He lifts our hands and slowly kisses my knuckles. When he lowers them, I’m panting little breaths. He smiles at me and I smile at him as he lets go, his touch lingering on my skin.
“You turn me on like nothing else,” he whispers.
He kisses me softly but briefly. Then he snaps out of it and turns back to watch the player on home base. The ball is hurtling through the air, and with a smack, I realize the batter made contact and the ball is heading somewhere out in midfield.
Malcolm is ecstatic. The whole stadium is screaming. If the Cubs get two men in, they’ll win the game . . .
One hit.
The crowds stand.
Malcolm stands.
I stand.
A roar outside, and suddenly I’m crushed in his arms and flung in the air so hard my breath leaves me.
“Malcolm!” I cry. He catches me, kisses me, squeezes me and twirls me around, grinning down at me. And when he sets me down, his eyes go from fiery celebration to something stormy and uncontrollable.
He slides his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, and this hug is different. “I just want to make you smile,” he says, gazing back at me and I guess I’m still smiling.
“I like your smile too,” I admit.
We hug again, and stay there, watching the stadium. We’re starting to feel like a couple, like Wynn and her boyfriend are, like Saint was made to hold me just like this. His huge hands just cradle me to him as the stadium empties and we wait to leave.
He’s rubbing his hands against my back slowly, moving his head until his lips are rubbing against my neck. It feels amazing. Beautiful. Warm. Soft. And I can feel my breaths coming faster, but a tightness is here. He’s holding me, and just when I think I can’t possibly like it more, he keeps embracing me and doesn’t let go as we finally walk out. He leads me out of the stadium.
It feels cold outside in the parking lot, I can see the trees folding, swaying, bending with the force of the cold Chicago wind. The Windy City—the name came about because of the hot airs some city politicians and braggarts put on in earlier centuries, though many people think it’s because of the wind. And this is exactly why.
As we wait for Claude to bring the car, some people are approaching to greet him. A man with two girls, one on each arm, who smiles and exclaims, “Saint!”
“Hillz,” he says tonelessly, taking my hand before they can reach us and leading me to his car.
“Why don’t you want me to meet them?” I ask once we get in the backseat.
“You’re too good for some of my crowd,” he says in my ear.
My stomach starts churning. God, these butterflies just don’t cease. It’s like someone’s tickling your stomach and you feel like you might burst out giggling at no particular time for no particular reason, except I know I’m about to get kissed to death. The black leather seats feel cool on the bottoms of my legs. The partition is closed between us and Claude, and as the car drives away, Saint takes my face in both of his hands and gives me a light, soft kiss. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Thanks for inviting—” Before I can finish speaking, he starts kissing me. And I let him deepen the kiss.
Instantly it’s like we’re molded into one, our movements are in sync. I can feel his hands on my body but my head is somewhere out in space, dancing next to Jupiter and counting Saturn’s rings. It’s like a high. A hot, burning, needy high. I lose it a little bit and straddle him and run my fingers through his soft hair. His mouth is on my neck, hot and wet, sucking and kissing.
I feel like a teenager, making out with him in the back of his car. I can’t breathe. I just let him do whatever he’s doing because it feels like heaven. His fingers play with the waist of my shorts, tracing circles and gently rubbing my skin. I kiss him again and start to rub against him. He groans and grabs me by the ass, using one hand to grind me closer, harder.
His other hand reaches between my legs and unbuttons my shorts. My heart beats so loud it seems to be the only thing I can hear. I feel him smile against my lips.
“Want me to stop?”
His lips latch on to my skin and his tongue traces slow, lazy circles on my neck.
“Never. Kiss me,” I plead.
He kisses a perfectly delicious path back up to my mouth.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” He licks my lips and keeps kissing me, hungrier than before. His hands are dangerously close to touching my panties, but he keeps running circles along my navel, his mouth moving deliciously against mine.
He tears his mouth from mine and drags his lips back down the column of my neck, sucking, nipping, tasting, nibbling.
“You turn me on like nothing else,” he whispers.
He kisses me softly but briefly. Then he snaps out of it and turns back to watch the player on home base. The ball is hurtling through the air, and with a smack, I realize the batter made contact and the ball is heading somewhere out in midfield.
Malcolm is ecstatic. The whole stadium is screaming. If the Cubs get two men in, they’ll win the game . . .
One hit.
The crowds stand.
Malcolm stands.
I stand.
A roar outside, and suddenly I’m crushed in his arms and flung in the air so hard my breath leaves me.
“Malcolm!” I cry. He catches me, kisses me, squeezes me and twirls me around, grinning down at me. And when he sets me down, his eyes go from fiery celebration to something stormy and uncontrollable.
He slides his arms around me and pulls me into his chest, and this hug is different. “I just want to make you smile,” he says, gazing back at me and I guess I’m still smiling.
“I like your smile too,” I admit.
We hug again, and stay there, watching the stadium. We’re starting to feel like a couple, like Wynn and her boyfriend are, like Saint was made to hold me just like this. His huge hands just cradle me to him as the stadium empties and we wait to leave.
He’s rubbing his hands against my back slowly, moving his head until his lips are rubbing against my neck. It feels amazing. Beautiful. Warm. Soft. And I can feel my breaths coming faster, but a tightness is here. He’s holding me, and just when I think I can’t possibly like it more, he keeps embracing me and doesn’t let go as we finally walk out. He leads me out of the stadium.
It feels cold outside in the parking lot, I can see the trees folding, swaying, bending with the force of the cold Chicago wind. The Windy City—the name came about because of the hot airs some city politicians and braggarts put on in earlier centuries, though many people think it’s because of the wind. And this is exactly why.
As we wait for Claude to bring the car, some people are approaching to greet him. A man with two girls, one on each arm, who smiles and exclaims, “Saint!”
“Hillz,” he says tonelessly, taking my hand before they can reach us and leading me to his car.
“Why don’t you want me to meet them?” I ask once we get in the backseat.
“You’re too good for some of my crowd,” he says in my ear.
My stomach starts churning. God, these butterflies just don’t cease. It’s like someone’s tickling your stomach and you feel like you might burst out giggling at no particular time for no particular reason, except I know I’m about to get kissed to death. The black leather seats feel cool on the bottoms of my legs. The partition is closed between us and Claude, and as the car drives away, Saint takes my face in both of his hands and gives me a light, soft kiss. “Thanks for coming with me.”
“Thanks for inviting—” Before I can finish speaking, he starts kissing me. And I let him deepen the kiss.
Instantly it’s like we’re molded into one, our movements are in sync. I can feel his hands on my body but my head is somewhere out in space, dancing next to Jupiter and counting Saturn’s rings. It’s like a high. A hot, burning, needy high. I lose it a little bit and straddle him and run my fingers through his soft hair. His mouth is on my neck, hot and wet, sucking and kissing.
I feel like a teenager, making out with him in the back of his car. I can’t breathe. I just let him do whatever he’s doing because it feels like heaven. His fingers play with the waist of my shorts, tracing circles and gently rubbing my skin. I kiss him again and start to rub against him. He groans and grabs me by the ass, using one hand to grind me closer, harder.
His other hand reaches between my legs and unbuttons my shorts. My heart beats so loud it seems to be the only thing I can hear. I feel him smile against my lips.
“Want me to stop?”
His lips latch on to my skin and his tongue traces slow, lazy circles on my neck.
“Never. Kiss me,” I plead.
He kisses a perfectly delicious path back up to my mouth.
“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” He licks my lips and keeps kissing me, hungrier than before. His hands are dangerously close to touching my panties, but he keeps running circles along my navel, his mouth moving deliciously against mine.
He tears his mouth from mine and drags his lips back down the column of my neck, sucking, nipping, tasting, nibbling.
