Imani
Damn, he’s fine.
Shit!
This suit and this damn cologne that have taken over my car have me clinching my pussy pearls. He’s handsome but why the fuck is he in my car and why the hell am I taking him to my house.
He’s a stranger.
I don’t know this man at all.
He’s big as shit but f-i-n-e. I can’t leave out fine because he is.
A tall, muscular, dark chocolate man wearing the hell out of a suit, with a fresh-out-of-a-barber’s chair low Caesar cut and precisely trimmed beard has to be a sin.
Father God, give me strength not to jump him after I tend to his cut.
Oh, add your son too God; I’m going to need both of you on this one.
“Are you plotting over there?” his smooth baritone says, jarring me from my crazy ass thoughts.
“Plotting what?” I ask.
“I don’t know. You tell me. You’re super quiet and just a few minutes ago we were talking.”
“I was in emergency/trauma mode.”
“I’m still bleeding so I think we are still in emergency mode.”
I glance over to him and the deep red stain on his shirt doesn’t seem to have gotten bigger but I can’t be sure until I get a closer look.
I have some skin stitch at the house. At first glance, it looked like that should be enough to close the gash.
However, if it isn’t, I can stitch him up.
Although I’m a surgical tech, some of the doctors I work with in the OR allow me to suture or close up incisions at the end because I’m actually pretty good at it.
“Two more minutes and we’ll be there,” I tell him before turning into the townhome community.
Mine is located on the second right, the fifth one on the left.
When I pull into my garage, I don’t shut my engine off right away.
“I think I should at least know the name of the man that saved me,” I tell him.
“I’m Daymir,” he says.
“Daymir. I like that. I’m Imani.” I pop my trunk then kill my engine. Before the gas station, I stopped by the Marketplace and picked up the ingredients for the teriyaki salmon bake and they are in the trunk. “Can you walk? I need to grab some things out of the trunk.”
“I can walk and help with whatever.”
“Not tonight. You’re hurt.”
I unlock the doors and get out. When I grab my four bags from the trunk and walk to his side, he’s out. Not only is he fine but he’s insistent too. After several nos from me, he still grabs two of the bags and I lead him inside.
I snatch my bags back and rush them into the kitchen. Then, I grab about four towels from my linen closet then spread them on my loveseat.
“Please don’t try to be a superhero. I’m going to take off your shirt and you are going to let me. Then, I’m going to help you onto my loveseat and again, you are going to let me,” I sternly say and he just smirks. He doesn’t resist me either though.
Shirt-on Daymir is sinful but shirt-off Daymir is freaking divine.
His dark chocolate skin is smooth like butter and just gorgeous.
The ink across his neck and down his right arm is barely visible against his midnight skin and even that is sexy.
Before I realize it, I’m staring, hard, too hard.
He catches me and he doesn’t try to conceal the fact that he did. In fact, he brazenly calls my ass out.
“You done looking?” he asks sheepishly.
“Just at your wound,” I quickly lie and stand on it. Even when his eyes call me out, I stand firm. “Wait here.”
Once he’s on the sofa, I step into my bathroom, wash my hands, then grab my personal medical kit from under the sink.
When I walk out, I glove up and get to it.
The gash is about three inches but it isn’t too deep.
After washing it, I see that the bleeding as indeed stopped.
So, I seal it with Skin Stitch, apply antibiotic around it, then bandage it.
He’s quiet but as I tend to him, I can feel his eyes on me.
“You really know what you’re doing,” he says, tone mixed with surprise and impression. “Are you a nurse or something?”
“Or something,” I tease as I stand. “I’m a surgical technologist.”
“Like in real surgeries?”
“Yes, in the operating room. I’ve been doing it for five years.”
“Wow. I guess I almost died in front of the right person.”
He smiles and so do I. After gathering up my stuff, I trek back into the bathroom, trash the bandages used, and wash my hands. When I walk out, he’s standing.
“Why are you up?” I ask.
“I need to use the restroom if you don’t mind.”
“Yes…Of course. Go ahead.”
“You not gone ask me if I need help?” he asks and I can’t hold my laughter.
Lord knows I’m curious to know if all of him is big.
“I think you can handle that,” I tell him.
He flashes me a smile and whew! I love a man with pretty ass teeth. His sexy level just elevated another notch and he was already to the damn moon.
While clinching my damn thighs together as I walk, I step to the sofa, gather the towels and his shirt, and take them the to my laundry room. After starting the load, I walk out and he’s back in the living room, sitting.
“Your shirt is in the machine. It’s going to take a minute. Do you want a Tylenol or Advil for pain?” I ask.
“Nah. I think I’m straight. You got some healing magic or some shit in your hands. Thank you for patching me up.”
“It’s the least I can do. When your shirt is ready, I’ll take you to,” I begin then it hits me. How did he get to the gas station? Did he leave his car there? “Did you drive to the gas station?”
“Yea. My ride is still there. I can catch an iDrive back. It’s not that deep.”
“No. I’m taking you and don’t argue, please. Let me turn the tv on for you. I’m hungry and I’m about to cook while your shirt washes. So, relax,” I encourage. For some reason, I’m not in a hurry for him to leave.
“You cook too?” he says with a smile.
“I do more than cook, I burn,” I boost, smiling too. “You like salmon?”
“It’s my favorite seafood.”
“Then, I’ll cook enough for you too.”
I reach for the remote on the table in front of him but he stops me. “I don’t need the tv unless you do. I’m cool with just talking.”
“Me too then. You want something to drink? I got some liquor. White or dark?”
“Dark.”
“Cognac, Whiskey, or Bourbon?”
“Bourbon on the rocks.”
“Got it.”
I walk into my dining area where my mini bar is located and fix two drinks. His bourbon on the rocks and my concoction that I call a strawberry bourbon daiquiri. It’s just bourbon, ice, strawberry syrup, and a few freeze-dried strawberries.
After placing my drink on the kitchen island, I take him his bourbon then head into my kitchen.
I take a few sips of my drink to calm my heart and clit palpitations.
I don’t know shit about this man besides his name but I’m a thousand percent sure that I want him.
I’ve been in Crescent Falls nine months and while this city seems to be overpopulated with fine ass Black men, not one has solicited this amount of interest, attraction, and want.
“Are you allergic to anything?” I ask as I pull the skin from my salmon. I’ve decided to pivot and make my own version of a rice bowl.
“No. Nothing.”
“Good. I’m making jasmine rice, salmon teriyaki, with sautéed broccoli and bok choy.”
“Everything sounds good but I’ve never had bok choy,” he admits.
“It’s a leafy vegetable. To me it tastes like spinach and cabbage mixed. It’s crispy and holds up when sautéed. You’ll love my bok choy.”
“Say less. I’ll try it.”
After picking the small bones from the salmon, I cut it into cubes, rub a small amount of teriyaki sauce over them, then season the cubes.
I let the salmon marinate while I wash my broccoli and bok choy and rough chop both.
Then, I start my rice in the rice cooker.
Mincing my garlic and slicing my red onion and bell pepper are next.
Cooking clears my mind, reduces my stress, and releases positive endorphins.
It puts me in my happy space and when I’m in my kitchen, I’m in a zone.
So much in my zone that I hadn’t realized that Daymir got off the loveseat, walked into the kitchen area, and sat his handsome self in a stool at my island.
When I turn around from the stove, I’m startled and caught the hell off guard.
Thankfully though, my feet stay planted on the tiled floor and I don’t scream like a banshee.
“Oh shit!” I exclaim. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you get up.”
“I had to come see what smells good as hell in here. I don’t know the last time I had a good home cooked meal,” he says and my curiosity peaks even more.
No home cooked meal does that equal no woman? E-stop it. Not all women cook.
“You don’t cook?” I ask, deciding not to take the “no woman in your life” approach.
“I can cook one thing and I refused to eat a Philly steak every day.”
“Are you from Philly?” I ask as I fluff the rice in my cooker. It’s ready and so is the salmon. I just need to stir these veggies one more time.”
“Philly bred. I’ve only been here two years. You?”
“Originally from North Carolina. Diamond Cove. I’ve only been here about nine months but I love it though.”
“You came here alone?” he asks.
“I did. Did you?” I fire back since he opened the personal-information door I was leaning on.
“Yea. Dolo,,” he says as I place his plate in front of him then I turn to fix mine.
“So, you drive a supped-up Challenger, claim to own firearms, can operate on wounded niggas, can cook, and look like this and I’m supposed to believe that no man is going to be coming home from work in ten minutes? ” he asks skeptically.
With my plate in hand, I turn to place it on the island counter and to face him. “You can believe what you want but I’m telling the truth. It’s just me and there’s no claim. I have a blickey so don’t get any ideas,” I say then wink.
“Blickey?” he says then a low sexy, deep, chuckle falls from his lips. “This is the first time blickey sounded cute to me.’
“Okay cute. Don’t be fooled. Have guns, will shoot,” I smirk.