Hated even more that my wrist still burned where he’d touched me.
9
PRIME
I made it two blocks before I slammed on the brakes, cursing under my breath.
What the fuck was I doing?
I’d just left her standing in that parking lot. Didn’t wait to make sure she got inside. Didn’t watch her get to her door safely. It was midnight in the hood and I’d just driven off like some reckless nigga who didn’t have any sense.
That wasn’t how I moved. I didn’t leave loose ends. I didn’t leave vulnerabilities unchecked.
But Zahara had me fucked up in the head, and I didn’t like it.
I pulled a U-turn and drove back, parking where I could see her building. The light in what I knew was her apartment flickered on. Third floor, second window from the left. I watched her silhouette move across the room, and only then did the tension in my shoulders ease.
She was safe.
I should’ve left then. Should’ve driven home and forgot about the whole interaction. But I sat there for another minute, watching that window, thinking about her.
She was beautiful. Not just fine—beautiful. The kind of beautiful that made you look twice, then a third time just tomake sure you weren’t imagining it. Rich, dark skin that seemed to glow even under shitty fluorescent lights. Big brown eyes with lashes so long they looked fake but weren’t. A mouth that was too distracting, full lips that I’d caught myself staring at more than once tonight. High cheekbones that gave her face structure, made her look regal despite the flour on her clothes and the exhaustion in her eyes.
And that body. Curves that went on for days. The kind of curves that made a man’s hands itch to touch, to hold, to claim.
Her hair was natural, kinky curls pulled back into a puff tonight, but I’d seen it down before when I was watching her. Wild and free and perfect. Everything about her was perfect, actually, in a way that pissed me off because I had no business noticing.
She looked like a goddess. One of those African statues Grandma Rita used to collect, all power and femininity and strength.
I pulled away for real this time, forcing myself to focus on the road, on getting home, on anything but Zahara Ali and her smart mouth and her body and her eyes.
Farah was waiting by the garage entrance when I pulled into my building.
Of course she was.
I closed my eyes, counted to five, then rolled down my window. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.” She was dressed down tonight—jeans, a hoodie, her hair pulled back. Almost looked normal instead of like she was going to the club. “Can we talk?”
“It’s late, Farah.”
“Please. Just five minutes.”
I sighed, unlocking the passenger door. “Get in.”
She slid into the seat, and I drove up to my private parking level, killing the engine but not making a move to get out.
“Talk.”
“I left my watch upstairs. In your apartment.” She twisted her hands in her lap. “From the other night. Can I get it?”
I studied her face, looking for signs of a game. But she just looked tired. And maybe a little embarrassed.
“Come on.”
We took the elevator up in silence. My penthouse was still mostly empty, just the couch, the bed, some basic necessities. I hadn’t had time to furnish it properly, and honestly, I didn’t have the energy to care.
Farah walked straight to the bedroom, finding her watch wedged between the nightstand and the wall. But instead of leaving, she turned to face me.
