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Romance was a waste of time, a form of manipulation utilized by boys who didn’t wash their bedsheets regularly. It existed, sure, but I wasn’t surrounded by anyone I believed engaged in it properly, with respect for the object of affection, rather than a thirst to claim—a triumph of acquisition, rather than a triumph of winning affection.
The chuckle that Malakai rolled out ironically sounded exactly like chocolate-dipped trouble. I wanted to bite into it.
I heard some page flicking in the background, which bought me time as I tried to process what was happening, if this was really happening—and
Hes reading her favorite books! Omg hes the perfect book boyfriend..
That soft listening space that he always left when we spoke, like no word he said would work the way it’s supposed to without my response.
I wanted Brown Sugar to be a place where girls could feel powerful. And the music is the ultimate company. Songs about love and lust and loss. It speaks. It
connects. I wanted to connect. Make people feel less alone.”
“Your energy grabbed me by the throat.
You’re electric. Like lightning. Bright with it. Bold with it.”
His eyes caressed my face like the flutter of a...
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“You care so much. You feel so much. So if you’re a robot, you’re one of them robots that everyone is scared will overthrow humans one day because they’re so emotionally sophisticated. If...
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“Scotch. I got you.”
“You are everything, Scotch. I like your mind. I like seeing it work up close. I like your eyes, especially when you’re rolling them at me. Yeah. Just like that.
I like how you see things. Adds color to how I see things. I like that when you’re listening to a song you love, you close your eyes and let it take you places. I wanna go wherever you go to. “I like your mouth.” His eyes dropped to it and I felt my lips tingle. “Not gonna lie—I’m kind of obsessed with your mouth. How something so spicy can be so sweet. I like it when I make your mouth laugh.” My lips curved in response. “I like your skin.” He picked up my hand and swiped his thumb across my wrist. “I like feeling your pulse race beneath it. I like the person beneath it.”
“You’re the only guy that’s ever held my hand without the intention of getting something from me. You just hold my hand to hold it. To hold me. Like you like doing it or something. And it scares the shit out of me, every time, because I like you doing it. Because I don’t want you to let go. It feels good and safe and right. . . . You feel right to me.”
