Lie.
I’m able to dampen the intensity of it. But him rising from the chair, crossing the space, and dropping right next to me, his thick thigh brushing mine, dials it back up until I’m vibrating with tension and nerves.
Still, even with that penetrating, weighty stare on me, my fingers don’t falter, nor do my movements slow. This is straight muscle memory, and the monotony of it, soothing. Within minutes, I have the blunt lit and am lifting it to my lips, pulling from it. The sweet, fruity yet herbal flavor fills my mouth and lungs, and I close my eyes, leaning against the back of the couch. Hard, long fingers pluck the blunt from mine as I exhale, and I turn my head to watch Asad take a hit off it. The end glows red, the fragrant smoke curling from his parted lips a gut punch of lust. I’ve never seen him in this environment—in the security of his own home, half-naked, smoking and relaxed. Well, relaxed for him. It’s unfamiliar. Disconcerting.
Sexy as fuck.
And… nice.
Jesus.I need to be more lit than I am if I’m having those thoughts.
“Puff, puff, pass, muthafucka,” I say, flicking my fingers in a “gimme” motion. “Greedy ass.”
One moment, I’m waiting to get my blunt back, and in thenext, I’m straddling Asad’s lap, my pussy high-fiving his dick again through his shorts and the thin panties I’m wearing under my robe. A wave of heat barrels through me at the contact, and I manage to catch my gasp before it escapes. I wish I could say the same for my body. That traitorous bitch hums as if happy I’ve made him my personal throne.
I’m strung tight, which is sacrilegious considering this perfect blend of weed. But the intimacy of this position, with us face-to-face, body to body, dick to pussy. I’m out of my realm, unprepared, and… unsettled. One of his big hands cups my hip, and the weight of it grounds me, ordering me not to flee. Because God knows, I’m considering it. Jumping off him and hightailing it back to the guest room with my drugs and little bit of guard left.
“Here.” He passes me the spliff, and I accept it, puffing on it and exhaling. “You created that blend yourself?”
“Mm-hmm.” I squint at him, taking another hit, letting it spread through me and loosen my muscles.
“It’s good. I usually don’t care for the flavored shit—especially anything sweet. But that”—he nods at me—“it’s good.”
“I know.”
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“When I was in your apartment, I noticed you got a whole-ass collection. If it was anyone else, I’d think they were—”
He tilts his head, studies me. When he lifts a hand toward my face, I expect him to cup it or my chin, touch my mouth, or even slide his thumb in between my lips as he’s done several times tonight. But this is Asad; he doesn’t do the expected. Instead, he traces a gentle path over my forehead, down the slope of my nose, and then under my eye. Thank God I’m sitting. This caress, which smacks of a tenderness I didn’t know he was capable of—particularly toward me—has my knees weak, my stomach twisting. A part of me, that scared, uncertain part of me that fears his newfound control of my body, longs to rear back and crawl away from him in horror. But the other part… that other part… fuck.
As if he senses the conflict brewing deep inside me, Asad shifts his hand from my face to the back of my neck, gripping it, holding me in place. Preventing me from retreating, from running.
“Snooping is beneath you.” I squint at him, teasing but also—not. “Didn’t your mama ever tell you if go looking for shit, you’ll find it? Oh wait.” I pop up a finger. “This is Michelle we’re talking about. Never mind. She wasn’t into parenting or lessons.”
“Nah, baby girl. Distractions won’t work on me.” He squeezes my neck, sending a blast of heat soaring straight to my middle. It’s a damn shame how much I enjoy this man’s hands on me. Lust flares in his eyes, telegraphing he doesn’t miss my reaction to him. “When did all that start? I knew you smoked, but what you got in your house? It looks like a fucking dispensary.”
I mug him. “I know the drug lord isn’t coming for me over some weed. The audacity.”
His hand slaps the curve of my ass, and the sharp sting radiates from the spot and down between my legs. Arousal flares like an SOS to my brain and heart. Get the fuck up and out.
I remain perched on his thighs, pussy wetting up his basketball shorts.
“Answer me. Why the fascination with weed?”
Shrugging, I lift the blunt to my lips once more and after a moment, release smoke along with my answer.
“It… helps.” I stare into his unwavering silver eyes, and though it is madness and a betrayal of every sense of self-preservation I possess, I let him in. And pray he doesn’t wield this against me later. Here, in the dark, with his big, hard body under me like a foundation I’ve always secretly yearned for, I take a chance. A risk. “I stopped taking the meds for my IED.”
He frowns, both hands cupping my hips and squeezing. Hard.
“The fuck, Ember? Why?”
“Because I couldn’t deal with the way they made me feel. Thickheaded, sometimes like a zombie. No, I refused to have something control me like that anymore.” I shake my head. “Ihad to put up with that for years because I didn’t have a choice; the doctors didn’t listen to me when I told them about the side effects, and Marcus only cared about what they had to say. For too long, I felt invisible, voiceless, and disempowered in my own mental health. When I finally was able to take the reins, I made the best choices for me. And yes, that’s weed because it calms me—and shit, I like it—but there’s also therapy, yoga, and the grounding techniques I’ve learned.” I twist around and sit the blunt on the rolling tray. “Speaking of that, how did you know about the 5-4-3-2-1 technique?”
The question has plagued me since the moment he helped me through my last episode. There’s no way he should be aware of it, unless… I narrow my eyes on him.
“As soon as you were diagnosed, I read up on it,” he admits, voice void of inflection. “And I asked your therapist about coping mechanisms so I would know what to do if you were ever triggered in front of me.”
