Page 39 of Big Mad
“Lil Wayne’sLollipop. Who were you fantasizing about hitting those high notes in the shower, huh?”
“YOU!” Washington caught me mid-swing and turned me to him.
The next thing I knew, his mouth was all over mine. Wild and overdo. This kiss was an explosion of tastes: the tang of tongues, the heat of a fight, and good loving.
In the middle of shards and broken glass, with SZA playing like we were at a trap remix of therapy, I was tugging him, scratching him, and loving him.
Maybe it was the adrenaline, or how he yanked and tugged me.
He pushed me against the wall so hard that I gasped.
“Damn, Maddy, I apologize.”
“Boy, shuddup,” I growled, asserting my dominance while his chest crushed me against the cold wall.
We were supposed to be smashing glass … not lips.
The bat clattered out of my hands. His lips crashed onto mine again. Harder this time. That kiss had enough clapback to outshine any emotional damage he should’ve ever felt about my bald head jokes.
My hands coasted over his head, rubbing my precious, my love.
“I knew you still loved Dome Daddy.”
“Don’t call yourself that,” I said between breathless kisses and bursts of laughter.
“Still mad?” he asked, biting my bottom lip hard enough for me to sayHell yes.
“Big Mad,” I groaned.
“Do something.”
I did. I yanked the collar of his safety vest, my tongue twining around his.
We kissed like people who had no business remembering how amazing it used to be. My hips hit the workbench; his hands slipped between my thighs.
“Wash, no.”
“Yes.”
“Not here.” I wondered aloud, “You think those couples had separate rooms?”
“What?” Washington asked, massaging my hips.
“The couples. I was sure they raged or, you know.”
He grabbed my entire face with his hands and kissed the stupidity from my lips. Cleared my mind enough to make me dumber than a second go. And yet, I had already forgotten what we were talking about.
“Hey, your time isn’t up!” The attendant shouted as we ran out faster than some thuglets up to no good. In the car, hearts a little more wrecked, we were too quiet and giggly. Foreplay.
New Orleans lights blurred past. His hand brushed mine on the console. I tangled my small fingers into his larger ones and breathed in heady anticipation.
As we turned into the drive, the familiar brick facade caught in the headlights. Opulent. Black shutters. Washington was out of the car before I finished my thought. He hadn’t stopped the engine.
“The car,” I said when he opened the passenger door. “Wash, you left the engine …” This achy craving made me forget what engines did when they were on.
“When the keys disappear, it should turn off.” His eyes locked on me, and my insides became liquid lava.
“Mm-hmm,” I agreed, even if neither of our brains was situated correctly.
