Heat

Martin’s face did a funny thing then; he looked like a wounded animal. His eyes flashed, grew at once guarded and distant. His sudden reaction and the gathering ferocity in his stare set my heart hammering. I’d obviously touched on a nerve, because he now looked slightly dangerous.

I tried to think of something to say that could diffuse this change in his demeanor, but before I could, he asked, “What about you?” The tone of his voice told me he was very close to losing his temper.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

“Uh, what about me?”

“What about your calluses?”

I turned my face to the side, administering him a sideways look. “My calluses?”

“Yes. You’re not exactly a very feeling person.” He said these words quite callously, the wall between us now feeling like an actual, tangible thing.

“I’m not…? What?” The hairs on the back of my neck rose, but I didn’t know if it was because his question was confusing or because my subconscious was warning me that I was venturing near a trap. “I’m a feeling person. I care about people.”

“I’m not talking about empathy for other people. I’m talking about you…feeling.” His eyes darted over me and when he spoke next it was as though he were speaking to himself. “You’re controlled, childish, and repressed.”

My mouth dropped open; I pointed to myself with my thumbs and my voice was dripping with incredulity. “Repressed? Childish?”

“Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas?”

“So? What’s wrong with Sponge Bob? He’s funny.”

“Don’t you want to feel sexual?”

Now my scalp was itching, my throat was tight, and I could hear the blood rushing between my ears. I had to take a calming breath before I could speak because I was angry, and I didn’t know why I was angry.

“Of course.”

He shook his head slowly, surveying me. “I don’t think so.”

“Why? Because I wasn’t ready for you to…to…put your mouth on my private area?”

“See. You can’t even say it.”

“I can say it.” I crossed my arms over my chest, the hot tub suddenly felt too hot.

“Then say it, Kaitlyn.” He grinned, and it looked wolfish. “Say the words. Say fuck me with your tongue.”

I gathered a deep breath, glared at him and his predatory smile, and prepared myself to say the words. Then I held my breath. Then I gritted my teeth. Then I narrowed my eyes.

“You can’t say it,” he whispered, looking triumphant and sad—not for himself, but for me. I comprehended that he felt sorry for me.

I released the breath and looked away, my blush now crimson. My anger was multiplied by mortification, my stomach a storm of dismay and disappointment. Why couldn’t I say it? What the hell was wrong with me? I squeezed my eyes shut then covered my face with my hands. I felt like crying, it was so ridiculous.

Seconds passed in relative silence while I tried to get myself under control. But it wasn’t working. I was going to cry.

Abruptly Martin said, “I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

“Do what?” I snapped.

“You always cover your face when we talk.”

I sensed rather than heard him draw closer. When he put his hands on my wrists, I jumped, startled even though I knew he’d crossed the barrier between us.

“Let me see you.” His grip tightened—firm but not hurtful—and pulled my hands away.

I was crying. Not big messy sobs, because that’s not how I cried. When I cried it was silent and usually into my pillow. And I didn’t cry often. The last time I’d cried was when my cat died in my junior year of high school. My mother had added an item to our weekly agenda: New cat for Kaitlyn - Pros/Cons.

“Why are you like this?” Martin’s voice startled me because it was so…gentle.

I lifted my watery eyes to his and had to bite my bottom lip to keep my chin from wobbling; his gaze matched his gentle tone. He looked a little concerned and a lot curious.

“What’s so scary about being seen?”

I cleared my throat and glanced over his shoulder. “Just because I’m not ready to take the next step in the physical intimacy pyramid doesn’t mean I’m afraid to be seen.”

“I agree, it doesn’t. But you are terrified, Kaitlyn. Everything is logical discussions with you, everything is so reasonable and analytical. Don’t you feel passionate about anything?”

“Of course.”

“What?”

“…I love my parents.” I said this lamely, because it was lame. Not that loving one’s parents is lame, but rather the only thing I could come up with that at all resembled passion was loving my parents.

“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

I slid my teeth to the side, not sure what to say.

Martin turned, bringing me with him, and settled into a seat. He pulled me, his hands moving on my body to position me as he liked, until I was facing him, my legs straddling his hips. And I let him because I felt lost. This conversation was confusing.

Passion…was a confusing concept to me, which was—in and of itself—a weird thing to be confused about. I chided myself, feeling abruptly clumsy and stupid, and yes, childish. How could passion be so foreign? I’d read enough books about it. I knew, theoretically, what it involved. I felt a degree of passion for books and geek culture, shortbread cookies, and my favorite bands. As well, I’d felt something close to passionate about music once upon a time.

My mother and I had talked through why this passion for music was both good and bad.

It was good to have an appreciation for the arts. As a whole, the arts enriched society.

But it was bad to be passionate, focus energy on something, when I had talents in other areas of greater need, talents that were scarcer and in greater need by society.

She explained that the world didn’t need more musicians. But it did need more female—especially female—scientists, mathematicians, politicians, physicians, and leaders. I was good at my music, but being just good would likely never yield the results necessary to support myself as a musician. Nor would I have a directly positive and lasting benefit to society as just a good musician. It was much better to focus on math and science, areas where I was already gifted, areas where I could make a tangible difference.

I was lost in these thoughts, my tears having ebbed, when I became aware that Martin was staring at me, watching me. I felt his gaze scan my form. He’d paused, as though considering me, then brushed his knuckles over the swell of my breast.

My breath hitched and my gaze jumped to his.

“There,” he said, his eyes searching mine as he touched me again, this time also tugging the strap of my top down and baring my breast. His other hand trailed along the column of my throat to my shoulder then collarbone, tickling me. I shivered and sighed. “There it is. You have it, and when I touch you like this, it’s there.”

I could only look at him in response. I didn’t want to move even though we were breaking the No-Touch Tuesday rule. I was caught in rule-versus-want purgatory. Ultimately, I decided not to move, and No-Touch Tuesday could go help itself to jumping off a cliff.

His hands slid down my sides, stomach, and hips. Under the water, he used the backs of his fingers on the inside of my thighs and I tensed, paying no heed to my sore muscles.

“I understand that you’re not ready for me to fuck your sweet pussy with my tongue. I do. I understand.” His whispered words sent a lightning strike of white-hot longing through me. I felt like I might break in half.

He continued, all the while his fingers stroked back and forth, each time coming closer to my center. “If you help me soften my calluses, I’ll help you soften yours.”

I swallowed, feeling dazed. “How?”

“Be passionate.”

I shook my head, a dizzy denial spilling from my lips. “I’m just not built that way.”

“From where I’m sitting, you are.” Martin growled this then leaned forward to steal a quick kiss, his mouth leaving a trail from my jaw to my neck, whispering after biting my ear, “You are. You’ve just…turned it off, buried it for some reason.”

“Why do you even care?”

“Because, Kaitlyn, and I don’t know how many times you’re going to make me say this, I care about you, I want you.”

“But why—”

“Why do people care about each other? What is attraction? I can’t give you a list of reasons why I react to you like I do. This isn’t an equation to balance. You’re the one I’m always thinking about. It’s you. It just is.”

“You need to rethink that list, because what if I’m just…asexual?” I felt unsteady and sensitized; the hot, balmy, bubbly water licking my bare breasts and back. As such my words were breathless, labored.

He leaned back, captured and held my gaze before speaking. “This isn’t about sex, Parker. But for the record, you’re sexy as fuck. I’m talking about passion. Wanting something. Loving it. I’m passionate about rowing, and I’m passionate about knowing how everything works and telling other people what to do.” He smirked at this last thought, then his eyes grew staid and thoughtful. Martin’s knuckles skimmed up my inner thigh and finally, finally touched my center. He rubbed the back of his middle finger up and down the apex between my spread legs, whispering, “And I’m passionate about you.”