His baritone dissolved the bones of my spine. My skeleton was missing so many pieces. I was spineless. Mindless. Completely dependent on what was to come from Ishmael’s lips next.
I listened as the cork of the bottle in his hand was removed. My mouth watered as the wine hit the bottom of the glass. And, when Ishmael rounded my body with the glass in his hand, I knew that I’d be in the bathroom the first chance I got.
Removing my drenched thong.
Discarding it in the trash.
And, using the first towel I came across to clean the parts of me he’d extracted without laying a finger on me.
“Ishmael.”
“You’re not leaving.”
“Why no–”
“Because I said so. You have your wine. I have two iMacs and three MacBooks here. Take your pick. The Wi-Fi is yours.”
I shook my head, accepting the wine he was handing me.
“It’s not that simple,” I explained.
“Then let me make it simpler. What else do you need?”
“I prefer working on my own devices. It’s possible yours is compromised. I can’t risk my entire client… Ishmael– please. Distance.”
His feet were planted. Unmoving.
“Have a seat, Royce. I am not against cuffing you to the pipes to help you better understand your current situation. But, I’d much rather you just sit your pretty ass down, drink your wine, and tell me more about yourself while watching me cook. I said I’d feed you. I meant it. I’ll have you a brand new MacBook at the door in the next thirty minutes. Be patient, my baby.”
My baby?
I swallowed nothing. The air pained me as it slid down my throat. Ishmael didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t elaborate further. He disappeared.
Back into the kitchen.
Back to banging pots.
Back to preparing a meal.
Back to the forefront of my brain.
Back to the center where my yearning was so deep it hurt with each step I took toward the sofa.
The day a man can tell you what to do and you actually fucking listen, Royce, that is the man. ’Cause, you’re one hardheaded ass child. You do things your way. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says or how it affects them. You march to the beat of your own drum. You’re hell. But, I’m okay with that, because it was my intention to raise hell. Eight different pits of it.
Richie lulled me as I sunk into the couch. Its warmth welcomed me.
The television rose from the compartment in the floor that I had difficulty figuring out on the blueprint. It made sense now. The 75-inch screen powered on. Pandora began to play. 6lack was the first artist on the list. I couldn’t deny his ability to set the ambience.
I crossed one leg over the other. The right mule dangled from my foot. Wine slid across my tongue. It’s sweetness paired well with the dryness. It was expected with the reds of its caliber. The glass would be emptied much sooner than later.
I lowered it. Ishmael’s presence was startling. On his knees, he peered up at me. My ankle was impossibly small in his hand.
Slowly, he slid the right mule from my right foot. And then the left. But, his eyes never left me.
His touch ignited the smoldering fire inside of me. My chest rose as I pulled in more air than my lungs had the capacity to hold. Yet, and still, I was breathless.
“I’m not ready for you to leave, Royce.”
