anyway. He has stuff to do. With his ex. Maybe if Tim hadn’t cheated on me for a number of years that cannot be counted on the fingers of one hand I wouldn’t think twice about this. But Levi’s lack of an explanation has me wondering whether he’s hiding something. Don’t get me wrong—I’m aware that our kiss meant nothing to him. So he had a crush on me in grad school? Big deal. It’s been six years. Lots of things changed dramatically in the past six years. The writing on Game of Thrones. The importance of hand sanitizer. My opinions on duck penises. But it was still a kiss. If Levi’s in a relationship with someone else . . . yikes. Is he Tim 2.0? No, he’s not that verminous. He wouldn’t. But aren’t all men the same?
Is my head exploding?
“Are you picturing me and Kay doing it?”
I startle. Rocío is sitting at her desk, black Dr. Martens propped next to her keyboard and a pink lollipop in her mouth. “How long have you been here?”
“Like, five minutes. You were staring into the distance with a weird deer-in-the-headlights expression, so . . .” She stops sucking with a loud pop. “So, was it me and Kay? On your desk?”
“I’m pretty sure this is sexual harassment.”
“I don’t mind.”
“No, you are harassing me—” I sigh and shake my head. She’s impossible. I want to adopt her and keep her in my life forever. “Is everything okay?”
She nods, sticking the lollipop back into her mouth.
“Is that . . . strawberry?”
“Bubblegum. Kay gave it to me.”
“Kay, huh?”
“Yup.”
I clear my throat. “I was thinking about a recent conversation we had, in which you told me you weren’t exactly a fan of . . . Kay, and—”
Rocío’s boots hit the floor. Hard. “I love her,” she declares. “She’s perfect. I want her to be my beautiful California Bride with pink ribbons in her hair. I want to give her bubble baths that smell like cotton candy. I want to buy her fruity cocktails with little umbrellas in them.” She leans forward, pinning me with her gaze. “I will wear glitter for her, Bee. Black glitter.”
I’m a little out of breath at the intensity. “Does Alex know?”
“I broke up with him. Told him he wasn’t pink enough.” She shrugs. “He barely cares.”
I grin. “I’m so happy for you.”
She sobers up. “Don’t be. Life is pain and then you die.”
“Ah, yes. I forgot.”
“Anyway. It’s more important than ever that I get into Johns Hopkins’s neuro program, since that’s where Kay’s going. So we decided to redirect the time and efforts we spent on GRE prep to GRE destruction.”
“Destruction?”
“We’re joining #FairGraduateAdmissions. It’s a whole movement now. People are fundraising, building awareness, pressuring grad programs to drop the test. We’re going to help organize.” There’s a savage gleam in her eyes. “I’ve spent hundreds of dollars and hours on that test, Bee. Hundreds. I will get my revenge—especially after that stupid Chronicle of Higher Ed article.”
I have no idea what article she’s talking about, but I find it easily. It’s an op-ed by a Benjamin Green—who, a quick Google search informs me, is a VP at STC. The company that sells the GRE.
CHALLENGING THE CHALLENGERS: What #FairGraduateAdmissions gets wrong
The new trend is to do away with the GRE, which has been widely used by graduate admission committees for decades. @WhatWouldMarieDo was the first to use her platform to bring attention to the “injustice” it perpetuates, and @Shmacademics helped her amplify the signal by posting reviews of the literature debunking it. Together, the two have almost two million followers. But who are these influencers? What vast monetary operations are behind them? Do they have financial ties with STC competitors? Moreover, these influencers do not provide useful alternatives to the GRE. They talk of holistic admission protocols, but fully reading thousands of applications is too time consuming for admission committees . . .
My eyes roll to the back of my skull. Committees need to do right by applicants and should make the time. And who’s this dude? This one-man homeowners’ association? What’s a “vast monetary operation”? I want to break into his house and show him that my salary is probably what he tips his pool boy—and none of it comes from Twitter. But I don’t know where Mr. Green lives, so I just DM Shmac the link.
MARIE: Did you see this stupid article? Benjamin Green is officially Camel Dick 2.0.
My eyes fall on the messages he sent the last time we talked, when he told me about the girl. My chest clenches, and for some reason I think of Levi. Of him being gone. Of what his opinion on the GRE might be. Maybe I’m going insane.
I don’t wait for Shmac’s response. I log out of the app and force myself to go back to work.
“WHAT?”
“Listen—”
“What?!”
“It’s—”
“What?”
“I—”
“What?!”
I sigh. “Okay, Reike. Let me know when you’re done.”
My sister yells “What?!” eight more times. “Okay, it’s out of my system. Let us resume. So, you and The Wardass smooched—”
“Feels like there should be a better word for that.”
“You sucked faces. Exchanged germs. Swapped saliva. Canoodled. Snogged.”
“The other day you told me in great detail about that Ukrainian guy you pegged, and I didn’t make half the fuss.”
“It’s different.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a seasoned pegger, but you never do this. You were all like, ‘Neuro’s my wife now, zip up my chastity belt, dig a moat around the Bee-fence,’ and now you’re making out with your nemesis who is apparently into you—”
“Was. Was into me. And it’s just a kiss.” If I say it enough, maybe it’ll erase how close I got to being naked with Levi on my kitchen floor. How I’ve been obsessing over his whereabouts all day long.
“FYI, I’ll return to the States for your wedding, but I recently discovered the bridezilla subreddit, and I’m not going to dye my hair blond to fit the ceremony’s color scheme—”
“Not happening.”
“Right, you’d probably ask for teal green—still a resounding no.”
“Reike, it was just . . . a kiss. He doesn’t care. And I have no intention of caring ever again. One round of returning wedding gifts was enough.”
“I never got mine back!”
“You never sent one. Anyway, it was just a kiss. Purely . . .” Physical. Burning. Good. Electric. Obscene. Heavy. Dangerous. Good. Wild. Good, good, good. The most erotic moment of my life. But my head has cooled off, I’m not a horny black hole of sexual tension anymore, and I can see how dumb it was. A stupid idea. Three out of ten, would not do again. Plus, I have other concerns. BLINK. My job. Who’ll feed Félicette once I’m gone. “Nothing. Purely nothing.”
“Right. Emotions are still scary. Boundary maintenance is a priority. The Bee-fence is up in arms. So when you see him at work tomorrow—”
“I’ll be too busy building the best damn helmet this world has ever seen and securing myself a lifetime of professional stability. Away from Trevor.”
“Of course. And I assume The Wardass is perfectly okay pretending that—”
A knock at my door and I glance at the time—10:28 p.m. “Gotta go. It’s probably Rocío coming to reiterate that I’m not her real mother. Or that after you die the enzymes in your digestive tract devour your body from the inside.”
“Of all your colleagues, this girl is my absolute favorite.”
“She was caught porking. On my desk.”
“How does she constantly top herself?”
I roll my eyes. “Bye, Reike.”
“Warmest regards, Beetch.”
It’s not Rocío. Instead, there’s a large chest where her head should be. And several inches above that, Levi’s face. “You forgot this in the rental.” He lifts his left hand, my backpack dangling from his fingers.
“Oh. Thank you.” I hug it to the front of my body. I’m wearing a sleeveless top I’ve owned since middle school and pajama pants that could moonlight as underwear. I really thought it’d be Rocío at the door. I may be blushing all over. “Did you, um, want to come in?”
He shakes his head. “I just wanted to return the backpack.”
I nod. He nods. There’s a stretch of silent, more awkward nodding, and then he says, “I’ll get going.”
“Yeah. Sure. Have a good night.”
He’s wearing a light blue Henley that does marvelous things for his back. Which I have now touched. Extensively. That’s why I stare as he walks away: I’m mesmerized by how broad, firm, solid he looks. And that’s why when he reaches the stairs and turns around he finds me still there. Still looking.
He smiles. And I smile. The smiles linger, warm, honest, and I hear myself ask, “You sure you don’t want to come in?”
“It’s not that I . . .” His throat works. “I didn’t come here for that.”
“I didn’t think you did.” I make room for him, and with a few tentative, lumbering steps he’s inside. In all his hulking, massive grace. He looks around, running a hand through his hair. Is he thinking about what happened here twenty-four hours ago? Well, more like twenty-eight point five, but which maniac is counting?
“Is that a hummingbird feeder?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“Any hummingbirds?”
“Not yet.”
“Me neither. In my garden, I mean.”
“I noticed the mint you’re growing.” We exchange another smile. “Want to sit on the balcony? I have fancy German beer.”
The chairs I comfortably sprawl on look like kid’s furniture under Levi. His hand dwarfs the beer bottle. His profile, as he stares pensively at the Houston skyline, is unbearably handsome. He looks almost aggressively out of place. I want to know what he’s thinking about. I want to ask if he regrets our kiss. I want to touch him again.
“I’m sorry about the other night. And about missing work when we’re at a critical point. It was an emergency.”
Oh. “Was it . . . was it something about your non-wife? From the photo?”
He chuckles. “I can’t believe the conversation material that picture’s giving us.”
“Amazing, huh?”
His smile fades. “Penny’s ill. Epilepsy. It’s under control, but she’s growing up fast and her meds need to be adjusted often. It’s tricky, finding the right dosage.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Weirdly enough, Penny takes it in stride. She’s a remarkably resourceful kid.” He takes a swig and makes a face at the beer. What a heathen. “Lily, though—her mom—she struggles. Understandably. I try to be around when things get bad.”
I stare into the distance. Of course he does. He’s that kind of person. “I’m glad they have you.”
“I’m pretty useless. I mostly play UNO with Penny, or buy her slime that has some toxic ingredient—”
“Borax.”
“—that drives Lily crazy. Yes, Borax. How did you know?”
“I have mom friends. They complain about it.” I shrug. “Where’s her dad?”
“He died a little over a year ago.” He hesitates before adding, “Rock-climbing accident.” For a moment I don’t think much of it. Then I remember the picture in his office. Levi and the tall, dark-haired man.
“Were you related?”
“No.” His expression darkens. “But I’d known him forever. Since kindergarten. We’d line up in pairs till the end of elementary school. Peter Sullivan and Levi Ward. Not many T, U, or V names, apparently.”
I set my bottle on the table and study his face. Sullivan. That name again. It’s common, that’s why it crops up so often. And yet . . .
“Like the prototype?” I murmur. “Like the Discovery Institute?”
I wish he’d look at me. But he keeps staring at the city and says, “I didn’t even want to be an engineer. I wanted to major in veterinary science. Had even declared it, but Peter convinced me to take an engineering class as an elective. We did this project together—we built an olfactory cortex. A piece of hardware that could correctly identify smells. He did most of the work and had to teach me everything, but it was a blast. Thinking that something like that could maybe be used for patients, you know? Somewhere down the line?”
“That’s impressive.”
“It wasn’t always correct.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “On our final presentation, while the instructor was examining it, the cortex announced that it was smelling feces.” I burst into laughter. “It maybe needed a few tweaks. But I fell in love with brain-computer interface because of Peter. He was the most brilliant engineer I’ve ever met.” He presses his lips together. “I saw his skull crack in two when he fell. I was ten feet away, halfway through my climb. The noise—it was unlike anything. I didn’t know how to tell Lily. And Penny wouldn’t leave the room . . .”
His voice is so deceptively level, so painfully neutral, I’m shocked when I realize that my cheeks are wet. I want to reach out to Levi. I need to reach out. But I’m locked inside my head, paralyzed, finally making connections and understanding things.
“They renamed the Institute after him. And he came up with the prototype.” Before dying. That’s why Levi needed to be on BLINK. Why it needed to happen with him in charge. Why he fought so hard for it.
Levi. Oh, Levi.
“I’m going to build those helmets.” He’s still staring into the distance. His grip on the bottle is a vise. “Like he envisioned them. And they’ll have his name. And Penny will know it was her dad, and she—” He stops. Like his voice will break if he continues.
Suddenly, I’m not scared anymore. I know what to do—or at least what I want to do. I stand, slide the beer out of Levi’s hand, and set it on the metal railing with a clink. Then I lower myself into his lap, legs on each side of his waist, my arms around his neck. I wait until his hands are around my waist. Until his eyes shine up at me in the darkness. Then I say, “We’re going to build those helmets. Together.” I smile fiercely against his lips. “Peter will know. Penny will know. Lily will know. And you will know.”
The kiss is a punch-out drug, but a familiar one. After all, I’ve thought about nothing else for the past day. Pleasure hums through me with every stroke of his tongue against mine, every brush of his fingers against my lower back, every reverent breath against my jaw. He pulls me closer and groans into my skin, half sentences that drive me crazy an inch at a time.
“You’re so— Fuck, Bee,” as I run my teeth down his throat. “I used to dream of you,” when my fingertips brush against the fine hair underneath his belly button. “I’m going to—we have to slow down, or I’m going to—” after I start rocking on top of him, and the friction of his erection against my clit is already the best sex I’ve ever had. I’m shuddering, pulsating, about to explode with pleasure. My underwear is soaked and I want to get closer. Closer.
But our clothes stay on. Frustratingly, maddeningly on, even when he brings me to bed, the kitchen light trickling inside the room. Levi’s grip on my hip is near-bruising, every breath a sharp intake. My body feels warm, buoyant, filled with cutting heat. He looks down at me and says, “I want to fuck you.” He nips at my collarbone, and—he likes teeth. To bite, to clutch, to suck. There’s something devouring about him, something clumsy and overeager, but it’s not a turnoff. He’s usually so patient, meticulous, but now he can’t wait. Can’t have enough. “Can I fuck you?”
I nod up at him, let him take my top, my pants, everything off, and the way he looks at me like he has found answers all of a sudden, like my body is a religious experience, has me squirming up for contact.
“This,” he says breathlessly, his thumb tracing reverently the piercing on my nipple.
“If you don’t like it, I—”
He shushes me, and it’s okay. I’m okay. I’m totally okay with him staring at my small breasts as though they’re something wondrous, with him kissing them until his lips are plump, until I have to pull at his hair, until I’m so wet, I feel it trickle down my thigh. I’m okay with being told ridiculous things: I’m a good girl, I’m perfect, I’ve been driving him insane, when he first saw me I changed the chemistry of his brain.
He makes me laugh when I roll us around, push him underneath me, his elbows smacking against the hard wall. He mumbles a few obscenities, but when I bend down to kiss him again he forgets all about it. “You’re too big for the bed,” I tell him between giggles, peeling his shirt from his skin. He has abs. Defined ones. And pecs. He has muscle groups I thought were myths.
“Your bed’s too small for me. Next time we’ll do this in mine,” he says, lifting his hips and letting me undo his zipper. The sound of each catch fills the room, and it shouldn’t be so erotic, but I’m naked on top of him, his length rubbing against my core, and there’s no mistaking how deliciously, furiously, eagerly big he is.
“It’s been a while,” he says.
I blink at him, breathless, hazy. “Yeah. Me too.” I can’t help myself. I touch the damp head of his erection, just a brush of my fingertips. He grunts, bites his lip. His hips jerk. It’s a little like riding a horse. A bull.
“Do we need a condom?” he asks. I shake my head and mouth “birth control,” eager to continue. “This might be over very quickly,” he husks, hands gripping my thighs as I position him at my entrance. “But I’ll make it up to you. With my mouth. Or my fingers. If— Bee. Bee.”
I don’t know what I expected from having Levi inside of me. Probably the same as with Tim: something vaguely pleasant. At best, sex made me feel close to him. At worst, I was bored for a few minutes and remembered that taxes were due soon. With Levi it’s nothing like that. I’m in control. I’m easing his cock into my body. I struggle inch by inch to adjust, to accommodate, but it’s my decision. I close my eyes and feel my face twist, half pleasure and half pain. I need more. He needs more. We both need more, and I push down to take him farther inside, thighs and hands trembling as I strain to fill myself with him, and . . .
I can’t do it.
There is no room. I try again, grinding down to take more of him. My skin beads with sweat. The sense of fullness grows, turns into a sting of pain, but I push through it, force myself to—
“Slow down,” Levi orders, a little more than a growl. His hands clasp my hips to still me.
I open my eyes. Shake my head. “I need to—”
“You need a minute,” he says firmly, and his voice brooks no argument. We’re both shaking, gasping, sweaty against each other, but I pause for a moment, and he nods, choppy, pleased. “Good girl.”
He stares at me like he doesn’t know where to settle his eyes. Then he finds the place where we’re joined and starts touching me there, slow, wet strokes of his thumb on my clit that soften me and help me take him all the way. His hip bones press into the undersides of my thighs when he bottoms out. I feel my channel clench and grip him, and his groan tells me that he does, too. He’s in me to the hilt, and I collapse on top of him.
“Levi,” I stutter into his mouth. “You are really big.”
Something vibrates between us. Not physical—a feeling. It resonates in my body and in my brain.
“You’ll get used to me,” he gasps against my temple, pushing my hair back from my forehead with trembling hands, and then I am so full, I cannot be still anymore. I roll my hips to test the waters, see what hurts (very little) and what’s good (a whole lot). I learn what I want. Which angle. Which rhythm. In exchange, I let Levi’s hands roam my body wherever he likes—and it’s everywhere. There are wet, filthy, shameful sounds, but I don’t care, too busy gripping the headboard and grinding myself against that spot inside me which— Yes. Yes. He’s immense, stretching me to my limit and a bit past. I balance myself on his chest. His heart beats a drum against my palm, and I move up and down. Delicious pressure. Pleasure pulses deep in my belly. “Like this?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer. Or he does, but in murmurs, incoherent little things, like Please, Be still, Don’t move, You’re so tight, I’m going to— Oh, shit. It gets worse when I clench around him on purpose, just to see where I can go. There’s no extra room inside me. Nothing at all, and my vision dots. My pulse spikes. My head snaps blank, my lungs void of air, and I come like an avalanche, a wash of blinding pleasure as my body contracts rhythmically. I whimper my orgasm into the skin of his collarbone.
When I can think again, I find Levi on top of me, panting against my throat, fingers tight around my hips. He babbles, groans, desperately grinds his cock against my stomach, but he has pulled out. I am painfully empty, clenching against nothing.
“Did you—?” My voice is hoarse.
“I’m trying to make it last,” he pants. “I don’t want this to end.” I try to guide him into me once again, but he pins my wrists above my head and kisses me, endless, deep, without restraint, swallowing my soft whimpers in his mouth. Then he slides back inside. In this position he gets deeper. Harder. Different angles. He covers me, all of me, and I let him do what he let me do: find his pleasure in my body. His thrusts are shallow, then slow, then deep. Then his control snaps in two, long movements that drag delicious friction against all of my nerve endings. I love his weight on me. I love his guttural groans. I love the absent, awestruck green of his eyes. I’m so close. So close again.
This is good. He is good. We are good. Together. Like this.
“Bee,” he slurs against my cheek. “Bee. You are everything I—”
My hands slide against his sweat-slick back, and I hold him together as he shatters into a million pieces.
