Elements of Chemistry: Parts 1-3

by Penny Reid

  Before I could think better of it I asked, “So you’re going to fuck my sweet pussy?”

  His mouth fell open with surprise and his eyes widened. Martin blinked at me, like he didn’t quite trust his ears. Meanwhile—despite my boldness and arousal—I cringed, feeling silly, and peered at him through one eye.

  “Did I say that right?” I asked, still cringing. “Because when you say it, it sounds sexy. But when I say it, it sounds weird and alarming—like a premeditated criminal action.”

  Then Martin laughed, an uncontrollable, deep rumble of pure happiness. He pulled my naked body against his naked body and hugged me. I could only smile and try not to blush or feel like a dirty talk failure.

  “You are so perfect,” he said against my neck when his laughter receded; he bit me—hard—like he wanted to devour me, then soothed the area with his tongue. “So fucking perfect.”

  I tensed, my belly twisting with delight, as his hands were growing amorous again.

  “I’m perfectly weird you mean, and I don’t like the word pussy,” I whispered. “It has too many ‘S’ sounds.”

  “You’re perfect and I love you.” One callused hand lifted to my breast and roughly caressed it, pinching me. His other arm, still wrapped around my middle, steered us into the shower and under the spray.

  “I’m bad at dirty talk.”

  He didn’t respond. Instead he pressed me against the wall and I was overwhelmed by sensations: the cold tile at my back, the hot water above, his roughened hands rubbing slippery soap over my stomach, thighs, and breasts, his sensational eyes capturing mine and wordlessly telling me he believed I was perfect.

  I couldn’t keep my hands off his actually perfect body nor did I try. The heat of my earlier embarrassment gave way to a new heat, a building promise between us.

  His mouth was everywhere the soap wasn’t and when he finished lathering, he held both my wrists in his hands and slid his body against mine, increasing my arousal exponentially until I was brainless.

  “Repeat after me.” Martin’s voice was low, impatient and demanding, his tongue licking water droplets from my jaw as he released my wrists and smoothed his hands down my sides to my hips.

  “I, Kaitlyn…”

  “I, Kaitlyn...”

  He lifted me as though it were the easiest thing in the world. My hands came to his shoulders and enjoyed how they bunched as he flexed his muscles. He spread my legs wide and rubbed his hardness against the yielding slickness of my center.

  “Want you, Martin...”

  “Want you, Martin—”

  I sucked in a sudden breath as he pushed inside me, his face at my neck sucking and biting and licking.

  “To take me in the shower…”

  “To take…me…in…the shower…”

  Everything about this act felt more crucial than I’d remembered, so much more necessary on a base and instinctual level.

  “…and make love to me for hours.”

  “To…to…”

  I couldn’t finish. I didn’t want to talk, I just wanted to feel. I glanced down at him and our bodies where they joined. I enjoyed the sight of our connection—his hard against my soft, my legs spread wide to accommodate his size. I watched my wet breasts moving up and down in time with his rhythm, bouncing in his face; his rigid and sculpted body curved toward mine as I arched away from the wall. It was the sight of us together—of me with him—that made me feel sexy, overwhelmed by how crazy hot we looked.

  I wondered if we could install a mirror in the shower.

  Aaaaand, with that thought I came—assaulted by water and steam, the slick sliding of his body with mine, and the realization this was the first of many happy—and sexy—memories.

  ***

  When we crawled into bed it was because we needed sleep. But instead of sleeping, we found ourselves facing each other naked, cuddling and touching, and discussing plans for the future. These plans ranged from the various trips we wanted to take together, to various places we wanted to have the sex—he wanted to christen all the showers in his apartment, meanwhile I wanted to lay claim to his desk at work—to a new gaming store that had opened in Times Square. Martin insisted he’d take me the next time we were in the city. We discussed that my father was visiting at the end of February and where we should take him for dinner.

  “Don’t worry,” Martin squeezed me, “I’ll be nice to your dad.”

  I let my amusement and confusion show on my face. “Well, I should certainly hope so.”

  He gave me a wry look. “You know what I mean. I’ve been practicing.”

  “Being nice?”

  “Yes.”

  I rolled my lips between my teeth because his features held an expression of extreme consternation and I didn’t think it would be wise to laugh at him. “How’s that going for you?”

  “It’s been...difficult, but sometimes good.”

  “Difficult?”

  “Yeah, like that annoying girl you work with at the coffee shop.”

  “You think Chelsea is annoying?” I was surprised. I’d never met anyone—especially a man—who thought she was anything but wonderful.

  “She’s vain and irritating. In fact, she reminds me of my mother, always expecting strangers to adore her.”

  I felt my eyebrows jump at his accurate—albeit simplified—description of my co-worker. Perhaps Martin’s tendency to value perceived goodness and genuineness stemmed from his disdain for his mother.

  After a beat Martin surprised me by changing the subject. “Do you want to perform at the benefit your parents were talking about? Yes or no?”

  I hesitated, took a moment to trace my index finger over the line of his collarbone. “Kind of. But I don’t want to do it because my parents think I need to be more impressive. I like playing in my little band. Just being around music every day is a dream come true. I don’t need accolades and attention.”

  “But you saying no just because your parents think you need to be more impressive is allowing them to dictate what you do. If you’re saying no because of what they think, that’s just as bad as saying yes because of what they think.”

  I frowned at him and his sensible words. Stupid sensible words.

  Meanwhile he smiled at me like he knew what I was thinking, and he knew I knew he was right. His smile turned smug.

  “Fine,” I admitted finally. “You’re right. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “No. I already knew I was right. I was hoping for something more like, Oh, Martin, you are a sexy genius. I can’t live without you and your big…head.”

  I couldn’t help my sudden laugh, though I did smack him on the shoulder. He continued his smugly smiling ways and leaned forward to give me a kiss.

  “Seriously though, do it if you want to do it. Or don’t. But make the decision based on what you want to do, not to avoid or cater to someone else’s expectations.”

  I nodded, feeling my chest flood with warmth and affection. He really was my mirror. He was on my side. We were a team. We moved in unison, toward a common goal, and it was a beautiful thing.

  Martin’s hands hadn’t quite settled on my body. He’d move them every so often—from my hip to my thigh, from my thigh to my breast—like he was taking full advantage of his all-access pass. It had the byproduct of warming me up.

  Apropos of nothing, I pushed, “But getting back to having the sex on your desk at work, what days next week are you free for lunch?”

  He gave me a funny look, like he thought I’d been bluffing earlier. “You really want to do that?”

  “Yes. Do you have walls or blinds?”

  “Walls facing the rest of the office, but windows to the outside.”

  “Good.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “Technically, you have—”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “But, actually…nothing. I just like the sex. I like the sex with you. I like how sexy it makes me feel. I like the making out and the foreplay, and th
e orgasming. I like thinking about it and planning our next encounter. And, even though I am a girl, I don’t think that makes me weird. I think it means I have a healthy sexual appetite, and I’m in love with the man I crave. I refuse to apologize for it.”

  His mouth hooked to the side. “I’d never ask you to apologize for it.”

  “Good. Because I won’t.”

  Martin’s eyes narrowed on me, like he was in deep thought, but his smile never wavered.

  Then he said, “In the closet.”

  I waited for him to explain. When he just continued to look at me, his eyes heated with meaning, I prompted, “What about the closet?”

  “Let’s make love in the closet.”

  “But we’ve already done that.”

  “No. I mean all the closets. Every closet we can find.”

  I grinned. “Every closet?”

  “Yes.”

  I threw my head back and laughed, thinking of all the closets in the world and how I’d struggled to avoid them, to avoid indulging my fears and reclusive inclinations, now that I’d found the courage to follow my heart. Little did I know following my heart would bring me right back to the closet.

  But this time I would be with Martin and we would be making love. Or maybe we wouldn’t.

  Maybe we’d just be sharing a private moment alone.

  Maybe we’d be hiding from the world—just a little—but that was okay.

  Because the world could be unpleasant and overwhelming. A demanding place full of uncertainties and expectations and fears. I was coming to realize retreating, hiding from the world on occasion, was not a bad thing to do, as long as I didn’t do it too often or because I was afraid of living my life.

  Sharing a closet with Martin—closed away from everything else but our mutual love, respect, and devotion—might be a very healthy thing. We were a team, a perfectly situated pair of sidekicks.

  And sharing a closet with my sidekick sounded like paradise.

  ~THE END~

  Extra Scene: Early Reactions

  Meet Martin 6-months before the island

  This girl.

  Right now she’s reaching into the equipment cabinet and I’m watching her bend over. I crane my neck, tilting my head to the side as she leans further forward. I’m checking out her ass. This might be my only chance.

  For the first time since meeting Kaitlyn Parker three weeks ago, she is wearing something that actually allows me to see she has an ass and tits and a waist and legs. I’m certain she has no idea she possesses an ass and tits and a waist and legs. Because if she did know, she’d use them. Especially her tits. Christ almighty, her tits are perfect.

  From what I know about this girl, I’m pretty sure she is more intimate with her TI-89 graphing calculator than she is with her body. And that’s a fucking travesty.

  I’m also positive she has no clue every move she’s making is making me crazy. If she did, then she’d use that too. I readjust myself on the stool; my jeans are suddenly too tight.

  It’s her red pants. Or it’s the white tank top. I’m not sure which. Maybe it’s the broken air conditioner in the building. The window is open but it’s not enough. Whatever the reason, this chick is getting me hot, and all she’s doing is looking through a goddamn science cabinet.

  “I can’t find the graduated cylinders.” Kaitlyn straightens, places her hands on her narrow waist, and turns toward the shelves on the far wall. “Do you see the cylinders?”

  “You mean the test tubes?” I’m being purposefully stupid. I’m hoping it’ll make her look at me, because she never looks at me.

  I’m awarded for my pretend ignorance. Her blue-gray eyes cut to mine and I see she’s irritated. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

  Kaitlyn looks back to the shelves. She’s studying them, frowning.

  I know where the graduated cylinders are. They’re on the bottom shelf, all the way to the right, hidden by two large beakers. Usually I’d tell her where they are. Not today.

  Today she’s wearing tight red pants and a white tank top. The longer she stands there searching the shelves, the longer I get to watch her twist at the waist and grumble with frustration. I’ve never seen her look so much like a girl, and I have to be honest, it’s like an early Christmas present. Really early, Christmas in September early.

  My attention briefly flickers to the safety shower in the corner and I picture her beneath it. I’m not saying I have plans to injure or endanger this girl, but maybe I could switch out the HCl with vinegar and manufacture an emergency rinse off. A medically necessary wet T-shirt contest with one contestant.

  I chew on my pen, examining her body as she searches for the cylinders, and I try to picture what she’d look like in just her bra and underwear. I’m guessing they’re plain white cotton, or beige, or maybe they have little purple and pink flowers.

  I wonder what she’d do if I asked her to take off her clothes and show me. Or maybe take off the bra, too. Better yet, take everything off.

  She’d probably punch me in the face. This thought makes me smile because a punch in the face might be worth her outraged expression. Then again, she might not be as much of an anomaly as I’m thinking. Maybe her intelligence and indifference is an act, and she’s just like all the others. Maybe, if I asked her to strip she’d do it, want me to buy her something expensive, and then ask how far to bend over.

  This thought makes me both frown and grow harder.

  I need to know. I need to know if she’s the same as everyone else. I lick my bottom lip, the question is on the tip of my tongue, when she speaks.

  “This is ridiculous,” then adds under her breath, “Absurd, inexplicable, odd, strange, bizarre…”

  I stay quiet because she’s now lifting her long, brown hair away from her neck and twisting it on the top of her head. She reaches into her pants pocket and takes out a pen. I watch with rapt fascination as she miraculously secures her hair in place with a writing utensil.

  Mostly though, I’m staring at the skin of her shoulders, back, and neck. Her pen-hair trick has left an expanse of perfect creamy skin exposed. I devour the unblemished region with my eyes, for some fucking reason, my mouth starts watering. I’m finding it hard to look away from the elegance of her collarbone.

  “Without the cylinders we can’t do the experiment,” she says, a hint of resignation in her voice. “I’ll email Ryan and tell him there are no cylinders.”

  Kaitlyn turns from the shelf, her face scrunched in a frown, and I see she’s intent on her bag. She’s planning on leaving. The ruse is up.

  Mourning the end of my ogling, I point with my pen. “Aren’t those the cylinders?”

  She follows my line of sight and squints at the oversized beakers. I see the moment she spots the containers because her eyebrows jump on her forehead and she smiles.

  She smiles at lab equipment like it makes her happy. She also strokes it sometimes. Last week she kept fingering the test tubes so I took them away, moved them out of her reach. She didn’t object, just gave me a dirty look while she punched the buttons of her graphing calculator with more force than necessary.

  This girl.

  Kaitlyn keeps the table between us as she sets the three cylinders on the black top. I have a suspicion she keeps her distance purposefully because last week every time I walked around to her side, she found a reason to move to the spot I just left.

  “In this experiment, you will standardize a solution of base using the analytical technique known as titration. Using this standardized solution, you will determine the acid neutralizing power of a commercially available antacid tablet,” she reads aloud from the chem lab handout.

  She’s assuming correctly that I haven’t read the experiment outline, which is irritating. She thinks I’m stupid, I can tell. A big dumb jock. Usually I don’t care, and I don’t precisely care now…

  Actually, inexplicably, I do care.

  So I grunt, “I can read, Parker.”

  “Oh, good. That should c
ome in handy.” She’s still looking at the handout as she says this.

  Her tone, like she’s congratulating me on my ability to read, almost makes me laugh. Almost.

  “You don’t need to read the experiment to me.”

  “I’m not reading it to you, I’m reading it to me.”

  “Out loud?”

  “Yes. I’m an auditory learner.” I watch her attention dart over the chemical formulas on the handout. But then she surprises me by abruptly lifting her eyes to mine and asking, “What kind of learner are you?”

  I have her gaze for the first time in three weeks and my mind blanks, so I repeat, “What kind of learner?”

  “Yes,” her smile is tentative but friendly, again catching me off guard, “how do you learn best?”

  I hold her stare—which can only be described as genuinely curious—for a full five seconds and I’m at a loss; I don’t know what to do. I get the distinct impression she doesn’t want anything from me except to know how I learn best. I don’t know why, but this question feels too personal.

  Therefore, instinct kicks in and I allow a slow, meaningful smile to spread over my face before responding, “I’m more the touchy-feely type.”

  Her eyes dim and her mouth flattens, like my response is wrong or she’s disappointed, and I see I’ve lost her again even though she says, “That’s kinesthetic learning.”

  “You do much kinesthetic learning?” I’m flirting, or I’m trying to. But all I can think is: This is stupid.

  Especially when she responds to my question with, “Not since pre-school.”

  … ahhh fuck.

  She’s turned her attention back to the handout. A foreign sensation makes my chest uncomfortable, like I’ve lost something important. I stare at her pretty profile and wonder why I care whether or not this girl thinks I’m an idiot.

  However, I’m glad I didn’t ask her to strip, because now I’m convinced she wouldn’t have punched me in the face. I think she would have just shut down, ignored me, and then asked me to pass her the hydrochloric acid.