Elements of Chemistry: Capture

by Penny Reid

  “Yes. I agree. I promise I will let you know if Denver Sandeke ever shows his chinless face. But I have a life to live.”

  “And I want you to live it.” Her eyes were full of uncharacteristic emotion and she appeared to be truly repentant. “We’ve made progress, you and I. And I don’t want anything to jeopardize that progress.”

  “Me either.” I nodded, giving her a warm smile, impressed with myself that I managed to keep my outward cool. I exhaled my relief, feeling like I’d just run a mile.

  “Good.”

  “Good.”

  And it was. It was good. We were figuring this out, every call and interaction forging a new path, and I was immeasurably thankful she was just as invested as I was in making this work.

  George eventually cleared his throat and said in a very George-esque way, “So, back to the agenda.”

  I was granted a reprieve to calm down. We restarted at the top of the agenda and covered various and sundry topics like where they were vacationing for summer recess, whether I would be home for spring break, and thank-you cards I needed to write to family members for Christmas gifts. My aunt Donna on my dad’s side always became a bit twitchy if I didn’t write a thank-you note.

  Then we arrived at agenda topic number four. I tried not to grimace.

  “Have you made a decision about performing in May? At the fundraiser and the benefit concert?” George prompted, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses typically rested.

  “No.” I shook my head. “How soon do you need to know?”

  I hadn’t decided. On one hand I was warming to the idea of pushing myself out of my comfort zone. The benefit for Children’s Charities in particular sounded like it would be awesome. I liked that there would be kids there and I could compose something specifically for them.

  On the other hand…

  My mother leaned forward again, her tone was infinitely patient. “I wish you would do it. I think you’d really enjoy yourself.”

  I glanced at my dad and he spoke up as well. “Katy, you’re amazing. It’s important to share your talents. I agree with your mom.”

  “I still need some time.” I frowned at them both.

  My mother sighed, again frustrated. “You know we just want what’s best for you. And I can’t believe that you’re happy serving coffee and playing weddings every weekend in that little band.”

  I felt my defenses raise. “Believe it. I’m happy. I’m happier than I’ve ever been. I don’t need to be important—”

  “You are important—”

  “You know what I mean. I don’t need to be notable. I love playing and composing music. And that’s enough for me.”

  My dad placed his hand on my mother’s arm and shook his head, then turned his attention back to me. “Just think about it. It’s hard as your parents to see you with this remarkable talent, capable of great things, and not sharing it with the world or getting the attention you deserve.”

  I gave my father a hard look. When I flew home for Thanksgiving I’d played him some of my compositions. He couldn’t have been more proud and excited. I figured that was only because he was my dad, he’d always been equivalent levels of proud no matter what I did—whether it be a finger painting or defrosting chicken.

  “Just think about it,” George chimed in. I was surprised to see him also giving me a pleading look.

  “I said I would. I’m thinking about it. I just need some more time.”

  “We need to know by March first.” George refocused his attention back to his notes and I was relieved the conversation moved on to the next topic.

  The rest of the call was uneventful and we signed off with sincere I love yous and I’ll see you next week. Although my father threw in at the very end, “I might have a business trip at the end of February in New England. Maybe I can take you and Martin out to dinner? Meet this boy who has captured your heart?”

  I only managed to stutter and nod before the screen went blank. My dad was a sneak. Of course he tossed it out there like an afterthought. As far as he was concerned the issue was settled. He would meet Martin at the end of February.

  I stared at my monitor and realized I was grinning. I was excited about the prospect. I couldn’t wait for them to meet. I also wanted Martin and my mother to get along. They’d started out on the wrong foot and I knew—once they grew accustomed to each other—they’d probably hit it off.

  The sound of Martin clearing his throat pulled me out of my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder and found him standing in the doorway to the bedroom—our bedroom—a small smile lighting his face.

  “Your dad is coming at the end of the month?” he asked, looking pleased peppered with petrified.

  I jumped up from my place at the desk, but then meandered to him, liking how he looked after a day in his corner office—tie gone, jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  “How long were you listening at the door?” I asked as I ogled.

  Martin reached for me, wrapped his arm around my waist, his grin growing as he admitted, “Long enough to hear you call me your boyfriend and tell your parents we’re living together.”

  “Oh, so you’ve been prowling like a creepy lurker the whole time?”

  “Yes…” He paused, and his face grew surprisingly solemn. “You should know, you’re completely safe. My father isn’t going to come after me. He’s cut me off, but he won’t do anything else.”

  “Why not? You’ve told me at least a dozen times how wicked he is. What would keep him from seeking revenge?”

  “Because I had ways to collect information while I lived in his house. Bribing senators and corporate corruption aren’t the worst of his sins.”

  My eyes widened as they moved between his. “Do I want to know?”

  “No.”

  “So…you’re blackmailing him?”

  “Not actively. Let’s just say he has incentive to leave us alone.”

  I tried not to smile. I tried and failed. “And you’re not going to use this incentive for revenge?”

  “Nope.”

  I narrowed my eyes on him and gave into the urge to say, “I’m really proud of you.”

  Martin grinned at me and stood a little taller, like I’d pinned a badge of awesome on his chest. We shared a stare of mutual admiration.

  Then his gaze softened and sobered, and he said, “Thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “For choosing me. With your parents just now, thank you for choosing us.”

  My heart did a funny little dance in my chest—both happy and sad—and I lifted my hands to his face. His was a man’s face, his jaw stubbly and rough. I loved my man’s face. I lifted to my tiptoes and gave him a soft kiss, and he tasted like coffee and mint gum.

  Then I gently rubbed my nose against his before I leaned away. “You know I love you. But it was also the right thing to do. ”

  He smiled again. “And Kaitlyn Parker always does the right thing.”

  “Not always. For example, I’ve fiendishly hidden all of your clothes.”

  He lifted a single eyebrow in obvious delighted surprise. “Have you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not that big of an apartment, I’m sure I could find them.”

  “Who said they’re in this apartment?” I gave him a meaningful look.

  The truth was, they were in the apartment. I’d hidden his boxes of clothes in the front closet.

  His smile turned into a devilish grin, baring his wonderfully sharp teeth. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  His hands smoothed down my back, into my cotton yoga pants and underwear, gripping my bare bottom. “Should I hide your clothes?”

  “No need. I plan to be naked for the next twelve hours.”

  He groaned. His mouth crashed down on mine, and he walked me backward toward the bathroom, his hands now turning greedy and searching. How we made it successfully into the tiled room was a miracle, especially since we were doing
the clumsy de-panting dance on the way. Martin whipped off my top and found I was braless. This elicited a pleased growl as he pressed me against the sink. Meanwhile I worked on the buttons of his shirt.

  Stupid business shirt with all the buttons.

  We were in a frenzy, our hands covetous as our mouths mated. He slipped his fingers into the front of my underwear, teasing me but not touching where I needed.

  I tilted my hips forward, trying to force him to ease my suffering.

  “Touch me, Martin. Please.”

  His head bent and he captured my breast with his mouth, drawing tight circles around the center with his tongue.

  I felt his hot breath against the wet spot he’d created when he answered, “First the shower. Then the kitchen table. Maybe the desk.”

  “What…what are you talking about?” I arched against him, my hands sliding down to his boxer briefs and stroking him through the fabric.

  “All the places we’re going to make love tonight.”

  A surprised laugh tumbled from my lips followed by a rough intake of breath as he parted me with his skilled fingers, rubbing my center.

  “I thought…” I had to moan before I could continue; he was making me brainless. “I thought you wanted to start with our mattress.”

  “We’ve done that, thanks to your trickery,” he responded darkly, referencing the three times I’d seduced him over the past month. Martin withdrew his hand just long enough to discard his shorts and reach into the shower to start the hot water. “I want to make memories on all the other surfaces.”

  I smiled, through my haze of love and lust for my Martin, and teased, “Starting with the shower?”

  His eyes cut to mine as steam rolled out of the stall, his hands back on my body, peeling away my underwear. His expression and his voice were deadly serious as he said, “Yes. Because I have been thinking about it since Christmas and I need to take you against the wall while your perfect tits and perfect body are slippery and wet, sliding against me.”

  A flush of feral desire pooled in my belly, making my body feel tender and heavy. His words did that to me; his dirty talk made me feel wanton and bold.

  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 the 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.”