He choked out a laugh as she slid her hands from his shoulders to rest on his chest.
“Stop thinking so much.”
Thinking was all he could do for so long. It was how he made sense of this senseless world. Thinking was how Maurice had survived. He didn’t know how to turn it off.
Her hand went to the back of his neck, fingers pressing hot against his skin, and his thoughts broke apart, scattering and exploding with light.
Every move she made, from her breath to her heartbeat, reverberated through his body as they swayed. Maurice didn’t know if they were standing or dancing, or if they were following the beat. All he knew was that Monique fit against him like an obvious answer to a question he didn’t know he’d asked.
“You’re still thinking too much,” she said, resting her cheek against his shoulder. Her breath fanned over his chest, making his nerves misfire. “What are you thinking about?”
Everything.About how her waist curved under his hand into the gentle swell of her hips. About the rest of Song of Songs and doves’ eyes and gardens and pomegranates. About how he’d spent his life training himself not to want and forgotten it all in just two days. About how his body responded to her with a low, insistent heat that he couldn’t control. “Not sure.” He took a deep breath and started over. “That’s not true.”
“Then tell me what is.” She leaned back and their eyes met.
The music changed into something sultry. The lights dimmed, or maybe he could only focus on Monique and how she pressed herself closer. All of her against all of him. Her breasts against his chest. Her hips plumb against his.
“This feeling. What’s happening between us. I want it to be true.”
“Me too.” Monique placed her thigh between his legs like they were creating a dovetail joint. The feelings that bum-rushed him were just as strong, just as beautiful. His body responded. Immediate. Inevitable. Heat and pressure and want that he couldn’t hide even if he tried.
He went still. Monique felt it; he knew she had from the small catch in her breath, from the way her fingers flexed against his neck.
She didn’t pull away. “Maurice,” she said. His name in her mouth sounded like an invocation and felt like permission.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” Her hand moved to his jaw, turning his face toward hers.
“Don’t apologize for being human.”
Human.That was one thing the state said kids like him could never be. First, he was an at-risk youth, then a super-predator and a thug. And then they called him killer, convict, and felon, before adding inmate to the list. Never human. Never child, not even when his name and picture were plastered all over thePhiladelphia Daily News.
This time, he knew he was frozen. Standing there in a euphoria that she’d inspired, but he was ill-equipped to make a move in one direction or another.
Her eyes held his, steady and sure. “Walk with me.”
They left the music and the lights and the knowing looks. Walked down the steps and onto the landing where the bay reflected the lanterns in amber and gold like paint smears on a dark canvas. They found a rocky wall near the water and sat, watching another group of visitors set out to experience magic.
“You wanna talk about it? About what has you so deep in your head?” Monique’s voice was soft, like she was offering comfort and not condemnation. “I figured we shouldn’t”—she jerked her head toward the restaurant—“do it in front of our entire family.”
Right. The family who were definitely watching. Tommie was probably taking notes to mess with him later.
His throat tightened, and he struggled to clear it. He liked it here, in the quiet of the rainforest. It made it feel like his issues were microscopic, like those plankton, maybe?
Monique didn’t touch him. He didn’t reach for her, even though he wanted to. God, he wanted to simply hold her hand. But he wasn’t sure if he could say all that needed to be said if he started touching her.
“Last night, I promised youlater, Monique, and you deserve to be able to make an informed decision about…”
“Us?”
He nodded. “I didn’t want to assume anything.” His heart lifted at the prospect, even though he had no idea how to be anus.
Taking in a long, deep breath of sea air, he told her everything. About how he was a sad, scared kid, couch surfing and squatting with his mom until he met Tommie and the Lanes. About Tommie’s dad, who, in his own quiet way, had been the first man who had shown him love. About how his mother was being abused while he was being loved on.
He told her all the things he didn’t have the vocabulary to articulate thirty-some-odd years ago. Not that there was anyone who could do anything about it back then.
“And that’s how you ended up in prison?”