I noticed him pulling at the drawstring on his joggers and yanked my cuffed hand back. "Nigga, I'm not coming in there with you."
"Juicy, you ain't got no fucking choice."
"I swear to God I hope you're about to pee."
He turned around and grinned. Then he pulled his joggers down.
His dick swung out, heavy and thick, dangling between his thighs like it had its own gravitational pull. I couldn't help but stare—at the pink mushroom head, the veins running up the shaft, the sheer size of it.
Beautiful. Monstrous. Painful.
"Naw," he said, sitting down on the toilet and pulling me closer with the handcuffs. "I need to shit really quick. Just chill so I can concentrate."
"You really piss me the fuck off." I pulled my shirt up over my nose, trying not to breathe.
Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop.
"Ughhh." He sighed like he'd just had an orgasm. "Damn, that's better."
"You fucking stink!"
"I ain't no unicorn. Shit don't smell good, Synthia. I'm sure yo shit stank too."
I reached over him—nearly gagging—and flushed the toilet before the smell could get worse.
"Smells like something crawled in yo ass and died," I choked out.
"I don't know what did," he said, completely unbothered.
"You need some Poo-Pourri," I said, still holding my shirt over my face even though it wasn't helping.
"That's that poop spray shit my mama keeps in all her bathrooms. It don't work."
"Yeah, it wouldn't work for your stankin' ass.” I spat sarcastically. “You need to set a bomb off in here."
He actually laughed at that. A real laugh. He stood up to wipe—with wet wipes, thank God—and then moved to the sink. The scent of soap slowly started replacing the other smell.
"I'd hop in the shower after that, but we ain't got time," he said, washing his hands. "I know Roxx finna be blowing my phone up."
"I don't care where we go," I muttered. "I just need to be able to breathe."
We stepped outside and the night air hit my face like a blessing. Cool. Clean. Crisp.
Even handcuffed to a psychopath, I couldn't help but notice how beautiful it was out here.
The walkway was pebbled and lined with small lights that glowed softly in the darkness. There was a sprinkler going in the distance, watering a rose bush near the French doors. The grass looked professionally landscaped—perfectly cut, edges sharp. This wasn't the hood. This was some Cordova, Bartlett, Olive Branch type shit.
Houses like this didn't exist where I came from.
"This is beautiful, Romelo," I said quietly, my voice nearly drowned out by crickets and frogs.
"I know it is," he said, cocky as ever. "It's a compound. My parents had it built for my brothers and me. Roxx stays here full-time. I come here to get away from bullshit."
"It's the perfect vacation." My eyes drifted over the property, taking in every detail. Even the air smelled different out here. Cleaner.
"What area are we in?" I asked.
He shot me a look. "Why?"
