Page 58 of Played
Between last night and the way his in-laws looked and treated me as if I were beneath them and my first glimpse of this house, I let my insecurities get the best of me. No, I don’t earn millions of dollars and can’t afford a house that wouldn’t be amiss on the pages of a magazine. All my clothes don’t bear designer brands either. But I’m educated, I have a job I love most of the time, and I own my own home.
And besides,heinvitedmehere.
Setting a hand over my stomach, I swallow past a very dry throat. As Demarcus parks the car and exits, coming around to my door, I inhale a deep breath and get my shit together. One thing I’ve learned about Solomon in the past few weeks—he’s very observant. And if I walk up in his house with my shit not together, he’ll latch onto that. I can’t afford to be vulnerable around him.
Demarcus pulls my door open, holds out his hand to me. With one hand wrapped around my coffee cup, I slip my other one in his, accepting his help to step out of the Maybach. The front door of the house opens. Solomon strolls out, anddammit. I should’ve kept my happy ass at home. With this man looking like a whole endless dinner buffetandsnack, in a plain white T-shirt that hugs his broad, muscled chest, gray sweatpants that do nothing to hide his dick print, white socks and slides, I’m walking into my doom.
Death by dick. That’ll be a new one.
Because I’m not in the habit of lying to myself. As sure as that man is working withat leasteight inches, if I enter that house, there’s an 82 percent chance I’m going to end up stuffed full of him. That knowledge alone should’ve been enough to keep me out of his car and most definitely out of his home.
Yet here I am. Walking toward him like a mouse heading for that muthafucking cheese. Ready to be taken down.
“Thanks, D,” Solomon says to Demarcus, his gaze fully trained on me.
I try my hardest not to fidget under those eerily beautiful eyes. But when his head cocks to the side, eyes scanning over my topknot, bubble coat, gray leggings, and Converse before returning to my face, my cheeks flame hot. Through my clothes, that slow, long perusal strokes over my skin, my breasts, in between my thighs. I shiver. And his eyes narrow a little more, becoming hooded.
Like I said, nothing escapes him.
Oh bitch. It’s over for you.
“You coming in, or do you like standing out in the cold?”
I ball up my face. And that quick, he reminds me of why I still have an 18 percent fighting chance.
That loose-ass mouth.
“If you welcome all visitors to your house like that, no wonder you live so far out here in the country.”
He slides his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, and I dare my eyes to follow the motion and get another look at the outline of his dick. Of course, they flip me off and do what they please. And goddamn... that monster is at ease and it’s still reaching down his thigh. My poor li’l pussy clutches her pearls.
“No,” Solomon says, and I snatch my attention away from his dick and back to his face. “Barrington isn’t the country. It’s not my fault that anything more than fifteen minutes away is like driving to a different state for anyone born in Providence. And you got it backward, ma. I live out here so I don’t have unwelcome visitors. Your ass is gonna sit down and think about it before you decide to pop up on me.”
I swallow down my snicker. He’s right. Most Providence natives are going to whine if we have to travel fifteen minutes away from anywhere. And even though Barrington is a suburb of Providence, it might as well be Boston.
“Whatever,” I mutter. Brilliant comeback, but hey, the man is still standing there hot as fuck and delicious. It’s the best I can do.
Striding pass him, I head for the door. He left it open, so I’m accepting that as myC’mon in.
I hear murmured words behind me, and then before I can grab the handle of the storm door, Solomon’s there, arm reaching around me. He grasps the handle, his other wide, too-warm palm settling low on my back. I briefly close my eyes, absorbing the impact of that touch, the punch of it ricocheting through me. Only when he applies the slightest amount of pressure, silently urging me forward, do I move, embarrassment surging inside me.
As I step inside the huge foyer, my discomfiture evaporates like mist under a morning sun.
“One doesn’t simply walk into ... wow.”
“There you go, quoting that movie again.” He scoffs, closing the front door. “Your brother mentioned that you only do that when you’re nervous. What’s got you nervous, ma?”
I squint up at him. “You remember that?”
“There’s not much about you I don’t remember,” he mutters, coming up beside me. My lips part on a soft gasp, but before I can question what that exactly means, he says, “You said an hour, li’l mama. That was closer to two.”
I arch an eyebrow at his complaint. “Well, that was before I knew you lived out in the boonies. And I didn’t have coffee this morning, so ...” I hold up my white to-go cup with the blue lettering and green tree symbol.
If you’re from the Northeast, it’s always Dunkin’ Donuts over Starbucks. And for most Rhode Islanders, it’s Cumberland Farms—or Cumby’s, as we call it—over all of them. Their coffee is the shit.
“Where’s Khalil?” I glance toward the stairs, as if his son will come running down them any minute.
“At kindergarten.”
