Kiera grabs her bag off the bar dividing the living room from the kitchen and pulls out a vividly patterned head wrap.
“Like three o’clock.” She slips on the head wrap and slings the bag over her shoulder. “I’m going to set up. Need to grab some pieces from storage. You sure you don’t wanna roll?”
“I’m sure.” I sit on the arm of the couch and trace its geometrical pattern. “I’ve always hated this furniture.”
Kiera releases a startled laugh and gives an eye roll. “You’ll be living in Markus’s lap of luxury soon. No more slumming it for you. Though I suspect you’d settle just to be in his lap.”
“Markus will be lucky if I ever straddle him again after this last time caving to his mama. He better have answers.”
“It’s Markus. I’m sure he has a perfectly reasonable explanation for why he’s wearing that umbilical cord like a belt.”
I toss my head back, giggling despite the tension in my shoulders. “He’d die if he heard you say that.”
“Then don’t tell him I said it.” With one last chuckle and a wave, she leaves.
As much as I love Kiera, when the door closes behind her, I welcome the immediate silence that descends, starkly contrasting with a busy day in the classroom, the noise and rush of traffic and even the banter with my friend. I need this. Between work and . . . shudder . . .wedding plans . . .I haven’t had enough quiet lately.
My phone trills with an incoming text.
“So much for quiet,” I mutter, reaching for my bag on the floor and extracting my phone.
Markus: Hey.
Me: Hey.
Markus: Baby, I hate it when we fight.
Me: I hate when you do things that make me mad at you.
Markus: I know you said you needed some space to calm down, but could I come over for a few minutes?
My thumb hovers over the keys. In a moment of pique, I told him maybe we should wait and see each other tomorrow. There have been very few times either of us have requested space in the two years we’ve been dating. Neither of us has ever been very good at giving it. We’re like magnets, and resisting him, even when I’m angry, has never been easy. That’s why I asked for space. As soon as I see the man, my vagina starts having wild wild thoughts.
Me: Okay. A few minutes.
Markus: Open the door.
Open the . . .
I glance from my phone to the door of my apartment. The man doesn’t know when to quit. That cast iron will is what compelled him to complete his doctorate of physical therapy. It’s what drove him to apply for the position of head athletic trainer and director of performance rehabilitation for one of the NBA’s hottest teams. It’s what fueled him to approach me at margarita night even though I was obviously hanging with my girls.
When I open the door, I’m reminded why I sometimes ask for space when we fight. The man is fine as fuck. Six feet, five inches of rock muscles and suede skin and soft lips and sculpted cheekbones and square jaw and wide shoulders and long legs and . . .need I go on?
Irresistible.
Tonight his fine-ness just pisses me off because if you’re gonna look like this, don’t give me reasons not to fuck you.
“What?” I ask forcing a testy tone, hand on one hip, frown locked in.
His brows lift as if at my audacity. My fiancé walks with swagger down the fine line dividing confidence from arrogance. Money. Intelligence. Education. Success. It could go to his head. Lucky for me, most of it goes to his dick. He fucks like a pharaoh, but BDE won’t get him out of this.
“Can I come in?” he asks, his voice rich, thick like maple syrup sticking to my nerve endings.
I step back, holding the door open for him to enter.
“Kiera here?” He glances around the apartment, the open floor plan revealing the empty kitchen, living and dining rooms in one sweep.
“No. She went to set up for the Juneteenth festival tomorrow.”
“Selling her art?”
“Yeah.” I close the door and step in, but keep my distance. With the Waves in the playoffs, I’ve barely seen him lately and my body starts humming with the need to be close. We scheduled the wedding at the beginning of August in case the team makes it to the championship. I would have relished a night with him had it not been for our fight.
It was a stupid fight over trivial things. I see that now with even the bit of distance I’ve had since we argued earlier, but I’ve yielded on every single item his mother has asked for in my wedding. And cumulatively . . . it’s a lot. His mama is working that last nerve standing, and I don’t want to make this easy for him.
Yeah. Slightly petty.
“Have you eaten?” he asks, walking deeper into the apartment and sitting on the couch. His powerful legs spread and he rests his elbows on his knees. Were things copacetic between us, I’d already be straddling him. As things stand, I’m here, mouth watering at the print of his dick straining against his pants, my thighs clenching. I’m trying to look mad. I am mad.
Or I was.
Til he showed up fine has hell and smelling like heaven.
“Babe.” He tilts his head, as if wondering if I’m okay. “I asked if you’ve eaten.”
“Uh, no.” I carefully perch my horny ass on the chair facing him. “I’ll order something after you leave.”
“What makes you think I’m leaving?”
“What makes you think you’re staying?”
He gives me a knowing look, lips pressed against a smile. “Shawna, come on. We both know how this goes. I’m spending the night.”
“The hell you are.” I stand and start pacing, as much an outlet for the sexual energy coursing through my body as a path for my frustration. “You can’t just feed this or fuck this away. We had a knock down drag out today over the phone.”
“Because of a few extra guests?” His dark brows snap together over the confusion in his eyes. “Is this a bride thing? A monthly thing? A—”
“Dude, you should stop right there or else you won’t be spending the night any time soon.” I shoot him a disgusted look. “A monthly thing? Really? What does my period have to do with your mama running roughsod all over my wedding plans and you letting her?”
“I didn’t mean it that way. You just seemed emotional today and I—”
“Emotional? Yeah, anger is an emotion. I was angry because every time I turn around, your mom is adding flowers, and caterers and guests. Last week she mentioned doves.”
I level a can you believe that shit look at him. “Doves, baby.”
“I know.” He winces, running a hand over the back of his neck, a sure sign of tension. “She’s been a bit . . .much lately.”
I send him a silent understatement telepathically and I think he gets it.
He stands and walks toward me. I take two steps back. He pauses, cocking a brow before taking a few more steps in my direction. I retreat until my butt hits the kitchen counter.
“Some reason you’re keeping your distance?” He advances until mere inches separate us, and the heat of his big body, the scent of clean male and his woodsy cologne tease my senses. Forget the jugular, this man with all that sex appeal goes straight for my pussy. And his aim is true.
“I just think we . . .” I glance over my shoulder like the counter at my back is a cliff and I have nowhere else to go before I plummet over the edge. “We should keep clear heads until this is settled.”