Elements of Chemistry (Part 2) HEAT (2015)

Chapter 1. Thermochemistry

I WALKED THROUGH the house and the partygoers in search of quiet, space, and cleanliness. In the end, numbness descended and I embraced it. Basically, I decided not to care, and instead thought about my ideal party.

Give me a small intimate gathering of five people, a dinner party, where one-on-one conversations can be had, where people talk about current events, good books, good food, and weird news. That was my idea of a good time.

Not keg stands with a hundred people on a private island, with a DJ and underage girls puking in the bushes while venereal diseases were shared in the hot tub. Add to that Martin ignoring me and making out with random girls.

Not that. That was not fun.

I happened upon the library, or a room with a lot of books. It was packed with people and I’m pretty sure a few someones copped a feel as I tried to squeeze past the bodies in favor of the books. I scanned the shelves and felt a spark of something good, something nice as I spotted Twenty Years After, by Alexandre Dumas. I’d been meaning to read it for a while. It was about the three musketeers twenty years after their initial adventures.

To my right someone threw up on the carpet. I glanced at the guy and decided that if people were throwing up on the carpet then no one would care if I borrowed a book.

I pulled it off the shelf, clutched it to my chest, and went in search of a quiet space. I roamed the house for a bit, thought about going back to the souped-up golf carts and just waiting for everyone outside, but dismissed the idea. The available reading light would be insufficient. I also dismissed the bedrooms, as those would be occupied. A bathroom was an obvious choice, but not a good one because they’d be in high demand, and it would be selfish of me to tie one up so I could read.

I tried to find a closet with a light. At one point I almost tripped over a passed-out Ben in the hallway. I glanced around and found Herc hovering nearby, talking to several girls. He gave me a nod. I returned it and continued on my way. I decided my suspicions were correct: Herc had been following Ben around. I wondered if Ben had inadvertently consumed his own date-rape drug.

I made a mental note to contact the campus police department about Ben when I got home. Martin had promised to handle it—whatever that meant—but if handling it meant no jail time for Ben, I would step in and do something.

Shaking off thoughts of Ben the rapist, I ended up stumbling upon the laundry room quite by accident. It was actually perfect. There was a clean comforter folded on the washer and plenty of reading light. Therefore, I arranged the blanket and hopped up on the machine, leant against the wall with the cushy comforter at my back, and began to read.

It was a truly excellent book. I didn’t know how much time passed—two hours, maybe three. That Porthos…I swear, he’s a riot. His antics always make me laugh. Although Athos was my favorite. I think it was because of his tragic past. I was a bit of a sucker for a guy with a tragic past.

“What are you doing?”

I lifted my eyes at the sound of Martin’s voice, but not immediately. I finished the paragraph I was reading, then I looked up, holding my place in the book with my thumb.

He was dressed in swim trunks and he was wet, with beads of water dripping down his chest. As such, he looked super hot. However, only the right side of his body was visible as the door blocked the other side. His hand was still on the doorknob and he leaned a tad to one side, into the room.

My eyes wandered over his form and I allowed myself to appreciate the beauty of Martin Sandeke like I might admire the beauty of a cold, soulless statue. Physically, he was a magnificent male specimen: corded muscle, long limbs, and rigid angles. Even his temples were drool worthy, especially since I knew his head housed a giant—albeit mismanaged—brain. Truly, he was one of our finest. His ancestors should really give themselves a big pat on the back.

A little pool of water had gathered at his feet, which made me wonder how long he’d been standing in the doorway. My eyes traveled upward again and I noticed he wore an angry expression. He looked livid.

I started a little at the heated annoyance in his stare. Then I glanced around the laundry room, searching for the source of his anger. I found that I was still alone. Therefore, I surmised his fury must be directed at me.

But, just to be sure, I said, “Who? Me?”

“Yes. You,” he growled, then stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “What are you doing in here?”

I raised the book and tipped my head toward it. “I’m reading.”

Martin exhaled loudly, another growl. “I can see that, Parker. But why the fuck are you in here reading?”

I frowned at his use of profanity, my shoulders bunching with tension. I realized I’d gotten used to it, how often he cussed; I’d accepted it as part of him. But that was before he’d left me standing at the entrance to a party I didn’t want to attend, and that was before I’d seen him kissing a random girl.

“It’s the first sequel to The Three Musketeers. I’ve been meaning to read it. I found it on the shelf in the library—or living room, or whatever room. There are too many rooms in this house, so I don’t know what half of them are called.”

Martin gritted his teeth, and I got the distinct impression he wanted to strangle me. “Parker. This is a party. And you’re in the laundry room? Reading?”

I paused a beat to make sure this wasn’t a trick question. When I could find nothing amiss with his interrogation, I nodded slowly. “Yes. This is a party. I am in the laundry room reading.”

“Why? What is wrong with you?”

My mouth opened and closed but no words arrived, because his questions continued to confuse me. Finally, I admitted, “Martin, I don’t know what you want me to say or why you appear to be upset. I found the book when I was in one of the several rooms with lots of books. I’ve been meaning to read it. So I picked it up and found a quiet place. Why are you so angry?”

He charged at me and I ineffectually scrambled backward on the washing machine. In less than two seconds he’d pulled the book from my hands, slapped it on the counter at my left, and braced his arms on either side of my legs, leaning forward.

I realized he’d made me lose my page in the book. I decided to ignore my urge to vocalize this complaint, because his eyes were beyond heated.

They were incensed blue flames. I braced myself, my gaze wide and watchful, and flinched when he lifted a hand. I relaxed a smidge when he used it to push my hair off my shoulder.

When he spoke, his voice was low, strained, like he was trying very hard to control his temper. “I brought you here as my date. That was our agreement.”

I nodded once. “Yes. I know.”

“And, instead of talking to people or having fun, you’re in here reading a book.”

I kept my voice even and calm, tried to sound soothing. “I am having fun. I’m reading a book.”

“You’re trying to punish me for winning our bet, for bringing you here.”

I shook my head, hoping he would see the honesty in my denial. “I’m not. I promise. I like to read.”

“Who comes to a party, an entire mansion at your disposal, and reads Dumas in a laundry room? I’ve been looking for you for two hours.”

He’s been looking for me? For two hours? Why would he do that?

“If you’ve been looking for me then why are you wet?”

“This place has pools with caves, and I’ve been through all of them searching for you. You’re avoiding me.”

“Honestly, Martin…” I shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d notice.”

“You didn’t think I’d notice?” he roared.

I winced. “That’s right.”

He blinked at me once, then held perfectly still. His features completely motionless as though his face were stuck in angry suspension. I could see something building behind his eyes, like how you can see a far-off storm gathering in the distance. Therefore, I decided it would be best to explain before he lost control of his temper.

“Earlier, after I changed,” I motioned quickly to the string bikini I was wearing, “I went back to the deck and saw you had your hands full—and at one point, your mouth full of a tongue that wasn’t yours—so I figured you were good. You know, entertained, taken care of, no need of my escort services.”

He flinched, blinked rapidly during my explanation like I’d splashed water in his face, and his back straightened.

“You saw that?” He appeared to be surprised.

Lifting my hands up between us like I surrendered, I nodded and continued, “But, no worries. I understand that kissing random girls is in your wheelhouse. Which, like I’ve been saying all along, is another reason why we’re not compatible. Because, as I’ve said—and no judgment—I’m not really into kissing guys who kiss other girls. That’s not in my wheelhouse. So you should go return to your women folk. I’ll be down here reading; no rush. But if you plan on spending the night, let me know so I can ensure to hitch a ride with Eric and Sam, or Ray. For your own safety though, please make sure the sheets are clean. I overheard one of the guys in the library say that he thinks he has ringworm. I didn’t ask which bedroom he used.”

Martin’s eyes narrowed as I spoke and his mouth curved into an unhappy line. When I was finished he lifted his gaze to the ceiling, subtly shaking his head; he paired an eye roll with a whispered, “Fuck.”

Again, I flinched at the profanity and scrunched my nose, my gaze moving back to the discarded book. I wondered how much longer this conversation was going to take, because Porthos’s shenanigans were seriously cracking me up.

“Parker…”

My eyes jumped back to his, which were now once again on me. He didn’t look as angry, but he did look frustrated.

“Yes?”

Martin lifted his hand like he was going to put it on my leg, but stopped when I stiffened. He cursed again. Shook his head, again. Gritted his teeth, again.

“Look,” he said, “if you’d stayed, then you would have seen me push her away. I’m not interested in her.” His expression relaxed, and I saw the flash of hopeful vulnerability. My heart leapt in response.

Stupid heart.

He cupped my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw, and added, “I’m not interested in any girl here other than you.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from frowning, though I knew my eyes betrayed my disbelief because Martin’s frustration visibly spiked.

Before he could continue, I interjected, “Martin, even if I believed you—which I don’t—it doesn’t really matter. You pawned me off on Ray for the drive over. When we walked in here, into this house, you left me. You walked away from me, and you didn’t introduce me to anyone. You went off as though I wasn’t there. I don’t know any of these people and I’m terrible at parties.”

His gaze turned thunderous. “Is that what this is about? Are you down here because you’re pissed that I left? I thought I was doing what you wanted. You said that you didn’t want me to be possessive and hover. Is this some kind of punishment? Because I don’t respond well to that kind of mind-fuckery or passive-aggressive bullshit.”

Despite my desire to stay calm, his words felt like gasoline on a fire I’d been carrying around in my chest, but had thus far managed to keep under control. My temper rose and with it the volume of my voice.

“No, Martin. I don’t do passive-aggressive and I don’t punish people. That is one of my life rules. I’m honest. If something upsets me, I’ll let you know. But in order for me to be upset, I’d have to be surprised by your terrible behavior. What you did, leaving me in a room full of strangers and giving CPR to female partygoers didn’t upset me, because I don’t really expect more from you.”

It was his turn to flinch. He sucked in a sudden breath and straightened away from me, his eyes cooling to frigid icicles. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re used to getting what you want or who you want when you want it. And I couldn’t care less if you were upstairs, right now, having a ginormous orgy with the ringworm gang. Because I’ve known all along that you are a jerk-face and you don’t know how to treat people with decency.”

His mouth fell open, presumably at my words and my hostile tone, and he stared at me. His expression was that of someone who’d been stunned speechless.

I didn’t like losing my temper. In fact, I prided myself on how laid-back and in control of my reactions I was, and how I never lost my temper. Therefore, this loss of control was another irritating new development since spending time with jerky Martin Sandeke.

At length, he found his voice. Though, surprisingly, he didn’t sound quite as angry. “If you don’t like how I treat you, then why do you keep letting me kiss you?”

“Opportunity and lust.”

Gah…that was spiteful.

He flinched like I’d kicked him and he glanced away. His reaction made my heart hurt, and therefore, I heaved a gigantic regretful sigh.

My words came out in a rush. “That’s not true. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. The truth is…”

He lifted his eyes to mine, and the raw emotion made me forget myself. It made me forget to be cautious. Without really thinking about it or planning to do so, I gave him the whole embarrassing truth.

“You’re smart—in fact, you have flashes of brilliance which is a huge turn on for me—and you’re funny and charming when you want to be. And sometimes, you treat me with kindness and respect. Also, you’re a good kisser. I thought at first it was my lack of experience, but now I think you’re just an exceptionally good kisser. I like kissing you. I like the way it feels. I love how you make me feel when you touch me. But what feels good isn’t always what’s good for me, and I’m not willing to settle for being with someone who sometimes treats me well. I’d rather be alone.”

With the end of my unplanned speech the numbness returned. I peered at him in a way I hoped demonstrated my acceptance of the situation and the impossibility of us, and I reached for my book. I did all this while I tried to suppress my blush of mortification. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Porthos is rather charming and I’d like to finish this chapter before leaving.”

Martin’s glare moved from me to the book. Before I understood his intention, he’d reached for the book, pulled it from me, and tossed it over his shoulder. I yelped my surprised unhappiness, but couldn’t retrieve the novel because he’d stepped forward again, crowding my space. He gripped my waist and yanked me forward so he was between my legs, and my chest was against his.

My mind might have been numbed to him, but my pants weren’t. I sucked in a sharp breath at the contact, everything tightening and twisting and bracing for his touch.

He stared at me for a long moment, during which—I’m ashamed to admit—my heart rate quadrupled and my body responded by pressing more fully against him. When he did speak, his voice was a growly and hostile whisper. “Listen to me for one fucking second, okay?”

I also whispered, but only because he was whispering, “Only if you stop using the F-word like you get paid royalties every time you say it.”

“I’ll fucking use whatever fucking word I want to fucking use whenever I fucking want to,” he whispered back.

I shook my head and spoke mostly to the other washing machine and two dryers lining the walls. “Again, proving my point, jerk-face.”

“Kaitlyn, you are irritating.”

“Feeling is mutual, jerk-face.”

“Especially when you’re right.”

“Well, you can…” I paused, blinked at him and his shocking words. “Wait, what?”

His eyes moved over my face as he spoke and the tension in his body eased. Peripherally, I noted he was wrapping his arms around me, one hand sliding under the string of my bikini and against my bare back.

“I’m sorry.” He was still using his growly whisper.

I narrowed my eyes, attempting to peer into and through his words, looking for trickery. As well, I was trying to ignore the wave of goosebumps that had spread outward from where his hot palm pressed against my back, and the fluttering butterflies in my stomach.

A beautiful man is the devil’s most potent weapon.

A few seconds ticked by while we stared at each other. I wondered if I looked as hostile as he did.

I responded, “Do you even know why you’re apologizing?”

“Yes.” Another growl.

“Why? Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I shouldn’t have left you when we got here. I should have kept you close to me, and I shouldn’t have let Danielle close enough to touch me, not when we’re together.”

My brain stumbled on the word together, and I frowned my confusion at his accurate listing of offenses. “This seems like a miraculously sudden apology.”

His jaw flexed. “Are you seriously going to give me shit about apologizing?”

I shook my head. “No. No, I am not. I accept your apology. Thank you for apologizing.”

His eyes flickered between mine, then lowered to my mouth. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?”

“Your turn to apologize.”

My eyebrows bounced an inch upward. “What am I apologizing for?”

“For always assuming I’m an asshole.”

It was my turn to stare at him while he filled the silence, his chin dipping toward mine, our mouths scant inches apart.

“I didn’t leave you because I was trying to be a jerk. I wanted to give you your space. I thought I’d circle back around and find you…prove that I trusted you. I don’t know how to be near you without being possessive, because every time a guy looks at you I want to rip his head off. I’ve never come to a party with someone before. I don’t know girl-rules. This is new for me. And I wasn’t kissing Danielle. She kissed me and I pushed her away, but you obviously didn’t stick around for the half second it took me to tell her I wasn’t interested.”

My mouth opened and closed. I was shocked. His words shocked me.

He wasn’t finished. “You promised me you would give this a try. But you’ve already made up your mind about me. Sitting down here, avoiding me, isn’t trying. Seeing another girl kiss me, and then walking away, isn’t trying. Assuming the worst of me isn’t trying. Either you do this for real, or you break your promise. But don’t put this all on me. I’m not a fucking mind-reader.”

I sputtered, perplexed. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I assumed the worst. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Apology accepted. Now kiss me.”

I evaded his mouth by leaning to the side and bracing my palms against his chest. “Wait, just wait a minute. I don’t know. What did you want me to do? Walk over and rip that girl’s hair out?”

“Yes.” He stated this emphatically and paired it with a single head nod, his eyes lowering to my breasts. The small triangles of the string bikini did very little to cover them; I felt like I was wearing pasties and floss. Martin seemed to both love it and hate it because he released a frustrated and distracted sounding sigh and lifted his gaze to mine. “Yes, if I matter to you, then yes.”

“Martin…I’m…” I shook my head, having difficulty finding words. They were hiding in all the closets of my brain, the little bastards.

Finally I managed, “I’m not like that. I’m not going to enter a race I can’t win.”

His hand moved from the middle of my back to my waist, his thumb drawing a gentle circle on my ribs, tickling me, touching me, feeling me. “You totally could have taken her. She’s not a good fighter. She favors her right side.”

I laughed because what he said was preposterous and therefore funny, and I was relieved to see that even after our harsh exchange, he was trying to cut the tension with humor.

“That’s not what I meant. I know I could have knocked her out. She probably hasn’t eaten in days, the poor dear.”

“Then what do you mean? Because you are the only boat in this regatta.”

I shook my head, feeling high and low and everything in between. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m the bow-out-gracefully kind of girl, not the brawling-for-my-man-at-a-party kind of girl. Not when my competition is a supermodel.”

Martin’s stare was severe and stern, and his thumb stilled on my skin. “If all I wanted was a supermodel then I wouldn’t be here with you.”

I scrunched my face at this. It sounded like a compliment, but it also sounded like an insult. I had no illusions I was supermodel material, but to my ears his statement emerged as, If I wanted someone good-looking then I wouldn’t be with you. I knew that was wrong and unfair and twisting his words, so I threw that messed-up interpretation into the garbage where it belonged…but my sinking heart lingered.

He growled a sigh and rolled his eyes. “That’s not…that came out wrong. What I mean is, yes—of course I want to be with someone who is beautiful. But you’re so much more than that. Why would I bring a single scull to an eight-man race? I wouldn’t.”

“A single skull?”

“A scull. It’s a boat with one rower and two oars. An eight-man racing shell would beat a single scull every time.”

I squinted at him and nodded once, rolled my lips between my teeth, and tried not to laugh at his manly rowing analogy. I let him know I understood the gist of what he meant and that I wasn’t going to hold the conversation hostage.

He continued, “But I need you to fight, not bow out gracefully. When you want something, you fight for it.”

I lowered my eyes to his neck, watched him swallow. I inhaled and held the breath in my lungs, unsure what to say or how to proceed. This was not how I foresaw the discussion progressing.

“Look at me,” he demanded, and I did.

“When you want something, you fight for it,” he repeated, the pressure of his hands increasing on my body, telling me he wanted me, telling me he would fight for me.

Then he asked, “Do you want me?”

I stared at him for a beat, the answer having immediately formed in my brain, but I hesitated. I felt like admitting my want for him would give Martin power over me, power I wasn’t ready to cede.

He must have seen my struggle because before I could speak, he volunteered, “You don’t have to answer that right now. You tell me when you’re ready, okay?”

I nodded, releasing an unsteady sigh. “Martin...”

“Shh, just…just listen to me.” He licked his lips, his mouth scant inches from mine. His eyes told me he was interested and invested, the rest of his body communicating that everything he’d said was the truth. I might not have been a gazelle, but his body wanted my body.

Eventually he continued on a rumbly, seductive whisper, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know how to treat people. But I meant it when I said that I…fucking hell, I want you. I like you. I’m all in. I’m not a liar and I’m doing my best here. You need to meet me part way.”

I nodded, no longer feeling numb.

I read the intention in his eyes before he moved and I shivered in anticipation. He slid his hand from my ribs up to my neck and pulled the string holding my top up. He leaned just two inches away and the flimsy thing immediately acquiesced, the little triangles ineffectually supporting my D-cup fell, baring me.

“I need to touch you,” he said even as he touched me, both of his hands sliding into place, massaging, kneading.

I sighed, arched my back, offering myself more fully to his wonderfully callused hands.

“I need you to touch me,” I whispered on a gasp. His fingers tugged on my nipples, sending liquid fire straight to my core.

He bent his head, bit my neck, then gently kissed the two love bites he’d left yesterday. “I like these. I like seeing my mark on you.”

He used his knuckles, brushing them back and forth over the tight peaks. I tried to press myself tighter against him, needing his palms, not the light, maddening, teasing sweeps of the back of his hands.

He tongued my ear, making me tremble, before his hot exhale spilled against my jaw and neck. “I want to taste you.”

I had a flash, a thought, an image pass through my mind and it made me groan. Martin, bending over me, kneeling, his mouth at my center, licking, sipping, tasting, sucking, as I reclined on the washing machine and his blue eyes watched me. Some dark, pleasure-seeking part of myself became obsessed with this idea.

“Oh, please do,” I panted. Obviously the time for pride was at an end.

He chuckled. It sounded wicked, throaty, and really evil. Unsurprisingly, wicked and evil were really hot on Martin Sandeke. Desperate for what my body wanted, I brushed my fingertips down the front of his chest, lower to his abdomen, and lower still into the material of his swimsuit.

He sucked in a stunned breath and I felt his muscles tighten, grow rigid as I cupped his length, gripped it. The feel of it, the hardness, the thickness thrilled me. It was the greediest part of him and a surge of aroused power made my sex pulse.

“Fuck me,” he exhaled, his eyes closing, his hips moving in an inelegant, wild movement.

“Surprised?” I asked. I was surprised. I was surprised by my vixenish boldness.

He laughed, it was tight and tortured sounding. “You have to stop,” he said even as he pressed himself more completely in my hand.

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to come all over your tits.”

I thought about that. I’d seen something similar in a porno last year. At the time I’d cringed, somewhat grossed out. But with Martin it sounded really sexy. I didn’t see a problem.

“Okay.”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it.” He looked wild, feral, and I knew he was trying to control some dark impulse to take without asking.

“I mean it.”

He growled, then covered my mouth with his, devoured me—his lips and tongue bruising, desperate, almost angry. He pushed his swim shorts down then moved one of his hands to cover mine where I held him. Guiding me, he gave himself a rough stroke. I felt him shudder, his mouth separating from mine as he inhaled a shaky breath.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he said.

“Say my name,” I whispered. The constant fucks were seriously getting on my nerves. Therefore I thought I’d offer him an alternative. “Say Kaitlyn instead.”

His eyes flashed. Hips grinding into my palm, jaw clenched, he growled, “Kaitlyn.”

I smiled. My smile made him groan. His head fell against my shoulder and his hands grabbed fistfuls of my bottom. He chanted, “Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn…” and, honestly, it got me hot. Soon I was panting.

One of his hands released me and returned to my breast, giving it rough treatment, grabbing and pinching while he bit my shoulder with his sharp teeth and thrust into my hand.

“Oh God, Kaitlyn.” The words were tight yet uncontrolled. Every one of his muscles strained, flexed. His hands on my body tightened, his grip so hard I wondered if he’d leave bruises, and I finally understood what people meant when they said, Come apart in my hands.

Because Martin came apart in my hands. He came apart all over me, and yes, part of the coming apart landed on my breasts. Basically he came apart on everything but my hand. I gasped, not at all prepared, then laughed my surprise.

Sure, I’d seen pornos and money shots. But Martin’s semen seemed to launch out of him—and there was a great deal more of it than what I’d seen in the dirty films.

His breathing was ragged and he sagged against me, his grip now loose, the tremors receding and leaving him gasping. I brought my other hand up to his back and stroked him from his shoulder blades to the base of his spine, then back again. I felt and heard him sigh. It sounded content. I did it again and again, soothing him.

He placed a kiss on my shoulder, lingered there as his heart slowed.

“I didn’t know it was going to do that,” I said suddenly, voicing my thoughts.

He stiffened—not much, just a little—and leaned just far enough away to bring my eyes into focus.

“You didn’t know what was going to do what?”

“Your…” I hesitated, feeling unaccountably embarrassed. It was strange, I didn’t mind doing it, but talking about it made me feel squeamish and uncomfortable. I cleared my throat, determined to soldier on and not be a ninny. So I said bravely, “I didn’t know your ejaculate was going to shoot out like that.”

His eyebrows jumped and he gave me a surprised, crooked smile. “My ejaculate?”

“Yes. Like a cannon blast of semen, and there was—is—a lot of it. It’s everywhere.”

Martin gave a surprised laugh, looking at me like I was weird and wonderful.

But then he sobered suddenly and asked, “Are you…are you uncomfortable?” He shifted like he was going to grab one of the washcloths folded neatly on the dryer.

“No. Not particularly. But it’s getting a little cold.”

He stared at me. I stared back. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, how to let his penis go, because my hand was still around it. So I tried stroking him again. He winced, jumped away, and gulped air.

“Kaitlyn, no, no, don’t do that.”

“Sorry. I didn’t…I mean, I don’t know what to do after…”

He exhaled, placed his hands on his hips, and dropped his chin to his chest, but not before I saw his small smile.

Meanwhile, I did what I think anyone would do in my situation. I leaned back on the washing machine and gave him a good once-over because Martin Sandeke was naked. He was completely naked. And he was crazy beautiful. I’m not an idiot, so of course I was going to exploit this moment.

I sighed then bit my lip, because I was still aroused and he was naked. This was more pre-bedtime imagery for the win.

He lifted his head at the sound, his eyes moving over my body with what felt like a hungry compulsion. He must’ve noticed me doing the same because he smirked. Martin sauntered forward, grabbed a washcloth and wiped off my stomach and chest, taking more time and care than necessary.

At some point during his careful ministrations I began to feel inhibited—not because I was ashamed of my body—because I wasn’t used to being on display. I wasn’t used to being looked at while naked, with desire or otherwise. I’d always been modest, and therefore, as he tossed the dirty washcloth to the floor I moved to cover myself.

Martin intercepted, then covered my hands with his, halting my progress.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m covering up.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I glanced around the room, feeling oddly embarrassed, then answered with simple honesty, “Because I’m not used to this, to being exposed like this.”

Martin released my hand and I finished tying the strap, but then he slipped his fingers into the cup of my bikini and massaged, caressed, possessed—almost like he was communicating that it didn’t matter whether I covered myself. My body was his to touch how he liked. This was confusing because it thrilled me. I felt dominated and I liked it. He loomed, hovering, peering down at me, all tall and strong and powerful…and naked.

“You have the most luscious breasts.” He whispered this, then nipped at my lips, his tongue darting out to taste them.

“Oh? The most?” I panted.

I felt his smirk return. “Yes. The most.”

“Luscious?”

“And delicious.”

“Really? Are they flavored?”

“Yes. Kaitlyn flavored…and now Martin flavored. I wonder what the rest of you tastes like.”

My eyes flickered to the door behind him as sounds of partygoers being loud and ruckusy ebbed and flowed, cutting through this little world we’d created in the laundry room. I gathered a deep breath, swallowing down my desire. I’d already ventured quite far out of my comfort zone for one night. I needed time to think and regroup.

So I shook my head, returning my eyes to Martin’s. “No, no. I’m good.”

He lifted a single eyebrow, clearly surprised. “You’re…good?”

I nodded. “Yeah. That was fun…watching you and, um, touching you during. I’m good.”

He studied me, his eyes narrowing. “What if I’m not good?”

I glanced to one side, then the other, trying to figure out why he wouldn’t be good. “Did I not do it right?”

“No, no. Not at all. You did great. That’s not what I meant. What if…” He paused, his eyes moving down the length of me, blazing a path that left goosebumps in its wake. He reached for my hand and brought my middle finger to his mouth. I was transfixed as he sucked it into his mouth, his tongue swirling. I moaned. I did. Because the inside of his mouth felt like the gateway to heaven.

“Oh, Martin, what are you doing?”

He withdrew my finger and rubbed the pad of it back and forth over his bottom lip. “I need to taste you, Kaitlyn. I want to fuck you with my tongue.”

I shivered convulsively and had no idea how to respond to that, so I said, “I have no idea how to respond to that.”

“Say yes. Say: Yes, Martin. I want you to fuck me…with your tongue.”

“I don’t think my mouth can say those words out loud. I’m not that outgoing.”

He grinned, bringing my knuckles to his mouth and slipping the aforementioned tongue against the back of my middle and index finger, licking the space between them where they joined. I gasped because the spot seemed to be a wormhole; he’d bent time and space creating a shortcut to my clitoris.

I yanked my hand away, hopped off the machine, abruptly standing, forcing him to take a step back. He moved to reach for me but I placed two hands on his chest—stupid perfect chest—holding him at bay.

“Just…just give me a minute.”

“Kaitlyn—”

“No, no, no. I need a minute.”

“Let me—”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that, okay?”

He caged me in, his hands on the machine behind me. “You seemed ready for it earlier.” His voice was teasing, held sensual promise that my pants really liked. I think my pants are the president of the Martin Sandeke sensual promise fan club.

I shook my head, staring up at him, my words rushing out of me. “I wasn’t. I mean, I wanted to and I want you to, but I don’t think I’m ready…yet. I mean I just had my first orgasm yesterday afternoon. We just kissed for the first time on Friday. Friday. I can’t move this fast. I need time to acclimate to changes, process what they mean.”

His scorching gaze subdued, grew thoughtful, and he straightened, giving me space.

I continued, “If I keep giving in while we’re in the moment then none of this has meaning.”

This last statement seemed to make a huge difference. He rocked back on his feet then took two steps away; to my surprise, he was nodding. “That makes sense.”

I clasped my hands and returned his nod. “It does, right? I mean, we could jump each other’s bones now, in this laundry room, but what would it really mean? It would feel good—really, really good—but—”

“But it wouldn’t have meaning for you,” he finished for me, his eyes searching mine. Martin’s voice deepened and his gaze grew open and earnest. “I want it to have meaning, Parker. And I’m fine with waiting for some things, but I still need to touch you.”

I gave him a little smile, my hands on my hips. I felt a tad silly standing in front of him, talking about giving meaning to physical intimacy while the barest remnants of his sperm dried on my stomach and chest.

“And I still need you to touch me, Martin. That’s part of this whole dating thing…I think. The point is, we’re trying to figure it out, right? And I think we can.”

“Good.” He rushed forward, like he needed to be close. His hands moved to touch my waist, stalled, then settled benignly on my shoulders. “Good. We’re on the same page.”

“Good.” I grinned, feeling excited.

It was, I realized, the first time I’d truly entertained the possibility that things might actually work between us. Before this moment I’d kept my guard up, trying to prove the null hypothesis, ready for Martin to mess up or for him to realize his interest in me was transitory and misplaced.

He must’ve seen some shift in my expression because his answering smile was soft and hopeful.

He asked, “You want to have some tacos?”

“What? Here? Now? They have tacos?”

“Yeah.” Martin’s eyes skated over my face and they lit at my delight. “They have a taco bar.”

“Oh my God.” I stared at him for a beat, my mouth agape, then nodded vehemently and declared, “Best party ever!”