Page 41 of Real's Love

A deep exhale escaped my chest as I glared at him.

"Montréal—”

"Why you think calling my whole name does anything but make me wanna fuck the shit out of you, I don't know. I wanna hear you moan that shit."

His voice was a low growl, and I had to fight the sudden need to squirm in my seat. I opened my mouth to argue some more, then stopped. I could insist he take me home. I knew if I were adamant, he'd do it. Or… I could just spend a little time with him, something I wanted to do anyway.

"You are so annoying," I said, but I didn't protest anymore.

He gave me a knowing little smile, and I sighed, watching the city pass in a blur. Things were going too far with Real, despite everything I did to stop it. I was mad at myself, not so much because I was teetering on the edge now…

…but because I’d known from the start, I was in danger of falling…

(Fourteen monthsago)

"Wellll..." I prompted, waiting to hear Real's judgment.

A miserable groan escaped him from where he lay on one of the large rugs tossed on my living room floor. I bit back a smile. Today was my first time going all out cooking for him. It wasn't something I did for men often—I made quick, delicious meals, sure. But for this man, for whom I had no arrangements in place and whom I'd only known a month, I dipped into what I had been taught in my mama's kitchen. I served him smothered oxtails over mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, and fried cabbage with hot water cornbread. Whenever he was ready, the iced, cream cheese pound cake would be waiting. I was doing way more than I should, but I couldn't stop myself.

"I'm so damn full. You did your thang, love. But you gotta stop making those mashed potatoes like that," he said, rubbing his belly.

I bit the inside of my bottom lip, not sure what he meant. My mashed potatoes were kinda my thing in my family—a bitch was a little sensitive about them. I'd eaten before he got there, so I knew they were extra good tonight.

"What you mean?" I pressed.

"I can taste God's love in them hoes!"

I laughed at his silly ass.

"For real, shorty, what you put in 'em?"

"A little salt. A little pepper. And umm... heavycreambuttercreamcheeseparmesan and roasted garlic."

I ran that middle part together because I knew it was sinful. You definitely couldn't eat them every day. Pushing up on his elbows, Real stared at me in disbelief.

"That's so damn bad to be so damn good. I could lie like I'm going extra hard in the gym tomorrow, but we working that shit off tonight," he growled. "Come here."

Slowly, I crossed the floor, then lowered myself beside him. He wasted no time arranging me how he wanted, on my back under him, my head resting on the throw pillow he'd just been occupying. I loved laying with him like this, feeling his solid body on mine and basking in the warmth of his brown eyes. Too much, but it was the truth. I stared into his perfect face for a moment before he bent to nuzzle my neck, his beard rasping deliciously against my skin.

"Tonight, I'ma fuck you 'til your legs won't stop shaking. Tomorrow, you gon' let me do something else for you to pay you back. That shit was gourmet, love. Culinary brilliance," he complimented as he kissed and sucked the skin of my throat and shoulder.

I moved restlessly, already heating for him, ready to feel him inside. His lips did something to me that I couldn't explain.

"I have plans tomorrow," I managed to choke out.

He stopped abruptly, pulling back to scowl down at me.

"With a nigga?"

I wanted to tell him it wasn't his business because it wasn't. But another look at his face told me that may not be smart. Besides, Slater was just a coworker. I nodded.

"No," Real countered.

"What do you mean, ‘no?’" I asked.

I was frowning back at him, missing his touch.

"No more plans with other niggas. I want you here for me, just for me for a while."

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