Page 26 of Thirst

“Say it.”

After a bite of my lip, I comply. “I want you to touch me, Amari.”

He nods and lifts both hands from their position at his side. “Mm. Good girl.”

As his cold palms find my back, I lean forward and bury my face in his neck, trying not to show how affected I am at being called a good girl. If someone had asked me if I wanted to be called a good girl, I don't know how I would've answered. But in the moment, it does something to me. It hits the nail right on the head and I feel like I’ve just been sniped with a shot of adrenaline that has been mixed with an aphrodisiac. My heart beats faster and my hips come to life as he glides his hands up my body. His hands are cold again, but I'm too hot for him to care. His fingers climb up my sides until they reach my arms, and I raise both hands in the air as he continues to lift his hands to mine until our fingers interlock above our heads. Once again, I forget myself and where I am, because looking down at him makes me want to lean in and kiss him right now. We lock eyes, and I think it’s about to happen, but then his eyes shift and a furrow takes over his forehead.

“How’d you get those scars under your arm?”

The mood vanishes. Like my life depends on it, I bring my arms down as quickly as I can. My insecurities rush to the forefront, along with my need to protect myself, and I hop off of Amari like he's on fire.

“Whoah,” he says. “Wait. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Whatever it is, whatever it was, whatever you were going through, there's no shame in how you responded.”

As I struggle to maintain eye contact with him, I cross my arms as discomfort threatens to force me out of the room. “You don't know what you're talking about.”

“Three vertical lines under your arm, just beneath your arm pit. Lots of scar tissue, too—like you repeated cutting the same lines to avoid adding too many. It’s a good hiding spot.”

Anxiety swims around my brain like a shark, but the look on Amari’s face calms me. I see no judgment there. Only empathy and understanding. I think about whether I want to have this conversation, and remember that he told me his parents died and how he inherited his casino from a friend. He has shared with me, and the fact that he has shown nothing but green flags makes me feel more comfortable about sharing with him. After a long pause capped off by a loud sigh, I make a decision.

“Quite the observation,” I say sheepishly. “Did you used to cut, too?”

Amari shakes his head, but his expression never changes. “No. But I've known people who did. I understand it. You don't have to worry about me judging you, Aaliyah. I promise. We all have our thing. Please, just come sit down.”

Slowly, I start to ignore the screaming I hear in my head—the frightened teenager inside of me that doesn't want her secret in the streets. I know how much she needs me to protect her. But I also know that without talking, I can never heal her. So, I do as Amari asks and return to the couch, but I push myself into the corner like I'm afraid of his touch.

“I don't like talking about it,” I start, my arms still folded. “But my upbringing wasn't the best. I know there's a lot of people out there who could say the same thing, and I don't know how those people dealt with their issues, but when my parents would fight, or their struggles with money would manifest in the form of no food on the table or no gas in the car, or when a boy would treat me like shit, I would get this urge in my gut. It was like my world was made of mental pain, and I could ease some of it if I could endure some physical pain. It was like a relief valve being pulled. So, between the ages of thirteen and nineteen, I would resolve my mental shit by cutting under my arm. Sometimes I'd go long stretches without doing it, but when bad things would happen the urge would come back like an addiction. It’s been six years since I stopped.”

If Amari was lying about not judging me, his face doesn't show it. His eyes stay focused on mine, never once looking away in embarrassment or scrutiny. I see only compassion in his gaze.

“I'm sorry you had to go through that. Life can really be hard sometimes,” he says.

“That’s a fact.”

“Do you still get the urge?”

I slowly nod, my jaw tight. “Not often, but sometimes. Shamefully.”

“No shame. Like I said, we all have our thing—stuff we don't want the world to know about us. Desires, kinks, mindsets, secrets, skeletons in our closets. We all have something.”

“Well, do tell,” I say. “I just gave you my darkest secret. Since the sexy mood has already been ruined, let’s just keep it going. Tell me something dark about you since we’re bonding and all.”

Amari keeps his eyes on me, per usual, but I see something different in them this time. He glances over at the lamp as if he's in thought, and for the briefest of seconds I swear I can see a hint of dark red in his brown eyes. When he looks at me again, it’s gone.

“You wanna know something dark about me?” he asks rhetorically. “Okay, I’ll give you a dark secret to match yours.”

As comfort returns to my body, I finally uncross my arms and sit up straight against the arm of the couch. I even lean in a little like we’re telling ghost stories around a campfire.

“Like I said before, I've never cut myself,” Amari begins. “But I do have something—a dark kink I usually keep to myself.”

“Oh. A kink. I'm on pins and needles,” I say with a childish smile.

“Okay, but remember what I said before about no judgment.”

“I got you. After what I just admitted, I have no room to judge.”

Amari leans forward and places his forearms on his thighs. “Alright. Here it is. I have somewhat of a blood play kink.”

My brows shoot to the top of my face like they're running from my eyes. “Blood play? Like, you're turned on by the sight of blood?”