Chapter 4 #3
"An 'active little thing,' huh?" I teased, my eyes roaming over her.
Leaning back, I extended my arms along the back of the bench, and purposefully, I used my hand to pull her closer to me. She resisted at first, but then she scooted over, closing the gap between us.
"Stop treating me like I'm contagious," she muttered, but there was no real bite in her tone.
"You know you got the cooties," I joked.
"If I got the cooties, then you got them too," she shot back. "You can't stay out of my pussy for two seconds."
I smirked. "Facts."
"Hush." She nudged me in the side with her elbow, glancing around nervously. "They can hear you."
"Mane." I waved her off, still looking ahead at the kids. "Them kids ain't studdin' us, and they for damn sure can't hear us. Don't get all shy on me, Juicy."
She rolled her eyes but smiled.
We sat there in comfortable silence for a moment, the sounds of the park surrounding us—kids laughing, birds chirping, the distant hum of traffic.
Then Synthia broke the silence.
"What was that about?"
I turned my head slightly, looking at her. "What you mean?"
"That shit with Trecee earlier. Y'all getting back together? I thought you said y'all broke up."
I scoffed. "Nah. Ain't none of that shit goin' on. Trecee was acting like Trecee—what she does best." I paused, then added, "Why you wanna know if you ain't feelin' me?"
I bit down on my lip, taunting her.
"How I feel doesn't matter," she said quietly, looking away.
"What makes you say that?"
She sighed, and I could see the internal battle playing out on her face.
"Don't bullshit me, Romelo. I know niggas like you.
They come and go. I'm in this for only one thing, and we both know that this works out for the both of us.
Even if I wanted to go all in with you, I can't. I'll be dipping my toe in Pandora's Box, allowing some taboo shit to show up at my front door. "
"Are you trying to tell that to yourself so you can believe it?" I asked, my tone more serious now.
"Nigga." She cut her eyes at me. "Stop playing with me."
"I'm not." I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and craned my neck to look at her fully. "But you got some shitty ass ways that anybody can see through. You ain't hard to read, Synthia. You put on this tough act, thinkin' I don't be peepin' it, but I do."
She opened her mouth to argue, but I kept going.
"You want to fuck with me, and we go through this shit like clockwork with your internal feelings. You want to seek validation in the wrong things being right. I ain't got to bullshit you on that. I knew I wanted you for a while now. The right approach didn't present itself until now."
Her jaw clenched, but she didn't respond.
"You say that like it's a good thing," she finally muttered. "It's obvious that you and Trecee still have some loose ends to tie up."
I scrunched up my face in annoyance. "Who gives a fuck about her? Let me handle her. I don't need you doing shit else, 'cause that's making your brain rot. Just ride this wave with me."
"You do know how fucked up this is, right?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"From the moment I walked into your apartment that Sunday, I let go of any possibility of regret.
Despite how crazy things get, I was in my right mind then, and I still am.
" I reached over and gently grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at me.
"Learn to go with the flow and let somebody else be in control for once, Synthia. "
Her eyes searched mine, and for a moment, I thought she might pull away.
But she didn't.
LATER ON THAT NIGHT
"The only reason I'm playing this goofy ass game is because you pulled it out," I said, shaking my head as Synthia set up the Connect Four board on the living room floor.
"Oh, so because I want to play it, it's goofy?" she teased, grinning as she adjusted herself, sitting cross-legged in front of the couch.
We were back at the compound now. After dropping the kids off at Yolanda's house—an ordeal that involved Synthia reading her aunt for filth about how she treated those kids—we'd come back here.
Synthia had been tense on the drive back, her jaw clenched, her hands gripping her thighs. I could tell she was worried about leaving them there, but there wasn't much else we could do right now.
I'd have to figure something out. Maybe enroll them in a better school. Get them into some after-school programs. Something to keep them out of that toxic environment as much as possible.
But for now, Synthia needed to decompress.
Hence the Connect Four.
She was slouched forward now, her legs spread apart, a decorative pillow wedged behind her back for support. I was lying on my side on the floor, one arm propping up my head, watching her with amusement.
"Grown men play shit like Dominoes, Chess, and Spades," I muttered, grabbing a red coin and holding it up, analyzing the board.
"What Black man do you know plays chess?" Synthia laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I know a lot of Black men who play chess. Why is that so hard to believe?" I placed my red chip in a slot, the plastic clinking as it dropped. "Go 'head and put yo shit down so I can wax that ass."
"Don't rush me," she snapped playfully, then placed her yellow chip carefully. The sound echoed in the quiet room. "So people randomly just choose chess?"
"It's an analytical game, just like this one. Most games require strategy. It's a thought process." I studied the board, already seeing my next three moves. "That's the way I see this shit."
"I've never lost to a game of Connect Four ever in my life," she said confidently, a sly smile on her lips.
"Uh-huh." I leaned back slightly, my eyes scanning the board one more time.
Then I placed my chip.
"Connect Four," I announced, drawing an imaginary line across my winning row.
Synthia's mouth dropped open. "H-how the fuck..."
"Everybody's a winner until they lose," I said, unable to hide my grin.
"You got me in a two-way! Nigga, I think you cheated." She leaned forward, examining the board like there was some hidden trick.
I burst out laughing. "How the fuck can you cheat in Connect Four? Just admit that I tapped that ass and fucked up your losing streak. Players fuck up too, Synthia. You'll be alright."
"Nuh-uh, fuck that!"
Before I could react, she grabbed one of the decorative pillows from behind her back and launched it at my face. I ducked, and it hit me on top of the head instead.
"You're a sore loser," I taunted, still laughing.
"You cheated!" she insisted, her voice rising with mock outrage.
Then she charged at me.
In her haste, her knee knocked into the Connect Four board, sending plastic chips scattering across the hardwood floor in every direction—red and yellow discs rolling under the couch, the coffee table, everywhere.
She climbed on top of me, straddling my waist, and started playfully punching me in the sides. Her hits weren't hard—just enough to be annoying.
"Sore ass loser," I repeated, laughing. "'Ole sorry ass!"
"You cheated!" she kept saying, over and over, her voice a mix of laughter and frustration.
Every time she moved, her loose crop top rode up, exposing the bottom curves of her breasts. My hands instinctively snaked around her waist, and I began to caress her ass through the thin pajama shorts she was wearing. The fabric was so flimsy I could feel every curve, every dip.
Her ass was spilling out of the bottom of the shorts, and I gave it a firm squeeze.
"Ain't nobody cheated, mane," I said, my voice dropping an octave as my eyes roamed over her body. "That's the shit you choosin' to stick wit' 'cause you don't want to believe that you're slow as fuck at a game that don't take much thought."
Synthia was bad to the fucking bone.
I'd always known that, but being this close to her—feeling her weight on top of me, her warmth seeping through our clothes—it hit different.
Trecee used to clown her all the time, making fun of her weight, her style, her everything. But Synthia never let that shit break her. She'd go blow for blow with Trecee, never backing down.
That's what I loved about her.
She didn't have to be draped in designer shit to look fly. She could throw on some leggings and a crop top from Pink and still be the baddest bitch in the room. She knew how to carry herself.
That confidence—that effortless sex appeal—was something Trecee would never have. No matter how much money I spent on her, no matter how many designer bags and red bottoms I bought, Trecee would never have what Synthia had naturally.
"Whatever, nigga," Synthia giggled, her hands pressed against my chest now. "You ain't shit."
She started to climb off me, but I tightened my grip on her waist, holding her in place.
"Hold on," I said, my voice low and serious now. "What's the rush?"
"Romelo..." she sighed, her body relaxing slightly. "Let me get up."
"What you 'bout to do?" I asked, genuinely curious. "You already showered. The house is clean. We ate. Why you in such a fuckin' rush to get up when I want you right here with me?"
I shifted my hips slightly, making sure she could feel my dick pressing against her through our clothes.
"I know you feel how hard you got me," I added, my voice barely above a whisper.
She let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering closed for a second. "Romelo... what are we doing?"
Her curls had fallen loose from her ponytail, framing her face. A few strands stuck to her forehead from the light sheen of sweat.
She looked beautiful. Vulnerable. Real.
"What it look like we doin' right now?" I said, my hands sliding up her sides, my thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts. "We showered. We ate. Now we're about to fuck. I ain't asking you for permission because I don't need it. This is mine."
I purposefully ground my hips up, pressing my dick harder against her pussy.
She gasped, her nails digging into my chest.
"Just let me get a dose of this good shit before I lose my motherfuckin' mind," I groaned.