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I grip my hair in my hands, before pulling out my cell. I dial her number and wait for her to answer, but instead her voicemail picks up.
"Hey, it's Tynleigh. Leave me a message and I'll call you back."
I disconnect the call without leaving a message, pulling up the message box to text Saxton.
Me:You at your sister's apartment?
A message response comes through.
Saxton:No. Out with Kambry.
Me:Okay. Thanks.
Fuck it. I go to change my clothes into something more comfortable—sweats and a tee shirt. I'm not planning to come back tonight if I can help it. There's another bed I'd rather be in, and I don't give a shit about what anyone else thinks. I don't have to explain my reasons to anyone else. The element of surprise worked out in my favor last time, it can't be any worse this time.
Tynleigh
The front door shuts, signaling Kambry's exit. The kiddos are off to their Jazz date. And my little duckling in training looked beautiful. My job is done. Now, time to relax. For hardly working I sure as hell don't feel like I'm on any kind of vacation. My version of a vacation is an island with a beach, a Mai Tai in hand, and a sexy, bronzed man with a non-American accent rubbing me down in oil for a sun-kissed glow return. This is fucking work, only pro bono. The thought makes my face curl in disgust.
Bitch, it's for family.
I sigh, remembering that it is for a good cause. One day I'll be rewarded for my good deeds. The Sex King, also known as my little brother Saxton, needs some goodness in his life. She's his saving grace. My service is their wedding present. I've been at it all day, between tuxes, cake—delicious cake (gasms)—and getting my dress. That's not including the behind the scenes shit on the phone and helping Saxton be the hopeless romantic while he's here. I'm officially tired of planning and it's not fully over. My calling was not a wedding planner, that's for damn sure.
I walk out of my room to the kitchen, sliding a wine glass off the rack by the stem, beneath my liquor cabinet, turning it to set it on the counter. I grab the bottle of chilled red Moscato from the refrigerator I picked up on the way home, pour the glass full, and then replace it back in its place. I lift it by the bowl and swirl it around the glass before placing it beneath my nose, smelling the sweet nectar I've needed all day.
Turning off all but one dim light, I make my way back to my room, placing my phone on the iHome Dock after turning the 'do not disturb' on, and putting it on my playlist for winding down. I place my wine on top of my dresser for a moment. Hair up on top of my head, I shed my clothes, before grabbing the glass once more and walking into my bathroom toward my large air jet tub. This single feature is most likely what sold me on this apartment.
There is nothing like a hot bubble bath under candlelight to wash the day away, and for me it's a nightly ritual that I need living in the fast pace of NYC. Placing my wine on the side of the tub, I turn on the water and prepare the bath, lighting the aromatherapy candle on the back of the toilet. As the bubbles are multiplying with the rising of water, I grab my little guilty pleasure from beneath the sink. It's something I found a while back on the Internet, and though not cheap, I can't help but continue to splurge on them, so I unwrap the foil from the ball and drop the midnight blue bath bomb into the water, letting it instantly fizz.
Shutting off the light to bask in the darkness and flickering amber glow, I step in the bathtub and sit down, quickly submerging myself in the circulating, colored, bubbly, warm water, leaning my head back on my bathtub pillow. I grab my glass off the side of the tub and snuggle down into the water, only my neck and head exposed, sipping slowly as the warm water envelops and comforts my tense muscles, the music playing in the background.
The small plastic ball floats to the surface of the water. I grab it, looking at it between my thumb and index fingers. "Hello, my little gem. I shall add you, too, to my collection of Fragrant Jewel goodies."
Taking another sip of my wine, I set it down and open the plastic, revealing the deep sapphire ring inside to match the color of the water. I slide it on my finger, admiring the pretty I've become so fond of. A ring in every bath bomb—genius. It shines with each flicker of candlelight against the dark stone. "How long are you going to be in there?"
My eyes remain downcast, studying the ring and the water. No alarm sounding inside of my head. Deep husky voice laced with lust, no remorse when it comes to breaking and entering, takes what he fucking wants without asking—that can only be one person. "Well hello, Bryant. I was wondering if I'd hear from you."
"I tried to call. It went to voicemail."
I grab my wine and take another sip, hiding my smile with the rim of the glass, my head turning toward the bathroom door to the masculine sex object taking up the entire space. Mmm . . . so appealing to the eyes. I like this look. Nothing like a man in sweatpants. And they hide nothing when it comes to manhood like that erection he's showing off. "I'll be a while."
"What is a while?" he asks, his voice becoming gruffer the longer he looks at me. I lift my foot to prop the arch on the edge of the tub by the faucet, bubbles scattered along my leg until my thigh disappears back into the water. Steam is rising from every inch of exposed skin. He's staring at it, just as I figured he would, mentally devouring me. He gets this look when he likes something he sees. One phrase explains it all: fucking starved animal staring at its prey. I've never known such a carnal man, and I love it.
"Long enough you might as well join me if you want to be here. You're on my schedule now, handsome." He walks inside the bathroom, as if he was waiting for my invite. "Since you found your way into my apartment, did you lock the door?"
He squats beside the tub, forearms to thighs, his hands laced between, staring at me and not touching. "Yes."
"Good boy."
I continue to sip on my wine, watching him as he watches me. "Were you even going to call?"
"I figured if you wanted to see me, you'd find a way, and now here you are. I don't call."
There is one thing I believe in firmly. A woman can bend a man to her will for the most part. It just takes patience and not giving in. A woman holds so much power that most never use. And maybe that's why so many end up with massacred hearts. If he wants to be there it's a success, if he doesn't it'll fail and she's better off without him. I don't chase after a man. I don't compete for a man. And I sure as hell don't fall for one. I have my fun and leave, never looking back. Most don't even have my number. As for the ones that a woman wants to stick around for a while—every man can be trained to be the one she wants. I've proven it. I trained my brother, and now look at him. He's a real piece of work, painting toenails and all. "Do you want me here?"
"If you want to be here," I reply. "So if you're going to stay, then strip."
He never cracks a smile and he never sways his eyes from mine as he stands and removes his shirt, followed by his sneakers and pants. I glance at his boxer briefs over my glass pressed to my lips. I swallow, lowering the glass. "Those too. They must go."
