Checking out the goods I carry, he sits up, the muscles of his arms rippling with the move, and smiles at me. When I automatically smile in return, I feel vulnerable, real . . . and human. Why I chose to open up to a guy like him is beyond me. But I feel like my walls are still not erect. I don’t want to put them back up yet.
“Coffee, or me?” I lift the coffee cup and my eyebrow at the same time.
His laugh is soft and raspy as he drags a hand through his rumpled hair, looking even more handsome as he tsks and shakes his head. “You don’t know by now?”
“How greedy you are? You’re right, I do know. I bet you want both.”
He flashes an all-mischief smile as he pats the side of the bed, calling me back to him.
I head over with the coffee, and when he takes his cup, I slide into bed with him. We sip coffee in silence.
Before I’m finished with mine, he takes my cup and sets it on the nightstand closest to him. In one smooth, strong move, he presses me down on the bed and I fall back, breathless as he braces himself above me, his arms long and taut. He takes my fuzzy socks off. His fingers brush my arches, and I can’t hold back a choked little laugh. “Your feet are ticklish, Rachel?” He’s amused. I love how he says Ray-chel.
I nod, growing more and more breathless.
He presses his lips to mine, hard, not forcing me to open up, just soft, warm, demanding lips pressing down. I feel myself yield; and I love how he softens the kiss the moment he feels my resistance vanish. And I love what he’s doing now, giving me some earlobe love, licking me, tugging and kissing my lobe, his breath warm on my ear. “You’re such a man-eater, Rachel. I’m disappointed we didn’t break your bed, though.”
He stands, and he is beautiful and virile and edible as he dresses. “How’s Saturday?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“How’s Saturday for you?”
“I, um. For breaking my bed? I might be free Saturday.”
He laughs lazily, completely relaxed this morning, all the tension from last night’s event with his father completely gone. He totally fucked it out of himself. “Pick you up at noon? Wear something comfortable.”
“Wait. What? Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Butterflies in my stomach. Followed by tangled ropes, reminding me I can’t be feeling like this. I’m not a girl anymore, I’m not free to fall for a boy like this. Not this boy. I could not have chosen a worse time, an even worse circumstance, or a more elusive man to fall for. “Sin, no, I just remembered I can’t. I just can’t.”
He studies me; then he nods quietly. “I’ll call you, then.”
“I’ll be busy all week,” I lie.
I need space between us, I need to get back to the groove of work. He stops by the door and I already miss him—the distance between my body and his suddenly too much. God, what’s wrong with me?
A minute later he drives off to his office, I suppose, and when I can’t seem to work, I unhook my phone from the charging outlet, power it on, and, like an addict, already worrying about when her next hit will come . . .
On the other hand, I just moved some things. Saturday is great.
I step into the shower, then check his message when I step out and wrap a towel around myself.
Good
Oh typical. He’s so limited with words! I quickly wrap a towel over my wet hair and text back:
You know, I like words. You can totally use a few more
Good girl
Hahah OK.
I had a good time
Me too. I already miss you
Oh boy. Did I say that? I stress about it. Then before he can answer or feels obligated to say something like that, I quickly text:
Ok, gotta get back to work. XO
I set my phone aside and then take out my notepad, trying to write something, but I find myself doodling his name.
Malcolm Saint
23
STATUS
He changed his status.
He actually changed his Interface, Facebook, and general social media status.
I feel like there should’ve been an alert, something like an earthquake. If my stalking has told me one thing, it’s that he’s never done it before. In a relationship, it says. And considering mine still says I’m single, I wonder if Malcolm is even talking about me.
It’s the weekend after he slept over, Saturday, to be exact, when I text Gina. DID YOU SEE?
She doesn’t answer. I call her cell phone.
“Did you see?”
“Hmm.”
“Where are you?” I demand.
“Rachel, I’m sleeping. I’m next door.”
“Are you alone?”
“Of course I’m alone,” said Gina.
“I’m coming over.”
I flip my laptop open and cross the apartment to her room, make her scoot over, hop on her bed, and show her. She reads, frowning as if she can’t figure out the emergency, then her mouth flaps open.
“Wow.”
“Come on, it’s more than wow.”
“Double wow.”
She looks at me, scowling bleakly. “Wow!” she explodes. “This is a whole new level of playerness that’s just . . . so Paul-like.” She scowls and is agitated and mad. Normally I’d agree with her. This is a douchebag move. But she doesn’t know the details—that he is also a human being. That he has, incredibly, not really been accepted by his parents.