'That's my fuckin' girl.'
Those late-night words from N'Jadaka echo loudly in your mind as you wake up from the deepest sleep you've had in a while. They'd struck a chord with you, not because of his irritating ways of complimenting you, but because he didn't sound as flippant or uncaring as he usually does. He always praises you with an air that he could actually care less either way, or like he's talking to himself rather than to you, and you've gotten used to it.
But last night was very different. No one spoke leaving the club, and all he did was give you this crooked grin whenever you glanced over at him. You think he's proud of this confrontational side of you, has to be why he just had to pull over and pull you onto his lap on that dark road. You don't think you've ever been fucked in the drivers seat before, and definitely not in a car that expensive. You're not complaining, but he had to drive to his place with you still on his lap afterwards, knees too weak to carry you back to your seat.
His own personal liquor cabinet got opened then, and still neither of you spoke. He'd said his one hushed sentence to you before promptly showing you what he meant by it on the couch, and the basement pool table, the shower and then his bed.
At least he had the decency not to put you in a wheelchair again.
Now that the haze has worn off, though, you're just worried about getting more shit from people for punching a celebrity in the mouth.
You're not afraid of her, but you are sick of blocking new people every five seconds. For that, your profile is 'private' for a while. You barely use it anyway.
Next to you, N'Jadaka's cell phone vibrates harshly on the nightstand and you turn your head to try and wake him but he's already on it. Lazily, he reaches over you to grab it, squinting against the light as he unlocks it. You try and wiggle from up underneath his heavy body as he does so, asking him what time it is now that he's up.
He doesn't move.
"Get off me," you whisper, pushing. He only puts more of his weight on you to put his cell back on the table. It's nearing 6 AM and you're starting to feel last night's soreness as he tries to pull you ontop of him.
Luckily for you (and him, honestly) it's the good kind of soreness. A slight reminder of all those different places he ruined you in, rather than the back breaking culmination of 3 months worth of his sexual frustrations all at once.
But now that you're awake, you can't go back to sleep just yet, even though he smells like an intoxicating blend of cocoa butter and whatever that tropical-scented grease he uses for his hair. It's maddening, and while you enjoy his cologne or body spray or whatever he normally uses, this smells so much more natural to you.
And it drove you absolutely crazy last night.
He's knocked out again by the time you manage to wrestle your way out of his iron grip, and you creep quietly over to your overnight bag to grab some clothes. Pulling on your favorite over-sized sweatshirt, you yank on a pair of shorts before tiptoe-ing down the steps.
The house is still as pitch black as ever but N'Jadaka's begun to leave the stove light on for your sake whenever you're over and you appreciate it. Without it, his place is just a smaller, art gallery exhibit with masks and statues all over the place. The biggest, yet creepiest to you, is stationed right by the patio door.
Distracted by the horns, the wild mane of hair and the unsettling eyes, you nearly miss King walking up to the glass door with his tail wagging.
"Hey," you say, stepping out into the backyard. The air is so fresh and nice this early, and you stand there and breath it all in for a second before reaching down to scratch behind King's ears. You think he's going to enjoy being over here for a few days, just for the space where he can run around for a minute.
