by Alyssa Cole
Thabiso prepared himself to comfort her. He was opening his arms when she stepped away from him.
“I need to go.”
Thabiso shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sure. I mean, do you want me to . . . ?”
He looked at her, brows raised in question.
Can I help?
She shook her head.
“I just have to get to school. For this meeting.” She touched his arm, and then took off down the hill, phone in her hand. She had been opening for him on the bench. Even after he’d painted himself into a corner. But now she’d slammed shut again.
She was in trouble and wouldn’t turn to him. Worse, he still hadn’t revealed himself to her.
He looked around the park and sighed as he tried to figure out his way back to the train. He’d gotten himself into a fine mess, indeed.
Chapter 16
I’m sorry.
Ledi ignored the text from Portia that popped up on her phone screen as she sat in her living room, sipping a well-deserved wine cooler. The Harbor Fog was the best Julio the bodegaman had to offer, and even if it was sickly sweet, it was better than thinking of her horrible news.
It was also better than thinking of the silent apartment across the hall, and how she’d had to fight the urge to go knock on the door and ask Jamal to make her feel better when she returned from her emergency appointment at the dean’s office, despite the fact that she’d run off on their date. She knew he could make her feel better—that he would—and that made it even more imperative that she sit tight in her apartment, just as she always had when shit hit the fan.
Since when had she needed outside help with anything? Even Portia had no idea when Ledi’s life got really rough, most times, because what was the use of burdening others with her bad news? She’d always kept her deepest feelings more safely hidden than porn on an unlocked laptop—folder after figurative subfolder of false file names to mask her true feelings from those who might click through. But Jamal had gained access to the folder labeled NothingToSeeHere after just a few days. She’d opened herself to him and, frightening as it was, she wanted more. Oh god, she wanted more. She wanted to curl into his lap again, to let him touch her and kiss her and make her forget that her life was in the midst of derailment.
Heat throbbed between her legs and she pressed her thighs together as if that could ward off thoughts of the man who’d barged into her life. The one who would likely be just a few yards away from her at some point soon. The skeptical, superstitious part of her wondered if his presence wasn’t connected to her bad luck.
You let your defenses down. When you do that, the bad can get in with the good.
There was nothing scientific about that line of thinking. There was no way that a few days with Jamal had led to her current situation, but it felt like it. Just like getting excited about the practicum hadn’t caused the government to shut down the Task Force, even though it felt like it. Feelings couldn’t be quantified like data in R, but that didn’t make their effects any less real.
She sighed and took a sip of the sweet wine.
It didn’t matter in the end. Jamal was temporary. Mrs. Garcia would be back soon, and all Ledi would have left of him would be memories of how he’d given her the best and most inappropriate orgasm of her life. She’d regretted having to leave him in the park, but now she was wondering if that wasn’t for the better. He was a complication she just didn’t need at the moment.
That didn’t stop her heart from racing every time she heard a sound in the hallway.
Her phone buzzed again, and she finally gave in and picked it up to read Portia’s message.
Look, I was worried and drunk, and I acted like a jerk. I went too far.
A picture of a growling Doberman came through, followed by a pic of a sad Doberman puppy. Portia knew Ledi couldn’t resist random dog pics. She sighed and texted back before she could think better of it.
I forgive you. Mostly because my life is falling apart and I need you to do friend-type things like tell me everything will be all right.
Whoa. Naledi Smith is admitting she needs help.
*looks out window*
*sees pig flying*
*shoots pig with bow and arrow and brings Naledi bacon*
What happened? Did you find out something about Jamal?
Let me just call you. Ledi tapped on the phone widget in the messenger app.
Portia picked up on the first ring, groveling like the pro that she was. Then she listened sympathetically as Ledi explained how her field study had imploded.
“Damn. Well, I was going to invite you out tomorrow night anyway, but you definitely have to come now.”
Ledi sighed. “Going on a bender won’t help this.” She took a sip of her wine. A moderate amount of booze would, but moderation wasn’t a concept that Portia was always on familiar terms with.
“I wasn’t going to suggest one.” Portia sighed. “My parents want me to go to some fund-raiser tomorrow night and I have an extra ticket—I guess they were hoping I’d magically find a guy who didn’t give me hives after one date to drag along with me.”
Ledi was going to point out that Portia didn’t do dating so much as hooking up, but it seemed superfluous.
“Their friend who works for the Department of Public Health, Dr. Okri, will be there. She’s way into mentorship and all that socially upright stuff, so I can make an introduction and see if she can get you an internship or whatever it is you need.”
Hope fluttered gently in Ledi’s chest. Could it be that simple? Really? She didn’t want to use her friend’s connections to get ahead, but she’d tried playing it straight and that hadn’t gotten her anywhere. She’d avoided all the extracurricular meetings, eschewing the networking that would’ve provided her with more options, so now she’d have to get over herself and get out into the world.
“I’d really appreciate that, Portia. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I’m your friend and I care about you.” Portia’s voice had gone serious, and Ledi couldn’t help but wonder what that was about. “Ledi, look. I saw something kind of weird on social media yesterday . . .”
Ledi put her wine down on the chipped particleboard surface of her coffee table and sat up straight on her futon. She’d been so busy talking about her own problems that, for maybe the first time ever, she hadn’t inquired about Portia’s well-being.
“Everything okay?” she asked. Portia was somewhat popular on social media and had cultivated a small following with her artsy pictures, trivia spanning a wide range of subjects, and interest in everything and everyone. It wasn’t a problem, but sometimes she drew the ire of weirdos.
“Yes. It’s just something about the fund-raiser.” Portia went silent then.
“Um. Okay. And what would that be?”
There was a long pause, one that was nine months along, at least, as far as tension went.
“Oh it’s just . . . the dress code is formal.” Portia said, following it up with a short, clipped laugh. “Make sure you look stunning. I can lend you a dress if you want. Or pick something out for you if you want to hit up Nordstrom.”
“I have a dress,” Ledi said. “But thank you.”
“Great. I’ll pick you up at eight tomorrow.”
When Portia disconnected, Ledi was tempted to call back and ask what was really going on, but she had to worry about herself first, even if just for that night. She opened the web browser on her phone and continued searching for open epidemiology field studies, as she’d been doing for most of the afternoon; having a backup for your backup was just common sense.
After an hour of searching, she’d compiled a list of four positions that were still unfilled and three people she could cold email. She wasn’t convinced that any of the leads would work out, but she’d at least reminded herself that she was capable of rolling with the punches and handling problems as they arose.
She stuck her phone on the charger and flopped back on her futon. She heard the foots
teps in the hallway, but her stomach had stopped flipping after several false alarms—it was a busy night in her building. From the smell of weed drifting under the door, the hipster down the hall seemed to be having a party.
This time, though, she heard the keys jingle, and the door to Mrs. Garcia’s apartment open and close. Disappointment diffused through her as she lay splayed on the bed.
Sure, she’d ditched Jamal on a hilltop in upper Manhattan; she’d still expected that he’d check in. She grabbed her pillow from across the bed and pressed it against her face, embarrassed for herself. A few days and one great fingerbang didn’t mean anything on the NYC dating scene. Connections in this city were fly-by-night, at best, and in this case more than others, but she’d allowed herself to have expectations, like a fool.
That was when the knock came.
Maybe it’s a lost party guest.
The knock came again, more insistent.
“Who’s there?” she called out, wanting to save herself the inevitable disappointment when she opened the door full of silly hope and found some random dude dropping Visine in his eyes instead.
“Special delivery for a graduate student having a no good, very bad day,” a rich, accented voice answered. The hope she felt was still silly, but it pulled her up off her futon and toward the door almost as fast as when the UPS guy was waiting outside the building with a package for her.
She pulled the door open and, just like that, her protective membrane was pierced, her defenses were down, and the draining events of the day were wiped away by Jamal’s bright smile. Her heart beat faster and elation sped through her. She’d once worked in a lab that researched addiction, and had watched as rats provided with cocaine-laced glucose would mope about until a researcher approached with their refill; then they’d be zooming all over the cage, eager for their next hit. Ledi thought perhaps she understood their reaction a little better now.
“Hi.” Why did she want to touch him so much? Why was she smiling so hard that her cheeks hurt, despite her definitively shitty day?
“Hello,” he said. He held up a bag, and she didn’t have to open it to know what was inside. She could smell the lunch meat, oil, and vinegar of her favorite sandwich as soon as the bag moved. “We didn’t get to eat, and maybe you were too busy to grab food since you had meetings, I assume? I just happened to pass the bodega—” He stopped talking, and his smile faded as he shook his head. When his gaze met hers again, it was intense, insistent. “Enough of these false pretenses. I don’t care about these carcinogenic sandwiches, however delicious they might be. I’m here because I wanted to see you. I know you’re used to doing everything yourself, but I wanted to make sure you were okay after receiving that news. Are you okay?”
Everything Ledi thought she’d known about her needs and wants slid away, leaving her open, exposed, and shocked by his gruff demand. She’d had support, she’d had friendship, but she’d never had a man standing before her looking so frustrated on her behalf that he might track down whoever had shut down the Disease Task Force and throttle them himself.
Ledi thought she might cry, but that was unacceptable, so she did the next best thing: she grabbed Jamal by the front of his shirt and, for the second time that day, she kissed the hell out of him. This time, she didn’t intend on stopping.
Chapter 17
This was going all wrong, even if it felt all too right.
Thabiso had spent his evening distracted at a last-minute gathering at the Thesoloian embassy that Likotsi had arranged after he’d been left behind in the park. Thoughts of Ledi’s shattered hopes and the way she’d run before she let him see her break had taken too much of his attention. He’d saluted the Kenyan ambassador in French instead of Swahili, had offered the Moroccan envoy a bacon-wrapped scallop, and then turned and done the same to an Israeli minister.
“You’re a mess, friend,” Johan had noted, handing Thabiso a glass of wine. The tabloid Prince of Liechtienbourg, Johan was known in equal measure for his shocking red hair, his weekly brushes with infamy, and for being the stepson of a king—“all the fame, none of the responsibility” he’d teased Thabiso during their boarding school days.
“It’s a woman, isn’t it? Schietze de mierde.” Even the Liechtienbourger mashup of French and German hadn’t lifted Thabiso’s spirits.
“Any advice?” Thabiso had asked. Johan wasn’t exactly a font of wisdom on creating lasting relationships, but perhaps having a new woman every week had given him some special insight.
“Don’t get attached,” Johan had replied drily, before taking a sip of his own wine.
“Sounds like something she would say,” Thabiso had said.
“My kind of woman. Is she here?”
Thabiso had given Johan a playful shove before changing the subject to the upcoming climate talks in Paris.
He’d eventually recovered his wits enough to smooth everything over and send the guests of the Thesoloian embassy home happy; trade deals were unofficially set into motion, mutually beneficial political discourse had occurred without fisticuffs. He was the only one solemn and sullen after what had somehow turned out to be a success.
His return date loomed nearer, and the length of time left for him to tell Naledi the truth and beg her forgiveness was a ticking time bomb that grew ever larger in his mind. Likotsi’s suddenly expert opinions on relationships hadn’t helped either. She’d been smiling and sneaking text messages all night, and Thabiso was jealous. Jealous of his own assistant’s happiness.
So he’d stopped at the bodega on the way from the UN and bought two of the sandwiches Ledi loved, as well as some beer that seemed much too fancy for the cracked glass door it resided behind. He had a plan: he’d check in on her, make sure her school situation was in hand, and reveal every single lie he’d told, starting with his name.
But then she kissed him.
Her soft lips pressed against his and her tongue grazed over his mouth, which had sealed shut in prudish surprise. When he opened for her, she released such a moan of relief—of want—that it spiraled through him, sliding over his skin and down his spine like a living, hungry thing. With her tongue slicking over his as it did—with her soft cry reverberating through him as it did—Thabiso’s cock responded without further prodding. It wanted in on some of the action, his intentions be damned.
Thabiso backed her into the apartment and kicked the door shut behind them, his mouth not budging from hers, mostly because she had grabbed his face with both hands to keep him close. Her palms roughed over his beard as her hands slid behind his neck and her fingers interlaced, pulling him down, down toward the futon. He dropped the bag along the way, not even listening to hear whether the bottles clinked or shattered. His attention was fully directed on the heat of her mouth, of how her shirt was riding up beneath his hands, exposing the bare skin of her waist to his touch. His blood thrummed and his heart was doing some bizarre dance that knew no choreography but the joy of Naledi.
She was on the futon beneath him, her tongue tracing his mouth as her hands slid up under his shirt. Thabiso had never really given much thought to the palms of a woman’s hands, but Ledi’s were warm and capable and scorched over his bare skin. He’d compared her to the goddess of rain, but he’d been wrong. She was pure fire.
“Oh fuck, Naledi. Hold on. Hold on, hold on.” His forehead rested against hers and he gripped both of her wrists in one hand. She gazed at him, eyes wide and reflecting lust back at him.
“Oh, sorry. I kind of tackled you.”
Her brows drew and she moved to roll away from him, but he leaned and caught her lips with his. He kissed her slowly, sipping at her like a butterfly savoring the sweetest nectar. She arched up beneath him, pressing the V where the seams of her jeans met right up against the hard length of him, undulating her hips as she kissed him back with abandon.
“I need to tell you,” he said between kisses. “Who I am.”
“I know who you are,” she said. She pushed away from him and pulled o
ff the screenprinted T-shirt she was wearing, revealing a soft, worn-looking gray bra cupping her silky brown breasts. “You’re the guy who learned to cook for me. The guy who’s made me laugh harder than I have maybe ever. Who made me come so hard I thought I’d peed myself.”
That shouldn’t have made him harder, but it did. Oh, praise the goddess for American oversharing, it did. He ran a fingertip over the frayed faux lace that edged her bra. She shuddered at the merest accidental brush against her skin, and he chuckled.
“I love that you speak so freely,” he said. Her hand came to cover his, and when he looked up at her, she was shaking her head.
“I usually don’t, to be honest. I feel like my entire life has been me trying to keep everything together, but right now I want to fall apart. And I want you to be the guy that makes me.” She was gazing at him hard, and he could see the want in her eyes and the loneliness that he’d caught glimpses of. One of the things he’d grown to adore about her was how in control she was, but now she’d bared herself to him.
“You’re leaving soon,” she said, and those were the words that broke him.
“We still have to talk,” he said, but he was on his knees on the futon now, pulling her toward him. He unhooked her bra with one deft flick of his thumb, and then eased her bra down her arms. He’d been draped in the smoothest silks, the softest wools, as a matter of course, but her skin was the finest texture to ever grace his sense of touch.
“Okay. I know you’re some kind of runaway trust fund baby. But you have me here saying corny things that will kill me from mortification in the morning.” She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. “Ugh. Make sure my last night is a good one, okay?”
Thabiso ran his hands up her torso and cupped the weight of her breasts in his hands. “I can do that.”
And he did.
He pushed her breasts together and licked and sucked at her nipples, wasting no time with soft caresses. He licked at her with his tongue rigid and flat, circled and teased her peaks with its tip, then caught a nipple between his teeth and pulled, ever so slightly.
