by Penny Reid
I sighed my disappointment, then turned back to Sam. “I guess we’re tired.”
Her mouth was pinched and her eyes—appraising and unhappy—were moving between us, like she wanted to say something, but was quite literally biting her tongue.
I felt a small pang of guilt and mouthed, I’m sorry.
She gave me a small smile and shrugged as she packed up the game. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe you can play another time…when Martin isn’t so tired.”
The pang of guilt blossomed into something else, something resembling unease. I didn’t respond. Partly because I wasn’t sure what to say, and partly because Martin was already leading me out of the room. But I finally found my voice when we made it back to our bedroom.
“Are you tired? Because I’m not actually tired. And, something you may not know about me, I really enjoy a wholesome game of vicious world domination every once in a while.”
“I’m not tired.” Martin pulled me into the room, shut the door, pushed me against it, and moved in for a kiss. His hands were already everywhere, like an octopus with opposable thumbs.
I turned my head at the last minute, bracing my hands against his chest. His lips landed awkwardly on my jaw, but he wasn’t deterred by the misfire. Improvising, he kissed a wet path down my neck while his deft palms massaged my breasts through my bra.
“Hey, you.” I tried to keep my tone light and conversational. “Maybe we could, um, slow down a minute and have a discussion regarding your feelings on world domination.”
Martin’s thumb swept over my nipple then he pinched me, hard. It felt good, sending spikes of Martin-juju-arousal-fog to the four corners of my body, but it also felt like a punishment, or retaliation.
“No,” he said.
“No?”
“No.”
The back of my head fell against the door and I huffed, liking everything he was doing, but disliking how single-minded he was being. In attempt to get his attention, I pinched the skin over his ribs.
“Ow!” He flinched a little, then laughed. It was a low, rumbly, sexy sound. Not at all the outcome I was going for. “Do you want to be rough?”
“No.” I pushed that alluring thought away with all my willpower. “I want you to listen to me.”
“And I want to bite you and lick you and fuck you and make you come.”
“Ah, Martin—”
“Kaitlyn, stop talking.” He moved his mouth to my ear and bit me before whispering, “I need to be inside you.”
My body trembled with a little pleasure earthquake as his hands slid to the band of my shorts and down into my underwear, stroking me. I began to melt against him. My objections—and whether I actually had objections—grew muddled and distant. But then as he pushed inside me with two fingers I felt more than a twinge of soreness. I winced in response to the discomfort and I shoved at his chest.
“Wait. Stop, that hurts.”
He stilled immediately, removing his fingers but not withdrawing his hand. Martin lifted his head and stared down at me, his green-blue eyes searching.
“That hurts?”
I nodded, swallowing before rushing to explain. “My pants aren’t used to frequent invasions, or any invasions. It’s been a busy week for my pants. As such, my pants need time to adjust, acclimate. My pants still like you a lot, but I think my pants need a rest.”
He was so close, crowding me against the door. I could’ve counted his eyelashes.
“Your pants?”
I nodded.
“We’re calling your pussy, ‘pants’? That’s what we’re calling it?”
“No. I mean, we can…I guess. But ‘pants’ doesn’t necessarily conjure the most alluring images. I’m open to other names if we have to name it. Why do we have to name it?”
His hand in my much-discussed pants slipped around to my bare bottom, caressing and squeezing. “We don’t have to name it. I just thought you were naming it.”
“No. I’m not naming it.” I shook my head. “I was just saying, or trying to say, that the area in my pants that is required for sexual intercourse is—”
“You mean your pussy.”
“Yes.”
“Then say it. Say, my pussy.”
I scrunched my face at him even as his hands continued to glide over my body and his hips rocked into me, making me feel muddled all over again.
“What? Why?”
“I just want to hear you say the word.” Martin unclasped my bra.
“Why can’t I say vagina?”
“No.”
“Vag?” I tried, half serious.
He made a face then shook his head, pulling my shirt and bra from my body.
“How about my nether region?”
The side of his mouth quirked just before he took a step away to discard his own shirt, his fingers then moving to unbutton his jeans. “No.”
“Dewy petals?” I batted my eyelashes at him.
“Ugh, what the fuck does that even mean?” He stepped out of his jeans, leaving his long, lithe, fine form in nothing but black boxers. He reached for me, and I let him.
“I have a ton of these.” I grinned at his reaction. “I play this game, really it’s a strange coping strategy, where I repeat synonyms for words—”
“I know. I told you, I heard you do it all the time during lab.”
“Oh, that’s right. Well, I know lots of euphemisms for the female anatomy.”
“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” Martin turned us, marched me backward until my legs connected with the mattress, then eased us down using one arm wrapped around my middle and a single knee on the bed.
It was an impressive display of upper body strength and core muscles. In other words, it was hot.
“Just one more?”
His hand slid from my collarbone, between my breasts, and down my abdomen; he hitched two fingers into my shorts at my hip and paused.
“Okay, just one more.”
“Meat curtains.”
He frowned in a way that wasn’t a frown, pressing his lips together valiantly before speaking mostly to himself. “This is what I get for falling in love with a girl who hides from me in lab cabinets instead of someone who wants to use me for my money.”
Martin’s eyes were bright with teasing, but they were also hot and focused. I could see his intentions before he licked his lips, his attention moving to my mouth.
So I blurted, “I need my vector calculus folder!”
“What…” He frowned at me, plainly confused, then asked, “Right now?”
“No. Not right now, but before we leave. I think I left it at the big house. I need it, as it has all my notes from this semester.”
“Ah, well…I’ll call tomorrow before we leave, see if Mrs. Greenstone can find it and bring it to us at the marina.”
“Why don’t we stop by on our way in the morning? I’m not one-hundred percent certain where it is.”
“No. We aren’t going back there.” Ice entered his words; his declaration was almost hostile.
“But what if Mrs. Greenstone can’t find it?”
“I’ll call tonight. If she can’t find it, I’ll go over there by myself.”
“That’s silly. I’ll be able to find it faster.”
“If I can’t find it then I guess I’ll just have to tutor you in vector calculus.”
I grimaced. “Seeing my own handwriting takes me back to the moment when I took the notes and the lesson. It’s the only way I can study. I have an unhealthy attachment to my class notes.”
“Hopefully you also have an unhealthy attachment to me.”
“So, how do you feel about me using you for your brain instead of your ties to massive wealth or the magnificence that is your body? I’d like to use it, often.”
“What do you mean? Use what often?”
My back was resting on the bed now and he was over me, his bare chest against mine. I wasn’t going to be able to think in this position, especially since I could feel his erectio
n against my hip, so I smiled hopefully and pushed him until he was lying on the bed and I was hovering at his side.
“Listen, I don’t want to mislead you. I do want to use you for your body, just so we’re clear. But I’d also like for you to put that big head of yours to use.”
He stared at me, and I realized too late that what I’d meant to say was brain…not head. Not. Head.
Martin fought a smile, and just looking at his handsome face made my stomach do a sudden backflip. He said smoothly, “Tell me more about what you’d like me to do with my big head.”
I scowled at him. Surprisingly, I didn’t feel a huge amount of embarrassment, just slightly flustered.
“Quit your backtalk or else I may have to pinch you again.”
“I wouldn’t mind, as long as I get to pinch you back.” His hand moved to my breast and he fingered my nipple, making my breath catch and his already stiff erection tent his boxers.
“Stop it for a minute, I want to talk to you. I’m trying to be serious.”
Martin’s heated stare turned into a petulant glare and he removed his hands, sighed, and folded them behind his head. He blinked at me once, then moved his eyes to the ceiling. “Fine. What do you want to talk about?”
I didn’t roll my eyes at his somewhat dramatic withdrawal, but I wanted to. Instead I pushed myself up and sat on the bed facing him, hugging my knees to my chest and started again.
“What I’m trying to say is that…I like you, Martin. I like your brain.” I blurted the last part, not knowing exactly what I was about to say.
Just his eyes slid back to mine, the lines of his face thawing as he searched my face.
I tucked my hair behind my ears then rested my arms on the top of my knees, heartened by his open interest. “I like you. I like you for who you are, even though you’re callous and don’t quite know how to treat people. You’re clever and funny. I admire the way you move and how you can’t help but lead. I like how driven you are, and passionate. It’s fun to watch. I also think there’s a good heart in there, but I feel like it might be bruised and neglected…”
After I said the words I knew it was true. His heart was bruised and neglected. He needed mending, care, and comfort. He needed someone to trust.
I shook myself, realized I’d trailed off and we’d been sitting silently for a long moment, and turned my attention back to Martin. He was peering at me, waiting for me to continue.
I took a deep breath before speaking. “The thing is, I’ve been wanting to tell you this since Sunday. You have a friend in me. No matter what happens between us, I want you to know that if you ever need me—as a friend, as someone you can trust—I’ll always be there for you. I’ll always be your safe place.”
Martin considered me for a moment, his gaze flickering over my face as though searching, before saying, “I don’t think I’ll ever want to be friends with you.”
I must’ve made some outward expression that mirrored my inner surprised hurt because he gripped my leg to keep me in place and rushed to add, “I mean, I don’t think I could ever be just friends with you. I could never be disinterested enough.”
“Disinterested? You think friends are disinterested in each other?”
He half shrugged, his eyes moving to the right. “Yes. I have friends, but I’m not interested in them.”
“Do you have any female friends?”
He nodded. “Yeah. My business partner is a woman. I’d consider her a friend and I couldn’t care less who she’s out with. But with you, I don’t think I’d be able to see you with someone else and not go crazy.”
“So, what? If we break up then you’ll just cut me completely out?”
“I would.” He nodded, looking very serious.
“Because you think you’ll never be disinterested?”
“I know it.”
“And by stating that you’ll never be disinterested in me, you mean that you’ll always want to…” I waved my hand in the air to finish my sentence.
His eyes moved back to mine and he grinned. “I’ll always want to…?”
He was being obnoxiously obtuse, trying to force me to use his language.
“You’ll always want to have intimate relations with me.”
He shook his head like he thought I was cute, and clarified using his own vernacular, “Yeah, I’ll always want to fuck you.”
I scowled at him. “You know, it’s one thing to use that word when we’re,” I waved my hand through the air again, “when we’re in the middle of copulation. But it’s completely different when we’re sitting here and I’m trying to have a conversation with you about serious matters.”
“Why? Why does it make any difference?”
“Because, it’s crass and ungentlemanly.”
“Ungentlemanly?” He looked like he was about to burst out laughing.
I increased the severity of my scowl. “Yes. Ungentlemanly. How you speak to me during everyday discussions matters because it’s a direct reflection of how you see me and whether or not you respect me. Using bad language—yes, bad language. Don’t give me that look.”
He’d rolled his eyes and ground his jaw, like he thought I was being ridiculous. So I pointed my finger at him and wagged it.
“Using bad language tells me you don’t have enough respect for me to use good manners or think about the implication of your words before you say them.”
“Kaitlyn, you know I respect you.”
“Yeah, you respect me so much you want to fuck me—not make love to me, not be intimate with me. Fuck me.”
He grew still, the amusement and rebelliousness waning from his features, and he studied me. Though I got the impression he only half saw my face, and was mostly lost in his own thoughts.
At last he said, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“But it’s what you said.”
His jaw ticked as he processed this information. A calculating gleam entered his eyes and they narrowed. “All right, how about this. I’ll use more gentlemanly language during our everyday conversations if you use more bad language while we…during our periods of intimacy.” He said this last bit in a flat tone, like he couldn’t believe he was actually saying it in place of his favorite four-letter “F” word.
I considered his terms for less than five seconds. Really, there was nothing to consider. Using his bad language during lovemaking made sense…might even help me loosen up. Therefore I nodded and stuck my hand out for him to shake.
“Deal.”
He smiled, fitting his hand in mine. “Parker, I love you.”
“Sandeke, I see your love, and I raise you a secret handshake.”
CHAPTER 11
Line Spectra and the Bohr Model
Martin received a call in the morning that Mrs. Greenstone couldn’t find my notebook.
Therefore, the next morning—after a forty-five minute argument, copious seething glares from Martin, and two hours of him giving me the silent treatment—we were all on our way to the big house to get my folder.
I couldn’t take the chance he’d be unable to find it or abandon the search prematurely. I wasn’t kidding when I told him I had an unhealthy attachment to my class notes. I was convinced the notes were the only reason I was getting As in all my upper-level courses.
Yes, my notes might have been somewhat of a security blanket for me, but so what? I needed them. I believed I needed them in order to succeed. I wasn’t leaving the island without them.
We drove the rugged golf carts across the island, Martin and Eric in one, Sam and I in the other. The all-terrain vehicles were loaded up with our luggage and I was splitting my attention between Sam’s chatter and her roll case threatening to fling itself off the cart with the slightest bump or provocation.
When we arrived at the mansion, Martin walked over and offered his hand to me. When I accepted it, he gripped mine tightly and studied my features; his were stormy and uncertain. When he made no move toward the house, I lifted my free hand and smoothed
it over his cheek, lifted on my tiptoes, and brushed a soft kiss to his mouth.
“Hey, let’s get this over with. We’ll go in, get my folder, and get out. Maybe steal some cookies from the kitchen.”
I watched him swallow. His features still stormy and undecided.
“If we run into my father, just do what I say. Just…” He sighed, closed his eyes, and ground his teeth. “This is a bad idea. You shouldn’t be here.”
I didn’t know how to make this better for him, so I took three shuffling steps toward the house and tugged him after me. “Hurry up. I need those notes and we have a plane to catch.”
He opened his eyes, giving me one last pained stare, then overtook my lead, pulling me after him. He paused just briefly with his hand on the door handle, as though mentally preparing himself, then opened the door quietly. We walked into the entrance and Martin searched the space briefly, loitering on the foyer steps. He seemed extremely reluctant to venture farther.
Before I could make an attempt to soothe his obvious tension, one of the most irritating sounds in the known universe halted our progress.
“Heya, Stroke.”
Ack.
I knew that voice.
It was the cuss monster.
I looked to the left just as Martin did the same, then I glanced up at Martin’s face. He was clearly perturbed and confused.
“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you go back with everyone else?” Martin’s grip on me tightened just a fraction as we turned to face Ben.
“Didn’t see a good reason to go back yet,” Ben said, before taking an obnoxious sip of what appeared to be a strawberry daiquiri through an oversized straw.
“Because I told you to leave. How about that for a good reason?” Martin’s tone was flat, hard, and irritated.
I pressed my lips together to keep from making any kind of facial expression.
Meanwhile, Ben shrugged again, but sounded positively elated as he said, “But your dad invited me to stay, so I did. Besides, I’ve decided to quit the team, so you can go fuck yourself.”
I felt tension roll through Martin—gathering—tangible in how he stood and the measured way he drew breath. But before he could respond, we were interrupted.
