Page 32 of American Love Story

“So this was all planned. You got that toy to tempt me.”

I put a finger under my chin as if considering his question. “Maybe.”

He laughed and shook his head but didn’t have a retort. The silence was comfortable between us, no rush.

I watched him as he ran a hand over his collarbone, where he had another tattoo. This one just two words, “Ayiti Cheri” which he’d told me meant, “Beloved Haiti” in creole.

The skin where the tattoos were was a bit bumpy in places from keloid scarring. When I’d first asked him about it, he just said his skin scarred easily, and it was why he didn’t have more tattoos. I’d run my fingers over that skin so many times when we’d been together. Never getting anywhere near my fill when it came to Patrice. Which only made me remember what he’d called me while we were messing around.

“What’scheri mwen?”

He smiled, a little embarrassed, but I could see he was determined to say whatever it was. “It meansmy darling.”

Oh, there went those butterflies again.

I was so tempted to ask more questions.WasI his darling or was it just something he’d said in the heat of the moment?

I’d never heard him use it before with me—I would’ve remembered.

Did I want to know?

I didn’t want to lose the feeling those words had brought. I wanted to keep him open to me. Looking like I was a place of comfort.

But my insecurity won out and I asked the other thing I’d been wondering. “Why are you not freaking out right now?”

He lifted an eyebrow, looking a bit amused but mostly surprised at my question. Like he couldn’t believe I’d actually asked. He stared at me for what seemed like a very long time, his eyes not angry, but very intense as he considered his answer.

He turned on his side, his face pillowed on his strong arms.

I did the same and it felt so intimate, like we were face-to-face.

“I’m tired of not letting myself have the things that I want.”

It took him so long to respond, I was momentarily confused by what he said. Then it sunk in.

Iwas what he wanted.

I chose not to dwell on the fact that doing this with me had come as the result of some sort of battle he’d won against his common sense.

Again, against my better judgement, I opened my mouth. “Hearing you call me an object of your desire is doing things to me, Professor Denis.”

That look on his face, like he was caught between finding me utterly fuckable and somewhat obnoxious, made the butterflies in my stomach come out to play once again. But he didn’t answer, just let the information he’d volunteered sit there between us.

I decided to retreat then, feeling scared of pushing him to a place where he would pull up his defenses again.

I wanted this Patrice,my Patrice, around just a little longer, so I went back to safer waters.

“So dinner was uneventful then?” He lifted a shoulder and then brought his arm under his head, making those big muscles shift and flex when he moved.

“Yeah, my mom’s husband is out of town this week at a conference, so I missed him.” He chuckled at that for a second and then dipped his head.

“He helps run interference with my mom whenever she gets militant about my locs or tattoos, going to church, my nose ring, wearing sweats, or whatever thing I’m doing that drives her crazy.”

His tone was light but there was a tightness in his jaw, which told me that maybe it bothered him more than he’d like to admit.

“She doesn’t like your tattoos?”

Another shrug. “She thinks they give people the wrong idea of the kind of person I am. Like they’re going to make assumptions based on that.”