15. YAHMARIA #5
“I was raised Catholic,” I said defensively. “I didn’t sleep around.”
“And Amai?”
“Was my second.” I looked down at my coffee. “My first was my high school boyfriend. We were together for two years before I gave it up. Then Amai. Then…” I trailed off.
“Then who?”
“A guy I met at a bar after Amai and I separated the first time.” I met his eyes. “It was a mistake. He was nothing. Just a body to prove to myself that I could still feel something.”
Syx set his mug down and moved closer, caging me against the counter with his arms on either side of me.
“And me?” His voice was low, dangerous. “Am I just a body?”
“No.” The word came out breathless. “You’re not.”
“Good.” His hand slid up my side, under my sweater, his palm warm against my skin. “Because I’m not interested in being a mistake, Yaya. I’m interested in being the man who makes you forget every other man who came before me.”
My pulse hammered. “Syx—”
“Tell me you don’t want this.” His other hand cupped the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the bruises Amai had left. “Tell me you don’t want me, and I’ll walk away right now.”
I couldn’t.
Because I did want him.
I wanted him in a way that terrified me—raw and real and completely outside the carefully constructed walls I’d built around myself.
“I want you,” I whispered.
His smile was slow and devastating. “Then let me feed you first.”
I blinked. “What?”
“You haven’t eaten.” He released me and moved to the fridge, pulling out ingredients. “And I’m not taking you back upstairs until you’ve got some food in you.”
I watched, stunned, as he moved around the kitchen with easy confidence—pulling out a pot, filling it with water, and setting it on the stove.
“What are you making?”
“Noodles with smoked sausage, shrimp, eggs, and green onion.” He glanced at me over his shoulder. “My mama used to make it when I was a kid. Comfort food.”
Something in my chest shifted.
This—this domesticity mixed with the sexual tension still crackling between us—felt more intimate than anything we’d done upstairs.
I sat on one of the bar stools and watched him work.
He moved with the same confidence he brought to everything else—chopping the sausage, peeling the shrimp, cracking eggs into a bowl. His hands were strong and sure, and I found myself mesmerized by the way his muscles flexed under his shirt.
“You’re staring,” he said without looking up.
“You’re worth staring at.”
He grinned. “Keep talking like that, and we’re not making it through dinner.”
“Who says I want to make it through dinner?”
He looked up then, his eyes dark and heated. “Patience, Yaya. I’m trying to take care of you.”
“Why?”
The question hung in the air between us.
He set down the knife and crossed to me, his hands framing my face.
“Because no one else does,” he said simply. “Because you’ve spent years in a marriage where you’re an afterthought. Because Amai treats you like a burden instead of a gift. Because you deserve someone who sees you.”
My throat tightened. “Syx—”
“I see you,” he continued, his voice fierce. “I see how smart you are. How strong. How fucking beautiful. I see the way you hold yourself together even when everything’s falling apart. And I want to be the man who makes you feel like you don’t have to hold it together all the time.”
Tears burned behind my eyes. “This is dangerous.”
“I know.”
“If Amai finds out—”
“He won’t.” Syx’s jaw tightened. “And even if he does, I don’t give a fuck. You’re not his, Yaya. You never were.”
“I’m still his wife.”
“On paper.” He kissed me softly, gently. “But not in any way that matters.”
He pulled back and returned to the stove. I sat there, trying to process what was happening.
This wasn’t just sex.
This wasn’t just two people seeking comfort in the wreckage.
This was something real.
Something that could destroy us both.
The water boiled, and Syx added the noodles, stirring them with practiced ease. The kitchen filled with the smell of cooking food—savory, warm, and grounding.
He plated two bowls and set one in front of me, handing me a fork.
“Eat,” he said.
I took a bite, and the flavors exploded on my tongue—salty, rich, perfectly seasoned.
“This is good,” I said, surprised.
“Told you.” He sat beside me, our knees touching. “My mama taught me to cook before she died. Said a man who can’t feed himself is useless.”
“She was right.”
We ate in comfortable silence, the tension between us simmering but not overwhelming.
When I finished, he took my bowl and set it in the sink, then turned back to me.
“You want another round?” His voice was low, rough with desire.
My pulse quickened. “Yes.”
“Then come here.”
I stood and crossed to him, and he lifted me onto the counter, stepping between my legs.
“We’re doing this,” he said, his hands sliding up my thighs. “You and me. No more pretending.”
“What are we doing, exactly?”
“Whatever the fuck we want.” His mouth found my throat, kissing the bruises Amai had left. “Starting now.”
He kissed me—deep and claiming—and I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
“Upstairs,” I breathed against his mouth.
He lifted me easily, and I wrapped my arms around his neck as he carried me through the house and up the stairs.
Back to his room.
Back to the bed where we’d first crossed this line.
And as he laid me down and stripped away my clothes, I knew the truth.
This wasn’t just the beginning of something forbidden.
This was the beginning of something that would change everything.
And I didn’t care.
For the first time in years, I felt alive.
And I wasn’t letting that go.
Not for Amai.
Not for anyone.