Chapter Nineteen
Sin
Interrupted
I hurry to my car. A sudden rain shower and wind whips into every piece of exposed skin.
I turn on the seat and steering wheel warmer and rub my frozen hands together while I thaw out.
I throw that idea out of the window after ten seconds.
I am so excited about seeing Kwame I’d be happy to drive wet and hot.
I didn’t expect to enjoy living here so much when I arrived last year.
Maybe because I grew up so close to it, but when I left the DMV at the tender age of eighteen, I didn’t appreciate any of the things that make it a fantastic place to live. Now that I’m back, I see it for what it is and can’t imagine living anywhere else.
When interest rates and the housing market calm down, I’m going to buy a place and Georgetown is the neighborhood that’s number one on my list.
I run across the street to Pho Mai, place the order for Kwame’s pho, and plug his address into my phone’s GPS while I wait.
I frown, surprised when the route calculates that his house is a twenty-five-minute walk away. If it wasn’t so cold, and I wasn’t delivering hot soup, I’d be up for it.
I crank up my car and follow my GPS. As I amble through traffic on M Street, I let myself imagine a life where I lived in this neighborhood.
Where the perks of being home to a major university are amplified by the upscale stylish residential areas that bustle with great restaurants, boutiques, and bookstores, not to mention its proximity to the river.
The redbrick pavements and the uneven colonial-era cement block streets that remain are reminders of their place in America’s infancy.
I loved spending my weekends exploring here when I was in high school. My dream of affording something in the area seems further away now than it did then.
I turn onto Volta Pl NW and roll to a stop when all I see on the street are palatial estates owned by hedge fund managers and lobbyists.
I check the address in my contacts against the address in my Maps app. Maybe my mother had the address down wrong. I pull my phone out to call her as I approach the house. I gape at the palatial three-story, dark-red-brick colonial complete with a verandah on the second level.
Certain I’m in the wrong place, I turn to leave when I spy the rusty bike he rides to my parents’ every Sunday parked under a small brick porte cochere.
Working the style beat has made me an amateur expert on the hierarchy of property in any major city.
There are three tests: proximity to power, wealth, or part of a family with historical significance.
In a game of rock, paper, scissors, power crushes family ties, family ties will make up for a lack of wealth, and wealth will buy you proximity to power.
And you can tell which hand a person has been dealt by where they live and the size of their yard.
The District of Columbia is a ten-by-ten-mile square with nearly three quarters of a million people living on the thirty percent of that square that’s available for residential development.
That makes space the most expensive commodity in DC.
And whoever owns this house is insanely wealthy and a perfect Venn diagram of wealth, power, and family ties.
This house has a history as old as this country.
That’s his bike, but this can’t be Kwame’s house.
He told us he just made partner at a boutique law firm in DC. Even then, he couldn’t afford a ten-million-dollar home.
Maybe he’s renting a room?
From the street, all the lights appear to be off. If he was too sick to come to Sunday dinner, then he’s probably asleep. I walk to the front door not sure what I’ll do when I get there. As I get closer, I hear the strain of music coming from the back of the house.
It’s one of Kwame’s favorite songs, “Abiba” by Rex Omar.
He’s here and awake. Feeling a little less apprehensive but still on my guard, I follow the sound around the back of the house and come to a wrought iron gate framed by tall boxwoods that double as privacy screen.
I think I hear the murmur of a male voice, but the music is so loud now I can’t be sure.
I wrestle with whether or not I should just drop the soup and leave. The excitement I had about coming to see him is a distant memory.
This was a bad idea. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. I should leave, but I can’t make myself. I need to see whatever is behind this gate.
I turn the corner and step into a brightly lit backyard and experience instant remorse for my curiosity.
The scene spread out in front of me is overwhelming.
Lush greenery frames a large in-ground pool that flows into a connected hot tub.
Tall hedges and flowering shrubs create an even greater sense of seclusion, while a few strategically placed magnolia trees offer shade and provide a canvas for the warm, twinkling string lights draped on them and the shrubs along the pool’s edge.
Elegant lounge chairs and plush outdoor sofas and a large crackling fire pit with massive body-sized pillows arranged around it.
And to the right, an outdoor kitchen with a marble countertop and state-of-the-art grill and a charming alfresco dining area anchored by a large rustic table that is currently the backdrop for the most overwhelming sight of all.
Kwame is standing in front of the table.
He’s naked from the waist up with his jeans pulled down to the tops of his very hairy thighs.
Kneeling between them is a woman dressed in an ironically innocent pink onesie.
Her dark hair is caught in a high ponytail that sways with the bobbing motion of her neck.
Her moans are loud enough to be heard over the music, you’d think she was the one getting head.
Her back is to me and he’s leaning against the counter at the center of the kitchen. His head is bent over his phone and a bottle of malt dangles in his other hand.
I’ve never imagined myself a voyeur, but of the half-dozen unpleasant emotions running amok inside me, lust is the only one that’s not ambiguous.
The muscular frame that the worn t-shirts and jeans he wears on Sundays have only hinted at is a testament to commitment to fitness.
The light layer of hair that covers his chest and thins to a sparse dusting down his abdomen is a surprise, I always imagined him smooth chested, but that was when I thought the wildest thing he did with his time was run marathons.
God, he’s sexy.
A bark of sudden laughter draws my eyes back to his face at the same time that he looks up from his phone.
His laughter ends abruptly and the bored amusement goes to wide-eyed, perplexed shock.
I freeze like a burglar when the lights come on.
I should go.
He should cover up and shout for me to leave.
Instead, time slows, the music is muted by the sound of my thundering pulse.
He looks down and I follow his gaze. The woman on her knees seems oblivious to my presence.
His eyes come back to my face and the intensity and hunger in them steals my breath and scrambles the last bit of my brain that was hanging on to sanity.
I’ve never been so aroused in my life. The way he looks right now is doing outrageous things to my nervous system. My mouth waters and my nipples harden, setting off a chain reaction of pleasure that cascades downward, heating my skin, drenching my pussy, and curling my toes.
His gaze follows the path of my hand down the column of my heated throat and over the swell of my aching breast until my fingers find one of my stiff nipples. I squeeze the stiff peak in search of relief from the tension building.
He raises an eyebrow and a slow smile turns up the corners of his mouth.
“Make me come,” he says in a hoarse whisper.
Those three words make the edges of my vision go dark. All I can see is his broad chest heaving, the muscles that wrap around his ribs and ripple with every flex of his abdomen.
There are a hundred steps and a thousand reasons why this is wrong between us. But the weight of his gaze makes them disappear.
When his big hand cups the head between his thighs, I slide mine up and into my hair and would swear that those are the pads of his fingers on my scalp.
His hips pump faster and my jaw aches as if it’s my mouth he’s thrusting in and out of.
When his chest bucks and he growls through clenched teeth, the slick of his cum fills my mouth and makes my throat constrict.
The arrogant enjoyment on his face is completely undone by his climax.
His jaw goes slack, but his eyes narrow to heavy-lidded slits that stay locked on mine.
My name leaves his mouth on a hiss and he shudders before his eyes drift closed.
The trap they had me in springs open, and the rest of the world comes rushing in like a river.
My lust is doused, and I’m flooded by horror, jealousy, confusion, hurt, and so much shame.
What the hell am I doing?
My eyes fly down to the woman on her knees. Her back is still to me.
I have to leave before she sees me.
Before I see her.
I take a step back, turn on my heel, and run.
I’m nearly at the side gate when I hear him. “Sin. Wait, please.”
Like hell. I make it past the gate and to the side of his house before he catches up with me. He puts a hand on my shoulder and I swear it weighs a hundred pounds. I move my arm and step out his grasp.
It takes every ounce of strength I have to turn around and face him and bite my lip to keep from groaning.
Why is he literally the sexiest man I’ve ever seen? He slipped a shirt on but hasn’t buttoned it.
His jeans are only partially zipped and not buttoned. They’re sitting so low on his slim hips that dark tufts of pubic hair are visible.
He’s not wearing underwear.
My throat goes dry.
“Kwame? Are you coming back?” The woman’s voice carries around the corner and slaps me square in the face and I pull away from him and take a huge step back.
He looks over his shoulder with a scowl. “Shit.”
“You should go,” I say. “I’m gonna go.”
His head whips back around to face me, his eyes wide. “No. Give me a minute. I’ll grab my keys and my wallet. We can go somewhere and talk.”
I shake why head. “We don’t have to.”
“Yes. We do.” He nods.
“No. I’m sorry I interrupted. I’m really glad you’re feeling better. Here. Take it.” I thrust the nearly forgotten bag of food at him.
His gaze narrows and his nostrils flare. “Dammit Sin. I know what this looks like, but let me explain.”
I roll my eyes. “Why? So you can convince me to believe you instead of my lying eyes?”
He flinches, and his brows furrow, but he’s undeterred. “Please. Just give me five minutes.”
I’m too tired to argue with him so I nod.
“Thank you. I’ll be right back.” He gives me a pathetic smile and then hurries away.
My stomach is in knots as I watch him disappear. I can imagine her stretched out waiting for him.
The feeling I couldn’t name earlier flares to life so hot and bright that there’s no denying what it is.
I’m jealous.
So jealous it hurts.
The realization is as uncomfortable as it is confusing.
He’s just my friend.
I shouldn’t be shocked that he’s got a girlfriend or a lover or whatever she is.
He’s handsome, smart, patient, funny, and interesting.
A total catch.
One that I threw back into the ocean.
It was silly of me to think that just because he flirts with me every Sunday that he was carrying a torch for me.
He doesn’t owe me a thing.
And yet, I’m standing here dangerously close to tears wanting to say things like “How could you?” and “I thought there was something between us.”
Experience has taught me that I almost always regret the things I say when I let my emotions lead.
I turn and head for my car. Words are meaningless and there’s too much to unpack from this evening. And I’m not sure I can believe a single word he says.
It’s cowardly to leave like this, but I don’t owe that man a damn thing.
He told my mother he was home sick when he clearly isn’t.
He says he’s a lawyer, but he lives in a mansion fit for royalty.
My head is spinning with so many questions and warring emotions as I get into my car and drive away.
The Kwame who comes to our house on Sundays rides an old bike and doesn’t have a fuck buddy.
I don’t know who this man is.
I’m not sure I want to.