Mess You Made

44.*

Malibu.

I press some water into my face, look up at myself in the mirror. Cheeks are flushed. Bottom lip now a shade of red, puffy and swollen from his kisses. My entire body has been one heady rush for him ever since we got here. I don't think he stopped kissing me. His hands didn't stop. Mine didn't stop running over him either in front of half of that crowd. Lost to it all.

I'm lost to you, Mali.

I shake my head, press some more cold water into my cheeks as if that'll get rid of the restlessness singing under my skin. I'm running hot, but the feel of his palms grazing up the backs of my thighs. His lazy and wet kiss in the dark. His hands that are always hungry for as much of me as he can get — a desperation that never seems to settle down.

Soft noises into my mouth, tall body pressed to mine. I breathe out, compose myself.

Composure.

I walk out, pushing open the bathroom door and heading back outside to the roof. Music still blasting. People still dancing. My eyes track for Sierra— she's talking to a few girls that are here from school because she's like that, gets along with anyone and everyone, and they're all hanging off her every word.

My eyes find Roman instead.

Despite his name, his presence that invokes every set of eyes on him, he has this indistinguishable way of making himself unseen, when he wants. Like some wraith, blends into the dark. I walk over to him and his eyes slide to mine where he stands with his back against the balcony wall. Armani suit. I think his cufflinks are Cartier— black.

"Adams." He drawls like a gentleman when I lean my back against the balcony too, resting my legs. Heels are no joke.

"You don't want to dance?" I deadpan, look out to the party, strobe lights streaming over us here and there, but mainly in the dark.

"I'm not as adept as you." He flicks his dark gaze to me, "Pulled your mouth from him long enough to breathe?"

I clear my throat— feel my cheeks heat again but I'm glad my skin doesn't visibly flush. Don't really want to think about how much anyone saw because once our mouths were on each other, we lost awareness of whoever was around. I try to look unfazed, pick up a drink from a passing waitstaff, holding the flute glass, "You don't drink?"

He shakes his head.

"Ever?"

I look over at him. Genuinely, it sort of looks like he's straight out of a Bond movie. It's the suave look about him. The suits, the ease, the charm, the way you practically know nothing about him and then I muse, "Marriage?"

He slides his gaze to me, entirely unimpressed.

"I just don't take you as a person to tie the knot."

"Rather presumptuous." He looks away again, jaw sharp, "Would you like to know what I take of y—"

"No." I snip.

Not after Miguel and I just basically violated every version of modesty possible in front of anyone to see— I'd rather not have him use that as ammo.

"I was promised young. Contractual agreement." He tucks a hand in the pocket of his slacks.

I put the glass to my lips, "Sounds sexy."