Heat

I pulled my hand free and draped my arm over him, laying my head on his shoulder, and gave him a squeeze. “Then we don’t have to talk about this.”

He gripped my arm, pressed it to his chest. “It’s depressing, and I don’t want to associate lying in my bed with you with depressing stuff. I want to associate it with hot, sweaty, naked stuff.”

Despite the gravity of our conversation, his comment sent a wave of awareness through my body. I was amazed at how quickly, with just a few words, he was able to get me fired up.

“Well, we’re not doing that today. Today is No-Touch Tuesday.”

“We’re touching now.”

“You know what I mean. We’re going to do fun stuff.”

“I thought you said we weren’t going to touch.”

I smacked his shoulder. “We can do fun stuff that doesn’t involve touching.”

“Can you touch yourself? I don’t mind watching.”

That comment deserved a pinch. I lifted my head, leaned over him, and I pinched the skin of his ribs below his pectoral.

“Ow!” His hands flew to the spot where I’d assaulted him.

“That’s what you get for your sass.”

“Holy crap, Parker! That hurt. Fine. What did you have in mind?” I saw that he was rubbing his skin; his tone and expression were those of a petulant adolescent, though he looked like he was fighting a grin.

“I’m going to teach you how to dance and you’re going to teach me how to row.”

“I thought you didn’t know how to dance?”

“I know how to ballroom dance. I’m going to teach you the tango.”

He lifted an eyebrow; it was an eyebrow of suspicion. “You know how to tango?”

“I do.”

“Hmm.”

“And you’ll teach me how to row.”

“Hmm…I’ll have to touch you to teach you.”

“That kind of touching is fine, it’s instructional touching. It’s not done with carnal intentions.”

“Parker, every time I touch you it’s with carnal intentions.” His voice was flat and his eyebrows arched.

I huffed and was proud of myself that I didn’t roll my eyes or smile. “Well, you’ll have to learn to control yourself for one day.”

“Why are we doing this again? Why is this a good idea?” His eyes lowered to my breasts where they were pressed against his shoulder.

“Because we don’t really know each other.”

“I do know you.”

I ignored this statement because it was nonsense. “We agreed last night that we want this to last, yes? Beyond this week?”

He nodded, distracted, still looking at my boobs.

“Gah…are you listening to me?”

“Yes. You want me to last.”

I pinched him again.

He jumped. His eyes lifted to mine, and he grabbed my hands. “Stop pinching me.”

“Stop being a horndog.”

He tried to hold it together, but in the end he lost his battle with laughter. “You are so easy to tease.”

“Oh? You want me to tease you back? ’Cause I can tease you back.” My voice held a threatening edge, low and laced with threatening intent; it made me proud.

He stopped laughing. His eyes grew wide and sober. “Parker…”

“I think I still have that string bikini somewhere. Maybe I could help out by lathering up and washing the golf carts...”

He sighed—more like a growl—and his eyes shut. He released my wrists and pressed the base of his palms into his eye sockets. “That’s not nice.”

It was the first time I’d used my sexuality for anything…ever. I was so used to relying solely on my brain. Exploiting my femininity was kind of fun. Who knew?

Of course, this thought was immediately followed by guilt. My guilt reminded me that the generations before me—like my mother—had worked tirelessly to free women from the bonds of sexuality as the primary source of female importance.

Women were more than the status of their hymen or their dress size.

Then my sexuality bitch-slapped my guilt. Then my guilt sucker-punched my sexuality. I mentally took a step back, leaving them to fight it out amongst themselves, like a giant squid and a sperm whale in the depths of the ocean.

I shook my head before I spoke, trying to disentangle myself from my dichotomous thoughts. “Then listen to me and stop teasing. If you actually want a relationship with someone you need to know them, and not just physically. No-Touch Tuesday is a good thing. It will give us some no-pressure time to find out more about each other.”

“I know you.” His eyes were still closed and he said this to the room.

“No. You don’t. What do I like on my pizza?”

Martin was silent. I took this as a good sign. But he also looked despondent when his eyes opened and tangled with mine.

Obviously I needed to remind him that No-Touch Tuesday wasn’t going to last forever.

“And then tomorrow…” I trailed my fingers down his chest, stomach, to the waistband of his boxers. He caught my wrist before I could slip my fingers inside.

“And then tomorrow, what?” he growled, his eyes glinting with a dangerous edge.

“And then tomorrow is Wednesday. Maybe we could play chess, or work on our chemistry assignment.”

He shook his head slowly, his voice low and thick. “I don’t think you understand how badly I want you.”

Again, another wave of awareness spread through my body, sending pinpricks of sensation everywhere, but especially to my pants. Reflexively I clenched my thighs together.

“Martin—”

He sat up and bent forward, the movement silencing me, so that I lay back; basically we switched positions and he was hovering over me.

He held my gaze until the last possible second as he leaned forward and whispered, “So many ways…” He kissed my cheek, his hand gliding down my stomach, his fingers pushing into the band of my cotton shorts and teasing my curls, petting them, petting me. I tilted my hips, a visceral reaction to his touch; but I knew in my heart I needed to keep things from escalating.

“It’s No-Touch Tuesday, Martin,” I breathed, reaching for his wrist.

His hand stilled, and his face fell to my neck. “Fine. No-Touch Tuesday. But then tomorrow is going to be Wet-and-Wild Wednesday, and the next day will be Tongue-and-Teeth Thursday, and Friday…” He bit me, his teeth sharp—why were his teeth so sharp?!—then licked the spot. “Well, I think you can guess what’s going to happen on Friday.”

CHAPTER 3

Aqueous Equilibrium Constants

No-Touch Tuesday was a huge success and a huge literal pain in my gluteus maximus.

I’d only been going over the basics of the tango for ten minutes when Eric and Sam caught us in the act. Our twosome became a foursome and this was a good thing, because the tango is not a dance for platonic, getting-to-know-you discussions. I showed Martin the correct hold position and he looked at me like he hated me a little.

Therefore, I paired with Eric, Sam paired with Martin, and at one point, Martin paired with Eric and tried to dip him.

Seeing Martin’s silly side with his friend was a huge revelation. Also revealing was that he couldn’t dance without taking over, even when he didn’t know the steps very well. He could not cede control. He was incapable of allowing anyone else even a short period of leading. But he was also a fast learner and surprisingly graceful, and was soon taking Sam around the room with sure steps.

…typical. He’s good at everything, except maybe being nice.

Rosa announced lunch on the balcony and I was starving. The four of us joined a few of the others and sat on the highest level, overlooking the ocean. Notably, Ben the rapist was absent. As was Herc. Apparently they’d both stayed the night at the party and hadn’t yet returned.

When the rest of the guys heard my plan to learn how to row, it was met with overwhelming excitement and enthusiasm. Though they didn’t know me very well, it appeared rowers are always trying to convert other people into becoming rowers. As such, the group decided to take one of the boats out. Since two people were missing, Sam was drafted to replace Ben.

They also decided to take out a wooden boat—an antique they called Pocock—instead of the sleek carbon fiber Vespoli typically used for practice. Eric explained it would be easier to “set”—i.e. balance—with two new rowers as it was much bigger and didn’t sit so high in the water.

They walked it out from the beach until the water reached their hips. Sam and I were too short to be much help with the boat because they carried it over their heads; therefore we brought out the oars.

Martin instructed me how to “rig” my oar, making sure the oar lock was completely fastened, then took me through the motions of rowing with just my arms—the catch, the sweep, the release, the return—making sure I said the words legs, body, arms; arms, body, legs as I moved. He also stood behind me, his arms around me, as we… *ahem* stroked.

O.o

“Rowing is about physics, specifically torque. It’s about getting the most out of each stroke,” he explained, whispering into my ear. His bare chest was at my back, his legs brushing against mine in the water. He made the act of rowing sound like a dirty, wonderful thing.