Page 60 of Serenity
“I did. I thought you were sleeping.” Turning toward the bed, I fought and failed to hide my smile. Creeping up his legs, I didn’t stop until I was straddling his waist.
“Nah. Just waiting for you to get back. Are you hungry?” He asked, pulling my chin down to meet his for a kiss.
“I could eat.”
“Good. Let’s go before you get stuck in work mode.”
“Why do you get to work and I don’t?” I fussed.
“I have boundaries when it comes to work. You don’t.”
Frowning, I considered his words. He was right. I didn’t know how to shut off work mode once I stepped into it. I worked until I wore myself out. It was a flaw I needed to fix.
We journeyed into the local area of Accra and bought waakye to eat. Duke swore by it, claiming I wouldn’t be disappointed by the flavor profile. Beans, rice, fried plantain, spaghetti noodles, shito—a spicy black pepper sauce, a boiled egg, and garri made the famed meal. It reminded me of a mixture of various Caribbean foods.
“What do you think?”
“It’s good,” I said, slurping up a noodle. I was too busy enjoying it to offer anything further.
The remainder of our afternoon was spent taking a drumming class. The first part comprised learning about the drum-making process. We watched as a Djembe –a type of Ghanian drum– was sculpted from a raw tree trunk. Duke even assisted in the process, swinging the axe a time or three. Chopping wood. Flexing his caramel muscles. Allowing the sun to kiss his skin. Glistening under the light sweat he broke.
I may have egged him on. He looked so damn irresistible doing hard labor. Drum making was no simple process, requiring an impressive amount of hard labor to create the instruments responsible for such a beautiful sound. The intricate carving often required the use of one’s entire body, but the end result was so worth it.
During the second leg of our class, we learned all there was to know about the history of talking drums, Kpanlogo, and Djembe drums. Our instructor taught us the complexity of playing the instruments and what the different sounds meant. The Ghanaian sun had skillfully depleted us towards the end of the class. Afterward, we returned to the hotel, where we both showered and took a nap.
The following day, Duke and I parted ways at the start of our morning. As he headed for his meeting with the rig salesmen, Biram and I headed for a braid appointment in North Accra. Armed with my laptop and no Duke to distract me, my goal was set. The next task on my to-do list prior to our vacation was finalizing plans for the charity auction at Vivid.
With five extraordinary ladies working on my head, the thigh-length braids were installed as I worked on my laptop. While they diligently completed their tasks, I diligently completed mine. Every two hours, I needed a stretch and walk around the shop to prevent my ass from falling asleep, but it was worth it.
Duke called three hours into my appointment. His appearance across my phone’s screen caused the women to ooh and ahh as I helplessly smiled.
“Busy Bee, when will you be finished?”
“Are you missing me, Duke Stepford, III?”
“Hell yeah, I miss you. I wanted to take you on a date.”
The salon erupted with more oohs and ahhs. I blushed. Duke chuckled. In turn, my head was shifted, and I was scolded to remain still.
“I’ma let you get back to it,” he announced. “Hopefully, it’s not too late before you’re finished.”
The entire braiding process took six hours —a much shorter time than it would have taken in the States with a single braider fulfilling the task. Once the ladies were finished, I tried to pay an earnest tip on top of the thirty US dollars it cost to do my hair, but all five women refused —the tip and the pay.
“We are paid and tipped already,” one of them explained with light brown eyes that reminded me of Duke. “It would be greed to accept your cash.”
Duke had struck again, paying in full for their service before I even arrived at the spot. Seeking no further explanation, I gathered my belongings, thanked everyone, and left the salon. The culprit responsible for their hesitation was not far away.
Awaiting my return downstairs, Duke’s eyes were affixed to a soccer game on one of the televisions near the bar until my arrival. Pristine teeth plowed into plush pink lips upon noting my presence. Passion colored his features as he watched me sashay into the lobby. His eyes brimmed with an appetite far more ravenous than anything I’d ever witnessed. The lowered lids on my breathtakingly fine man voiced salacious desires.
I’m in fucking trouble.
“I like your braids, Bumble Bee,” lowly he confessed.
“Do you?” I teased, diminishing the expanse of space between us.
Pressing a drink to his lips, his gaze remained trained on me and my thigh-length braids. From my thighs upward, Duke’s eyes raked continuously. Up and down, his orbs caressed and finally held me. Refusing to free me, those warm rounds stayed trained on my frame as I approached. Such merciless captivity caused destruction in the seat of my panties.
His appearance failed to aid in my dilemma. White cargo pants, a Ferragamo polo, a Kangol baseball hat, and cognac sock-free loafers with a matching Ferragamo belt styled him to perfection. His maturity spoke volumes. It was in the way he dressed, the way he spoke, and his aura. Fuck if I wasn’t aroused by a man complicit in his masculinity and sex appeal.