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I haven’t heard a peep from the Fosters in five days now.
Not from them. Not from my Malcolm about them.
Nothing. Not even confirmation of my suspicions about the explosions that took out a large building on the South Side.
It’s almost as if they don’t exist, and I like it. Love the peace and normalcy I’m experiencing.
Things that to other people are boring, I’m enjoying—from doing laundry to watching a cooking show during the middle of the day—there’s no rush in my schedule or fear of someone’s wrath. I’m just being me. Thinking. Figuring at my pace what I want to do with the rest of my life.
For the first time, nothing’s off the table and everything has possibilities.
My life at the moment is domesticated bliss, while tomorrow I could go back to school and he’d be just as happy for me. He enjoys my cooking, more than Magda’s, but will adjust if that’s what I need. I am falling for this man more and more every day.
His generosity. How sweet he is with me.
How safe I am because everyone around us respects him.
The small things he does to let me know he cares.
Like now, I’m at the stove finishing our dinner as he walks through the door that connects the garage to the house. He’s smiling at me with a long-stemmed rose in his hand. It’s a light blush and in full bloom. “Honey, I’m home,” he croons with this handsome-ish, cocky grin on his face that only he can pull off. His strides are long as he walks over, the dark pinstripe three-piece suit he’s wearing looks delicious on his body. This man is perfection. “Miss me?”
“Someone’s in a good mood.” Taking the flower from him, I crook a finger, so he crouches a bit to my level. Without any kind of heels, it’s hard to reach him even if I stand on the tip of my toes. When he does, I don’t hesitate to kiss his smiling mouth. Just a quick peck, then nibble. “And thank you.”
“I’m in a great mood.” Malcolm wraps his arms around my body, pulling me closer. Chest to chest. “You’re here, and the food smells delicious. What’re you making?”
“Enchiladas two ways.” My own hands explore. Caressing his arms and then shoulders, I dig my fingers in a bit on my way to the nape of his neck where I embed my fingers in his hair. “Then for dessert, I made my very first flan.”
Making our dinner has become my thing. Gives me a chance to spoil him a bit.
Magda gave me complete use of her kitchen, and I gave her the afternoon off. She’s been here for years and I didn’t want to step on her toes, but when I mentioned wanting to do this, Magda just gave me a huge hug and told me to go nuts and have fun. That this is my house too.
“Fuck, I’m a lucky son of a bitch,” he groans and then slants his mouth over mine. This kiss is hungry, a full possession of my senses as his tongue meets mine—caressing and tasting me. His body is wound tight against mine. Muscles clenching, Malcolm picks me up and places me on the countertop beside the stove, stepping between my parted thighs and pressing his throbbing length against my cotton-covered core.
The thin material of my shorts lets me feel him. All of him.
His slacks do little to hide his desire for me, and I want more.
To explore, and I almost say this when the timer goes off.
“Don’t stop,” I beg, but he pulls back. Just a few steps, but it does nothing to cool the need burning through my veins. “Ignore the food. Come back.”
Malcolm shakes his head, that same shitty grin is back. “No.”
“Why?” I pout, eyes wandering down his body and settling on the thick outline of his length. “I’ll leave it in the warmer and—”
“I’m going to run upstairs and take a shower…” my mouth opens to protest, but the predatory gleam in his eyes shuts me up “…behave, and I’ll eat you for dessert later, instead.”
“Have I thanked you for dinner yet?” His lips skim my ear, causing goose bumps to break out across my skin. His breath fans across my neck and then lower when he nibbles on my shoulder. “Told you how fantastic it was?”
“Only about a hundred times.” I’m sitting between his spread thighs on the living room couch with my back to his chest. His bare chest. There’s some thriller movie playing in the background, based on a book he seems to love, but for the life of me I can’t concentrate. I’m tense. Aware of every solid inch of him and this overwhelming need to please him.
Maybe it’s because of how gentle he’s been with me or the way he helps me sort through my thoughts. How he never fails to ask me what I want or what plans I have for us in the future.
How proud of me he was when I told him my desire to open a foundation that helps women escape violent situations. Victims—women and children—who have no way out of the nightmare they live in. People like myself; who escaped because someone cared enough to save them.
Malcolm inserts himself so flawlessly into my tomorrows, and I don’t find myself minding his company one bit. I value his opinions. His intelligence.
Everything about him drives me crazy in the best of ways. I want more.
