Egbá: A Gentle Femdom Novella

FOUR

Egbá is wearing cornrows.

Marcos is used to her long hair in a Sade Adu bun. Sometimes, when she's feeling peppy, she leaves it in an Ariana Grande ponytail. He has never seen it plaited back with beads and rings before. That's probably why it's the first thing that catches his attention as he stares into the conference-room-turned-studio from the glass walls.

Closely followed by the second thought, She's naked.

There are about eleven people in here, members of the camera crew. Two in particular hover around Egbá, retouching her make-up, arranging the ends of her plaits to fall in front of her chest.

She's glorious. Marcos can see why Nick wanted her nude. And it's definitely not because of Cressida. Nick is parading around the set with a clipboard, pretending to urge the photographers. Go, go, we have ten more minutes, and it's a wrap here, people.

Everyone can clearly see the half-tent in his jeans.

A rush of indignation passes through Marcos, straightening his spine and coating his sight with a red hue. There's a giant yawn in his chest he can't explain, but it's asking him to do something, so he pushes himself inside the room, his hands fisted at his sides. The door slams behind him from the force of his push, and the room goes silent.

He advances, and apparently, his destination is clear, because the people in his way begin to fall out. When he reaches Nick, he slaps the clipboard away from the beefy hands. "What the fuck are you doing in here?"

Nick jumps, eyes wide. "Nothing. I need to make sure they're getting it right. I just came to—"

"Get out. Everybody. Get the fuck out."

The origin of the yawn in his chest has something to do with Egbá, because as everyone hurries out of the room, leaving behind cameras and paintbrushes, it slowly begins to heal. He realizes he can't stand Egbá being naked in front of them.

She's left on the stage. As he walks down towards her, details begin to become clearer. The tiny rings in her cornrows aren't just rings. They're diamonds.

There are whorls of hair laying across her forehead outside the plaits. Her make-up is smoky and dark, dragging attention to the almond shape of her eyes. She's not completely naked. There's a strip of cloth across her hips the exact shade of her skin. Brown tape covers her nipples and the underside of her breasts. Pointy, blood-red heels cover her feet.

He has never seen anything more perfect.

"What's that about?" she asks, eyeing him from head-to-toe with appreciation. She has said more than once that she likes his body in a suit, but this look of blatant interest in her eyes is new. Too bad he's too angry to like it.

"How can you parade yourself like this in front of these thirsty fuckers?"

He knows he shouldn't have said that. He immediately knows it the second it exits his mouth.

Whatever interest he saw in her eyes vanishes. The liquid brown orbs grow as hard as onyx. "You paid me to parade myself in front of these people one week ago."

And wasn't that the conundrum? He isn't the same Marcos he was one week ago. A shift has happened, and it's all her fault, and it's scary as shit. "I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry."

"No," she says, her take-no-prisoners attitude back in play. "you're creating a disturbance. I want to finish this up and go home."

He strips his jacket off and wraps it around her. "I'm calling this off. You're not doing this." When he makes sure she's safely cocooned inside it, he finds her eyes. "You're done here."