Heat

But then suddenly, over the course of seven days, my entire world shifted. Just seven days that could have been like any other seven days.

This really was relationship boot camp. Through this fight—or whatever it was we were in—I’d learned more about Martin, understood him better than I had during the first six days of the trip combined.

1. He was damaged in ways I might never understand.

2. He was used to getting what he wanted—whether that be information or acquiescence—through manipulation.

3. He was in love with me, or at least he thought he was.

4. He was willing to learn from his mistakes.

5. He didn’t want to repeat his mistakes.

6. He feared rejection.

The last revelation made him very, very normal. The first two, however, were sources of extreme concern. Numbers four and five gave me hope.

But the third made me feel weak every time I remembered him saying the words. It made my heart swell, it made it hard to breathe, it made the Bunsen burner in my pants go on alert level one million, and it made me willing to forgive him for almost anything.

That was the truth of it. I wanted to forgive him. I wanted to trust him again. I did trust him before the fight, because he’d earned my trust with sincerity and honesty. I also wanted him to trust me enough to risk his heart without trying to tear mine out in the process.

“Hey.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Martin was in the doorway to the kitchen, holding two glasses, watching me. I took both from him with a tight smile, and turned back to the sink. I washed them, rinsed them, set them on the towel to dry.

Then he said, “I’m sorry.”

I nodded, giving him my profile and another tight smile. “I know.”

He moved into the small kitchen and stood behind me. I felt his warmth at my back and braced for his touch, my body tensing in anticipation.

But then music started playing from what could only have been a cell phone speaker. The sound quality was not good, but not terrible. I recognized the song within the first ten notes.

“Stevie Wonder?” I asked, turning completely around and glancing at the cell phone Martin held in his hand.

He nodded then reached around to place it on the towel next to the two glasses I’d just finished washing. “I thought you might like some music.”

“Overjoyed.” I said the name of the song, and I’m afraid I was looking at Martin like he had three heads—all still devastatingly handsome, but three nevertheless. “You like Stevie Wonder?”

He nodded, not touching me with anything other than his penetrating gaze. “Yeah. He’s one of my favorites. I like to rock out to Sir Duke or Superstition when I run.”

“You like Stevie Wonder,” I repeated, this time as a statement, because it was so odd. Then I laughed my astonishment and covered my huge grin with my hand. “This might be one of my most favorite things about you, Martin Sandeke.”

His lips twisted to the side with a sardonic smile, his eyelids lowering. He reached for my hand, revealing my grin, and threaded his fingers through mine. “Don’t cover your mouth, it’s one of my most favorite things about you.”

Butterflies and dragonflies held conference in my stomach then fluttered to the four corners of my extremities. Everything felt dreamlike, hazy—likely the effect of exploiting Stevie Wonder as a soundtrack to this conversation—and I found myself leaning toward him, lifting my chin.

He brushed his lips against mine, then tasted me with his tongue. It wasn’t enough, yet he didn’t deepen the kiss.

Instead he whispered, “I love you, Kaitlyn.”

He leaned away, his eyes burning into mine, like he wanted to make sure I’d heard him and that I understood.

He released my hand.

Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving me with Stevie Wonder telling me how he’d built his castle of love, just for two, though I never knew I was the reason.

***

I couldn’t sleep.

Where last night sleeping with Martin had been wonderful and filled with conversations about everything, tonight it was weird. We weren’t touching. Instead we were relegated to the two sides of the bed, lying on our sides away from each other.

I was pretty sure he wasn’t asleep either.

This suspicion was confirmed when I heard him sigh, then mutter, “Fuck this shit,” under his breath, then shift, reach for my body, and pull me across the great divide into his arms and against his chest.

I smirked into the darkness.

“I can’t sleep with you and not touch you,” he said by way of gruff, unapologetic explanation. “So if you don’t want me to touch you then I can go sleep on the couch.”

“No.” I snuggled backward, into his embrace. “No, stay. It seems I can’t sleep either unless you’re touching me.”

He gave me a rumbly grunt of acknowledgement, then we settled into the stillness and the gentle rocking of the boat. Feeling cozy and warm and safe, I was approximately a half minute from drifting off to dreamland when Martin whispered against my neck.

“Please, Kaitlyn… Don’t punish me.”

I stiffened, the words confusing and alarming. I turned in his arms because I had a fierce urge to see his face.

I searched his eyes in the dim light before I spoke, and found him both weary and guarded.

“Martin, I’ve told you before. I don’t punish people. You can expect honesty from me.”

He lifted his hand and brushed his knuckles against the side of my cheek, then pushed several strands of my hair over my shoulder, following the progress with his eyes. “You haven’t forgiven me yet.”

“No. I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m punishing you. I promise, I’m actively working to forgive you. I just need time.”

He nodded his understanding, his gaze on my shoulder. He was touching me there, his thumb tracing a circle on my skin.

Then he returned his eyes to mine, ensnared them. His gaze and voice were laced with challenge as he asked, “Will you let me…can I make you feel good?”

The butterfly and dragonfly conference was back in my stomach. My heart was banging like a gavel, calling the sexy meeting to order. I flexed my thighs then pressed them together in automatic response to his request, my lower belly twisting, hot and liquid, my nipples tightening into stiff peaks.

Yes, I wanted to say. God, yes. Please.

I didn’t quite trust myself to speak as my heart lurched painfully toward the vicinity of his heart, so I said nothing. But then I was struck with sudden inspiration.

“No,” I breathed, not really believing I’d turned him down, yet found the wherewithal to add, “but I’d like to touch you.”

His eyes widened and his handsome mouth parted. Everything about him softened and it was clear he hadn’t been expecting my request. Holding my breath, I sat up in the bed and peeled the covers off his chest then pulled them completely away.

I reached for the waistband of his pajamas and he, as though coming back to himself, suddenly gripped my wrists to stop my progress.

“What are you doing?”

“Touching you.”

His jaw was tight, his eyes betraying his confusion.

“Why?”

“Because I like touching you.” I shrugged.

“Kaitlyn,” he growled. He looked like he was in pain. “Don’t tease me.”

I waited for him to really see me, and I hoped he saw my sincerity. I hoped I didn’t have to make verbal promises. I hoped he’d just simply trust me.

Eventually, and with a shaking breath, Martin released my wrists, though he looked fierce, dangerous as he did so. The glint in his eyes again reminded me of a wounded animal. I knew I had him in a vulnerable position and that was a unique prospect for him.

I curled my fingers around the band of his pajamas again, one hand on either side of his hips, and pulled them down his legs. He helped by lifting his hips, though his eyes never left mine.

I tried to make my expression as unconcerned as possible, even though I had no idea what I was about to do. Trying to feign confidence, I moved my eyes to his middle and gazed upon his very long, thick, and remarkably shaped penis. It was an anatomy 101, textbook penis—very normal looking in the best way possible, just longer and thicker.

Therefore, I had no idea why the sight of it got me so excited. It was a penis. There was nothing special about this penis—excepting being longer and thicker than the average representation of penises everywhere—other than the person to which it was attached.

Inexplicably, I wanted to taste it.

I bent forward to do just this when Martin stopped my progress by gripping my shoulders.

“What the hell, Kaitlyn?”

I looked at him then his penis. It jumped. He growled.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no.” He leveraged his grip on my shoulders to pull me back to where I’d been lying on the bed just minutes prior. He climbed on top of me, pinning me down. “You’re not going to do that.”

“What? Why? Do you not like it?”

“Of course I like it! But you’ve never done it.” He was hovering over me, naked, nearly yelling because I wanted to give him my first blow job.

“You think I’ll suck?”

He blinked at me, stunned for a moment, then groaned. His forehead hit my shoulder and it was then I realized the double meaning of my words.