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We stepped into this fancy-ass boutique, and I could already tell Beyoncé was in one of her diva moods. You know, the kind where everything has to be perfect, and I’m just there to hold the bags. It’s supposed to be a chill shopping trip to get some clothes for our baecation to Italy, but of course, Bey has to turn it into a whole production.
As soon as we walk in, she starts scanning the racks, picking up one thing and tossing it back like it personally offended her. Meanwhile, I’m trailing behind, arms getting heavier with every item she hands me.
“Baby, do you think I’d look good in this dress?” She holds up this sleek black number, the kind that clings in all the right places.
I stare at it, then at her. “You’d look good in a paper bag, wifey. But yeah, that dress? Fire.”
She looks at the dress like it insulted her and tosses it back on the rack. “I don’t like it.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes. “Bey, it’s only a week trip. Why are you stressing like this?”
She turns and gives me that look—the one that says she’s about to pop off, but then she reins it in. “Do I look stressed?”
Yes. Yes, she did. But I wasn’t about to set myself up. “No, you just act like it,” I say, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.
She rolls her eyes dramatically, huffing as she struts over to the shoe section, and I break my neck watching that ass move. Goddamn.
Beyoncé stands by the shoes, eyeing a pair of heels like she’s about to critique them on “Project Runway,” while I dump the pile of clothes on the nearest table. My stomach growls, loud as hell, and I whine, “Can we leave already? I’m starving.”
She gives me a look over her shoulder. “You sound just like Blue.”
I smirk, leaning against a shelf. “So why isn’t Blue coming with us on this little trip anyway?”
Beyoncé gives me this side-eye, shaking her head. “And have her cock block me all week? I think not.”
I raise an eyebrow, grinning. “We don’t have cocks, wifey.”
She waves me off, looking back at the shoes. “Well, pussy block. Whatever. Her dad’s got her for the week, so you’re stuck with me.”
She says it like it’s a bad thing, but I see that little smile creeping up. I step up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist, pressing my face into her neck. “I could think of worse things than being stuck with you for a whole week,” I murmur, letting my lips brush against her skin.
She stiffens at first, like she’s about to remind me we’re in public, but I don’t care. “Come on, Bey,” I whine, kissing her neck softly. “I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I wanna go.”
She shifts, trying to shake me off. “Stop it, the people are watching.”
“So? Let them watch,” I whisper, sliding my hands down to grip her ass, giving it a playful squeeze. “Now they know you’re unavailable.”
