Elements of Chemistry (Part 2) HEAT (2015)

Chapter 9. Organic and Biological Chemistry

WE’D REACHED A stalemate after our big fight. I couldn’t answer his question. He wouldn’t let me hide in the closet.

But we’d also reached a ceasefire, which was a very good thing because we were at least ten miles from the island and were utterly alone, with each other, for the rest of the day.

As such, things became strained, but also exceedingly polite. We went back above deck, ate lunch in relative silence. I cleared the dishes while he washed them. Please and Thank you were used in excess. But not You’re welcome.For some reason, through an odd silent accord, we’d both agreed that You’re welcome was off limits. Instead I’d say, No problem. Or he’d say, My pleasure.

Strained politeness became complete silence as he focused on fishing—actually holding the pole!—and I laid a towel on the platform of the bow and pretended to read my book. Instead, I thought about the nuttiness of the last few days and hours and what I was going to do about it all.

It was weird being with Martin and not talking to him. Therefore, when the sun approached the horizon and Martin asked if I wanted to head to the cottage and meet up with Eric and Sam, or stay on the boat for the night, I surprised both him and me when I responded that I wanted to stay on the boat. I also asked that he call Sam and Eric and let them know our plans.

Even though we’d been gone since Wednesday morning, I didn’t want to go to the cottage when he and I weren’t on more than polite speaking terms. Tomorrow was our last day. There was too much left unsaid. Regardless of whether we returned as friends or as more than friends, I wanted us to be in a good place.

Martin needed a friend. He needed a safe place. I wasn’t in love with him…or maybe I am…or maybe I’m falling in love with him… I don’t know! Gah!

But he mattered to me. Once the urge to hide in the closet passed, I was determined we not abandon what we’d started. I wanted to see it through.

When he learned I wanted to stay the night on the boat, Martin’s mood shifted. He became less stoically polite and more actually polite.

He touched base with Eric via a satellite phone and I spoke to Sam for about three minutes, just long enough to assure her I was perfectly fine and I’d see her tomorrow in the afternoon.

Then he asked if I wanted to go for a swim, and I said yes. So we did. I did my best to ignore his body, because it still put me in a state of duress and gave me lusty pants, and he did an admirable job of keeping his hands to himself.

I made a salad and he made sashimi for dinner from a second yellowfin tuna he’d caught during the day. I was super impressed he knew how to make sashimi from whole tuna until I realized it was just cutting up the pretty part of the fish. I’m lying. I was still impressed. He was really good with his knife.

I praised his fishing and fish-cutting prowess. As well, we found a topic that was perfectly safe to discuss - our chemistry assignment. Therefore, after dinner we spread out the chemistry text, my notes, divvied up the tabulations and analyses, and set to work.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, mark this day on the calendar of your life. Martin Sandeke helped with the tabulations and analyses.

If anything says, I’m sorry I hurt you earlier by making you think I was using you for your family because it didn’t occur to me to just ask how you felt about me, helping with laboratory tabulations and analyses will do the trick.

Of course, it helped that he could do the work in a fraction of the time it took me. Then, maybe as a peace offering or maybe because he found himself enjoying the task, Martin offered to finish my portion of the tabulations. I let him.

I stretched as I stood and glanced at the half moon in the sky and the gathering clouds. It looked like it was going to rain.

I cleared the table and did the dinner dishes while he finished our lab work. While rinsing suds off the plates I was struck by a peculiar sensation of melancholy and mourning.

Tomorrow was our last day.

It was hard to believe that Martin had found me hiding in a science cabinet just last week. It felt like a lifetime ago. And yet, the week had flown by. Everything was different. I was different. I wondered how it was possible to live one’s life, week in and week out, with nothing of consequence occurring.

But then suddenly, over the course of seven days, my entire world shifted. Just seven days that could have been like any other seven days.

This really was relationship boot camp. Through this fight—or whatever it was we were in—I’d learned more about Martin, understood him better than I had during the first six days of the trip combined.

1. He was damaged in ways I might never understand.

2. He was used to getting what he wanted—whether that be information or acquiescence—through manipulation.

3. He was in love with me, or at least he thought he was.

4. He was willing to learn from his mistakes.

5. He didn’t want to repeat his mistakes.

6. He feared rejection.

The last revelation made him very, very normal. The first two, however, were sources of extreme concern. Numbers four and five gave me hope.

But the third made me feel weak every time I remembered him saying the words. It made my heart swell, it made it hard to breathe, it made the Bunsen burner in my pants go on alert level one million, and it made me willing to forgive him for almost anything.

That was the truth of it. I wanted to forgive him. I wanted to trust him again. I did trust him before the fight, because he’d earned my trust with sincerity and honesty. I also wanted him to trust me enough to risk his heart without trying to tear mine out in the process.

“Hey.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Martin was in the doorway to the kitchen, holding two glasses, watching me. I took both from him with a tight smile, and turned back to the sink. I washed them, rinsed them, set them on the towel to dry.

Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

I nodded, giving him my profile and another tight smile. “I know.”

He moved into the small kitchen and stood behind me. I felt his warmth at my back and braced for his touch, my body tensing in anticipation.

But then music started playing from what could only have been a cell phone speaker. The sound quality was not good, but not terrible. I recognized the song within the first ten notes.

“Stevie Wonder?” I asked, turning completely around and glancing at the cell phone Martin held in his hand.

He nodded then reached around to place it on the towel next to the two glasses I’d just finished washing. “I thought you might like some music.”

“Overjoyed.” I said the name of the song, and I’m afraid I was looking at Martin like he had three heads—all still devastatingly handsome, but three nevertheless. “You like Stevie Wonder?”

He nodded, not touching me with anything other than his penetrating gaze. “Yeah. He’s one of my favorites. I like to rock out to Sir Duke or Superstition when I run.”

“You like Stevie Wonder,” I repeated, this time as a statement, because it was so odd. Then I laughed my astonishment and covered my huge grin with my hand. “This might be one of my most favorite things about you, Martin Sandeke.”

His lips twisted to the side with a sardonic smile, his eyelids lowering. He reached for my hand, revealing my grin, and threaded his fingers through mine. “Don’t cover your mouth, it’s one of my most favorite things about you.”

Butterflies and dragonflies held conference in my stomach then fluttered to the four corners of my extremities. Everything felt dreamlike, hazy—likely the effect of exploiting Stevie Wonder as a soundtrack to this conversation—and I found myself leaning toward him, lifting my chin.

He brushed his lips against mine, then tasted me with his tongue. It wasn’t enough, yet he didn’t deepen the kiss.

Instead he whispered, “I love you, Kaitlyn.”

He leaned away, his eyes burning into mine, like he wanted to make sure I’d heard him and that I understood.

He released my hand.

Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me with Stevie Wonder telling me how he’d built his castle of love, just for two, though I never knew I was the reason.

***

I COULDN’T SLEEP.

Where last night sleeping with Martin had been wonderful and filled with conversations about everything, tonight it was weird. We weren’t touching. Instead we were relegated to the two sides of the bed, lying on our sides away from each other.

I was pretty sure he wasn’t asleep either.

This suspicion was confirmed when I heard him sigh, then mutter, “Fuck this shit,” under his breath, then shift, reach for my body, and pull me across the great divide into his arms and against his chest.

I smirked into the darkness.

“I can’t sleep with you and not touch you,” he said by way of gruff, unapologetic explanation. “So if you don’t want me to touch you then I can go sleep on the couch.”

“No.” I snuggled backward, into his embrace. “No, stay. It seems I can’t sleep either unless you’re touching me.”

He gave me a rumbly grunt of acknowledgement, then we settled into the stillness and the gentle rocking of the boat. Feeling cozy and warm and safe, I was approximately a half minute from drifting off to dreamland when Martin whispered against my neck.

“Please, Kaitlyn… Don’t punish me.”

I stiffened, the words confusing and alarming. I turned in his arms because I had a fierce urge to see his face.

I searched his eyes in the dim light before I spoke, and found him both weary and guarded.

“Martin, I’ve told you before. I don’t punish people. You can expect honesty from me.”

He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against the side of my cheek, then pushed several strands of my hair over my shoulder, following the progress with his eyes. “You haven’t forgiven me yet.”

“No. I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m punishing you. I promise, I’m actively working to forgive you. I just need time.”

He nodded his understanding, his gaze on my shoulder. He was touching me there, his thumb tracing a circle on my skin.

Then he returned his eyes to mine, ensnared them. His gaze and voice were laced with challenge as he asked, “Will you let me…can I make you feel good?”

The butterfly and dragonfly conference was back in my stomach. My heart was banging like a gavel, calling the sexy meeting to order. I flexed my thighs then pressed them together in automatic response to his request, my lower belly twisting, hot and liquid, my nipples tightening into stiff peaks.

Yes, I wanted to say. God, yes. Please.

I didn’t quite trust myself to speak as my heart lurched painfully toward the vicinity of his heart, so I said nothing. But then I was struck with sudden inspiration.

“No,” I breathed, not really believing I’d turned him down, yet found the wherewithal to add, “but I’d like to touch you.”

His eyes widened and his handsome mouth parted. Everything about him softened and it was clear he hadn’t been expecting my request. Holding my breath, I sat up in the bed and peeled the covers off his chest then pulled them completely away.

I reached for the waistband of his pajamas and he, as though coming back to himself, suddenly gripped my wrists to stop my progress.

“What are you doing?”

“Touching you.”

His jaw was tight, his eyes betraying his confusion.

“Why?”

“Because I like touching you.” I shrugged.

“Kaitlyn,” he growled. He looked like he was in pain. “Don’t tease me.”

I waited for him to really see me, and I hoped he saw my sincerity. I hoped I didn’t have to make verbal promises. I hoped he’d just simply trust me.

Eventually, and with a shaking breath, Martin released my wrists, though he looked fierce, dangerous as he did so. The glint in his eyes again reminded me of a wounded animal. I knew I had him in a vulnerable position and that was a unique prospect for him.

I curled my fingers around the band of his pajamas again, one hand on either side of his hips, and pulled them down his legs. He helped by lifting his hips, though his eyes never left mine.

I tried to make my expression as unconcerned as possible, even though I had no idea what I was about to do. Trying to feign confidence, I moved my eyes to his middle and gazed upon his very long, thick, and remarkably shaped penis. It was an anatomy 101, textbook penis—very normal looking in the best way possible, just longer and thicker.

Therefore, I had no idea why the sight of it got me so excited. It was a penis. There was nothing special about this penis—excepting being longer and thicker than the average representation of penises everywhere—other than the person to which it was attached.

Inexplicably, I wanted to taste it.

I bent forward to do just this when Martin stopped my progress by gripping my shoulders.

“What the hell, Kaitlyn?”

I looked at him then his penis. It jumped. He growled.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no.” He leveraged his grip on my shoulders to pull me back to where I’d been lying on the bed just minutes prior. He climbed on top of me, pinning me down. “You’re not going to do that.”

“What? Why? Do you not like it?”

“Of course I like it! But you’ve never done it.” He was hovering over me, naked, nearly yelling because I wanted to give him my first blow job.

“You think I’ll suck?”

He blinked at me, stunned for a moment, then groaned. His forehead hit my shoulder and it was then I realized the double meaning of my words.

“Oh snap, sorry. Of course, you hope I’ll suck.”

He groaned again. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“No.” I laughed, because I couldn’t help it, wishing I could touch him but he was holding my wrists. “I’m not. I just…I just want to make you feel good.”

He didn’t lift his head. “Right. You want to give me a blow job after I made you feel like shit this afternoon, and you still don’t forgive me for it. Because that makes sense.”

I didn’t want to tell him that the reason I hadn’t forgiven him yet was because he obviously didn’t trust me. Him not trusting me to put his penis in my mouth was evidence enough. I thought it was a truth universally acknowledged that all men love blow jobs, beer, and again, blow jobs. Who turns down a blow job? Martin Untrusting Sandeke, that’s who.

I huffed. “Listen, Sandeke. I would like to place your very picturesque penis in my mouth. Yes or no?”

He groaned, buried his head in my neck, bit me.

I bent my head to the side reflexively, little waves of wonderfulness spreading through me originating from where his mouth loved and tortured my neck.

“Yes or no?” I squeaked.

He lifted himself up, planking above me. His erection pressed into my belly and I tried not to squirm because I knew that would likely set him off again.

“Why are you doing this to me?” His tone was subdued, but his eyes glared menacingly.

“Yes or no?”

He swallowed, his gaze moving in a deliberate trail from my eyes to my mouth, neck, then breasts.

“Fine,” he said, and I could tell he didn’t think I’d actually do it. “But you have to take your shirt off.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want you to swallow this time. If you swallow your first time you’ll never go down on me again, because cum tastes nasty.”

“And you know this how?”

“Girls tell me so. Lots and lots of girls.”

Now he was just being crude, trying to push me away instead of giving me an opportunity to demonstrate I was trustworthy. But I was stubborn.

I lifted my chin and asked, “I still don’t understand why I need to take my shirt off.”

“Because I like seeing my cum on your beautiful tits.”

If he was trying to freak me out, gross me out, or shock me, his words had the opposite effect. My lungs filled with fire and my breath hitched. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I repeated the words he’d already used on me twice.

“Don’t tease me,” I whispered.

His eyes widened as they searched mine. I’d surprised him again. Wide eyed, mouth slightly parted, looking at me like I was a sexy alien creature, Martin released my wrists and lay back on the bed.

I sat up again, pulling my shirt off and arranging myself near his middle. His hands had balled into fists at his sides. I guessed this was a byproduct of trying not to touch me.

I bent forward and reached for his shaft with one hand, holding his erection still because it was jumping, straining as I came closer. I licked my lips, breathing on him, and he groaned. He sounded so tortured. I felt a desperate spike to ease his suffering so I opened my mouth and slid my lips and tongue over his penis, accepting him into my mouth, suckling him.

He cursed—a steady stream of panting expletives intermixed with my name.

I moved up and down, remembering a porn movie I’d watched with Sam last semester while eating seasonally appropriate pumpkin-spiced kettle corn. Sam spent twenty minutes critiquing the girl’s fellatio technique. She’d even paused the video, stood up, walked to the TV, and used my yardstick as a pointer.

“See here,” she’d said, indicating to the girl holding her own breast, “she should be using that hand to tickle his balls, the inside of his thighs, or the backs of his knees. What’s it going to do on her breast? Nothing. That’s a misuse of resources.”

I tried to recall the rest of her pointers, and knew that if I tried to bring him in too deep then I would gag. I wasn’t ready for that yet, gagging being something I didn’t enjoy, so I tried to focus on doing what felt good to me, what I enjoyed.

I was surprised and not surprised to learn that what I enjoyed, he also seemed to enjoy. When I groaned because I liked the salty taste of his pre-cum, he answered with a groan of his own. When I twisted my fingers around his shaft and swirled my tongue around the head of his penis, every muscle in his body tensed and he held his breath.

It was like having a salty Popsicle that never melted, attached to a lovely, sexy man who derived both pleasure and pain from my experimentation. It made me feel oddly powerful and light-headed. The skin was soft—impossibly soft—and so, so hot.

And quite abruptly it was over.

“Kaitlyn stop, stop…fuck, I’m going to come.” He pushed me away, gripping himself.

My eyes widened at the sight of his big hand gripping his big dick. It was the absolute sexiest thing I’d ever seen. I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth, transfixed.

“Okay,” I said, “tell me what to do. Should I lay down and you get on top?” Of course I was referring to the logistics of him releasing his semen on my breasts.

But it was too late. Martin gave himself two strokes and that was it. He spilled on his own stomach, angling himself down, his hand moving back and forth with jerky movements. I watched him as it happened. His body tense, his muscles cut in sharp relief, his face twisted for a very long moment in both agony and sweet relief, almost like he was confused and angry and listening to a choir of angels only he could hear.

Then he released a shuddering breath, brought his other hand to his face. He pressed the base of his palm against his forehead, like he was trying to keep his brain from exploding.

I smiled at him, waiting with anticipation for the post-BJ analysis. I found my shirt and wiped my hand dry, then placed it gently on his midsection; nevertheless, he flinched when the soft cotton connected with his still erect penis.

I cleared my throat, watched him absentmindedly clean himself, his breathing still labored. The pulse point on his neck pounded out a furious rhythm.

When he didn’t move my smile waned. I was tired of waiting.

I poked him gently. “Martin…are you asleep?”

“No.”

I waited for five seconds, then asked, “How was I? Did I suck?”

He laughed and it was mostly a good sound, velvety, seductive and satisfied; it wrapped soft tendrils of tenderness around my heart and squeezed, like a hug. It also rolled out the Slip ’n Slide in my pants and put up a sign that saidReady for business time, only Martin need apply within.

But it was also a smidge melancholy, and this smidge of melancholy made me feel nervous.

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing only briefly before standing and walking to the bathroom. I watched him toss my shirt to the corner and leave, the sound of his laugh still vibrating in my ears and heart.

The water switched on and off. Martin returned almost immediately and reached for his discarded pajamas.

I considered him, then asked, “So, seriously, how did I do? Any pointers for next time?”

His movements faltered at this last question, then he finished pulling on his pants and said, “There won’t be a next time.”

His words were confusing and sad. He also looked a little sad.

“Why not?”

He ground his teeth and swallowed before answering, “I’m not doing this.”

His words broke my heart, he sounded so raw.

“What?”

“This.” He lifted his chin toward me.

“You have to be more specific.”

“I’m crazy about you—”

“I’m crazy about you, too.” I moved to stand, but his next words gave me pause.

“Stop!” He sliced his hand through the air, his voice harsh. He appeared to be struggling. “You know what I mean, Kaitlyn. I’m in love with you, and you’re not…and I don’t know why you did what you just did, but this is…this is so fucked up.”

Martin pushed his fingers through his hair and turned away from me.

My heart took a kamikaze leap in his direction. “Martin—”

“No.” He shook his head. I saw his eyes were closed, like he was trying to block me out, and I understood why he hated it when I closed my eyes or covered my face.

He continued, and I was relieved to see he did so with open eyes. “I don’t want to be a pity project. And I don’t want to push you into doing things you obviously aren’t ready for.”

“What makes you think I’m not ready?”

He faced me and gestured furiously to the bed. “Because you shouldn’t be giving blow jobs to guys you aren’t in love with. That’s not who you are.”

“What if I am that girl?”

“You’re not! This, what we’ve been doing, every time I touch you, it means something to you more than just getting off. I can see it and I don’t want that to change. I need it to mean something to you! I can’t…I’m not doing this anymore.”

“But what if I am in love with you?” I didn’t think about the words before I said them. For better or worse, I just said what I felt at that moment.

He stiffened, winced.

“Don’t...” I saw his eyes narrow, flash in the low cabin light. “Don’t say it unless you mean it.”

I stood from the bed and walked to him, driven by the momentum of our week together, our beautiful week. I felt that everything we’d done, all of our discussions and fighting and joking and challenging each other had led to right now.

My legs were unsteady, but I felt the crazy, nonsensical rightness of this moment in each of my nerve endings. I took his hand in mine and placed his palm on my left breast. My heart was beating sure and steady, but deep and hard—like my blood was viscous and my heart was working with effort. Then I covered his heart with my hand.

“I’m in love with you, Martin. And I’m saying it because I mean it,” I whispered.

His gaze darted between mine and he blinked with hesitation, like I might disappear if he closed his eyes. Suddenly I was crushed to him, encircled in his strong arms, his mouth on mine, and he was walking me backward with stumbling steps to the bed.

“I want you,” he said between kisses, my back hitting the mattress as he rose above me.

“I want you too,” I said.

“God, I love you. I love you so much.” He trailed a licking, biting, sucking path to the valley between my breasts, then back to my neck, frantic movements that told me he was overcome, wanting all of me at once. I was all waves and spikes of sensation, longing, and wound, taut desire.

“Say it again,” he demanded.

“I love you,” I breathed. And then again, this time for myself, because I felt it, “I love you.”

He growled harshly, his hands tightening on my body in response.

“Please,” he said, biting my neck, hot breath making me shiver, his hand at my breast, kneading. “Please, I need to be inside you.”

I tilted my head back, offering him more of my neck. “I thought you didn’t beg.”

His hand skimmed from my breast to the waist of my shorts, sending a shock of goosebumps in its wake. His fingers pushed into my panties and between my legs, parting me, rubbing a tight circle over my clitoris, and making me cry out.

“I’m not begging,” he said, entering me with his fingers. “I’m asking nicely.”

I laughed, but then abruptly sucked in a sharp breath as Martin removed his fingers, grabbed my shorts, and pulled both my pajamas and my underwear down my legs. He took advantage of the moment to also shed his pants then reached over to the nightstand. When he returned I noticed a few things at once.

He was straddling me, his penis fully erect, entirely recovered, and jutting out from between his legs, not quite resting on my belly. The sliver of moonlight filtered through the underwater portholes, casting his beautiful body in blue-ish white relief. I reached for his sides, gripped him just above his narrow hips, loving the smooth texture of his skin over the hard planes of his muscles.

Glaring down at me, he brought a foil packet to his teeth and ripped it. My eyes widened at the sight because…sex.

We were going to have sex.

I was going to have sex.

In about two minutes or less I was no longer going to be a virgin.

Holy crap.

I wasn’t sure what I thought was going to happen when I told him I loved him, and I wouldn’t take it back because it was true, but immediate post I love you sex hadn’t even entered my mind. According to Martin, one minute I wasn’t ready to administer blow jobs, the next minute I was ready to lose my virginity.

“Whoa! Wait, wait a minute!” I held my hands up between us.

Martin didn’t exactly wait, nor did he exactly move forward with the pending deflowering. Rather, his hands stilled right before he rolled the condom over his dick. Then he grabbed my wrists, held them down on the bed at my sides, and loved my breasts with his hot mouth and tongue and teeth.

“Tell me what you want,” he said between inhibition-demolishing kisses, suckles, and bites. “Do you want me inside you?”

“Ah,” I breathed as he released one of my wrists and brought his middle finger to my mouth; he dipped it inside. Instinctively I sucked on it, swirling it with my tongue. Then he trailed the wet tip from my chin, between my breasts, over my abdomen, and finally, finally parted my thighs and entered me. His middle finger stroked up and down, circling my center yet never quite touching where I needed.

“Because I want you, I want you so many ways.” He bit the underside of my breast, making me jump. “Do you want me?”

I was going to say yes, but what came out instead was a breathy, “I’m on birth control.”

He stilled. Groaned. His forehead dropped then pressed against my ribs.

“Fuck me,” he said. Then I sensed him throw the condom to the floor. Sliding up my body to cup my cheek, his voice soft and serious as his eyes searched mine, “I’m clean, I promise. I would never take a chance with you.”

I nodded and swallowed. I trusted him. I loved him. His body was heavy over mine and I felt less in control than I’d ever felt in my entire life. He must’ve read the fear in my face because he gave me a soft kiss then nuzzled my ear.

“You want me to eat your sweet pussy first? I’m going to taste you and make you come with my mouth. If you want more of me inside you, then you’ll have to ask nicely.”

My breathing was coming fast, pants of trepidation and anticipation. I had the fleeting thought that it hardly felt fair, leaving the entire decision to me when I wasn’t the one who was experienced, when I could never be fully informed of what losing my virginity would feel like until after it happened.

He nipped my bottom lip then moved to explore his way down my body, but I caught his arms before he could go far.

His eyes came back to me and I knew mine were wide with alarm. “Wait…how bad is it going to hurt? On a scale from one to ten?”

He gave me a cherishing smirk and smoothed my hair away from my face, his eyes sobering, losing a bit of their haze of desire. “It doesn’t feel great, Parker. There’s a lot of bullshit out there. I’ve never heard of a girl getting off her first time.”

“But you said you had, and I quote, ‘fucked plenty of virgins…’ end quote. None of them have ever, you know, orgasmed? During their first time?”

Martin cleared his throat and glanced away, exhaling a little laugh. “You want to talk about other girls right now?”

“Yes and no. I don’t need to know their names or what color their nail polish was or whether you loved any of them, but I’d like to hear at least some empirical data so I can make an informed decision.”

“I didn’t love them,” he said suddenly. Frowning, he added, “But no, none of them orgasmed the first time.”

“And other confounding variables?”

His frown softened. “Such as?”

“Were you wearing a condom?”

“Always.”

“And did they love you?”

He hesitated. I could see he was thinking, and then answered with impressive honesty, “Yes. I think one of them did.”

I bit my lip, my eyes blinking furiously. For some reason that thought made me feel numb.

He studied me, his fingers absentmindedly playing between my legs, like he couldn’t help himself. I was alternating between aroused, very aroused, very scared, very concerned, and—finally—very aroused.

Then, on the vein of continuing his impressive honesty, he added, “I’ve never fucked anyone without using a condom. I’ve never thought about anything but protecting myself and getting off, and how good it feels while it’s happening. It feels better if the girl is really into it, but it wasn’t required. I’ve never…made love to anyone, and I’ve never been concerned about the girl’s enjoyment more than mine. But, I swear to God, Kaitlyn,” he licked his lips, his eyes darting between mine, “I want to make this amazing for you. I want you every day for the rest of my life. I don’t want to hurt you, but I do want your body—just like I want your heart and your mind—and I do want to feel you lose control while I’m inside you.”

I sighed, breathing out some of my fear and inhaling courage. I nodded, pressing my lips together. He kissed me, pressed the tip of his middle finger against my center, then whispered, “I’ll make this so good for you, the next time you’ll get on your knees and beg me for it.”

I moaned, arching my back, which made him chuckle and place a wet kiss on my right breast.

“So beautiful,” he said, trailing more slippery kisses against my skin, sending coiling heat to my core. “So fucking perfect.” He bit my hip. It hurt, but it also felt wonderful.

He spread my legs wide, placing his large hands on the inside of my thighs and holding me open. He breathed on my center then licked me—hot and soft and slippery. He tongued my opening and slid the tips of his fingers along the inside of my thighs, tickling me and sending a new wave of shivering goosebumps racing over my skin.

He proceeded to tease me, his touches, lapping, licking, and stroking never enough to push me over the edge, but more than enough to drive me crazy.

I felt empty and needy.

So I reached for him, threaded my fingers through his hair to his temples, and said, “Please, please…”

Martin didn’t ask for clarification.

He lifted to his knees, his rock-solid, imposing form rising above me. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes were hooded as they surveyed my open legs, my reaching hands, and my skin. I was bare to him. His right eyebrow quirked, just a little, and his smile was more sexy smirk than grin.

With measured, lithe movements, he stalked up my body, aligning himself at my entrance. I felt the swollen tip of him nudge me as he hovered above, watching me with avid, almost fascinated interest.

“Please, Martin,” I moaned, my hands on his hips. My belly and pelvis felt aching and hollow. I angled my hips up, sliding against him.

I saw him shudder and heard him release a low growl. Then, seemingly out of patience, he lowered himself and kissed me—a soft, yielding, searching kiss—and a split second later, while his mouth was still loving mine, he pushed himself into me with one swift thrust.

I stiffened, a pinching, harsh, acute pain between my legs, and I whimpered.

“I love you,” he whispered, his eyes holding my shocked, rounded gaze. He withdrew then pushed deeper.

I felt myself stretch. It was impossible and uncomfortable and I couldn’t breathe. It hurt.

But each withdrawal was twice or three times as long in duration as his invasions and I was grateful. The slow, sliding movements brought me back to the pleasure he’d built with his mouth and hands.

Part of me just wanted it to be over, wanted to push him away, make it stop.

Yet his eyes, so cherishing and concerned, hopeful and reverent, grounded me. Then he dipped his head to my neck, releasing hot breath just under my ear, biting me and loving away the sting.

Whispered again, “I love you, Kaitlyn. I love you. You’re perfect, and your body is perfect. I love you.”

Finally, the inward strokes didn’t hurt as much and, though I still felt uncomfortable, I didn’t feel sharp pain.

With each careful rocking of his pelvis he placed a soft kiss on my face—my chin, my nose, my cheeks—the feather-light touches making me feel loved and utterly cherished.

I was nowhere near reaching my peak, but curiosity and some instinctual rhythm roused me from my paralysis and had me lifting my hips to meet his.

His hand pressed into my hip to still my movements.

“Kaitlyn, don’t do that. If you…fuck, I’m going to…I can’t…”

I spread my legs wider and flexed my inner muscles, enjoying the fiery—resentment? Warning? Desire?—in his eyes. I responded by narrowing my gaze and undulating my hips quicker, forcing him to match my rhythm.

“Stop, Parker, you have to… Oh God…”

Then his thrusts became inelegant and demanding. He became rigid. He grit his teeth and groaned.

And I watched all this, how he completely and totally lost control, with a roaring feminine satisfaction that was an excellent runner-up to an actual orgasm.

His body fell into mine like more than just gravity pulled him downward. He fit his hand between my back and the bed and embraced me, his breathing labored. I didn’t mind the temporary, crushing weight of him or the slickness of his heated body. Being surrounded on every side by Martin was perhaps the best feeling of all time.

He lifted his head, his gaze searching and serious. He slipped one of his hands from beneath me, pushed his fingers through my hair and cupped my cheek.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded, giving myself a moment to be thoughtful about the matter, then said, “Yes. I’m just fine.”

His gaze turned dark. “You’re just fine?”

I nodded and patted him on the back. “You did good, Martin. It was painful. I’m not going to lie. But I’m not at all traumatized.”

He stared at me for a beat, looking equal parts offended and amused. When he spoke, however, his tone was laced with demanding determination.

“We’re not leaving this boat until you have multiple orgasms on my dick.”

I felt my forehead wrinkle as my eyebrows pushed upward. “Multiple? Is that even possible? I’m pretty sure I read that was a myth.”

“Parker…” He dipped his head to my neck, nibbled my earlobe, making me shrug my shoulder reflexively and shiver with delight.

He continued on a whisper, “If multiple orgasms are a myth, then you can call me Hercules.”