by Penny Reid
“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 made 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.
&nbs
p; 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.”
His scorching gaze subdued, grew thoughtful, and he straightened, giving me space.
I continued, “If I keep giving in while we’re in the moment then none of this has meaning.”
This last statement seemed to make a huge difference. He rocked back on his feet then took two steps away; to my surprise, he was nodding. “That makes sense.”
I clasped my hands and returned his nod. “It does, right? I mean, we could jump each other’s bones now, in this laundry room, but what would it really mean? It would feel good—really, really good—but—”
“But it wouldn’t have meaning for you,” he finished for me, his eyes searching mine. Martin’s voice deepened and his gaze grew open and earnest. “I want it to have meaning, Parker. And I’m fine with waiting for some things, but I still need to touch you.”
I gave him a little smile, my hands on my hips. I felt a tad silly standing in front of him, talking about giving meaning to physical intimacy while the barest remnants of his sperm dried on my stomach and chest.
“And I still need you to touch me, Martin. That’s part of this whole dating thing…I think. The point is, we’re trying to figure it out, right? And I think we can.”
“Good.” He rushed forward, like he needed to be close. His hands moved to touch my waist, stalled, then settled benignly on my shoulders. “Good. We’re on the same page.”
“Good.” I grinned, feeling excited.
It was, I realized, the first time I’d truly entertained the possibility that things might actually work between us. Before this moment I’d kept my guard up, trying to prove the null hypothesis, ready for Martin to mess up or for him to realize his interest in me was transitory and misplaced.
He must’ve seen some shift in my expression because his answering smile was soft and hopeful.
He asked, “You want to have some tacos?”
“What? Here? Now? They have tacos?”
“Yeah.” Martin’s eyes skated over my face and they lit at my delight. “They have a taco bar.”
“Oh my God.” I stared at him for a beat, my mouth agape, then nodded vehemently and declared, “Best party ever!”
CHAPTER 2
Chemistry of the Environment
I woke up the next morning struck by a sudden idea of super genius.
Actually, it was almost noon when I woke up, so I guess I woke up the next afternoon struck by a sudden idea of super genius.
It had to do with something Martin had said the night before, just before we’d eaten our tacos.
Last night, after Martin grabbed a clean beach towel from the dryer, we left the laundry room of sensual promise. We held hands as we navigated the party; navigating the party with Martin was quite different than navigating it on my own. The sea of bodies parted—people catching sight of him or sensing him, all moved out of his way.
He steered us back to the deck, then continued his hasty strides toward the pool. Along one of the walls were three outdoor shower stalls. Martin turned on a shower, set the temperature to warm, and pulled me under with him, rinsing the last of our encounter from our skin.
This left me feeling both cleaner and dirtier. Cleaner for obvious reasons. Dirtier, because he made no attempt to school his expression as he looked at me. Clearly, he appreciated my form; his eyes followed the trail of water as it flowed over my shoulders, between my breasts, down my stomach and legs. Under the burden of his scorching gaze, I attempted to remind myself of my feminist ideals, that I was not put on this earth to be attractive to men.
But those ideals felt really faraway, maybe a little naïve, and a lot inconvenient.
Being desired and desirable was a heady feeling. It was addictive; it felt really, really good. And the way Martin looked at me and desired me, with forceful concentration and barely restrained intensity, made me wonder if Oreos and yoga pants were all that great after all.
That thought felt like sacrilege.
Then he bent and whispered in my ear, “All I can think about is touching you.”
At the time, the comment made me hot all over because all I could think about was Martin touching me.
But in the clear light of early afternoon it made me realize that the touching—though verra verra nice—might actually be the problem.
Sam was, once again, sleeping in the bed with me. I’d tried to explain what had happened with Martin at the party, the PG version, and how we’d misinterpreted the kiss. She interrupted my explanation to tell me she already knew we’d misinterpreted the kiss. Apparently Sam had taken it upon herself at the party to confront the leggy blonde, Danielle, on my behalf. Danielle admitted that Martin wasn’t interested. Sam then spent most of the night trying to find me to tell me the news.
Once she spotted me eating tacos with Martin she figured he’d found me and we’d work
ed it out.
However, Sam made it a point to insist that she and I sleep together. I think, in a way, we’d become each other’s chastity belts. If we were sleeping with each other then we couldn’t be doing more than sleeping with anyone else.
I left the bed quietly, showered, changed into shorts and a T-shirt, then went in search of Martin. I found Ray and Griffin first. They were on the multi-level balcony that ran the length of the back of the house. To my surprise, they were studying.
Ray informed me that Martin might not be up yet as it was one of the only mornings they’d planned not to practice.
“He tries to sleep in for as long as possible if there’s no practice,” Ray explained. “But I can tell you where his room is. I don’t think he’d mind if you woke him up.”
“Hmm…” I hesitated. I didn’t want to interrupt his sleep, especially if he rarely had an opportunity to sleep in.
“I don’t think he’d mind at all,” Griffin added with a dimpled grin, his brown eyes moving in slow appraisal from my ankles to my eyes.
I gave him a narrowed glare. He looked like the type to eat lo mein leftovers if given the opportunity.
“Sure, okay,” I said to Ray. “Can you draw me a map?”
While Ray pulled out a blank piece of paper to draw a diagram of the house, Griffin returned my suspicious gaze with a teasing twist of his lips.
“So your grandfather is an astronaut?”
I nodded. “Yep.”
“And your mom, she’s the senator, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Didn’t your grandma work on the atomic bomb, or something?”
“Something like that.” My maternal grandmother was a physicist. She didn’t work directly on the Manhattan project, but she did help the US government equip the earliest nuclear submarines.
“Must be weird coming from such a famous family.”
I wrinkled my nose. “We’re not famous.”
“That’s not true. You’re like American royalty. Isn’t your dad the president of something?”