Elements of Chemistry (Part 2) HEAT (2015)

Chapter 3. Aqueous Equilibrium Constants

NO-TOUCH TUESDAY was a huge success and a huge literal pain in my gluteus maximus.

I’d only been going over the basics of the tango for ten minutes when Eric and Sam caught us in the act. Our twosome became a foursome and this was a good thing, because the tango is not a dance for platonic, getting-to-know-you discussions. I showed Martin the correct hold position and he looked at me like he hated me a little.

Therefore, I paired with Eric, Sam paired with Martin, and at one point, Martin paired with Eric and tried to dip him.

Seeing Martin’s silly side with his friend was a huge revelation. Also revealing was that he couldn’t dance without taking over, even when he didn’t know the steps very well. He could not cede control. He was incapable of allowing anyone else even a short period of leading. But he was also a fast learner and surprisingly graceful, and was soon taking Sam around the room with sure steps.

…typical. He’s good at everything, except maybe being nice.

Rosa announced lunch on the balcony and I was starving. The four of us joined a few of the others and sat on the highest level, overlooking the ocean. Notably, Ben the rapist was absent. As was Herc. Apparently they’d both stayed the night at the party and hadn’t yet returned.

When the rest of the guys heard my plan to learn how to row, it was met with overwhelming excitement and enthusiasm. Though they didn’t know me very well, it appeared rowers are always trying to convert other people into becoming rowers. As such, the group decided to take one of the boats out. Since two people were missing, Sam was drafted to replace Ben.

They also decided to take out a wooden boat—an antique they called Pocock—instead of the sleek carbon fiber Vespoli typically used for practice. Eric explained it would be easier to “set”—i.e. balance—with two new rowers as it was much bigger and didn’t sit so high in the water.

They walked it out from the beach until the water reached their hips. Sam and I were too short to be much help with the boat because they carried it over their heads; therefore we brought out the oars.

Martin instructed me how to “rig” my oar, making sure the oar lock was completely fastened, then took me through the motions of rowing with just my arms—the catch, the sweep, the release, the return—making sure I said the words legs, body, arms; arms, body, legs as I moved. He also stood behind me, his arms around me, as we… *ahem* stroked.

O.o

“Rowing is about physics, specifically torque. It’s about getting the most out of each stroke,” he explained, whispering into my ear. His bare chest was at my back, his legs brushing against mine in the water. He made the act of rowing sound like a dirty, wonderful thing.

“How come you didn’t teach me like that?” Ray asked. Both Martin and I turned toward Ray where he stood in the water by five-seat position. He lifted his chin and indicated to how Martin held me in his arms. “Why didn’t you hold me like that?”

“Because you’ve got that rash,” Martin said, completely deadpan.

“Oh…yeah. That’s right.” Ray nodded, chuckling. “Good point.”

Once the guys felt sure we had the full motion of the stroke committed to muscle memory, they put us in the boat. I sat in Martin’s seat—seat eight, the stroke seat at the stern—and Sam sat at the bow in seat one. We placed our feet in the shoes, stretchers is what they called them, and practiced rowing and balancing, sliding the seat, moving through the catch to release to return.

The guys held the boat in place and kept it level until Sam and I got used to being in the water on such a narrow craft. Then, when I was sure I had everything mostly right, Martin taught me how to feather my oar.

“Like this,” he said as he showed me how he twisted his wrists, making the blade of the oar perpendicular to the water at the catch and sweep, but then after the release and during the return he instructed me to turn the oar so it became parallel to the water.

I nodded, gave it a try a few times. It felt clumsy at first, but after a while more natural. Logically it made sense. Leveling the blade during the return would cut down on air drag—again, relating it back to physics. I noticed that the soft pads of my hands were starting to hurt, so I paused and glanced at my fingers.

I blinked, frowned, blinked some more. I had a blister.

Though I had calluses on the tips of my fingers from playing the guitar, there was something really hardcore about having a bleeding blister on one’s palm.

“Huh,” I said to my hands. I thought it was pretty cool, as it kind of made me feel like a badass.

I’d noticed that all the guys had really rough hands, like really rough. Martin’s palms and fingers—especially near the joints—were hard. They looked like manly-man hands and I’d made a note of them last semester during one of our lab assignments. I had wondered how this spoiled, entitled rich kid could have such plebeian hands.

He must’ve noticed my diverted attention because he reached for me, turning my palm toward him for inspection. When he saw the forming blister he frowned severely, lightly touching it with his thumb.

“Damn,” he said. I was surprised by how upset he sounded. When he lifted his eyes to mine he looked regretful and troubled.

I gave him a little smile. “I don’t mind.”

“I do. You should never be hurt.”

That statement, and the earnest, stern sincerity with which it was stated, surprised me. Then it laid siege to the remaining defenses around my heart and gently annihilated them. I felt myself melting.

Martin ended up wrapping my hands with medical tape so I wouldn’t get any more blisters. Between watching him dreamily, I thought about protesting, but then he made a good point when he said, “That blister is going to tear off and bleed if you don’t tape it. If you don’t tape them, you won’t be able to use them today or tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you use tape?” I asked as he wound the tape around my fingers.

“I need my hands to be tough. I row almost every day. If you row all the time it’s better to let your hands bleed for a while than covering them with tape to protect yourself. If you use tape then you’ll have to use it all the time.”

“So rather than taking the time to cover your hands, you just toughen up instead? Until you stop bleeding, and you can’t get any more blisters because you have so many calluses.”

He nodded absentmindedly. “Something like that.”

Well…there was an apt analogy if I’d ever accidentally stumbled over one. Martin Sandeke was basically his hands. I tucked that thought away for a later discussion.

After hand taping and another half hour of practicing, finally, finally they let us row on the open water.

I took Eric’s seven-seat, sitting right behind Martin. Eric took three seat so Sam could sit behind him in two-seat. The boat went fast but our movements seemed slow. Martin was careful to set a measured pace, therefore I don’t know how fast we were actually traveling. But it felt very fast. It was unsettling at first. I was sure, though I didn’t voice it, that I was going to fall into the water. But I didn’t.

I didn’t even catch a crab, which is what it’s called when you try to feather your blade too soon or too late and it gets pulled under the water. I was told this usually ends with the oar handle hitting you somewhere on your torso or in your face, or completely throwing you out of the boat (or any combination of the above).

We also turned the boat in a circle using various methods, under Lee’s excellent direction.

It was a lot of fun. It was a crazy amount of fun. It was epically fun. When we all moved in unison I felt like I was flying. I loved it. And I could see how rowing might become addictive. There was something about being one with your teammates and the boat, the water and the sky. Something about feeling the rush of the wind, all the while moving your body.

It. Was. Awesome.

But apparently it was also a lot of work because my legs, arms, back, and stomach felt like rubber when we made it back to shore. Sam and I put away the oars as the guys moved the boat. Eric suggested we all go swimming, so we excused ourselves to clean up.

When I finished my shower—my painful, painful shower—I found Sam in her bikini, lying on my bed like she was never going to move from the spot. I put on my swimsuit with a great deal of effort, then collapsed next to her.

“I hurt. I hurt so bad.” She said this dramatically, like she might cry. Sam was face down, spread eagle on my mattress. She was clearly exhausted.

“But you had fun.” I was also exhausted and lay limply on my side.

Her blue eyes focused on mine, then she gave me a mischievous grin. “It was worth it. I ogled Eric the whole time. I think his back muscles have muscles.” Then she added, again sounding in pain, “But I think I’m too sore for sex and that makes me sad.”

I laughed, and then winced, my abdominal muscles protesting.

“It’s like dating boot camp,” she said.

“I think boot camp hurts less.”

“That’s not what I meant. This, being with Eric all the time, it’s like dating boot camp. We’ve only known each other since Friday but I’m having conversations with him that I never had with any of my previous boyfriends. It’s…it’s intense.”

I nodded—or tried to—thinking about her analogy. “I have no basis for comparison, not really. But you’re right. I feel like everything is being rushed, like we’re cramming weeks and months of relationship interactions into hours and days.”

She gave me a weird, searching look. “Is Martin pushing you?”

“No. But we’re…getting close.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“And how is that? Are you still convinced he needs just a friend?”

“Yes…and no.”

“And…?”

“And what?”

“Don’t be coy, I’ve seen those hickies on your neck. You might be flexible but you didn’t give them to yourself.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, unwilling to move any other part of my body. “Yes, obviously we’re being more than friendly.”

“Don’t let him pressure you, Kaitlyn.”

“It’s honestly not like that.”

She snorted and rolled her eyes with disbelief. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen how he looks at you. He wants to have a penis party in your vagina.”

I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, because laughing was painful. “I told him I want to take things slow because, well, I’m the queen of inexperience.”

“And he agreed?”

“Yeah. He said he wants us to last, he wants what we do to be meaningful.”

“Whoa! He said that?”

“Yes. So we both agreed to slow down, hence the dancing and rowing lessons today.”

She smirked, her eyes lighting with mischief. “But he got you off, right?”

Now I rolled my eyes. “Sam…”

“He did. I can tell. You don’t need to answer.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because you’re looking at him like you want him to have a penis party in your vagina.”

“Ugh.”

“Was it good? Did he use mouth, or hand, or both? I like it when they use both.”

“I’m not answering that.”

“But it was good, right?”

I blinked at her.

She grinned. “Niiiice. Let me know when you’re ready to shed your repressed modesty and discuss the baser details. I can tell it was good because of how you’re blushing.”

“I’m not blushing. It’s just warm in here.”

“Whatever. I’d high-five you if I could move my arm.”

“How do you think I feel? You’re already an athlete, I hurt in places I didn’t know existed.”

“You’re the idiot who wanted to learn how to row. Why, Kaitlyn. Why? Why would you do that? Why would you ask that sadist to teach you how to row? Why?”

I tried to shake my head but I couldn’t. “I don’t know. Shut your whore mouth. I just want to die.”

A knock sounded from the door; Sam and I said in unison, “Come in.”

Martin poked his head in. I moved only my eyes because even my neck muscles were sore.

“Hey, you ready?”

“No. I’ve decided to die instead.”

He considered me, assessing, then asked, “Are you sore?”

“I would nod but I’m too sore.”

Martin strolled into the room, stopping where I lay on the bed, his eyes conducting a slow perusal of my body. “You’re going to be sore for a while,” he said thoughtfully, his lips twisting to the side. Then he bent down, scooped me up, and brought me to his chest.

“Oh God, I don’t even care.” I lay limply in his arms, dead weight. “Do whatever you want. I can’t even move.”

He laughed a little, kissing me lightly then nipping my lower lip. He strode out of the room, calling over his shoulder to Sam, “I’ll send Eric in with an anti-inflammatory.”

Sam’s response was weak and barely audible as he carried me down the hall. “God bless you, Martin Sandeke, even if you are a sadist.”

***

THE FIRST THING he did was carry me to the lowermost balcony. I didn’t even know it existed. It was hidden and down a short path, away from the house. Then he set me gently in a hot tub. The next thing he did was turn and leave.

That’s right, he left me. But he was soon forgiven because the hot water felt amazing, my knotted muscles relaxed. Furthermore, he returned with anti-inflammatory medication, a giant glass of water, and a plate of assorted yummy food.

He slipped into the hot tub next to me, seemed to hesitate, and then pulled me between his legs.

I said nothing. I didn’t get a chance to say anything because Martin was using his callused hands to massage my back, neck, and shoulders.

I sighed and just gave into it even though it was a definite grey area for No-Touch Tuesday. He might have meant it to be a helpful respite for my sore muscles, but it was making me feel really good in other places.

Like, as you may have guessed, in my pants.

Therefore I groaned. With pleasure. It was a definite pleasure groan. I didn’t mean to groan, but it happened, so there it is. I’m a groaner.

His hands stilled; his thumbs were pressing expertly into my lower back and his fingers were wrapped around my waist, massaging my bare stomach. I felt his quads flex at my hips.

“I can’t do this if you’re going to make those sounds.”

“Please, don’t stop.” I exhaled. It felt so good. I didn’t want him to stop. Maybe never.

It was his turn to groan. His forehead met my shoulder. “And you can’t say that kind of stuff.”

I wiggled, pressing my bottom and spine backward, trying to get him to move his hands again.

“Kaitlyn, you can’t move like that either.”

“You have a lot of rules,” I complained, lifting my hands and placing them on his thighs, trying to get better leverage to push myself into his skilled fingers.

He lifted his forehead from my shoulder, his hands sliding from their relatively benign positions on my body to much less benign positions—like slipping into the cup of my swimsuit top and my pants. I gasped.

When he spoke next his whisper was more growl than whisper. “I know you don’t want to be desirable to a man, but it’s too fucking late. So stop making me crazy. If you don’t want me to touch you, you need to stop teasing me.”

Instinctively, I leaned back, my shoulder blades connecting with his chest and my arms coming up out of the water and reaching for his neck.

“I swear, I’m not trying to tease you, and I never said I don’t want to be—”

“I heard you earlier, in my room. I heard what you said. It doesn’t matter, because I meant it when I said that all I can think about is you.” He bit my ear, like he couldn’t be close without tasting me, and added, “Honestly, you should be a little scared. I want you in so many ways, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”

I swallowed past the rising, choking lust that filled my lungs and sent liquid, aching heat to my center. My breathing was shallow, and as such my words were hushed and labored. “Martin, you don’t even know me. We’ve been here for three and a half days. Three and a half days isn’t a lot of time.”

He released a humorless laugh and it sent an odd chill down my spine. Slowly, very slowly, almost like it was meant to be more of a caress than a withdrawal, he removed his hands from the sweet spots where he touched me and his fingers closed over my upper arms. He lifted me up just slightly so he could move to the other side of the hot tub, placing as much distance between us as was possible in the small space.

He swallowed, focusing on some spot over my head for a long time, gathering himself—his thoughts, his self-control—before bringing the full weight of his gaze back to mine, pinning me in place.

When he spoke, his voice was hypnotic, soothing, and darkly unapologetic. “Parker, you’ve been the star of all my wet dreams since the first day of lab in the fall. I’m beyond caring whether you know…I’ve been watching you. I know you drink your coffee black and always from the same Doctor Who mug. Your favorite band is Weezer, or you just have an incredible amount of Weezer concert T-shirts. I know you mumble synonyms to yourself and it’s fucking adorable. I know you look for ways to help people, like giving that girl in lab a safety pin when her shirt ripped, or offering your notes to that douchebag, Kenneth.”

“You remember that?” My eyes moved between his, fascinated, enthralled, shocked.

“Yes, and all the other quiet acts of kindness over the last six months. As well as the fact that you’re the only girl who has ever refused to give me her phone number.”

I was struck by an unhappy thought. “Is this…am I just some kind of challenge for you?”

He shook his head, looking disappointed in me for asking the question. “No. You are not a challenge to me or a problem to be solved. I want to be with you, all the time. Did you think it was just a coincidence we were paired as partners two semesters in a row?”

My mouth fell open and I’m sure my eyebrows were doing strange things on my forehead. A little squeak of disbelief escaped my lips, but overall I was speechless. This was…this was…I was…

Shocked, stunned, surprised, bewildered, confused, bemused, befuddled.

I would have been distressed, except for the fact that Martin had been starring in all my dirty fantasies since the first day of lab in the fall.

I cleared my throat as I thought this over, considering how best to respond. When I was on the precipice of taking too long, I blurted, “I have to be honest, Martin. If you weren’t so hot, this would be really distressing. But, for some reason, the fact that you’re hot negates the creepiness factor.”

His mouth tugged to the side, though his eyes and voice were hard. “Lucky me.”

“And also in the spirit of honesty, I’ve been thinking about you too, mostly your body and face and eyes…but I didn’t like you very much before this trip.”

“I know. I was always trying to think of ways to get you to see me, talk to me, but you were always looking the other way.”

“But I did see you. I saw when you fought that guy in the dining hall last semester, and I saw you yell at that girl outside the Basic Sciences building in October and make her cry.”

Martin stared at me, some of the glacial frigidity thawing as he considered me. Then he said, “No wonder you thought I was an asshole.”

Before I could think better of it, I shrugged and said, “You kind of are an asshole.”

He exhaled a surprised laugh, but amazed me by saying, “Yeah. I guess I am. But I don’t like to be used, Parker. Do you know how often people ask me for money? People who I considered friends? Do you know how many girls want to throw themselves on my dick? It’s not about me. It’s about greed. I’m not bored of it. I hate it. I’ve had a lifetime of people trying to leverage me to get what they want. And if I’m an asshole it might have something to do with that.”

I nodded, remembering the conversation I’d overheard just a few days ago in the lab cabinet, the catalyst for all of this. That girl was going to drug him, assault him, rape him, and hope to get pregnant—all for money. She didn’t want him. She obviously didn’t even know him.

I added absentmindedly, “Kind of like the calluses on your hands.”

“What?”

I stared at him for a beat, wondering if he’d appreciate or be irritated by the analogy. I decided this was No-Touch Tuesday, and tomorrow was Wet-and-Wild Wednesday. If I was going to decide whether or not to participate, then I needed to be as honest and forthright as possible now.

“The calluses on your hands. They’re purposeful, meant to protect you in the long run. They’re armor, so that you can’t be hurt. Just like how you treat people…callously.”

His eyes narrowed on me, grew meditative, introspective, but not hostile. He said nothing.

I continued, “You’re callous because you have to be. Because otherwise you’d be bleeding all the time.”

Martin’s face did a funny thing then; he looked like a wounded animal. His eyes flashed, grew at once guarded and distant. His sudden reaction and the gathering ferocity in his stare set my heart hammering. I’d obviously touched on a nerve, because he now looked slightly dangerous.

I tried to think of something to say that could diffuse this change in his demeanor, but before I could, he asked, “What about you?” The tone of his voice told me he was very close to losing his temper.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“Uh, what about me?”

“What about your calluses?”

I turned my face to the side, administering him a sideways look. “My calluses?”

“Yes. You’re not exactly a very feeling person.” He said these words quite callously, the wall between us now feeling like an actual, tangible thing.

“I’m not…? What?” The hairs on the back of my neck rose, but I didn’t know if it was because his question was confusing or because my subconscious was warning me that I was venturing near a trap. “I’m a feeling person. I care about people.”

“I’m not talking about empathy for other people. I’m talking about you…feeling.” His eyes darted over me and when he spoke next it was as though he were speaking to himself. “You’re controlled, childish, and repressed.”

My mouth dropped open; I pointed to myself with my thumbs and my voice was dripping with incredulity. “Repressed? Childish?”

“Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas?”

“So? What’s wrong with Sponge Bob? He’s funny.”

“Don’t you want to feel sexual?”

Now my scalp was itching, my throat was tight, and I could hear the blood rushing between my ears. I had to take a calming breath before I could speak because I was angry, and I didn’t know why I was angry.

“Of course.”

He shook his head slowly, surveying me. “I don’t think so.”

“Why? Because I wasn’t ready for you to…to…put your mouth on my private area?”

“See. You can’t even say it.”

“I can say it.” I crossed my arms over my chest, the hot tub suddenly felt too hot.

“Then say it, Kaitlyn.” He grinned, and it looked wolfish. “Say the words. Say fuck me with your tongue.”

I gathered a deep breath, glared at him and his predatory smile, and prepared myself to say the words. Then I held my breath. Then I gritted my teeth. Then I narrowed my eyes.

“You can’t say it,” he whispered, looking triumphant and sad—not for himself, but for me. I comprehended that he felt sorry for me.

I released the breath and looked away, my blush now crimson. My anger was multiplied by mortification, my stomach a storm of dismay and disappointment. Why couldn’t I say it? What the hell was wrong with me? I squeezed my eyes shut then covered my face with my hands. I felt like crying, it was so ridiculous.

Seconds passed in relative silence while I tried to get myself under control. But it wasn’t working. I was going to cry.

Abruptly Martin said, “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?” I snapped.

“You always cover your face when we talk.”

I sensed rather than heard him draw closer. When he put his hands on my wrists, I jumped, startled even though I knew he’d crossed the barrier between us.

“Let me see you.” His grip tightened—firm but not hurtful—and pulled my hands away.

I was crying. Not big messy sobs, because that’s not how I cried. When I cried it was silent and usually into my pillow. And I didn’t cry often. The last time I’d cried was when my cat died in my junior year of high school. My mother had added an item to our weekly agenda: New cat for Kaitlyn - Pros/Cons.

“Why are you like this?” Martin’s voice startled me because it was so…gentle.

I lifted my watery eyes to his and had to bite my bottom lip to keep my chin from wobbling; his gaze matched his gentle tone. He looked a little concerned and a lot curious.

“What’s so scary about being seen?”

I cleared my throat and glanced over his shoulder. “Just because I’m not ready to take the next step in the physical intimacy pyramid doesn’t mean I’m afraid to be seen.”

“I agree, it doesn’t. But you are terrified, Kaitlyn. Everything is logical discussions with you, everything is so reasonable and analytical. Don’t you feel passionate about anything?”

“Of course.”

“What?”

“…I love my parents.” I said this lamely, because it was lame. Not that loving one’s parents is lame, but rather the only thing I could come up with that at all resembled passion was loving my parents.

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

I slid my teeth to the side, not sure what to say.

Martin turned, bringing me with him, and settled into a seat. He pulled me, his hands moving on my body to position me as he liked, until I was facing him, my legs straddling his hips. And I let him because I felt lost. This conversation was confusing.

Passion…was a confusing concept to me, which was—in and of itself—a weird thing to be confused about. I chided myself, feeling abruptly clumsy and stupid, and yes, childish. How could passion be so foreign? I’d read enough books about it. I knew, theoretically, what it involved. I felt a degree of passion for books and geek culture, shortbread cookies, and my favorite bands. As well, I’d felt something close to passionate about music once upon a time.

My mother and I had talked through why this passion for music was both good and bad.

It was good to have an appreciation for the arts. As a whole, the arts enriched society.

But it was bad to be passionate, focus energy on something, when I had talents in other areas of greater need, talents that were scarcer and in greater need by society.

She explained that the world didn’t need more musicians. But it did need more female—especially female—scientists, mathematicians, politicians, physicians, and leaders. I was good at my music, but being just good would likely never yield the results necessary to support myself as a musician. Nor would I have a directly positive and lasting benefit to society as just a good musician. It was much better to focus on math and science, areas where I was already gifted, areas where I could make a tangible difference.

I was lost in these thoughts, my tears having ebbed, when I became aware that Martin was staring at me, watching me. I felt his gaze scan my form. He’d paused, as though considering me, then brushed his knuckles over the swell of my breast.

My breath hitched and my gaze jumped to his.

“There,” he said, his eyes searching mine as he touched me again, this time also tugging the strap of my top down and baring my breast. His other hand trailed along the column of my throat to my shoulder then collarbone, tickling me. I shivered and sighed. “There it is. You have it, and when I touch you like this, it’s there.”

I could only look at him in response. I didn’t want to move even though we were breaking the No-Touch Tuesday rule. I was caught in rule-versus-want purgatory. Ultimately, I decided not to move, and No-Touch Tuesday could go help itself to jumping off a cliff.

His hands slid down my sides, stomach, and hips. Under the water, he used the backs of his fingers on the inside of my thighs and I tensed, paying no heed to my sore muscles.

“I understand that you’re not ready for me to fuck your sweet pussy with my tongue. I do. I understand.” His whispered words sent a lightning strike of white-hot longing through me. I felt like I might break in half.

He continued, all the while his fingers stroked back and forth, each time coming closer to my center. “If you help me soften my calluses, I’ll help you soften yours.”

I swallowed, feeling dazed. “How?”

“Be passionate.”

I shook my head, a dizzy denial spilling from my lips. “I’m just not built that way.”

“From where I’m sitting, you are.” Martin growled this then leaned forward to steal a quick kiss, his mouth leaving a trail from my jaw to my neck, whispering after biting my ear, “You are. You’ve just…turned it off, buried it for some reason.”

“Why do you even care?”

“Because, Kaitlyn, and I don’t know how many times you’re going to make me say this, I care about you, I want you.”

“But why—”

“Why do people care about each other? What is attraction? I can’t give you a list of reasons why I react to you like I do. This isn’t an equation to balance. You’re the one I’m always thinking about. It’s you. It just is.”

“You need to rethink that list, because what if I’m just…asexual?” I felt unsteady and sensitized; the hot, balmy, bubbly water licking my bare breasts and back. As such my words were breathless, labored.

He leaned back, captured and held my gaze before speaking. “This isn’t about sex, Parker. But for the record, you’re sexy as fuck. I’m talking about passion. Wanting something. Loving it. I’m passionate about rowing, and I’m passionate about knowing how everything works and telling other people what to do.” He smirked at this last thought, then his eyes grew staid and thoughtful. Martin’s knuckles skimmed up my inner thigh and finally, finallytouched my center. He rubbed the back of his middle finger up and down the apex between my spread legs, whispering, “And I’m passionate about you.”

My breath hitched, needy and painful spikes of pleasure originating from where he touched me, singing through my body. These sensations were unwieldy, unmanageable, and I realized it was because I believed him. I believed he was passionate about me.

“Touching you right now is meaningful for me. Tasting you, taking you now, here, would be meaningful for me.” He removed his fingers and my thighs tightened. Ignoring my reflexive protest, he lifted his hands out of the water, and then pulled my bikini straps back up my shoulders. He covered me as he said, “But it’s not going to be meaningful for you…unless you’re passionate about me.”