Page 23 of Two’s Better

“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.