The Witches on BellaRow Street

7. Hey, Zion...

Cover me in the sweet essence of your joy.
*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ:*:･ﾟ

A/N: Hi, there! We have a steamy love scene coming up in this chapter. If it's not your thing—Cool. You can skip it, go to chapter 8, and read the summarize version of chapter seven. —Elle
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"Zion...It's me."

My insides jitter with every step he takes, inching closer to the one thing separating me from him--his door. Zion pauses before opening it, I assumed contemplating if he wants to hear my made-up excuse or not. I've used 'my sisters had an emergency' so many times I lost count. Hell, he probably has a long list of all the times I lied, but Zion doesn't know I'm a black girl with magic-- A Witch.

Two locks turn, twist, and click, releasing its desperate hold on a doorway I needed to walk through. Or at least I wanted to walk through the door when it creaked open. I mean, it creaked so slow as if Zion wanted to increase our unspoken tension by using his door. He can be so petty when he's mad.

As soon as the door opens, a whirlwind of freshness tickles my senses. It's late, but he's dabbled on my favorite cologne; a citrusy fragrance, with a hint of oakmoss, vanilla, and tonka bean. He knows what he's doing.

I exhale slowly, matching his equal amount of frustration since I'm dealing with a pro.

I can't even look at him, if I do it's over, I'm putty in his hands, leading me to spill all my secrets tonight.  Instead, I focus on the door frame. Yes, the door frame. I'm used to staring at him, but tonight it's a struggle. However, I need to muster up enough courage to look at him.

My eyes trails mid-way to his white linen pants and his toned abs; Careful not to think of anything spicy while I make my peace. I need to focus, concentrate, and confess as much as I can about what happened earlier. I need to apologize, but first, I have to break this underlying tension building with every second we waste standing here. What can I say to him? Oh, I know.

"Hey..." I say, with my eyes finally reaching his.

And even with his dreads hanging down, I can still see his smooth dark jasper tone skin radiating under a low light and how his arm muscles gleam when he flexes. He's not even trying to be cool, he's just projecting positive masculinity, and that's why I love him. Like him!

We hold each other's gaze for what feels like a million years of built-up anticipation until he unleashes an exasperated sigh. A sigh that causes me to look back at the door frame. My favorite new door frame.

Without thinking, I take one step inside his condo, but he slides his right hand on the door frame, blocking me from entering. I looked back at him, questioning his motive and his quick blocking move.

"I can't come in." My comment is more of a question.

He doesn't say a thing, only stares at me, capturing the way my melancholy eyes yearns for his touch. He takes his time studying everything I'm hiding. He sees me. He knows I'm playing chess while he's playing poker. His unreadable poker-face. He drums his fingers on the door frame before speaking.

"What happened to you?" he finally asks, voice deep, low, sultry.

"I--my sisters and I lost track of time and--"

"That's not good enough."

Of course, it's not good enough. Nothing I say will remedy how he feels, but if he knew what I've been through, then he might have a change of heart--if only I could tell him the truth. And the truth is I had all night to prepare for an excuse, and I didn't.