Lord, this man can kiss. His tongue slips into my mouth, and my hands crawl to his neck, pulling the hair at his nape. He pulls back a little, nibbles my bottom lip, and then dives right back in.
His hand grips onto one of my ass cheeks, and the other is on my face.
A throat clears, and we both pull away. Cliff stands at our side with an amused look on his face.
“Son, you are not going to war. Let’s go. Have a great day, my dear.” Cliff walks away and taps Roman’s shoulders.
Roman bends to peck my lips. His eyes rove to mine. “If you need me, call. Okay?”
All I can do is nod as the car locks and he, Ollie, and Cliff walk away.
“Shit, forget the tissue; now I have to get you a towel,” Tillie says when I walk back to her side.
I cackle. “Come on; let’s go get the gifts and sweaters.”
Tillie wraps her arms around me, and we both start our shopping.
ROMAN
I watch as Noelle and Tillie walk away. My stomach knots like I want to go with those two. What the hell is wrong with me?” I pass my hand through my hair and grip my roots, trying to get myself back in control.
As I turn around. Ollie and my dad are watching me with small mischievous smiles.
“What?”
My dad tilts his head and shrugs. “I just know a whipped man when I see one.”
I lean back a bit. “What? I am not whipped.”
Ollie walks to my side and places his hand on my shoulder. “You are so right. You are definitely not whipped.”
“Thank you, Ollie,” I reply.
“You have your ‘yes dear’ mode on. You feel me?” Ollie tries to hold back his laugh.
I push him away playfully.
“I am not pussy-whipped.”
My dad nods. “You’re right. You are being trained. I like it.”
“You both can go to hell.” I laugh as we begin to walk down the street. The streetlights are wrapped in evergreen garlands, red velvet, and gold ribbons. The scent of mulled wine and hot chocolate carries through the air.
“Before we go shopping, how about a cigar and cognac on me?” My father points to Alphonso’s Cigar Lounge.
Ollie is the first to pipe up. “We are more efficient when coming to shopping. In and out.”
“Agreed. It’s cold out. We can go in,” I reply.
My father was already at the door of the bar, passing his coat to the hostess.
The glass door slides open, and the scent of aged tobacco and leather greets me. The walls are lined with cigars in boxes in a glass-topped humidor. Inside, the cigars are neat.
“When I was a kid, I was dying to come in here. I thought it was a secret club,” Ollie says as he looks at the dark wooden panels.
“Same. Especially when Dad and Uncle Pete would leave the house to go,” I add.
My father chuckles. “I remember the first time I took you here. Your eyes were wide, and then you choked on cigar smoke and almost died.”
