by Penny Reid
“What?” He was surprised.
How can he possibly be surprised?! Gah!
“What you did was not okay. You just purposefully hurt me as some dysfunctional litmus test.” I scrambled off the bed and pointed at him, then waved my finger through the air to indicate his entire body. My face was screwed up in anger. “You’re not forgiven, mister. Not by a long shot.”
He turned and fell back on the bed. He groaned. He covered his face with his hands then rubbed furiously. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do and I’ll do it.”
“Lots of begging,” I blurted and crossed my arms. Now I was pacing the cabin. My mind was a jumble. He was either a sociopath or just really clueless about basic human decency.
He chuckled. It only sounded half frustrated. “I don’t know how to beg.”
“Figure it out.”
He removed his hands from his face and lifted his head, his eyes trailing up then down my body. “You don’t want me to beg because you know I’m not going to beg. You want something else.”
“I guess you’ll just have to keep apologizing until I’m ready to forgive you.”
“What was I supposed to do? It’s Thursday. We leave on Saturday morning. I only have one more day.”
I waved my arms through the air and may have resembled a bird struggling to fly. I appealed to any shred of sanity within him. “You could have just asked me, you fucking asshole jerk-face!”
Whoa!
My brain was shocked by the curse words and how good and necessary they felt given the circumstance. Perhaps cussing had its time and place…
Martin looked surprised as well, but instead of focusing on my foul language, he said, “I tried to do that.”
“Really? I don’t remember you saying at any point today,” I lowered my voice to mimic his, “ ‘Hey, so, I love you. Are you in love with me?’ ”
He sat up and stared at me, then shocked the hell out of me by actually saying, “I love you, Kaitlyn. Are you in love with me?”
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 nodde
d, 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.
