by Penny Reid
My mouth fell open and my nose wrinkled again, this time in outrage. I looked at him, really looked at him—and this time I wasn’t seeing the outer façade of blinding beauty. What I saw was a guy who was bitter, jaded, and maybe a little desperate—for what, I had no idea.
Finally I said, “What is wrong with you?”
His eyebrows shot up. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Yes,” I countered, my hands coming to my hips. “What is wrong with you? I came here to help you, the least you could do is not act like a jerk-face.”
“Jerk-face?” he shot back, his eyes growing both hot and cold. “You show up here, looking like that, and you expect me to believe you’re not after something?”
“I already told you, jerk-face, it’s a skirt party! I wouldn’t have made it through the door if I hadn’t been wearing this stupid dress, jerk-face. If you don’t like how I look, jerk-face, then you can go yell at your stupid sorority brothers.”
“You mean fraternity brothers.”
“Sorority, sorostitute, fraternity, fratigalo—whatever! It’s all the same to me.”
“So I’m supposed to believe that you have no ulterior motive? If this is true then why didn’t you tell me all of this at the lab?” He gained another half step forward and, since I refused to back down, only inches separated us.
“Because you scratched my itch and then you kissed me—both of which freaked me out because neither of which are in the course syllabus for laboratory experiments this semester. And, furthermore—”
I didn’t get to finish because the door opened behind me and a voice I recognized called into the room. “Hey Stroke—dude, why are you up here? I brought you a drink. Some of my special hunch punch.”
I’d turned toward the sound of the voice and stumbled a step backward. Martin’s arm wrapped around my shoulders, bringing my shoulders to his chest as the owner of the voice leaned halfway in—two red solo cups extended.
The guy, about two inches taller than Martin—therefore, very tall—walked through the door after a short pause. Behind him I could see Eric standing with Sam. They both peered into the room and I noted Eric’s face was apologetic as he glanced at Martin.
I tried to step forward but Martin’s arm tightened, held me still.
The stranger’s clear blue eyes moved from me to Martin, then back again. “Hey—Eric said you had company so I brought one for both of you.”
I knew his voice because it was him. The cuss monster from the lab.
I felt Martin’s chest expand on a slow inhale, his fingers were digging into my arm; it wasn’t painful but it was pointed, firm, meant to communicate a message—don’t move.
“Thanks, Ben,” Martin drawled, but the edge in his voice was glacial and he made no move to accept the cups.
Ben gave me a stiff smile, his eyes lingering on where Martin’s arm was wrapped around me, then he raised both cups. “You two should have a toast. Come down to the party.”
“Leave the drinks and go,” Martin said.
Ben frowned, glanced at the two cups and cleared his throat. “You should come downstairs, this is epic—”
“Go,” Martin repeated.
This time Ben nodded once and set the cups on a table by the door. “Sure, sure. I’ll come back in a bit to see if you need any more.” He held his hands up and backed out of the room, his eyes completing another once over of my body before he closed the door.
I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and, just for a moment, allowed myself to lean against Martin.
“That was him. That was the guy—I recognize his voice.”
I felt Martin nod, his chin and cheek against the side of my hair. We stood—still, quiet—for a long moment, then he turned me to face him. Both of his hands moved to my waist and he backed me against the pool table.
His eyes, guarded, but also tempered with curiosity, searched mine. I still saw desperation in his features and it still perplexed me. I didn’t touch him. Instead I braced my hands on either side of my hips where my body met the pool table.
At length he asked, “What do you want?”
I swallowed then responded, “I’d like to leave.”
He shook his head slowly. “That’s not what I meant. What do you want from me?”
I shrugged. “It would be great if you could tabulate the findings from last week’s assignment, but I’m not going to hold my breath.” He never did the tabulations and analyses. It was annoying.
“Parker.”
“What?”
His eyes dipped to my mouth and his voice was the softest I’d ever heard it, almost coaxing. “Kaitlyn…”
I stiffened against the feelings associated with my name from his lips, spoken in gentle tones.
I averted my eyes and my voice was a little strained when I said, “Martin, I honestly don’t want anything from you. I’d like to leave so I can change into my normal clothes, drink tea, eat cookies, and read a good book in my dorm room.”
“Kaitlyn, look at me.”
Once again, my neck flushed and my arms broke out in goosebumps.
I tried to ignore both the blush and the goosebumps. “I also want for you to forget any of this happened so that we can go back to being lab partners.”
He was quiet for a long time, but I knew—even though I refused to meet his gaze—that he was studying me, examining me like I was something new.
Then he said, “Why do you hide?”
The words startled me so much that my eyes instinctively sought his, and this was a mistake. His gaze—now a lovely blue fire—was taking a survey of my face, as though he were memorizing every detail. It was alarming and my heart quickened.
I tried for a shrug but it likely looked like a poorly executed, convulsive shiver. “Why do you care?”
His gaze met mine then flickered to my lips. “You have fantastic lips.”
I half choked, my eyes widening. “You care because I have fantastic lips?”
“And your eyes. They’re grey. I noticed them first.” His voice was just above a whisper; he sounded as though he was talking to himself.
I cleared my throat, not really sure what to say. But it turned out I didn’t need to say anything, because he continued.
“Early last semester you wore a tank top and your hair was down. You kept pulling it off your neck.” He lifted his hand and brushed the backs of his fingers against my swell of cleavage, skirting the neckline of the dress, a soft caress. “I tried to get your phone number but you wouldn’t give it to me.”
“I give out my number as rarely as possible, it’s one of my life rules,” I said dumbly.
“The red pants, the tight ones that show off your ass. You tortured me, bending over to get supplies out of the cabinet. That isn’t very nice.”
My voice was unaccountably breathless. “The corduroy ones? I only wear those when all my other laundry is dirty.”
“You’re better at chemistry than me, you ace all the tests.”
“I like chemistry, and you don’t study like you should.”
“Haven’t you ever wondered why I come on Fridays?” His fingers curled around my neck and his thumb traced circles along the line of my collarbone. He encouraged my head to tip backward.
“So that we can get a jump start on the weekly assignment?”
He shook his head. “You.”
My eyelashes fluttered. “Me?”
His held me captive with both his heavily lidded gaze and his caressing hands. Martin leaned forward, and he brushed his lips against mine. It wasn’t a kiss. It was more like he was using his lips to feel mine, to enjoy my softness.
“You,” he whispered again.
My fingers gripped the wood on either side of my hips and I successfully fought a whimper. The tightness in my chest eased and twisted, my stomach fluttered, my breath coming shallow and fast.
My brain wasn’t quite working properly because he’d muddled it—with his words, hands, and lips of temptation. Therefore, in a pal
try attempt to defend myself from his seduction onslaught, I blurted out one of my greatest fears where he was concerned.
“You’ll make me cry.”
His eyes widened a little, moved between mine. “I wouldn’t.”
“You would. I’ve seen it, I see how you treat girls.”
His hand at my waist tightened. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re not…I know you’re not like that. We wouldn’t be that.”
“I don’t trust you.”
He sighed, but not with impatience. “I know.” He nodded. “But you will.”
He dipped his head again, placed a soft kiss on my lips, just a hint of his tongue. It wasn’t enough. My hands lifted on their own and gripped his shirt, staying any retreat he might have planned. I didn’t do this on purpose. In fact, I didn’t know why I did it.
“Martin, I can’t—”
“You can.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.”
“You don’t—”
“I do.” He kissed me again and shifted his weight more completely against me. Martin crowded my space so that he filled every inch of it. Four of my senses were overwhelmed by him—the smell of his cologne, his hot and hard body against mine, the taste of his mouth, the low growl in the back of his throat when our tongues met and mated.
Briefly he drew his mouth from mine, and demanded, “Say you’ll spend the week with me.”
I blinked, started to protest. “Martin, this isn’t—”
He kissed me again, placed my arms around his neck, then his hands moved up my ribs and his palm cupped me through the thin material of my dress. His thumb drew tight circles around the center of my breast.
He growled, “Say it. Spend the week with me.”
I moaned, because…aroused.
He bit my lip, sucked it between his. I moaned again.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, Kaitlyn.” He breathed the words suddenly, like he didn’t mean to say them out loud, but they burst forth unbidden. “I want you to spend the week with me. Say yes.”
He kissed me again, quickly, then trailed wet, hot kisses over my jaw and behind my ear to my shoulder. He bit me—hard—and sucked on my neck in a way that made me squirm and my breath hitch; all the while his large hand massaged my breast and tortured me through the fabric. His other hand had moved to my bottom and pressed my center to his.
“Martin…” was all I could manage, because…really aroused. And, not that I was an expert, but judging by the hard length against my stomach, he was also really aroused.
“Please, say yes,” he breathed into my ear.
I said, “Yes…”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
To be honest, I said it but I didn’t mean it. In that moment, I said yes because he’d asked me to—and he’d used the word please and I didn’t want all the good feelings to stop—not because I had any intention of spending the week with Martin Sandeke, Hercules, jerk to women, and apparently king of seducing naïve and intimacy-starved virgins.
Regardless, my words seemed to be enough for Martin because he smiled against my skin and stopped talking. He also moved both of his hands from their shockingly effective ministrations and encircled me in his arms. His mouth moved back to mine.
This time the kiss was slow, less urgent, gentle, and sweet. It felt like a prelude, a beginning. When he lifted his head, I opened my eyelids to find him gazing down at me, his eyes alight—blue flames.
“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he said. His voice was different, softer, deeper…content.
“What?” I blinked at him.
“Be ready at eight.”
“Eight?”
“You don’t need to pack much.” He kissed my nose, released me from his arms, threaded his fingers through mine, and tugged me toward the door. “I hope you like private beaches.”
CHAPTER 4
Enthalpies of Reaction
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing.”
I heard Sam shift in her seat causing the leather to creak. “What do you mean nothing? He’s expecting you to go away with him for spring break.”
I shrugged, staring out the window of Martin’s chauffeured car. That’s right. A chauffeured car, for a twenty-year-old college student. If I hadn’t felt so pensive I might’ve looked for the Grey Poupon Dijon mustard.
After my lapse in judgment against the pool table, Martin had navigated Sam and me to the back of the fraternity house while calling his driver on the phone. The man was at the back door by the time we arrived.
Martin pulled me in for a quick kiss—which was completely bizarre, provocative, and off-putting—then unceremoniously loaded us in, telling his driver to take us to our dorm.
Sam pumped me for information as soon as the door shut. I related the facts, which gave me an opportunity to recover a measure of sanity. In hindsight, I realized I’d been acting like a crazy person. Proximity to Martin made me lose my sense. I’d been senseless. Without sense. Not any sense. No sense.
Nonsense.
I spoke to the window rather than be faced with Sam’s anxious expression. “I mean, I’m going to do nothing. I can’t be held responsible for my reactions—what I say or what I do—when faced with a real life Martin Sandeke. He’s the man equivalent of a gun to the head, except without the fear for my life aspect. I’ll write him an email, tell him that he adversely affects my ability to function as a rational being. As such, our discussion this evening and all resultant agreements are null and void. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
I felt like I had stumbled into an alternate reality and was just now finding my way out of the rabbit hole.
Sam snorted. “Um, no. He’s not going to understand. And, I doubt he’ll take no for an answer. He’s kind of a bully that way, or least he has that reputation.”
This statement captured my curiosity; I turned in my seat to face Sam. “Wait, what do you mean? Does he—has he forced himself on—”
“No! God, no. I would never have teased you about getting his number if he forced himself on girls. That’s not what I meant. He wouldn’t need to do that in any case, as he has them lined up around the fraternity house with skirts up to their elbows, willing to bend whichever direction he prefers. I bet that’s why he was hiding upstairs. It must get exhausting at some point…” Sam trailed off and I got the sense she was speaking mostly to herself.
I frowned at Sam. “Rape isn’t about need, it’s about power.”
“Exactly. Sorry if I implied otherwise. Regardless, Martin Sandeke has a reputation for getting it on with a cornucopia of willing females.”
“Then what are you talking about? How is he a bully? Other than making females he’s slept with cry and getting into fist fights.” I listened to the words as they left my mouth, realizing that those two facts made him enough of a bully to be labeled as such.
“I just mean he’s used to getting his way, right? He has his own yacht. His. Own. Yacht.” She stared at me, her eyebrows raised with meaning. “If he wants something, it’s his. He doesn’t even ask, he just mentions it.”
I twisted my lips to the side and considered this information, not really understanding why it was pertinent to our discussion. “So? What has that got to do with me?”
Sam’s eyelids drooped with disbelief, but her eyebrows stayed suspended. “Have you not been paying attention? I saw the way he looked at you, the way he held your hand all the way to the car, the way he kissed you before we left. He wants you. Martin Sandeke wants you.”
I considered her, her words, and sighed. “I’m not a yacht.”
“No. You’re a girl. He’s had hundreds of girls. But he has only one yacht.” Then under her breath she added, “Well, he has only one yacht that I know of.”
“Sam, weren’t you the one pushing me to get his number?”
“Yes, but that was before I was told to stand outside while you went into his lair. That was before I saw the dazed
look on your face when you emerged from the aforementioned lair. That was before I found out he wants you to go away with him for a week! I want you to get your freak on, but I don’t want you to get your heart broken.”
“I think you’re overreacting. You said yourself, he has them lined up around the block. I’ll politely decline his offer, and he’ll move on to someone else. There is no need to become hysterical.”
“I’m not hysterical and you are being purposefully obtuse.”
“Fine. I’ll sleep with him. I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him I want to get it over with. Then, by your logic, he’ll go away. Problem solved.”
Sam growled. “That’s not a good idea either.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“You should tell him face-to-face that you don’t want to go. You should explain your reasons why and establish boundaries for future interactions. And you should have me there as your representative to make sure he doesn’t try to zap you with his sexy ray.”
“Zap me with his sexy ray?”
“You know what I’m talking about. I barely saw him and I’m feeling the effects. He’s got like an…electromagnetic pulse of sexy or something. So does his friend, Eric. They’re a menace. They shouldn’t be allowed in public.”
“That’s not how electromagnets work.”
“Whatever. You get my point.”
“We’re here.” The driver’s voice over the speaker interrupted our conversation and drew our attention to the view of our dorm outside my window.
I heard the sound of him exiting the car, presumably walking around to open my door.
Sam covered my hand with hers bringing my attention back to her. “Just think about what I said. Carter did a number on you, but his intentions weren’t hurtful. This guy,” she paused, her eyes moving between mine, “if Carter was a stick of dynamite, this guy is a nuclear weapon.”
***
The campus email directory was public information within the school’s Black Board system. I could find any person’s email address by conducting a simple first name, last name, year enrolled search. However, since it was so easy to find a person’s email address, very few people actually used their on-campus email account, preferring Gmail or another alternative where spam wasn’t such an issue.