He was quiet for a long time, but I knew—even though I refused to meet his gaze—that he was studying me, examining me like I was something new.

Then he said, “Why do you hide?”

The words startled me so much that my eyes instinctively sought his, and this was a mistake. His gaze—now a lovely blue fire—was taking a survey of my face, as though he were memorizing every detail. It was alarming and my heart quickened.

I tried for a shrug but it likely looked like a poorly executed, convulsive shiver. “Why do you care?”

His gaze met mine then flickered to my lips. “You have fantastic lips.”

I half choked, my eyes widening. “You care because I have fantastic lips?”

“And your eyes. They’re grey. I noticed them first.” His voice was just above a whisper; he sounded as though he was talking to himself.

I cleared my throat, not really sure what to say. But it turned out I didn’t need to say anything, because he continued.

“Early last semester you wore a tank top and your hair was down. You kept pulling it off your neck.” He lifted his hand and brushed the backs of his fingers against my swell of cleavage, skirting the neckline of the dress, a soft caress. “I tried to get your phone number but you wouldn’t give it to me.”

“I give out my number as rarely as possible, it’s one of my life rules,” I said dumbly.

“The red pants, the tight ones that show off your ass. You tortured me, bending over to get supplies out of the cabinet. That isn’t very nice.”

My voice was unaccountably breathless. “The corduroy ones? I only wear those when all my other laundry is dirty.”

“You’re better at chemistry than me, you ace all the tests.”

“I like chemistry, and you don’t study like you should.”

“Haven’t you ever wondered why I come on Fridays?” His fingers curled around my neck and his thumb traced circles along the line of my collarbone. He encouraged my head to tip backward.

“So that we can get a jump start on the weekly assignment?”

He shook his head. “You.”

My eyelashes fluttered. “Me?”

His held me captive with both his heavily lidded gaze and his caressing hands. Martin leaned forward, and he brushed his lips against mine. It wasn’t a kiss. It was more like he was using his lips to feel mine, to enjoy my softness.

“You,” he whispered again.

My fingers gripped the wood on either side of my hips and I successfully fought a whimper. The tightness in my chest eased and twisted, my stomach fluttered, my breath coming shallow and fast.

My brain wasn’t quite working properly because he’d muddled it—with his words, hands, and lips of temptation. Therefore, in a paltry attempt to defend myself from his seduction onslaught, I blurted out one of my greatest fears where he was concerned.

“You’ll make me cry.”

His eyes widened a little, moved between mine. “I wouldn’t.”

“You would. I’ve seen it, I see how you treat girls.”

His hand at my waist tightened. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You’re not…I know you’re not like that. We wouldn’t be that.”

“I don’t trust you.”

He sighed, but not with impatience. “I know.” He nodded. “But you will.”

He dipped his head again, placed a soft kiss on my lips, just a hint of his tongue. It wasn’t enough. My hands lifted on their own and gripped his shirt, staying any retreat he might have planned. I didn’t do this on purpose. In fact, I didn’t know why I did it.

“Martin, I can’t—”

“You can.”

“I’m not—”

“You are.”

“You don’t—”

“I do.” He kissed me again and shifted his weight more completely against me. Martin crowded my space so that he filled every inch of it. Four of my senses were overwhelmed by him—the smell of his cologne, his hot and hard body against mine, the taste of his mouth, the low growl in the back of his throat when our tongues met and mated.

Briefly he drew his mouth from mine, and demanded, “Say you’ll spend the week with me.”

I blinked, started to protest. “Martin, this isn’t—”

He kissed me again, placed my arms around his neck, then his hands moved up my ribs and his palm cupped me through the thin material of my dress. His thumb drew tight circles around the center of my breast.

He growled, “Say it. Spend the week with me.”

I moaned, because…aroused.

He bit my lip, sucked it between his. I moaned again.

“You’re so fucking beautiful, Kaitlyn.” He breathed the words suddenly, like he didn’t mean to say them out loud, but they burst forth unbidden. “I want you to spend the week with me. Say yes.”

He kissed me again, quickly, then trailed wet, hot kisses over my jaw and behind my ear to my shoulder. He bit me—hard—and sucked on my neck in a way that made me squirm and my breath hitch; all the while his large hand massaged my breast and tortured me through the fabric. His other hand had moved to my bottom and pressed my center to his.

“Martin…” was all I could manage, because…really aroused. And, not that I was an expert, but judging by the hard length against my stomach, he was also really aroused.

“Please, say yes,” he breathed into my ear.

I said, “Yes…”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

To be honest, I said it but I didn’t mean it. In that moment, I said yes because he’d asked me to—and he’d used the word please and I didn’t want all the good feelings to stop—not because I had any intention of spending the week with Martin Sandeke, Hercules, jerk to women, and apparently king of seducing naïve and intimacy starved virgins.

Regardless, my words seemed to be enough for Martin because he smiled against my skin and stopped talking. He also moved both of his hands from their shockingly effective ministrations and encircled me in his arms. His mouth moved back to mine.

This time the kiss was slow, less urgent, gentle, and sweet. It felt like a prelude, a beginning. When he lifted his head, I opened my lids to find him gazing down at me, his eyes alight—blue flames.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow,” he said. His voice was different, softer, deeper…content.

“What?” I blinked at him.

“Be ready at eight.”

“Eight?”

“You don’t need to pack much.” He kissed my nose, released me from his arms, threaded his fingers through mine, and tugged me toward the door. “I hope you like private beaches.”

CHAPTER 4

Enthalpies of Reaction

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

I heard Sam shift in her seat causing the leather to creak. “What do you mean nothing? He’s expecting you to go away with him for spring break.”

I shrugged, staring out the window of Martin’s chauffeured car. That’s right. A chauffeured car, for a twenty-year-old college student. If I hadn’t felt so pensive I might’ve looked for the Grey Poupon Dijon mustard.

After my lapse in judgment against the pool table, Martin had navigated Sam and me to the back of the fraternity house while calling his driver on the phone. The man was at the back door by the time we arrived.

Martin pulled me in for a quick kiss—which was completely bizarre, provocative, and off-putting—then unceremoniously loaded us in, telling his driver to take us to our dorm.

Sam pumped me for information as soon as the door shut. I related the facts, which gave me an opportunity to recover a measure of sanity. In hindsight, I realized I’d been acting like a crazy person. Proximity to Martin made me lose my sense. I’d been senseless. Without sense. Not any sense. No sense.

Nonsense.

I spoke to the window rather than be faced with Sam’s anxious expression. “I mean, I’m going to do nothing. I can’t be held responsible for my reactions—what I say or what I do—when faced with a real life Martin Sandeke. He’s the man equivalent of a gun to the head, except without the fear for my life aspect. I’ll write him an email, tell him that he adversely affects my ability to function as a rational being. As such, our discussion this evening and all resultant agreements are null and void. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

I felt like I had stumbled into an alternate reality and was just now finding my way out of the rabbit hole.

Sam snorted. “Um, no. He’s not going to understand. And, I doubt he’ll take no for an answer. He’s kind of a bully that way, or least he has that reputation.”

This statement captured my curiosity; I turned in my seat to face Sam. “Wait, what do you mean? Does he—has he forced himself on—”

“No! God, no. I would never have teased you about getting his number if he forced himself on girls. That’s not what I meant. He wouldn’t need to do that in any case, as he has them lined up around the fraternity house with skirts up to their elbows, willing to bend whichever direction he prefers. I bet that’s why he was hiding upstairs. It must get exhausting at some point…” Sam trailed off and I got the sense she was speaking mostly to herself.