Chapter 7

I'm not usedto having help with … well, much of anything.

I've lived alone, here in this exact garage apartment since I started grad school four years ago. When my sister, Savannah, lived nearby, she would swing by and help with things occasionally, but she worked such grueling hours that it happened rarely. When Trent and I were together, my chickens were something he made fun of, not something he helped with.

All of which is to say, with Martin's help, I'm shocked by how quickly we get everything I need to wait out the storm at his place. He gets the chickens loaded into their pet carriers, while I pack up their pen, bedding, and food for the night.

We're back in his car before I have a chance to even think twice.

Maybe I would have hesitated longer if I wasn't so frickin' scared of tornadoes. But I am. So it didn't take much to convince me.

My little apartment is a true gem. They've never raised my rent, it's within biking distance of everything I need, and it's the only place I've ever found in my price range that had a yard for my flock. I'm sure I could have found something in one of the suburbs, but then I'd have needed a car, and it would have been a whole thing. The only downside to my apartment is its vulnerability to tornadoes.

Not that there ever has been one that's ripped through downtown Austin. It's just the thing I worry about when the weather is bad. So what if once or twice a year I spend the night huddled under my desk with my chickens? Every location has a downside.

Not Martin's condo, apparently.

It's on the fifteenth floor of one of the buildings that's sprouted along the lake in the past five years. I should have known that a rich lawyer with an office in a downtown high-rise would also have a condo in a downtown high-rise. And if I felt outclassed in Le Petite Bistro, it's nothing to how I feel riding the elevator up from the underground garage to his floor. The woman in the elevator with us eyes all the pet carriers with overt suspicion, but Martin glares her into silence.

When we finally reach his floor and he ushers me in, I'm ready to collapse from the stress. And that's before I see his actual condo.

It's a corner unit with a hundred and eighty degrees of floor to ceiling windows. It's pristine, modern and full of sharp edges and hard lines. The only things keeping the space from being too harsh are an over-sized black leather sofa and an array of lush house plants. Either Martin has a green thumb, or he's hired one of those services that maintains his plants for him. Either way, I'm jealous. My chickens might thrive, but I can kill a plant just by looking at it.

The only signs anyone actually lives here are the dusting of coffee grounds by the coffee maker and bowl on the counter with some iffy looking bananas. Between the square footage and the view, I think my back account just had an orgasm.

Lucky her.

I slant a look at Martin. "What kind of law did you say you practice?"

"Intellectual property. Why?"

"I just … I didn't know people lived like this."

"Like what?" He sets down both of the pet carriers he was holding.

"Um … dude, do you not know how clucking rich you are?"

He chuckles. "Yeah. I'm aware. My mom brags about it every year in the family Christmas card."

It's the first time he's mentioned family, other than our brief conversation about Margaret in the elevator. I have to stop myself from asking more about his mom. A) it's not my business, and B) I don't dare drift into Velveteen Rabbit territory again.

I gesture towards the windows. "How is this better than my place?" Then my hysteria breaks free in the form of a giggle. I set down the pet carrier and bag I'm holding to bury my face in my hands. "I mean, this is obviously better than my dumpy apartment in every way. Except if there's a tornado."

"What do you mean?"

I peek over the tips of my fingers to see Martin looking at me blankly as he slings my messenger bag off his shoulder.

"All this glass! If there's a tornado, won't it just blow out the windows and then we'll be toast? Or filleted, or whatever happens to people when twenty thousand shards of glass pierce their bodies."

Martin looks like he's trying to hold back laughter. "Well, for starters, if there is a tornado, we should head to the master closet. It's on the interior and has no windows. The building was designed to withstand a tornado, but there are areas of shelter on each floor. And the building staff will alert us if we need to evacuate to a lower level."

"Oh."

Before I can scrounge up any more objections, he's dragged out the popup pet pen I brought and is opening it in the middle of his living room. Right on top of a rug that looks like it would cover my fall tuition.

"Aren't you worried about all your fancy stuff?"

"Should I be?" He looks from me to the pen and back again. "Can they get out of here?"

"Well, no." The pen is a five-by-five octagon with a water-proof bottom, mesh sides, and a top that zippers on and off. "Once they're in there, they're pretty happy. And their wings are clipped." I hold out my hands, palms out, automatically. "Clipping their wings is not as violent as it sounds. It just a fancy way of saying that I trim their wing feathers on one side. It throws them off balance so they can't fly."

He's standing beside the pet pen, his lips curved into that now familiar smirk. And I'm starting to think that it's less of an arrogant, rude smirk and more just the way he smiles, like he's not used to doing it and doesn't know that a real grin is supposed to bare his teeth.

"I'm pretty sure they can't fly anyway," he says.

"Don't tell that to them. Before I learned to clip their wings, they would fly out of the yard at dusk to sleep in my neighbor's tree."

He gestures to a huge potted plant that's a borderline tree. "Should I let them sleep in my Ficus?"

"Not unless you want a ring of bird poop on your floor."

"I think I'll pass."

And that's the moment I realize that I still have bird poop on my pants.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Here I am, in Martin's magazine-worthy condo, with a breath-taking view of the city spread out below. And I still have bird poop on my pants.

"I should change!" I blurt. "Speaking of bird poop."

Except…

I look at the bags scattered across Martin's otherwise pristine living room. Three chicken carriers. Two tote bags of chicken food, treats, and diapers. My messenger bag, with my laptop and charger. My backup hard drive.

You know what I don't see?

An overnight bag for me.

Martin seems to realize this at the same moment I do.

"I didn't bring?—"

"You didn't pack a bag for yourself."

I just shake my head, inexplicably feeling like I want to burst into tears.

Martin must see this in my expression because he immediately crosses the room and pulls me into his arms. "Whoa, whoa, whoa."

He cradles me against his chest with a gentleness I never would have expected from him.

I find myself burrowing into his chest as he strokes his hand across my shoulder. He smells like rain and damp cotton, with faint undertones of cedar and the mint from his gin and tonic.

"Hey, there's no need to cry."

"I'm not crying!" I make a liar of myself by sniffling. "I hate crying." I practically snarl. "There's no way I'm crying twice in one day!"

"I thought therapists encouraged people to be in touch with their emotions." His words are gentle and chiding as they brush against my ear.

"That's for other people!" I declare, fully aware I'm being ridiculous.

His only response is an almost imperceptible snort. "Don't worry, I won't tell on you."

"Who would you tell? We don't know any of the same people."

He doesn't respond to that at all. Probably because he's realized how silly I'm being and he's about to lose patience with me.

Except he doesn't. He just keeps holding me until the urge to cry is completely gone. He's surprisingly good at comforting me. Shockingly good. I want to stay in his arms forever. To burrow deeper. To huff in the scent of bergamot and fresh rain. To just stay here until all my concerns drift into the ether of comfort he's surrounding me in.

Like, what the actual hell? Does he volunteer as a professional consoler at funeral homes in his spare time?

He wraps an arm around my shoulder and gently guides me down a hall to a room that is undoubtedly his bedroom. "Here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna borrow a pair of pajama bottoms and a T-shirt from me. You can even take a shower if you want to. There are clean towels. I am gonna make you a drink."

I open my mouth, about to protest, but he cuts me off.

"You're not gonna worry about whether or not you've cried in front of me. Or whether or not you're strong enough to handle things all on your own. Because you don't like me anyway. So it's okay to cry in front of me."

A moment later, I'm alone in his bathroom, holding a stack of bath towels, pajama bottoms, and a white T-shirt. I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment. My eyes are red rimmed. My clothes, rumpled and damp from being in and out of the rain all afternoon. And sure enough, there's still a smear of ick on my pant leg. Of course. It's not like I thought it would miraculously vanish. I'm probably the only one who recognizes it's chicken shit. But it's still disconcerting.

You want to know what's even worse than crying twice in one day? In front of Martin?

It's that it somehow doesn't seem that bad.

It's like … okay, so I lost my shit and cried in front of a relative stranger. And I survived. Maybe it's because Martin doesn't feel like a stranger anymore. He doesn't feel like a lawyer I barely know and am not supposed to like. He feels like more than that. Not like a friend, exactly. Because for some reason I can argue with him in a way I would never dream of doing with a friend.

Intellectually, I still know how much I hate crying in front of other people. How much I hate feeling like I'm making other people responsible for my emotions when I do so. It's part of my core identity that I feel like the caretaker. The emotionally stable one.

In a family full of hot-headed chefs, I was the one who just … wasn't.

Not a chef. Not hot-headed. Not overly-emotional.

And yes, I know that my emotional experience is as valid as anyone else's, blah, blah, blah. And, yes, these are all things I'm working through in therapy.

But there's a difference between working on something in therapy and miraculously being okay with something in real time. Out in the wilds of life.

So why did it feel okay to cry in front of Martin? Why does it feel okay to have him take care of me? I don't let anyone take care of me. So why do I let him do it?

Is it because I (ostensibly) don't like him?

Maybe.

Though it's pretty obvious that's not actually true anymore, what between all the feeding me and the Velveteen Rabbit analogies my stupid brain keeps making.

If you'd asked me twelve hours ago, I would have said I didn't care what he thought of me because he was a selfish asshat and a lawyer. But now?

Now I'm just not sure.

The only thing I do know is that no amount of indulgent, soul-searching in Martin's bathroom is going to give me the answers. So, I pull out my phone, drop a pin on my location, and send it to my sister, along with a note that I'm staying at a friend's for the tornado watch. Just in case. Then I crank up the hot water and scrub off the shitty day, while pretending it's not weird to be showering in the bathroom of a man I barely know. It's not weird. It's not. It doesn't feel sensuous or luxurious at all.

Sure.

And no, I don't huff the scent of Martin's body wash like it's heroin. At least not much. And, yes, it is the source of the deliciously male bergamot scent that complements his own scent so well.

When I get out of the shower all squeaky clean, I turn my underwear inside out then put them back on. I hesitate about my bra. It's black lace and will undoubtedly show through the white T-shirt, so I decide to skip it.

My sister, Savannah, got the big boobs in the family. My mom used to describe my tits as "the sports model." And yes, that's exactly as awkward as it sounds, just in case you're wondering why I'm in therapy.

By the time I'm dressed, Savannah has replied to my text.

Thanks for checking in!

We're only getting rain out here and I hadn't realized it was so bad in town.

But … come on!

Who is this mysterious friend you're staying with?

Please tell me it's not Trent.

How many times do I have to tell you you can do better than him?

No. Wait.

Can't be Trent, because your pin is downtown and I know Trent can't afford to live by the lake

Who do you know who lives downtown?

I need details!

Please say it's some hot guy?

I hold my phone in my hand for several moments trying to decide how to respond. How am I supposed to answer any of this? Part of me wants to spill all the beans and beg for advice. To tell her every minor detail about Martin, from the way his shirts are always a little rumpled to the fact that he let my chickens ride in his pristine white Tesla. I want to tell her that he ordered for me and somehow knew not to order meat. That he makes me feel safe in a way I haven't since … who knows how long!

But then, there's this other part of me that doesn't want to tell her anything. That wants to keep all the details of Martin to myself, like every nugget of knowledge I have about him is gold that I'm hoarding like a dragon.

In the end, I try to keep it simple.

He's someone I met at work

School work? Like he's a grad student too?

No. I met him through my practicum at Precious Meadows

Is he a doctor? Cha-ching!

Not that I think of a rich man as merely a meal ticket.

Or you as a gold digger.

??

I didn't think that

Whew!

Wait!

You never said if he was handsome.

Is he?

Are you having an illicit affair with a dangerous billionaire?

??

You need to stop reading so much fan fic

Never!

I put my phone on silent and carefully fold all of my clothes before heading out to search for Martin. I don't make it out of the bedroom because all the pet carriers litter his bedroom floor. I follow the gentle sound of clucking to the open door on the other side of the room. It must be the master closet that Martin mentioned. It's not as big as my entire apartment. But close.

Martin has moved the pet pen and chickens in.

When I enter, he's moving some pillows around on the floor.

"The tornado watch was upgraded to a warning while you were in the shower. From the weather maps, it looks like the worst of it will pass to the north of us, but I figured you'd feel safer in here."

In addition to my birds and the throw pillows, he's brought in bottles of water, flashlights, and a snack tray.

Somehow, in the midst of this crazy day, Martin has created a tiny oasis of peace and calm. And he brought snacks?

Watching him fuss over my hens does something to me. Something unspeakable.

It's like my heart and my ovaries have simultaneous orgasms. Like, at the same instant, they both jump up and down, waving to get my attention, screaming at me, This man! This one right here! He's the one! The whole package! Grab him! Now! Hold on tight!

That's the moment, right then, when it hits me.

I am in serious trouble here.

This man … this guy who is gruff and grumpy and barely seems to know how to smile, has been kinder to me than anyone else has in a long time. I'm about one kind gesture away from falling in love with him.

Which sucks … because I'm pretty sure he sees me as some sort of stray.

Except then he stops messing with the pillows and looks over at me. At some point while I was in the shower, he changed from his jeans into gray sweatpants and a dry henley, almost identical to the one he was wearing earlier that got damp in the rain.

I'm standing there in his pajama bottoms and oversized white t-shirt.

Well, it's oversized on me. I'm sure it fits him like a glove.

Both the t-shirt and bottoms are impossibly soft, the way expensive things are once they're well-worn and well-loved. I can't explain why, but there's something erotic about wearing his clothes, about knowing that he is the last person whose skin touched this fabric.

But you know what's even more erotic? The way he looks at me. His gaze eats me up, taking in every detail, and I'm pretty sure he can tell I'm not wearing a bra. And then, as if on command, my nipples harden.

God, my tits are such attention whores.

Martin picks up a pair of tumblers from the snack tray and hands one to me. "I made you another gin and tonic."

I take the glass from him. There's a sprig of mint and a perfect loop of lemon peel. I take a sip and it's crisp and delicate, exquisite in a way that makes me want to savor it.

Martin on the other hand, downs his in one long gulp without tearing his eyes away from me.

"You should sit." He does so himself and pours himself another drink. "We could be here a while."

"Can I turn down the lights? The hens will settle down if they think it's dusk."

"Good idea."

Before I can even look for a light switch, Martin has his phone out and is using an app to adjust the lighting. Almost as soon as the lights dim, their clucking noises morph into peaceful rummaging and feather ruffling noises.

Before I even have the chance to wonder what I'm going to talk about with Martin, he broaches my favorite subject. "Tell me about your therapy chickens."

One of the birds makes a soft chirping noise, so I weave my fingers through a gap in the side of the pet pen and she shuffles over to nuzzle me. Between the low lighting and mesh of the pen, I can't quite tell which of the birds it is.

"What do you want to know?"

"Why therapy chickens? Why not dogs or cats?"

I slant him a suspicious look. "You can't really want to hear me talk about my therapy chickens."

He just meets my gaze and cocks an eyebrow. "Why not?"

"You obviously think my therapy chickens are ridiculous."

"Do I?" he asks, with that familiar smirk of his. "Obviously?"

Funny how that smirk that used to seem almost cruel now seems fond and teasing.

I roll my eyes. "Yes. Everyone thinks they're ridiculous. Plus, I handed you an egg the first time we met. So you have even more reasons to think my therapy chickens are ridiculous."

"True." He takes a sip of his drink. "Let's pretend for a second I don't think they're ridiculous. If it helps, you can just assume that I'm asking just to keep you from bursting into tears again."

I tip my head to the side to study him and bury my fingers deeper into my hen's feathers. Yes, that makes more sense. Even in the therapy world, men don't like crying women. Of course he would rather listen to me ramble about my chickens than have another fit of tears. "You don't have to worry. I am clean and fed. Unlikely to burst into tears again."

"You didn't answer my question though."

"Which question?"

"Why chickens? Why not dogs or cats? Something that doesn't need a diaper?"

"Believe it or not, chickens are more hypo-allergenic than dogs or cats. Fewer people have allergies to them."

He raises an eyebrow. "That can't be true."

"And yet it is. More importantly, fewer people have phobias about chickens. And in a setting like a memory care center, dealing with patients with dementia and Alzheimer's, you often can't ask whether or not they're afraid of cats or dogs. Sometimes they don't remember. At least not until they're faced with the actual animal. Almost no one is afraid of chickens." I wince, remembering one particularly embarrassing incident. "It's not zero. But it's close."

"That sounds like an interesting story."

I shrug. "Not as amusing as the one today. Besides, as you know, Precious Meadows has their own therapy dog, Ambrosia. But dogs can be tricky. Small dogs tend to be anxious and have higher energy levels. Big dogs are often very calm but can be more intimidating. When you're dealing with an elderly population, the physics are just not on our side. I keep trying to explain this to Stacy, but she doesn't listen to me. Ambrosia wouldn't hurt a fly, but she's eighty pounds and has a lower center of gravity than any human."

Martin, nodding, adds, "She could decimate those walker exercise classes they have."

I pause for a second, wondering how a man who never visits his grandmother knows about the activities she attends, but I push the thought aside. I'm sure Precious Meadows keeps him informed and I don't like to think about the fact that I know how much it hurts her that he doesn't visit.

So instead, I say, "Exactly. That's a problem you don't have with a three-pound bird. Besides, hens are relatively quiet. When they're happy, they make a noise that's almost like purring. And my Silkies… Well, you saw Princess Lay-ah. They look silly, like Muppets or something. They make everyone smile. You'd have to be dead inside not to grin when you see a Silkie." I'm struck with the memory of the first time I met Martin and the scowl he wore on his face when I held Princess Lay-ah in my hands. I clear my throat. "Or at least surprised"

His lips work like he's remembering the same moment and trying not to laugh, but his tone is serious when he says, "You don't have to make excuses for me being a grumpy asshole."

"I wasn't."

"Yes. You were. Trust me. I know that I come off as unapproachable."

"Unapproachable, maybe." I consider him. Trying to put together the puzzle pieces of Martin Harris that I've slowly been collecting over the past several months. "But not dead inside."

"You don't think so?"

"No. Not at all. As you keep saying, you're going to a lot of trouble to keep me from bursting into tears. If you were dead inside, you wouldn't care one way or the other."

He dips his head in acknowledgment and takes another sip of his gin and tonic. "Okay, I can admit the chickens are fun, but I'm going to call bullshit on the purring. Chickens don't purr."

"I said it was like purring." I wave him over. "Come feel."

"What?"

"She's doing it now." I squint into the pen to figure out who I'm petting. "This is Hen Solo, and she's starting to relax. Come over and feel if you don't believe me."

He gives me a steely-eyed, doubtful look.

"What are you?" I taunt.

"Oh you wouldn't…"

"Chicken?"

Clearly still trying to hide his laughter, he gets on his knees and crawls closer, until he's right in front of me.

I take his hand in mine and guide it to the back of the hen. I bury both our fingers into her feathers and give her skin a gentle scratch. I can feel the rumble in her chest before we hear it. And then a soft trilling noise emerges from the pen.

His eyes dart to mine. "What the?—"

"Told you. They purr."

"That's …" He trails off like he's unable to put it into words.

"Yeah. It is."

The moment stretches out between us and I'm suddenly aware of how close he is to me. Of how amazing he smells. Of how amazing it smells, here in his closet, surrounded by the scent of him mixed with shoe leather and cedar.

I want this moment to last forever. And I also want whatever comes next. But only if whatever that is is something better than this, which is hard to imagine.

And then my phone buzzes.

We both jerk away from Hen Solo. And by the time I have my phone out to look at the text I just got, my heart is pounding, and Martin is sitting on the other side of the closet again.

"Is that Trent checking on you finally?"

I blink, trying to force my awareness back to the phone in my hands and the words on my screen. "No. It's just my sister responding to when I sent her the pin earlier."

"So he still hasn't responded? I'm starting to think this boyfriend of yours isn't such a nice guy after all."

"Why do you say that?"

"How long has it been since you texted him asking for a ride? Four hours? Five maybe?"

"I'm sure he just hasn't had a chance to check his phone."

"What did you say he does again? Is he a surgeon? Is that why he can't check his messages?"

"No." I fume at finding myself in the position of having to justify Trent's behavior.

"Oh, right. He's in chip marketing," Martin says in a way that makes me certain he hadn't forgotten that.

"He works for a startup. They have crazy hours, so he's probably still busy with work."

"On a Saturday evening? Plus, the weather's this bad and he hasn't even checked on you to make sure you're somewhere safe."

I shrug. "He trusts me to be able to take care of myself."

"It's not about trust. If he were actually a nice guy, he would have checked in with you by now. Not because he doesn't know that you're a smart, competent adult, but because he'd want you to know that he's thinking about you."

Martin's words make my breath catch.

What would it be like to have someone like that in my life?

Okay, sure, Savannah does that all the time. But she's my sister. My favorite person in the world. Who else does that for me? My mom, sometimes. Less often than she used to, though. But do I have anyone else? Anyone I'm not related to by blood?

Oh God … when I break it down and really think about it, other than my family, the people who I interact with most consistently are Dr. Lupke, my advisor, and Chad.

Frat-bro Chad checks in on my more than my supposed boyfriend.

What a cluster-cluck.

"Hey." Martin reaches out to chuck my chin causing me to look up at him. "I didn't say it to upset you."

Stung, I go on the offensive. "Obviously not. I assume you're just speaking from experience. Because you're just a nice guy."

He gives a huff of laughter. "Not at all. I never claimed to be a nice guy. Never even try to be."

I give a snort of derision. "Right. Despite the way you've spent half your day feeding me and taking care of me like I'm an orphaned child you picked up on the street."

"There are two flaws in that argument. First off, there is nothing childlike about you. Second, if I were a nice guy, I definitely wouldn't be hitting on someone else's girlfriend."

I jerk my gaze to his, sucking in a breath. Surely he doesn't mean …

"Is that's what's happening here?" My words sound as breathless as I feel.

He doesn't answer but just looks at me, and I feel myself getting lost in those inky dark eyes of his. Eyes so dark it feels like they have their own gravitational pull. Or maybe it's just him that has gravitational pull. Maybe that's why my life seems to orbit his. Why every time we meet, I feel closer to crashing into him. Maybe it's inevitable.

I set down the drink that I've barely touched and crawl across the pillow-strewn floor to where he's sitting with his legs stretched out in front of him. I take the tumbler from his hand and set it on the floor and then climb onto his lap, straddling his hips.

His hands grip my hips, the splay of his fingers making me aware of just how big his hands are. How much bigger he is than me.

Everything about the moment seems distorted, from the odd intimacy of his closet, so surrounded by the scent of him, to the languid pace we're both moving at. It's like we're caught in some kind of sensory time warp.

He pulls my hips down so that my center presses against the hard line of his dick. I rotate my hips so that my clit rubs against him. It's a jolt straight to my core that makes my eyelids flutter. I bite down on my lip to keep from groaning out loud.

I run my hands up his chest, which feels unexpectedly muscular beneath his shirt. I cup his jaw, relishing the prickle of his stubble against my palms, as I lean down to press my lips against his.

It's barely a kiss, tentative and soft. He tastes like gin and mint and lemon, which I'm pretty sure is my new favorite combination of flavors. I want more. More of him. More of the taste of him in my mouth and more of the feel of him beneath my palms. I want to explore his mouth and find out what he tastes like under the gin and lemon. To feel his skin under the buttery cotton of his henley.

But before I can deepen the kiss, he stops me, moving one of his hands to my jaw, nudging me back until my eyes flutter open and I meet his gaze.

"I don't think this is what you want."

I open my mouth to protest, but his thumb slips up to press my lips closed.

"You have a boyfriend and?—"

I shake my head, opening my mouth to suck his thumb between my lips and nip at the pad of his thumb. His eyes darken, and I'm not sure if it's because he's caught my lie or because his thumb is in my mouth. Now that I have the taste of him in my mouth, I want even more. I want to run my tongue along the column of his neck. I want to sink my teeth into his trapezoid. I want to suck his cock into my mouth and taste his come on my tongue.

His gaze narrows. "No? No, this is what you want?"

He pulls his thumb from my mouth, and I release it with a pop. "No. I don't have a boyfriend."

"You just have a guy in your phone who you ask for favors, who also calls you ‘babe'?"

"Trent is my ex. Ish. We were friends with benefits. Barely. We're not close, but, yeah, if I need a ride, sometimes I call him."

Martin's expression hardens, making him look simultaneously dangerous and hungry.

I already want him. I'm already wet. Wet enough that I'm trying to gauge whether or not he can feel it through the layers of clothing separating us. And exactly how long it would take to peel away all those layers and just sink down onto his dick.

It's odd to be thinking of any man in these terms. This doesn't feel like me. I don't have one-night stands or flings. I know myself too well to pretend that kind of fleeting thing will satisfy me. I'm not used to attraction hitting this hard and fast. I'm not used to thinking of a man in such carnal terms.

But Martin is different. Everything has always been different about him. From the very beginning it has been.

I try to kiss him again, but again he stops me.

"You don't really want this," he says. "You've had a stressful day. And you've been drinking."

"I had one drink and that was hours ago. I barely touched the other one. You've had more to drink than I have." I still, pulling back a little, as horror washes over me. "Oh God. Are you stopping me because this isn't what you want?"

He laughs, pulling my hips down again to rub my cunt against his erection. "Does this feel like I don't want you?"

My words pour out in a rush. "Consent matters for men just as much as it does for women. And just because your body is having a biological reaction to mine, it doesn't mean that you actually want me. And?—"

Before I can even finish the thought, he's picked me up like I weigh nothing and flipped me onto to my back, following me down to the floor. One hand is still splayed on my hip; the other is by my shoulder, holding his weight off me while his mouth devours mine.

It's exactly the kiss I needed. Dark and deep and full of barely controlled need.

Then, he's kissing his way down my jaw to my neck, murmuring as he does.

"Yes. I want you. More than you know. More than I knew was possible." His hand skims from my hip up under the shirt to cup my breast, raising the fabric and baring most of my torso as he kisses his way down to the bare skin of my belly. "I've wanted you from the moment I first saw you. I want to taste you. I want to make you come. I've been hard every second we've been together and that was before you walked in wearing my t-shirt with no bra on."

His tone is completely serious. Intensely so.

Despite that, I laugh. "That can't be possible."

He raises his head to look up at me. "Pretty sure it's true."

The sight of him, cradled between my thighs, sprawled over my body, pinning me beneath him as he rolls my nipple between his fingers, sends another gush of moisture to my pussy. I rock my hips, needing pressure and friction.

He smirks. "Impatient much?"

"Tease much?" I counter, bucking against him.

"Tell me what you want."

His order sends a thrill of excitement through me. It's a demand, but it also puts the ball firmly in my court in a way I've never experienced before. I've never felt so completely dominated and so totally in control at the same time.

The list of things I want from this man scrolls through my head, seemingly endless. I sum it up as best I can. "I want you. Inside me."

His hand skims down to slip under the waistband of the pajama bottoms and my underwear. There's no awkward fumbling. This is a man who knows exactly what my body needs as he slides a finger into my cunt.

"Like this?" he asks, his thumb on my clit, first one finger and then two deep inside me. The sound I make is almost inhuman because he's touching me somewhere I've never been touched before. Or in a way I've never been touched. I'm not sure which.

"Fuck," I groan, gasping and squirming.

His teeth nip at the underside of my breast and then lave my nipple as his fingers stroke me closer and closer to the edge.

"That's right, Trinity," he coos against my skin. "I need you to come for me. You can do that, right?"

I almost argue with him because I'm not an easy woman to get off. I don't come quickly. I certainly don't come on demand. But his touch is so persistent. His words so insistent.

"Yeah. You're going to come for me, and then I'm going to carry you to bed, and I'm going make you come all over again. You want me inside of you, right? Like this?" With his thumb pressing on my clit, he keeps stroking my g-spot until I'm about to explode. "Or do you want my cock in this sweet pussy of yours? Which is it?"

"Both," I gasp. "And more."

And just like that—in record time, I come. I come for him just like he told me to. And it's like nothing I've ever felt.

I'm still trembling as he picks me up and carries me to his bed, just like he promised. He tosses me onto the bed before whipping off his shirt. The lights are low, but there's just enough ambient light for me to see his chest, which is thick and muscular with a scattering of hair. It's the chest of a man, with power that doesn't need to be well defined to be seen.

I scramble up on to my knees, pulling off my shirt. With a different guy, this is the moment I'd feel self-conscious about my body. About my smallish tits and full hips. Or maybe about the fact that I haven't been with anyone in so long that I haven't waxed in years and haven't shaved since fall. God knows it never would have occurred to me that I'd find myself in anyone's bed, let alone Martin's.

But any awkwardness I might have felt is vanquished by the way he looks at me, like he wants to devour me. His hand dips below his waistband to palm his dick.

Watching the way he touches himself, that firm grip, those fingers that were just inside me… I can't wait to taste me. So I don't.

I crawl over to him and free his cock. His fingers are wet from me, the head of his cock glistening with the mixture of my juices and his pre-cum. God, it's the prettiest thing I've ever seen.

I swirl my tongue over the head, relishing the taste of us together.

But that's as far as I make it before he's pushing me away.

"Not yet. No way. The first time I come with you, it's going to be in your cunt, not your mouth."

He hooks his hands behind my knees and flips me onto my back, dragging me to the edge of the bed. His thumb circles my clit as he fumbles in a drawer for a condom. Normally, condoms are merely functional, but somehow the sight of him tearing open the package with his teeth and sliding it down his cock is pure eroticism. Everything about this moment is so hot, so perfect, I almost wish that he wasn't about to actually fuck me. Because that will undoubtedly be a letdown. Because I never come during sex.

And with Martin, I almost don't even mind because he's already performed the miracle of getting me off in record time.

Which is maybe why I should have had more faith.

He hooks his arms under my knees as he steps closer, rubbing his cock over my lips and against my clit, before sliding into me. It feels so good, so perfect, even before he angles my hips, looking for the right angle. I gasp when he finds it. He grins, a bared-teeth ferocious grin as he slams into my g-spot. That spot no other man has found. Or maybe they never bothered to look for it. Either way, coming for Martin is so easy, so perfect. So right.