Elements of Chemistry: Parts 1-3

by Penny Reid

  The last revelation made him very, very normal. The first two, however, were sources of extreme concern. Numbers four and five gave me hope.

  But the third made me feel weak every time I remembered him saying the words. It made my heart swell, it made it hard to breathe, it made the Bunsen burner in my pants go on alert level one million, and it made me willing to forgive him for almost anything.

  That was the truth of it. I wanted to forgive him. I wanted to trust him again. I did trust him before the fight, because he’d earned my trust with sincerity and honesty. I also wanted him to trust me enough to risk his heart without trying to tear mine out in the process.

  “Hey.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Martin was in the doorway to the kitchen, holding two glasses, watching me. I took both from him with a tight smile, and turned back to the sink. I washed them, rinsed them, set them on the towel to dry.

  Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded, giving him my profile and another tight smile. “I know.”

  He moved into the small kitchen and stood behind me. I felt his warmth at my back and braced for his touch, my body tensing in anticipation.

  But then music started playing from what could only have been a cell phone speaker. The sound quality was not good, but not terrible. I recognized the song within the first ten notes.

  “Stevie Wonder?” I asked, turning completely around and glancing at the cell phone Martin held in his hand.

  He nodded then reached around to place it on the towel next to the two glasses I’d just finished washing. “I thought you might like some music.”

  “Overjoyed.” I said the name of the song, and I’m afraid I was looking at Martin like he had three heads—all still devastatingly handsome, but three nevertheless. “You like Stevie Wonder?”

  He nodded, not touching me with anything other than his penetrating gaze. “Yeah. He’s one of my favorites. I like to rock out to Sir Duke or Superstition when I run.”

  “You like Stevie Wonder,” I repeated, this time as a statement, because it was so odd. Then I laughed my astonishment and covered my huge grin with my hand. “This might be one of my most favorite things about you, Martin Sandeke.”

  His lips twisted to the side with a sardonic smile, his eyelids lowering. He reached for my hand, revealing my grin, and threaded his fingers through mine. “Don’t cover your mouth, it’s one of my most favorite things about you.”

  Butterflies and dragonflies held conference in my stomach then fluttered to the four corners of my extremities. Everything felt dreamlike, hazy—likely the effect of exploiting Stevie Wonder as a soundtrack to this conversation—and I found myself leaning toward him, lifting my chin.

  He brushed his lips against mine, then tasted me with his tongue. It wasn’t enough, yet he didn’t deepen the kiss.

  Instead he whispered, “I love you, Kaitlyn.”

  He leaned away, his eyes burning into mine, like he wanted to make sure I’d heard him and that I understood.

  He released my hand.

  Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me with Stevie Wonder telling me how he’d built his castle of love, just for two, though I never knew I was the reason.

  ***

  I couldn’t sleep.

  Where last night sleeping with Martin had been wonderful and filled with conversations about everything, tonight it was weird. We weren’t touching. Instead we were relegated to the two sides of the bed, lying on our sides away from each other.

  I was pretty sure he wasn’t asleep either.

  This suspicion was confirmed when I heard him sigh, then mutter, “Fuck this shit,” under his breath, then shift, reach for my body, and pull me across the great divide into his arms and against his chest.

  I smirked into the darkness.

  “I can’t sleep with you and not touch you,” he said by way of gruff, unapologetic explanation. “So if you don’t want me to touch you then I can go sleep on the couch.”

  “No.” I snuggled backward, into his embrace. “No, stay. It seems I can’t sleep either unless you’re touching me.”

  He gave me a rumbly grunt of acknowledgement, then we settled into the stillness and the gentle rocking of the boat. Feeling cozy and warm and safe, I was approximately a half minute from drifting off to dreamland when Martin whispered against my neck.

  “Please, Kaitlyn… Don’t punish me.”

  I stiffened, the words confusing and alarming. I turned in his arms because I had a fierce urge to see his face.

  I searched his eyes in the dim light before I spoke, and found him both weary and guarded.

  “Martin, I’ve told you before. I don’t punish people. You can expect honesty from me.”

  He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against the side of my cheek, then pushed several strands of my hair over my shoulder, following the progress with his eyes. “You haven’t forgiven me yet.”

  “No. I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m punishing you. I promise, I’m actively working to forgive you. I just need time.”

  He nodded his understanding, his gaze on my shoulder. He was touching me there, his thumb tracing a circle on my skin.

  Then he returned his eyes to mine, ensnared them. His gaze and voice were laced with challenge as he asked, “Will you let me…can I make you feel good?”

  The butterfly and dragonfly conference was back in my stomach. My heart was banging like a gavel, calling the sexy meeting to order. I flexed my thighs then pressed them together in automatic response to his request, my lower belly twisting, hot and liquid, my nipples tightening into stiff peaks.

  Yes, I wanted to say. God, yes. Please.

  I didn’t quite trust myself to speak as my heart lurched painfully toward the vicinity of his heart, so I said nothing. But then I was struck with sudden inspiration.

  “No,” I breathed, not really believing I’d turned him down, yet found the wherewithal to add, “but I’d like to touch you.”

  His eyes widened and his handsome mouth parted. Everything about him softened and it was clear he hadn’t been expecting my request. Holding my breath, I sat up in the bed and peeled the covers off his chest then pulled them completely away.

  I reached for the waistband of his pajamas and he, as though coming back to himself, suddenly gripped my wrists to stop my progress.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Touching you.”

  His jaw was tight, his eyes betraying his confusion.

  “Why?”

  “Because I like touching you.” I shrugged.

  “Kaitlyn,” he growled. He looked like he was in pain. “Don’t tease me.”

  I waited for him to really see me, and I hoped he saw my sincerity. I hoped I didn’t have to make verbal promises. I hoped he’d just simply trust me.

  Eventually, and with a shaking breath, Martin released my wrists, though he looked fierce, dangerous as he did so. The glint in his eyes again reminded me of a wounded animal. I knew I had him in a vulnerable position and that was a unique prospect for him.

  I curled my fingers around the band of his pajamas again, one hand on either side of his hips, and pulled them down his legs. He helped by lifting his hips, though his eyes never left mine.

  I tried to make my expression as unconcerned as possible, even though I had no idea what I was about to do. Trying to feign confidence, I moved my eyes to his middle and gazed upon his very long, thick, and remarkably shaped penis. It was an anatomy 101, textbook penis—very normal looking in the best way possible, just longer and thicker.

  Therefore, I had no idea why the sight of it got me so excited. It was a penis. There was nothing special about this penis—excepting being longer and thicker than the average representation of penises everywhere—other than the person to which it was attached.

  Inexplicably, I wanted to taste it.

  I bent forward to do just this when Martin stopped my progress by gripping my shoulders.

  “What t
he hell, Kaitlyn?”

  I looked at him then his penis. It jumped. He growled.

  “No,” he said. “No, no, no.” He leveraged his grip on my shoulders to pull me back to where I’d been lying on the bed just minutes prior. He climbed on top of me, pinning me down. “You’re not going to do that.”

  “What? Why? Do you not like it?”

  “Of course I like it! But you’ve never done it.” He was hovering over me, naked, nearly yelling because I wanted to give him my first blow job.

  “You think I’ll suck?”

  He blinked at me, stunned for a moment, then groaned. His forehead hit my shoulder and it was then I realized the double meaning of my words.

  “Oh snap, sorry. Of course, you hope I’ll suck.”

  He groaned again. “You’re trying to kill me.”

  “No.” I laughed, because I couldn’t help it, wishing I could touch him but he was holding my wrists. “I’m not. I just…I just want to make you feel good.”

  He didn’t lift his head. “Right. You want to give me a blow job after I made you feel like shit this afternoon, and you still don’t forgive me for it. Because that makes sense.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that the reason I hadn’t forgiven him yet was because he obviously didn’t trust me. Him not trusting me to put his penis in my mouth was evidence enough. I thought it was a truth universally acknowledged that all men love blow jobs, beer, and again, blow jobs. Who turns down a blow job? Martin Untrusting Sandeke, that’s who.

  I huffed. “Listen, Sandeke. I would like to place your very picturesque penis in my mouth. Yes or no?”

  He groaned, buried his head in my neck, bit me.

  I bent my head to the side reflexively, little waves of wonderfulness spreading through me originating from where his mouth loved and tortured my neck.

  “Yes or no?” I squeaked.

  He lifted himself up, planking above me. His erection pressed into my belly and I tried not to squirm because I knew that would likely set him off again.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” His tone was subdued, but his eyes glared menacingly.

  “Yes or no?”

  He swallowed, his gaze moving in a deliberate trail from my eyes to my mouth, neck, then breasts.

  “Fine,” he said, and I could tell he didn’t think I’d actually do it. “But you have to take your shirt off.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to swallow this time. If you swallow your first time you’ll never go down on me again, because cum tastes nasty.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “Girls tell me so. Lots and lots of girls.”

  Now he was just being crude, trying to push me away instead of giving me an opportunity to demonstrate I was trustworthy. But I was stubborn.

  I lifted my chin and asked, “I still don’t understand why I need to take my shirt off.”

  “Because I like seeing my cum on your beautiful tits.”

  If he was trying to freak me out, gross me out, or shock me, his words had the opposite effect. My lungs filled with fire and my breath hitched. I don’t know what possessed me to do it, but I repeated the words he’d already used on me twice.

  “Don’t tease me,” I whispered.

  His eyes widened as they searched mine. I’d surprised him again. Wide eyed, mouth slightly parted, looking at me like I was a sexy alien creature, Martin released my wrists and lay back on the bed.

  I sat up again, pulling my shirt off and arranging myself near his middle. His hands had balled into fists at his sides. I guessed this was a byproduct of trying not to touch me.

  I bent forward and reached for his shaft with one hand, holding his erection still because it was jumping, straining as I came closer. I licked my lips, breathing on him, and he groaned. He sounded so tortured. I felt a desperate spike to ease his suffering so I opened my mouth and slid my lips and tongue over his penis, accepting him into my mouth, suckling him.

  He cursed—a steady stream of panting expletives intermixed with my name.

  I moved up and down, remembering a porn movie I’d watched with Sam last semester while eating seasonally appropriate pumpkin-spiced kettle corn. Sam spent twenty minutes critiquing the girl’s fellatio technique. She’d even paused the video, stood up, walked to the TV, and used my yardstick as a pointer.

  “See here,” she’d said, indicating to the girl holding her own breast, “she should be using that hand to tickle his balls, the inside of his thighs, or the backs of his knees. What’s it going to do on her breast? Nothing. That’s a misuse of resources.”

  I tried to recall the rest of her pointers, and knew that if I tried to bring him in too deep then I would gag. I wasn’t ready for that yet, gagging being something I didn’t enjoy, so I tried to focus on doing what felt good to me, what I enjoyed.

  I was surprised and not surprised to learn that what I enjoyed, he also seemed to enjoy. When I groaned because I liked the salty taste of his pre-cum, he answered with a groan of his own. When I twisted my fingers around his shaft and swirled my tongue around the head of his penis, every muscle in his body tensed and he held his breath.

  It was like having a salty Popsicle that never melted, attached to a lovely, sexy man who derived both pleasure and pain from my experimentation. It made me feel oddly powerful and light-headed. The skin was soft—impossibly soft—and so, so hot.

  And quite abruptly it was over.

  “Kaitlyn stop, stop…fuck, I’m going to come.” He pushed me away, gripping himself.

  My eyes widened at the sight of his big hand gripping his big dick. It was the absolute sexiest thing I’d ever seen. I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth, transfixed.

  “Okay,” I said, “tell me what to do. Should I lay down and you get on top?” Of course I was referring to the logistics of him releasing his semen on my breasts.

  But it was too late. Martin gave himself two strokes and that was it. He spilled on his own stomach, angling himself down, his hand moving back and forth with jerky movements. I watched him as it happened. His body tense, his muscles cut in sharp relief, his face twisted for a very long moment in both agony and sweet relief, almost like he was confused and angry and listening to a choir of angels only he could hear.

  Then he released a shuddering breath, brought his other hand to his face. He pressed the base of his palm against his forehead, like he was trying to keep his brain from exploding.

  I smiled at him, waiting with anticipation for the post-BJ analysis. I found my shirt and wiped my hand dry, then placed it gently on his midsection; nevertheless, he flinched when the soft cotton connected with his still erect penis.

  I cleared my throat, watched him absentmindedly clean himself, his breathing still labored. The pulse point on his neck pounded out a furious rhythm.

  When he didn’t move my smile waned. I was tired of waiting.

  I poked him gently. “Martin…are you asleep?”

  “No.”

  I waited for five seconds, then asked, “How was I? Did I suck?”

  He laughed and it was mostly a good sound, velvety, seductive and satisfied; it wrapped soft tendrils of tenderness around my heart and squeezed, like a hug. It also rolled out the Slip ’n Slide in my pants and put up a sign that said Ready for business time, only Martin need apply within.

  But it was also a smidge melancholy, and this smidge of melancholy made me feel nervous.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing only briefly before standing and walking to the bathroom. I watched him toss my shirt to the corner and leave, the sound of his laugh still vibrating in my ears and heart.

  The water switched on and off. Martin returned almost immediately and reached for his discarded pajamas.

  I considered him, then asked, “So, seriously, how did I do? Any pointers for next time?”

  His movements faltered at this last question, then he finished pulling on his pants and said, “There won’t be a next ti
me.”

  His words were confusing and sad. He also looked a little sad.

  “Why not?”

  He ground his teeth and swallowed before answering, “I’m not doing this.”

  His words broke my heart, he sounded so raw.

  “What?”

  “This.” He lifted his chin toward me.

  “You have to be more specific.”

  “I’m crazy about you—”

  “I’m crazy about you, too.” I moved to stand, but his next words gave me pause.

  “Stop!” He sliced his hand through the air, his voice harsh. He appeared to be struggling. “You know what I mean, Kaitlyn. I’m in love with you, and you’re not…and I don’t know why you did what you just did, but this is…this is so fucked up.”

  Martin pushed his fingers through his hair and turned away from me.

  My heart took a kamikaze leap in his direction. “Martin—”

  “No.” He shook his head. I saw his eyes were closed, like he was trying to block me out, and I understood why he hated it when I closed my eyes or covered my face.

  He continued, and I was relieved to see he did so with open eyes. “I don’t want to be a pity project. And I don’t want to push you into doing things you obviously aren’t ready for.”

  “What makes you think I’m not ready?”

  He faced me and gestured furiously to the bed. “Because you shouldn’t be giving blow jobs to guys you aren’t in love with. That’s not who you are.”

  “What if I am that girl?”

  “You’re not! This, what we’ve been doing, every time I touch you, it means something to you more than just getting off. I can see it and I don’t want that to change. I need it to mean something to you! I can’t…I’m not doing this anymore.”

  “But what if I am in love with you?” I didn’t think about the words before I said them. For better or worse, I just said what I felt at that moment.

  He stiffened, winced.

  “Don’t...” I saw his eyes narrow, flash in the low cabin light. “Don’t say it unless you mean it.”

  I stood from the bed and walked to him, driven by the momentum of our week together, our beautiful week. I felt that everything we’d done, all of our discussions and fighting and joking and challenging each other had led to right now.