Plainly put, Meadow was the total package but something about her made men scared to pursue anything more than dates and possible hook ups.
“Staring at me is wild,” Meadow tittered.
Brent licked his lips. “It’s hard not to do.”
Adjusting her body towards him, she fluttered her lashes. “Tell me more.”
“Here or somewhere else?”
She pursed her lips tightly. “One date and you think…”
“We’ve been on three dates,” Brent corrected.
“Okay, three dates and you already feel worthy of private conversations? I am losing my touch.”
“Shit, you ain’t touched me yet,” Brent’s voice dipped, wanting her to hear every letter slide across her skin.
Meadow stared at Brent. He was fine, no doubt, but he didn’t give her those butterflies Tia talked about. He didn’t consume her daily thoughts. She didn’t put much effort into their interactions or worry about how she looked before going out with him. Simply put, there was no spark or zing that made her feel like electricity was running through her body.
He was cool.
Being around him felt a little dangerous like she liked but he didn’t own her.
Meadow thought the man of her dreams would own her in subtle ways. Ways that made her think about him before she made a move or uttered a word, ways that made her skin crawl when he was upset with her, because pleasing him was at the top of her list of things to do.
Brent was none of that, did none of that.
Yet, she found herself giddy enough to flirt, go out on dates, and possibly ride him all night long. She didn’t feel anything whimsical for him, but liked the idea of just being a normal adult, having fun.
Meadow sipped her drink. “You want me to touch you?” Her almond eyes peeked from over the rim of the glass.
Rum punch was her drink of choice and atLounging Around, they made it look expensive in a cutesy martini glass with sugar around the rim and colorful fruits.
“Yea.” Brent squeezed his eyes into a slit.
“Where?”
Brent’s gaze slid down her body and back up. “Wherever them hands feel like goin’.”
Meadow hummed, pretending to think, tapping one manicured finger on her glass. “That’s a dangerous invitation. I don’t always play nice.”
He leaned in, elbows on his knees, voice close enough to warm her ear. “Good, ‘cause I don’t like that fake nice shit anyway.”
Meadow laughed. “You say that now, but I break things when I get bored.”
Brent’s smile widened. “That’ll keep shit interesting.”
Meadow’s grin sharpened, all sugar and smoke. “You tryna make me your hobby, huh?”
“Nah,” he dragged his gaze over her again, “more like a habit.”
“Hmmm,” she blinked, pretending to be unimpressed, though her body leaned closer anyway. “You think you got habit energy?”
He reached out and brushed a loose curl from her shoulder, his fingertips grazing the bare skin there. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”
For a split second, she let him linger—just enough for him to think he was winning—then she sat back, lips curving into a soft, knowing smile. “I’ll think about it,” she said, sipping again. “But don’t get too comfortable. I retire niggas quick.”
Brent chuckled. He loved Meadow’s grown woman energy. She didn’t play coy, thinking that’s what niggas liked. “Then I better make sure you remember me.”
