infatuation ↠ devanté swing

sixteen.

"Just relax, baby," DeVanté's sultry voice instructed. He took my beeper from my hands and tossed it into the swivel chair that was next to the bed. Here I am in the same position that I was before, as vulnerable as I wanted to be. I tried to fight the feelings, you saw it. You can fight temptation, but not infatuation. No pun intended.

For De to be hurt and bruised up, he sure was acting like his normal self—in some ways. He still was that smooth talking, hazel eye having, handsome being self. However, it seemed as if he didn't want to speak much at all. It was evident that he was going to let his hands do the talking. I didn't mind either. His lips—equivalent to pillows—grazed the right side of my neck. He sat up on his knees, and assisted me in laying down. It wasn't like I needed help anyway. The hotel's bed seemed as if it was never ending. Yeah, it was THAT big. He rolled around on the other side of me, so now he was on top of me. His abnormally large hands firmly but gently put themselves around my neck, propping me up so that our lips could meet for the umpteenth time.

Every time we kissed felt like the first time. I'm not sure if I was just feeling sorry for him, but I didn't have a filter anymore when it came to us. He crept his fingers down to the waistband of my sweatpants, trying to pull them down quick but it didn't work. I lifted myself up to help him out. He laughed against my lips, we both knew that he was struggling. Dressed in just a Bobby Brown tee and black lace underwear, I felt more naked than I actually was. This time was coming and I couldn't believe it. De slowly rolled up my shirt, pointing out that it was weird to see his friend on my torso. We then shared another laugh before he replaced his hands with his lips and left a trail of kisses down my body, all the way to said panties, then proceeded to use his pearly whites to remove them from me.

His belt buckle sounded like bells jingling, an odd simile, I know, but what else would you think? In the blink of an eye, his pants and boxers were around his ankles. I wasn't shocked at his actual size, I was shocked at the fact that I've seen DeVanté Swing in all his glory.

He questioned me for assurance, "You good?" I simply nodded in response. He took his hands and placed them on my thighs and pulled me closer. He was just centimeters away from my entrance.
• • •

I heard the flickering of a lighter. Springing up fast, I was still in my clothes, up under the covers, while DeVanté was sitting up at the foot of the bed. "I mean if you want me to make the real thing happen, we can," he spoke before taking a pull of his joint. This was just a dream? Was I moaning? The hell? I ignored him and ran straight to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and I was redder than a tomato. I thought only boys had wet dreams. When I composed myself, I sat on the toilet, only to find an actual puddle that seeped through my underwear and was visible on my sweatpants. Oh no.

I couldn't face myself, let alone De. I mean, nothing was wrong with it, right? This happens to people all the time. After taking a few deep breaths, I walked out and saw him comfortable on the bed. He was watching some sort of programming, I wasn't sure what it was but I did know that he was very into it. I crawled my way onto the bed. "Did you even sleep?" I asked him, changing the subject. "Real hustlers don't sleep, we take cat naps. But nah, I ain't sleep at all," he shrugged, not looking at me in my eyes even once. Well, that was stupid of me to ask. How could a person have gone through such a traumatic experience and be able to sleep normally? Shit, he WAS asleep before everything went down. Poor baby, all he wanted was answers.