Chapter 21: My Rules

Malcolm made chicken wings, and he made them badly, and I ate eleven of them standing at his counter with sauce to my wrists.

"You said nothing complicated," he said.

"These are not complicated."

"They're burned."

"They're burned on one side. It's a flavor."

He laughed, and then he stopped laughing, because I had licked a drop of sauce off the base of my thumb and he had watched me do it.

The loft was lit by one lamp.

The quilt was folded at the foot of the bed, and I noticed that he had washed the sheets.

I washed my hands at his sink.

I dried them on his dish towel, and I turned around and looked at him across the room.

"Malcolm."

"Yes?"

"It's Friday."

"I know."

"You get one question a day."

"I haven't asked it."

"Then ask it," I said.

He crossed the room slowly and stopped a foot from me.

His eyes were dark, and his hands hung at his sides, and I could hear him breathing.

"Can I kiss you?"

"Yes."

He kissed me, and it was not like the shop.

There was no anger in it.

He took my face in his rough hands and kissed me slowly, taking his time, and I made a sound against his mouth that I did not recognize.

I pushed him backward until his legs hit the bed.

"Sit," I said.

He sat, and I stood between his knees and pulled his shirt over his head.

I put my palms flat on his chest, over the scar on his ribs, and felt his heart going under them.

"I make the rules tonight," I said.

"Yes."

"Say it again."

"You make the rules."

I unbuttoned my blouse while he watched.

He didn't touch me until I let the blouse fall, and then he put his mouth against my stomach and breathed out slowly.

"I have wanted to do this every day since the loft," he said into my skin.

"Then do it."

His hands slid up my back and found the clasp, and my bra came away.

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