***

Dinner wasn’t uncomfortable at all. It wasn’t. Really, it wasn’t.

Sure, Sam gave Martin the I will cut you glower at random intervals, but all in all, our foursome got along quite well. Her periodic awkward stare-downs were actually kind of funny because she’d typically pair them with ominous statements and dubious double entendre, like:

“Are you going to use the mustard, Martin? Or do you not use condom…mints?”

Then she’d lift her eyebrow meaningfully.

Another of my favorites was when we were discussing travel, places we’d like to go. Eric said he wanted to go to Australia and Sam blurted, “How about you Martin? Ever gone Down Under? Or is south of the equator not to your tastes?”

I noticed that Eric had to hide his smile and/or laughter behind his napkin on more than one occasion.

Martin didn’t smile. Instead he’d answer her questions plainly, as though they were just normal questions; but I could see through his poker face that he thought she was equal parts funny and irritating.

After dinner and dishes were done, Martin pulled me away from Sam’s suggestion that we play a game, setting his arm firmly around my waist.

“We’re tired,” he said.

“We are?” I glanced at him beseechingly, then back to where Sam was setting up Risk. Man…I loved board games. Especially games of world domination.

“We are.” Martin narrowed his eyes at me and I wasn’t so oblivious to realize he wanted more alone time.

I sighed my disappointment, then turned back to Sam. “I guess we’re tired.”

Her mouth was pinched and her eyes—appraising and unhappy—were moving between us, like she wanted to say something, but was quite literally biting her tongue.

I felt a small pang of guilt and mouthed, I’m sorry.

She gave me a small smile and shrugged as she packed up the game. “Don’t worry about it. Maybe you can play another time…when Martin isn’t so tired.”

The pang of guilt blossomed into something else, something resembling unease. I didn’t respond. Partly because I wasn’t sure what to say, and partly because Martin was already leading me out of the room. But I finally found my voice when we made it back to our bedroom.

“Are you tired? Because I’m not actually tired. And, something you may not know about me, I really enjoy a wholesome game of vicious world domination every once in a while.”

“I’m not tired.” Martin pulled me into the room, shut the door, pushed me against it, and moved in for a kiss. His hands were already everywhere, like an octopus with opposable thumbs.

I turned my head at the last minute, bracing my hands against his chest. His lips landed awkwardly on my jaw, but he wasn’t deterred by the misfire. Improvising, he kissed a wet path down my neck while his deft palms massaged my breasts through my bra.

“Hey, you.” I tried to keep my tone light and conversational. “Maybe we could, um, slow down a minute and have a discussion regarding your feelings on world domination.”

Martin’s thumb swept over my nipple then he pinched me, hard. It felt good, sending spikes of Martin-juju-arousal-fog to the four corners of my body, but it also felt like a punishment, or retaliation.

“No,” he said.

“No?”

“No.”

The back of my head fell against the door and I huffed, liking everything he was doing, but disliking how single-minded he was being. In attempt to get his attention, I pinched the skin over his ribs.

“Ow!” He flinched a little, then laughed. It was a low, rumbly, sexy sound. Not at all the outcome I was going for. “Do you want to be rough?”

“No.” I pushed that alluring thought away with all my willpower. “I want you to listen to me.”

“And I want to bite you and lick you and fuck you and make you come.”

“Ah, Martin—”

“Kaitlyn, stop talking.” He moved his mouth to my ear and bit me before whispering, “I need to be inside you.”

My body trembled with a little pleasure earthquake as his hands slid to the band of my shorts and down into my underwear, stroking me. I began to melt against him. My objections—and whether I actually had objections—grew muddled and distant. But then as he pushed inside me with two fingers I felt more than a twinge of soreness. I winced in response to the discomfort and I shoved at his chest.

“Wait. Stop, that hurts.”

He stilled immediately, removing his fingers but not withdrawing his hand. Martin lifted his head and stared down at me, his green-blue eyes searching.

“That hurts?”

I nodded, swallowing before rushing to explain. “My pants aren’t used to frequent invasions, or any invasions. It’s been a busy week for my pants. As such, my pants need time to adjust, acclimate. My pants still like you a lot, but I think my pants need a rest.”

He was so close, crowding me against the door. I could’ve counted his eyelashes.

“Your pants?”

I nodded.

“We’re calling your pussy, ‘pants’? That’s what we’re calling it?”

“No. I mean, we can…I guess. But ‘pants’ doesn’t necessarily conjure the most alluring images. I’m open to other names if we have to name it. Why do we have to name it?”

His hand in my much-discussed pants slipped around to my bare bottom, caressing and squeezing. “We don’t have to name it. I just thought you were naming it.”

“No. I’m not naming it.” I shook my head. “I was just saying, or trying to say, that the area in my pants that is required for sexual intercourse is—”

“You mean your pussy.”

“Yes.”

“Then say it. Say, my pussy.”

I scrunched my face at him even as his hands continued to glide over my body and his hips rocked into me, making me feel muddled all over again.

“What? Why?”

“I just want to hear you say the word.” Martin unclasped my bra.

“Why can’t I say vagina?”

“No.”

“Vag?” I tried, half serious.

He made a face then shook his head, pulling my shirt and bra from my body.

“How about my nether region?”

The side of his mouth quirked just before he took a step away to discard his own shirt, his fingers then moving to unbutton his jeans. “No.”

“Dewy petals?” I batted my eyelashes at him.

“Ugh, what the fuck does that even mean?” He stepped out of his jeans, leaving his long, lithe, fine form in nothing but black boxers. He reached for me, and I let him.

“I have a ton of these.” I grinned at his reaction. “I play this game, really it’s a strange coping strategy, where I repeat synonyms for words—”

“I know. I told you, I heard you do it all the time during lab.”

“Oh, that’s right. Well, I know lots of euphemisms for the female anatomy.”

“Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.” Martin turned us, marched me backward until my legs connected with the mattress, then eased us down using one arm wrapped around my middle and a single knee on the bed.

It was an impressive display of upper body strength and core muscles. In other words, it was hot.

“Just one more?”

His hand slid from my collarbone, between my breasts, and down my abdomen; he hitched two fingers into my shorts at my hip and paused.

“Okay, just one more.”

“Meat curtains.”

He frowned in a way that wasn’t a frown, pressing his lips together valiantly before speaking mostly to himself. “This is what I get for falling in love with a girl who hides from me in lab cabinets instead of someone who wants to use me for my money.”

Martin’s eyes were bright with teasing, but they were also hot and focused. I could see his intentions before he licked his lips, his attention moving to my mouth.

So I blurted, “I need my vector calculus folder!”

“What…” He frowned at me, plainly confused, then asked, “Right now?”

“No. Not right now, but before we leave. I think I left it at the big house. I need it, as it has all my notes from this semester.”

“Ah, well…I’ll call tomorrow before we leave, see if Mrs. Greenstone can find it and bring it to us at the marina.”

“Why don’t we stop by on our way in the morning? I’m not one-hundred percent certain where it is.”

“No. We aren’t going back there.” Ice entered his words; his declaration was almost hostile.

“But what if Mrs. Greenstone can’t find it?”

“I’ll call tonight. If she can’t find it, I’ll go over there by myself.”

“That’s silly. I’ll be able to find it faster.”

“If I can’t find it then I guess I’ll just have to tutor you in vector calculus.”

I grimaced. “Seeing my own handwriting takes me back to the moment when I took the notes and the lesson. It’s the only way I can study. I have an unhealthy attachment to my class notes.”

“Hopefully you also have an unhealthy attachment to me.”

“So, how do you feel about me using you for your brain instead of your ties to massive wealth or the magnificence that is your body? I’d like to use it, often.”