“Frankie—”
“NO CHATTING.” I point at him. “You’ve done enough and do I smell like you?”
My nerves prickle at the thought and I sniff my shoulder. Yup. I reek of him.
He drags a hand down his face. “You’re being so dramatic, fam.”
“I'm a Jamaican woman,” I hiss. “What do you expect?”
He stands. “I expect you to breathe.”
I start throwing my things into my bag so that I can leave. “Well, I can’t.”
Now he’s in front of me, reaching for my arm as I look right into his chest. That big, strong chest that buried me most of the night. And those arms that wrapped me up. And how could I forget about that chain that dipped low and dragged its pendant across my skin every time he strokes.
“Hey—” he grabs me and I jerk back like he’s electric.
“Don’t touch me! Touching leads to more things, and clearly, we cannot be trusted.”
He tries —and fails— not to laugh.
“Stop laughing at me!”
“I’m not,” he laughs. “It’s just, you’re so adorable when you’re flustered.”
I pinch his nipple. “Stop. Chatting.”
He hisses and then massages it tenderly. “Ow, ow, ow! Not the chest!”
“Oh shut up you big baby.”
I pull on my underwear.
“Okay,” I say, nodding rapidly. “Here’s the plan. I leave. I never speak to you again. If we see each other, we act like this never happened.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Great!” I fling the blanket, yank up my dress, shove my feet into my shoes without buckling them and slang my bag over my shoulder.
“Except for one issue,” he adds.
I pause. “What now?”
He steps into my path.
“I wanna keep doing this with you.”
My blood gets cold. “Huh?”
“We can keep this up as long as we want to,” he explains gently, “nobody saw. Nobody knows. We’re fine.”
Oh no, it IS a messy situationship from hell.
“I’m gonna go now.” And then I move, darting around him and sprinting for the door before flinging it open.
“Frankie—”
“DON’T SAY MY BOMBACLAAT NAME!”
