by Penny Reid
A beautiful man is the devil’s most potent weapon.
A few seconds ticked by while we stared at each other. I wondered if I looked as hostile as he did.
I responded, “Do you even know why you’re apologizing?”
“Yes.” Another growl.
“Why? Why are you apologizing?”
“Because I shouldn’t have left you when we got here. I should have kept you close to me, and I shouldn’t have let Danielle close enough to touch me, not when we’re together.”
My brain stumbled on the word together, and I frowned my confusion at his accurate listing of offenses. “This seems like a miraculously sudden apology.”
His jaw flexed. “Are you seriously going to give me shit about apologizing?”
I shook my head. “No. No, I am not. I accept your apology. Thank you for apologizing.”
His eyes flickered between mine, then lowered to my mouth. “Now it’s your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Your turn to apologize.”
My eyebrows bounced an inch upward. “What am I apologizing for?”
“For always assuming I’m an asshole.”
It was my turn to stare at him while he filled the silence, his chin dipping toward mine, our mouths scant inches apart.
“I didn’t leave you because I was trying to be a jerk. I wanted to give you your space. I thought I’d circle back around and find you…prove that I trusted you. I don’t know how to be near you without being possessive, because every time a guy looks at you I want to rip his head off. I’ve never come to a party with someone before. I don’t know girl-rules. This is new for me. And I wasn’t kissing Danielle. She kissed me and I pushed her away, but you obviously didn’t stick around for the half second it took me to tell her I wasn’t interested.”
My mouth opened and closed. I was shocked. His words shocked me.
He wasn’t finished. “You promised me you would give this a try. But you’ve already made up your mind about me. Sitting down here, avoiding me, isn’t trying. Seeing another girl kiss me, and then walking away, isn’t trying. Assuming the worst of me isn’t trying. Either you do this for real, or you break your promise. But don’t put this all on me. I’m not a fucking mind-reader.”
I sputtered, perplexed. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I assumed the worst. I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Apology accepted. Now kiss me.”
I evaded his mouth by leaning to the side and bracing my palms against his chest. “Wait, just wait a minute. I don’t know. What did you want me to do? Walk over and rip that girl’s hair out?”
“Yes.” He stated this emphatically and paired it with a single head nod, his eyes lowering to my breasts. The small triangles of the string bikini did very little to cover them; I felt like I was wearing pasties and floss. Martin seemed to both love it and hate it because he released a frustrated and distracted sounding sigh and lifted his gaze to mine. “Yes, if I matter to you, then yes.”
“Martin…I’m…” I shook my head, having difficulty finding words. They were hiding in all the closets of my brain, the little bastards.
Finally I managed, “I’m not like that. I’m not going to enter a race I can’t win.”
His hand moved from the middle of my back to my waist, his thumb drawing a gentle circle on my ribs, tickling me, touching me, feeling me. “You totally could have taken her. She’s not a good fighter. She favors her right side.”
I laughed because what he said was preposterous and therefore funny, and I was relieved to see that even after our harsh exchange, he was trying to cut the tension with humor.
“That’s not what I meant. I know I could have knocked her out. She probably hasn’t eaten in days, the poor dear.”
“Then what do you mean? Because you are the only boat in this regatta.”
I shook my head, feeling high and low and everything in between. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m the bow-out-gracefully kind of girl, not the brawling-for-my-man-at-a-party kind of girl. Not when my competition is a supermodel.”
Martin’s stare was severe and stern, and his thumb stilled on my skin. “If all I wanted was a supermodel then I wouldn’t be here with you.”
I scrunched my face at this. It sounded like a compliment, but it also sounded like an insult. I had no illusions I was supermodel material, but to my ears his statement emerged as, If I wanted someone good-looking then I wouldn’t be with you. I knew that was wrong and unfair and twisting his words, so I threw that messed-up interpretation into the garbage where it belonged…but my sinking heart lingered.
He growled a sigh and rolled his eyes. “That’s not…that came out wrong. What I mean is, yes—of course I want to be with someone who is beautiful. But you’re so much more than that. Why would I bring a single scull to an eight-man race? I wouldn’t.”
“A single skull?”
“A scull. It’s a boat with one rower and two oars. An eight-man racing shell would beat a single scull every time.”
I squinted at him and nodded once, rolled my lips between my teeth, and tried not to laugh at his manly rowing analogy. I let him know I understood the gist of what he meant and that I wasn’t going to hold the conversation hostage.
He continued, “But I need you to fight, not bow out gracefully. When you want something, you fight for it.”
I lowered my eyes to his neck, watched him swallow. I inhaled and held the breath in my lungs, unsure what to say or how to proceed. This was not how I foresaw the discussion progressing.
“Look at me,” he demanded, and I did.
“When you want something, you fight for it,” he repeated, the pressure of his hands increasing on my body, telling me he wanted me, telling me he would fight for me.
Then he asked, “Do you want me?”
I stared at him for a beat, the answer having immediately formed in my brain, but I hesitated. I felt like admitting my want for him would give Martin power over me, power I wasn’t ready to cede.
He must have seen my struggle because before I could speak, he volunteered, “You don’t have to answer that right now. You tell me when you’re ready, okay?”
I nodded, releasing an unsteady sigh. “Martin...”
“Shh, just…just listen to me.” He licked his lips, his mouth scant inches from mine. His eyes told me he was interested and invested, the rest of his body communicating that everything he’d said was the truth. I might not have been a gazelle, but his body wanted my body.
Eventually he continued on a rumbly, seductive whisper, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know how to treat people. But I meant it when I said that I…fucking hell, I want you. I like you. I’m all in. I’m not a liar and I’m doing my best here. You need to meet me part way.”
I nodded, no longer feeling numb.
I read the intention in his eyes before he moved and I shivered in anticipation. He slid his hand from my ribs up to my neck and pulled the string holding my top up. He leaned just two inches away and the flimsy thing immediately acquiesced, the little triangles ineffectually supporting my D-cup fell, baring me.
“I need to touch you,” he said even as he touched me, both of his hands sliding into place, massaging, kneading.
I sighed, arched my back, offering myself more fully to his wonderfully callused hands.
“I need you to touch me,” I whispered on a gasp. His fingers tugged on my nipples, sending liquid fire straight to my core.
He bent his head, bit my neck, then gently kissed the two love bites he’d left yesterday. “I like these. I like seeing my mark on you.”
He used his knuckles, brushing them back and forth over the tight peaks. I tried to press myself tighter against him, needing his palms, not the light, maddening, teasing sweeps of the back of his hands.
He tongued my ear, making me tremble, before his hot exhale spilled against my jaw and neck. “I want to taste you.”
I had a flash, a thought, an image pass through my mind and it ma
de me groan. Martin, bending over me, kneeling, his mouth at my center, licking, sipping, tasting, sucking, as I reclined on the washing machine and his blue eyes watched me. Some dark, pleasure-seeking part of myself became obsessed with this idea.
“Oh, please do,” I panted. Obviously the time for pride was at an end.
He chuckled. It sounded wicked, throaty, and really evil. Unsurprisingly, wicked and evil were really hot on Martin Sandeke. Desperate for what my body wanted, I brushed my fingertips down the front of his chest, lower to his abdomen, and lower still into the material of his swimsuit.
He sucked in a stunned breath and I felt his muscles tighten, grow rigid as I cupped his length, gripped it. The feel of it, the hardness, the thickness thrilled me. It was the greediest part of him and a surge of aroused power made my sex pulse.
“Fuck me,” he exhaled, his eyes closing, his hips moving in an inelegant, wild movement.
“Surprised?” I asked. I was surprised. I was surprised by my vixenish boldness.
He laughed, it was tight and tortured sounding. “You have to stop,” he said even as he pressed himself more completely in my hand.
“Or what?”
“Or I’m going to come all over your tits.”
I thought about that. I’d seen something similar in a porno last year. At the time I’d cringed, somewhat grossed out. But with Martin it sounded really sexy. I didn’t see a problem.
“Okay.”
“Don’t say it unless you mean it.” He looked wild, feral, and I knew he was trying to control some dark impulse to take without asking.
“I mean it.”
He growled, then covered my mouth with his, devoured me—his lips and tongue bruising, desperate, almost angry. He pushed his swim shorts down then moved one of his hands to cover mine where I held him. Guiding me, he gave himself a rough stroke. I felt him shudder, his mouth separating from mine as he inhaled a shaky breath.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he said.
“Say my name,” I whispered. The constant fucks were seriously getting on my nerves. Therefore I thought I’d offer him an alternative. “Say Kaitlyn instead.”
His eyes flashed. Hips grinding into my palm, jaw clenched, he growled, “Kaitlyn.”
I smiled. My smile made him groan. His head fell against my shoulder and his hands grabbed fistfuls of my bottom. He chanted, “Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn…” and, honestly, it got me hot. Soon I was panting.
One of his hands released me and returned to my breast, giving it rough treatment, grabbing and pinching while he bit my shoulder with his sharp teeth and thrust into my hand.
“Oh God, Kaitlyn.” The words were tight yet uncontrolled. Every one of his muscles strained, flexed. His hands on my body tightened, his grip so hard I wondered if he’d leave bruises, and I finally understood what people meant when they said, Come apart in my hands.
Because Martin came apart in my hands. He came apart all over me, and yes, part of the coming apart landed on my breasts. Basically he came apart on everything but my hand. I gasped, not at all prepared, then laughed my surprise.
Sure, I’d seen pornos and money shots. But Martin’s semen seemed to launch out of him—and there was a great deal more of it than what I’d seen in the dirty films.
His breathing was ragged and he sagged against me, his grip now loose, the tremors receding and leaving him gasping. I brought my other hand up to his back and stroked him from his shoulder blades to the base of his spine, then back again. I felt and heard him sigh. It sounded content. I did it again and again, soothing him.
He placed a kiss on my shoulder, lingered there as his heart slowed.
“I didn’t know it was going to do that,” I said suddenly, voicing my thoughts.
He stiffened—not much, just a little—and leaned just far enough away to bring my eyes into focus.
“You didn’t know what was going to do what?”
“Your…” I hesitated, feeling unaccountably embarrassed. It was strange, I didn’t mind doing it, but talking about it made me feel squeamish and uncomfortable. I cleared my throat, determined to soldier on and not be a ninny. So I said bravely, “I didn’t know your ejaculate was going to shoot out like that.”
His eyebrows jumped and he gave me a surprised, crooked smile. “My ejaculate?”
“Yes. Like a cannon blast of semen, and there was—is—a lot of it. It’s everywhere.”
Martin gave a surprised laugh, looking at me like I was weird and wonderful.
But then he sobered suddenly and asked, “Are you…are you uncomfortable?” He shifted like he was going to grab one of the washcloths folded neatly on the dryer.
“No. Not particularly. But it’s getting a little cold.”
He stared at me. I stared back. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, how to let his penis go, because my hand was still around it. So I tried stroking him again. He winced, jumped away, and gulped air.
“Kaitlyn, no, no, don’t do that.”
“Sorry. I didn’t…I mean, I don’t know what to do after…”
He exhaled, placed his hands on his hips, and dropped his chin to his chest, but not before I saw his small smile.
Meanwhile, I did what I think anyone would do in my situation. I leaned back on the washing machine and gave him a good once-over because Martin Sandeke was naked. He was completely naked. And he was crazy beautiful. I’m not an idiot, so of course I was going to exploit this moment.
I sighed then bit my lip, because I was still aroused and he was naked. This was more pre-bedtime imagery for the win.
He lifted his head at the sound, his eyes moving over my body with what felt like a hungry compulsion. He must’ve noticed me doing the same because he smirked. Martin sauntered forward, grabbed a washcloth and wiped off my stomach and chest, taking more time and care than necessary.
At some point during his careful ministrations I began to feel inhibited—not because I was ashamed of my body—because I wasn’t used to being on display. I wasn’t used to being looked at while naked, with desire or otherwise. I’d always been modest, and therefore, as he tossed the dirty washcloth to the floor I moved to cover myself.
Martin intercepted, then covered my hands with his, halting my progress.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m covering up.”
“Why?”
“Because…” I glanced around the room, feeling oddly embarrassed, then answered with simple honesty, “Because I’m not used to this, to being exposed like this.”
Martin released my hand and I finished tying the strap, but then he slipped his fingers into the cup of my bikini and massaged, caressed, possessed—almost like he was communicating that it didn’t matter whether I covered myself. My body was his to touch how he liked. This was confusing because it thrilled me. I felt dominated and I liked it. He loomed, hovering, peering down at me, all tall and strong and powerful…and naked.
“You have the most luscious breasts.” He whispered this, then nipped at my lips, his tongue darting out to taste them.
“Oh? The most?” I panted.
I felt his smirk return. “Yes. The most.”
“Luscious?”
“And delicious.”
“Really? Are they flavored?”
“Yes. Kaitlyn flavored…and now Martin flavored. I wonder what the rest of you tastes like.”
My eyes flickered to the door behind him as sounds of partygoers being loud and ruckusy ebbed and flowed, cutting through this little world we’d created in the laundry room. I gathered a deep breath, swallowing down my desire. I’d already ventured quite far out of my comfort zone for one night. I needed time to think and regroup.
So I shook my head, returning my eyes to Martin’s. “No, no. I’m good.”
He lifted a single eyebrow, clearly surprised. “You’re…good?”
I nodded. “Yeah. That was fun…watching you and, um, touching you during. I’m good.”
He studied me, his eyes narrowing
. “What if I’m not good?”
I glanced to one side, then the other, trying to figure out why he wouldn’t be good. “Did I not do it right?”
“No, no. Not at all. You did great. That’s not what I meant. What if…” He paused, his eyes moving down the length of me, blazing a path that left goosebumps in its wake. He reached for my hand and brought my middle finger to his mouth. I was transfixed as he sucked it into his mouth, his tongue swirling. I moaned. I did. Because the inside of his mouth felt like the gateway to heaven.
“Oh, Martin, what are you doing?”
He withdrew my finger and rubbed the pad of it back and forth over his bottom lip. “I need to taste you, Kaitlyn. I want to fuck you with my tongue.”
I shivered convulsively and had no idea how to respond to that, so I said, “I have no idea how to respond to that.”
“Say yes. Say: Yes, Martin. I want you to fuck me…with your tongue.”
“I don’t think my mouth can say those words out loud. I’m not that outgoing.”
He grinned, bringing my knuckles to his mouth and slipping the aforementioned tongue against the back of my middle and index finger, licking the space between them where they joined. I gasped because the spot seemed to be a wormhole; he’d bent time and space creating a shortcut to my clitoris.
I yanked my hand away, hopped off the machine, abruptly standing, forcing him to take a step back. He moved to reach for me but I placed two hands on his chest—stupid perfect chest—holding him at bay.
“Just…just give me a minute.”
“Kaitlyn—”
“No, no, no. I need a minute.”
“Let me—”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that, okay?”
He caged me in, his hands on the machine behind me. “You seemed ready for it earlier.” His voice was teasing, held sensual promise that my pants really liked. I think my pants are the president of the Martin Sandeke sensual promise fan club.
I shook my head, staring up at him, my words rushing out of me. “I wasn’t. I mean, I wanted to and I want you to, but I don’t think I’m ready…yet. I mean I just had my first orgasm yesterday afternoon. We just kissed for the first time on Friday. Friday. I can’t move this fast. I need time to acclimate to changes, process what they mean.”
