We sit there for a moment, silence passing between us slowly as he releases his finger from his head. A small red blotch marks the pressure point he was holding, directly in the middle of his eyebrows. He lets out a breath, blinking his eyes open and squinting at the ceiling. The lights around the bed are dimmed, a thin ray of moonlight coming through the crack in the curtains, the rest of the hotel room hidden by shadows. If I weren’t next to him in this bed, I wouldn’t be able to make out his face. His blue eyes are almost icy when he turns to face me, the moonlight flickering across his face as the curtains sway next to us.
“Am I acting different?” he asks, his voice still light like before, but there's a twinge of speculation underneath, as if he’s starting to feel more like himself and can tell that he is actingcuckoo.
“A little.” I smirk. “But it’s kind of adorable.”
“You’re kind of adorable.”
“You keep saying things like that.”
“I mean them.”
“You’re concussed.”
“Am I?” he asks contemplatively.
I bark out a laugh. “Yes. You are the epitome of concussed. I hardly recognize you.”
“Weird. I feel like myself.” He shrugs, turning to face the ceiling again.
“You are definitely not yourself. You’re saying the most off-the-wall things, probably thinking them too.” I laugh again, watching him watch the ceiling. He stays upright against the headboard, his usual metal rod posture on display against the wood of the bed. Not everything about him is different, that’s for sure.
“I’m not thinking anything out of the ordinary.”
“You sure about that?” I pose the question, twisting to face him better. “Earlier you called StevenStevie Poo.”
“What?” He looks mortified, wide blue eyes crystalizing with terror. “You’re lying.”
“Scout’s honor. You said, and I quote, ‘I think you’re the best, Dr. Stevie Poo.’”
Malcolm throws his hands up to his face, pressing his palms into his eyes, and lets out a humiliated groan. I can’t help the laughter that bubbles out of me. It flows out faster than the waves at high tide on the beach, one on top of the other. I laugh for who knows how long before I collect myself and take a deep breath. When I look back at Malcolm, he’s watching me. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes are serious—and fixed on me.
“What?” I ask around a gaspy breath.
“You’re beautiful, Kate.”
“You’re delirious.” I try to shove his arm, but he catches my wrist, pulling a swift maneuver that drapes my arms around his shoulders and my torso across his chest. The movement makes me dizzy.Thatand the smell of his soap. A splendid kind of dizziness that makes me breathless, clinging to him like my life depends on it.
“I mean it.” He strokes a piece of hair away from my face, grazing his thumb down the side of my cheek. Wild tremors move all over me at the motion. His eyes are heated as they scan me, feeling like a warm caress on my face. “You are the mostbeautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.” He rests his hand on my collarbone, and my chest heaves under his fingers as they trickle back and forth. His touch is tender and slow, but the intensity in his eyes is blazing.
“I think…” my voice trembles and eyes flutter, fighting to stay open and focused. “I think you need sleep.”
“I need you.” He continues stroking, moving up my neck and down my shoulders with both hands.
My voice is a weak whisper in response, “Malcolm…”
I don’t know what to say. I can’t get my brain to focus on anything but his hands and the slight parting of his lips. For a moment, I feel lost in the sensations, the burning in my chest, the tingling in my arms and legs, the tremble in my lips, my body reacting to him in a way it never has. My mind and body feel fragile, vulnerable, like they’re far from one another, in places they’ve never been, being held together by Malcolm’s touch.
I reach for any sense I have left floating around me, but before I can pull away, his hands are gripping my face and pulling me flush against him. His lips crash into mine with a soft hunger, slow at first, then growing in intensity. Before I know it, I’m kissing him back, surrendering to the decadence of his mouth on mine. The taste of sweet mint tingles my lips, and the scruff on his face nips me in all the right places. The fragility of myself tethers to him like a lifeline, my emotions swirling around in a chaotic whirl around us.
I feel greedy, gripping at his face, his shirt, his arms. Anything I can touch, I reach for. I rake my hands through his damp hair, and his lips tremble in response. Need rushes through me, like a jolt of lightning from my head to my toes, reaching every end of me. His heart hammers in his chest against mine, his breathing rapid and uneven. His hands move from my face, down my spine, and around my waist. I can feel the resistance in his squeeze, the urge he’s fighting to pull me closer. I want him to.
Then he stops.
Pressing his forehead against mine, lips swollen and breath heaving, his eyebrows are furrowed with pain etched on his face. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.
“Your head?”
He nods slowly, the motion worsening his pain. I slide over next to him and pull him to me, letting him rest his head on my chest. He lets out a sigh of relief and relaxes under my arms. I squeeze him tight against me, and he follows suit, wrapping his arm around my waist as he settles into the mattress. The pounding in my chest starts to slow.
