Not for show—but because I’m that nigga. I’ll spend every dollar when it comes my women.
I step back into the night air. The violet light still lingering behind my eyes. Anticipation has me tightly wrapped in its grasp because I know the evening is far from over.
My hands are steady.
That’s what surprises me most.
Because inside? I am anything but.
By the time I leave Provocateur, my mind is racing ahead of me. What happened in Caleb’s bathroom weeks ago was an appetizer. What happened between Calil and me the other night was a light snack.
Tonight?
Tonight feels like a full course meal.
And I am starving.
But hunger has never been my problem. Trust is.
I pull up to Lena’s place before either of them. The key still feels sacred in my hand every time I use it. I step inside and pause, letting the quiet wrap around me.
This is different.
This isn’t stolen kisses or private sections behind velvet curtains. This is intentional. Planned. Chosen.
So much is hinging on tonight.
Will Calil treat me the same way in Lena’s presence as he does when we’re alone? Will he look at me with that same certainty? Will Lena feel cherished or displaced?
Arousal coils low in my stomach.
So does fear.
I shake it off and move.
Candles first. Low and golden. Soft enough to flatter, warm enough to feel intimate. I dim the overhead lights until the room glows instead of shines.
Wine poured and breathing. Two glasses. Three.
I set what we’ll need discreetly on the side table without overthinking it. Intention without desperation.
Music.
Not Provocateur music. Not performance music. Something sensual but slow, the kind of rhythm that invites instead of demands.
Then I head for the shower.
Hot water washes the club off my skin. The scent of sweat, perfume, and stage lights slides down the drain. I take my time, scrubbing gently, exfoliating, letting my body reset.
Tonight I want to feel like me.
Not Zaria the bartender.
Not Zaria the performer.
Not Zaria the woman bracing for rejection.
Just Zaria.
