“Another terrible idea.”

“But it’s not. It’s really genius…oh!”

Martin nudged my legs apart with his knee then settled himself on top of me, grinding his good morning wood into my center.

“You are so sweet,” he said, biting me then tasting me with his tongue. “I can’t get enough of you. I dreamt about you last night, under the shower—”

“Seriously, listen to me.” My words were weak and I’d closed my eyes so I could focus on all the sensations associated with Martin above me, Martin licking me, Martin touching me. Instinctively I tilted my hips to cradle him. “This is really important and I think it’ll…oh…oh, that feels good…”

His laugh was rumbly and pleased. “Are you going to give in, Kaitlyn? Do I get to taste your sweet pussy? Or should I make you come like this?”

“No.” I shook my head, squeezing my eyes shut, my words breathless. “No. I want all of this to matter. I want it to last.”

Martin stilled his movements, his mouth on my throat ceasing its exploration, and I felt his lithe body stiffen briefly, then relax.

“Ah…damn.” He sighed, placing a soft, closed-mouth kiss to my collarbone then rolling to the side, releasing my wrists.

I pulled in a huge breath, filling my lungs with cool air, and pressed my knees together. My pants hated me. Hated. Me.

Damn was right.

Darn, damn, dammit, shoot, gosh darn it, heck.

We lay next to each other for a full minute. Our bodies touched, but we weren’t actively touching each other. Our breathing similar degrees of harsh and ragged. I covered my face with my hands and found it flushed. I was not surprised. I felt hot all over.

“Martin…” My palms muffled my words, but I had to keep my hands on my face. If I didn’t I might jump him and demand he provide my pants with satisfaction. “My super genius idea is as follows: I think we should institute No-Touch Tuesdays.”

He said nothing for a long time, so long in fact, I wondered whether or not he’d heard me. I was about to repeat myself when I felt him shift so he was lying on his side. I glanced at him from between my fingers, found him leaning on his elbow, his head propped in one hand, his face contorted in horror.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He placed his other hand on my stomach, slipping his fingers under the hem of my shirt to connect with my bare skin as though to emphasize his words.

“Let me explain.”

“Let me see your face.”

“Fine.” I hesitated then drew my fingers away, folding them over my chest. “Here is what I am thinking. Neither of us have ever really dated someone before, correct?”

He squinted at me. “I thought you said you had a boyfriend.”

“He was gay.”

Martin frowned. “What? How is that possible?” His eyes swept down, then up, then down, then up my body. Again, he looked horrified.

“It’s not like I can turn a person gay. Obviously he was gay before we got together. He…well, I was his beard.”

“And you went along with that?”

“No. I didn’t know.”

He studied me, his eyes searching. “How long were you together?”

“Four years.”

“And you didn’t know?”

“No. I didn’t. I guess I had a very Disney-like perspective of dating before college, very neutered and naïve. We kissed, mostly at parties in front of other people. We held hands, hugged. But when we were together we hung out, had a good time. We were good friends. This is consistent with my parents’ relationship. They love each other, but they’re good friends first and foremost. I can count the number of times I’ve seen them kiss on one hand.”

“You didn’t want…I mean, didn’t you want…”

“More? Yes. I did.”

“And he…?”

“He said he wanted to wait until he was married.”

“Why didn’t you break up with him?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but then snapped it shut. I thought about Martin’s question. I mulled it over for close to a minute.

Then I responded with the truth. “I don’t know. I guess I thought…I don’t know. It made sense at the time. We were good friends. We liked each other. We supported each other through a lot. I was there for him when his parents divorced and later when his father died of cancer. I was thirteen when we got together. We were Kaitlyn and Carter. People just expected us to be a unit.”

“So you never did anything but kiss? For four years?”

I nodded.

He whistled out a breath from between his teeth, his eyes losing focus as they moved to a spot on the bed over my shoulder. “No wonder you need time…what an asshole.”

I huffed a laugh. “He’s a nice guy. He was just confused and I’m glad I could be there for him.”

Martin’s gaze moved back to mine and it sharpened as he frowned. “No. He’s an asshole. He used you, he messed you up, made you think there was something wrong with you, that you aren’t sexy, that you aren’t goddamn gorgeous and fucking hot as hell. If he was a nice guy he would have broken things off so you could get felt up in the back of a car by someone who thought about nothing else but getting in your pants.”

I wrinkled my nose at him. “That sounds delightful. I’m so sorry I missed out on some horny teenager using me to get his jollies.”

“You mistake my meaning. I’m not talking about someone who was going to use you, who just wanted a warm body. You’re too smart for that. You would’ve spotted a user a mile away. I’m talking about the guy who wouldn’t have been able to stop thinking about you, because he wanted you, not some indiscriminate jerkoff.”

“My purpose on this earth is not to be desirable to a man.” The words slipped out of my mouth, the thought second nature.

Martin reared his head back and he stared at me—nay, he glowered at me—for several seconds. “What the hell does that mean?”

I shrugged, trying to think how to explain something so obvious to me. “It means I don’t care if I’m desirable or not.”

“That’s bullshit. I call bullshit.” Martin pressed his lips together and shook his head. The look he gave me made me laugh. It was so ridiculous on his face; like Giiiiiirl, you crazy!

“It’s not bullshit!” I insisted through my laughter. “I don’t want my decisions to be about what will make me more appealing to the opposite sex. I want my decisions to be about making a difference, being a good person.”

“You do care,” he said flatly. “Everyone cares. Every single person on his earth wants to be desired, wants to be wanted.”

“Okay, let me rephrase then. I don’t want to care. I strive to not care.”

“Now that’s something different,” he conceded, his hand on my stomach moving lower, his fingers touching the skin just below my belly button as though feeling my skin were compulsory for him. “But don’t you think it’s about balance? And finding someone who…someone where it’s good to care? Where their opinion matters because they matter? And being desired by that person, striving to be more desirable to that person, makes you better?”

Now it was my turn to stare at him. I didn’t glower, though. I stared. His words were deep, verging on philosophical, a complete shock and a total turn on coming from this guy I’d labeled as a jerk-face.

“Martin Sandeke,” I shook my head, my lips parted in surprise, “I was wrong about you. I’m sorry.”

He grimaced. It was subtle, but it happened, and he glanced away toward the ceiling. “I don’t know if you were wrong about me so much as the fact that everyone I’ve ever met in my entire life—before you—pissed me off.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed again.

His eyes slid back to me and I saw a reluctant smile curve over his lips.

“Everyone?” I asked, teasing him and poking him in the ribs for emphasis.

“Not everyone, just most people. I don’t like being framed by other people’s expectations. Growing up, I was public property to my parents.”

“Even your mother?”

“Especially my mother.” He rolled his eyes and the tilt of his chin was resentful. “She wanted to be loved by everyone, but no one in particular. She wanted to be worshipped, but didn’t care if people knew her.”

“She was an actress, right?”

“Yes.” He nodded once, his eyes going back to the ceiling. Martin flopped on his back next to me; his hand searched for mine, found it, brought it up so he could see it, and held it between both of his. “She died when I was thirteen.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a relief.”

“God, Martin.” His callous remark sent the wind from my lungs. I drew myself up so I could look at his face. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“It’s the truth. She was a user, an addict. She used me for publicity and stupid stuff all the time. She tried to get me into show business, modeling. I hated it. I didn’t want to do it. She did…other things.” Suddenly, he heaved a frustrated sigh. “I…I don’t want to talk about this.”