I halt in my tracks and turn back to face him. “You still haven’t told me why you went to prison.”
“You still haven’t asked.”
Anthony watches me across the room, and I see apprehension in his eyes. There’s a tightness to his face. Perhaps he’s upset that he has to explain his history to new people. Maybe he’s ashamed about whatever occurred in his past.
The need to assure him I don’t think differently of him, no matter what happened, claws at my insides. I want to comfort him, let him know that we all have pasts to contend with. Unexpectedly, my vulnerability overwhelms me, and I talk.
“Did you know my dad had a heart attack?” I rush the words out, because I don’t like hearing them and might back out of telling him everything. “He was a fit, healthy man. Loved to cycle and play sports. Never drank or smoked in his life. One day he just … dropped to the ground and never got back up.”
Anthony watches me, unmoving.
“I guess you could say my mum didn’t cope too well once he died.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, fingers grasping onto the elastics I now carry with me everywhere. I pull them out and stretch the fabric around the outside of my hands. I push them as tight as they will go, the fabric cutting into my flesh with satisfying pain. “Anti-depressants, alcohol, opiates. Whatever she could get her hands on. I was living with my grandparents about three months after my dad’s funeral.”
I clear my throat, my eyes stinging as I do my best to create the tree-like design I watched on YouTube earlier in the week. “Long story short, she ended up dying of liver failure about ten years ago. Plus side of both your parents dying, is they leave you a shitload of money.”
A humourless laugh escapes my mouth. My fingers get stuck in the elastic knots. I attempt to pull my hands apart to unravel it, but it won’t budge. I pull again, and again, and again, before a low grunt escapes my mouth.
And then Anthony is there, right in front of me. He cocoons my hands with his, stilling me. “Let me.”
I can taste blood in my mouth from where I’ve bitten down on my lip and my eyes are watering. I fix my gaze on Anthony’s hands, watching as he gingerly manoeuvres mine around the string, freeing them first, followed by the knot.
I don’t care that a tear rolls down my cheek. I don’t care that Anthony reaches his hand up and tenderly wipes it away. I force myself to look up at him and my body freezes, as if I’m caught in a trance-like state as the world around us becomes a blur.
“You can let people in, Kali,” he whispers, curling my hands into his bare chest. He holds them there, his gaze never wavering from mine. “You can letmein.”
I shake my head. “It’s safer not to.”
“Safer doesn’t necessarily mean better.”
Another tear splashes my lips with salt. Anthony gazes at me, his eyes ablaze with concern and something else I can’t pinpoint.
“Your therapist has done a great job with you,” I mutter. “You could be a life coach.”
Anthony chuckles, squeezing my hands still cocooned at his chest. “I’m told I’m very good with my handsandmy mouth.”
I snort and try to pull my hands away, but he yanks at them with such force that our bodies collide with a resoundingslap.Not a painful slap, but rather one that signals we’re skin to skin, the sound echoing off the walls. There’s no space between my stomach and the warmth of his exposed abs.
This is the closest I’ve been to him. His scent is magnificent. Like sweat and salt andman. His hooded eyes gaze down at me, his tongue dipping out to run across his bottom lip.
“We should order some food,” I whisper.
“We really should.”
Anthony holds my stare and adjusts his grip, keeping a grasp on both of my hands with one of his, while his right hand slides down the front of my sports bra to my exposed stomach. With a sudden jolt he shifts my body so that I'm straddling his right leg.
I gasp as the apex of my thighs grazes the hardened length tucked into the side of his pants. Anthony is silent, his eyes hyper-focused on my face.
Asking for permission.
My wordless, intense gaze gives him the answer he’s searching for.
Anthony drops my hand so he can hold me steady at the waist. Both hands dig into my flesh as he pushes me down his thigh and pulls me back towards him, my most sensitive spot igniting at the friction against his length.
He steers me backward, and forward.
Backward.