Heat (Elements of Chemistry #2)(16)
Author: Penny Reid

He was full on chuckling now, looking at me like I was cute and hilarious. “Really? We should compare notes.”

“How much money are you trying to raise for this little cosmic endeavor? Five? Ten million?” I’d thrown the figures out there because they sounded preposterous.

He shocked me by responding seriously, “Sixty and some change, but I have a way to raise the capital, so we’re golden.”

My mouth fell open and I struggled not to choke on my bewilderment. “Who are you? Why are you even going to college?”

“College is good for making contacts, meeting the right people—smart people who I might be able to employ later— and networking.” He shrugged, like the college experience was one big social networking conference or a giant job interview for all of his classmates in the inevitable Martin Sandeke Empire. He added, “I also like to row and I like to win.”

I couldn’t help but tease him. “Am I one of your right people? Are you planning to employ me later?”

“No.” He grew sincere, introspective, and his tone mimicked his expression. “You were a complete surprise and you might ruin everything.” Then he added as a distracted afterthought, “You might ruin me.”

I felt a little stab of sober hurt just under my heart. “I wouldn’t,” I implored, my fingers flexed into the muscles of his back. “Martin, I would never ruin you.”

“You wouldn’t do it on purpose,” he soothed, looking resigned. “But you could if you wanted to.”

“I won’t want to.”

He merely smiled wryly in response and let me look at him. Then he took advantage of me being distracted by reaching into my shorts and swimsuit and touching my bare skin.

“Let’s go downstairs.”

“Why?”

He bent his head to my jaw and kissed it, then kissed a path to my ear. “I want to do very bad things to this bottom.” He growled, grabbing and massaging me, making my breath hitch and liquid heat race to very nice places…in my pants.

“What kind of things? Give me some details. Maybe a numbered list.” I was teasing him but my voice betrayed me, as it was breathy and uneven.

He lifted his head from where he’d been biting me; his gaze was heated, hooded, and full of sexy promise.

“Let’s get you naked and I’ll show you.”

***

I was naked. He was not.

He’d kept his swim shorts on all day, then changed into boxer briefs and pajama bottoms for bedtime.

I wasn’t comfortable being naked in general. Over the course of my life I was only ever naked right before, during, or after bathing/a shower or changing into a bathing suit; therefore, being naked while alone with Martin specifically, felt like an epic skydive outside of my comfort zone.

I briefly wondered if this made me an odd duck. Did other nineteen-year-old girls—less sexually repressed girls—spend minutes and hours alone with themselves naked? Admiring their knees, becoming acquainted with their elbows, discovering the dots and indents of their backside? Somehow I doubted it, at least not girls from the United States of America.

This was the country where Janet Jackson’s inadvertent boob exposure during the 2004 Super Bowl led many to believe it was a sign of the Apocalypse. Movies frequently displayed death, violence, and gore with a PG-13 rating, but god forbid a nipple be exposed, or an ass crack. Cuss and swear and maim and kill, but the sight of the human body is lascivious, offensive, and shameful.

Really, in the USA, there were only two sure ways one could ever see a human male penis without having sex: porn, and anatomy/physiology 101. Part of me wondered if zoos were so popular as a direct result, giving kids an opportunity to assuage their curiosity with animal anatomy, and therefore labeling the experience as educational.

Presently, I was naked and being spooned. Martin was spooning me. It felt very surreal and far-fetched, just like almost every other moment during this week. It was on the tip of my tongue to yell to no one in particular that I was snuggling with Martin Sandeke, as in: I AM SNUGGLING WITH MARTIN SANDEKE!

But instead I asked, all calm and cool, “So, tell me, do you prefer to be the spoon or the spooned?”

His lips were against my upper back, where my neck met my shoulders, and I felt his mouth curve into the barest smile. “I don’t know, I’ve never done this before.”

“What? Spooned?”

“Yeah.”

I allowed this to sink in. Once it did, I grinned into the dim cabin and said with no small amount of wonder, “Kaitlyn Parker has popped Martin Sandeke’s spooning cherry.”

I felt his smile grow just before he said, “It’s only fair. I hope to pop your forking cherry.”

I sucked in a shocked breath, but then burst out laughing, half-heartedly covering my face. After a moment he joined in, and I felt his chest shake with laughter.

It felt good, talking to him, joking with him. I couldn’t pinpoint when we’d grown to this level of comfort with each other, but it was a bit strange to think I’d let him touch my body with intimacy before I’d felt confident I could tease him about spooning.

We’d spent all day fooling around, then swimming, then eating, then talking, then fooling around some more. He liked me on my stomach, lying on the bed, his fingers between my spread legs, biting my back and sides and neck and bottom.

He also liked me straddling his face while he lay on the bed, his fingers digging into my hips and thighs while he tasted me.

He also liked me straddling his hips while we just made out like hormone-addled teenagers, necking, touching, and petting, learning each other’s sweet spots.

Despite how the day had started, I admitted to myself that it had quickly ascended to one of my favorite days of all time. I felt happy. So happy. Giddy, excited, joyful, thrilled, and carefree in a way I’d never felt before. Just lying with him was exhilarating. We were a team and I felt certain I could rely on him, and I wanted him to rely on me.

“That, sir,” I referred to his forking joke, “was hilarious and well timed. You win today’s Witty Wednesday contest.”

“I didn’t know we were having a contest, and I thought today was Wet-and-Wild Wednesday.”

“A Wednesday can be more than one thing, it doesn’t just have to be wet and wild. It can also be witty, or wistful, or worrisome. That’s the beauty of Wednesdays.”

“What did I win? What’s my prize?”

“Just the knowledge you’ve won, and that you have my respect.”

He squeezed me. “How many people have your respect?”

I thought about this, my lips twisting as my eyes narrowed. “Forty-seven…and a half.”

“Who is the half?”

“It’s not a half, it’s two three-fourths, and they belong to John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon. I three-fourths respect them.”

“You respect historical figures?”

“Yes, after careful vetting.”

“Richard Nixon? Really?”

I nodded. “Yes. He did a lot to normalize our relationship with China. As well he pulled us out of Vietnam. But then…the whole power-hungry arrogance, lying, and being too much of a dweeb to wear makeup on TV stuff brings him down to three-fourths.”

“And JFK? What were his deficiencies?”

“I don’t like how he treated women, especially his wife. He didn’t practice what he preached and that made him slimy. Also, the Bay of Pigs fiasco and groupthink, ugh. Don’t even get me started.”

“Okay, I won’t get you started.” He squeezed me again.

“How about you? How many people do you respect?”

Martin sighed. I felt his exhale against my neck as it sent several of my hairs dancing over my shoulder, tickling me.

“Let’s see,” he stalled.

“Too many to count?”

“Five…no, four.”

“Four? Only four?”

“Yes.”

“Well, who—pray tell—are these pillars of humankind?”

“Unlike you, historical figures don’t have my respect, not actively anyway. If I’ve never met a person I can’t respect them.”

“You sound so serious.”

“It is serious.”

“Now I really want to know.” I shifted my legs and turned my head so I could peer at him over my shoulder.

“You, of course.”

I smiled, but then quickly suppressed it. “Of course.”

He still appeared serious as he continued, “Eric.”

“Your teammate?”

He nodded.

I turned my head back to my pillow, pleased to hear that Martin respected Eric since I was pretty sure Sam really, really liked Eric.

“And my business partner.”

“For the satellite venture capitalist thing in New York?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the fourth?”

“Your mother, Senator Parker.”

I frowned, blinked rapidly several times, my tone betraying my surprise. “My mother? You’ve met my mother?”

I felt him nod as his arms tightened around my torso.

“Martin, when did you meet my mother?”

“Three years ago, in Washington, DC.”

“What…how…when?” Unable to settle on a question, I turned completely around so I could see his face. “Okay, start from the beginning. What happened? How did you meet her?”