"I ain't ask if you was tired." He squeezed my throat a little tighter, making my pussy clench. "I said get up. Go shower, do your makeup, put on something that's gon' make every nigga in the city wish they was me. You got thirty minutes."
He let go and got out of bed, walking to the bathroom like the conversation was over. Because it was. When Sosa said do something, you did it. That's just how he was. Demanding. Commanding. The type of nigga who didn't hear the word "no" often and definitely didn't accept it when he did. And God help me, I loved that shit.
Twenty-five minutes later, I came out the bathroom in a burgundy bodycon dress that hugged every curve, my hair slicked up in a high ponytail, edges laid perfect, makeup beat. My brown leather jacket was thrown over my arm and I had on my thigh-high boots.
He looked me up and down slowly, his tongue running over his bottom lip.
"That's what the fuck I'm talking about. Come here."
I walked over and he grabbed my waist, pulling me between his legs where he sat on the edge of the bed. His hands slid down to my ass, gripping hard.
"You know you fine as fuck, right?" he said, looking up at me.
"You tell me every day."
"'Cause it's true every day." He smacked my ass, making me jump.
"Now let's go. I'm about to spend some bread on you."
"Baby, you don't gotta—"
"Yah-Yah." He stood up, towering over me. "Don't tell me what I gotta do. I'm a grown ass man. If I wanna spend my money on my woman, that's what the fuck I'ma do. You got a problem with that?"
I bit my lip, shaking my head. "No."
"Nah, say it right."
"No, baby."
"That's better." He grabbed his keys off the dresser. "Let's ride."
* * *
First stop was the high-end shoe store downtown where they treated you like royalty. Sosa had his arm around my waist the whole time, his presence making every employee move faster, speak softer, and act right.
"Bring out everything in her size," he told the sales lady. "Red bottoms, Gucci, Prada, all that. If it's fire, bring it."
"Sir, we have quite an extensive collection—"
"Then you better get to walking, shorty. We don't got all day."
She scurried off and I looked at him. "You so rude."
"I ain't rude. I'm direct. There's a difference." He sat back in the leather chair, spreading his legs wide, his black nike tech fitting him perfect, that diamond chain catching the light.
"Now go ahead. Try shit on."
I ended up trying on at least fifteen pairs. Every time I modeled one, Sosa would nod or shake his head, his eyes glued to my legs and ass.
"Them," he said when I put on a pair of red bottoms. "And them Gucci sneakers you tried on earlier. And them strappy heels."
"Sosa, that's almost five thousand dollars—"
"And?" He pulled out his black card, handing it to the sales lady without even looking at her. "Ring it up. And while you at it, show her them new Balenciaga’s that just came in."
"Baby—"
"Yah-Yah, I love you, but if you say 'baby' in that voice one more time like you about to protest, I'ma bend you over this counter and fuck you in front of everybody in this store. Now try on the shoes."
