could read into that all day if I wanted to. But the main thing was that we were alike. We understood each other. And it was because he understood me that he could teach me. And it was because he could teach me that I survived what happened later.
And since it was Marcus who taught me about love and lust, too, now I’m wondering if the same technique will work here. If I can just push through these waves of intense attraction, of wanting him so badly I can practically feel myself vibrate with need, of wanting him to just shut up about everything, stop trying to tell me lies or make it up to me, and just do what I want. Give me something that will make it all stop.
I don’t want to hear him. I don’t want to have to forgive him. I just want to get over him, and for that I feel like I need him. It’s like an itch I need to scratch. And I know that I can’t.
I touch his hand.
I see the sensation of that touch travel through his body, I see it ripple up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, until he’s turning to look at me, his expression softening, his eyes wide and burning.
Just touching him leaves me unable to breathe.
“Let’s leave,” I say. “Please, let’s go.”
Marcus swallows, his Adam’s apple dipping up and down. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse.
He grabs my hand, dwarfing it in size, and pulls me alongside him as he starts to walk down the street, away from Brison Wolfe.
“I’ll be in touch!” Brison shouts after us.
I can’t help but wonder what that’s about.
***
We’re past Driggs Avenue now, walking toward Bedford Avenue, and I remember myself enough to pull my hand from his. I sever contact, and it’s like it shocks both of us—we stop our brisk pace, Marcus looking at me, confused. It’s a strange moment. Like a spell has been broken.
We stare at each other for way too long. I’m the first one to try to cover it up.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” I ask.
“No,” he says. His voice is deep. I feel another wave coming on. Damn it.
“Marcus,” I say, taking a step back. “I wasn’t kidding before. I need an explanation from you.”
He looks pained. He opens and closes his hands. Finally, he says, “It’s not that simple.”
I’m getting pissed.
“Yes, actually, it’s exactly that simple. People do it all the time. They explain things. In fact, you should have done it before you left.”
“No,” he says, running a hand through his dark hair. “I just shouldn’t have left. At least not the way I did.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I say, throwing my hands up.
Marcus glares at me, irritated. “Sometimes things are complicated, Harlow! Will you just…Christ, Lo, look at me.”
Marcus grabs my hand before I can pull it back and the spell is activated. Whatever it is, it’s infuriating. Some kind of sense memory of this man, of everything he did for me, of the way he used to hold me, invades my mind and colors my perception of the present. I’m not just feeling Marcus’s hand around mine today, and I’m not just seeing him standing in front of me, begging me to listen. I’m feeling and seeing all the times Marcus Roma has mattered to me.
It’s a lot.
I look. And I listen. And I am mesmerized by those eyes.
“Harlow, will you at least believe one thing?” he says, and draws me closer. His thumb is pressing into the palm of my hand, moving in small circles, and his voice is urgent with need. “Will you please believe that I will do my damn best for you?”
I am transfixed, and for a second I’m falling for it. Completely. Because I want to believe that Marcus Roma will give me what I need, in every possible way. I want to believe that this feeling will leave me one day, that I’ll be free of both loving and hating him, that I won’t crave his touch like this. That I’ll be able to forget the things he put me through, the things that happened to me, after he left. That I’ll move on.
I really need to believe
And since it was Marcus who taught me about love and lust, too, now I’m wondering if the same technique will work here. If I can just push through these waves of intense attraction, of wanting him so badly I can practically feel myself vibrate with need, of wanting him to just shut up about everything, stop trying to tell me lies or make it up to me, and just do what I want. Give me something that will make it all stop.
I don’t want to hear him. I don’t want to have to forgive him. I just want to get over him, and for that I feel like I need him. It’s like an itch I need to scratch. And I know that I can’t.
I touch his hand.
I see the sensation of that touch travel through his body, I see it ripple up his arm, his shoulder, his neck, until he’s turning to look at me, his expression softening, his eyes wide and burning.
Just touching him leaves me unable to breathe.
“Let’s leave,” I say. “Please, let’s go.”
Marcus swallows, his Adam’s apple dipping up and down. “Yes,” he says, his voice hoarse.
He grabs my hand, dwarfing it in size, and pulls me alongside him as he starts to walk down the street, away from Brison Wolfe.
“I’ll be in touch!” Brison shouts after us.
I can’t help but wonder what that’s about.
***
We’re past Driggs Avenue now, walking toward Bedford Avenue, and I remember myself enough to pull my hand from his. I sever contact, and it’s like it shocks both of us—we stop our brisk pace, Marcus looking at me, confused. It’s a strange moment. Like a spell has been broken.
We stare at each other for way too long. I’m the first one to try to cover it up.
“Are you going to tell me what that was about?” I ask.
“No,” he says. His voice is deep. I feel another wave coming on. Damn it.
“Marcus,” I say, taking a step back. “I wasn’t kidding before. I need an explanation from you.”
He looks pained. He opens and closes his hands. Finally, he says, “It’s not that simple.”
I’m getting pissed.
“Yes, actually, it’s exactly that simple. People do it all the time. They explain things. In fact, you should have done it before you left.”
“No,” he says, running a hand through his dark hair. “I just shouldn’t have left. At least not the way I did.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I say, throwing my hands up.
Marcus glares at me, irritated. “Sometimes things are complicated, Harlow! Will you just…Christ, Lo, look at me.”
Marcus grabs my hand before I can pull it back and the spell is activated. Whatever it is, it’s infuriating. Some kind of sense memory of this man, of everything he did for me, of the way he used to hold me, invades my mind and colors my perception of the present. I’m not just feeling Marcus’s hand around mine today, and I’m not just seeing him standing in front of me, begging me to listen. I’m feeling and seeing all the times Marcus Roma has mattered to me.
It’s a lot.
I look. And I listen. And I am mesmerized by those eyes.
“Harlow, will you at least believe one thing?” he says, and draws me closer. His thumb is pressing into the palm of my hand, moving in small circles, and his voice is urgent with need. “Will you please believe that I will do my damn best for you?”
I am transfixed, and for a second I’m falling for it. Completely. Because I want to believe that Marcus Roma will give me what I need, in every possible way. I want to believe that this feeling will leave me one day, that I’ll be free of both loving and hating him, that I won’t crave his touch like this. That I’ll be able to forget the things he put me through, the things that happened to me, after he left. That I’ll move on.
I really need to believe
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