memories of Malcolm H. S. Archer

“It’s alright. Go ahead in,” Malcolm nudged.

“What if he comes home?” Christine whispered timidly.

Malcolm chuckled, “He won’t. My mother is making him stay the whole day.”

“He” was Malcolm’s father, a tyrant of gentry. Anger would be his only expression if he knew what Malcolm had in mind. Slowly, Christine made her way past the heavy oak doors to the center of the room, her mouth wide with amazement at the splendor of dark wood and leather. Book shelves from floor to ceiling.

“Has he read all these?”

Leaning against the doorframe, Malcolm was paying much more attention to the lovely curves of the person asking the question, than the question itself.

“Pardon?”

“What are you staring at?” Christine giggled.

That did it. There was only so much a young man could handle, he thought. He quickly crossed to her and wrapped his arms around he waist.

“I was staring at the beautiful woman standing in the middle of my father’s private study,” kissing Christine’s neck.

“Oh. Should we move to your room?” her eyes dropping closed.

Malcolm pulled his head away and gave her a mischievous smile. He shook his head and swung out his arm, like a showroom model. Instead of the latest Aston Martin it was a red Chesterfield Sofa.

Christine grinned, “You first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Malcolm sat down with hand on his knees and quickly felt tightness in his chest. It was never a good feeling to be sitting there; in that spot, in that room. A film of perspiration was beginning to break out all over his body. He was so wrapped up in the pit in his stomach he almost didn’t notice Christine climbing into his lap.

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