Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

“Is this an everyday thing?”

  “No. Only on special occasions, like when strange people arrive to plot your demise.” I twisted out of his grip, reached for and failed to find the spot needed to secure relief.

  “Plot my demise?” His eyes darted over me again, I could tell he was studying my movements. “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to reach an itch between my shoulder blades.” My elbow was in the air now, my hand down the neck of my shirt.

  Martin’s eyes widened then blinked. Without a word he stepped forward into my personal space. Before I could comprehend what was happening, he’d backed me into the lab table and I was trapped. Martin was against me, his arms wrapped around my body, his hands slipped under my T-shirt to the center of my back, and then his fingers itched the unreachable space between my shoulder blades.

  At first I tensed because… MARTIN SANDEKE’S ARMS ARE AROUND ME. HIS HANDS ARE UNDER MY SHIRT. HIS BODY IS PRESSED AGAINST MINE!

  OMG. WTF? BBQ!

  But then, my brain’s very understandably stunted fan-girl reaction to his movements was quickly eclipsed by the blissful relief of an itch scratched.

  I melted in his arms, my forehead resting against his chest, and I moaned my satisfaction.

  “Oh, yes, God. That’s the spot… Please, don’t stop,” I murmured, obviously out of my mind. But it felt so good. So very, very good. Like sinking into a hot bubble bath after walking a mile through a nor’easter.

  Martin didn’t stop.

  Well…not precisely.

  Rather, over the course of a full minute, he ceased using his nails, and instead began caressing and massaging my back with his fingers and hands. I realized too late that his head had dipped to my neck and his lips were against my ear, his hot breath tickling me and sending delightfully dangerous shivers down my spine, and down the backs of my legs to my toes.

  “Did I make it all better?” he whispered, then bit—yes, bit!—my neck, like he was tasting me.

  Then he bit me again.

  I sucked in a breath and my eyes opened—even as my body instinctively arched toward him. Reality burst through the delightful fog of his ministrations like one of those disturbing and jarring windup jack-in-the-box clowns.

  After one and a half semesters of virtually nothing but mundane academic interactions, I was in the chemistry lab with Martin Sandeke and his hands were roaming, liberal, and greedy. His face was tucked in my neck. I was trapped against a lab table. Our bodies were intimately connected.

  And I’d just moaned.

  What the hiccup was going on?

  I raised my palms to his chest and made to push him away. This only caused his hands to still, now on the curve of my waist, and his grip to tighten. He plastered our fronts together more completely.

  “Um…” I cleared my throat, found my voice unsteady. “Yeah, yeah—all better,” I croaked.

  He laughed. Actually, it was more like a lazy chuckle.

  One of Martin’s hands slipped up my back and under the strap of my bra, where the itch had been, his fingers splayed wide. The other went to the clip on my head and released the spring. My hair fell like a curtain and I felt him wrap his hand around the thick length.

  I pushed him again, tilted my head to the side and away, feeling breathless. “I’m all better now. Thanks for the help. Services no longer needed.” Everywhere he touched sent ripples of awareness and heat to my core.

  My attempt at escape was a failure, because, as soon as I pressed against him in earnest, Martin tugged my hair, encouraging me to tilt my chin upward.

  Then he kissed me.

  And—damn, damn, damn—he was a good kisser.

  More precisely, since I had grossly limited experience in the kissing department, he was what I imagined a good kisser would kiss like. The kind girls fantasize about. The guy who just takes what he wants, like he’s hungry and you’re on the menu, but somehow makes it epic for both parties involved.

  No preamble, prologue, or preface. Just urgent, fervent, worshipful kisses, one right after the other. I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck, stand on my tiptoes, and try to kiss him back. Because, honestly, the way he held me, the way he growled when our tongues met, the way his mouth moved over mine—he demanded it.

  Also, in the recesses of my mind, I realized that this entire situation was completely preposterous. Likely, he was drunk, or tripping on acid, or was playing some kind of joke.

  One day I would persuade my grandchildren to gather ’round while I put in my good dentures—the ones with no space between my two front teeth—and I would tell them for the millionth time about how Hercules had once accidentally kissed me in the chemistry lab at my Ivy League University.

  The need for air eventually required our lips to part, though we separated only inches. If I inclined my head forward our noses would touch.

  I opened my eyes as wide as they would go and glanced at his, where I found his gaze alternately moving between my lips and my eyes. I also noted I wasn’t the only one breathing heavily.

  I said and thought in unison, my voice just above a whisper, “What was that?”

  His eyes stopped moving over my face and instead settled, held mine captive. They were heated and…hot and…intense. I was starting to understand why the blood of a thousand virgins had been sacrificed at his altar of sexual prowess.

  I tried to swallow. I couldn’t.

  “That was necessary,” he finally said. Actually, he growled it.

  “Necessary?”

  “Yes. That needed to happen.”

  “It did?”

  He nodded once and bent as though he were going to do it again. I stiffened, my hands moved instantly to his chest and I thwarted his advance—because, if he started kissing me, it was surely a sign of Armageddon. Also, I was so far out of my comfort level, I was in an alternate dimension.

  “No-no-no-no.” I twisted my head to the side, braced my hands against the imposing wall of his chest. “We’re not doing that again. I don’t kiss unobtainable boys, it’s one of my life rules.”

  He tugged my hair—I’d forgotten that he’d wrapped his hand around it—and bodily pressed me against the black-topped lab table. His other arm, still under my shirt, wrapped completely around me.

  “Yes. We’re doing that again.”

  “No. We’re not. We’re not doing anything unless it involves measuring the composition of trace elements in surface water.”

  “Parker—” His hand left my hair and slipped under my shirt again, spanning my side and stomach.

  “Because we’re lab partners and lab partners do not kiss.”

  “Then we’re not lab partners anymore.”

  “You can’t switch lab partners in the middle of the semester.”

  “I just did.”

  My fingers moved to catch his wrists because his hands were on their way to second base; I successfully intercepted his northward progress. “Nope. I don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” He nuzzled my neck and whispered against my skin. He must’ve known that nuzzling was going to cause my insides to melt. I imagined he’d conducted methodical experiments into the fastest way to female self-lubrication.

  “I’m not one of your easy girls, or even difficult girls.” My voice wavered, so I cleared my throat. “I’m not even really a girl. I’m more like one of the boys. Think of me like a boy.”

  “Not possible.”

  “It’s true. Do you kiss boys? Because, if not, then I think you must have me confused with someone else.”

  His movements stilled and a long moment passed. Then his hands fell away, he stepped away, and I slumped slightly forward—a weird mixture of feeling bereft and relieved.

  “You’re a lesbian.” He said the words as though they explained a mystery he’d been trying to solve for years.

  My eyes shot to his. He was four feet away and I found him watching me with a dawning of… something. If I didn’t know any better it looked like disappointment and fr
ustration.

  I swallowed, successfully, licked my lips, then shook my head. The irony of his confusion not lost on me.

  My first and only boyfriend had been gay. I just didn’t know it while we were dating throughout high school.

  I was still trying to catch my breath when I responded, “No. I’m not gay. I’m just…not interested in you that way.”

  This was true—because I’d witnessed his path of devastation with my own eyes.

  This was also a lie—because I was most definitely interested in him that way, just not the after part where he would say it was meaningless sex, make me cry, and tell me to get over it.

  His eyebrows jumped a fraction of a centimeter at my softly spoken declaration.

  “Not interested...,” he repeated.

  I stepped to the side, scaling the length of the table, and reached for my bag. I hefted it to my shoulder, escape now the only thing on my mind. His slightly narrowed eyes followed my movements.

  “I know, right?” I tried to sound self-deprecating, which wasn’t difficult because I truly meant my next words. “Who am I? I’m nobody.”

  “You’re not nobody,” he countered. “Your mother is a senator and your grandfather was an astronaut.”

  I cringed. I hated it when people brought up my family. “Just because my family is famous, doesn’t mean I’m somebody.”

  He shifted forward and said with a surprising amount of vehemence. “Exactly! That’s exactly right.”

  “I know, right?” I readily agreed. “See, I’m ordinary. And you’re you and I’m sure you’re used to the deafening sound of underwear hitting the floor every time you enter a room. But I don’t do that kind of thing, even for Hercules. Sure, I’ll think about the possibility later when I’m safely alone in bed, but I never cross-pollinate fantasy and reality.”

  “When you’re alone in bed?”

  I didn’t acknowledge his words because…mortification.

  Instead, I said, “I’m not a fast and loose girl. I’m a slow and steady girl. Who knows when or if I’ll ever cross the finish line?”

  He blinked at me, at my deluge of words. I didn’t even try to read his expression because I was so focused on walking backward out of the room.

  “You’re leaving?” he asked.

  “Yep.” I threw my thumb over my shoulder. “I’m going to go now. And don’t worry about the experiment. I’ll come in over spring break and finish it up. And when I see you after the break, everything will be back to normal. We can forget this ever happened. We shall never speak of it.” My voice cracked on the last word.

  “Parker—”

  “Have a really great spring break.”

  “Kaitlyn—” He took two strides forward as though he were going to stop me, but halted at the sound of crunching glass underfoot. He glanced at his feet, noticing for the first time the broken beaker on the floor. “What the hell?”

  I seized the opportunity afforded by his split attention and bolted out of the room.

  In fact, I ran down the hall like an insane person and slipped into the elevator just before it closed. I even jogged back to my dorm, didn’t begin to relax until I crossed the threshold of the keycard access area, climbed the three flights to my room, and locked the door behind me.

  I tossed my bag to the corner of the tiny space, threw myself backward on my bed, and rubbed my eyes with the base of my palms. The scene in the lab played over and over behind my closed eyelids—him touching me, kissing me, scratching the impossible itch.

  It wasn’t until several minutes later that I realized I’d forgotten to tell him about the dastardly plot I’d overheard.

  2

  The Atomic Theory of Matter

  “I can’t believe you agreed to this.”

  “Shut it, Sam.”

  I tucked my long, straightened-with-a-flatiron brown hair behind my ears. Self-consciously, I smoothed the skirt of the little black dress she’d talked me into wearing, annoyed—for the twentieth time—that the hem of the skirt ended mid-thigh.

  “You look hot, hooker. Just own it.” Sam nudged my elbow with hers and I grimaced.

  If someone had asked me twelve hours ago how I’d be spending the first Friday night of spring break, I would have told them I’d be curled up in my bed against fluffy pillows, sipping tea, and eating shortbread while reading.

  I would not and could not have fathomed I’d be on my way to a fraternity party dressed in lace-topped thigh highs, a black dress, stiletto heels, with my hair down, and wearing makeup.

  That’s right. Makeup. On my face. With glitter eye shadow.

  Also, my eyebrows were plucked. Plucked! Gah!

  I rolled my eyes and huffed like the disgruntled recluse I was. I would rather shop for a bra than go to a fraternity party, and that was saying a lot.

  “Oh, come on, Katy. There was no way we could get into the party wearing band T-shirts and men’s pants. This is a skirts-only party.”

  I’d been educated earlier in the evening that a “skirts-only party” is a fraternity party where all the girls are required to wear short skirts. Upon hearing this news I briefly considered leaving Martin to his fate. In the end, my conscience wouldn’t let me.

  Jerk conscience. Always making me do things.

  “You act like getting dressed up is torture,” she continued. “You look hot.” Sam, who I suspected had been waiting for a chance like this since our freshman year of high school, didn’t sound at all sorry for me.

  “I don’t look hot. I look ridiculous.”

  “You’re a babe.”

  “Shut it.”

  “A hot babe. And guys are going to be wanting some of that.” She pointed at me and flicked her wrist, indicating my bosom and backside. “Especially ’dat ass.”

  I grumbled, but made no other audible response. Inwardly, I cursed myself for the hundredth time that I’d failed to warn Martin about the plot I’d overheard in the chemistry lab earlier. If I’d just kept my wits about me I would be curled up with a book now instead of walking toward a den of iniquity dressed like a girl.

  Even though we were still two blocks away, I could hear the sounds of the party. My neck felt stiff and my hands were clammy.

  The plan was quite simple. I would find Martin, explain about the plot and what I’d overheard, then we would leave. Sam wasn’t a frat party kind of girl either. Yes, she liked to get dressed up, but she called sorority girls “sorostitutes” and fraternity guys “fratilos.” She labeled them “group thinkers” and claimed they suffered from a herd mentality.

  She was kind of judgey that way.

  I hadn’t given sororities or fraternities much thought because…no point.

  “I still don’t get why you don’t have his cell number. He’s your lab partner, right? And he was your lab partner last semester too?” Sam tossed her blonde curls over her shoulder.

  Sam was a little shorter than me and was attending the University on a tennis scholarship. She was determined to get into Harvard Law and, therefore like me, she was focused, spent very little of her time looking for ways to sow oats. Her all-business attitude made her an ideal best friend and roommate.

  “I just don’t. I don’t have his number.”

  “Why not?” she pressed. She’d asked me this question several times as we were dressing—or, rather, as she was dressing me.

  “Because,” I responded again, wiping my palms on the dress.

  “Because why? What if you needed to get in touch with him about a project?”

  “I’d leave him a note.”

  “A note? Where? When? How?”

  “In the chemistry lab, in the cabinet.”

  “You pass each other notes?” Her tone turned teasing.

  “No. It’s not like that. I’ll leave a note if I can’t make it on Fridays and he does the same. Or, if I’ve finished something without waiting for him, that kind of thing.”

  “But why didn’t he want you to have his cell—”

  I sto
pped walking and faced her. “He tried to give it to me, okay? He tried last semester to exchange numbers and I didn’t want to. Can you just drop it?”

  “You wouldn’t take Martin Sandeke’s number?” she asked, as though the words I’d just spoken made no sense.

  “That’s correct.”

  “But…why the hell not? He’s…he’s…he’s Martin Sandeke!”

  “Because he’s Martin Sandeke. That’s why I wouldn’t take it.” I started walking again, my toes protesting the movement.

  “Katy, you’ve been crushing on Martin Sandeke since the first week of class two years ago when you stalked him outside of physics, before you even knew who he was.”

  “That’s because he’s physically beautiful and pleasing to the eye,” I mumbled.

  “He tries to give you his phone number and you don’t take it. Why did you do that? Explain it to me.”

  “Because, you know me, when I get drunk—even though it’s only happened twice—I drunk dial! I called Carter the last time it happened.”

  Carter was my high school boyfriend who never seemed interested in physical intimacy unless we had an audience. Since he was my only boyfriend, I figured this was normal. We’d parted as friends.

  But last year I left him a drunk message asking him why he never tried to sleep with me. When I woke up the next morning, and everything came flooding back, it took me three weeks to return his call.

  When I finally did, he informed me that he was, in fact, gay. Additionally, he had appreciated my willingness to be his beard in high school. He also assured me that had he not been gay, he would have tried to get in my pants early and often.

  It all sounded like pity.

  Worst conversation ever.

  Sam stopped me again with a hand on my elbow. “That was last summer and Carter is ancient history.”

  “Can we just get this over with?” I pleaded, not wanting to talk about Carter or about my stunted romantic history.

  Sam released an audible breath. “Katy, you’re beautiful and desirable—”

  “Oh my God, no more teasing. I’m wearing the dress, aren’t I? I even let you put makeup on me.”

  “I’m not teasing you. I’m trying to get you out of this perpetual funk you’re in. You hide yourself behind baggy clothes and eyebrows so thick they could be mustaches. Carter is a lovely person but he shouldn’t have used you like that. Now you’re all skewed in the head.”