Chapter 4
MY VAGINA IS A TRAITOROUS HOE
AMIRA
Ishut the door behind me, pressing my back against it as I release a deep, shaky breath. My body feels like it’s been electrified, every nerve firing in wild directions.
I glance down at my vagina and mutter under my breath, “Get it together.” My traitorous body ignores me, the heat between my thighs a lingering reminder of how easily Henson unraveled me with nothing but his presence. Ridiculous.
Why did I agree to share this penthouse? Calling it a room feels like a joke, with its sprawling living space, sleek furniture, and jaw-dropping view that’s wasted on someone like me. I should’ve said no, insisted on separate accommodations. But my curiosity won.
Now, here I am, spiraling because of a man who has no business being so… him.
What was I thinking?
I pinch the bridge of my nose and groan.
I need a shower.
Stripping down, I step into the glass enclosure and let the steaming water pour over me. For a moment, the heat soothes my tense shoulders, and I sigh in relief. But then, my mind takes over, replaying the moment outside my door.
Henson, leaning closer than any stranger should, his breath warm against my skin.
“You smell fine to me... It’s nostalgic,” he’d murmured, his deep voice sending vibrations down my spine.
My body had betrayed me then, too, shivering under the gentle graze of his stubble along my neck, and now, the memory of it brings a fresh wave of goosebumps despite the heat of the water.
“Damn it.” I close my eyes and press my palms flat against the tile wall, willing myself to focus on anything but him.
It doesn’t work. His voice echoes in my head, low and teasing. “Why are you running away from me, Mira?”
I bite my lip, an uninvited image of Henson chasing me down sending a sinful thrill through me.
I can almost see it—me darting through the penthouse, his long strides closing the distance effortlessly.
His hands grabbing me, pinning me down..
. taking me. My breathing quickens, and I press my thighs together, but it only makes the ache worse.
My hand moves on its own, sliding lower until my fingers find that sensitive spot begging for attention.
Water cascades over me, muffling the soft, desperate sounds escaping my lips.
I try to be quiet, biting down hard on my bottom lip, terrified he might hear me from the other side of the door.
The thought of it only fuels the fire, though, and my hips arch into my hand, fingers circling over my swollen clit, as the fantasy overwhelms me.
Henson, holding me down, his voice growling in my ear…
My orgasm hits me hard, and I clutch the wall, my legs trembling as pleasure courses through me. For a moment, I stay there, panting under the spray of water, letting the high ebb away. Then reality sets in, and guilt creeps up my spine.
What the hell is wrong with you, Amira?
I finish quickly, scrubbing away the evidence of my weakness, and step out of the shower, wrapping myself in a towel. I pull on a loose pair of lounge pants and a tank top from my suitcase. My wet curls are a lost cause, so I tie them into a messy bun, hoping it looks intentional.
When I finally open the bedroom door, the scent of something delicious wafts through the air, and my stomach growls loud enough to betray me.
“Hungry, Mira?” Henson’s deep laugh floats toward me, and I find him standing in the open-concept kitchen, his shirt sleeves rolled up as he plates food.
I cross my arms, trying to seem unaffected. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble.”
He shrugs, flashing a crooked smile that makes my stomach flip. “I only ordered food, I didn’t make it. Sit.” He gestures to the dining table, where an array of dishes I can’t even name await.
Reluctantly, I take a seat, my mouth watering. “This looks amazing.”
“Can’t have you wasting away on my watch,” he says, taking the seat across from me.
I roll my eyes but dig in, savoring the rich flavors. For a moment, the food is distracting enough, but curiosity gets the better of me, and I glance up at him.
Henson’s eating quietly, almost serenely, like the chaos of the day hasn’t touched him at all.
It makes me relax, just a little. And before I can stop myself, I realize I want to know more about him.
“Earlier, when you mentioned being uneasy in crowds… is that something that started recently?”
His gaze meets mine before he leans back in his chair, expression shifting.
“Kind of. I wasn’t always like that. Growing up, my family was together all the time.
Big dinners, parties—my mom was a party planner, so there was constantly something going on.
Crowds never bothered me back then. They were just normal. ”
I nod, urging him to continue.
“Then my career took off and, suddenly, people knew my name. My face was in the tabloids. Every move I made was dissected. Privacy? Gone.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, avoiding my gaze.
I study him for a moment. “I know you’re a Miller.”
He glances at me, surprised, and I add, “I saw your name on the screen at reception. I just figured you didn’t need another person gawking or asking for a selfie.”
A small smile tugs at his lips. “I appreciate that.”
“So what happened after?”
“The first time I had a panic attack was at a launch party. Too many people, too many eyes. Everyone wanted something from me, and I just... froze. My chest got tight, my vision blurred, and I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was dying.” He gives a half-hearted chuckle.
My heart clenches at the vulnerability in his voice. “That sounds terrible.”
“It was.” He meets my gaze. “Since then, it’s like the floodgates opened. Crowds, cameras—even certain noises can set me off. It’s hard to manage sometimes.”
“That’s a lot for anyone to deal with.”
He shrugs. “You learn to live with it. Or at least, I’m trying to. But that’s one of the reasons I rarely appear in any tabloids or columns… Worth, my brother, is much better at handling all of that.”
I take another bite of the perfectly roasted chicken, while my thoughts linger on what Henson just shared. There’s something so disarming about his honesty, a stark contrast to the composed, confident man he projects.
Not sure what to say, I settle for a quiet, “I’m really glad you told me.”
His smile is almost uncertain as he gives a faint nod. “Sometimes, I feel guilty.”
My fork pauses midair. “Guilty?”
“For feeling weak and letting it get to me. I mean, I have so much to be thankful for. Success, money, a career most people would kill for, and yet—” He shakes his head.
“I get caught up in my brain. I feel like I should be stronger, that I don’t have the right to struggle when others have it much worse. ”
His words tug at something deep inside me. Setting my fork down, I lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Henson, having success doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to feel overwhelmed or struggle. You’re human, not a machine. You don’t have to justify your feelings to anyone.”
His light eyes search mine. “It’s hard to see it that way sometimes.”
I smile softly. “You seem pretty grounded to me. If I hadn’t seen your name, I wouldn’t necessarily have put the pieces together. And I mean that as a compliment.”
Henson arches a brow. “Oh. How so?”
I shrug, trying to articulate what I mean. “You’re not some spoiled rich guy who flaunts his success or expects the world to bow at his feet. You seem genuine. Like you actually care about things and people other than yourself.”
“Go on.” He smirks.
I chuckle. “Well, ever since the airport, all you’ve done is help me—offering a plane ticket, sharing your car, making sure I was okay. You could’ve easily ignored me, but you didn’t. That says more than a polished public image ever could.”
His expression softens for a beat, but then his usual confidence slides back into place. “Careful, Amira. I might start to think you actually like me.”
I roll my eyes, picking up my fork again and stabbing a piece of roasted potato. “Don’t let it get to your head, Heartbreaker.”
That catches him off guard, his smirk faltering just a little. “Heartbreaker, huh?”
I meet his gaze with a raised brow. “I call it like I see it.”
“Can’t say I hate the nickname. Though I think you’re making some bold assumptions.”
I let the silence stretch. “Am I?”
He leans forward slightly, voice dipping lower. “You think I make a habit of breaking hearts?”
“No. I think you don’t even realize when you’re doing it.”
That stops him. For just a second, the playfulness in his expression is replaced by something thoughtful.
“I see. So I’m the villain in your story?”
It’s my turn to smirk. “I didn’t say that. But I’d definitely keep an eye on you if this were a fairy tale.”
He laughs at that, rich and warm—and damn it, it does something to me. It makes me feel lighter and more off-balance all at once.
“Guess I’ll have to work on being more prince, less villain,” he says, raising his glass.
I clink mine against his. “Good luck with that.”
He watches me with an intensity that makes my stomach do a little flip. “So, does knowing who I am now change anything for you?”
I pause. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… Now that you know I’m not just some random guy, that I have money, a reputation... Does it change how you see me? How you feel about being here?”
I chew slowly, giving myself a moment to think. “No. It doesn’t change anything. You’re still the same Henson I met. Just as infuriating.”
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m glad.”
I shake my head, pushing my plate aside. “People are more than their titles or their bank accounts. I see you, Henson. You can be more than whatever the headlines have to say.”
For a moment, the air between us is charged, the kind of silence that says more than words ever could. Then, he clears his throat and shifts in his seat.