My dad placed his hand on my mother’s arm and shook his head, then turned his attention back to me. “Just think about it. It’s hard as your parents to see you with this remarkable talent, capable of great things, and not sharing it with the world or getting the attention you deserve.”
I gave my father a hard look. When I flew home for Thanksgiving I’d played him some of my compositions. He couldn’t have been more proud and excited. I figured that was only because he was my dad, he’d always been equivalent levels of proud no matter what I did—whether it be a finger painting or defrosting chicken.
“Just think about it,” George chimed in. I was surprised to see him also giving me a pleading look.
“I said I would. I’m thinking about it. I just need some more time.”
“We need to know by March first.” George refocused his attention back to his notes and I was relieved the conversation moved on to the next topic.
The rest of the call was uneventful and we signed off with sincere I love yous and I’ll see you next week. Although my father threw in at the very end, “I might have a business trip at the end of February in New England. Maybe I can take you and Martin out to dinner? Meet this boy who has captured your heart?”
I only managed to stutter and nod before the screen went blank. My dad was a sneak. Of course he tossed it out there like an afterthought. As far as he was concerned the issue was settled. He would meet Martin at the end of February.
I stared at my monitor and realized I was grinning. I was excited about the prospect. I couldn’t wait for them to meet. I also wanted Martin and my mother to get along. They’d started out on the wrong foot and I knew—once they grew accustomed to each other—they’d probably hit it off.
The sound of Martin clearing his throat pulled me out of my thoughts. I glanced over my shoulder and found him standing in the doorway to the bedroom—our bedroom—a small smile lighting his face.
“Your dad is coming at the end of the month?” he asked, looking pleased peppered with petrified.
I jumped up from my place at the desk, but then meandered to him, liking how he looked after a day in his corner office—tie gone, jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows.
“How long were you listening at the door?” I asked as I ogled.
Martin reached for me, wrapped his arm around my waist, his grin growing as he admitted, “Long enough to hear you call me your boyfriend and tell your parents we’re living together.”
“Oh, so you’ve been prowling like a creepy lurker the whole time?”
“Yes…” He paused, and his face grew surprisingly solemn. “You should know, you’re completely safe. My father isn’t going to come after me. He’s cut me off, but he won’t do anything else.”
“Why not? You’ve told me at least a dozen times how wicked he is. What would keep him from seeking revenge?”
“Because I had ways to collect information while I lived in his house. Bribing senators and corporate corruption aren’t the worst of his sins.”
My eyes widened as they moved between his. “Do I want to know?”
“No.”
“So…you’re blackmailing him?”
“Not actively. Let’s just say he has incentive to leave us alone.”
I tried not to smile. I tried and failed. “And you’re not going to use this incentive for revenge?”
“Nope.”
I narrowed my eyes on him and gave into the urge to say, “I’m really proud of you.”
Martin grinned at me and stood a little taller, like I’d pinned a badge of awesome on his chest. We shared a stare of mutual admiration.
Then his gaze softened and sobered, and he said, “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For choosing me. With your parents just now, thank you for choosing us.”
My heart did a funny little dance in my chest—both happy and sad—and I lifted my hands to his face. His was a man’s face, his jaw stubbly and rough. I loved my man’s face. I lifted to my tiptoes and gave him a soft kiss, and he tasted like coffee and mint gum.
Then I gently rubbed my nose against his before I leaned away. “You know I love you. But it was also the right thing to do. ”
He smiled again. “And Kaitlyn Parker always does the right thing.”
“Not always. For example, I’ve fiendishly hidden all of your clothes.”
He lifted a single eyebrow in obvious delighted surprise. “Have you?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not that big of an apartment, I’m sure I could find them.”
“Who said they’re in this apartment?” I gave him a meaningful look.
The truth was, they were in the apartment. I’d hidden his boxes of clothes in the front closet.
His smile turned into a devilish grin, baring his wonderfully sharp teeth. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
His hands smoothed down my back, into my cotton yoga pants and underwear, gripping my bare bottom. “Should I hide your clothes?”
“No need. I plan to be naked for the next twelve hours.”
He groaned. His mouth crashed down on mine, and he walked me backward toward the bathroom, his hands now turning greedy and searching. How we made it successfully into the tiled room was a miracle, especially since we were doing the clumsy de-panting dance on the way. Martin whipped off my top and found I was braless. This elicited a pleased growl as he pressed me against the sink. Meanwhile I worked on the buttons of his shirt.
Stupid business shirt with all the buttons.
We were in a frenzy, our hands covetous as our mouths mated. He slipped his fingers into the front of my underwear, teasing me but not touching where I needed.
I tilted my hips forward, trying to force him to ease my suffering.
“Touch me, Martin. Please.”
His head bent and he captured my breast with his mouth, drawing tight circles around the center with his tongue.
I felt his hot breath against the wet spot he’d created when he answered, “First the shower. Then the kitchen table. Maybe the desk.”
“What…what are you talking about?” I arched against him, my hands sliding down to his boxer briefs and stroking him through the fabric.
“All the places we’re going to make love tonight.”
A surprised laugh tumbled from my lips followed by a rough intake of breath as he parted me with his skilled fingers, rubbing my center.
“I thought…” I had to moan before I could continue; he was making me brainless. “I thought you wanted to start with our mattress.”
“We’ve done that, thanks to your trickery,” he responded darkly, referencing the three times I’d seduced him over the past month. Martin withdrew his hand just long enough to discard his shorts and reach into the shower to start the hot water. “I want to make memories on all the other surfaces.”
I smiled, through my haze of love and lust for my Martin, and teased, “Starting with the shower?”
His eyes cut to mine as steam rolled out of the stall, his hands back on my body, peeling away my underwear. His expression and his voice were deadly serious as he said, “Yes. Because I have been thinking about it since Christmas and I need to take you against the wall while your perfect tits and perfect body are slippery and wet, sliding against me.”
A flush of feral desire pooled in my belly, making my body feel tender and heavy. His words did that to me; his dirty talk made me feel wanton and bold.
Before I could think better of it I asked, “So you’re going to fuck my sweet pussy?”
His mouth fell open with surprise and his eyes widened. Martin blinked at me, like he didn’t quite trust his ears. Meanwhile—despite my boldness and arousal—I cringed, feeling silly, and peered at him through one eye.
“Did I say that right?” I asked, still cringing. “Because when you say it, it sounds sexy. But when I say it, it sounds weird and alarming—like a premeditated criminal action.”
Then Martin laughed, an uncontrollable, deep rumble of pure happiness. He pulled my naked body against his naked body and hugged me. I could only smile and try not to blush or feel like a dirty talk failure.
“You are so perfect,” he said against my neck when his laughter receded; he bit me—hard—like he wanted to devour me, then soothed the area with his tongue. “So fucking perfect.”
I tensed, my belly twisting with delight, as his hands were growing amorous again.
“I’m perfectly weird you mean, and I don’t like the word pussy,” I whispered. “It has too many ‘S’ sounds.”
“You’re perfect and I love you.” One callused hand lifted to my breast and roughly caressed it, pinching me. His other arm, still wrapped around my middle, steered us into the shower and under the spray.
“I’m bad at dirty talk.”
He didn’t respond. Instead he pressed me against the wall and I was overwhelmed by sensations: the cold tile at my back, the hot water above, his roughened hands rubbing slippery soap over my stomach, thighs, and breasts, his sensational eyes capturing mine and wordlessly telling me he believed I was perfect.
I couldn’t keep my hands off his actually perfect body nor did I try. The heat of my earlier embarrassment gave way to a new heat, a building promise between us.