7
Dramatic, huh? Ofure was going to have a deeper understanding of the word by the time I was done with her. I grinned to myself because I could imagine her calling me dramatic even now if she’d been able to hear that thought.
I gave myself one final onceover in the mirror, glancing at my wristwatch as I did to make sure I still had enough time to get to Ofure’s to pick her up.
Despite the apparent confidence in my demeanour, on the inside I was a nervous wreck.
I wasn’t usually self-conscious about my size, but now, for a quick, insecure moment, I stared at my reflection and wished I was a little less heavy.
But then I thought of the new, exciting way Ofure had begun to look at me, the way she went absolutely weak for our kisses—how she melted underneath me like she wanted nothing more than to feel all my weight on top of her, and that brief bout of insecurity was promptly banished.
I’d almost forgotten about my housemates, and was greeted with a sharp wolf whistle as I stepped into the sitting room to grab the bouquet of flowers I’d ordered.
“Ah ah, Uzezi, is that you, yeah?” Prince said after doing a doubletake when he spotted me from the corner of his eye.
Dayo glanced at me as well—he and Prince were playing a game, their hands flying over their controllers—and he gave me another wolf whistle to match Prince’s. They paused their match at the same time I began to pose dramatically, spinning around, then making a “give me more” motion with my hands.
They laughed, dutifully hailing and praising me. Prince stood and came up to me, then proceeded to pretend he was spraying money.
I shook my head, grinning. “Oya, oya, that’s enough.”
“Where are you off to dressed up like this, eh, bros? I didn’t know you were seeing anyone.”
“I’m not seeing anyone.” I pretended to adjust my cufflinks. “I just have a very fancy date with Ofure.”
“Ah. I gotchu. Ehen? So you and Ofure are upgrading your dates like this, eh? Dayo, at this rate, we’ll have to step up our game.”
“You’d have to actually take me out on a date, first,” Dayo quipped.
“Nice one,” I said, and Prince gasped, clutching dramatically at his chest like he’d been shot. We laughed.
Of course they weren’t reacting to my pronouncement like it was a big deal, as they shouldn’t.
One thing I loved about our friend group was that we had little friend groups within the main group, and no one acted jealous or bitter about it.
Tamara, Ezra, and Fiona moved like a throuple sometimes; Bernice often spent more time with her Culinary Arts course mates than she did with the rest of us; and Prince and Dayo spent more time with each other—despite their opposing personalities and wildly different undergraduate degrees—than I did hanging out with both or either of them.
Then there was Ofure and I, who casually went on “best friend dates”, deliberately named because we were big on the philosophy of romanticising our friendships, which the rest of our friend group vehemently agreed with and also adopted.
So of course, to our friends, fancy or not, this date wouldn’t be any different from our others.
Besides that, and after some deliberation, Ofure and I had decided we didn’t want our friends to know about this whole ... thing. I wasn’t sure what to call it. A sex pact? That didn’t sound precisely right.
This was simply two best friends giving each other that “perfect” first time, nothing more.
It was incredible that the sexual chemistry was there and shockingly off the charts, but if our friends knew what we were doing, we were afraid they’d jump to the wrong conclusions.
The last thing we wanted was them thinking there’d been a shift—or would be a shift—in our relationship when there wasn’t and there wouldn’t be.
I repeated that last thought to myself because it didn’t seem to sink in the first time.
My phone began to ring. My pulse kicked up. That must be the limo.
“All right, I’m heading out.”
“Have a nice time!” Prince said, turning back to their game, Dayo following behind him. He gave me a thumbs up before he picked up his controller.
“Thanks.”
I grabbed the flowers I’d set aside on the small stool sitting beside the opening to our sitting room, then took my phone out of my pocket. It was indeed the limo.
“Hey, man,” I greeted when I was outside, giving the driver a smile as he reached out to open the door for me.
“Looking good, sir,” he said with a small grin.
“Thank you,” I said honestly, handing him the flowers so I could take a seat, before he handed them back to me.
“Next street over, yes?” he said when he was back in the car and starting it.
“Yes, thank you.” I dropped the flowers on the space next to me and brought my phone out to message Ofure.
Was I doing a little too much? Possibly. But I knew Ofure was going to love it, and that made it worth it.
We turned into her street and suddenly, I felt like I was about to shit a brick. None of this was real, I frantically reminded myself. This was just us fulfilling what seemed like a lifelong fantasy; the slow, sweet, syrupy lead up to that one explosive moment.
It. Wasn’t. Real.
But my nervous system didn’t seem to be getting the memo; it was treating this like any date I’d have with someone I was attracted to and interested in. Then again, this wasn’t the same as all my other dates with Ofure. This was basically foreplay.
Fuck. This was not the time to get hard.
Ofure wasn’t outside yet when the limo parked in front of the house.
I quickly got out, flowers grasped in my hands, trying to look casual but sexy.
Should I rest against the car for a more dramatic effect?
Nah, the flowers would probably make me look awkward; I’d gotten real ones—obviously—and they were shockingly heavy because of the beautifully wrapped water and soil bag they were packaged in.
Should I move closer to the front door? Shit, what about her door?
How was I going to open the limo for her when I had these heavy ass flowers in my hands?
The front door clicked then opened before I could continue freaking out.
I completely lost my breath.
We’d texted earlier to co-ordinate our outfits, something we’d both wanted to eventually do when we had partners, and since we planned on giving each other the whole nine yards, we were going to give each other everything.
When I’d told her the mode of dress and she’d given me the colour of what she planned on wearing, my mind had immediately gone to this kaftan. Like a part of me had subconsciously known she would, Ofure was wearing a dress in the exact same shade of maroon and silver.
Thanks to most traditional Nigerian weddings requiring an aso-ebi—a “uniform” usually worn by close family and friends of the bride and groom—Ofure and I had quite a few matching outfits after the many weddings we’d attended together back home.
We’d worn colour co-ordinated outfits before—and not just traditional ones—but for some reason, seeing her in the exact same maroon and silver lace combo I was wearing made me feel a primal, possessive rush.
The fact that anyone who glanced at us would know she was with me—that we were together—made my blood heat up and my dick thicken.
The maroon dress had short, off the shoulder sleeves, with a heart-shaped bodice covered in sparkling silver lace. It clung to every dip and curve of her body, the skirt falling loosely to the ground from below her hips. The slit on her right leg seemed to go up for miles.
“Goddamn.” The word was out of me, gruff with my attraction and desire, before I could stop it.
She blushed, her lips a glossy ombre of peach from the seams blending into dark red at the edges. Her braids were pulled up into a complicated, pretty updo, some of the curled strands falling to frame her face and shoulders.
She came down the single porch step, flashing all that leg—all that sexy, thick, brown, dimpled thigh.
“Goddamn,” I repeated helplessly.
She giggled, walking up to me, hips swaying. “Hi,” she said when she was standing in front of me. A silver clutch glittered in her right hand.
I couldn’t stop staring; I didn’t seem to know where to look—her smoky eyes, framed with long, dark lashes; her plump, pretty, painted lips; those gorgeous fucking tits that seemed to be fighting to spill out from the top of her dress; those full, curvy hips; the softly defined round belly, or all that exposed thigh.
When I looked up at her eyes again, she was eyeing my form just as hungrily, her eyes dark.
Her heated, appreciative gaze lingered on my chest and arms, which were practically straining underneath the cotton fabric of my kaftan.
I tried not to visibly preen. Goddamn. At least I didn’t say it aloud this time.
“Are those for me?”
I glanced down at the flowers in my hands like I’d completely forgotten they were there. Immediately, I got back with the program.
“Yes, indeed they are,” I said huskily, holding them out.
“Thank you,” she said shyly, cradling them to her chest. “Oh,” she said when she took a soft inhale. “Thank you,” she said again, then ducked her head at the repetition. She glanced playfully behind my shoulder. “So, who do you think ordered the limo?”
I grinned mischievously, took a step, then opened the door.
She looked panicked for a second, jolting forward like she wanted to slap my hand off this supposed stranger’s car, before her eyes widened in realisation and her jaw dropped open. “Huh? What? Uzi, what?”
I laughed, delighted, holding the door open wider. The fact that she genuinely hadn’t expected it had me giving myself a mental pat on the back.
“Let me take those from you so you can get in,” I said, taking the flowers from her suddenly limp hands.
She tentatively stepped forward, glancing at me with wide, wild eyes all the while. “Uzezi ...”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You’re not pranking me. This isn’t a prank?”
I laughed. “No, it is not.”
I helped her with the skirt of her dress when she was sitting, my eyes helplessly trailing down her form when I stood again, preparing to close the door.
The curves of her breasts from this angle, pushed up sexily by the fitting bodice of her dress, was unbelievable.
And as she’d sat, the slit in her dress had ridden up a little and parted like the red sea, exposing her entire leg and thigh.
Jesus. I didn’t think I was going to make it to the end of the night.
“All right?” I asked, and she nodded shyly. I closed the door.
“How were you even able to afford this?” she asked once I’d buckled myself in, and the driver began to make his way to the restaurant.
“Well. Let’s just say all I’m going to be eating is Indomie until my next paycheck.”
She burst out laughing. “Yeah, like I’d let that happen.”
I dramatically clutched my chest. “A woman after my own heart.” I gave her a pointed onceover—slow and deliberate, from the tips of her hair to her toes.
“You look incredible, by the way,” I said, inwardly reminding myself that my visible admiration was all well and good, but actual compliments were better.
“That dress. Your hair. The whole package, Fure, Jesus Christ.”
“You’re acting like you’ve never seen me in this dress before,” she waved me off, blushing.
“In my defence, you’ve worn it exactly once—Uncle Emeka’s wedding, abi?—and this is a completely different context. Don’t think I don’t see the way you’re looking at me, too,” I added boldly.
She blushed harder, but seemed to take that as permission to give me her own heated onceover.
Her heavy gaze on my body felt like a caress; it made me feel so fucking handsome.
Dangerously sexy. I spread my thighs a little, pretending I was adjusting my position in my seat, and I practically saw her throat bob with a swallow.
“Fucking hell, Uzi,” she murmured, and I wanted to jump her bones, right there and then. “Fine. You’re right. You ... you look good, too.”
“That compliment is by no means elaborate enough, but I’ll take it.” She rolled her eyes, and I grinned. The only reason I hadn’t kissed her was because I didn’t want to ruin that perfect lip combo. Yet.
Plus, I had a mental checklist to follow and, God willing, for this night to be as close to perfect as possible, I wasn’t going to deviate from it.
Ofure was looking around searchingly and eagerly when we made our way to the underground parking closest to our destination; I’d already paid ahead for both a pass and the waiting fee for the limo.
More than one eye landed on me, her, and the car as I quickly made my way to her door to open it.
I helped her step out, smiling fondly when I saw that she’d put on some sensible kitten heels; she must’ve predicted that no matter where we were going, parking close to anything was going to be a nightmare.
Besides that, I was grateful because I didn’t want her feet hurting too badly before the night ended.
“All right? You’re not too cold?” We were ten days into March; the weather had warmed a bit during the day to forgo the heavy winter coats, but it still had a little bite to it in the evenings.
For a moment, I regretted not bringing a jacket. How romantic would it have been to wrap it around her shoulders by the end of the night? Ofure would have seen right through that slick move, and probably teased me for it, but I knew she would’ve swooned for it, too.
“I’m fine,” she said, gripping my hand tightly.
I hoped my hand wasn’t too sweaty. It felt like it was, but she wasn’t recoiling or teasing me so maybe it was fine. I walked her out of the parking lot, down a few street corners, then we were in front of the restaurant.
Her mouth dropped open with excited shock. We’d talked a few times about coming here, but only for something truly special to justify the expense; we’d eventually settled on the date when we submitted our final portfolios—the unofficial end to our undergraduate degrees.
But we could always come here again, or find somewhere else that would be equally as memorable; an event like this—our first date, fake or not—just seemed more special.
Ofure glanced at me, her hand tight in my own. “Uzezi,” she began worriedly, “how were you able afford—”
“Aht, aht,” I interrupted. “We’re not talking about how much anything costs on this very fancy date. And I better see you ordering anything you want when we get inside; do not hold back just because you’re worried about my wallet.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, but her giddy smile eventually won out. “All right, then. Shall we head on to our very fancy date?”
I beamed. “Yes, we shall.”