Why do I keep doing this?
If I die tonight, I’ll be the laughing-stock of the morgue.
...His plump lips slid up at the corners revealing nine perfect pearls and Nawe thought surely this was the time to die. So what if the other corpses laughed at her expense? She could deal with that...
“Scream.”
“What?!” Nawe went still but her tongue shattered the silence Andre’s request had provoked, “I aint ’bout to surrender! You forgot you’re ticklish too, huh? Oh…I’m gon’ getchu when I get up. Just wait…” Another feathery touch cut off the threat and another round of laughter ripped from her throat, deep and unladylike. Andre chuckled and continued his assault. When the attack progressed to the tender spot behind her knees, Nawe’s struggles increased until she had flipped onto her back. Long, red-brown locs fanned around her head. Most snaked around her neck while others stretched to caress the hand-woven raffia mat that lay beneath the coffee table. Vibrant golds and reds intertwined, welcoming the stray locs into their midst.
She was beautiful. High cheekbones and stubborn chin. Lashes too long to belong to a real person. Everything about Nawe defied logic, including how she insisted on pushing his name between her teeth like she was savoring the word. She was growling it now. Murmuring the name like some sort of prayer while forcing herself not to scream. Stubborn. Unlike anyone else he’d ever met. He returned his attentions to the toes still cradled in his palm, a low growl his reward. Very stubborn. At only twenty-five years old, she’d long since mastered the art of disappearing. Blending into her surroundings without changing a thing about herself. Somehow, by being different from everyone else, becoming invisible. Right, he smirked. Invisible.
She thought she was ugly. Nawe’s foot jerked in Andre’s palm and he leaned closer to her body. Okay. Not ugly. He wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anyone stupid enough to call her ugly. She wouldn’t hesitate to hurt anyone stupid enough to call her ugly. How many times had he heard, “I’ve seen enough trolls in my day to know I aint one of ‘em. I might not be the cutest thing ever created, but this heifer is ridiculous”? Then she’d roll those big brown eyes and point one short, unpainted nail toward the offender and they’d both laugh at the ugly girl…or boy. No. She didn’t think she was ugly. Just didn’t realize how beautiful she was.
Could be a model if she wanted. Not that she wanted. Not that he could see her traipsing down a runway in one of those fluffy costumes designers sold for the price of a good used car. A good used car, not one of these rust buckets littering corner parking lots and side streets. Something inspected and certified like a Honda or Toyota. Not that she’d let anyone dress her up. Not that she’d be caught dead in heels…or makeup…and definitely not nail polish. The idea of Nawe Salaam, artist, poet, and eternal tomboy with a French manicure was enough to make Andre forget what he was doing. Nawe’s hands always looked as if they’d been attacked by kitchen shears, and probably had. Her nails were dirty crooked things that seemed to collect paint and grease, mud and who-knows-what-else from down at the Center.
Still, he liked them just as they were. Small wrinkled brown sculptures that were always quick to soothe away his hurts. They reminded him of Great Granny Ruth, his father’s grandmother, who had massaged Glovers into Andre’s scalp every night until he was thirteen and considered responsible enough to handle the stench on his own. Not the sexiest thought but true. They were healing hands. Had it not been for the many folds and scars, Nawe’s would have seemed too childlike, too…too…something. He again contemplated the French manicure, trying to envision long square nails on those fingers. No. They were perfect as they were.
Nawe jerked her foot in Andre’s grasp and his thoughts jerked just as quickly from the image he’d conjured of his girl’s manicured hands swinging a shiny chrome blow drier at some defenseless screeching hairdresser. Poor thing didn’t know not to touch her locs. Andre ran his finger along Nawe’s instep. “Scream.” No way was she going to scream, but he wanted to keep her close. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and forbid her to go home, but she’d look at him like he was crazy and roll those big brown eyes. He could see her now; hand on hip, neck swiveling, eyes narrowed, “Forbid me? I know you aint say you for…bid me?!” He’d never see her again. But the idea of releasing Nawe’s foot and allowing her to leave his home wasn’t one he wished to entertain. So he instead leaned closer, then gave in and gently placed her right foot beside the other, resting his weight on his palms.
“I thought about you today,” the words no more than a growl.
“Did you?” Nawe inhaled the scents around her and tried to forget where she was, where he was, tried to pretend Andre wasn’t too close. That his nearness wasn’t making her sweat. Aloe. Mulberry. Macadamia nut oil. And something else that had been driving her crazy all night. Eyes closed. Mouth closed. Just say no.
“Yeah…” He leaned closer until well-muscled chest met softer one.
“And?”
“Stay.” Andre brought his lips to her neck and whispered again, “Stay.”
Tomorrow's Sun preview
