Black Sparkle Romance

by AMARA NICOLE OKOLO

  He looked at her, his hazel eyes boring into hers with a fiery gaze. After what seemed like eternity, he said, “Well, let’s find out, shall we?” And he drew her closer and placed his lips on hers.

  She had been expecting the kiss but was still surprised when it happened. Her eyes and mouth were open as Dominic’s lips met hers, his tongue taking possession of hers in a desperate, passionate battle. Heady with longing, she let out a low moan, circled her arms around his neck and closed her eyes. She felt like she was spinning downhill into a rainbow abyss, the streaks of colour clashing together behind her eyelids. He tightened his grip and his hands began roving – first up and down her arms, then cradling her neck and finally back down to her waist. To Mira, time stood still; she forgot that she was standing in a dark parking lot. She leaned closer to him, wanting more of his warmth, but then he broke the kiss and pulled away. Stricken, she gazed at him like a ventriloquist’s doll.

  “Wow,” was all she could mutter.

  “Guess I was right after all,” he said with a laugh, his voice husky.

  She wasn’t laughing as she looked up at him. “C-can we go back to your house?” she asked brazenly. She felt her Rational Mind’s antenna flick up, and soon it was slamming her with questions. Ohmigoodness, Mira, what did you just say? You wanna go to his house now? And what exactly do you want to do there?

  I-well, we could just talk …

  Oh yeah? Talk about what exactly … the weather? OK, sweetie, time out. I know you are pulsating with lust right now but don’t be this … direct. African women don’t do this. It felt like like a battle between her and her mind, and Dominic looked at her, sensing her discomfort.

  “Are you sure you want to?” he asked with an understanding look in his eyes.

  Mira linked her hand into his, ignoring the incessant voice screaming disapproval in her head. “I’m sure,” she replied, a tingle of desire rippling down her spine. “I want to.”

  Ten

  It was raining heavily when they reached his house, and after kissing passionately they stumbled in the dark up to his bedroom. But when Mira saw the large bed she hesitated – was she ready to do this? She had had so much casual sex in the past and it had led downhill to a broken heart. But for the past three years, she had not had full blown sex. Was she ready to risk it again, right now – with him, a man she cared about? Was this going to be like the others: casual sex and nothing more?

  He noticed her uneasiness. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said huskily. “I’ll still love you, Mira; nothing can change that.”

  “No, it’s not that, I’m just—”

  “Nervous?”

  She lowered her eyes as she sat on the bed. “Yes.”

  He sighed and sat down beside her. “Me too. Here, feel my heartbeat,” he said.

  She stared at his chest, and then slowly placed her hand on it. He was right – his heart was beating a tattoo similar to a bata drum. He was just as petrified as her, and Mira found the thought endearing. “What do we do now?” she asked. Question of the Century, she thought sarcastically. She should be tearing his clothes off now with reckless abandon, not playing a presenter of Who Wants to Be A Millionaire?

  Dominic grinned. “Well, we could play Scrabble. I have a set somewhere.”

  She hit his shoulder, laughing. “Be serious.”

  “OK. How about we just … talk?” he suggested. “I know nothing about you personally, and I’m dying to. We really don’t know much about each other, and I’m not about to have meaningless sex with a woman I bared my soul to an hour ago.” He kissed her gently on a spot between her ear and her hairline.

  Her eyes were swimming with tears before he finished. None of her exes had done this. All they has asked when seated on a bed was if she liked risqué sex positions and if they could try them with her. She remembered that Lionel had asked if he could tie her up and suggested doing something gross with peanut butter. And here was a man asking if they could talk instead of having sex. Miracles do exist. “That’s fine with me.”

  They sat for a while, staring at each other, not saying a word. They hurtled back to reality when a loud growl echoed in the room – her stomach had rumbled. His eyes widened. “Please tell me that was the thunder rumbling and not your stomach.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, go ahead and joke, carry on.”

  He burst out laughing. “Whoa! I’m sorry, but wow! I thought it was the thunder o!”

  “My stomach has a life of its own … it speaks even when not spoken to. It’s so embarrassing.”

  “Don’t be embarrassed … you’re hungry, that’s all.” His face lit up. “Hey, I have an idea. How about I cook us some dinner and we can talk while we eat? I’ve had nothing but that beer at the bar, and I’m kind of hungry too.”

  She said, laughing playfully, “I doubt you can cook anything but water and noodles”.

  He laughed as he headed for the door. “You’d be surprised. Come on.”

  He led her down to his kitchen and soon they were laughing as Dominic placed some spaghetti into a pot, some of the pieces falling on the kitchen counter. He had just set the pot on the stove and they were discussing which sauce he should make when his phone rang. He looked at the screen. “It’s Ajoke,” he said with a sigh. “Give me a minute please.”

  She smiled as he left the kitchen and walked into the living room, but, as he turned his back to her to answer the call, her face creased into a sceptical frown. Why was Ajoke calling him? She knew she shouldn’t be suspicious (it wasn’t like she was his girlfriend or anything), but sometimes she wondered at the closeness Ajoke and Dominic shared. It seemed platonic, but on some occasions it felt so … wrong. For starters, why is that girl calling him at such an odd hour? And for goodness’ sake why did Dominic leave the kitchen to answer the call? The thoughts rammed her skull like an angry bull charging at a matador, and Mira felt her nerves go numb with weariness.

  Oooh, jealous much, aren’t we, Mira? Her Rational Mind piped in. She framed a retort for it but just then Dominic returned with an easy grin on his face. “She said something about a leaking roof, but then I told her you were over here at my place.” He began chopping the onion and celery sticks.

  Her eyebrows came together. “And is she OK with that?”

  He seemed surprised. “Of course, why wouldn’t she be?” he chuckled. “Ajoke is actually stronger than Rufus made her out to be, you know.” He let out a breath and rubbed his palms rapidly together. “Now enough chitchat … let’s get cooking!”

  He cooked a meal of spaghetti, tomato sauce and fried fish. Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in the living room with a bottle of wine, ready to eat. She took a forkful and nodded her amazement. “Wow, not bad. It actually tastes nice.”

  He chuckled. “It tastes more than nice. You just don’t want to admit it. Go on, tell the truth – I am Gordon Ramsay’s rival.”

  She raised her eyebrows at him with amusement. “Please. Don’t get all puffed up … everyone can cook spaghetti. Your culinary skills are still limited to water and pasta!” she laughed and he joined in. They sat in companionable silence, eating and listening to the rain outside.

  Mira looked around the room. It was spacious and bold-coloured. Apart from the brown leather sofas, glass table with Persian rug underneath, a plasma TV and framed photographs he had taken on the wall, everything else belonged to a century or two before. A cane rocking chair stood by a window. There was an old Singer sewing machine in the corner. Several knick-knacks and two vases of pink roses sat on a small table next to the chair, and a picture with the word ‘Dominic’ hand-stitched in wool hung above it. He saw her looking at it. “That was a gift from my grandmother. She was very creative and stitched my name herself in those words. She died four years ago; I framed it afterwards.”

  “It’s so beautiful,” Mira said. She gestured at the old furniture. “Were these all hers?”

  “Yes, this was her house too. See, t
he thing is, I grew up here. My dad died when I was two and my mum left me with my grandmother and travelled to London for some … business. I spent a lot of my formative years here.”

  “That’s why you interact well with the locals. You know the terrain.”

  “Yes. I discovered my talents here too. Grandma wasn’t just an artist … she was also a tailor. But most times she sat on that rocking chair, looking out of the window and drawing anything that came to her mind.” He smiled at the memory. “On my 15th birthday, she gave me a camera. We read the manual and went out to the beach where we spent the afternoon taking pictures. When we had them developed, she noticed how unusual my pictures were and she said, ‘Dominic, I think you should study photography.’ I was almost done with secondary school and was still at a loss as to what to study at university. So when grandma said that, I knew that was it … I was destined to learn photography as both an art and a career.”

  “What about your mother? Did she object to it?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Of course not. In fact, she was thrilled because that meant I would come over to London since Nigerian universities do not offer photography as a major.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to leave grandma, but she assured me she would be fine. So I left. But in my final year, two weeks to my graduation, we got the news – she had passed away peacefully in her sleep. I was devastated. It was a miracle I passed my exams because I was so heartbroken I couldn’t study. After the funeral, I overheard some locals bargaining about buying the house. My mother didn’t really care about it; it wasn’t our family home. So from my savings, I bought it and refurbished it, and I’ve never left since.”

  She smiled and patted him arm. “She’s really proud of you, Dominic. It takes a lot to do what you did.”

  He covered her hand with his. “Well, I just poured out my history to you. Your turn.”

  She told him about her family in Abuja. Her dad was a construction manager at Julius Berger while her mother worked for the civil service. Mira was a fraternal twin and her brother, Michael, had recently married and was living in Port Harcourt. Dominic seemed fascinated by that last detail. “You are a fraternal twin! Damn, I didn’t know that.”

  “Yeah, we don’t look alike, though. He’s taller and darker than I am – a replica of my father.” She showed him a picture. “That’s both of us at his wedding. His wife had a baby four months ago.”

  “That’s awesome. I have twin siblings too – from my mother’s second marriage. They are identical to the last hair.”

  “Really?”

  They talked into the night, laughing and sharing details about their families, their interests, hobbies, their taste for classical music (they both loved Mozart’s Violin Concerto No.3 in G major), opera (Verdi’s Aida) and collecting abstract art from upcoming Nigerian artists.

  Finally Mira checked her watch – it was ten o’clock. The rain was now just a fine drizzle. “I have to go now,” she said.

  “You could stay, you know,” he offered. “I have a guest room and promise not to come within a 50-metre radius of it.”

  She laughed but shook her head. “Thanks, but I’ll pass. I’ve got to get ready for work tomorrow anyway … now that Lauren is back she’ll need a heads up on the project.”

  “Oh, that’s true.” He stood up, grinning as he walked her to the door. “I’m glad we did this.”

  She smiled back. “Me too.” Then she remembered why they had come to his place and her face fell. “A-are you sure you’re not disappointed we didn’t …” Her cheeks felt hot with embarrassment.

  “Have sex?” he completed and laughed at her shyness. “Come on, I’m not some horny bastard. Yes, I am insanely attracted to you and I want you badly, but I respect your decisions. So no, I’m not disappointed. Ok, maybe a little bit disappointed. But remember, I’m not in this for just sex … I am in this for the real thing: to love and trust you, and for you to do the same too.”

  She looked at him for a moment, lost for words. Then she smirked. “Nice line. Bet it always sweeps the ladies off their feet whenever you use it, huh.”

  He shrugged. “Clearly, it isn’t working for one.”

  “Try harder,” she said and he laughed. They stopped at the door and, as she put out her hand to open it, he reached for her wrist. “I really don’t feel it’s safe for you to go back to Lekki tonight, Mira. Seriously. Why don’t you stay over and I’ll drop you off tomorrow?”

  She inhaled, her tummy squirming with warm desire. His big hand, encircling her waist, was strong and warm, sending pleasant ripples through her veins. Outside, a lone lightning bolt flashed through the dark night, and, without warning, it began raining. “It’s raining again,” she said in a soft voice. “Maybe I should stay the night after all.”

  His pupils were dilated as he stared at her. “Yeah … maybe you should.”

  Eleven

  Later, she blamed the rain.

  She blamed it for leaving her stranded and with no choice, even after Dominic had led her to a spacious but cosy guest room along a different corridor from his room. She blamed it for pelting loudly against the windowpanes, beating rhythmically and reminding her of just how alone she was. She blamed it for cutting off the mobile networks and making it impossible for her to reach her friends and housemates, to let them know where she was.

  And, most of all, she blamed it for making her want him so much.

  Mira sighed as she snuggled further into the fluffy duvet, seeking warmth from the chilly air. The room was dimly lit with a night-light that glimmered from a dresser beside the bed, but its comforting blue light did nothing to lull her to sleep. If anything, she was as alert as a watchdog. Placing a palm over her chest, she felt her heart beating against it, the throb quickening as she thought of him. You shouldn’t be here, Mira, her Rational Mind said to her. You should be in your own house, in your own freaking bed snoring the night away, not in a bed in a room 15 metres away from your object of lust! You never listen—

  She shut the voice out and stood up, the duvet sliding away from her shoulders. Screw this, she was not in a cell in Alcatraz. She had to get something to drink. Hugging Dominic’s large shirt close to her body and, assailed once again with his unique scent, she strode to the door and pulled it open. The hallway was dark, except for a lone light shining far ahead at the foot of the staircase. Taking a deep breath, Mira tiptoed gingerly towards it, her footfalls inaudible against the soft red Persian carpet. The top stair creaked as she stepped on it, and for a second she wondered if a ghost might pop out at her at the foot of the stairs. She chuckled at the thought as she walked into the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of Eva water from the refrigerator. The delicious smells of the spaghetti and fried fish still hung faintly in the air, and from the corner of her eye she spotted their leftover glasses of Merlot on the kitchen counter. She recognised Dominic’s glass (hers was the one with a faint lipstick smudge), and she twirled a finger around the base, a slight smile on her lips. Outside, the rain pounded against the roof, in sync with her rapid heartbeat. Dammit, she loved him. He was different from the others, different from what she was used to. Why then was she hesitant to be with him? Tonight he had told her he loved her. She had seen it in his eyes; he cared about her. So why wasn’t she upstairs right now, with him? How much longer would she have to keep up this charade, this nonchalant I-don’t-have-the-hots-for-you-Dominic attitude? Until she burned up with lust?

  Or are you afraid, Mira? Her Rational Mind asked.

  “Thinking of getting drunk?” a voice asked behind her, and she jumped. It was Dominic and – holy crap, what is he wearing? “W-what are you wearing?” Mira blurted out before she could stop herself.

  He glanced down at his loose grey pants. “Uh, my sweatpants?’

  “No, I meant …” she gulped and waved at his naked broad chest and his muscled arms. “You’re shirtless.”

  Dominic grinned. “I don’t wear shirts at night. It’s always too hot in here.”

  “You
can say that again,” Mira muttered under her breath.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Never mind,” she said suddenly in a loud, brusque tone. Snatching up the bottle of water, she headed for the door. “Goodnight.”

  He followed her. “Did I say something wrong?”

  She was walking briskly in an attempt to prevent him from catching up with her, but she was no match for his long strides. Good Lord, he smells so good! No, no! This isn’t happening. Why the hell is he so close to me?

  “No. Leave me alone.”

  “You’re angry.”

  She snorted. “I am not.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re doing that thing you always do with your hands when you’re wound up.”

  She glanced at her hands. They were clenched into fists. Annoyed, she turned sharply to him, forcing him to halt. “Why do you think you know everything about me? You know nothing about me!”

  He shrugged. “I know all I need to know,” he said in a low baritone. He was so close she could smell the freshness in his minty breath. “I know that you’re angry right now, but, for the life of me, I don’t know why. Maybe you’re just agitated that you couldn’t go back home tonight or maybe you feel vulnerable that you’re here with me, alone in my house. Or maybe—”

  “Why would I feel vulnerable?” she said dismissively, taking a step backward. She suddenly realised how close they were standing to each other, how his body heat enveloped her. “I am not afraid of you …”

  He closed the space between them and pulled her gently to his chest. “Or maybe,” he drawled, his hazel eyes boring into her surprised chocolate-coloured ones, “you just want me as badly as I want you.”

  “I don’t know what you are—”

  His mouth claimed hers, and this time it was not gentle. He kissed her fiercely, his tongue thrusting in and stopping her breath. At first she fought against him, her palms on his shoulders to push him away, but he tightened his grip and deepened the kiss, and the first sweep of desire kicked in. Her arms clasped around his neck, she moaned, her tongue meeting his, exploring depths they had never been to. His hands were everywhere; they crept up her arms to cradle her neck, then slid back down to her waist and upper thighs, then finally settled over her derrière and squeezed. Hard. Mira groaned. He broke away from her lips and explored the left side of her face and cheek, kissing gently. She responded by gripping his shoulders tightly, her eyes half-closed, her teeth digging into her now-swollen lower lip. His lips left a trail of soft, feathery kisses down her neck, then stopped against her collarbone, his breath hot against her already-moist skin. He kissed her there, then on the curve of her chin, before taking her mouth again. By now she was eager to get out of the shirt, and her fingers hurried through the buttons. At the third button he gently pushed her hands away. “Not yet,” he whispered against her lips.