Elements of Chemistry: Parts 1-3

by Penny Reid

  I swallowed past the rising, choking lust that filled my lungs and sent liquid, aching heat to my center. My breathing was shallow, and as such my words were hushed and labored. “Martin, you don’t even know me. We’ve been here for three and a half days. Three and a half days isn’t a lot of time.”

  He released a humorless laugh and it sent an odd chill down my spine. Slowly, very slowly, almost like it was meant to be more of a caress than a withdrawal, he removed his hands from the sweet spots where he touched me and his fingers closed over my upper arms. He lifted me up just slightly so he could move to the other side of the hot tub, placing as much distance between us as was possible in the small space.

  He swallowed, focusing on some spot over my head for a long time, gathering himself—his thoughts, his self-control—before bringing the full weight of his gaze back to mine, pinning me in place.

  When he spoke, his voice was hypnotic, soothing, and darkly unapologetic. “Parker, you’ve been the star of all my wet dreams since the first day of lab in the fall. I’m beyond caring whether you know…I’ve been watching you. I know you drink your coffee black and always from the same Doctor Who mug. Your favorite band is Weezer, or you just have an incredible amount of Weezer concert T-shirts. I know you mumble synonyms to yourself and it’s fucking adorable. I know you look for ways to help people, like giving that girl in lab a safety pin when her shirt ripped, or offering your notes to that douchebag, Kenneth.”

  “You remember that?” My eyes moved between his, fascinated, enthralled, shocked.

  “Yes, and all the other quiet acts of kindness over the last six months. As well as the fact that you’re the only girl who has ever refused to give me her phone number.”

  I was struck by an unhappy thought. “Is this…am I just some kind of challenge for you?”

  He shook his head, looking disappointed in me for asking the question. “No. You are not a challenge to me or a problem to be solved. I want to be with you, all the time. Did you think it was just a coincidence we were paired as partners two semesters in a row?”

  My mouth fell open and I’m sure my eyebrows were doing strange things on my forehead. A little squeak of disbelief escaped my lips, but overall I was speechless. This was…this was…I was…

  Shocked, stunned, surprised, bewildered, confused, bemused, befuddled.

  I would have been distressed, except for the fact that Martin had been starring in all my dirty fantasies since the first day of lab in the fall.

  I cleared my throat as I thought this over, considering how best to respond. When I was on the precipice of taking too long, I blurted, “I have to be honest, Martin. If you weren’t so hot, this would be really distressing. But, for some reason, the fact that you’re hot negates the creepiness factor.”

  His mouth tugged to the side, though his eyes and voice were hard. “Lucky me.”

  “And also in the spirit of honesty, I’ve been thinking about you too, mostly your body and face and eyes…but I didn’t like you very much before this trip.”

  “I know. I was always trying to think of ways to get you to see me, talk to me, but you were always looking the other way.”

  “But I did see you. I saw when you fought that guy in the dining hall last semester, and I saw you yell at that girl outside the Basic Sciences building in October and make her cry.”

  Martin stared at me, some of the glacial frigidity thawing as he considered me. Then he said, “No wonder you thought I was an asshole.”

  Before I could think better of it, I shrugged and said, “You kind of are an asshole.”

  He exhaled a surprised laugh, but amazed me by saying, “Yeah. I guess I am. But I don’t like to be used, Parker. Do you know how often people ask me for money? People who I considered friends? Do you know how many girls want to throw themselves on my dick? It’s not about me. It’s about greed. I’m not bored of it. I hate it. I’ve had a lifetime of people trying to leverage me to get what they want. And if I’m an asshole it might have something to do with that.”

  I nodded, remembering the conversation I’d overheard just a few days ago in the lab cabinet, the catalyst for all of this. That girl was going to drug him, assault him, rape him, and hope to get pregnant—all for money. She didn’t want him. She obviously didn’t even know him.

  I added absentmindedly, “Kind of like the calluses on your hands.”

  “What?”

  I stared at him for a beat, wondering if he’d appreciate or be irritated by the analogy. I decided this was No-Touch Tuesday, and tomorrow was Wet-and-Wild Wednesday. If I was going to decide whether or not to participate, then I needed to be as honest and forthright as possible now.

  “The calluses on your hands. They’re purposeful, meant to protect you in the long run. They’re armor, so that you can’t be hurt. Just like how you treat people…callously.”

  His eyes narrowed on me, grew meditative, introspective, but not hostile. He said nothing.

  I continued, “You’re callous because you have to be. Because otherwise you’d be bleeding all the time.”

  Martin’s face did a funny thing then; he looked like a wounded animal. His eyes flashed, grew at once guarded and distant. His sudden reaction and the gathering ferocity in his stare set my heart hammering. I’d obviously touched on a nerve, because he now looked slightly dangerous.

  I tried to think of something to say that could diffuse this change in his demeanor, but before I could, he asked, “What about you?” The tone of his voice told me he was very close to losing his temper.

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, you.”

  “Uh, what about me?”

  “What about your calluses?”

  I turned my face to the side, administering him a sideways look. “My calluses?”

  “Yes. You’re not exactly a very feeling person.” He said these words quite callously, the wall between us now feeling like an actual, tangible thing.

  “I’m not…? What?” The hairs on the back of my neck rose, but I didn’t know if it was because his question was confusing or because my subconscious was warning me that I was venturing near a trap. “I’m a feeling person. I care about people.”

  “I’m not talking about empathy for other people. I’m talking about you…feeling.” His eyes darted over me and when he spoke next it was as though he were speaking to himself. “You’re controlled, childish, and repressed.”

  My mouth dropped open; I pointed to myself with my thumbs and my voice was dripping with incredulity. “Repressed? Childish?”

  “Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas?”

  “So? What’s wrong with Sponge Bob? He’s funny.”

  “Don’t you want to feel sexual?”

  Now my scalp was itching, my throat was tight, and I could hear the blood rushing between my ears. I had to take a calming breath before I could speak because I was angry, and I didn’t know why I was angry.

  “Of course.”

  He shook his head slowly, surveying me. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why? Because I wasn’t ready for you to…to…put your mouth on my private area?”

  “See. You can’t even say it.”

  “I can say it.” I crossed my arms over my chest, the hot tub suddenly felt too hot.

  “Then say it, Kaitlyn.” He grinned, and it looked wolfish. “Say the words. Say fuck me with your tongue.”

  I gathered a deep breath, glared at him and his predatory smile, and prepared myself to say the words. Then I held my breath. Then I gritted my teeth. Then I narrowed my eyes.

  “You can’t say it,” he whispered, looking triumphant and sad—not for himself, but for me. I comprehended that he felt sorry for me.

  I released the breath and looked away, my blush now crimson. My anger was multiplied by mortification, my stomach a storm of dismay and disappointment. Why couldn’t I say it? What the hell was wrong with me? I squeezed my eyes shut then covered my face with my hands. I felt like crying, it was so ridiculous.

&
nbsp; Seconds passed in relative silence while I tried to get myself under control. But it wasn’t working. I was going to cry.

  Abruptly Martin said, “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

  “Do what?” I snapped.

  “You always cover your face when we talk.”

  I sensed rather than heard him draw closer. When he put his hands on my wrists, I jumped, startled even though I knew he’d crossed the barrier between us.

  “Let me see you.” His grip tightened—firm but not hurtful—and pulled my hands away.

  I was crying. Not big messy sobs, because that’s not how I cried. When I cried it was silent and usually into my pillow. And I didn’t cry often. The last time I’d cried was when my cat died in my junior year of high school. My mother had added an item to our weekly agenda: New cat for Kaitlyn - Pros/Cons.

  “Why are you like this?” Martin’s voice startled me because it was so…gentle.

  I lifted my watery eyes to his and had to bite my bottom lip to keep my chin from wobbling; his gaze matched his gentle tone. He looked a little concerned and a lot curious.

  “What’s so scary about being seen?”

  I cleared my throat and glanced over his shoulder. “Just because I’m not ready to take the next step in the physical intimacy pyramid doesn’t mean I’m afraid to be seen.”

  “I agree, it doesn’t. But you are terrified, Kaitlyn. Everything is logical discussions with you, everything is so reasonable and analytical. Don’t you feel passionate about anything?”

  “Of course.”

  “What?”

  “…I love my parents.” I said this lamely, because it was lame. Not that loving one’s parents is lame, but rather the only thing I could come up with that at all resembled passion was loving my parents.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

  I slid my teeth to the side, not sure what to say.

  Martin turned, bringing me with him, and settled into a seat. He pulled me, his hands moving on my body to position me as he liked, until I was facing him, my legs straddling his hips. And I let him because I felt lost. This conversation was confusing.

  Passion…was a confusing concept to me, which was—in and of itself—a weird thing to be confused about. I chided myself, feeling abruptly clumsy and stupid, and yes, childish. How could passion be so foreign? I’d read enough books about it. I knew, theoretically, what it involved. I felt a degree of passion for books and geek culture, shortbread cookies, and my favorite bands. As well, I’d felt something close to passionate about music once upon a time.

  My mother and I had talked through why this passion for music was both good and bad.

  It was good to have an appreciation for the arts. As a whole, the arts enriched society.

  But it was bad to be passionate, focus energy on something, when I had talents in other areas of greater need, talents that were scarcer and in greater need by society.

  She explained that the world didn’t need more musicians. But it did need more female—especially female—scientists, mathematicians, politicians, physicians, and leaders. I was good at my music, but being just good would likely never yield the results necessary to support myself as a musician. Nor would I have a directly positive and lasting benefit to society as just a good musician. It was much better to focus on math and science, areas where I was already gifted, areas where I could make a tangible difference.

  I was lost in these thoughts, my tears having ebbed, when I became aware that Martin was staring at me, watching me. I felt his gaze scan my form. He’d paused, as though considering me, then brushed his knuckles over the swell of my breast.

  My breath hitched and my gaze jumped to his.

  “There,” he said, his eyes searching mine as he touched me again, this time also tugging the strap of my top down and baring my breast. His other hand trailed along the column of my throat to my shoulder then collarbone, tickling me. I shivered and sighed. “There it is. You have it, and when I touch you like this, it’s there.”

  I could only look at him in response. I didn’t want to move even though we were breaking the No-Touch Tuesday rule. I was caught in rule-versus-want purgatory. Ultimately, I decided not to move, and No-Touch Tuesday could go help itself to jumping off a cliff.

  His hands slid down my sides, stomach, and hips. Under the water, he used the backs of his fingers on the inside of my thighs and I tensed, paying no heed to my sore muscles.

  “I understand that you’re not ready for me to fuck your sweet pussy with my tongue. I do. I understand.” His whispered words sent a lightning strike of white-hot longing through me. I felt like I might break in half.

  He continued, all the while his fingers stroked back and forth, each time coming closer to my center. “If you help me soften my calluses, I’ll help you soften yours.”

  I swallowed, feeling dazed. “How?”

  “Be passionate.”

  I shook my head, a dizzy denial spilling from my lips. “I’m just not built that way.”

  “From where I’m sitting, you are.” Martin growled this then leaned forward to steal a quick kiss, his mouth leaving a trail from my jaw to my neck, whispering after biting my ear, “You are. You’ve just…turned it off, buried it for some reason.”

  “Why do you even care?”

  “Because, Kaitlyn, and I don’t know how many times you’re going to make me say this, I care about you, I want you.”

  “But why—”

  “Why do people care about each other? What is attraction? I can’t give you a list of reasons why I react to you like I do. This isn’t an equation to balance. You’re the one I’m always thinking about. It’s you. It just is.”

  “You need to rethink that list, because what if I’m just…asexual?” I felt unsteady and sensitized; the hot, balmy, bubbly water licking my bare breasts and back. As such my words were breathless, labored.

  He leaned back, captured and held my gaze before speaking. “This isn’t about sex, Parker. But for the record, you’re sexy as fuck. I’m talking about passion. Wanting something. Loving it. I’m passionate about rowing, and I’m passionate about knowing how everything works and telling other people what to do.” He smirked at this last thought, then his eyes grew staid and thoughtful. Martin’s knuckles skimmed up my inner thigh and finally, finally touched my center. He rubbed the back of his middle finger up and down the apex between my spread legs, whispering, “And I’m passionate about you.”

  My breath hitched, needy and painful spikes of pleasure originating from where he touched me, singing through my body. These sensations were unwieldy, unmanageable, and I realized it was because I believed him. I believed he was passionate about me.

  “Touching you right now is meaningful for me. Tasting you, taking you now, here, would be meaningful for me.” He removed his fingers and my thighs tightened. Ignoring my reflexive protest, he lifted his hands out of the water, and then pulled my bikini straps back up my shoulders. He covered me as he said, “But it’s not going to be meaningful for you…unless you’re passionate about me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Discovery of Atomic Structure

  It was past midnight and I was lying in the middle of my giant bed, staring out the skylight to the stars above.

  Neither Martin nor I spoke much after we left the hot tub. I couldn’t. I guessed he sensed that I couldn’t, so he let me be.

  Sam was not currently with me in my super-huge king-sized bed tonight. I saw her briefly at dinner, but then she and Eric and a few of the other guys decided to go for a moonlight swim. I’d been mostly quiet during the meal and didn’t want to go to the beach. I felt…morose.

  Therefore I excused myself, ignoring Martin’s watchful glare as I left, and hid away in my gigantic suite.

  Martin was right. I was analytical—overly so—and I’d been using it as a way to suppress passion. Everything could be reasoned away or made to look silly with enough rational scrutiny. Faith, love, hope, lust,
anger, sadness, compassion—everything.

  And that’s what I’d been doing with every feeling and emotion that was confusing or difficult to control. Except, when Martin touched me I felt a little out of control…or rather, a lot out of control. I felt unsteady, I felt uncertain, I felt…

  I felt.

  I rolled to my left side; instead of staring out the skylight, I stared at the wall of windows overlooking the beach.

  Passion and being passionate were not bad things. Just like arsenic isn’t bad, even though it can be used to murder a person. If passion wasn’t bad, then why was the very idea of being passionate so terrifying?

  I sighed, rearranged myself in the bed—again—and punched my pillow. My pillow was seriously getting on my nerves. It wasn’t reading my mind and supporting my neck like I needed. I considered breaking up with my pillow, but then decided to give it one more chance. Settling back on the mattress, this time on my right side, I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to go to sleep.

  I couldn’t.

  My body was sore, yes. But it wasn’t why I couldn’t sleep. I felt restless, I felt irritated, I felt dissatisfied, I felt…

  I felt.

  Abruptly I sat up in bed and threw the pillow across the room. I felt like it was giving me inadequate neck support and I hated it. I hated that pillow with passion.

  We were never ever, ever, ever getting back together.

  I tossed the covers to one side and bolted out of the gargantuan suite. Its largeness was overwhelming and I needed small. I needed safe. I wandered around the house for a bit, intent at first on a visit to the kitchen because...cookies. But at the last minute I took a right instead of a left, went up the stairs instead of down, and found myself in the room with the piano and the guitars.

  I hovered at the door and stared at the piano. It was a Steinway grand and it was gorgeous - black and sleek and curvy. Moonlight spilling in through the windows gave it a shadowy, secretive appearance. I wanted to touch it. For some reason, in that moment, it felt forbidden.