Attraction

If it was a guy, he might only use words. But sometimes he used fists too. I’d been a witness to this once—Martin beating the crap out of a slightly shorter but also slightly broader jilted boyfriend of one of his one-night stands. At least, that was the rumor that went around after both of them were escorted out of the dining hall by campus police.

Martin was an equal opportunity jerk-face and therefore best avoided outside of the chemistry lab.

No one spoke for a moment; then, I stiffened when I heard Martin ask, “Where’s Parker?”

That was me. I’m Parker.

To be more precise, I’m Kaitlyn Parker, Katy for short; but I doubt Martin knows my first name.

“Parker? Who’s Parker?”

“My lab partner.”

“I thought your lab partner was that girl, the one—”

“She is a girl.”

“Her name is Parker?”

I knew Martin was close now because I heard him sigh; his next words were clipped with impatience. “What did you want again?”

“The party tonight—you’re still coming, right?”

“I already told you I’d be there.”

“Good. Because I’m counting on you to be my wingman.” The mystery speaker’s voice started to fade. I guessed he was leaving, having secured what he came for.

“Yeah, whatever,” was Martin’s offhanded response.

“I’ll see you tonight, bro. You better come, I’m serious.”

Martin didn’t respond. I guessed the unknown male finally exited because, after a silent pause, I heard Martin release a very audible huff. It was heavy, exaggerated, and flavored with exasperation; of note, I’d heard him employ this sigh once before with a girl who followed him into our chemistry lab. I never wanted to be on the receiving end of that sigh—so far so good.

Meanwhile, I was still in the chemistry cabinet and the itch of the century had spread to my shoulders and stomach. I was likely going to go crazy if I didn’t scratch it within the next ten seconds. It felt like I was being repeatedly stung by a legion of fire ants.

During those ten seconds I debated my options.

I could stay in the cabinet, wait for Martin to leave, go quietly insane, then send him an anonymous note about the conversation I’d overheard.

Or, I could burst forth from my hiding place, scratch my itch, look like the doofus I was, then hope he’d forget as I regaled him with details of the conversation I’d overheard.

In the end it didn’t matter, because the cabinet doors were abruptly opened. A whoosh of fresh air followed and I found myself face-to-face with Martin Sandeke.

His eyes were blue and exceptionally beautiful. They reminded me of blue flame. Well, usually they were lovely, at present they were narrowed and sharp, and focused squarely on me. Beginning with my eyes, they moved down then up, ending where they started.

He was truly a magnificent specimen. All broad shoulders and narrow hips, with the thick muscular thighs of a rower. His brown hair was streaked with blond—likely due to all his time on the water and in the sun.

I wasn’t used to this—him looking at me, standing so close—thus, combined with my normal female palpitations, I couldn’t quite draw breath for several seconds.

At length he said, “Parker.”

“Sandeke.”

“What are you doing?”

“Uh…” I released the breath I’d been holding and unthinkingly arched my back, reached behind me to scratch my itch.

Maybe it was the effect of his eyes and unavoidable handsomeness, or maybe it was because I’d seen him rip girls to shreds and was therefore a little afraid of a potential non-chemistry related conversation. Or maybe it was the itch between my shoulder blades, because without thinking, I blurted the truth, “I was hiding in the cabinet.”

His brow furrowed, but his gaze relaxed slightly, his confusion plain. “Why are you hiding in the cabinet?”

I reached over my shoulder, stretching my arm, and tried to reach the itch with my left hand instead of my right. This didn’t work.

“Why does anyone hide in a chemistry cabinet?” I shrugged, mostly because I hoped the movement would help me get to the itch.

He lifted a single eyebrow and grabbed me by my upper arms, pulling and lifting me like I weighed next to nothing. He set me safely on the ground.

Martin’s hands on my arms sent a bolt of girly awareness to the pit of my stomach. It was paired with belated embarrassment at being found as a burst of heat spread from my chest to my neck.

He still gripped my arms when he asked, “Do you hide in the cabinet often?”

“Sometimes,” I said distractedly, my jaw clenched, willing the mortified blush to recede.

“Is this an everyday thing?”

“No. Only on special occasions, like when strange people arrive to plot your demise.” I twisted out of his grip, reached for and failed to find the spot needed to secure relief.

“Plot my demise?” His eyes darted over me again, I could tell he was studying my movements. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to reach an itch between my shoulder blades.” My elbow was in the air now, my hand down the neck of my shirt.

Martin’s eyes widened then blinked. Without a word he stepped forward into my personal space. Before I could comprehend what was happening, he’d backed me into the lab table and I was trapped. Martin was against me, his arms wrapped around my body, his hands slipped under my T-shirt to the center of my back, and then his fingers itched the unreachable space between my shoulder blades.

At first I tensed because… MARTIN SANDEKE’S ARMS ARE AROUND ME. HIS HANDS ARE UNDER MY SHIRT. HIS BODY IS PRESSED AGAINST MINE!

OMG. WTF? BBQ!

But then, my brain’s very understandably stunted fan-girl reaction to his movements was quickly eclipsed by the blissful relief of an inch scratched.

I melted in his arms, my forehead resting against his chest, and I moaned my satisfaction.

“Oh, yes, God. That’s the spot… Please, don’t stop,” I murmured, obviously out of my mind. But it felt so good. So very, very good. Like sinking into a hot bubble bath after walking a mile through a nor’easter.

Martin didn’t stop.

Well…not precisely.

Rather, over the course of a full minute, he ceased using his nails, and instead began caressing and massaging my back with his fingers and hands. I realized too late that his head had dipped to my neck and his lips were against my ear, his hot breath tickling me and sending delightfully dangerous shivers down my spine, and down the backs of my legs to my toes.

“Did I make it all better?” he whispered, then bit—yes, bit!—my neck, like he was tasting me.

Then he bit me again.

I sucked in a breath and my eyes opened—even as my body instinctively arched toward him. Reality burst through the delightful fog of his ministrations like one of those disturbing and jarring windup jack-in-the-box clowns.

After one and a half semesters of virtually nothing but mundane academic interactions, I was in the chemistry lab with Martin Sandeke and his hands were roaming, liberal, and greedy. His face was tucked in my neck. I was trapped against a lab table. Our bodies were intimately connected.

And I’d just moaned.

What the hiccup was going on?

I raised my palms to his chest and made to push him away. This only caused his hands to still, now on the curve of my waist, and his grip to tighten. He plastered our fronts together more completely.

“Um…” I cleared my throat, found my voice unsteady. “Yeah, yeah—all better,” I croaked.

He laughed. Actually, it was more like a lazy chuckle.

One of Martin’s hands slipped up my back and under the strap of my bra, where the itch had been, his fingers splayed wide. The other went to the clip on my head and released the spring. My hair fell like a curtain and I felt him wrap his hand around the thick length.

I pushed him again, tilted my head to the side and away, feeling breathless. “I’m all better now. Thanks for the help. Services no longer needed.” Everywhere he touched sent ripples of awareness and heat to my core.

My attempt at escape was a failure, because, as soon as I pressed against him in earnest, Martin tugged my hair, encouraged me to tilt my chin upward.

Then he kissed me.

And—damn, damn, damn—he was a good kisser.

More precisely, since I had grossly limited experience in the kissing department, he was what I imagined a good kisser would kiss like. The kind girls fantasize about. The guy who just takes what he wants, like he’s hungry and you’re on the menu, but somehow makes it epic for both parties involved.

No preamble, prologue, or preface. Just urgent, fervent, worshipful kisses, one right after the other. I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck, stand on my tiptoes, and try to kiss him back. Because, honestly, the way he held me, the way he growled when our tongues met, the way his mouth moved over mine—he demanded it.

Also, in the recesses of my mind, I realized that this entire situation was completely preposterous. Likely, he was drunk, or tripping on acid, or was playing some kind of joke.

One day I would persuade my grandchildren to gather ’round while I put in my good dentures—the ones with no space between my two front teeth—and I would tell them for the millionth time about how Hercules had once accidentally kissed me in the chemistry lab at my Ivy League University.