Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
MALIK
As soon as the hotel room door is closed behind us, I swallow hard. I’ve hooked up a fair bit, but none of those experiences prepared me for someone like Kobe.
He’s hot in a sinfully inked package that screams “get on your knees and blow me.” That and he’s older than I am. Technically, I’m a grown-up at twenty-two—okay, almost twenty-two—and I usually absolutely feel that way most of the time, especially around freshmen, but not so much with Kobe.
Hell, the fact that I even think “I’m a grown-up at almost twenty-two” tells you pretty much everything about my maturity. But still….
He’s lived, experienced so much awesome shit. Hell, he spent time in Japan. How fucking incredible is that? It’s possible that the amount of ink covering his skin would make some folks cross the street, maybe earn him a double- or triple-take, but all the color and fine black lines do is draw me in.
He’s fucking beautiful.
He also knows what he wants. Has legit life goals, while I’m pissing around on a basketball court, not so silently freaking out about what I’m going to do when I leave college at the end of the school year.
Everything about his certainty calls to me. Makes me want to know him better. And hell if those photos I spent eons obsessing over did him justice.
He’s so much better in the flesh. More beautiful. And his intense eyes and shit-eating grin as he pulls me a beer out of the fridge just make him more so.
“Thanks,” I say, accepting the cold beer bottle.
He smiles. “No problem. Let me get my sketchpad.”
Surprise has me pausing with the beer bottle frozen less than an inch from my lips. While I’m getting a reality check that Kobe legit wants to work with me on a tattoo idea and didn’t bring me back to his room so I can blow him or he me—honestly, I’m down for both—he’s rifling through his bag, not paying my dropped-jaw reaction any mind.
I snap my mouth closed, swallowing a mouthful of beer, allowing it to wash away my disappointment.
“So, tell me if you have any initial thoughts, or have seen any kind of designs you’ve liked over the years,” Kobe says as he sits on the bed, back to the headboard, his smiling eyes on me.
Despite the sliver of rejection sitting heavily in my gut, my lips tilt, and I take a step forward. Where do I sit? There’s a single chair tucked under a small desk. Looks like that’s where I need to head.
Another step and Kobe’s “Here” has me pausing and snapping my gaze to him.
He tilts his head toward the empty spot next to him on the bed. My heart leaps, my pulse picking up as I try to cool the eagerness I feel at joining him.
Hell, maybe more isn’t off the table after all.
While awareness thrums through me when I settle beside him, my shoulders relax. My smile widens at the open, intrigued expression directed my way.
Right, we’re here to discuss tattoo ideas.
Which I’m genuinely into and want to make happen. Just the thought of Kobe being the man to ink my skin is an added incentive.
I know, I know… I’m far too invested, and his asking me here pumped hope into my chest. That’s not changed, though. My hope. I’m still doing something I never thought that I’d be given the opportunity to do: get to know him.
“So…,” he prompts, soft but steady, his hand resting on his sketchpad, thumb tracing the edge in a way that’s entirely too mesmerizing.
Shit. The tattoo. I drag my focus back. “I’ve been thinking about something that connects to my family,” I start, running a hand over the back of my neck. “Like I told you, they’ve sacrificed a lot to get me here. First one in my family to go to college. They’ve always had my back, so I definitely feel like… I want a piece of them with me. Something that can remind me of them wherever I am.”
Kobe nods, his gaze intense but warm. “That’s solid,” he says, voice low. “What kind of images come to mind when you think of them?”
My mind flicks through flashes of home, and I settle on a memory that means more to me than I’d realized. “There’s this willow tree in our backyard. It’s huge, probably older than my grandparents, and it’s got these branches that just kind of… cover everything. Like a big canopy.” I chuckle, a little embarrassed. “That tree was the one place where I’d go to think, to get away, you know? Especially when things got heavy. And my mom, she’d always find me there, no matter how hidden I thought I was.”
As I speak, Kobe’s hand is moving, a pencil in his fingers sketching fluidly across the paper. The soft scratch of graphite fills the room, and my eyes are drawn to his hands—steady, confident. He works with an ease that mesmerizes me, his fingers strong and sure as they bring the willow to life.
“Yeah, I can see it,” he says, glancing up at me with a half-smile. “A willow tree. Protective, deep roots. And maybe….” He pauses, studying me. “Your number too. Put 42 somewhere in the branches? It’s part of who you are, right?”
I grin, surprised. “That’s true. Maybe somewhere subtle, yeah. I don’t want it to stand out too much, but it’s gotta be in there. Basketball’s been my life, and somehow that number keeps showing up everywhere. Plus, I’ve discovered so much about myself since being at college.”
Kobe chuckles, nodding. “I get that. Some things just stick with you. You can put in all the ink you want, but those little details make it personal.” He returns his gaze to the sketch, and I watch his hand again. It’s a stupid thought, but I wonder what those hands would feel like against me, how they’d move if?—
“You’re quiet,” he says, snapping me back. There’s a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, like he knows exactly where my mind went.
“Just… thinking.” I cover with a shrug, feeling a flush spread across my cheeks. “The way you draw, it’s like you already see the whole thing in your head.”
He tilts his head thoughtfully. “It’s almost like that. I guess with experience, you get a sense of where everything should go, where each line feels right.” He shrugs, glancing at me again, and for a moment, his fingers still.
The sketch is rough, but even now I can see it—branches arching, framing the number in a way that feels hidden and special, like a little secret woven into something familiar. I lean in closer to get a better look, my shoulder brushing his, and the room goes quiet. My pulse quickens as I realize just how close we are. His hand, still holding the pencil, is inches from mine, and I can feel the warmth of him, his calm, steady presence. His fingers shift, and I watch as he sets down the pencil and lets his hand fall lightly against mine.
“Like it so far?” His voice is low, almost a murmur, but his gaze is heavy, intent.
I swallow, finding it hard to speak. “Yeah… I really do. You made it… personal.”
For a second, we just look at each other, and all the air seems to get thick and electric. I can feel my pulse in my neck, in my chest, everywhere. I can’t shake the thought of his hands, his calm focus, his surety. His hand tightens around mine, not much, just enough. And then, without really thinking, I close the last bit of distance between us and press my lips to his.
He responds instantly, his lips warm and steady against mine, like he’s been waiting for this. The kiss is soft, lingering, a quiet moment stretched out until I feel him smile slightly against my mouth. When we finally pull back, his hand is still resting on mine, and he looks at me with that same intensity, a spark of something more flickering in his gaze.
“Think we’re onto something here,” he murmurs, and I can’t help but grin, already imagining the piece he’s bringing to life for me—and everything else that might come after.