by Penny Reid
“No. He’s a dean at a college of medicine.”
Griffin blew out a low whistle, his gaze growing less appraising and more introspective. He sat up straighter, his face and tone becoming serious, almost reverent. “So, you’re like really smart then, right? What are you going to do? What’s your major? You’ll probably cure cancer or something.”
I stared at him for a beat, not wanting to respond. I was proud of my family, but their accomplishments were not my accomplishments, their ambitions were not my ambitions.
For better or for worse, our ceiling and our floor are initially judged by our ancestry. People expected me to reach for the stars.
I was smart, but I wasn’t a genius physicist working on nuclear submarines, or an astronaut, or the dean of a college of medicine. I didn’t have the drive for greatness. I lacked the patience required for that kind of pressure. I had the drive for normalcy and anonymity and playing around on my guitar.
I shifted my gaze to Ray’s and found him watching me, his eyebrows suspended over his eyes, as though to say, See. You’re the ultimate marriage girl.
I ignored Griffin’s question, giving him a tight, noncommittal smile, then affixed my attention to Ray. “So, Ray, how close are you to being done with that map?”
***
Martin was asleep when I found him. He was shirtless, all tangled up in his simple brown sheets and comforter on a twin bed that looked too small for him. He held a pillow to his chest, another was at his back, and another under his head. The twin bed was pushed against a corner; he’d surrounded himself on all sides with cushy comfort, like he was being embraced while he slept.
The size of the bed surprised me. I was also surprised by how small his room was. It was maybe double the size of just the king bed I’d been sleeping in and was sparsely furnished, like a real bedroom might be. In addition to the twin bed, there was a dresser with no mirror, a desk with a simple wood chair, and a side table. Stuff littered the surfaces like a person really lived here.
It was the opposite of the palatial suite he’d put me in. My room was a fantasy of sterile white and luxury, the kind of room you’d see in a fancy magazine. His was cozy, messy, and real. It reminded me of my room at my parents’ house.
I watched him sleep for a full minute, hovering at the entrance to the room like a creeper. This thought made me smile. Instead of being a hovering, indecisive creeper, I decided to close the door behind me and sit at his desk, be a full-fledged lurking creeper instead, maybe give him a little fright when he woke up and found me staring at him. This thought made me laugh with sinister glee.
I pulled out the chair and was just arranging myself when Martin scared the crap out of me. He sat up, grabbed me, pulled me into his arms, and brought me to the bed. He then rolled me under him and pinned me to the mattress.
“Ohmygod, Martin!” The wind was driven from my lungs by fright. “You scared me!”
He was planking on the mattress, his eyes piercing yet laughing, touching me only where his hands held my wrists above my head. “Good morning, Parker.”
“How long have you been up?” I scowled at him, willing my heart to calm and the brief spike of adrenaline to recede.
“For about five minutes. I was up when you knocked and I heard the door open.” He grinned down at me. His voice was deliciously roughened by sleep.
“Do you always grab girls and throw them on your bed when you wake up?”
“Only if that girl is Kaitlyn Parker.”
I appreciated that he’d just used my own line against me and I shook my head at his shenanigans. This seemed to make him happy because his eyes lit with menacing satisfaction.
But then the longer we stared at each other the thicker the air grew between us, and the more difficult it became for me to breathe. His gaze also changed and lit with a new flame, both ominous and hungry. I momentarily forgot why I was there and what my super genius idea had been. All I knew was that his look held the promise of something that was going to feel fantastic.
“I like you here,” he whispered, his eyes half lidded as they moved to my mouth, lingered there.
“You like me where?”
“In my bed. Being in my bed every morning should be one of your life rules.”
“Oh…” Every inhale felt painful, tight.
“All I can think about is touching you,” he said, lowering himself to kiss me.
It was the key phrase and it sparked my memory. I remembered why I was there. I remembered my super genius idea.
“Wait!” I said, turning my face to the side.
“Wait?”
“Yes, wait. I have an idea and it involves you not kissing me.”
“That sounds like a terrible idea.” He nuzzled my neck, licking my throat, using his hot breath to make me squirm.
“It also involves you letting me go.”
“Another terrible idea.”
“But it’s not. It’s really genius…oh!”
Martin nudged my legs apart with his knee then settled himself on top of me, grinding his good morning wood into my center.
“You are so sweet,” he said, biting me then tasting me with his tongue. “I can’t get enough of you. I dreamt about you last night, under the shower—”
“Seriously, listen to me.” My words were weak and I’d closed my eyes so I could focus on all the sensations associated with Martin above me, Martin licking me, Martin touching me. Instinctively I tilted my hips to cradle him. “This is really important and I think it’ll…oh…oh, that feels good…”
His laugh was rumbly and pleased. “Are you going to give in, Kaitlyn? Do I get to taste your sweet pussy? Or should I make you come like this?”
“No.” I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut, my words breathless. “No. I want all of this to matter. I want it to last.”
Martin stilled his movements, his mouth on my throat ceasing its exploration, and I felt his lithe body stiffen briefly, then relax.
“Ah…damn.” He sighed, placing a soft, closed-mouth kiss to my collarbone then rolling to the side, releasing my wrists.
I pulled in a huge breath, filling my lungs with cool air, and pressed my knees together. My pants hated me. Hated. Me.
Damn was right.
Darn, damn, dammit, shoot, gosh darn it, heck.
We lay next to each other for a full minute. Our bodies touched, but we weren’t actively touching each other. Our breathing similar degrees of harsh and ragged. I covered my face with my hands and found it flushed. I was not surprised. I felt hot all over.
“Martin…” My palms muffled my words, but I had to keep my hands on my face. If I didn’t I might jump him and demand he provide my pants with satisfaction. “My super genius idea is as follows: I think we should institute No-Touch Tuesdays.”
He said nothing for a long time, so long in fact, I wondered whether or not he’d heard me. I was about to repeat myself when I felt him shift so he was lying on his side. I glanced at him from between my fingers, found him leaning on his elbow, his head propped in one hand, his face contorted in horror.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He placed his other hand on my stomach, slipping his fingers under the hem of my shirt to connect with my bare skin as though to emphasize his words.
“Let me explain.”
“Let me see your face.”
“Fine.” I hesitated then drew my fingers away, folding them over my chest. “Here is what I am thinking. Neither of us have ever really dated someone before, correct?”
He squinted at me. “I thought you said you had a boyfriend.”
“He was gay.”
Martin frowned. “What? How is that possible?” His eyes swept down, then up, then down, then up my body. Again, he looked horrified.
“It’s not like I can turn a person gay. Obviously he was gay before we got together. He…well, I was his beard.”
“And you went along with that?”
“No. I didn’t know.”
He
studied me, his eyes searching. “How long were you together?”
“Four years.”
“And you didn’t know?”
“No. I didn’t. I guess I had a very Disney-like perspective of dating before college, very neutered and naïve. We kissed, mostly at parties in front of other people. We held hands, hugged. But when we were together we hung out, had a good time. We were good friends. This is consistent with my parents’ relationship. They love each other, but they’re good friends first and foremost. I can count the number of times I’ve seen them kiss on one hand.”
“You didn’t want…I mean, didn’t you want…”
“More? Yes. I did.”
“And he…?”
“He said he wanted to wait until he was married.”
“Why didn’t you break up with him?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but then snapped it shut. I thought about Martin’s question. I mulled it over for close to a minute.
Then I responded with the truth. “I don’t know. I guess I thought…I don’t know. It made sense at the time. We were good friends. We liked each other. We supported each other through a lot. I was there for him when his parents divorced and later when his father died of cancer. I was thirteen when we got together. We were Kaitlyn and Carter. People just expected us to be a unit.”
“So you never did anything but kiss? For four years?”
I nodded.
He whistled out a breath from between his teeth, his eyes losing focus as they moved to a spot on the bed over my shoulder. “No wonder you need time…what an asshole.”
I huffed a laugh. “He’s a nice guy. He was just confused and I’m glad I could be there for him.”
Martin’s gaze moved back to mine and it sharpened as he frowned. “No. He’s an asshole. He used you, he messed you up, made you think there was something wrong with you, that you aren’t sexy, that you aren’t goddamn gorgeous and fucking hot as hell. If he was a nice guy he would have broken things off so you could get felt up in the back of a car by someone who thought about nothing else but getting in your pants.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “That sounds delightful. I’m so sorry I missed out on some horny teenager using me to get his jollies.”
“You mistake my meaning. I’m not talking about someone who was going to use you, who just wanted a warm body. You’re too smart for that. You would’ve spotted a user a mile away. I’m talking about the guy who wouldn’t have been able to stop thinking about you, because he wanted you, not some indiscriminate jerkoff.”
“My purpose on this earth is not to be desirable to a man.” The words slipped out of my mouth, the thought second nature.
Martin reared his head back and he stared at me—nay, he glowered at me—for several seconds. “What the hell does that mean?”
I shrugged, trying to think how to explain something so obvious to me. “It means I don’t care if I’m desirable or not.”
“That’s bullshit. I call bullshit.” Martin pressed his lips together and shook his head. The look he gave me made me laugh. It was so ridiculous on his face; like Giiiiiirl, you crazy!
“It’s not bullshit!” I insisted through my laughter. “I don’t want my decisions to be about what will make me more appealing to the opposite sex. I want my decisions to be about making a difference, being a good person.”
“You do care,” he said flatly. “Everyone cares. Every single person on his earth wants to be desired, wants to be wanted.”
“Okay, let me rephrase then. I don’t want to care. I strive to not care.”
“Now that’s something different,” he conceded, his hand on my stomach moving lower, his fingers touching the skin just below my belly button as though feeling my skin were compulsory for him. “But don’t you think it’s about balance? And finding someone who…someone where it’s good to care? Where their opinion matters because they matter? And being desired by that person, striving to be more desirable to that person, makes you better?”
Now it was my turn to stare at him. I didn’t glower, though. I stared. His words were deep, verging on philosophical, a complete shock and a total turn on coming from this guy I’d labeled as a jerk-face.
“Martin Sandeke,” I shook my head, my lips parted in surprise, “I was wrong about you. I’m sorry.”
He grimaced. It was subtle, but it happened, and he glanced away toward the ceiling. “I don’t know if you were wrong about me so much as the fact that everyone I’ve ever met in my entire life—before you—pissed me off.”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed again.
His eyes slid back to me and I saw a reluctant smile curve over his lips.
“Everyone?” I asked, teasing him and poking him in the ribs for emphasis.
“Not everyone, just most people. I don’t like being framed by other people’s expectations. Growing up, I was public property to my parents.”
“Even your mother?”
“Especially my mother.” He rolled his eyes and the tilt of his chin was resentful. “She wanted to be loved by everyone, but no one in particular. She wanted to be worshipped, but didn’t care if people knew her.”
“She was an actress, right?”
“Yes.” He nodded once, his eyes going back to the ceiling. Martin flopped on his back next to me; his hand searched for mine, found it, brought it up so he could see it, and held it between both of his. “She died when I was thirteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was a relief.”
“God, Martin.” His callous remark sent the wind from my lungs. I drew myself up so I could look at his face. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“It’s the truth. She was a user, an addict. She used me for publicity and stupid stuff all the time. She tried to get me into show business, modeling. I hated it. I didn’t want to do it. She did…other things.” Suddenly, he heaved a frustrated sigh. “I…I don’t want to talk about this.”
I pulled my hand free and draped my arm over him, laying my head on his shoulder, and gave him a squeeze. “Then we don’t have to talk about this.”
He gripped my arm, pressed it to his chest. “It’s depressing, and I don’t want to associate lying in my bed with you with depressing stuff. I want to associate it with hot, sweaty, naked stuff.”
Despite the gravity of our conversation, his comment sent a wave of awareness through my body. I was amazed at how quickly, with just a few words, he was able to get me fired up.
“Well, we’re not doing that today. Today is No-Touch Tuesday.”
“We’re touching now.”
“You know what I mean. We’re going to do fun stuff.”
“I thought you said we weren’t going to touch.”
I smacked his shoulder. “We can do fun stuff that doesn’t involve touching.”
“Can you touch yourself? I don’t mind watching.”
That comment deserved a pinch. I lifted my head, leaned over him, and I pinched the skin of his ribs below his pectoral.
“Ow!” His hands flew to the spot where I’d assaulted him.
“That’s what you get for your sass.”
“Holy crap, Parker! That hurt. Fine. What did you have in mind?” I saw that he was rubbing his skin; his tone and expression were those of a petulant adolescent, though he looked like he was fighting a grin.
“I’m going to teach you how to dance and you’re going to teach me how to row.”
“I thought you didn’t know how to dance?”
“I know how to ballroom dance. I’m going to teach you the tango.”
He lifted an eyebrow; it was an eyebrow of suspicion. “You know how to tango?”
“I do.”
“Hmm.”
“And you’ll teach me how to row.”
“Hmm…I’ll have to touch you to teach you.”
“That kind of touching is fine, it’s instructional touching. It’s not done with carnal intentions.”
“Parker, every time I touch you
it’s with carnal intentions.” His voice was flat and his eyebrows arched.
I huffed and was proud of myself that I didn’t roll my eyes or smile. “Well, you’ll have to learn to control yourself for one day.”
“Why are we doing this again? Why is this a good idea?” His eyes lowered to my breasts where they were pressed against his shoulder.
“Because we don’t really know each other.”
“I do know you.”
I ignored this statement because it was nonsense. “We agreed last night that we want this to last, yes? Beyond this week?”
He nodded, distracted, still looking at my boobs.
“Gah…are you listening to me?”
“Yes. You want me to last.”
I pinched him again.
He jumped. His eyes lifted to mine, and he grabbed my hands. “Stop pinching me.”
“Stop being a horndog.”
He tried to hold it together, but in the end he lost his battle with laughter. “You are so easy to tease.”
“Oh? You want me to tease you back? ’Cause I can tease you back.” My voice held a threatening edge, low and laced with threatening intent; it made me proud.
He stopped laughing. His eyes grew wide and sober. “Parker…”
“I think I still have that string bikini somewhere. Maybe I could help out by lathering up and washing the golf carts...”
He sighed—more like a growl—and his eyes shut. He released my wrists and pressed the base of his palms into his eye sockets. “That’s not nice.”
It was the first time I’d used my sexuality for anything…ever. I was so used to relying solely on my brain. Exploiting my femininity was kind of fun. Who knew?
Of course, this thought was immediately followed by guilt. My guilt reminded me that the generations before me—like my mother—had worked tirelessly to free women from the bonds of sexuality as the primary source of female importance.
Women were more than the status of their hymen or their dress size.
Then my sexuality bitch-slapped my guilt. Then my guilt sucker-punched my sexuality. I mentally took a step back, leaving them to fight it out amongst themselves, like a giant squid and a sperm whale in the depths of the ocean.
