Page 26 of Desperate Haste
“Jackets would be cooler.”
I can’t help but chuckle at the idea. “You’re right, jackets would be way cooler.”
We’re both laughing now because sometimes that’s the best thing you can do when talking about your issues. If you’re not laughing, you’re crying. And laughing feels better. Hearing Malcolm’s genuine laugh, instead of his cocky one or his small chuckles, warms my insides in a way I didn’t think possible. It’s deep, and rich, and full. It makes me feel full and I kind of love it.
“I think it’s only fair that I get to ask you a personal question. Since you got to ask me one.” He runs a hand through his nearly shoulder length hair to push it out of his eyes. As his arm flexes, my knees instinctively squeeze together.
I sigh and roll my eyes at him. “Sure, I guess it’s only fair. Ask away, pretty boy.” When his eyes light up I get the sense that the name that once annoyed him is starting to impact him in a different way.
“What’s that story? With your parents?” He leans back on his hands and gently swings his legs forward and back. A shiver dances over my spine as an early winter breeze blows through and I’m grateful I have my sweater on. It isn’t cold by any means but once you’ve lived in the lowcountry long enough, the drop in temperature that happens in November is noticeable enough to give you a chill. Even though I know this chill isn’t purely because of the breeze.
I wrap my arms around myself and he must notice me shiver because he leans forward, concern on his face, and drops his head to one side. “Are you cold? We can get in the truck if you want.”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I say, waving a hand in front of me. “It was just a little chill, that’s all.”
“We can get in the truck if you’re cold, Ophelia.” He very rarely calls me by my name to where hearing it on his lips takes me by surprise and warms my core more than it should.
I shake my head at him again. “No, really, I’m fine. You asked about my family, yeah?” He nods in reply.
“Well, they’re in Georgia for one. I’m not from Charleston originally, most people aren’t. I moved here a little over four years ago. I was…trying to find myself and start over at the same time. I didn’t know what I was doing or where I was going but I knew I wanted to call the Holy City my home and I would do anything to make that happen. Unfortunately for me, the only thing my parents appreciated about my plan was the fact that I landed somewhere so deeply embedded in the Bible Belt and had a church on every other corner.” I try to scoff out a laugh but it ends up sounding more like a choking hiccup.
I worry my lips between my teeth. He had been honest with me but I’m not being completely honest with him. I wasn’t trying to find myself, I was trying to run away from who I was becoming. From who they wanted me to be. From whohewas trying to force me to become. I can count the number of people who truly know who I am on three fingers and they only know because they’re my best friend, my assistant, and they sign my paychecks and have to send my taxes to the IRS. No one else knows my secret and that is for good reason. Without realizing it, I’m anxiously playing with the knitting of my sweater, stretching it out and poking my fingers through the knotted yarn. He must be able to tell I’m uneasy because he reaches for my hand and holds it in his, giving it a supportive squeeze.
“I guess we all have our pasts, don’t we?” He looks at me without judgment or pity, but acceptance and understanding. The way the corner of his mouth tips up makes me want to reach out and trace it with my finger, like a solid anchor I can reach for and hang on to when I feel lost at sea.
I scoff and try to pull my hand from his but he doesn’t let me drift away. Instead he wraps his fingers tighter around mine and pulls my hand into his lap and covers it with his free hand. My eyes fall to my lap as my heart does a flip in my chest before I drag them back to him. “Yeah, you could say that.”
“You know I won’t judge you for what you carry with you, right? I’m standing at the end of the line when it comes to having any room to judge another person. You can tell me things if you want to share them, little fox.”This man and his nicknames. If he doesn’t knock it off my heart is going to get the wrong ideas.
“Fuck buddies don’t make things personal,” I say, trying to sound disconnected and aloof even though I’m starting to feel anything but those two things.
“Who says I see you as just my fuck buddy?” He’s still holding my hand as he leans over his lap and brings his face to mine. As he does, I take in some of the finer details of the tattoos that fill the skin of his neck. I find a vein and can feel the pulse of his heartbeat visibly speed up.
“Don’t do that,” I challenge. “Don’t go and ruin a perfectly good thing by getting all up in your feelings. It’s?—”
“Just sex,” he finishes for me.
I swallow hard and hold his stare. “Yes.”
“If you’re so adamant about this being ‘just sex’ why don’t you let me fuck you once as if we’re something more than what we are and then you can tell me if it’s ‘just sex.’” He brings his face so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my lips. When he cocks his head to one side and smirks, I want to slap him and kiss him at the same time. When I don’t respond, he takes that as an okay to pull my arm so that I move closer to him and press his lips to my neck. When they find the spot behind my ear, I can’t stop my eyes from rolling into the back of my head, a labored sigh escaping from my lips as they do.
“Malcolm,” I sigh, quickly losing the firm grip I thought I had over this situation. When his hand slips between my legs and squeezes my inner thigh, I feel my brain starting to get more and more hazy.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, pressing harder, more powerful kisses to my neck. They almost feel like he’s marking his territory. Marking what’s his.
“Tell me you don’t want me to fuck you like I have real feelings for you. Tell me you don’t want me to completely undo you in the back of my truck and ruin you entirely for any other man you’ll try to be with. Tell me you want this to stay as ‘just sex.’”
My heart is starting to run away with my feelings and I can feel my brain starting to chase after them both. This isn’t what’s supposed to happen. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. One night. No sleepovers. No dates. This is why no dates! I want to tell him to stop, to take me home and run back into my condo, safe and sound from the stupid fucking feelings I have forced myself not to feel for the last four years.
But I can’t. And I don’t.
“I want you to fuck me like I’m yours,” I beg, pushing myself up and straddling his lap. My fingers rope themselves through his hair and give them a good hard yank, forcing him to look at me. When he does, he gives me a confident smirk that’s full of knowing.
“You already are, princess.”
He loops his well-defined arms under my thighs and lifts me up, stepping down from the tailgate and setting me down on the edge. My eyes lock on him as he pulls the shirt he’s wearing up and over his head, tossing it to the back of the bed of the truck. He takes a step towards me and reaches for the hem of my sweater, quickly pulling it off and laying it over the side of his truck. I’m wearing a simple nude bralette underneath, nothing overly sexy by any means but by the way Malcolm’s eyes are burning into me you would have thought it was straight up lingerie. Leaning down, he places a strong hand on my neck, his fingers reaching up into my hair and kisses me hard. Our tongues clash together, both of us trying to take control, and as they do I feel his other hand reach behind my back and unhook my bra in one go.
“Cute party trick,” I hum into his mouth, trying to keep our lips together as much as possible.
