Honey and Spice(91)
Malakai shifted up and moved so his chest was covering mine, the weight of his body feeling like the ultimate comfort blanket. He stared down at me, eyes dark and coruscating, the corner of his lips kicked up as he scanned my face, his breathing as jagged and irregular as mine. His thumb scooped a rivulet of sweat from my forehead and he casually examined the droplet.
I frowned. “What are you—” I stopped, fascinated. He rubbed his thumb, my perspiration, his meticulous work, on my bottom lip, and sucked it into his mouth in a slow, exquisite kiss that made my core tighten again. It was depraved, it was divine.
He brought his forehead to mine. “Thought you didn’t sweat?”
I laughed and pushed his face away from mine. “You’re.” Pant. “The.” Pant. “Worst.” I was amazed I could even talk: I’d just orgasmed with a guy for the first time. Ever.
And there was the fact that no one had ever looked at my body like Malakai looked at my body. Because Malakai didn’t just look at my body, he looked at me. And he heard me. He listened with his hands and his eyes.
I swept my thumb across his jaw and tugged at the waistband of his sweatpants. He’d given me something. Maybe I should give him something back. Just as I began to slip my hand down his waistband, his hand flew to my wrist, held on to it.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you want to—”
“Do you want to?”
I hesitated. I wanted to in the abstract. Like, I knew I wanted to. I wasn’t sure if I was ready to right then, but—
Malakai gently moved my hand away and planted a kiss on my collarbone. “We have time, Scotch.”
I sat up and watched him quizzically for a moment, then pulled my panties up, grabbed my bra and refastened it. Was I being rejected? Again?! I moved a little further from him on the bed.
“Um, you sure? Because I feel like I got the most out of . . . that. I’d get it if you felt like maybe I didn’t reciprocate enough?” Oh my gosh. I was bad at this. I was so bad at this. Malakai made me feel powerful but also sensitive. Like my heart was comprised of a billion tinier hearts. Why was I acting like such a dork? I cleared my throat.
Malakai’s brows furrowed. He was looking at me like I was nuts but also like he wanted to hold me. He was looking at me like I was a meowing puppy. “What? Okay. No. Stop. Can you get over here? You are way too far away from me right now.”
I closed the space between us, climbed on him, and sat across his legs, thighs bracing his. “Hey.”
Malakai’s eyes were angel down. “Hi. Look, Scotch, I need you to know that I got a lot out of that. You were amazing. And it feels good to make you feel good. I like making you feel good.” His gaze harbored a faint, diluted version of the same blessed wickedness they had when his fingers were inside me, conjuring electrical storms within me. I got an instant sharp trill between my legs. Realizing how much I liked Malakai made me realize how much I wasn’t quite ready. It was a big deal. It would be a big deal with him. I just got a hold of what this thing was between us. I needed to secure myself more before we increased the weight of it. I didn’t want to lose balance.
“So, just know that. Whatever you decide you want to do, make sure it’s totally on you. Not about me.”
I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I know. And I think I was just caught up just then. I, actually . . . I don’t think I’m quite there yet. I mean, I’m on my way but—”
“You don’t have to explain, Scotch.” He brushed braids from my face. “We can go slow as you want. I’m ready when you’re ready. I’m gonna be here.” He smiled. “Trust.”
I swallowed and stared at him. Hot stinging tears sprung to my eyes. My chest felt full and lighter at the same time. This was mortifying. I was crying like some kind of virgin nerd. I mean technically, yes, I was a virgin, and okay, yes, I was kind of into fantasy cosplay, but I wasn’t a virgin nerd. I was a virgin bad bitch. Also, I could drive. I was no Cher Horowitz. Plus, I wasn’t crying because I was a virgin bad bitch. I was never ashamed of that. There was no shame in that. Sexuality doesn’t define either way. I knew that. I was crying because—why the hell was I crying?!
Malakai drew his head back from me, eyes widening with panic. “Oh man . . . Kiki? You okay? It’s not that I don’t want to, I promise—shit, am I making sense?”
He was adorable. This made me want to cry more. He looked so sweet and so stressed. I kissed the corner of his mouth. And then his jaw. Then his ear.
“I know you hate being called cute but you’re really fucking cute.” I smiled at Malakai’s mock frown, which made him impossibly cuter, and whispered against his lips, “And sexy. Not every guy can be both. I happen to like it. A lot.”
“Yeah?” He murmured his smile into my mouth. His delight tasted like mine. “Well, I like you a lot, Kikiola Banjo.”
It felt as good as all my best feelings melded into one: iced lemonade on a hot day, the first time I listened to the album Lemonade, hot Lagos rain on my skin while riding a bike around my grandad’s compound when I was twelve, finding a five-pound note in the pocket of a jacket, sun between my shoulder blades, a bookmarked pair of shoes on sale, someone cancelling plans I was dreading, the taste of ripe plantain fried golden, the way Frank Ocean repeats “pleasure” on “Pink Matter,” but somehow more. Somehow wider, somehow deeper. Something that was part of me now, fusing into my skin and into my soul. It made me feel like I was floating, flying, and falling at the same time. Like I was ascending while rooted safely. Before I got the chance to analyze it further, Malakai was kissing me again, and I was kissing him back.