Malcolm helped her to her feet, steadying her as she swayed slightly. He didn't speak, just nodded politely to the others and muttered,
"We're turning in." His hand lingered at the small of her back longer than necessary, like he didn't trust her legs or the people watching them leave.
She walked fine. Steady, even. But he didn't let go. His grip wasn't tight, but it was firm. Protective.
Once inside the guest room, he shut the door behind them. Locked it. Then dragged the chair across the floor and wedged it under the knob. Not rushed, but methodical. Like he'd done it a hundred times.
She blinked at him, the buzz from the wine still warm in her veins. "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he walked the perimeter of the room—checked the window, pressed his palm against the walls, listening. She watched him, confused and increasingly uneasy.
Then he turned, jaw tight.
"No," he said, voice low and edged with frustration. "You drank at the table. What are you doing?"
"I—nothing."
He sneered, tired. "You're drunk. Shut up."
She opened her mouth, then closed it.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to untie his boots, keeping his eyes low.
She kicked off hers with a little more force than necessary, then crawled onto the bed. She hesitated for a second then climbed onto his back, hands on his shoulders.
"What the hell, Iyisha?"
"Why are you angry?" she asked, voice soft, playful. A pout tugged at her lips.
He exhaled hard through his nose and stood, shrugging her off gently. "Just go to sleep. You're drunk."
"I drank a little," she said. "I'm not drunk."
He looked at her then. Really looked. "Then what are you doing?"
She froze under his stare. "I don't know."
Her cheeks went red. Her body felt too warm. She didn't move.
He laid back on the bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes locked on the ceiling like it held answers. Silence filled the space between them.
She stood at the foot of the bed, peeled off her pants slowly, leaving her in her boxer panties and shirt. It wasn't a performance. She just didn't want to sleep in them.
He groaned, dragged his forearm over his eyes. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Doing what?"
"Jesus, Iyisha."
She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed beside him. Close enough for their knees to touch.
He stared straight at the wall, unmoving.
She tilted her head and poked him lightly. "What are you thinking?"
He didn't answer.
She scooted closer, her chest pressing against his arm. He stiffened.
"Maybe," she whispered, "you could teach me tonight."
"Maybe not," he said, still not looking at her.
"I liked the tongue," she murmured, eyes locked on his face.
He turned sharply, his gaze snapping to hers.
She laid her hand on his chest with a silly grin. "Oh my gosh, you're hard everywhere, huh?" she teased, eyes wide like she'd surprised even herself.
He didn't move. Didn't laugh. Just stared at her like she was making everything harder for him than it already was.
She ran her fingers slowly over his chest, not thinking, just feeling the warmth of his skin through the fabric. "You work out a lot or is this just natural?"
"Iyisha," he warned.
She bit her lip, grin still lingering. "What? I'm appreciating."
He grabbed her wrist gently but firm enough to still it. "You keep testing me like this, you're gonna find out what happens."
Her breath caught. The playfulness shifted. Her face flushed deeper, but she didn't pull away.
"Then kiss me," she whispered.
He didn't.
Instead, he sat up, slipping out from under her legs, and rolled to the side like he needed space—like getting away from her was suddenly urgent.
She blinked, confused, still on her back, looking up at the ceiling.
Then he switched places with her entirely, maneuvering quickly until she was beneath him, pinned by his arms braced on either side.
"Let go," he said, breathless.
She didn't. Her arms stayed around his neck, her legs still loosely hooked.
He stared down at her, jaw clenched, trying to keep his expression blank.
"You just wanna pin me down," she teased, raising her brows.
His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something but didn't.
She grinned wider. "It's okay. You can admit it."
He didn't answer. His jaw tightened, and his eyes dropped down—just for a second—to where her legs were still wrapped around his waist. He groaned low in his throat, rough and almost animal.
Then he kissed her.
She moaned softly against his mouth, the sound slipping out before she could stop it. His hand came up to cup her jaw, firm and demanding.
"Let me in," he murmured, voice gravelled and hot.
She didn't answer.
He kissed her harder, and his tongue slipped past her lips, claiming her mouth with a hunger that made her shiver.
She wanted more. Her hands slid around his back, pulling his body down on top of hers. He resisted at first, arms locked, but then surrendered with a groan and let his weight settle over her.
She felt it, the solid pressure of him pinning her to the bed, skin warm through fabric, his body heavy and real and hers for now.
His kisses trailed down her neck, slow and heated, his tongue and teeth brushing over sensitive skin until she whimpered. The sensation sent a wave of heat straight through her, and her hands moved instinctively, exploring the sculpted lines of his back and shoulders, needing to feel more of him.
She pulled him back up for another kiss, hands on his shoulders as she guided his mouth to hers. He groaned in response, low and rough, and kissed her again, harder this time, like all his restraint had finally broken.
Then she felt it—a sharp, sweet jolt of pleasure deep between her legs, even with the boxers still on. Her breath hitched, and she moaned again, this time louder.
He was grinding against her slowly, unconsciously, and the pressure sent heat curling through her spine.
She pushed him up slightly with both hands, panting, and looked down.
His hardness was grinding right between her legs.
She stared, stunned by how much she felt even with clothes in the way and by the sheer size of his bulge grinding against her. Too impossible to ignore.
She moaned each time he pressed against her, hips shifting up to meet the friction, and in her mind she couldn't help but imagine what it would feel like if there were no barriers between them at all.
Then, out of nowhere, her co-worker's voice echoed in her head—sharp, sarcastic: "Pregnant? That's like a death sentence now. Who wants to be pregnant?"
Iyisha's stomach turned. Her breath caught.
She pushed Malcolm away with both hands, firm but not panicked. He sat up, confused. Then she turned her back on him without a word.
"Iyisha," he said, voice low.
She didn't answer.
"Iyisha," he called again, sharper now.
Still nothing.
He cursed under his breath, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. The door slammed shut behind him.
She curled onto her side, pulling the blanket over herself, guilt burning through her even as her body still pulsed with need.
But her mind clung to fear.
And fear always won.
At least for now.