Heat

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.

His hand pressed into my hip to still my movements.

“Kaitlyn, don’t do that. If you…fuck, I’m going to…I can’t…”

I spread my legs wider and flexed my inner muscles, enjoying the fiery—resentment? Warning? Desire?—in his eyes. I responded by narrowing my gaze and undulating my hips quicker, forcing him to match my rhythm.

“Stop, Parker, you have to… Oh God…”

Then his thrusts became inelegant and demanding. He became rigid. He grit his teeth and groaned.

And I watched all this, how he completely and totally lost control, with a roaring feminine satisfaction that was an excellent runner-up to an actual orgasm.

His body fell into mine like more than just gravity pulled him downward. He fit his hand between my back and the bed and embraced me, his breathing labored. I didn’t mind the temporary, crushing weight of him or the slickness of his heated body. Being surrounded on every side by Martin was perhaps the best feeling of all time.

He lifted his head, his gaze searching and serious. He slipped one of his hands from beneath me, pushed his fingers through my hair and cupped my cheek.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded, giving myself a moment to be thoughtful about the matter, then said, “Yes. I’m just fine.”

His gaze turned dark. “You’re just fine?”

I nodded and patted him on the back. “You did good, Martin. It was painful. I’m not going to lie. But I’m not at all traumatized.”

He stared at me for a beat, looking equal parts offended and amused. When he spoke, however, his tone was laced with demanding determination.

“We’re not leaving this boat until you have multiple orgasms on my dick.”

I felt my forehead wrinkle as my eyebrows pushed upward. “Multiple? Is that even possible? I’m pretty sure I read that was a myth.”

“Parker…” He dipped his head to my neck, nibbled my earlobe, making me shrug my shoulder reflexively and shiver with delight.

He continued on a whisper, “If multiple orgasms are a myth, then you can call me Hercules.”

CHAPTER 10

Multiple Bonds

The sky was overcast when Martin woke me up with kisses and bites on my shoulders. He insisted we go for a swim right then just in case it started to thunder or rain.

I later found this was also a slick kind of strategy because he jumped into the ocean naked.

I did not.

I dressed in the string bikini, daintily dipped my toes in, and then climbed down the ladder at the back of the boat. Martin eyed me over the gentle waves for about ten seconds while he treaded water. Then he lunged at me, chased me, caught me, easily discarded my bikini, and proceeded to feel me up.

We didn’t make it as far as the bed. Instead, both of us feeling an irrational sense of urgency, we attacked each other in the water, then on the ladder leading to the deck, then on the deck. He pulled me down to his lap, straddling him, as he sat on the cushioned bench at the end of the stern. My breathing and movements were frantic, erratic, and when I came down on him we both cursed.

I’m not going to lie, it still hurt at first. But something about being naked under the sky, sticky and wet with sea water, learning each other, seeing the love and lust in his eyes, lubricated all the right spots. He guided my hips until I found a natural rhythm.

But I was distracted by the soreness between my legs and how my breasts bounced and swayed as I moved, until Martin leaned back on one elbow, his thumb moving to my apex, his eyes devouring me, and growled his appreciation. “This, you, here, now—hell, Kaitlyn. This is it, this is everything.”

I did my best, but I wasn’t proficient in the art of man-riding. I knew I was driving him crazy because he’d closed his eyes, obviously trying to hold off for as long as possible, his brow wrinkled into a severe frown of concentration which I would forever think of as the don’t come don’t come oh God, don’t come face.

I’d been close for a while, but I was frustrated with my body’s lack of accelerative progress. It was starting to feel nice, but I wasn’t going to climax. Therefore I leaned forward and whispered, “Don’t worry about me.”

His eyes flew open and he stared at me with a ferocious kind of challenge. “What the hell does that mean?”

I lifted myself up then came back down, enjoying the sexiness of the act but somehow resigned that this time was going to be another miss.

He must’ve seen something in my eyes he didn’t like, because before I could explain my meaning, he surprised me by standing, picking me up with him, and carrying me to the table.

“Lay down,” he commanded.

I did.

He pulled out, spread my legs wide, knelt on the ground, and proceeded to have me for breakfast. It didn’t take long before I was near spiraling, my lower belly tight with the promise of sweet, torturous relief. My hands gripping the edge of the table.

And I started chanting, “Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

And I came.

But then before I’d quite crested the wave, Martin stood and filled me, his thumb still circling my clitoris mercilessly in rhythm with his thrusts. And I came again—harder, better, faster, stronger—the rhythm of my blood thundering between my ears. The soreness between my legs adding a layer of exquisite pain to our combined pleasure…intensifying it. My mind was lost to everything except the sweet, overwhelming searing sensation.

I think I actually screamed, or yelled, or yodeled. I don’t know what I did, but my throat hurt from the effort afterward. I hoped it wasn’t an unsophisticated squeal.

He came a very short time later, looking overwrought, confused, and spent. Again he fell forward like a force other than gravity brought our bodies together. But this time he held himself up with bent arms and kissed my neck, chest, and shoulders.

My nerve endings felt fried so I let him play with my body, lick my skin, nip my nipples, and tongue my belly button as he slipped from me. His breathing returned to baseline after three or more minutes.

Then he said against my right ribs, “I love you. You’re the most beautiful thing…so perfect.”

I huffed a laugh, my hands reaching for, finding, then playing with the damp hair on his head. “I’m not perfect, but I’m glad you think so.”

He brought himself back over me, so we were face to face, his gaze both curious and irritated. “Why do you do that? Why do you shrug off compliments? You are fucking goddamn gorgeous, Parker. You. Are. And you are a fucking goddamn musical prodigy. The fact you’re not making music every day is criminal.”

I gave him a sideways look and a small smile, wanting to choose my words carefully because he looked like he was considering some method of torture in order to push me into admitting my amazingness.

“I love that you think so, Martin.”

“Kaitlyn—” His tone held more than an edge of warning.

“No, listen.” I framed his face with my hands and lifted my head to rub my nose against his. I left a soft kiss on his lips and said, “I am glad you think I am all those things, and I believe you. But I’m not going to magically think I’m beautiful or perfect or talented just because you do. I have to get there for myself. I have to believe those things for myself—not because I have a boyfriend who values me and thinks I invented airplane neck pillows. If I base my self-worth on someone else’s opinion or view of me, then I will also base my lack of worth on that person’s opinion as well. And that has the potential of tearing me to pieces.”