I'm sure if his body was a work of art in a museum, women would line up just to stare. If his body was for sale, I'd be the highest bidder.
He deserved things. Hot meals every night—not leftovers, but fresh, home-cooked food made with love. He deserved massages, foot rubs, manicures every two weeks, pedicures. He deserved to be taken care of.
Day in and day out, Romelo took care of business. Two homes. His brothers. Trecee's siblings. His employees. Everyone.
When the house was quiet and I was settled in bed at night, I'd hear him shuffling around downstairs, taking care of business on the phone, demanding orders, handling shit.
He was a family man and the hood's finest. Masculinity reeked from his pores, but deep beneath his skin—underneath those intricate tattoos—I saw that he was being drained.
Millionaires have a thousand problems that aren't financial. If you asked a broke nigga what his wish was, he'd say:Win the lottery.
I guess it's true—money doesn't solve problems.
Because I'm looking at a money-making machine right now with a lot of them.
Including me.
For days, I'd given him the cold shoulder because he was keeping me tucked away like I was some forbidden piece of fruit. I couldn't busy myself enough with binge-watching shows. I'd watchedGrey's Anatomy,Scandal,How to Get Away with Murder, andPower. Romelo was subscribed to everything.
I'd invited myself to his man cave twice but never went lurking through his things. He'd dumped a load of urban fiction books in the guest room for me—and I knew most of them were from my apartment. He wasn't slicker than a can of oil.
"Why?" I spoke up, crawling out of my thoughts.
I watched soap swim down the crack of his ass as he scrubbed himself, and then he jolted his neck in my direction. The scent of Dove's men body wash lingered heavy in the steamy air.
"Why what?"
"Why don't you cum from head?" I yelled loud enough for him to hear me over the sound of the water.
He shrugged while scrubbing the back of his neck and behind his ears. "I ain't never put too much thought into it. It ain't like I can't nut. I just ain't never came from head." He responded nonchalantly and looked away from me.
I walked closer to him through the steam. It smacked against my face, warm and thick. The glass doors were clouded with mist. My nipples brushed against his back, and he didn't flinch.
Our skin touched, and the intimacy between us turned up a notch. I felt fire igniting from the contact, and I'm sure he could feel it too. That's why he didn't move.
His body became relaxed—almost as if he'd been waiting for this feeling his whole life.
I pressed my cheek against his back, released a deep breath, and closed my eyes.
"I'm feeling things that I don't know how to feel about," I whispered.
"Like what?"
"I don't know." I shrugged against him. "I'm catching feelings for my kidnapper."
His chuckle made his body jolt. "Is that what you call me?"
"It sounds way better than 'my cousin's boyfriend.'"
Now I felt defeated. Saying it out loud made it real.
He turned around, facing me, and grabbed a handful of my ass, groping it slowly, possessively. Though my skin was wet, he had a firm grip, and I knew there'd be marks later.
"I don't give a fuck how you call it. I've already stressed that shit to you enough. The fuck I look like letting you slip through my hands twice? This shit ain't debatable, Synthia. I got you, and I ain't lettin' you go. I'm droppin' bodies left and right 'bout you. Playtime's over. They 'bout to be workin' overtime at the morgue."
I giggled because I knew he was serious. Dead serious.
"Don't start that."
