velvet paradise (ftm x fem)

Track 24

Sitting on the edge of my bed, the strain in my jawline aches. I massage the tight, fuzzy flesh as I ruminate. Alaia casually mentioned the possibility of hooking up with someone at the party. The words left her mouth with an air of nonchalance. Her eyes were twinkling, as if a random rendezvous would be amusing and insignificant.

In the traditional sense, Alaia and I do not fit neatly into the categories of friends or strangers. We're getting to know each other, hoping to enhance a special connection. Though we've crossed the boundary from platonic to romantic and business to pleasure, no obligations tether us together. Still, the mere thought of another person's hands wandering her body, their lips gracing hers, strikes anxiety within me like thunderbolts.

Nausea churns in the pit of my stomach, twisting into a painful knot.

I have no claim over her and don't wish to control any aspect of her charming persona.

Yet, my envious gut argues, vehemently protesting the potential intrusion of someone else into the spot I'm striving to earn.

Despite my efforts to hide it, I wonder if anyone else sensed the tension within me. Serenity and Harlem might have noticed the unease lurking behind my forced, unbothered facial expression. And Alaia, she, of course, must have some inkling. She's skilled at captivating the entire band, never showing favoritism to me. However, she didn't hide her interest in Bria and our mysterious history.

Does she think I want Bria? Is she jealous?

While I've told Alaia I'm solely focused on her, she never offered exclusivity. In theory, I'm cool with that if I don't see it. But hearing her express wanting to fuck other people and potentially seeing her googly-eyed for someone else? Hell nah.

She and Mariah explored having additional sexual partners in a romantic relationship, but I can't go for that. It's not in my nature. Once we're committed, she's mine, and I'm hers. That's that.

But right now, I gotta prevent my emotions from spiraling into irrational territory, or there will never be an "us." Self-destruction is beckoning, but I schedule an appointment with my psychiatrist instead of succumbing to its call. Dr. Odessa will get me in line next week. I can handle shit like an adult until then.

Standing, I walk over to the high dresser. A platinum medium-sized jewelry box lies on the blackwood surface. In sleek and elegant calligraphy, "LR" etches on the center of the box: Luz Rosario, my go-to jeweler. The box pops open, and the glistening diamonds sparkle—a fortune worth more than a few college tuitions. I've been sitting on the piece for a few days, but Alaia's publically C4E. Presenting the chain is the perfect opportunity to show her I'm not bothered, even though I slightly am.

Me: Are you still downstairs?

Alaia: No, I'm in my room now.

Me: Bet. I'm about to come over.

Alaia: Okay, just come in.

With the jewelry box behind my back, I extend my free hand to open Alaia's door. Chill, 90s R&B music permeates the room, and clothing items sprawl over Alaia's bed. Whiffing her irresistible, natural smell, which her bedroom has adopted, I follow her melodious singing. She's adding all kinds of arrangements to the Ginuwine song, remixing it into her own masterpiece. Her harmonies lead me to the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.

She's casually belting while aligning makeup products on the counter. Though her voice mesmerizes me, the dented line running down her bare spine captures my attention. The trail ends at the curvature of her hips and the roundness of her booty, clad in a purple-stringed thong. Only the faint, feminine scent and the foggy edges of the mirror remain from her shower. Her body's freshly moisturized, glistening, tempting me to caress her soft, dark skin.