Romelo wasn't forcing me to do shit.
I wanted to suck his dick.
Gaining the courage, I started to bend down, my knees hitting the wet tile, but he stopped me.
"Uh-uh. Not like that."
He reached over and turned the shower water off. The sudden silence was deafening—just our breathing and the sound of water dripping from our bodies.
Mist from the water had fogged up the shower doors and walls. The smell of his body wash—Dove Men+Care, teakwood scent—permeated the air, mixing with the steam.
"Sit over there on that bench," he directed, nodding toward the wooden shower bench.
My head turned to see it—an eco-style teak bench positioned under the shower caddy, adjacent to the door. The shower was massive, big enough to house four people comfortably.
What would one man need with all this space?
But I already knew the answer. Everything about him was big. Big money. Big dick. Big pockets. Big house. Big dreams.
Everything big.
On wet heels, I sashayed over to the bench, and when I walked, my ass made a clapping noise because my booty and thighs were slick with water. I heard Romelo mutter something behind me—something low and guttural that I couldn't make out.
I cocked my head to glance at him over my shoulder, and his eyes were glued to my ass. He bit down on his bottom lip, his gaze hungry, possessive.
Obeying his earlier command, I sat down, my heart still pounding so loudly I could hear it in my ears. My eyes traveled over his naked body, taking in every detail.
He was so tatted. I didn't know all of his artwork existed until now. His body was a walking canvas—colorful, shaded tattoos that held symbolic meanings I'd probably never fullyunderstand. There was a lion on his chest, a clock on his ribs, Roman numerals on his forearm, praying hands on his shoulder.
Romelo was toned too. The defined ridges of his six-pack, his toned calves, his muscular arms. He'd always looked athletic since I'd known him, but seeing him like this—vulnerable, exposed—was different.
"You still nervous?" He chuckled, his baritone voice thumping against the tile under my feet.
"I never said I was," I lied.
He shrugged. "You ever seen a dick this big?"
"Maybe," I answered, real snooty-like, wanting to cover up the truth.
"In person?"
"Why does it matter?"
"Shit like that makes a nigga feel special, in a way. Believe it or not, when women admit to not being used to shit—or niggas ain't got this and that—then she meets a nigga with this and that..." He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
I shrugged, looking away, not really knowing what to say. I'm sure this cocky ass nigga would enjoy being the first of everything for me.
"I've never been the type of girl to make a nigga's head bigger than what it is," I said, trying to sound unbothered. "If they have small dicks, I don't sugarcoat it. If they give good head, I don't brag about it. Shit is what it is."
"Hmph. Is that right?"
"Yup." I nodded.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" He sneered, but there was humor in his eyes.
I giggled, then threw my head back, erupting into laughter. He was getting a taste of his own medicine for a change.
"Takes one to know one." I poked my tongue out at him.
