“I didn’t reject him!” I say quickly. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. I turn to look at Malcolm, and he has a slight scowl on his face. I’m sure he’s making a mental note to kick Callan’s ass later.
“You did,” insists Callan. “You’re gonna have to nurse that wound later.” He winks at me, and I feel Malcolm grow tense next to me.
“What? What did I miss?” says Tahoe, with his eyes still glued to the TV.
“Oh, nothing, it’s just that our boy here just got—”
“OOH!! FUCK YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT!!!” Tahoe shoots up from his chair and claps his hands together. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!!!”
I think something good just happened. Callan and Malcolm look back to the screen and join Tahoe’s little celebration. I feel Malcolm’s chest vibrate with his deep voice, and I feel my head instinctively sink a little closer to him.
He leans his head down to my ear and explains what happened. I nod, but all I can think about is how his voice sounds. Deep and manly. And I just want to crawl into his lap again.
He plants a kiss on my temple and looks back up at the screen.
This is too much. I try to move away from him, but he just tightens his arm around me. Fuck.
I hadn’t really been into baseball so much until now, and even though I’m so relaxed that I could tune out, Malcolm keeps reminding me that he knows I’m here with his stupid little touches. Sometimes it’s a kiss on the top of my head, or his hand on my thigh, or his thumb rubbing across the inside of my wrist. Each and every touch makes me dissolve and dissolve and dissolve. They’re little, insignificant touches, but they make my head swirl and my stomach flip.
I promised myself I wouldn’t, but by the end of the game my head is on his chest and his arm is holding me against him. Callan and Tahoe keep staring at us A) like we’re some kind of dinosaur/extinct animal they can’t believe is actually there before their eyes, and B) like we’re some kind of magical sight that might disappear in a blink of an eye. I can tell they’re not used to seeing Malcolm like this. And I feel like I’m playing with fire. I feel like the closer I cuddle into him, the more I relax into him, the more I let my head settle into the crook of his shoulder, the harder I’ll burn later.
At one point in the game, I stand up to get some air because I feel like I’m doing something I really shouldn’t be doing. It takes every single ounce of self-control I have to edge away from Malcolm’s huge chest and go to the kitchen. It’s like leaving bed on a Sunday morning, Malcolm being my own personal king-size mattress. The moment I leave I miss his warmth, his arms, the sound of his voice next to my ear when he talks. I remember I could even feel his abs move under my head. His stomach is rock hard. I shudder and focus on getting my cool back.
When I come back, I sit down with ten inches of couch between us again, hoping that I’m sending him a message. He doesn’t even think about it this time, just looks at me like I’m doing something funny, and snakes his arm around my hips again to drag me back to my place. Which, in his opinion, is under his arm and against his chest. And so we stay like that for the remainder of the game. Tahoe actually stands up at one point and gives my leg a little nudge because apparently I’m falling asleep.
They joke that it’s time for my afternoon nap, and Malcolm just tells them to shut the fuck up and watch the game. The fact is, I was actually falling asleep. He has a very comfortable chest—the asshole. I hate that he’s making me feel these things. I hate how I feel naked if I’m not next to him. I hate how I feel like a part of me has been ripped off if I’m not lying on his chest or his arms aren’t around me. And I hate how the guilt creeps up and starts to corrode me.
“Do your parents know you’re here? Bartender, you might want to check this girl’s ID again,” Tahoe says.
I glare. “Why do you insist on joking about my age?”
“T.”
Tahoe grins. “Yeah, Saint?”
“Leave her alone.”
I twist my hair up in a bun, suddenly feeling very female under Saint’s protectiveness. The sexual chemistry leaping between us is undeniable. The more I try to suppress it, the more I’m aware it’s there.
Tahoe laughs and reaches out to tap my shoulder, presumably wanting to tell me something.
“Don’t touch her, Roth,” Saint says.
Tahoe leans back. “Dude, do you have to have them all?”
“You can have your pick of anyone.”
“Well then—”
“Except her,” he says, not even looking at me to see if I agree. “I won’t say it again.”
He stands to go get more wine and Tahoe grins, while Callan leans across the coffee table. “He’s in a piss mood.”
“Why?”
“Old man is having a commemorative event for his mother. If Saint has a button, that’s it.”
“His mother? Or the dad?”
“The combination,” Callan says.