Mess You Made

49.

Miguel.

Malibu's walking around my bathroom in just a thong and knee high socks and fuck me, paint a picture of her, put it up on a wall and let me stare at it forever. I'm lounging against the door because I don't want to move from here. Don't want to move from her but she's so adamant on making it to to her shift at the speakeasy, despite me trying to convince her otherwise.

She's not even looking back at me as she washes her face and there's something about her being focused and indifferent towards me that makes me want her a million times more.

I run my gaze down the length of that perfect back, long and shapely and smooth, the ends of her hair gently swaying against the dip of her lower back. Stands in front of the sink. Love how she walks around like she owns the place now.

She leans forward to look into the mirror. Frowns a bit like she isn't impressed with her face— which is fucking ridiculous, look at her.

I break the distance between us, walking until I'm stood behind her and her big brown eyes drift from herself to me stood tall behind her. Looks me in the eye through the mirror. Her lips twitch ever so slightly. Soft. She's softened after the last couple hours of being in my arms.

I curl an arm around her collarbones, pull her back gently and she relaxes against me. Curls her hand around my forearm, her head tilted ever so slightly and everything complicated about her— it all sort of just fades with one slight gentle tilt of her head and I can't tell if it's dangerous or perfect. Both.

"I'll talk to the guys at the club. Let you off from your shift." My lips graze her hair and I breathe in the jasmine scent, breathe in my own perfume that's rubbed off on her skin.

I fight a smile as soon as she pushes my arm off her because that was quick. She walks away from me and forgive me, but I'm trying incredibly hard not stare at her ass as I follow. Little black thong.

She looks up to the hooks on my bathroom door, "Where are your clothes?"

"Drawers."

She walks out of the bathroom.

I follow her as she opens up a drawer and she blinks a lot because there's a lot of shit in there— and then she continues, "I need the money for a crib, remember?"

I nod, "Right."

I don't know how she's gonna react when one shows up delivered to her house in a few days. She's gonna hate me a bit, I'm gonna get an earful— I know she hates me playing saviour, but I'm not playing saviour— come on, the crib was fucking cool. I asked Val for options and she had way too much fun sending me a list— and this way, all the money from all those long shifts she works can be spent on herself for a change.

Yeah, she might beat me for it— but come on, a luxury cot? Fucking sick. Called Balmoral something, it was six grand. Very pretty, fitting for Marci if you ask me.

She slips on one of my white tanks from Loewe and to my disgrace, it's long enough to cover her ass from view. Before I know what's happening, Mali's hands are on my forearm and she's turning me around so I'm facing away from her.

I feel her fingers tap at the back of my neck to the tattoo there.

"What's this one?" She says inquisitively.

I tense slightly but try not to show it.

It's easy not to show it because Malibu leans up on her tiptoes and peers around my face like a meerkat, her chin on my shoulder, and her big eyes even bigger and when I look sideways at her, I fight a smile.

"It's a dead dove." She ducks back out of view, studying it because she's so close to my back that I can feel the warmth of her, her fingers stroking the skin, "Or is it dying?"