by Penny Reid
“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.
I shook my head before I spoke, trying to disentangle myself from my dichotomous thoughts. “Then listen to me and stop teasing. If you actually want a relationship with someone you need to know them, and not just physically. No-Touch Tuesday is a good thing. It will give us some no-pressure time to find out more about each other.”
“I know you.” His eyes were still closed and he said this to the room.
“No. You don’t. What do I like on my pizza?”
Martin was silent. I took this as a good sign. But he also looked despondent when his eyes opened and tangled with mine.
Obviously I needed to remind him that No-Touch Tuesday wasn’t going to last forever.
“And then tomorrow…” I trailed my fingers down his chest, stomach, to the waistband of his boxers. He caught my wrist before I could slip my fingers inside.
“And then tomorrow, what?” he growle
d, his eyes glinting with a dangerous edge.
“And then tomorrow is Wednesday. Maybe we could play chess, or work on our chemistry assignment.”
He shook his head slowly, his voice low and thick. “I don’t think you understand how badly I want you.”
Again, another wave of awareness spread through my body, sending pinpricks of sensation everywhere, but especially to my pants. Reflexively I clenched my thighs together.
“Martin—”
He sat up and bent forward, the movement silencing me, so that I lay back; basically we switched positions and he was hovering over me.
He held my gaze until the last possible second as he leaned forward and whispered, “So many ways…” He kissed my cheek, his hand gliding down my stomach, his fingers pushing into the band of my cotton shorts and teasing my curls, petting them, petting me. I tilted my hips, a visceral reaction to his touch; but I knew in my heart I needed to keep things from escalating.
“It’s No-Touch Tuesday, Martin,” I breathed, reaching for his wrist.
His hand stilled, and his face fell to my neck. “Fine. No-Touch Tuesday. But then tomorrow is going to be Wet-and-Wild Wednesday, and the next day will be Tongue-and-Teeth Thursday, and Friday…” He bit me, his teeth sharp—why were his teeth so sharp?!—then licked the spot. “Well, I think you can guess what’s going to happen on Friday.”
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.”
