Elements of Chemistry: Parts 1-3

by Penny Reid

  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 growled, 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.”

  I laughed, and then winced, my abdominal muscles protesting.

  “It’s like dating boot camp,” she said.

  “I think boot camp hurts less.”

  “That’s not what I meant. This, being with Eric all the time, it’s like dating boot camp. We’ve only known each other since Friday but I’m having conversations with him that I never had with any of my previous boyfriends. It’s…it’s intense.”

  I nodded—or tried to—thinking about her analogy. “I have no basis for comparison, not really. But you’re right. I feel like everything is being rushed, like we’re cramming weeks and months of relationship interactions into hours and days.”

  She gave me a weird, searching look. “Is Martin pushing you?”

  “No. But we’re…getting close.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And how is that? Are you still convinced he needs just a friend?”

  “Yes…and no.”

  “And…?”

  “And what?”

  “Don’t be coy, I’ve seen those hickies on your neck. You might be flexible but you didn’t give them to yourself.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her, unwilling to move any other part of my body. “Yes, obviously we’re being more than friendly.”

  “Don’t let him pressure you, Kaitlyn.”

  “It’s honestly not like that.”

  She snorted and rolled her eyes with disbelief. “Yeah, right. I’ve seen how he looks at you. He wants to have a penis party in your vagina.”

  I pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t laugh, because laughing was painful. “I told him I want to take things slow because, well, I’m the queen of inexperience.”

  “And he agreed?”

  “Yeah. He said he wants us to last, he wants what we do to be meaningful.”

  “Whoa! He said that?”

  “Yes. So we both agreed to slow down, hence the dancing and rowing lessons today.”

  She smirked, her eyes lighting with mischief. “But he got you off, right?”

  Now I rolled my eyes. “Sam…”

  “He did. I can tell. You don’t need to answer.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Because you’re looking at him like you want him to have a penis party in your vagina.”

  “Ugh.”

  “Was it good? Did he use mouth, or hand, or both? I like it when they use both.”

  “I’m not answering that.”

  “But it was good, right?”

  I blinked at her.

  She grinned. “Niiiice. Let me know when you’re ready to shed your repressed modesty and discuss the baser details. I can tell it was good because of how you’re blushing.”

  “I’m not blushing. It’s just warm in here.”

  “Whatever. I’d high-five you if I could move my arm.”

  “How do you think I feel? You’re already an athlete, I hurt in places I didn’t know existed.”

  “You’re the idiot who wanted to learn how to row. Why, Kaitlyn. Why? Why would you do that? Why would you ask that sadist to teach you how to row? Why?”

  I tried to shake my head but I couldn’t. “I don’t know. Shut your whore mouth. I just want to die.”

  A knock sounded from the door; Sam and I said in unison, “Come in.”

  Martin poked his head in. I moved only my eyes because even my neck muscles were sore.

  “Hey, you ready?”

  “No. I’ve decided to die instead.”

  He considered me, assessing, then asked, “Are you sore?”

  “I would nod but I’m too sore.”

  Martin strolled into the room, stopping where I lay on the bed, his eyes conducting a slow perusal of my body. “You’re going to be sore for a while,” he said thoughtfully, his lips twisting to the side. Then he bent down, scooped me up, and brought me to his chest.

  “Oh God, I don’t even care.” I lay limply in his arms, dead weight. “Do whatever you want. I can’t even move.”

  He laughed a little, kissing me lightly then nipping my lower lip. He strode out of the room, calling over his shoulder to Sam, “I’ll send Eric in with an anti-inflammatory.”

  Sam’s response was weak and barely audible as he carried me down the hall. “God bless you, Martin Sandeke, even if you are a sadist.”

  ***

  The first thing he did was carry me to the lowermost balcony. I didn’t even know it existed. It was hidden and down a short path, away from the house. Then he set me gently in a hot tub. The next thing he did was turn and leave.

  That’s right, he left me. But he was soon forgiven because the hot water felt amazing, my knotted muscles relaxed. Furthermore, he returned with anti-inflammatory medication, a giant glass of water, and a plate of assorted yummy food.

  He slipped into the hot tub next to me, seemed to hesitate, and then pulled me between his legs.
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  I said nothing. I didn’t get a chance to say anything because Martin was using his callused hands to massage my back, neck, and shoulders.

  I sighed and just gave into it even though it was a definite grey area for No-Touch Tuesday. He might have meant it to be a helpful respite for my sore muscles, but it was making me feel really good in other places.

  Like, as you may have guessed, in my pants.

  Therefore I groaned. With pleasure. It was a definite pleasure groan. I didn’t mean to groan, but it happened, so there it is. I’m a groaner.

  His hands stilled; his thumbs were pressing expertly into my lower back and his fingers were wrapped around my waist, massaging my bare stomach. I felt his quads flex at my hips.

  “I can’t do this if you’re going to make those sounds.”

  “Please, don’t stop.” I exhaled. It felt so good. I didn’t want him to stop. Maybe never.

  It was his turn to groan. His forehead met my shoulder. “And you can’t say that kind of stuff.”

  I wiggled, pressing my bottom and spine backward, trying to get him to move his hands again.

  “Kaitlyn, you can’t move like that either.”

  “You have a lot of rules,” I complained, lifting my hands and placing them on his thighs, trying to get better leverage to push myself into his skilled fingers.

  He lifted his forehead from my shoulder, his hands sliding from their relatively benign positions on my body to much less benign positions—like slipping into the cup of my swimsuit top and my pants. I gasped.

  When he spoke next his whisper was more growl than whisper. “I know you don’t want to be desirable to a man, but it’s too fucking late. So stop making me crazy. If you don’t want me to touch you, you need to stop teasing me.”

  Instinctively, I leaned back, my shoulder blades connecting with his chest and my arms coming up out of the water and reaching for his neck.

  “I swear, I’m not trying to tease you, and I never said I don’t want to be—”

  “I heard you earlier, in my room. I heard what you said. It doesn’t matter, because I meant it when I said that all I can think about is you.” He bit my ear, like he couldn’t be close without tasting me, and added, “Honestly, you should be a little scared. I want you in so many ways, and I can’t stop thinking about it.”