Dark Notes(41)

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Down the street.” He grips the steering wheel with a strong hand and merges into traffic, slowly, confidently, like this is his road and he has all the time in the world.

A minute later, he pulls into Louis Armstrong Park and sets his sunglasses in the cup holder. A short walk takes us to a shaded park bench, where we sit side-by-side and dig into our Hook ‘Em Up sandwiches. The thick bread is piled high with meats and cheeses, requiring two hands to hold it.

Halfway through the sandwich, my stomach aches. I wrap up the leftovers, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and stare out over the green-tinged duck pond. “What did you and Stogie talk about?”

“You.”

Maybe I should be surprised by his honesty, but I’m not. He’s always been direct with me, a trait I’ve come to depend on. If only I could do the same. I want to tell him everything. But he would report me. How could he not?

He takes another bite, and I covertly study his jaw flexing and throat moving as he chews. It’s strange watching a man eat. I’ve never done that. Not consciously. I feel like I’m invading his privacy.

When he goes for another bite, I realize he’s not going to elaborate.

“What about me?”

He swallows, grins. “This is really good.” Another bite. Then another.

Two young black men walk along the opposite side of the pond, but the park is otherwise empty, the sun too high and hot for a lazy stroll.

“Mr. Marceaux…”

He continues to ignore me as he finishes his lunch between long draws on his bottled water. Then he sets my uneaten portion aside, throws the trash away, and lounges against the back of the bench beside me, hands relaxed on his thighs. “I asked him how your living expenses get paid.”

Jesus, he’s like a dog with a bone. I twist and untwist the lid on my water. What would Stogie think of me if he knew what I’m doing? And Mr. Marceaux? He’d probably spank me then expel me. My heart gives a heavy thump.

“What else did you talk about?”

He turns to face me. “Tell me why I’m here.”

To finish that almost-kiss? Do I want that? My hands shake. “I don’t know.”

“You do know, and I want to hear you say it.”

I look away, eyes on the pond, but every inch of my body focuses on him. On the shift in his breathing, the tick of his watch, the lift of his arm as he touches my chin and forces my head to turn back.

His eyes reflect all the luminous shades of the sky, but they’re colder, so terrifying this close up. I refocus on something safer, the ducks on the pond. But his gaze fills my view, his face staying with me, his whole body moving, anticipating my moves. He won’t let me escape him. I want to run.

And I want him to catch me.

The fight in my muscles evaporates as he pulls me into his lap. My pulse kicks up when he arranges my legs to straddle him. His thighs are columns of stone beneath me, powerful and supportive.

Sitting on him, against him, isn’t a bad feeling. It’s much safer than being beneath him, which has been my only experience with other men. But I don’t know where to put my hands. After an awkward moment, I let my fingers gravitate to his t-shirt.

His chest twitches against my palms, the ridges and indentations of muscle like bricks in my hands, so unlike anything I’ve ever felt.

I muster the courage to look up, absorbing the dark shadow on his jawline and the defined curves of his cheekbones. The blue hues in his meteoric eyes fire a voltage of warmth way down deep, below my waist, between my legs. The sensation makes me want to reach up and trace the shape of his lips. But I’m too nervous, too unsure.

It feels like there are invisible strands between us and they’re winding tighter, pulling, shrinking, and strumming with tension.

I sway closer. “Is this why you’re here?”

He meets me halfway, dipping his head, and his mouth drags a sigh across my neck.

I shiver and heat up. My fingers tighten on his shirt, my hips relax in his lap, and a strife of emotions frantically flap in my brain. The position puts my * right up against him, flush with the long rigid evidence of his hunger. It should be enough to make me recoil, to pull away, but I can’t. I don’t want to.

“Ivory,” he breathes along my jaw. His hands clench against my back, pulling my chest to his as he nibbles a trail of pleasure to the corner of my lips. “Yes.”

His mouth slides over mine, lips brushing, warm and soft and nice. Strong hands move up my neck, cup my jaw, and angle my head. He presses his lips harder, parting them, opening mine, and the first touch of his tongue shoots a thrill of electricity down my back.

My whole body should be shrinking, cringing with disgust, yet the rub of his tongue, the flavor of his mouth, and the pressure of his fingers against my head liquefies my insides into a needy simmer. Instead of jerking away from the strokes of his tongue, I lean in, stretching my mouth and deepening the connection.

A groan vibrates in his chest, and my own moan claws out as his lips move deliciously, firmly, against mine, touching me in a way I’ve never wanted or enjoyed. Over the past four years, I’ve been fed pools of drool and gagged by countless probing tongues. But I’ve never been kissed. Not like this. And I’ve never kissed back. Never experienced this kind of intimacy with a man while thinking, Don’t stop.