Six months two weeks and four days later, I came across my molten god again. No, I wasn’t counting, the calendar did.
My schedule has been demanding, tightly organized, with no time for social life over the past couple of months. My junior sister was diagnosed with ovarian cancer four months back, and I’d have to work my back off to pay for her surgery and chemotherapy.
Today she practically pushed me out of the house. She is telling me how my social life has suffered during the past few months. Although she’s been declared free, I still feel like I need to work harder, save more and look after her properly.
Our mother entrusted her to me on her deathbed when she was just two, and our father, well, let’s just say, my mom was his breeder. A breeder he wasn’t interested in anymore after giving birth to two GIRLS 8 years apart. He had to go secure his legacy with someone else.
I was at the Kuramo beach, running my feet through the sand and letting the breeze blow out my hair when I heard a familiar voice. I gravitated towards the sound and caught a scent of him. My Saturday-night fantasy. That’s what I’ve bullied my brain into believing.
He was the same towering, gorgeous, muscle-ripped man from Marlian book and arts events that left me drooling after him. And he still has the same effect on me. The female muscles deep in my
lower belly clenched as I saw him, and I felt so conscious of my body. He had no chemical traces of aftershave or deodorant, just pure
man: a mix of sun-warmed leather on skin, a kiss of something spicy and seductive, a touch of sweat, and
the raw, unspoken stake of sex. He reeked of male sexual dominion, and it had my brained all mussed up like the ultimate pheromone, I was suffering from sexual tension.
He glanced up.
I suddenly became conscious of the see-through bralette and shorts I was putting on, plus I was barefoot. I dashed my friends, but his velvet voice stopped me.
“Wait! I’m Fola,” he said as he closed the distance between us.
“Yomi. Oriyomi”. I responded.
“That’s a manly name for a girl.” He said, repeating a phrase I’ve heard a gazillion times already. He started walking towards the bar and turned halfway to confirm if I was following him.
“Walk closer Yomi, I would not want you falling on your face in case someone runs into you,” he said with a hint of a smile. He was referring to the circumstance we first met, and on a typical day, with an average person, I would have attacked him for mentioning I don’t have steady feet.
Instead, I walked closer to him and took his hand in mine. I waited for him to complain, but he simply linked his fingers with mine. His palm was soft, and there was heat where our palms touched.
I tried to rationalize the situation; this was me, someone who avoided physical contact with the opposite sex on a regular day, I even sent someone to the first aid room for touching me without my permission, and here I was, willingly getting myself physically entangled with a male — felt him without his consent too.
If I was to judge me, I’d call myself stupid and naive, but there is this air around Fola I can’t explain. He scares and excites me but also exhumes the aura of safety. He feels like home to me.
We got to the bar, and he asked me what I wanted to drink.
“I’ll take anything you are having,” I replied. He chuckled and told the bartender to give us Smirnoff Ice on the rock. One glass. He handed the glass to me first and proceeded to lead me to a secluded part of the beach.
We stood there quietly for a while, watching the waves.
“Won’t you share the drink?” He asked, and that was when I noticed I’ve almost finished the drink without even asking if he wants a sip. I passed him the glass and took note he drank from the same spot my lips had been. So hot. We gradually slipped into easy conversation. He asked what I did for a living, and I told him I was a journalist. He smiled and asked if he was safe. “The fear of journalist nowadays is the beginning of wisdom.” I laughed and told him if he was no lecturer that asked for sex for grades or a corrupt citizen generally, he had nothing to fear.
“I’m a professional Forex trader.”
“Professional Forex trader? That’s a profession now? I’ve always seen it as a side hustle. I don’t mean to be rude”.
He laughed and shook his head.
“Yes, it’s a profession now,” he finished.
I know Forex trading is a lucrative business, and it takes time and study, but I never imagined someone would do it professionally.
We had another quiet spell where I mostly wondered what he was thinking about and if he liked me. I was saved by the bell right before I blurted out something embarrassing when two of my friends came looking for me.
“I’m sorry if I appeared rude the first time we saw. I didn’t mean to,” he said out of the blue, and as usual, I was shocked speechless. An apology was the last thing I was expecting from him.
“It’s fine,” I responded, ”I shouldn’t keep my friends waiting,” I indicated at my friends waiting for me at the side.
“I’ll call you,” he said. And in a way I’ll come to know as his signature, he left.
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