by Penny Reid
“Please…please.” I rubbed against him, wanting to completely give myself over to passion.
“I’m sorry I have to do this,” he said. His voice held true regret. He then proceeded to tear my new lace underwear in two.
I didn’t have time to react because the next thing he did was grab my bottom, lift me up, and turn my back against the wall. He then brought me down, filling me in one swift stroke. He rocked back then filled me again with another inelegant thrust of his hips, pinning me to the wall, spreading my legs wide, to his satisfaction.
My head fell to his shoulder. I closed my eyes. I felt.
I felt myself adjust to him.
I felt him stretch me.
The beautiful friction his body made with mine.
I felt my love for him, and my desire, asphyxiate and overwhelm me.
I felt our combined passion for each other and the insanity of it, how mad and reckless we were.
“Say it again.” He moved in then out, slowly at first, but then increasing the tempo to a punishing pace. “Tell me again.”
I knew what he wanted. “I love you.”
“I want you in so many ways, so many ways—”
“Then take me.”
He growled and my back hit the wall. I was uncomfortable and completely, irrevocably aroused. There was nothing smooth, practiced, or controlled about what we were doing. Only greedy and needful. Essential. It was all passion and no technique.
I was mindless with selfishness. I couldn’t think past this moment because I wanted it so badly. So I’d taken it. It was raw, and it was real, and it was true. We both came quickly, hard, loud, and together. And I immediately wanted a repeat. Or a threepeat.
In the aftermath our ragged breaths married, and his mouth sought then mated with mine—slow, sensual, and loving. I whimpered, sore but needing him still. He laughed wickedly, grinding into me.
It’s true. We’d just had sex in the front closet of my apartment while my roommate was in the next room, likely laughing her ass off. I didn’t care. I had no regrets. Actually, quite the opposite.
When Martin carefully lowered and released me, my feet touched the ground and my legs were wobbly. I leaned heavily against the wall and tried to right my dress with clumsy fingers as he finished buttoning his pants, a devilish and satisfied smile claiming his features.
I opened my mouth to say something—that we should go make love on my bed now—but then he kissed me senseless once more, getting me hot and bothered in the closet all over again. Pulling away after several long, wonderful minutes, he whispered hotly against my ear, “The next time we make love, it will be in our home, in our bed, the one we share with each other.”
He leaned away slightly, capturing my gaze, his dazzling gaze telling me he was serious.
“But—”
“Because I can’t live without you anymore. I can’t spend any more days and nights not knowing when I’ll see you, hear you play, touch you. I won’t settle for less.” His tone was stern, implacable, as though he’d reached the end of his patience.
I exhaled my frustration, because I was already calculating how to get him totally naked tonight. “But you live in New York and I live here.”
“Then I’ll commute.”
My head hit the wall behind me and I glared at him. I couldn’t think. “This is not a decision to make right now. We need time, we need to talk—but later. Much later. Not tonight.”
“No. Talk now.” His eyes were uncompromising and belligerent, sharp and pointed, and I knew it would be nearly impossible to talk him out of this. But I didn’t want to talk him out of it, I just wanted him to cede that we had time to discuss living arrangements later. Living arrangements, cities, zip codes, commuting—that could all wait.
But right now, I didn’t want to think about being responsible. In fact, I didn’t want to think at all. I wanted to focus on feeling and touching, and logic and reason be damned.
Passion for the win!
“Martin, Christmas was…it was good, I think, and last spring we had a beautiful week—”
“Don’t you get it yet, Kaitlyn?” He sounded tortured, at his wit’s end.
Martin’s eyes captured mine and he held me, all of me, hostage with the savagery of his gaze. Martin’s hands lifted to my face, his rough calluses against the smooth skin of my cheeks and jaw, his fingers threading slightly into the hair at my temples. When he spoke his voice was raw with months of hope and need and desperation.
“I don’t want a beautiful week with you. I want a beautiful lifetime.”
***
Much to the disappointment of my pants, Martin and I did not have the sex again that night.
I started referring to it as “the sex” in my brain while we were still in the closet, because sex with Martin wasn’t ever going to be sex. It was THE sex. Everything with him felt like it should have a definite article (the) in front of it, as though all verbs became nouns and took on a special meaning.
The sex.
The cuddling.
The touching.
The whispers.
The laughter.
The words.
The feelings.
The teasing.
The love.
I couldn’t wait.
But rather than “the sex,” Martin pulled me away from Sam’s rainbow of coats, out of the closet, and to my bedroom. While I straightened myself, he waited for me, throwing his coat, jacket, and tie to my desk chair. He watched me in the reflection of my dresser mirror, and I found I couldn’t, nor did I want to, feel embarrassment when his gaze was so possessive and predatory.
When I faced him, he stalked to me, walked me backward until my legs met the edge of the mattress, all the while staring at me like this was Christmas morning and I was everything he’d ever wanted and hoped for.
I lay down first, he stretched over me, his lithe form above. I reached for him. I touched him. We kissed.
We kissed for a long time and his hands never strayed to the hot zones; though I could feel his want for me, his desire with every shift of his hips. And each time things became a bit frenzied he would retreat, breathing heavily and reining himself by placing whisper-soft kisses over my face, jaw, and neck. Or he’d just hold himself still above me, slowing his heart.
And I cherished him. I poured my desperate longing and care for Martin into my touch. I stroked his back lovingly and held him in a way I hoped communicated the gravity of my affection. I returned his kisses and gave him several of my own. I managed to untuck his shirt and slide my hands along the sides of his torso, memorizing and remembering the feel of his skin.
Eventually the urgency tapered, something in my soul soothed, and he rested beside me. I was tucked tightly against him, my head on his shoulder, my body curved into his side, his hands in my hair, and his lips at my forehead. We both basked in each other’s presence along with a deep sense of decisive contentment.
And strangely, my mind was blank. I was truly in the now. Likely because the now was so very, very good.
But Martin had clearly been thinking, because he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me when I came to the coffee shop last week?”
I turned into his shoulder and hid my face. “If you must know,” came my muffled response, “I did decide to tell you. I was going to call you and schedule a time to meet. Then you came by my work and asked for girl advice. And tonight, we arrived at the restaurant and I assumed you were taking me there on a reconnaissance mission for your date.”
“My date?”
“The girl? The one you like? The one you wanted advice about last week when I narrowly managed to refrain from stabbing you with my butter knife.”
He groaned, shaking his head. I lifted my chin so I could see his face. When his eyes opened they were equal parts amused and frustrated.
“Kaitlyn, you’re the girl. I never gave up, I just figured I needed to take a different approach. I kept fucking things up when you were in New York, even though I
was trying to be so careful. I needed your advice because everything I did seemed to push you further away.”
I smiled against his starched shirt. He smelled like Martin: expensive sandalwood-scented soap, and even more expensive aftershave.
I knew my smile and voice were dreamy as I said, “When I first saw you, after the show in New York early in December, I didn’t know what to think. I hadn’t expected to ever see you again. Eventually I thought you were trying to give me closure. But then, when you came to me a few weeks ago and wanted to discuss the terms of our friendship, I figured you wanting friendship meant you were indifferent to me, that you didn’t want me anymore.”
“No.” He communicated so much with the single word, and it was a violent rejection of my assumptions. As well it imparted the depth of his frustration. “How could you possibly think I was indifferent to you?”
“Well, you said—our last night on the island—that you could never be friends with me because you’d never be indifferent enough. Drawing the logical conclusion, I assumed you were now indifferent enough to want friendship.”
He heaved an exaggerated sigh. “I told you the truth on the island. Like I said in the closet, I never wanted to be just a friend. But, since you offered me nothing else, I was willing to settle for it—for a time—if it ultimately got me what I wanted.”
This made me grin.
I felt his answering smile as he continued, “I thought you’d read the interviews. When I first saw you in New York after your show I was waiting for you to either tell me you’d moved on or tell me you felt the same. But then you were quiet. Evasive. So I thought, if I could just…” He shifted on the bed, holding me tighter. “When I found out you hadn’t read anything, that you’d actually been avoiding all mentions of me, I realized how badly I’d fucked up. So when you came to New York for the week before Christmas I tried to give you your space.”
“So you stayed away that week because you didn’t want to push me?”
“Yes. I wanted you to see that I’d changed, that I wasn’t…demanding.”
“But you are demanding.”
“Well, not as demanding.”
I slipped my hand under his shirt, wanting to touch him. “So what happened? Why didn’t you say something on Christmas?”
“I’d planned to. I thought, you would see the piano Christmas morning and then I’d gently explain about the foundation. You would forgive me, see I was right, and then we’d get back together.”
I tried not to laugh. “Gently?”
He ignored me. “But you fell asleep in the car. And then took a shower and were sneaking around the apartment.”
“I wasn’t sneaking. I was trying to put your gifts by the fireplace.”
Again, he ignored my statement. “And I couldn’t sleep. I needed…to touch you, or have a strong drink. And then we drank and I was an asshole.”
“Because I implied you never loved me.”
Martin shifted to the side, glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and contradicted, “No. You didn’t imply. You flat out said it. And I got so pissed.”
He sounded angry now, just remembering it. I decided it was best to move the conversation forward.
“I finally read your interview from Men’s Health where you called me The One.”
“When?”
“After I got your text on New Year’s.”
He didn’t respond right away, and when he did he said, “Huh.”
He looked so handsome, lying in my bed thinking with his big head, so I brushed my lips against his. This of course led to us kissing like mad again.
When we finally pulled apart, Martin was above me once more and his breathing was labored. “Kaitlyn,” he started, then stopped.
“What is it?” I reached for him, smoothed my hands over his jaw.
I saw his chest rise with an impressive inhale before he spoke. “I did choose you. You know that, right?”
I waited for him to continue. I wasn’t certain what to make of his statement, to what—in specific—he was referring.
He shifted on the bed, turning onto his side and propping his head up, his arm bent at the elbow. His other hand gripped my hip.
“I didn’t choose anything at first, after you…left. Like I told you last week, I kept thinking you were going to agree to see me in secret. In my mind, we weren’t over, not at all. But when you didn’t change your mind, nothing about revenge or seeing my father humiliated meant anything. I saw you were right and I walked away, though I think a part of me will always want to see him suffer.”
I was quiet while he had his moment of anger. Martin’s father was a bad guy. I knew the best Martin could hope for was indifference toward the man.
Eventually, he shook himself and continued, “I dropped out of university because you asked me to leave you alone, and I couldn’t do that if I stayed on campus. But then I couldn’t let you go, even when I didn’t see you. So almost everything I did—setting up the foundation, the interviews, publicly calling my father a dickhead—was all about earning you back, earning your trust, hoping you would consider taking me back once I’d made everything right.”
I felt my chin wobble and was relieved these threatening tears were happy ones.
“Oh, Martin.” My voice was shaky, but I didn’t mind. “Did you really call your father a dickhead?”
He nodded. “They didn’t print that part, but he is a dickhead.”
I laughed, wishing the newspaper had printed that Denver Sandeke was a dickhead. But I also wished for so much more.
“I wish I’d read your interview when it was printed. I wish I’d gone back to you after our initial fight and tried to work things out, find another way. I wish I hadn’t been hiding in the closet all summer, avoiding all mentions of your name.”
“I don’t.” He shook his head with a remarkable kind of certainty, like he knew all the secrets of the past and the future.
“You don’t?”
“No. Because, even without you, I am happier than I’ve ever been. As soon as I walked away from my father, I started working on projects that interested me. You know those sketches on my drafting table? I’m inventing again. My purpose is now about what I want and not dictated by my hatred for him. If you hadn’t called me on my bullshit, then…” He didn’t finish the thought. Instead his eyes lost focus, as though he were imagining an unpleasant alternate reality.
I felt myself smile. Martin had been the catalyst for my choice to embrace my music and, as such, passion. He forced me out of my closet of expectations and purposeful obscurity. Even separated from him, I was happier in my life than I’d ever been before.
And, in that moment, I had a thought.
Maybe that’s what real love is.
Maybe love, at its essence, is being a mirror for another person—for the good parts and the bad. Perhaps love is simply finding that one person who sees you clearly, cares for you deeply, challenges you and supports you, and subsequently helps you see and be your true self.
Love, I decided, is being a sidekick.
CHAPTER 15
Strengths of Covalent Bonds
“When will you be home?”
He didn’t answer right away.
In fact, he was noticeably quiet, as though he were enjoying the question, the moment, and everything it meant.
But I knew he was smiling.
I felt my automatic answering smile, the kamikaze leap of my heart, and the igniting Bunsen burner in my pants—a trifecta of happiness and anticipation—at his silence.
The last month had been bliss. BLISS I TELL YOU!
We dated. We went on dates. I saw him almost every day. Although I hated he had such a long commute. During the week when I had classes, Martin stayed with me at my place every night. My weekends were pretty tied up with shows and work. Sometimes we stayed in New Haven and sometimes we crashed at his place in New York. Yet wherever I slept, he slept too.
But notably, we’d only made love three more tim
es since the closet, each time he swore it was the last until we moved in together, and I was frustrated. Pragmatically speaking, it’s a crime against humanity to have a boyfriend as hot—body hot, brain hot, heart hot—as Martin Sandeke and not have the sex.
He was being stubborn, and though I’d been able to entice him a few times, he wanted to wait until we had our own place. Really, he was blackmailing my pants.
“Soon,” he responded from the other end of the phone, his voice so low and lovely, and laced with meaning, the single word a promise.
I heard the urgent vroooom of his car and pressed my lips together so he wouldn’t hear me laugh, but I was unable to keep the amusement out of my voice. “Really? How soon? Because I was thinking of running some errands.”
“Parker, don’t tease me.”
Oh…sigh.
Tonight he was coming home to our home.
Home was a really, really small one-bedroom just two blocks from the apartment I’d shared with Sam…until yesterday. The timing had been perfect because her friend Kara ended up moving into my room.
Honestly, I didn’t know what Sam was more excited about: me and Martin finally getting back together—as she put it—or the fact she didn’t have to pack up her stuff and move into a three-bedroom. Of course, she also took an alarming amount of pleasure in tearing up my chore chart.
Regardless, today was my first day in our new apartment and tonight would be our first night in the apartment together. I hoped it would be sans underwear.
I leaned against the kitchen counter, my legs feeling a little wobbly, my heart feeling a lot full. “Fine. I’ll wait for you. But soon better mean soon.”
“Soon means soon.” This was accompanied by another vroooom.
This time the sound made me frown.
“Don’t kill yourself trying to get home.”
“I won’t.”
“Remember, I have my weekly call with my parents in about ten minutes. It shouldn’t last longer than a half hour, so you don’t need to rush.”
“I won’t rush.” Just as he said this I heard his car vroooom. Before I could interrogate him about it, he added, “And I picked up dinner.”