Page 57 of Phantom Faceoff
“I need sex,” I say, because it’s the only thing I can think of to fix the crossed wires short circuiting inside me.
“Won’t be getting that from me.” He’s so matter of fact it makes my actual blood boil. “I bet Jules would let you fuck him if you asked.”
Anger pulses through the rising tide of frustration. “I’m not doing that anymore.”
He brings a hand to the back of my neck and clamps down. “Why not?”
“Because you asked me to stop.”
He applies the slightest bit of pressure, and I cave like a wet paper towel, my forehead colliding with his.
“Why do you care what I want?”
I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him.
I don’t need sex … I just need him to kiss me.
“Because I want you.” My throat feels raw and mangled. “Because that’s how I can have you.”
Silence. Anxiety-inducing, nauseating silence.
I squirm. He holds me in place.
After a few seconds, he adjusts me in his lap, and I let him. He pushes my face into his neck, looping an arm around my waist and holding me tightly.
“I’m sorry about your class,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry you feel like you need to get physical and shut down your feelings.”
Is that what’s happening? Is that what I’m doing?
Maybe. Why would I want to feel this way? Why would anyone?
Of course I want to shut it off.
“I won’t have sex with you,” he says softly into my ear. “Having a bad day doesn’t give you the right to have a bad attitude. It doesn’t give you the right to use me.”
My chest feels heavy, and my lungs feel wet, but when I try to push off his chest, he only tightens his arms around me.
“I said it doesn’t give you therightto use me, not that I won’t let you.”
He loosens his touch just enough that I can pull back to look at his face. To see the raw honesty that makes tears well up in my eyes.
There are no words for how his mouth feels when it collides with mine. How sweet it is. How every time I push to deepen it, he softens us right back up. Over and over until I give up the control and let him choose the pace.
I don’t know when the tears start to fall, just that I can taste them on our lips, which means Malachi can too. Neither of us acknowledge it.
When a sob sneaks out mid-kiss, he pulls me closer, strokes a hand along my back. Comforting. Encouraging.
Eventually, I can’t hold it together anymore and have to break away, but he pulls me into his neck again where I soak his skin, his work shirt. I’m sure he’s supposed to be back by now, but he’s not pushing me away. He’s not rushing me to bottle it up because he has somewhere to be.
“It’s okay to be disappointed in yourself,” he whispers into my ear. “A bad mark doesn’t make you any less of the arrogant superstar that you are.”
A broken laugh makes its way through the tears. “Fuck you.”
“I’m right.”
He is, and I’m too exhausted to be mad about it.
When the tears run out, I’m left panting into his shoulder, my body feeling like it’s been wrung dry and muscles screaming their discontent.
