Chapter 7
7
Present day…
M y closet looked like a war zone.
Shoes kicked out of boxes, hangers twisted, two maybe-pile dresses already tossed on the bed. I’d pulled half a dozen options and still couldn’t decide what felt right.
I glanced toward the back of the closet—where, tucked between an old jean jacket and a few dresses that didn’t feel like me anymore, hung the hoodie.
Soft. Faded. Still holding his scent in places I hadn’t washed out on purpose.
It looked unassuming, but it carried weight. History.
The first time I put it on, it swallowed me whole.
Dropped past my thighs, sleeves too long, hood too deep.
I’d curled into it on a night when I needed comfort more than I wanted to admit—and it gave it to me.
But that wasn’t the only reason I kept it.
It was the way his hand slid over the hem once—his fingers grazing my bare thigh like a question. The brush of his knuckles against my skin making my breath catch.
It was the memory of the way he looked at me in it.
Like I wasn’t just wearing his clothes—I was wearing him.
The way his mouth had devoured me that night.
Slow. Wet. Worshipful.
How I’d come undone with the fabric bunched around my waist, his voice in my ear, his tongue between my thighs.
That hoodie wasn’t just a hoodie.
It was him.
Still hanging in the shadows.
Still waiting.
Still mine.
I didn’t touch it, though I was tempted to, out of comfort, out of want. But I didn’t. I just looked at it for a second too long… and kept moving.
I didn’t know why I was nervous.
It wasn’t like this was a real date. Not really. Amir and I had been out together a hundred times, just the two of us. Movies, concerts, bars, restaurants—it was nothing new.
And yet, as I stood in front of my closet, staring at the scattered options I’d pulled, I felt like I was preparing for something… different.
I sighed, running my fingers through my braids before settling on a fitted, long-sleeve mini dress. It wasn’t much—not the kind of dress that clung to every dip and curve, the way I knew Amir’s exes used to wear. But it flattered what I had. My frame was more slender, legs long, and while I wasn’t stacked like the women he’d dated before, I still wanted to feel good in my skin.
I adjusted my glasses, then hesitated. Instead, I popped in my contacts, giving myself one last look in the mirror. Not doing too much, but enough. Something that said I didn’t get dressed for you, but if you notice, I won’t be mad.
I swiped cherry gloss over my lips, slipped on my favorite Steve Madden heels, and checked my phone. 8:02 PM.
Amir was already outside, waiting. Not texting to say he was pulling up—just there. Always moving like he knew exactly what he was doing.
I grabbed my purse, took one last look in the mirror, and headed out, heart beating a little faster than I cared to admit.
When I stepped outside, Amir was leaning against his car, one hand in his pocket, the other resting on the roof. The streetlights cast a glow over his deep brown skin, highlighting the sheen of his freshly shaped beard, the sharp cut of his jaw. His lips curved into that lazy smile, teeth white against his dark complexion, his presence thick, effortless. And when his gaze landed on me, something flickered across his face, something raw. His mouth parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
I felt that look everywhere. He looked good. Too good. A fitted black tee stretched across his chest, jeans sitting low on his hips, chain glinting against his dark skin under the streetlight. His beard was freshly shaped up, waves were immaculate, like he already knew he was a problem.
His eyes ran over me slowly, a flicker of something dark and heated crossing his face before he masked it with that lazy smirk. "Damn. You trying to show out?"
I lifted a brow. "You said we were celebrating. I dressed for the occasion."
He let his gaze linger a second longer before pushing off the car and opening the passenger door for me. "Good. 'Cause I plan on spoiling you tonight."
I swallowed, sliding into the seat, and was immediately wrapped in the scent of him—warm sandalwood and smoky spice, threaded with leather and something quietly addictive.
I recognized it as Santal 33, the cologne I helped him pick out while we shopped for Christmas gifts for our parents.
He rounded the car, sliding into the driver’s seat, fingers drumming against the wheel as he pulled off. "You trust me?"
I smirked. "Hell no."
He laughed, deep and rich, the sound sending a ripple of warmth through me. "Fair. But I think you’ll like where we’re going."
We drove through the city, the tension between us settling into something comfortable, familiar. The playlist running through his speakers was a mix of our favorites—Erykah Badu, D’Angelo, Lauryn Hill. I let my head rest against the seat, soaking in the vibe, trying not to overthink what this night felt like.
But I couldn’t lie to myself. It felt like a date.
When Amir finally pulled into the parking lot, I looked around, frowning. "Wait… The Blue Room? This is a speakeasy."
His smirk deepened. "You caught on quick."
I blinked, taking in the crowd outside. The place was alive—young Black professionals mixed with older couples, everyone dressed in a way that felt both effortless and intentional. Men in tailored blazers, women in silk dresses and heels. It was unexpected, seeing this many people our age vibing to jazz. And yet, the energy was electric.
He shot me a look, lips twitching. "You got a problem with that?"
I turned toward him fully, arching a brow. "Amir, you hate jazz."
He shrugged, cutting the engine. "I hate boring jazz. This place is different. I think you’ll like it."
I eyed him for a second before shaking my head. "If this is your way of buttering me up, it’s working."
He grinned, stepping out and coming around to open my door again. "Come on, artist. Let’s get you a drink."
Inside, The Blue Room was a whole vibe—warm, dimly lit, the scent of aged whiskey and cigars woven into the air. The music wrapped around us, low and sensual, the hum of conversation blending into the sound of the band. The bartenders moved with practiced ease, pouring top-shelf drinks for patrons lounging in velvet seats. It was elegant but not stiff—alive in a way that made me want to sink into the moment. The energy was smooth, and intimate, the kind of place that made you want to lean in close to whoever you were with.
Amir led me to a small table near the stage, pulling out my chair before settling in across from me.
"So?" he asked, watching as I took in the room.
I nodded, smiling. "I like it."
"Told you."
A waiter stopped by, and Amir ordered for us, already knowing my drink of choice—a lavender lemon drop with a sugared rim, chilled just right. It was the kind of drink that felt like silk and sunshine, a little sweet, a little sharp. For himself, he ordered a neat pour of Yamazaki 12, that smooth Japanese whiskey he always said was underrated.
The familiarity of it sent another pulse of warmth through me, a reminder that no matter how complicated things felt, he knew me. Still did.
As our drinks arrived, Amir lifted his glass, his dark eyes settling on mine. "To you," he murmured. "For your art, your talent… and for being magic."
I hesitated, feeling the weight of his words press into something deep, something unspoken. But then I lifted my glass, tapping it against his. "To us, then. For always knowing exactly how to celebrate."
For a moment, I was sixteen again. Back when Amir landed his first paid gig—DJing a backyard wedding for one of my auntie’s friends. I’d used my allowance to get him a custom snapback with his stage name stitched across the front and made a playlist of his favorite samples that we blasted all the way home.
He wore that cap for months.
I glanced at Amir, but he was already watching me, eyes low, intense, dark with the kind of heat that made my thighs clench beneath the table.
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and knowing. "You know this one?"
I nodded slowly, barely finding my voice. "Yeah. Minnie Riperton. Inside My Love."
His lips curved, eyes dragging over my face before dropping briefly—purposefully—lower. "You like it?"
The words felt thick in my throat. Everything about the song wrapped around me, slow and suggestive, pulling fantasies from my mind. Images. His mouth between my legs. My name falling from his lips as he drove into me, deep, thoroughly, like he meant to leave a mark on my soul.
"Yeah," I said softly. "I do."
His gaze didn’t budge. "I can tell."
I looked away, tried to sip my drink like I wasn’t melting on the inside. Like I hadn’t just soaked through my underwear. Like his voice hadn’t just dragged a shiver down my spine.
He leaned back slightly, still watching me. "That chair okay? You keep shifting."
"It’s fine," I lied.
He smiled, slow and dangerous. "Good. Be a shame if you were uncomfortable."
I glared at him, but my body was traitorous, burning under the weight of that teasing, that knowledge.
This wasn’t just a celebration anymore.
This was foreplay. And we were both already undone.
The ride home was quiet. Charged. My heart wouldn’t slow, my thighs still warm from the way Amir had looked at me all night. The way he spoke to me. The way he saw me.
His presence filled the car even in silence, the low hum of the engine and the soft R&B playing through the speakers doing nothing to cut the tension swirling between us. Every glance, every brush of his hand against mine, had left sparks in their wake.
When we pulled into the lot beside my apartment, I didn’t move right away. My fingers toyed with the hem of my dress, nerves buzzing just beneath my skin. I turned to him, a soft, almost hesitant smile playing on my lips. “Thank you. Tonight was…”
He held my gaze, his dark eyes unreadable but intense. “Yeah.”
We sat there for a moment, not rushing to get out. Just breathing. Just feeling.
His hand rested casually on his thigh, but I could see the tension in his knuckles, the way his jaw ticked like he was biting back words. I almost asked what he was thinking, but I already knew. The air was heavy with it. Want. Restraint. Possibility.
Eventually, I broke the silence. “Come on. Let’s go inside.”
He nodded and followed me out of the car, grabbing the leftovers and his overnight bag from the trunk. The walk up to the apartment was quiet, but not in a bad way. It was the kind of silence that held anticipation.
Once we stepped inside, I locked the door behind us, the soft click echoing too loudly in my ears. Amir moved toward the spare room like it was second nature now, his broad back disappearing into the hallway while I stood there, still shaken.
After my shower, alone in my room, I dropped the needle on my vinyl player and let Minnie Riperton’s voice wrap around me like a lover. “Inside My Love” filled the space, slow and sensual, each note sliding over my skin like a caress.
I sat on the edge of my bed, still pulsing with need. My mind played traitor, conjuring images of him—of how his mouth curved when he looked at me like I was something worth worshipping. Of his hands, those capable hands, gripping my thighs, spreading me open. The memory of what he’d done to me years ago collided with my want.
I slipped beneath the sheets, my breath already coming fast. My fingers found the heat between my thighs, and I gasped, arching into the touch, chasing something I knew I wouldn’t fully find without him. My eyes squeezed shut as I imagined the drag of his tongue, the stretch of his dick, the way he’d groan my name when I clenched around him.
I came hard, my body writhing, one hand gripping the sheets, the other buried deeply inside of me. A moan escaped me, raw and unfiltered, muffled by the pillow I pressed against my face.
His name was right there—on my lips, in my chest, thudding in my heartbeat—but I bit it back, sharp and silent. I couldn’t say it.
Instead, I lay there, the echo of release settling over me like a fog, my body trembling with the truth I couldn’t yet admit out loud.
This wasn’t going to be enough for much longer… because it never had been enough.