~ 31 December ~

Rafa’s loft used to be an office space before he bought it two years ago. He kept the employee’s restroom, which is really convenient when there are a lot of people and a lot of drinking going on, like tonight. Of course, Rafa gave the whole room a makeover and his own unique twist. The walls are covered in colourful, mismatched tiles that should not work together, but somehow they do. The urinals are gone, replaced by a velvet bench with embroidered cushions that look like they came from a Moroccan bazaar. The stalls remained mostly untouched, only Rafa installed saloon-style half-doors – swinging dark wood panels that hit around mid-chest. Perfect if you want to make eye contact with whoever’s in there if they’re standing up. Awkward. Three sinks sit side by side on a wood slab of dark chestnut brown with white porcelain bowls and copper designer faucets on the other side. A huge mirror gleams behind it, reflecting the warm light and making the room appear much larger than it is.

As I wash my hands, I steal a glance at myself. Josie gave me a haircut just before Christmas – she insisted – so my hair doesn’t look quite the mess it usually does. Tonight I even made an effort and used some product on it. Go me. My outfit is nothing flashy – a simple maroon-coloured button-down paired with my favourite skinny jeans, which are strategically ripped in just the right places. I like it. Rashid says my butt looks cute in those jeans – and if he says so? Tempted by the big mirror, I turn around and try to peek over my shoulder to see what he does. I don’t get it – it’s just my ass? – but when my gaze lands on my phone sticking out of my back pocket, I have an idea.

I pull out my phone, open the camera app and try to take a picture of my butt. It’s not as easy as it sounds. I snap a photo and look at the result. Nope. Just nope. I look like I’ve been possessed by a demon and bent into an unnatural shape. I try again. My shirt is billowing strangely behind my back. Totally rocking the Hunchback of Notre Dame look. I glance around. There’s no-one in here, so I pull the shirt out of the waistband of my jeans and lift it up, revealing my stomach. It’s still flatter than a polished stone out of the Mississippi – and about as exciting, too. Not a bump, not a ripple, no six-pack in sight. I mentally shrug. It is what it is. It won’t be much of a shock to Rashid, he’s seen it plenty of times before. Along with the rest of me. No complaints so far.

What will be a surprise are a few dark lines peeking out from under the waistband of my jeans. The ink is still a little raised, and there’s a soft pink around the edges, but it is healing nicely. I skim my fingers across the transparent bandage covering it up to keep it clean, and to make sure the skin isn’t rubbed raw by my waistband. I can’t wait for Rashid’s reaction when he sees it. Mhmm, maybe I could give him a little sneak peek. It looks healed enough, and removing the patch for a moment do any harm.

I push down my jeans over my hipbone as far as they will go without unbuttoning them, so a little more of Rashid’s surprise is revealed. With my phone in one hand and my shirt in the other, the logistics get a bit tricky. Glancing around nervously to make sure no other party guests magically materialise in one of the stalls, I take my shirt between my teeth, hold my jeans down, look at the mirror from underneath my lashes and snap the picture.

I contemplate the result, my shirt still tucked between my teeth, thumb in my waistband, as the restroom door is suddenly flung open. I jump and almost drop my phone, hastily trying to cover myself. All I can hear is a huff, and when I look up, I catch a guy rolling his eyes at me. The guy in the Luke Cage T-shirt again. He shoulders past me, muttering something that suspiciously sounds a lot like “dickhead” under his breath before he disappears into one of the stalls. Well, fuck.

~ 18 January ~

You want me, I want you, baby
My sugarboo, I’m levitating
The Milky Way, we’re renegading

My broom sweeps across the floor of our backyard to the rhythm of Dua Lipa cooing in my earbuds. Keeping our community area clean and tidy isn’t actually the worst of my tasks, especially on a mild, sunny day like today. Spending time outside and working with my hands always makes me feel accomplished. Add some fine music, and my body just catches the beat and turns a chore into a choreography. A chore-ography. Okay, not one of my best. But there might be another reason for my happy mood today.

I got you, yeah, moonlight, you’re my starlight
I need you all night, all night, come on, dance with me
I’m levitating

Strong arms suddenly wrap around my waist, a warm body presses against my back and soft lips pepper kisses along my neck. A surprised squeak escapes me. Before my pulse can return to normal, I spin around and I seal my mouth to the person behind me. Fortunately for everyone involved, my instincts turn out to be correct, and the person I’m kissing in a way that is maybe not quite appropriate for the workplace is the person – the only person – I want to kiss.

He tastes like chocolate, coffee – and himself. All my favourite things in the world, and I can’t get enough. His lips move against mine and his warm breath ghosts over my skin. I know he’s laughing and probably saying something, but Dua is still purring in my ear, and I can’t hear a thing.

You can fly away with me tonight
Baby, let me take you for a ride
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, let me take you for a ride

Somewhat reluctantly, I pull back from our kiss when the need for oxygen becomes a necessity and I finally get a look at the most handsome face, the one – the only one – I missed so much. My hands reach out for him, because there is no way I can starve myself from touching him, but before I can lean in for another kiss, Rashid removes my earbuds and repeats, laughing:

“I missed you, too, … sugarboo.”

I ignore the quip about my taste in music – please, Dua is the GOAT, and as a closeted Swiftie he’s one to talk – and keep smiling at him, caressing him. I can’t believe he’s actually here. Warm and real underneath my palms. He looks tired after a long day of travelling, but he beams at me. I get the impression he might be happy to see me, too. I like that thought.

“How are you here already? I didn’t expect you for several hours!”

Rashid’s grin turns a little smug. “Caught a slightly earlier flight. It meant getting up at stupid o’clock and a hectic layover in Atlanta, but so worth it for this welcome alone.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I wanted to surprise you.” Rashid’s smirk widens considerably, and there’s only one thing to do about it. I’m so not done kissing him. My arms tighten around his neck, and my body curves into his. Every inch of me longs to connect with every inch of him. Rashid’s hands wander further south and press me closer to him. As a former street hustler, I’m quite used to sex in a semi-public environment, but at some point my brain catches on that this is maybe not the right place. Any of my tenants, Gigi, Etie – or worse – Mrs Beauchamp could walk in on us at any moment. Scraping together all the willpower I didn’t know I had left in me, I force myself away from Rashid, who tries to tug me back to him immediately.

“Time for my lunch break,” I declare and bolt away. Quick as lightning, I stow my utility objects away while Rashid retrieves the bag he dropped next to the gate leading into our backyard. Then I grab his free hand and pull him upstairs to my studio. I’m fumbling for my keys to open the door. Whose dumb idea was it to lock it anyway? Rashid isn’t helping my concentration, leaning into me, nibbling at my neck, his hand slipping underneath my shirt, skimming his fingers over my skin. I can hardly bite back a groan.

I’m not sure how we actually made it inside my apartment still fully clothed, but the second the door shuts, fabric is coming off, flying in every direction. I only half-register a protesting meow coming from somewhere near us. One of the items we’re so frantically trying to get rid of must have hit my poor cat Bruno. Oops. I hope it was something softer like Rashid’s shirt or my boxer briefs and not a belt buckle. I have no idea how I could explain that one to Lestat or Louis. Death by horny humans. Actually, if anyone understood our craving, it would probably be Lestat. Then he might not, if his feline offspring came to harm in the process.

With the last item – my left sock – sailing across the room, the urgency suddenly fades. We pause and soak up the sensation of skin on skin. We’re just basking in the presence of the other, our bodies inhaling, calming, grounding. Rashid’s heartbeat slows against my chest, matching the rhythm of mine. My fingers work along the back of his neck and skull, coaxing the tension from his muscles. His hands roam over my ass, kneading it gently – what can I say? He loves my ass. My back is against the wall, and I have no idea how we ended up here.

I let out a soft, content sigh. “I missed you so much,” I whisper, and Rashid just hums in response.

He starts kissing me again, wide open-mouthed, down my throat and along my collarbone. I tilt my head, giving him better access, letting his tongue trace the path. My fingers thread through his hair – so smooth, so soft – and the moan it draws from him sends goosebumps racing across my skin.

His hands tug at my cheeks, and I take the cue, leaping up to wrap my legs around his waist. My arms lock around his neck as our lips meet, his tongue teasing mine, and I lose myself completely. Only when my back is lowered down on cool sheets do I realise Rashid carried me across the room, and it sends a shiver straight through me.

I scoot up until I’m in the middle of my bed, and Rashid follows, sliding between my legs, his mouth never far from mine. I’ve missed this – his skin moulded against mine, his weight anchoring me. I’ve missed him: his warmth, his love, everything about him. It isn’t just the physical side. But kissing him, his hands exploring me, sets my body trembling, every nerve a live wire ready to spark. I know you can’t absorb emotions through skin, but with him, it feels like I’m drinking them in. Every brush of his fingers lights something under my skin, leaving a faint glow. His touch seeks out the broken edges of me and warms them back to life, piece by piece.

A sound suddenly pulls me out of the soft haze he’s wrapped me in. That wasn’t a moan…

“Did you… did you just yawn?” I ask him incredulously, turning his head from where he just nestled it into my shoulder. “Am I boring you?” I’m only partly annoyed and mostly amused.

His guilty face makes me chuckle. “Sorry…” He places a soft kiss just above my heart. “You’re never boring me.” Another yawn is trying to escape him. “Just the aftereffects of not getting much sleep last night.” He leans against my shoulder, and I let my lips linger on his hairline.

“Would you rather get some sleep?”

He looks up at me, black lashes framing his dark amber eyes. There’s real conflict in them, and it draws another laugh from me. I ease myself free and settle beside him, my hands coming up to cup his cheeks.

“It’s not an either/or situation, Chaudhury. Take a nap.” I smooth a rogue bit of hair away from his face. “We’ll grab a bite later on, and then you can have your wicked way with me for the rest of the night.” I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “There’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere.”

He flutters his eyelashes at me. “Promise?” He’s so ridiculous, and I love it. If someone had told me seven months ago that this dead-serious man – who hardly ever shows an ounce of emotion in his professional life – had such a silly side, I wouldn’t have believed it. I know I’m in a very small, very exclusive circle of people who get to see him like this. And it makes me feel quietly, fiercely proud to be one of them.

I hook my small finger with his. “Pinky promise.”

“Will you stay with me?” His hold on me tells me the question is strictly rhetorical. There’s no way he’s letting go of me. Ridiculous and adorable.

I kiss his nose. “Of course. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

We shift into a slightly more comfortable position, our legs entwined, his arms looped around me, his head nuzzled against my chest. His breathing evens out quickly, and I wait a moment to make sure he’s deeply asleep, running my hands soothingly along his back. Once I’m certain I won’t wake him, I carefully disentangle myself and slip out of bed, grabbing my sweatpants and T-shirt on the way. My eyes land on Bruno, sprawled on the couch, thankfully unharmed. I scoop him up and press my face into the soft fur under his belly. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to scare you earlier.”

Bruno seems to be forgiving, letting out a low purr that cuts off the second I lift the blanket he was lounging on and set him gently on the floor. He gives me one of his classic “Are you fucking kidding me?” looks, and I can’t help laughing as I shake my head. Carrying the blanket over to the bed, I drape it over Rashid, making sure he’s tucked in and comfortable. Satisfied, I lean down and press a soft kiss to his forehead, savouring the quiet warmth of him sleeping in my bed for a heartbeat.

After slipping on my clothes – making underwear an unnecessary option – I grab my laptop and sneak outside, casting one last longing look at the sleeping form on my bed. The urge to turn around and curl up with him again tugs at me, but if I use this time to knock out a few of my new tasks, I’ll have more moments with him later.

With a mix of regret and resolve, I close the terrace door, narrowly avoiding a certain furball who spontaneously decides to join me. I settle into my deckchair – my outdoor office – and open my laptop, trying to focus while my mind keeps drifting back inside.