“Don’t be embarrassed about it. A lot of women want me. The feeling is mutual in this though. I’m dying to see if you fuck as passionately as you perform, but I’m not going to do that. You wanna know why?” he asks.
Liquid heat leaks between my legs at his confession. So obviously he’d been watching me for a lot longer than I knew. I rocked on my heels, not being able to stop myself from saying,
“I don’t, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.” I cross my arms over my chest, attempting to show that I’m unaffected by his words.
He chuckles, it’s deep, masculine, and I can only imagine what it sounds like when he just rolls out of bed.
“Because I have self-control, which is something you lack. You’re a smart girl, Charlotte. Smart enough to know that I’m your brother's friend, and I’m not going to disrespect him by sleeping with you. I don’t need him jumping down my throat after I fuck you and you’re heartbroken because I don’t want to go on a date or cuddle. So I won’t be touching you. Even if you intend on wearing that…” He looks me up and down.
“Around the house.”
With one last fleeting glance, he walks out of my room, shutting the door behind him.
Malakai was a storm. A raging hurricane, a monumental wave of mystery and trouble. A thunderstorm of intelligence and darkness. He was right. He was my brother's friend, and I did lack self-control. He was right when he said we wouldn’t work out the other night. But what he didn’t know is that:
I never minded a little rain.
Eight
Team Meeting
Kai
I’d once read a quote and it said,
“Some people are artists. Some of them are art.”
And Charlotte was a Jackson Pollock.
Because she was a mess, but somehow she ended up beautiful and sold for half a million dollars. She had splashy lines and purposeful yet accidental paint drops. Intentional messiness.
Living with her was living with a fucking tornado.
Walking by her room during the day made me want to call a cleaning service. Clothes were thrown around, pairs of headphones laid out with records underneath them. Her record player was on the floor instead of the dresser. Don’t ask me why. And the sheet music…
It. Was. Everywhere.
Piece after piece of sheet music covered the floor, her bed, her desk. It was an optical illusion of lines and notes.
I’d watched her stumble out of her bed late, as customary. I don’t think she ever made it to class on time. She’d nearly tumbled down the steps trying to put her shoe on, and each day her outfits got more creative.
Jeans with threaded messages on the back pockets, not that I read them of course, because then I would be staring. Embroidered jean jackets, fishnets beneath shorts, and the unmatched socks. God they drove me wild.
They always came to her knees when she wore skirts or shorts, and there was something very naughty schoolgirl about it.
I’d given in the other night when I heard her playing. Given in to her temptation.
I thought having a musician next door would irritate me at night because that’s when I work in my room, but it was the opposite.
My studio was right next to her room, so I could hear the metallic, vibrant tones through the wall. Moon Eyes seemed to have insomnia, and she dealt with it through the violin. I could always tell when she had a good day versus a bad day which was leaving an impression on my art.
If the cords she played were deep, dark, muted, more veiled than airy, she had a bad day. If it was flute-like, wafting, sweet, and pure, she had a good day. I could feel her emotions, each time her bow moved it let out how she felt.
Depending on which she executed determined the kind of art I was creating. Bad days meant I used less color; the opposite was a vast array of colors. I was letting her bow across the strings guide my brush.
But the other night, I’d seen her through the crack of her door. Sitting on the floor with a white t-shirt on. I could see her silky skin and the black panties that barely covered her round ass. Her body swayed back and forth to the melody, eyes sealed, and her recently dyed hair swirling everywhere.
My dick was pressing against my zipper, angry, hot, pissed. That had never happened before, not without tying someone up first. Yet all it took was my eyes spotting the silhouette of the piercings that were in her perk nipples.
I had to turn around and head to my shower. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d gotten hard just looking at someone, but there I was in my shower thinking about her with my cock in my hand.
And it was just her. There were no intrusive thoughts of my past, just her skin, her laugh, her slightly crooked nose, pouty lips, and those eyes.
She made me do a lot of things I wasn’t comfortable with, things I’d never done before. So I tried my best to make sure we ran into each other as little as possible.
I was gradually getting used to the sticky notes around the house that had reminders on them, but what I was never prepared for was the fact she played mean.
Leaving her underwear on the steps every once in a while. A game she liked to play because I told her no. I would scoop them up, hoping her brother hadn’t stumbled upon them before I did, and shove them into my pocket.
I was growing a collection of Charlotte's panties in my room, but I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of giving them back, so I just kept them.
Secretly I liked it, how she seemed innocent with her rosy cheeks, but she was mischievous enough to leave underwear on the steps just for me. So I would know she was thinking about me.
Like the ones I forgot to put into the drawer in my room, the ones that are still in my back pocket as I walk into the locker room for practice.
The same silk purple panties that just fell out of my pocket while I was changing and are currently in Nico Jett’s hand.
“Malakai Petrov, purple is definitely your color.”
I grab them from him. Glad that no one else is paying attention and pissed he was holding her underwear. If I blushed, now would be the time I’d do it.
I shove them into my bag, zipping it up so no one else can see it, and I continue to get dressed for practice. Except Nico is staring at me like a bored housewife waiting for me to spill all the gossip.
"Are you going to tell me who owns them? Or am I going to have to assume you are a crossdresser? I mean I love you, either way, I'm just saying—"
"Nico, shut up," I grunt.
"So there is someone?" he pushes.
Not exactly. Just a blue fairy that is taking over my house.
"Who are we talking about?" Emerson announces as he walks toward his locker.
Even though they were twins, Emerson and Charlotte didn't look alike. Which had to do with the fact boy and girl twins don’t ever look that much alike. Or maybe I was trying to convince myself that I wasn't attracted to Emerson.
But the way they interacted you could tell they were siblings. She took care of him, making sure he ate, that he had clean clothes. I hadn't seen him drink since she moved in.
But I know addicts and they can be sneaky. His skin had more color and his eyes weren't always so red. The coke had made his hockey ability jittery, but also it made him amped up. He played with such ferocity it was scary.