Zaire’s gaze dragged over her slowly…hungry, wounded, loving, and frustrated.
“Words.” He tapped his club against the ground again, waiting to hear what she had to say next. At the rate he was going, she was going to be naked sooner than later. He was hitting shot after shot and until he lost, she didn’t get to swing.
She swallowed. “I feel like a failure.”
Zaire’s throat flexed, but he didn’t comment.
Next hole.
Meadow sighed when his ball went in effortlessly. He didn’t need to coach the words out of her anymore. “I kept it from you… because I didn’t want the man I love,” her voice cracked, “to think I’m the glass slipper instead of the fairytale.”
It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. Meadow was perfection to Zaire. She wasn’t fragile like she believed. His Meadow was whole in his eyes. The quintessential version of Black woman love. She was the calm to his sharp edges, the quiet steadiness that softened his noise. Hearing that she worried about being something delicate, something meant to be worn instead of loved, made his lungs almost forget how to work. The thought of her shrinking herself for him hollowed him out, left him bent inward, and aching to prove that she was never something he’d break. She was the place he went to feel fixed. If anyone was broken, it was him.
“Next hole,” he whispered, but he didn’t move to swing.
He stepped toward her instead.
Rain slid between them.
Meadow’s voice trembled. “Why you ain’t swinging?”
“Because I want your words first.”
“Zaire…”
He tilted her chin up with his wet thumb. “Say the rest.”
“I love you,” Meadow sighed. “I love you so bad I can’t breathe half the time.”
Zaire dropped the club and pulled her into him like something primal.
His lips brushed hers, then the kiss deepened.
Their kiss didn’t glide into sweetness.
It dragged…It gasped… It took.
Meadow tasted rain and regret and that stubborn west-coast air that always lived in his mouth. Zaire held her face like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go. His lips moved against hers slow at first… then deeper, hungrier, like he’d been starving for this kind of truth.
But it wasn’t enough, not for either of them.
He broke the kiss first, sighing deeply. He flicked his thumb over her protruding nipple. Between the thin fabric of her shirt and the rain, she may as well been naked.
She gasped for air, for more of his touch.
“Trust?” Zaire’s voice dripped with desperation. “This doesn’t work if I don’t have your trust, Meadow.”
“I know and I’m sorry.” Apologizing never tasted so sugary sweet.
Zaire let his thumb fall from tweaking her nipple. Looking down, he grabbed his club, lined up two balls and hit them consecutively. They both landed exactly where they were supposed to. “Shirt, panties…I win.”
“Wait!” Meadow looked down at her body.
“Your rules, remember…anything I want.” Zaire towered over her, the rain letting up just a little.
“What do you want, Mr. Cooks?”
“A pole dance.” His eyes slitted into a sexy scowl, challenging her.
