Preordained #ProjectNigeria

28- Preordained

Song- Mad Over You by RunTown (video is attached above).

Nwanyieze's POV~

Am I being stupid because I'd let myself surrender to the feelings I harbour for Maduka?

His lips on mine make me feel oddly at peace, yet in need of more. My body begins to ache, delicious tingles run all over my skin. He kisses me so slowly, so expertly, I wonder if he's done a course on it and has a certificate tucked somewhere in a folder in his house. This thought makes me giggle, and I feel his lips move into a smile against mine.

"What's funny?" he asks, pulling away a few inches.

"Do you have a kissing certificate?"

"Maybe," Maduka replies before rubbing his nose against mine.

I notice that although I'm straddling him (I have no idea how I got there in the first place), his hands are at his sides, on the sand. They're not groping me, not pushing back my gown for access to my skin, not caressing and pinching as I expected. What makes it all the more amusing is the fact that underneath me, this man is hard as a rock and he's perfectly okay with having me sit right there and doing nothing.

Instead, this man dusts a hand against the front of his shirt, raises it, and gently pulls at the weakened rubber band that holds back my sagging bun. My braids cascade over my shoulders and down my back and he says, "There. Much more comfortable."

"Did I tell you I wasn't comfortable with that?" I query.

"Baby girl, you didn't have to tell me."

The sagging bun was getting uncomfortable; I'd simply ignored it.

"If only I'd met you earlier," I blurt.

"What would've happened, then?"

Don't comman be stupid now, Nwanyieze, I tell myself.

"I'm beginning to feel cold," is the diversion I come up with.

He dusts his hands again and runs them up and down my bare arms quickly.

"I should've brought along a jacket for you. Come, let's get into the car. I'll turn on the heater for a while."

I'm pleased that he takes my hands firmly in his again while we walk towards where his car is parked.

"Your jacket would be a gown for me. Like that night after Quilox."

"You know, I liked it on you. I sat there admiring you and hoping that one day you'd wear my shirt, too."

A jolt in my stomach makes me breathe in sharply as the image comes to mind: me, wearing one of his shirts, surrounded by that masculine scent of his. It's so intimate, so...personal.

"What are your hobbies, nne?" he asks when we are in his car, heaters slowly warming the interior.

I don't know which one gets me: the fact that he's asking about what I love doing, or that he has called me nne, the Igbo word meaning Mother, but used intimately when one is referring to a woman he or she deeply cares about. It takes me a few moments to compose myself. I swallow.

"Ah, I love sewing. And writing. And sleeping. And eating."

Maduka stares at me for a few moments before laughing.

"Are you suddenly shy?"

The kisses, yes the damned, feel-so-good, deep kisses we had shared were rewiring my brain, displacing circuits, connecting the green wires to the yellow ports and the red ones to the green ports and the yellow wires to the red ports.