Page 118 of Moros
“Then one day, when I least expect it, you’re going to ask me to be your wife.”
Khadri lifted my chin so he could look down into my face.
“My wife?”
I smiled warmly and nodded, squinting up at him.
“But I’m not going to wait forever.” I advised him. “If I find you’re taking too long I’m not beyond going out, buying the ring I want and asking you. So—I’m just prewarning you.”
He laughed.
“Ryanne, don’t try to steal my thunder.”
“I won’t have to if you do things in a timely manner.” I pouted. “What I’m trying to say is, one day, you’re going to do the right thing in making an honest woman out of me. And on that day, I’ll have my shit together and will be ready to stand at your side—the woman you deserve.”
“Baby, the question you should be asking is if I deserve you.”
Standing back, I eased up to kiss him.
“You do.” I replied. “Now—from what I read in the will, I start getting an allowance until I turn thirty. There are many years of backpay involved. What do you say, we check on the Musk construction, then you take me back to Jamaica so I can visit Nana and Pop. After we spend a little time with them?—”
I pushed to my tiptoes and nipped at his ear.
“You can take me back to a private place where I can wear what’s in that neon pink bag for you.”
Khadri trembled.
“Oh—and that other bikini I didn’t get a chance to wear for you before.”
Khadri stuck his tongue out the right side of his mouth, his eyes turning into a passionate storm that I knew would drown me.
He moaned.
For further incentive, I turned my back to him and leaned on him, ensuring my ass crushed in on his cock.
“Woman—remember what I said about the newspaper?”
“We tempted fate once, Khadri?—”
21
KHADRI “MOROS” WESTON
That winter…
“They said you were dating someone.” The typical voice of a high school mean-girl who had forgotten to grow up echoed through the lobby.
I knew why she was speaking so loudly. She wanted everyone to hear, to embarrass Ryanne. And I knew she didn’t need me to fight her battles, but bullies were never my favourite things. I accepted the coat-check tickets for our coats.
“Is that necklace real?” Another woman spoke up.
“It was given to me by the designer, so it better be.” Ryanne responded.
“Like you know Francois Leren.” The first woman mocked.
“I don’t, but a friend of mine used to model for him.” Ryanne explained.
The scoffed,