Page 103 of Duty and Desire

We cooked together. We ate together. We watched TV together. And after putting a sheet up over the windows (something I did not like, but getting what I got after, that being hanging with Mo, I was okay with it) Mo lounged on the couch opposite mine in my bedroom with his eyes closed while I read. Even with eyes closed, I knew he was awake, looking Zen (and insanely fuckable), but he was also undoubtedly alert.

We talked.

We had no choice but to get to know each other better and I knew I liked what I got (even though he wasn’t much of a talker, and as the days went by, he got quieter and quieter due to his patience waning more and more).

I also knew he liked what he got.

From when we first met, Mo didn’t need words to communicate. And the increase in dancing silver eyes and the addition of soft looks he’d give me…

Man.

Yeah.

This had to end soon.

Mo’s ticking time bomb thing also had to do with the big lug wanting to sleep with me.

And by the by, Iadoredthat he’d referred to it during our Come to Jesus as making love.

But he was very much all guy, and men needed to get some, he was sleeping in my room, living in my home, watching me strip. The need for him to do me was so strong, it had a taste, it had a smell, it had a feel, it was constant and grew more powerful every day.

Not being able to take it there had to be torture.

I knew, because it was torture for me too.

And it was getting worse every day.

Last, but I had a feeling this was the biggest part, Mo’s impatience had a sharp edge that I did not think had to do with him wanting to take me out to dinner and ask my favorite color then take me home and fuck me stupid.

It had to do with the fact that this guy hadn’t been caught yet and there was something really not good about that.

I didn’t ask. If Mo felt I needed to know, or wanted me to know, he would tell me.

More, I was thinking it was another way he was protecting me. And he was that guy. He needed to give that to me.

So even though none of this made me want to jump for joy, I didn’t push it with him.

Like I didn’t tell him his grip was too tight and that he needed to slow down or I’d break my neck on my platform stripper shoes while he dragged me to the dressing room. A place I knew, because he communicated (nonverbally) he thought was a safe zone, unlike the stage (definitely) and the hall, and anywhere else that was accessible or visible to people he might not know.

I just moved with him as fast as I could.

He used the hand he did not have on me to pound on the door twice, bellowed, “Man coming in!” and as he was hesitating the two seconds he always gave it so the girls could get situated before he went in, I spoke.

“I’m good, Mo. Safe. Sound. Healthy. Right here. With you. You’ve got me. Yeah?”

He looked down at me and allowed me to see some of the harshness bleed out of his face.

Not all of it, but some of it.

I’d take it.

Then he pushed us into the dressing room.

Strippers poured out as we went in, and once in, Mo let me go and shut the door behind the last girl.

I finally tied my belt on my robe.

“Shit,” he said.