Marcus led me to the couch and turned off a set of headlights so that only a few lights shone behind us, creating a calming, enthralling dimness. Predictably, the movie became soon enough only a series of noises and images unfurling on the flat screen.
“We are terrible at watching movies,” I commented. I didn’t even know what movie he had chosen, and he didn’t elaborate.
“Tell me about your family, about growing up, about you,” Marcus urged. I felt a fuzzy warmth spreading in my blood, and I wasn’t sure it was only because of the wine.
“Any questions specifically?”
“You don’t get along well with your father, either.”
“Oh, so we are back to fathers. And that is not a question.”
I managed a smile that didn’t quite reflect my sudden mood change. Marcus tugged me closer to his side, his arm tightening around my shoulders. I remembered how he had placed his arm on the backrest of my chair in the movie theater and how uneasy it had made me feel. Now, the proximity was natural, desirable.
“My father has always been rather strict, for my own good, he said. I never went against him. Never got the courage. After all, his demands weren’t completely irrational. He does want the best for me, only we have different concepts of the best. Our relationship started deteriorating considerably ever since he ordered me to go to law school. It was the first time I didn’t obey him. A foolish mistake.”
“What did he do?”
Marcus’s voice was strained and his eyes deeply serious. I just stared down at our linked hands. I wasn’t exactly delighted to dig into the past when I had already resigned myself to the fact that I couldn’t change it.
“I had just been admitted to New York’s School of Visual Arts when my father made sure I got expelled. I had never comprehended the extent of his power and influence until then. Perhaps I hadn’t comprehended it clearly until I bowed to it. So I went to Law School instead. It’s been delightful ever since.”
“What about your mother? Didn’t she support you?”
“She did, in her own way.” I hesitated. Talking about myself or my family was never easy, especially when I still had mixed feelings about all those issues. “She was there, encouraging me, listening to me and my problems when they appeared.”
“But she never stood up to your father.” He sounded harsh, and suddenly, his body stiffened. I suspected he hadn’t had anybody to stand up for him either.
“She did, but James Burton is not an easy man to stand up to. In the end, she understood that and walked away.”
There had never been violence in my family, but sometimes, the constant disagreements were a heavier burden than physical cruelty, so when my mother had had enough, she packed her bags and moved to another country altogether.
My father, although I suspected he still loved her, was too proud to admit he had been wrong. They were not divorced, but they hadn’t lived under the same roof for years, and certainly, they hadn’t spoken unless necessary.
“So she walked out on you.”
“Things are not like that. I am very close to my mother, and she deserves her own happiness. I don’t blame her for seeking it elsewhere than by my father’s side.”
“I know. But I still wish somebody had taken your side.”
We leaned into each other, our lips brushing softly as we sought the comfort of intimacy. Kissing Marcus was always a potent experience, a perpetual oxymoron, where softness bordered on wildness and wildness became softness once more with a mere touch. He cupped my face and traced the line of my lips with his thumb, making me aware of the blood pounding frantically in my veins.
“Visual Arts. Which department?”
The sudden change of topic fused with the intense stare he kept trained on me was disorienting. When he looked at me with that single-minded intensity, he bared me. He watched me hungrily like he knew every part of my body.
“Mm—Photography,” I said in a whisper.
My throat suddenly felt dry and his gaze much too hot on my skin. I took a hasty gulp of wine, but the sweet burn of the alcohol made the blood in my veins feel even more heated.
“It’s not too late, sugar.”
Marcus caressed my flushed cheek with the back of his hand. The touch was searing. It was delicious. It was nearly not enough. The sudden thought made me gasp, and he smiled. While I remained confused, he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
“Don’t give a girl hope. Hope hurts more than admitting the truth, which is that my father has gotten what he wanted. I am a lawyer now.”
“No, Charlotte. The worst is not having hope. The worst is not following what you truly love.”
“For a person who is used to asking the questions, I’m certainly giving you too many answers.”
I laughed nervously. A weird sensation was unfurling its long, thick tentacles within me, seizing my breath and making my insides boil. I stifled the impulse to unfasten one or two buttons on my shirt. Marcus licked his lips, and the gesture only made me want to be the one moistening them.
“What do you want to ask me, Charlotte?” he asked quietly, sensually, tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear and making sure that his fingers lingered long enough on my jaw to make me tremble.
“I like how you say my name.” The words popped out of my mouth before I got the chance to filter them.
“That is not a question, either.” He spoke patiently, mimicking my earlier response, but his eyes were blazing.
“What about your childhood, Marcus? I imagine it was difficult after your mother—”
My eyes widened at my own intrusiveness, then I glared at myself and at my complete lack of diplomacy. Isaac’s wife had died when I was four, which meant that Marcus had been roughly seven years old. I didn’t even want to imagine a little boy attending his first day of school without a mother to give him a reassuring kiss and a bright smile to scatter his fears or bask in his illusions.
I was increasingly intrigued by him. I wanted to know everything I had missed in his life, but the negligence I had approached the subject with was mortifying.
Marcus pulled my legs from beneath me and dragged them in his lap, starting a slow, cadenced stroking that made the skin under my jeans tingle. He didn’t seem upset with my invasiveness. He only appeared—dismayed.
“I’d rather not talk about my mother, Charlotte.”
His jaw flexed, his eyes closed, and I was afraid he would start crying. When he finally did open his eyes, they were blazing again, but this time there was an underlying sadness too.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, frustration and embarrassment growing.
Marcus shook his head, but the air of sadness still enveloped him. He clutched my hands and brought them to his mouth, causing my lungs to stop working for a moment.
“You smell so good. Like tuberoses.” He kissed my knuckles and inhaled deeply as if he could smell my very blood. The fascination he was kissing and caressing my hand with beguiled me in return.
“I—”
“Any other questions?” Marcus prompted.
His tongue darted out, licking tenderly between my index and middle finger. His stares were shameless and challenging. I gave a start and inhaled sharply, a breath I forgot to let out.
“What about high school, college...” I was close to stammering. And it was hot, too hot. “Were you just as rebellious?”
“I believe that courses through my blood. It was even worse then.”
“I believe your rebelliousness is a defense mechanism.”
Leaning against the backrest, with my hand under his curious, persistent mouth, I took another sip of wine and assessed his reaction. He didn’t deny it.
“It might, or it might just be a failure of my character.”
“Don’t quote your father,” I admonished gently and tugged my hand back.
He was not only tickling my skin. He made it burn, causing a longing I was afraid to acknowledge. Marcus’s eyes snapped to mine, and it was difficult to say
whether his reaction was caused by my mention of his father or because I had withdrawn my hand.
The answer became clear when his grip on my fingers tightened, and he continued examining my hand. It was that single part of my body that he touched, kissed, and occasionally nipped on, and yet, the sensations he triggered rushed through my whole body.
“Why was it worse?”
“Growing up was difficult. I was a very secluded kid. Being rebellious, I guess, was the only way I found to socialize. I broke a lot of rules, got frequently punished, and pissed a lot of people. Eventually, I found other ways of consuming my energy.”
“Which are?”
Curiosity spiked, although with every passing moment I found it all the harder to concentrate. I took another swig of wine to calm my nerves.
“Tit for tat, Charlotte.” He sounded almost cautionary. And he simply didn’t stop touching me. If he could affect me this badly only by touching and kissing my hand, what would happen if he touched more? I felt dizzy all of a sudden. “How were you during high school, college...”
“I was—shy. Surprising, right?” I giggled. The sound came out shriller than I expected, and that made me giggle even more. “It was the reverse with me, I believe. When I was little, I was more open, more sociable. It was when I grew up, and all the insecurities kicked in that I became secluded and timid. It’s actually an annoying fault.”
“I don’t think your timidity is a fault. I find it very appealing, in fact.” He dragged his lips agonizingly slow from my knuckles to my wrist then upward, inch by inch, until he stopped at the inside of my elbow.
“So what other ways did you find to consume energy?”
“Sports,” he murmured against my skin.
“You mentioned more than one way,” I commented. I might have felt peculiarly dizzy, but I wasn’t easily sidetracked.
“And girls,” Marcus laughed, mischief in his eyes.
“Of course,” I muttered dryly.
Earlier, I had been curious about his former love life, but right now that thought didn’t sound as exciting. Right now, I felt dazed and warm, too warm. I also felt courageous and had an unexplainable urge to giggle again.
“How were boys for you?”
The question startled me as did his abrupt motion. He put his hands on my hips, and in one swift movement, he pulled me onto his lap. I laughed, drinking in his hot stare, then laughed again only because I liked the sound.
“Difficult to let in.”
“But you did let in some.” He sounded jealous. That amused me. I heard myself chortling again.
“Of course. I’ve been trained to become a lawyer, not a nun.”
“Don’t tease, Charlotte. Not with this. I don’t like it.”
Marcus actually growled. His nose nuzzled my throat, eliciting a low moan from my throat.
“Are you seducing me, Mr. King?”
“Yes, Charlotte, I am.”
His admission came without hesitation, and once again, I couldn’t help but think that he knew exactly what he was doing, how his touches and the proximity between us made me feel. Before I gave it much thought, I jumped off his lap to my feet.
My knees wobbled, my breath left my lungs in a rush, and my head spun violently. I realized I had been falling when my chest suddenly crashed into Marcus and his arms enfolded me in a secure embrace.
“Oops,” I giggled, looking up at him. He bowed his head so enticingly close that his minty breath fanned over my face. His lips looked a little swollen, tinted a glowing shade of red.
“I caught you,” he murmured and kissed my forehead. “I’ll always catch you.”
“Mm...” I mumbled, relishing the feel of his powerful arms holding me tight.
“You should have warned me that you have no trace of alcohol tolerance,” Marcus chided sternly, yet amusement flickered in the blue of his eyes.
“I’m very tolerant,” I protested and struggled to find my balance. Within the protective circle of his arms, I didn’t have to. “You’re swaying.”
I blinked twice, but my vision became blurred. A dull ache throbbed at the back of my head as if I had just bumped it against a hard surface. And he looked dreadfully concerned. I laughed, running my hand through his ruffled dark hair. It felt so soft.
“Of course, I am,” Marcus spoke sardonically, his arms steadying me once again. It was difficult to discern whether or not he was truly amused. “I cannot let you go home, Charlotte. I need to make sure you will be all right.”
“I am wonderful.”
Those parted red lips of his were truly tempting. I rose on my tiptoes and caught his face between my hands, pressing my mouth to his in an exploring kiss. He might have blamed the wine, but the desire burning through me was exclusively because of him. Marcus was doing strange things to me, but whatever it was, I didn’t want him to stop.
“I’m glad you say so, but I’d like you to kiss me consciously.” His long fingers covered my shoulder and gently pushed me away so he could stare into my eyes. The movement, no matter its gentleness, still made me feel lightheaded and weak on my feet. “Sit. I will bring you a coffee.”
The severe look he gave me and his sudden commanding voice compelled me to obey. The coffee, however, never came.
WHEN I RESURFACED, it was with an abrupt jerk, head pounding, heart beating violently in my chest, and sweat trickling down my spine, making me shudder. The nightmare felt so genuine, and its effect was so debilitating that I struggled for breath. I was sitting, my fists clenched and my jaw tightly set when I realized I was not alone. I almost shrieked.
“Charlotte, baby, it was just a bad dream. You’re not alone.” Marcus's voice sounded slightly disoriented and groggy from sleep.
He leaned backward, and a pleasant light came from a lamp nearby. I was lying between Marcus’s outstretched legs, my stiff back pressed against his rising and falling chest. He tightened his arms around me and pressed a kiss to my hair.
It had only been a bad dream. Nothing was real. I rubbed my face and my temples furiously, but the dull ache pounding in my skull didn’t evaporate so quickly. I couldn’t understand why I kept having those nightmares.
“Do you have nightmares often?”
“I—I’m—”
“Hey, hey, come here. Don’t cry, baby.”
Wrapping me protectively in his arms, Marcus dragged me down so he was sprawled on his back and I was laying half on top of him, half pressed against the backrest of the couch.
I relished the warmth and tightness of his arms around me. I delighted in his calming fragrance. And I was relieved that he was with me and I didn’t have to face the terror alone. I brought my hands to my face to find that I had been crying, perhaps a liberating, cleansing cry.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, wiping the tears away as I gazed into his troubled eyes.
“Tell me, Charlotte.”
It was neither a request nor a command. Marcus brushed my lips with his thumb, parting and molding them to his touch, momentarily scattering my thoughts. Perhaps instinctually or perhaps because I was still under the evil spell of the dream, I decided I should tell him.
“It was rather short this time. I was alone in my apartment, and it was dark. The doorbell rang, and some people got inside following me. I closed myself in my room, but they kept knocking on the door and kicking, and their laughter, the sneers—they got so loud, and I had no way of getting out. I opened the window and struggled to climb down. It was such a long way down, but suddenly, I was outside, on the ground, my feet bare. I started running. They were so close behind me and—Then I woke up. And you were here.”
I gingerly touched his stubble-covered cheek and hastily scraped my lips against his, my wordless attempt to thank him. But the laidback, comforting Marcus was gone. Instead, he had been replaced by a hard man, frowning up at the ceiling, his teeth clenched and his body suddenly cold. He swallowed heavily, and so did I, apprehensively waiting for his reaction.
“Do you have
nightmares often?” he repeated his earlier question.
“Sometimes,” I admitted. He looked down at me, a storm brewing in his eyes, and I knew then that he had connected the dots. He knew.
“The same or do they differ?”
“They differ.”
Marcus rubbed his shut eyes with stiff fingers before he opened them and watched me intently, a little fearfully in fact. I was suddenly frustrated with myself that tonight of all nights I’d had a nightmare.
“It’s because of Friday night, isn’t it?” His glacial voice startled me, and my throat was suddenly dry.
“Yes.”
“God, Charlotte.” A combination between a sigh and a sob was wrenched from his chest, and he trembled under my weight. The storm in his eyes intensified and grew turbulent.
“I’m sorry.”
I was sorry because he had to witness that. I was sorry because he had to know. I was sorry because I was not strong enough to eradicate that dormant fear from my subconscious.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing.” His sternness soothed and scared me. He wasn’t mad at me, but he was mad nonetheless. “I should be the one—”
“No. You have nothing to apologize for either.”
The determination in my voice was equally fervent. Taken aback, he blinked, then his brows furrowed slightly. Being so familiar with overthinking, I was able to sense the wheels turning in his head, spinning and reaching misplaced conclusions. I did not want him to take someone else’s blame.
I just wanted him to—
“Please kiss me,” I begged in a murmur.
With a reserved smile, Marcus complied, and neither of us could think anymore.
Chapter 15
Charlotte
Although I sincerely wished he could, however big of a distraction Marcus was, he couldn’t keep me from my duties forever. I stepped into the interrogation room, at first missing the young man perched on a metal file cabinet in the corner.
Commanding the whole room was Mayor Stewart himself. His gray eyes, so pale that they were frightening, looked at me, void of emotion, as I approached and stretched my hand for a handshake that raised goosebumps on my skin.
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