Attraction (Elements of Chemistry #1)(22)
Author: Penny Reid

With plain reluctance, he slipped his hand from my bikini shorts and released my pony tail. At first I thought he was going to set me away again, but he didn’t. He embraced me. His strong arms came around my body and he crushed me to him. Automatically I snuggled closer.

I wasn’t confused. I was nothing other than my body. Blissfully satiated. My mind was completely blank, devoid of thought. I merely felt.

And everything about being in Martin’s arms felt like bliss.

CHAPTER 10

Properties of Solutions

Once again, Sam and I took dinner in my room.

It took me a while to recover from…

MY VERY FIRST ORGASM!!!

That’s how I thought about it in my brain.

MY VERY FIRST ORGASM!!!!!!!!

It was all capital letters, followed by a ridiculous number of exclamation points. In the past I’d tried to bring myself to satisfaction any number of times and always failed, which was why I’d done so much research about the sex act. I thought if I could read enough about the subject I would eventually find the key to…wait for it…

MY VERY FIRST ORGASM!!!!!!!!!!!!

I didn’t expect it to render me speechless, but it did, and for several hours. Luckily and bewilderingly, Martin also seemed to require recovery time. Neither of us spoke afterward, not in the cove, not on the walk back to the golf cart, not on the ride back to the estate.

Although, some barrier between us had been shattered, because he seemed to feel at liberty to kiss me and touch me whenever and however he wanted, and I let him because I quite simply needed the post-orgasm reassurance and touching. It felt necessary and natural and I craved it.

Before wordlessly retying my halter, he lavished my breasts and shoulders with hot, wet kisses—fondling my body like it was his with which to play and explore as he liked. As we left the cove, he pulled me into his arms and kissed me until I was climbing him breathlessly. During the duration of the drive in the golf cart, he placed one possessive hand on my thigh, then caressed my bottom greedily as we walked to the house.

Once inside, he caught my hand and spun me around until we were pressed against each other from knees to chests, and he kissed me again, his hands smoothing down my neck, then shoulders, arms, waist, and hips.

When we finally separated, he wore a deeply satisfied smile and his eyes glowed like they had in the cove.

Then he spoke. “Go clean up. Take this.”

I glanced down at the basket he was holding. It was the picnic we hadn’t eaten. I took it then returned my gaze to his.

“You should eat something,” he said.

I nodded obediently.

His smile grew. “Are you ever going to speak again?”

I blinked at him then shrugged my I don’t know.

Speak? Speak? What was that?

He laughed, pulled me in for another hug, and kissed the top of my head. His eyes were happy as he sent me on my way with a low, “See you at dinner.”

But I didn’t see him at dinner. I ate in my room with Sam because my mind caught up with what had happened while I took my shower. I felt the soreness between my legs and reality crashed over me like a tempestuous waterfall. The world came into sharp focus. I reached for the wall of the shower to steady myself.

His fingers hadn’t been gentle, hence the soreness. And as I reflected on the events in the cove, I recognized that everything about him—his touch, his words, his kisses—had been dictatorial, forceful, and domineering. He may have given me my very first orgasm, but he’d taken something as well.

And he knew it. He’d known it while it was happening.

Adding to my confused state, I saw in the bathroom mirror that he’d left bite marks and hickies on my skin – two on my neck, and one on the underside of my right breast. They looked like evidence. Like they’d been placed there purposefully.

I needed time to marinate in the events, to accept it had happened, to decide what it meant, to figure out why I’d let it happen, and to determine whether it was a good thing or a bad thing.

I didn’t panic. But I did remember that the blood of a thousand virgins had been sacrificed at the altar of his sexual prowess.

A cold lump gathered in my stomach, comprised of confusion and uneasiness, and I dressed in sweatpants and a large T-shirt.

Sam stopped by about an hour later—found me curled on my giant bed staring out the window to the sea. Though I knew she noticed the purple marks on my neck, she seemed to sense I didn’t want to talk, and I was grateful when she suggested we eat dinner then study in my room. I’d brought my class-specific notebooks, to which I had an unhealthy attachment, therefore I was all for getting down to study town.

My notebooks were soothing to me. Just seeing my hand-written notes was like going back in time to the day of the lecture. They gave me confidence. They made me feel like I might actually be capable of acing tests. They were the brain-spinach to my Popeye the sailor man.

As well, I didn’t really want to face Martin’s teammates with hickies, obvious evidence of what we’d done. I wasn’t regretful or embarrassed, but it felt private, sacred to me. I didn’t want to share what had transpired with a room full of near strangers, especially with Ben the leering douche-bucket.

Therefore, Sam and I sat on the balcony and munched on salmon cakes, garden salad, and asparagus, between chapters and class notes of vector calculus and European history. At sunset we went for a walk on the beach. She told me about her day, wherein she swam with Eric then convinced him to play tennis with her.

Of course she kicked his ass.

I didn’t ask her whether she liked him and she didn’t ask me what was going on with Martin. In a lot of ways Sam and I were similar. When real, weighty feelings were involved, we both found vocalizing unformed thoughts difficult. I think we both needed time to figure out our own stuff before talking it through with each other.

During our walk we decided to share my giant bed again, so she went off in search of her PJs, while I grabbed the tray with our dirty dishes and wandered around the house in search of the kitchen. I needed tea, not to mention cookies.

In the kitchen I encountered the chef—a red-cheeked, red-haired, red-nosed woman in her sixties named Irma, and her aide—a similarly red-cheeked, red-haired, red-nosed forty-something woman, Tamra—who I suspected was Irma’s daughter. They gently admonished me for clearing my own dishes then promised to bring me up tea, milk, and cookies. I asked for directions back to my room, and Tamra offered to show me the way.

Upon my request, she was showing me the most direct path, rather than the scenic route, as I suspected I would make several stealthy trips to the kitchen during my stay. I probed her for answers about the house as we walked, and learned it had been acquired by Mr. Sandeke senior—Martin’s father—ten or so years ago. The staff came with the house. I also learned Tamra was divorced and childless, and had moved down to work with her mother some four years prior.

They lived at the house in staff quarters year round and fed the rest of the staff daily—most of whom were also employed year round. However, Mr. Thompson and Mrs. Greenstone were also responsible for several other extensive family properties in England, Italy, Switzerland, Thailand, Japan, New Zealand, and the United States. They traveled with the family and always opened the houses for Martin and his parents wherever they went.

We turned into the long hallway that led to my suite when Tamra stopped—walking and talking—suddenly, then took a step back.

“Oh! Mr. Sandeke.” Tamra turned toward me, gave me a tight smile, then walked off without another word.

I watched her go, a bit perplexed by how suddenly she fled her employer.

When I turned back to my door I understood why. Martin’s eyes were deep blue pools of unhappiness and his jaw was set in a firm, grim line.

“Where have you been?”

My eyebrows ticked upward—because his demanding question made me want to junk punch him—then lowered—because I remembered he now had carnal knowledge of me and I’d not joined him for dinner like we’d agreed.

Also, despite his grumpy tone and face, my body apparently wanted him to give me the rough treatment again, because it melted and hummed under his scowl of dissatisfaction.

I straightened my spine, giving my body a mental slap aimed at sobriety, and lifted my chin.

I was careful to keep my voice nice and steady. “I’ve been cavorting with the servants.”

“Cavorting,” he repeated, his tone flat. But I was pleased to see the granite-like edge to his jaw soften and his eyes lose their harsh glint.

“Yes. Cavorting for cookies. I wandered the halls for a while, got lost, then eventually found the kitchen.” I said this while walking toward him as casually as I was able, then entered my room, leaving the door open behind me in a silent invitation.

He took the invite and closed the door as he followed. I heard him sigh before he demanded, “Why weren’t you at dinner?”

“Sam and I decided to get some studying done. And I was tired.” I crossed to the sitting area by the big window and plopped down in a chair, then gave him a small, friendly smile. “How are the boys? Quite recovered from the perils of traveling via private plane, limo and yacht, and practice this morning?”

Some of the sharpness re-entered his gaze and he crossed his arms over his chest. “You would prefer to fly commercial?”