I sputtered, perplexed. “Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I assumed the worst. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Apology accepted. Now kiss me.”

I evaded his mouth by leaning to the side and bracing my palms against his chest. “Wait, just wait a minute. I don’t know. What did you want me to do? Walk over and rip that girl’s hair out?”

“Yes.” He stated this emphatically and paired it with a single head nod, his eyes lowering to my breasts. The small triangles of the string bikini did very little to cover them; I felt like I was wearing pasties and floss. Martin seemed to both love it and hate it because he released a frustrated and distracted sounding sigh and lifted his gaze to mine. “Yes, if I matter to you, then yes.”

“Martin…I’m…” I shook my head, having difficulty finding words. They were hiding in all the closets of my brain, the little bastards.

Finally I managed, “I’m not like that. I’m not going to enter a race I can’t win.”

His hand moved from the middle of my back to my waist, his thumb drawing a gentle circle on my ribs, tickling me, touching me, feeling me. “You totally could have taken her. She’s not a good fighter. She favors her right side.”

I laughed because what he said was preposterous and therefore funny, and I was relieved to see that even after our harsh exchange, he was trying to cut the tension with humor.

“That’s not what I meant. I know I could have knocked her out. She probably hasn’t eaten in days, the poor dear.”

“Then what do you mean? Because you are the only boat in this regatta.”

I shook my head, feeling high and low and everything in between. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m the bow-out-gracefully kind of girl, not the brawling-for-my-man-at-a-party kind of girl. Not when my competition is a supermodel.”

Martin’s stare was severe and stern, and his thumb stilled on my skin. “If all I wanted was a supermodel then I wouldn’t be here with you.”

I scrunched my face at this. It sounded like a compliment, but it also sounded like an insult. I had no illusions I was supermodel material, but to my ears his statement emerged as, If I wanted someone good-looking then I wouldn’t be with you. I knew that was wrong and unfair and twisting his words, so I threw that messed-up interpretation into the garbage where it belonged…but my sinking heart lingered.

He growled a sigh and rolled his eyes. “That’s not…that came out wrong. What I mean is, yes—of course I want to be with someone who is beautiful. But you’re so much more than that. Why would I bring a single scull to an eight-man race? I wouldn’t.”

“A single skull?”

“A scull. It’s a boat with one rower and two oars. An eight-man racing shell would beat a single scull every time.”

I squinted at him and nodded once, rolled my lips between my teeth, and tried not to laugh at his manly rowing analogy. I let him know I understood the gist of what he meant and that I wasn’t going to hold the conversation hostage.

He continued, “But I need you to fight, not bow out gracefully. When you want something, you fight for it.”

I lowered my eyes to his neck, watched him swallow. I inhaled and held the breath in my lungs, unsure what to say or how to proceed. This was not how I foresaw the discussion progressing.

“Look at me,” he demanded, and I did.

“When you want something, you fight for it,” he repeated, the pressure of his hands increasing on my body, telling me he wanted me, telling me he would fight for me.

Then he asked, “Do you want me?”

I stared at him for a beat, the answer having immediately formed in my brain, but I hesitated. I felt like admitting my want for him would give Martin power over me, power I wasn’t ready to cede.

He must have seen my struggle because before I could speak, he volunteered, “You don’t have to answer that right now. You tell me when you’re ready, okay?”

I nodded, releasing an unsteady sigh. “Martin...”

“Shh, just…just listen to me.” He licked his lips, his mouth scant inches from mine. His eyes told me he was interested and invested, the rest of his body communicating that everything he’d said was the truth. I might not have been a gazelle, but his body wanted my body.

Eventually he continued on a rumbly, seductive whisper, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t know how to treat people. But I meant it when I said that I…fucking hell, I want you. I like you. I’m all in. I’m not a liar and I’m doing my best here. You need to meet me part way.”

I nodded, no longer feeling numb.

I read the intention in his eyes before he moved and I shivered in anticipation. He slid his hand from my ribs up to my neck and pulled the string holding my top up. He leaned just two inches away and the flimsy thing immediately acquiesced, the little triangles ineffectually supporting my D-cup fell, baring me.

“I need to touch you,” he said even as he touched me, both of his hands sliding into place, massaging, kneading.

I sighed, arched my back, offering myself more fully to his wonderfully callused hands.

“I need you to touch me,” I whispered on a gasp. His fingers tugged on my nipples, sending liquid fire straight to my core.

He bent his head, bit my neck, then gently kissed the two love bites he’d left yesterday. “I like these. I like seeing my mark on you.”

He used his knuckles, brushing them back and forth over the tight peaks. I tried to press myself tighter against him, needing his palms, not the light, maddening, teasing sweeps of the back of his hands.

He tongued my ear, making me tremble, before his hot exhale spilled against my jaw and neck. “I want to taste you.”

I had a flash, a thought, an image pass through my mind and it made me groan. Martin, bending over me, kneeling, his mouth at my center, licking, sipping, tasting, sucking, as I reclined on the washing machine and his blue eyes watched me. Some dark, pleasure-seeking part of myself became obsessed with this idea.

“Oh, please do,” I panted. Obviously the time for pride was at an end.

He chuckled. It sounded wicked, throaty, and really evil. Unsurprisingly, wicked and evil were really hot on Martin Sandeke. Desperate for what my body wanted, I brushed my fingertips down the front of his chest, lower to his abdomen, and lower still into the material of his swimsuit.

He sucked in a stunned breath and I felt his muscles tighten, grow rigid as I cupped his length, gripped it. The feel of it, the hardness, the thickness thrilled me. It was the greediest part of him and a surge of aroused power made my sex pulse.

“Fuck me,” he exhaled, his eyes closing, his hips moving in an inelegant, wild movement.

“Surprised?” I asked. I was surprised. I was surprised by my vixenish boldness.

He laughed, it was tight and tortured sounding. “You have to stop,” he said even as he pressed himself more completely in my hand.

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to come all over your tits.”

I thought about that. I’d seen something similar in a porno last year. At the time I’d cringed, somewhat grossed out. But with Martin it sounded really sexy. I didn’t see a problem.

“Okay.”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it.” He looked wild, feral, and I knew he was trying to control some dark impulse to take without asking.

“I mean it.”

He growled, then covered my mouth with his, devoured me—his lips and tongue bruising, desperate, almost angry. He pushed his swim shorts down then moved one of his hands to cover mine where I held him. Guiding me, he gave himself a rough stroke. I felt him shudder, his mouth separating from mine as he inhaled a shaky breath.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he said.

“Say my name,” I whispered. The constant fucks were seriously getting on my nerves. Therefore I thought I’d offer him an alternative. “Say Kaitlyn instead.”

His eyes flashed. Hips grinding into my palm, jaw clenched, he growled, “Kaitlyn.”

I smiled. My smile made him groan. His head fell against my shoulder and his hands grabbed fistfuls of my bottom. He chanted, “Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn, Kaitlyn…” and, honestly, it got me hot. Soon I was panting.

One of his hands released me and returned to my breast, giving it rough treatment, grabbing and pinching while he bit my shoulder with his sharp teeth and thrust into my hand.

“Oh God, Kaitlyn.” The words were tight yet uncontrolled. Every one of his muscles strained, flexed. His hands on my body tightened, his grip so hard I wondered if he’d leave bruises, and I finally understood what people meant when they said, Come apart in my hands.

Because Martin came apart in my hands. He came apart all over me, and yes, part of the coming apart landed on my breasts. Basically he came apart on everything but my hand. I gasped, not at all prepared, then laughed my surprise.

Sure, I’d seen pornos and money shots. But Martin’s semen seemed to launch out of him—and there was a great deal more of it than what I’d seen in the dirty films.

His breathing was ragged and he sagged against me, his grip now loose, the tremors receding and leaving him gasping. I brought my other hand up to his back and stroked him from his shoulder blades to the base of his spine, then back again. I felt and heard him sigh. It sounded content. I did it again and again, soothing him.