Elements of Chemistry: Heat Read online

  “Don’t tease me,” I whispered.

  His eyes widened as they searched mine. I’d surprised him again. Wide eyed, mouth slightly parted, looking at me like I was a sexy alien creature, Martin released my wrists and lay back on the bed.

  I sat up again, pulling my shirt off and arranging myself near his middle. His hands had balled into fists at his sides. I guessed this was a byproduct of trying not to touch me.

  I bent forward and reached for his shaft with one hand, holding his erection still because it was jumping, straining as I came closer. I licked my lips, breathing on him, and he groaned. He sounded so tortured. I felt a desperate spike to ease his suffering so I opened my mouth and slid my lips and tongue over his penis, accepting him into my mouth, suckling him.

  He cursed—a steady stream of panting expletives intermixed with my name.

  I moved up and down, remembering a porn movie I’d watched with Sam last semester while eating seasonally appropriate pumpkin-spiced kettle corn. Sam spent twenty minutes critiquing the girl’s fellatio technique. She’d even paused the video, stood up, walked to the TV, and used my yardstick as a pointer.

  “See here,” she’d said, indicating to the girl holding her own breast, “she should be using that hand to tickle his balls, the inside of his thighs, or the backs of his knees. What’s it going to do on her breast? Nothing. That’s a misuse of resources.”

  I tried to recall the rest of her pointers, and knew that if I tried to bring him in too deep then I would gag. I wasn’t ready for that yet, gagging being something I didn’t enjoy, so I tried to focus on doing what felt good to me, what I enjoyed.

  I was surprised and not surprised to learn that what I enjoyed, he also seemed to enjoy. When I groaned because I liked the salty taste of his pre-cum, he answered with a groan of his own. When I twisted my fingers around his shaft and swirled my tongue around the head of his penis, every muscle in his body tensed and he held his breath.

  It was like having a salty Popsicle that never melted, attached to a lovely, sexy man who derived both pleasure and pain from my experimentation. It made me feel oddly powerful and light-headed. The skin was soft—impossibly soft—and so, so hot.

  And quite abruptly it was over.

  “Kaitlyn stop, stop…fuck, I’m going to come.” He pushed me away, gripping himself.

  My eyes widened at the sight of his big hand gripping his big dick. It was the absolute sexiest thing I’d ever seen. I wiped the back of my hand against my mouth, transfixed.

  “Okay,” I said, “tell me what to do. Should I lay down and you get on top?” Of course I was referring to the logistics of him releasing his semen on my breasts.

  But it was too late. Martin gave himself two strokes and that was it. He spilled on his own stomach, angling himself down, his hand moving back and forth with jerky movements. I watched him as it happened. His body tense, his muscles cut in sharp relief, his face twisted for a very long moment in both agony and sweet relief, almost like he was confused and angry and listening to a choir of angels only he could hear.

  Then he released a shuddering breath, brought his other hand to his face. He pressed the base of his palm against his forehead, like he was trying to keep his brain from exploding.

  I smiled at him, waiting with anticipation for the post-BJ analysis. I found my shirt and wiped my hand dry, then placed it gently on his midsection; nevertheless, he flinched when the soft cotton connected with his still erect penis.

  I cleared my throat, watched him absentmindedly clean himself, his breathing still labored. The pulse point on his neck pounded out a furious rhythm.

  When he didn’t move my smile waned. I was tired of waiting.

  I poked him gently. “Martin…are you asleep?”

  “No.”

  I waited for five seconds, then asked, “How was I? Did I suck?”

  He laughed and it was mostly a good sound, velvety, seductive and satisfied; it wrapped soft tendrils of tenderness around my heart and squeezed, like a hug. It also rolled out the Slip ’n Slide in my pants and put up a sign that said Ready for business time, only Martin need apply within.

  But it was also a smidge melancholy, and this smidge of melancholy made me feel nervous.

  He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, pausing only briefly before standing and walking to the bathroom. I watched him toss my shirt to the corner and leave, the sound of his laugh still vibrating in my ears and heart.

  The water switched on and off. Martin returned almost immediately and reached for his discarded pajamas.

  I considered him, then asked, “So, seriously, how did I do? Any pointers for next time?”

  His movements faltered at this last question, then he finished pulling on his pants and said, “There won’t be a next time.”

  His words were confusing and sad. He also looked a little sad.

  “Why not?”

  He ground his teeth and swallowed before answering, “I’m not doing this.”

  His words broke my heart, he sounded so raw.

  “What?”

  “This.” He lifted his chin toward me.

  “You have to be more specific.”

  “I’m crazy about you—”

  “I’m crazy about you, too.” I moved to stand, but his next words gave me pause.

  “Stop!” He sliced his hand through the air, his voice harsh. He appeared to be struggling. “You know what I mean, Kaitlyn. I’m in love with you, and you’re not…and I don’t know why you did what you just did, but this is…this is so fucked up.”

  Martin pushed his fingers through his hair and turned away from me.

  My heart took a kamikaze leap in his direction. “Martin—”

  “No.” He shook his head. I saw his eyes were closed, like he was trying to block me out, and I understood why he hated it when I closed my eyes or covered my face.

  He continued, and I was relieved to see he did so with open eyes. “I don’t want to be a pity project. And I don’t want to push you into doing things you obviously aren’t ready for.”

  “What makes you think I’m not ready?”

  He faced me and gestured furiously to the bed. “Because you shouldn’t be giving blow jobs to guys you aren’t in love with. That’s not who you are.”

  “What if I am that girl?”

  “You’re not! This, what we’ve been doing, every time I touch you, it means something to you more than just getting off. I can see it and I don’t want that to change. I need it to mean something to you! I can’t…I’m not doing this anymore.”

  “But what if I am in love with you?” I didn’t think about the words before I said them. For better or worse, I just said what I felt at that moment.

  He stiffened, winced.

  “Don’t...” I saw his eyes narrow, flash in the low cabin light. “Don’t say it unless you mean it.”

  I stood from the bed and walked to him, driven by the momentum of our week together, our beautiful week. I felt that everything we’d done, all of our discussions and fighting and joking and challenging each other had led to right now.

  My legs were unsteady, but I felt the crazy, nonsensical rightness of this moment in each of my nerve endings. I took his hand in mine and placed his palm on my left breast. My heart was beating sure and steady, but deep and hard—like my blood was viscous and my heart was working with effort. Then I covered his heart with my hand.

  “I’m in love with you, Martin. And I’m saying it because I mean it,” I whispered.

  His gaze darted between mine and he blinked with hesitation, like I might disappear if he closed his eyes. Suddenly I was crushed to him, encircled in his strong arms, his mouth on mine, and he was walking me backward with stumbling steps to the bed.

  “I want you,” he said between kisses, my back hitting the mattress as he rose above me.

  “I want you too,” I said.

  “God, I love you. I love you so much.” He trailed a licking, biting, sucking path to the va
lley between my breasts, then back to my neck, frantic movements that told me he was overcome, wanting all of me at once. I was all waves and spikes of sensation, longing, and wound, taut desire.

  “Say it again,” he demanded.

  “I love you,” I breathed. And then again, this time for myself, because I felt it, “I love you.”

  He growled harshly, his hands tightening on my body in response.

  “Please,” he said, biting my neck, hot breath making me shiver, his hand at my breast, kneading. “Please, I need to be inside you.”

  I tilted my head back, offering him more of my neck. “I thought you didn’t beg.”

  His hand skimmed from my breast to the waist of my shorts, sending a shock of goosebumps in its wake. His fingers pushed into my panties and between my legs, parting me, rubbing a tight circle over my clitoris, and making me cry out.

  “I’m not begging,” he said, entering me with his fingers. “I’m asking nicely.”

  I laughed, but then abruptly sucked in a sharp breath as Martin removed his fingers, grabbed my shorts, and pulled both my pajamas and my underwear down my legs. He took advantage of the moment to also shed his pants then reached over to the nightstand. When he returned I noticed a few things at once.

  He was straddling me, his penis fully erect, entirely recovered, and jutting out from between his legs, not quite resting on my belly. The sliver of moonlight filtered through the underwater portholes, casting his beautiful body in blue-ish white relief. I reached for his sides, gripped him just above his narrow hips, loving the smooth texture of his skin over the hard planes of his muscles.

  Glaring down at me, he brought a foil packet to his teeth and ripped it. My eyes widened at the sight because…sex.

  We were going to have sex.

  I was going to have sex.

  In about two minutes or less I was no longer going to be a virgin.

  Holy crap.

  I wasn’t sure what I thought was going to happen when I told him I loved him, and I wouldn’t take it back because it was true, but immediate post I love you sex hadn’t even entered my mind. According to Martin, one minute I wasn’t ready to administer blow jobs, the next minute I was ready to lose my virginity.

  “Whoa! Wait, wait a minute!” I held my hands up between us.

  Martin didn’t exactly wait, nor did he exactly move forward with the pending deflowering. Rather, his hands stilled right before he rolled the condom over his dick. Then he grabbed my wrists, held them down on the bed at my sides, and loved my breasts with his hot mouth and tongue and teeth.

  “Tell me what you want,” he said between inhibition-demolishing kisses, suckles, and bites. “Do you want me inside you?”

  “Ah,” I breathed as he released one of my wrists and brought his middle finger to my mouth; he dipped it inside. Instinctively I sucked on it, swirling it with my tongue. Then he trailed the wet tip from my chin, between my breasts, over my abdomen, and finally, finally parted my thighs and entered me. His middle finger stroked up and down, circling my center yet never quite touching where I needed.

  “Because I want you, I want you so many ways.” He bit the underside of my breast, making me jump. “Do you want me?”

  I was going to say yes, but what came out instead was a breathy, “I’m on birth control.”

  He stilled. Groaned. His forehead dropped then pressed against my ribs.

  “Fuck me,” he said. Then I sensed him throw the condom to the floor. Sliding up my body to cup my cheek, his voice soft and serious as his eyes searched mine, “I’m clean, I promise. I would never take a chance with you.”

  I nodded and swallowed. I trusted him. I loved him. His body was heavy over mine and I felt less in control than I’d ever felt in my entire life. He must’ve read the fear in my face because he gave me a soft kiss then nuzzled my ear.

  “You want me to eat your sweet pussy first? I’m going to taste you and make you come with my mouth. If you want more of me inside you, then you’ll have to ask nicely.”

  My breathing was coming fast, pants of trepidation and anticipation. I had the fleeting thought that it hardly felt fair, leaving the entire decision to me when I wasn’t the one who was experienced, when I could never be fully informed of what losing my virginity would feel like until after it happened.

  He nipped my bottom lip then moved to explore his way down my body, but I caught his arms before he could go far.

  His eyes came back to me and I knew mine were wide with alarm. “Wait…how bad is it going to hurt? On a scale from one to ten?”

  He gave me a cherishing smirk and smoothed my hair away from my face, his eyes sobering, losing a bit of their haze of desire. “It doesn’t feel great, Parker. There’s a lot of bullshit out there. I’ve never heard of a girl getting off her first time.”

  “But you said you had, and I quote, ‘fucked plenty of virgins…’ end quote. None of them have ever, you know, orgasmed? During their first time?”

  Martin cleared his throat and glanced away, exhaling a little laugh. “You want to talk about other girls right now?”

  “Yes and no. I don’t need to know their names or what color their nail polish was or whether you loved any of them, but I’d like to hear at least some empirical data so I can make an informed decision.”

  “I didn’t love them,” he said suddenly. Frowning, he added, “But no, none of them orgasmed the first time.”

  “And other confounding variables?”

  His frown softened. “Such as?”

  “Were you wearing a condom?”

  “Always.”

  “And did they love you?”

  He hesitated. I could see he was thinking, and then answered with impressive honesty, “Yes. I think one of them did.”

  I bit my lip, my eyes blinking furiously. For some reason that thought made me feel numb.

  He studied me, his fingers absentmindedly playing between my legs, like he couldn’t help himself. I was alternating between aroused, very aroused, very scared, very concerned, and—finally—very aroused.

  Then, on the vein of continuing his impressive honesty, he added, “I’ve never fucked anyone without using a condom. I’ve never thought about anything but protecting myself and getting off, and how good it feels while it’s happening. It feels better if the girl is really into it, but it wasn’t required. I’ve never…made love to anyone, and I’ve never been concerned about the girl’s enjoyment more than mine. But, I swear to God, Kaitlyn,” he licked his lips, his eyes darting between mine, “I want to make this amazing for you. I want you every day for the rest of my life. I don’t want to hurt you, but I do want your body—just like I want your heart and your mind—and I do want to feel you lose control while I’m inside you.”

  I sighed, breathing out some of my fear and inhaling courage. I nodded, pressing my lips together. He kissed me, pressed the tip of his middle finger against my center, then whispered, “I’ll make this so good for you, the next time you’ll get on your knees and beg me for it.”

  I moaned, arching my back, which made him chuckle and place a wet kiss on my right breast.

  “So beautiful,” he said, trailing more slippery kisses against my skin, sending coiling heat to my core. “So fucking perfect.” He bit my hip. It hurt, but it also felt wonderful.

  He spread my legs wide, placing his large hands on the inside of my thighs and holding me open. He breathed on my center then licked me—hot and soft and slippery. He tongued my opening and slid the tips of his fingers along the inside of my thighs, tickling me and sending a new wave of shivering goosebumps racing over my skin.

  He proceeded to tease me, his touches, lapping, licking, and stroking never enough to push me over the edge, but more than enough to drive me crazy.

  I felt empty and needy.

  So I reached for him, threaded my fingers through his hair to his temples, and said, “Please, please…”

  Martin didn’t ask for clarification.

  He lifted to his
knees, his rock-solid, imposing form rising above me. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His eyes were hooded as they surveyed my open legs, my reaching hands, and my skin. I was bare to him. His right eyebrow quirked, just a little, and his smile was more sexy smirk than grin.

  With measured, lithe movements, he stalked up my body, aligning himself at my entrance. I felt the swollen tip of him nudge me as he hovered above, watching me with avid, almost fascinated interest.

  “Please, Martin,” I moaned, my hands on his hips. My belly and pelvis felt aching and hollow. I angled my hips up, sliding against him.

  I saw him shudder and heard him release a low growl. Then, seemingly out of patience, he lowered himself and kissed me—a soft, yielding, searching kiss—and a split second later, while his mouth was still loving mine, he pushed himself into me with one swift thrust.

  I stiffened, a pinching, harsh, acute pain between my legs, and I whimpered.

  “I love you,” he whispered, his eyes holding my shocked, rounded gaze. He withdrew then pushed deeper.

  I felt myself stretch. It was impossible and uncomfortable and I couldn’t breathe. It hurt.

  But each withdrawal was twice or three times as long in duration as his invasions and I was grateful. The slow, sliding movements brought me back to the pleasure he’d built with his mouth and hands.

  Part of me just wanted it to be over, wanted to push him away, make it stop.

  Yet his eyes, so cherishing and concerned, hopeful and reverent, grounded me. Then he dipped his head to my neck, releasing hot breath just under my ear, biting me and loving away the sting.

  Whispered again, “I love you, Kaitlyn. I love you. You’re perfect, and your body is perfect. I love you.”

  Finally, the inward strokes didn’t hurt as much and, though I still felt uncomfortable, I didn’t feel sharp pain.

  With each careful rocking of his pelvis he placed a soft kiss on my face—my chin, my nose, my cheeks—the feather-light touches making me feel loved and utterly cherished.

  I was nowhere near reaching my peak, but curiosity and some instinctual rhythm roused me from my paralysis and had me lifting my hips to meet his.