Chapter 15: Ninety-Nine

June's POV

On day forty-four, in the morning, the voice said ninety, and Thatcher put a legal pad on the bed between us.

"We have to be scientific," he said.

"I'm in your shirt and nothing else. Nobody is being scientific."

"Then we'll be scientific in the shirt."

For thirteen days we had rationed ourselves, with a ledger on the back of my laminated close sheet.

The ledger had two columns. One said Touch, and one said Meter.

His rule was four touches a day.

My amendment was four touches a day per body part.

He had said no. I had said that was ten, and he had said it was not ten, it was an argument, and I had written down ten anyway.

The trouble was that the numbers didn't match the touches.

Two days ago he'd kissed my knuckles in a service lift, and the meter had gone up by three.

Last night he had pinned me to a wall for a full minute, and it had not moved at all.

"There's a pattern," I said, "and it isn't the wall."

"Then let's find it."

He took my wrist and kissed the inside of it.

"Ninety-one," said the voice. "Reason: gentleness."

"That's one," Thatcher said, and wrote it down.

He pulled me into his lap and slid a hand under the shirt, over my ribs, up to my breast.

I made a sound. He thumbed my nipple until I made it again.

"Ninety-one," said the voice. "No change. Reason: lust is not a factor."

"It's not a factor," Thatcher said, with his mouth at my throat. "Good. Then we can take our time."

He laid me back on the sheets and put his mouth between my legs.

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