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Bring him with you.
MJ
“Jackson?” I call.
“Yes, Mam.”
“Did you take these in?”
“No, Mam.”
“Some security.”
Although, it is Malachi. I’ve learned through this time that Malachi appears to be able to do just about anything. Gray told me about it, explained the way he’d influenced everything to, and I quote, made him behave less like a calculator and more like a human. I quite like the calculator. Still. He’s honest. Sharp. Sincere, even if the brusqueness of his statements can be rude as hell on occasion. But the human - I smile and pick out a yellow rose, sniffing it and spinning some more – the human is all kinds of beautiful. He’s engaging. Swoon worthy. Romantic when he feels the need. Talkative. Intelligent. Appreciative. He’s also arrogant and pig headed, but I ignore that, mainly because he’s hot as hell when he’s in that mood.
“Small.” The sound of him makes me turn, a smile on my face, and watch as Jackson leaves the apartment. “And pointless. You should be at mine.”
“But I like mine.”
“I don’t.”
“How did you get in?” He holds up a key card, as his large body moves around my space carrying a small paper bag with him. “You’re not supposed to have that. You only stipulated that Jackson should have one for safety.”
“Oops.” Oops? Where’s that come from? “Who are they from?” he says, not even looking at the flowers he’s talking about.
“Jealous?”
“Yes.”
I laugh. “Good. Continue being so.”
The twist of his head back to me, a maddened glower of disapproval on show, does nothing to make me behave any differently. I’m starting to understand this new version of him now, and he needs this from me just like I need that fleeting sense of fear that passes through me occasionally when he’s being obnoxious. It reminds me of his power, of that time he decimated my skin just because I let him. That’s what we were back then, what we still are now, and what we’re becoming in this new reality we’re creating for ourselves.
“Who?” he growls.
“Really, Gray. You’ll be getting duelling pistols out next.”
“Hannah.”
“Yes Gray?”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“I’ll fuck it out of you.”
I smirk. “I’m a shivering wreck at the thought.”
Although, I can still feel the imprint of his idea of reconnecting from last night all over my skin. It hurts a bit. A lot, actually, but I roll my shoulders to ease the ache and head into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine for us to share regardless. Pain is just a thing with him. It’s who he is, even out here in the real world. Hostile in bed mostly, harsh, unyielding, but somehow that bonds us in a love no other would understand without somewhere like Malachi’s castle behind us.
Two weeks we lasted. Two weeks. Nine dates, two of which were in his apartment with him showing me remnants of his childhood, and the rest of which were perfectly gentlemanly, and then enough was enough with the simplicities of dates according to him. He said it was stupidity to deny ourselves any longer. That we were past that now.
I disagreed.
It got me nowhere other than running around his apartment, clothes being torn from me as I ran, in the hope that I could evade him. I couldn’t. Didn’t want to in reality either. I yearned and ached as much as he did, and that constant underlying need has only been enhanced by his ability to behave like a true gentleman these past weeks. It’s created a new start, a beginning that is full of what it already was, but now has some kind of innocence to it that was never here before.
Uncorking the bottle, I sway back into the room and spin again, giggling. I suppose I could have kept it going, made the whole dating thing ongoing for as long as I chose, but I relented under the pressure of him against me. Who wouldn’t? He’s everything I’ve never had before. Dirty. Raw. Angry in his handling and yet tender in the aftermath.
