Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At eleven Monday morning, I had already stared at Andre Jones’s name on my phone four times and pretended each time that I was simply too busy to answer.
That was almost true.
Saint Aurelia had greeted me with a full inbox, two calendar requests, one nervous message from PR, and a list of names I’d collected during Crown Weekend that needed follow-up before the warmth of those conversations cooled.
I had come into the office early with coffee, sore thighs, and a mouth still tender enough to make brushing my teeth an event.
That part was Dre’s fault.
The rest was work.
My office sat behind ribbed glass with my name newly etched across the door.
Inside, everything still felt a little too neat to be fully mine: cream walls, walnut shelves, brass lamps, campaign boards beside sales reports, and a framed photograph of Aurelia St. Clair standing behind a velvet jewelry counter in the Hill District.
Pearls at her throat, marcel waves close to her head, and a stare that made it very clear she had never needed anybody else to tell her what luxury meant.
The rest of Saint Aurelia carried that same spirit.
Black art. Fresh flowers. Archive photographs of women in gloves, church hats, fur collars, silk blouses, gold bangles, diamonds.
Staff who could move from carat weight to shipping delays to somebody’s auntie’s macaroni in the same conversation without dropping a single thread.
At YSL, I had known the machine. I knew where to press, when to smile, and when to let a room believe my idea had been theirs all along.
Saint Aurelia was different.
Smaller. Black-owned. Family-rooted. Protective of its name in a way I respected. I had authority here, but I was still new enough to listen before I started rearranging furniture in somebody else’s house.
Confidence got me hired.
Discernment would help me stay.
Nina stood beside my desk with her tablet against her chest. Young, pretty, brown-skinned, knotless braids pulled high, gold hoops at her jaw, and eyes quick enough to catch everything she was still deciding whether she had permission to say.
I liked that about her.
The prototype bracelet shifted at my wrist while I reviewed our Crown Weekend follow-up list.
“At the Crown Club, nobody asked whether Saint Aurelia was affordable.”
Nina looked up.
“They asked when the bracelet would be available.”
Her stylus paused. “That’s a very different question.”
“Exactly.”
Black women did not need permission to desire beautiful things.
They needed to see themselves centered without being flattened into somebody’s campaign trend.
Saint Aurelia already had the craftsmanship.
The stones had fire. The settings had attitude.
My job was to make sure the right women recognized the house before somebody else explained it badly.
I tapped Marisol Grant’s name.
“Private preview. No gifting.”
“The stylist?”
“Yes. She has clients who understand red carpets, galas, openings, and the kind of dinner where a woman wants her wrist to speak before she does.”
Nina typed.
“And no mass influencer dinner yet.”
“Cleo will fuss.”
“Cleo enjoys fussing.”
Her mouth twitched.
“Visibility matters. She isn’t wrong. But if we move too fast, people see a beautiful bracelet and miss the house behind it.”
“That part,” Nina murmured.
I smiled. “You can say that out loud in here.”
Her shoulders loosened.
That was another thing I was learning. I did not need to sand every edge off my language before letting it enter the room. The women here understood the difference between refinement and being watered down.
“Harper Ellis gets a personal note from me. Mention AWU. No template.”
“Got it.”
“And Dr. Pendleton stays on the relationship list, but we aren’t leading bridal with this collection.”
“Even though she asked about engagement pieces?”
“Especially because she asked.” I turned my wrist beneath the light. “These diamonds aren’t being introduced as something a woman gets after somebody finally decides she’s worth a ring.”
Nina smiled. “Self-purchase first?”
“Self-possession first.”
“Then the purchase.”
I pointed at her. “That’s why I keep you.”
She laughed.
Work made sense when it sounded like this. Desire. Positioning. Memory. The emotional reason a woman reached for her card before talking herself out of wanting too much.
Unfortunately, wanting too much had become an area where I had developed fresh expertise.
My phone lit.
Dre.
Again.
Nina’s eyes flicked toward mine and immediately away.
Good girl.
“I’ll send you the Harper draft in twenty.”
“Thank you.”
Once the door closed behind her, I stared at my phone until the screen went dark.
He had called twice Sunday morning. Again Sunday night. Once while I drove to work.
One text sat beneath the calls.
Dre: Talk to me, Mani.
That nickname should not have retained that much power after all these years, but apparently my body had stopped taking requests from the rational parts of me.
Saturday night had already given me enough to avoid remembering at work.
What happened after we fell asleep was deliciously worse.
Sometime in the dark, I woke with Dre’s mouth around my nipple.
I didn’t open my eyes right away. My body knew the feeling before the rest of me caught up—warm mouth, slow pull, his tongue moving around the little ring until pleasure traveled straight through me.
It was almost the same way he had woken me years ago, the morning we’d talked about on the phone, except grown Dre had new things to discover and eight years of missing me behind his mouth.
By the time I fully woke, one breast was wet from him, his hand was between my thighs, and whatever smart thing I might have said had disappeared beneath the sheet.
He took his time with me. Mouth on my breasts.
Mouth between my legs. Fingers knowing when I needed more and when the tenderness from earlier meant he needed to slow down.
I was already sensitive, already sore in that good way that made every touch feel brighter, and somehow that only made me want him more.
We ended up tangled together again anyway.
Dre over me. My legs around him. Both of us sweaty and breathing hard while Pittsburgh glowed faintly beyond the windows.
His chain kept catching what little light made it into the room, flashing near my face whenever his body moved over mine.
Once, the diamonds skimmed cool against my chest before his heat covered them again.
Of course I noticed.
Imani Bennett could be getting fucked into another dimension and still recognize exceptional stones.
Afterward, neither of us moved much. Dre stayed half over me, one forearm beside my head, his breathing still rough while mine tried to remember how to behave. The chain lay against his chest, diamonds bright even in the dark.
I reached up and touched it.
“I gotta tell you, Dre. Those diamonds are beautiful.”
That got the smile.
Slow. Pleased. A little too knowing.
He reached behind his neck and opened the clasp.
I thought he was taking it off because we were finally going back to sleep.
Instead, he sat up against the headboard and looked at me.
“Sit up.”
I did, mostly because my body was too satisfied to argue properly.
“Move your braids.”
My hand gathered them over one shoulder.
Then cold diamonds settled against my skin.
I looked down. His chain. On me.
Dre fastened it behind my neck, then let his hands rest at my shoulders for a second before I turned toward him.
The way he looked at me made heat start gathering all over again.
His eyes moved over the diamonds at my throat, the chain falling between my breasts, my bare skin beneath it. He looked entirely too satisfied with whatever picture he had created in his head.
“What?” I asked.
His gaze lifted to mine.
“Ride me.”
My pussy actually pulsed.
“Dre.”
“Come here, Mani.” His hands found my waist. “I wanna see what you mean.”
And apparently that was enough.
I climbed over him.
The diamonds were cold when they first touched my breasts, then warmed quickly against my skin as I moved. They caught the darkness every time I rose over him, little flashes of white against my dark skin, his hands spreading over my hips and ass while he watched.
Mostly, he watched.
Me.
His diamonds on me.
The way my body took him while I wore something that belonged to him.
Hours later, I woke with him asleep behind me and one heavy arm around my waist.
For a few minutes, I let myself stay there.
His face looked younger in sleep. No public smile. No awareness of doors, phones, cameras, or people studying him. Only Andre, breathing warm against the back of my neck while the sheet rested low at his waist.
I woke sore. Pleasantly so.
Tender in places I had forgotten could feel newly used.
Good dick could do that to a woman.
Damien had been fine. Attentive enough. Attractive enough. A grown man who understood the mechanics and had never embarrassed himself.
He never rearranged me.
For a long time, I had thought that was the point.
Dre did not simply fuck me. He knew how my pride and pussy occupied the same body and spoke to both. Knew when to tease me, praise me, or look directly into my eyes until I stopped pretending pleasure was something happening around me instead of through me.
His mouth had wrapped around my pussy like he had spent years waiting to remember the taste, and when his dick found the place inside me that made thought leave my body, he stayed there.
Over and over.
Patient and filthy. Tender and ruthless. Watching me like every sound mattered.
He remembered the route.
My body remembered opening every door.
Then my phone vibrated on the nightstand.
Camille: I know you followed my advice. Don’t lie. The glow is probably visible from the hallway.
I had barely finished rolling my eyes before the next message arrived.
Also, before you panic, yes, there are pictures.
I opened Instagram.