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Fifteen
Connie
When I getto Lola’s Shack the following morning the air is humid, oppressive. Overnight it barely dropped below twenty-five degrees Celsius, and according to the barometer that’s fixed to the harbour wall, the temperature is steadily rising even though it’s only a few minutes past six am.
A drop of sweat slides down my spine, sticking my strappy, cotton dress to my back. It’s the lightest item in my wardrobe, the material thin enough to be see-through when the light is shining behind me. If I’m being honest, it’s not particularly practical for working in the Shack. Then again, I’m not wearing it for practical reasons.
This dress is for him. Malakai.
Biting my lip, I smooth my sticky palms against the skirt that skims over my curves in a gentle caress. Across the surface are tiny pink rosebuds that bloom the closer they are to the bodice. White, heart-shaped buttons run from the sweetheart collar to the waistband, cinching in my waist and pushing my breasts together in a way I hope Malakai notices. Beneath the dress I’m wearing purple lacy underwear, the straps in stark contrast to the white dress. I’m fully aware that my underwear is noticeable beneath the cotton. When I looked in the mirror this morning, I’d considered changing into a plain white bra and knickers combo, knowing that not only would Malakai see the contrast of my bra beneath my dress but also the fishermen. I don’t want their attention, just his.
Then I remembered how he reacted the other night. How other men’s attention had sparked a possessiveness in him, turning his apathy into jealousy.
Rightly or wrongly, I want to provoke that part of him.
I want him toseeme.
I want him towantme.
The way he held me the other evening had set fire to something inside of me. I’d felt both vulnerable and powerful simultaneously. He’d towered over me, all corded muscles and paper-thin restraint as his hand gripped the back of my neck, his fingers curling into my hair. I’d felt his breath on my skin, his cock straining against his jeans as he pressed against my hip and that flame within had roared. It consumes me now. I’m pretty sure one gust of wind will turn me to ash.
Iburn… for him. Only him.
Tendrils of hair flutter against my shoulder in a warm breeze, reminding me that I need to get inside and begin the day. I have the spare key Lola gave me yesterday, and gripping it in my hand I place it in the lock and turn, stepping into the Shack.
Sun streams into the café from behind me, a column of golden light that highlights the entire centre of the space and the end of a bright red sleeping bag. My heart leaps into my throat and I immediately think we have a trespasser, only to see the familiar black tribal tattoo that winds up an even more familiar arm.
I hear a low groan, followed by a gentle snore.
“Malakai?” I whisper, instantly feeling the rush of excitement mixed with trepidation when he’s near. Treading lightly, I creep closer. He’s lying on his back, his arm wrapped around the thin sleeping bag, his leg kicked out at an angle, that doesn’t look particularly comfortable, but must be given he’s still sleeping peacefully. The top half of his body is uncovered as he breathes deeply. When I drag my gaze down from his face to his broad chest and the edge of the sleeping big that covers his groin area, I realise that he’s not wearing any clothes. That he’s completely and utterly naked. Every muscle is defined, a deep groove separating each one, grooves I want to run my finger against. The v-muscle leading to his groin stands stark beneath his taut skin. My first reaction is one of flushed heat, followed by a burning fire, then a smouldering warmth that pools between my legs, enough for me to squeeze my thighs tight to ease the throb between them. I have an almost unbearable urge to touch Malakai, to press my palm over the smattering of chest hair, to push aside the sleeping bag and cup his dick in my hands. I wish I were brave enough to lean over and press a kiss against his skin, to slide my tongue along his bare chest, to scrape my teeth against his jaw. I’m not.
But I do crouch down. I do lean in close enough to see if I can spot the scars Lola spoke of, and the ones I saw covered by the black ink of his tattoo that morning when he cut his finger. Peering closely, I scan my eyes over his skin, able to make out a thick scar tissue that runs down the length of his bicep from his shoulder to his elbow. The closer I look the more I see. Tiny scars, no more than nicks are scattered across his chest as though he’s had a battle with a particularly nasty thorn bush. There are other scars too, circular ones that are puckered in the middle, all cleverly covered up by his tattoo. The artist did an amazing job of hiding them.
“Who did this to you?” I whisper, my voice tight and my heart thundering with the thought of what he’s been through. With no other thought but to soothe some of the pain, however far in the past it might be, I reach out and press the flat of my hand against his chest. The instant our skin touches, my palm tingles intensely, the same electric current that I’ve felt whenever we’ve touched before, running through his flesh into mine.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Malakai’s hand flies upwards, gripping me on the wrist as the air crackles with danger.
My head whips around as I look down at him. His face is shadowed, his heavy brows casting shade across his eyes.
“I-I’m sorry,” I stutter.
“Don’t touch me,” he says, yanking my hand back from his chest. My fingers curl and release beneath the tightness of his grip.
“I didn’t mean to…” My chest heaves as I scan my eyes over his skin. All I wanted to do was soothe him. I’m an idiot. I’ve no right to touch him. None. Guilt tightens my features as I wince with shame. For a moment I’m locked in his angry glare, but as the seconds tick by my guilt falls away. How can he deny this feeling between us? He’s mine and I’m his. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. It doesn’t matter that we’ve not acted upon it, or that we barely know each other. The heart wants what the heart wants.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he growls. He’s angry. So angry but it doesn’t change my thoughts or my feelings.
“Like what, Malakai?” I gently ask, swallowing the tremor in my voice.
“Like you want to fix me. I can’t be fixed, Connie. I don’t want to be.”
He sits up, still holding onto my wrist, his fingers gripping tightly over my pounding pulse that thumps beneath them. The sleeping bag falls lower, the silky material slipping over his skin that now seems to be covered in a light sheen of sweat, as though he’s burning up inside as much as I am.
“You’ve been hurt,” I murmur, my gaze dropping as I absorb all the scars that are scattered across his chest just like my freckles are scattered across mine.
“Youcan’tfix me.” He repeats, baring his teeth as though he’s about to bite. His anger makes way for confusion as I smile in the face of it. Somehow I know it isn’t aimed at me, not really. He’s angry at himself for wanting me and how can that make me fearful, sad? It doesn’t, because I want him too.
“What if I don’t want to fix you? What if I want all your sharp edges and jagged pieces? What if I want you to cut me, mark me, Malakai? What if I need that to feel alive?”
