ONE

All my life, I’ve been in love with one girl, Annette Thuraya.

We grew up in Magodo, went to the University of Lagos, shared an apartment in Atlanta while studying at GSU, and returned home to start an interior design company.

We look good together, Annette and me.

Her 5’8″ bronze skin perfectly matched my 6’1″ coffee skin. People stopped and stared at us, called us ‘cute,’ and…yup, you guessed it. Annette was ever quick to correct people’s notion of us being boo’d up.

After a dismal attempt at making out when we turned eighteen, Annette decided I wasn’t the man for her. Her reason? My breath tasted like arsenic. I wanted to tell her I’d kissed her a zillion times in my dreams and desired her so badly my lungs circulated toxic gas when her lips touched mine. But I gulped down my starved need and became her “guy best friend” and co-founder.

But then, after years of friend-zone incarceration, my soul began a restless stir, a desperate need to change our relationship status. The plan?

A: She’d get the note I sent her and float my boat.

B: She’d ignore it and sink it.

Either way, I was done not knowing.

Seated in my office that Valentine’s Wednesday and hearing her voice in the hallway, I grinned. Typical Annette. It took tremendous effort to please her and very little to piss her off. I couldn’t make out her words, but whoever was on the receiving end of her vitriol better have their shields up. Otherwise, adios motherflecker.

Dusting a non-existent speck off my blazer, I picked up a flask of specially made coffee and entered her office.

“What the fuck is going on, Donald? Why does the entire office smell of roses and shit?”

Okay, when she calls me Donald, I worry. Donald means she’s pissed at me. Other than that, she calls me D.

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Netta.” My ordinarily deep voice moderated to a soothing mode. “It’s tradition.”

“A tradition you started, Donald. I told you I hated it. I don’t need my staff going all mush and giggly over a day with a history steeped in feminine brutality and murder.”

“Thanks to Shakespeare and other romantics, the ghoulishness of the day is long gone and forgotten.” I smiled, handing her the thermos. “Nowadays, it’s all love, babe.”

“Miss me with that, abeg.” She pursed her lips, eyeing the thermos. “I’m not interested in holidays that don’t spell business with a capital B.”

I’d argue that Valentine’s Day was big business for industries and companies like ours, but I swallowed my argument and handed her the coffee flask. She exhaled, reclined in her seat, and smiled at me.

“Is it made…”

“Just like you like it? Yes,” I said, returning her glinting smile. “With almond milk, a dash of cinnamon, and salt.”

“Salt?”

She snickered, “I’m messing with you.” She took a long sip, closed her eyes, and let out a sensual moan that did crazy things to my wiener. “Oh, this is good, D.”

We’re back to D, perfect.

“You always know what I need.” She took several gulps, “Why aren’t we fucking again?”

I drew blanks. “Wh…I, uh…” I stuttered, all flustered and shit. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. What did you say?”

“I asked why we aren’t fucking?” She winked at me and took more gulps of coffee.

I swallowed, frowned, and looked her dead in the eye.

“Anyway. Now that I’m caffeinated, let me show you what I came up with last night.” She pushed her seat towards her desk and dropped the coffee flask. “Under the Sea.”

Under the what, now? How did we flip from sex to this?

“The more I think about it, the more sense it makes.” She got off her seat. “Transatlantic Hotel overlooks Eko Atlantic. So, it makes sense that visitors should get the impression of scuba diving when they enter the hotel.”

“Erm…O-kay?”

“Lemme show you what I’m talking about.” She returned to her desk, lowered onto the executive chair, and tapped the sensor pad on her Mac.

And dove right back to business.

Transatlantic, a newly completed seven-star hotel in Eko Atlantic, was set up by two Arabs with businesses in oil, hotels, and travel. We worked hard to get their business and celebrated like mad when we landed the design contract. Hence, I should be fully invested in working out themes that would impress our Arabian clients, who, I might add, were stoic and not so easy to please. But Annette’s question still rattled in my head.

Why weren’t we fucking again?

That was legit all I thought about. Even more than I thought to breathe. Me, Annette, and rumpled sheets.

“This makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?” she asked.

“Mm-hm,” I said, my eyes lost in the plunging neckline of her dress. “It’s, um, I mean, cool.”

“I know, right?” she giggled and clicked through photo after photo of design plans.

Really, why weren’t we fucking?

We’ve grown from awkward teenagers who concluded that being friends was better than lovers to twentysomething moneybags whose business catered to A-list companies.

Why, then, weren’t we fucking?

“Hey, goo face.” She pelted me with a paper stone. “Did you get that?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Quit zoning out, Donald.” She rubbed her neck and winced. “We need our A-game on this gig.”

“I think we’re working too hard on this. How about we give it a rest?”

“Give it a rest, ke? See this guy?” she scoffed. “This project is due in three months, and we must come up with something legit before those Arabian frat boys run out of patience.”

“Ehn. I know. Sha, still, give it a rest.” I placed a hand on her shoulder, meant to be a friendly tap, but kneaded and massaged both shoulders instead. “Don’t come and kill yourself, abeg. You know I’ll die without you.”

She scoffed, let out a satisfied sigh, and reclined in her seat. “You’re so damn good at this.”

I’m good at everything, and, damn it, I’d wasted enough time holding back. Time to move to strike, so help me, cupid, and the note I sent.

TWO

Having spent most of my adult life watching her switch boyfriends faster than makeup, I’d mastered the art of Annette enough to know I only had two options to get her to say yes to me. Option A: impress her to un-friend-zone me. Option B: Do something out of the ordinary that would pique her interest. Unless I could whip up a genie with three spare wishes, I stood a better chance with option B.

That was why I sent her the note and passkey, a distinct black card with an insignia that allowed her uninhibited access to a place where we could both explore our deeper sides and lay bare our inhibitions—Club Nova.

Club Nova, a private place known only to select moneyed guys like me, allowed users to live without judgment, explore their innate desires, debased or otherwise, and be who they ordinarily wouldn’t dare to be when society watched. Best of all, Club Nova lets me be the person I’d allow no one to see me be—a drag queen.

People might think me queer to indulge in costume makeup and fancy clothes. I know my parents would have a fit if they were to see me present this side of me, so I spent all my adult life numbing that side of me. When I found the club, thanks to an old-school buddy, I found an outlet to exhibit my art.

As much as I enjoyed my freedom, thrived in spending night after night turning my facial skin into a canvas, and walking freely in a room full of people who didn’t care how I was dressed, something was still missing. I wanted—fuck that—needed someone to share this intimate side of myself with. And who better than the only girl I’d loved my whole life?

Seated in the VVIP section of the club, I anxiously watched the door for her arrival. The instructions I sent her were easy to follow and open to multiple interpretations. If she caught on in time, I’d be the first person she saw when she got in.

Around me, Club Nova pulsed with energy—bodies swaying to the hypnotic beats that seemed to enter your bloodstream rather than just your ears. The dim lighting splashed crimson and indigo across bare skin, turning everyone into living art. Crystal chandeliers hung above the dance floor, catching light in fractured rainbows while mist crawled across the floor like spectral fingers. Every corner held a different fantasy unfolding—some innocent, others deliciously wicked.

A slight disturbance around my booth drew my attention away from the door and towards a small crowd of people dressed in black suits that fitted like a glove and faces covered in contrasting white masks. Their undertaker demeanor elicited some appreciative sighs and giggles from a pair of ladies seated in a booth beside mine. One woman, draped in nothing but strategically placed chains, leaned forward to whisper something that made her companion’s eyes widen with delight.

Smothering a slight chuckle, I found one of the men’s gazes fixed on me, then he slowly approached my side of the room. Here we go, I grinned, watching his approach. Not my first rodeo, to be honest. Given my dress preference since discovering Club Nova, I was used to being propositioned by guys who believed I took my orgasm from behind. Not that I’d fended them off or anything. I mean, it was all a game, a fantasy. And on nights when I was dressed en travesti and fully connected with my feminine side, I allowed myself the pleasure of meaningless flirtations.

“Hey,” he said with a smile I’d find sexy if I kissed boys. His eyes, visible through slits in the white mask, were an intense green that seemed to glow in the club’s atmospheric lighting.

“Hey.”

“Wanna step over to our side of the bar?” His voice carried the confidence of someone who rarely heard the word ‘no.’

“I like my side just fine.” The velvet of my booth felt like a throne beneath me.

“You’re sure?” He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and struck a model pose, revealing a chest sculpted from what seemed like marble. “I could tell you were checking me out.”

“It was on display, so—” I shrugged, then stiffened as…

“Bros, how far?” A voice I’ll recognize from anywhere said. “Why are you eyeing my babe?”

Fly guy flashed her a derisory sideways glance and smirked, “So what if I am?”

Annette’s flitting eyes regarded me through her gold mask, the metallic edges catching the light and framing her face like a living flame. “Then I’ll nicely ask you to look elsewhere ’cause this one’s mine.” She flashed him a trite grin, watched him return to his side of the bar, and sat across from me.

The feminine part of my brain that adored women’s clothes tingled at the thought that she had just called me her babe and fought off a guy to be with me.

“Hi,” I said, thrusting down the tremor in my throat with a quick swallow and hoping her laser gaze couldn’t see through my mask.

“Hello, Rose. I got your note. Now make good on your promise to give me a night I’d never forget.” Her voice carried a husky edge that sent electricity dancing across my skin.

Okay, Donald. Showtime.

THREE

I exhaled, smiled, clenched and unclenched my trembling hands, and harrumphed. Showtime. We’d wasted more than enough time skirting around and shit. With her here, me here, I had to do what I had to do. Even though it might end up defining our relationship or breaking us up. Damn, I was about to put my life in her hands, give her the power to break or make me. Omo, it better be the latter o ’cause there was no way I’d survive a world that didn’t include Annette.

“Rose?” she said, impatience eminent in her voice. The way she leaned forward sent a waft of her perfume—jasmine with undertones of something darker, something carnal—washing over me.

“Hey, Daisy,” I said, forcing confidence onto my core. Goddamn, if I smoked, I’d suck in a joint right now to calm my jittery hands.

“I’m feeling the staring vibe, but,” Annette said, a cocky smile creasing her lips. “Is that supposed to turn me on?”

Grinning, I beckoned for her to sit next to me. Nervous or not, I was in control. Outside, she may be the queen of my heart and controller of my composure, but tonight, she was Daisy, mine to control and do with as I saw fit.

I watched her lower onto the couch and cross her legs. Her sheer dress rode up a pair of naked flesh sheathing the creamiest thighs. The fabric, semitransparent in the club’s ambient lighting, revealed more than it concealed—shadows and curves playing a teasing game with my vision.

“You’re gorgeous, Daisy,” I said, drinking in the sight of her—her skin glowing as if lit from within.

“I know,” she said, uncrossing her legs and slowly parting them, keeping her gaze fixed on me. The sound of the club’s music seemed to fade as my heartbeat became the only rhythm I could hear. “Now, what will you do with all this gorgeousness?”

“Patience, Daisy.” I leaned closer, allowing my breath to warm the skin of her neck. Around us, the club’s energy seemed to intensify as if responding to the tension building between us.

“I don’t run on that street. Time is money.” She licked her lips and reclined on the sofa. My eyes fell head-over-heels-in-lust with the pointed peaks of her hardened nipples straining against the thin fabric. “Or, in this case, orgasm.”

“Pleasure requires patience.” Palms flattened on her back, I lowered my head on her chest, relished her inhaled breath, bated sighs, and flicked my gaze from her beckoning nipples to her desire-pooled eyes. The heat of her body burned through the fabric, making my fingertips tingle with anticipation. “I’ll make it my life’s duty to pleasure you, An—Daisy.”

“In that case,” she said, took my hand, and sucked in a finger. “Get on with it.” Her warm tongue wrapped around my finger and put my brain on lockdown. The wet heat of her mouth sent jolts down my spine, collecting in a molten pool at my core.

“Daisy,” I said, exhaled, and pulled away. “Patience.”

She scoffed, looked me dead in the eye, and shrugged. The gold of her mask caught the light, casting ethereal patterns across her face. “Why did you send me that package?”

My kiss was swift, hungry. Claiming her mouth with an urgency I couldn’t hide. “I ask the questions, you give the answers.”

“Too many rules spoil the fun.” She sucked in a startled breath when I pinched and slowly rubbed her nipples through the thin fabric, watching as they hardened further under my touch. “Besides, I don’t obey rules. I break them.”

Not tonight, you don’t.

“Don’t tell me about your dirtiest secrets, then.” Thirsty for those nipples, I closed in on her, pried her bodice off, and wrapped my mouth around a pointy chocolate bud. The taste of her skin exploded on my tongue—salt, sweetness, and something uniquely Annette that no flavor could compare to.

“Rose,” she said, arching her back and hissing a drawn-out moan that seemed to vibrate through both our bodies. “Welcome to the party.”

Her skin’s flavor, a tangy combination of salt and fiery desire, burst into my mouth, powered my tongue, and snuffed out every vestige of control I’d had since pretending I was okay with being just friends. The club around us seemed to fade into a hazy backdrop, the music becoming nothing more than a distant drumbeat matching the thundering of my heart.

Annette, my lungs called out, hands brushed off the hem of her dress, fingers frantically searched, yearned, craved, wanting everything and everywhere inside her. The brush of my fingers on her pussy-slit sent me over the edge—hot, slick, and welcoming.

“Rose,” she gasped, spreading her legs, clutching my head, writhing in my arms as my tongue ravaged her nipple, fingers strung her wet clit, and dipped into her dripping wet pussy. Her legs trembled against mine, muscles tensing with building pleasure. “I’ve never made out with a girl.”

I’m not a girl, Daisy. I don’t even identify as one. I’m just a guy head-over-heels in love.

My insatiable tongue clasped one nipple, then the other, sucked hungrily like I hoped to draw milk. Maybe I did. Heck, I’d starved myself of her. I needed my fill—a recompense for the torturous years of watching her date other men. Each moan she released was like a prayer answered, each shudder a confession of desire.

“I’m gonna brand you, Daisy.” I resumed latching on her neck, making good on my promise by nibbling her with my teeth, feeling her pulse race against my lips. “Print my name on your body.”

“I want to touch you.” Her voice was ragged, hungry.

“No.” I tightened my vise-like hold on her arms, pinning them above her head. The power dynamic shifted, crystallized—her surrender amplifying my dominance. “Your pleasure is mine and mine alone.”

“Yes.” The word escaped her like a confession.

“Allow me to worship your body.”

She squirmed, then gasped when I laid her flat on my legs, parted her legs, and breathed life into her creamy pussy. In the dim light of our private booth, her most intimate parts glistened with want, the scent of her arousal more intoxicating than any perfume.

“Beautiful,” I said, staring transfixed at the V-slit on her fur panties—a kinky part of the package I sent her. The dark material was already darker at the center, soaked through with evidence of her desire. “So…. fucking beautiful.”

“Rose.” She exhaled, biting her bottom lip as I eased the panties off and rubbed on her dripping clit. The slick wetness coated my fingers, making them glide across her sensitive nub with delicious friction. Her sighs were like a magnet to my mouth. Her scent inflamed my nose and gave my teeth a new purpose—lovingly adore and bite those lips between her legs.

Around us, the club continued its hedonistic symphony—bodies dancing, touching, merging in pleasure on the dance floor and in darkened corners. The music pulsed like a second heartbeat, bass notes vibrating through the floor and up into our bodies.

“Rose,” she jerked, writhed, cradled my head between her legs, and surrendered her body to the blissful ministrations of my adoring mouth. Each stroke of my tongue drew new sounds from her throat—gasps, moans, half-formed words that dissolved into pleasure.

If tonight was all about me, I’d have guided her hand to my inflamed member nestled in tight briefs, but tonight wasn’t about me. Tonight was about getting the love of my life to fall either in love or in lust with me. Anyone, I don’t care. As long as she fell, stayed, and committed herself to me.

Tonight was also about charms and delayed gratifications.

She shrieked when I pulled away and threw confused eyes at me, her chest heaving with unfulfilled desire.

“Do you touch yourself, Daisy?” I asked, watching tremors slither down her legs and body.

“What?” she asked, a confused frown masking her face. Her lips, swollen from biting, parted with heavy breaths.

“Do you touch yourself?”

“Yes.” The admission came with a defiant tilt of her chin.

“Tell me what you think about when you touch yourself.”

“Rose.” She exhaled, then shivered as if the very question sent sparks across her skin. “I need to finish. I must—”

“Tell me.” My voice dropped an octave, commanding.

“It’s not what I think about.” She groaned, then fought to release her hands. “It’s who I think about.”

“Good. Who do you think about when you touch yourself?” She attempted to sit up, and I held on tight. “Relax, okay. Your body…” I placed soft kisses on both sides of her inner thighs, feeling the muscles quiver beneath my lips. “And pleasure is mine, Daisy.”

“Then get to it.” Her hips bucked upward, seeking contact.

“Trust me, Daisy. You have no idea how much I’m dying to fuck you senseless right now.” My own body throbbed with restraint, every nerve ending alive and screaming for release.

“So, what’s stopping you?” The gold mask caught the light as she tilted her head, challenging me.

“I need—scratch that—I’m desperate to know all about your sexual fantasies.”

“Donald.”

My lungs punctured. “What?”

“I imagine Donald and me masturbating each other during board meetings.” Her confession hung in the air between us, electric with possibility.

How did I miss that?

“Donald. Hm.” I may have hidden the surprise on my face, but keeping the excitement off my voice was too difficult to imagine, let alone attempt. “Donald sounds like an interesting guy. Tell me more about him.”

“I will.” She smirked, the corner of her mouth lifting in a way that made my stomach flip. “After your tongue finished what it started.”

I grinned. “You drive a hard bargain, Daisy.”

“You have no—ohhhh… idea.” Her words dissolved into a moan as I resumed my attention between her legs.

I sent my tongue to places they’d been dying to go, tasting her desire, feeling her body respond to every flick and stroke. Then, just as she began to tense with approaching climax, I withdrew.

She threw a horrified look at me. Her eyes asked the ‘what the fuck?’ her mouth couldn’t articulate, her chest rising and falling rapidly with frustrated desire.

“Does Donald want these things with you?” My voice was thick with my own need.

“Less talk and more pleasure, Rose.” Her fingers dug into the velvet of the couch, knuckles white with tension.

“I make the rules, Daisy.”

“And I told you I don’t obey rules.” Her eyes flashed with challenge beneath the gold mask.

“Humor me, then.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Besides, I don’t mix business with pleasure.”

I smiled to hide my disappointment, though something in my chest twisted painfully.

She winked. “Now, where were we?” Her hand reached for mine, trying to guide it back between her legs.

“What if he wants it too, this…Donald guy.”

“He and I can never be that way.”

“Why?” The question came out more desperate than I intended.

Her eyes glistened at the amplified pitch of my voice, then peered closely at my masked face.

“Why are you asking these questions?” she said, eyes narrowing behind her mask. The gold filigree caught the shifting lights, casting dancing patterns across her flushed skin.

“Why do you think?” I was approaching a point where I didn’t care. I wanted her, us, to be together. And if she wanted it, I didn’t see any point in staying hidden.

“I came here for sex, Rose, not—” Her voice held a new edge, something between suspicion and frustration.

I scoffed. “Yeah. Figures. Reckless sex with strangers while friend-zoning a guy probably in love with you.”

She gasped and pulled off me, the sudden absence of her warmth leaving me cold. “For a pleasure seeker, you sure are talkative, not to mention nosey.” She adjusted her dress and threw a frustrated glance around.

The club continued its hedonistic symphony around us—bodies intertwined on plush velvet couches, the dance floor a writhing mass of desire set to the pulsing rhythm that vibrated through the floor. Bottles of champagne flowed like water, glasses catching the light like liquid diamonds. In one corner, a woman in nothing but body paint and pearls was being worshipped by three admirers, her head thrown back in ecstasy.

When a glimmer of interest crept into Annette’s eyes, I followed her gaze to find them fixated on the Black Panther guys pleasuring themselves to a group of strippers sexually stimulating each other. Their white masks stood out starkly against the darkness like floating faces in a sea of flesh and shadow. One stripper—a statuesque woman with skin like polished onyx—caught Annette’s eye and smiled, beckoning with a crooked finger.

The tidal wave of jealousy blew my composure to shits and made me grip the seat, leather creaking under my fingers. “Looking to join them?”

“Why not? I mean.” She shrugged and scoffed, but her eyes remained fixed on the tableau of pleasure unfolding across the room. “They’re not as total a drag as you are.”

“That’s a mean thing to say to me.” The hurt in my voice was impossible to hide.

“So what?” She kissed her teeth and got up. The gold dress clung to her curves like a second skin, collecting light and reflecting it in mesmerizing patterns. “Your note excited me, Rose. I felt the mystic vibe and promise of an adventure about it.”

“So, why are you leaving?” My voice cracked, betraying the desperation I felt watching her prepare to walk away.

“You’re wasting my time on dumb rules and twenty-one questions.”

“Daisy—” But she was already pushing past me, the scent of her perfume lingering like a ghost as she stomped out of the club.

I sat frozen, watching her retreat through the sea of bodies. The music seemed to slow, the bass dropping to match the sinking feeling in my chest. Around me, club-goers continued their night of indulgence, oblivious to the fact that my world had just walked out the door.

The Black Panther crew glanced my way, one raising an eyebrow in silent question. I shook my head, swallowing the lump in my throat. Tonight was supposed to be about revelations, about finally bridging the gap between friendship and something more. Instead, I’d driven her away with my need to know if she felt the same.

I sank back into the velvet booth, fingers tracing the warm indentation where she’d been sitting moments before. The drag persona I’d carefully crafted—Rose, bold and confident—felt like a mask that had slipped, revealing the insecure man beneath who’d just blown his chance with the only woman he’d ever loved.

But then, something shifted in my chest. A spark of determination flickered to life.

No. This wasn’t how our story ended.

I stood up, smoothed down my outfit, and headed for the exit. If Annette wanted straight-talking, no-bullshit honesty, then that’s exactly what she was going to get—from Donald, not Rose.

It was time to take off all my masks.

FOUR

After Annette’s sudden departure, the rest of my night at Club Nova crumbled like a sand castle at high tide. I sat at the bar, watching people surrender themselves to the night, their laughter echoing through the air like wind chimes in a summer breeze. They indulged in their wildest fantasies, free and unbothered—living the life I desperately wanted but couldn’t have.

The bartender slid another drink toward me; I hadn’t touched the first one. The amber liquid caught the pulsing lights, looking almost magical. If only it could conjure what I truly wanted.

“Not feeling it tonight?” she asked, wiping down the counter.

I shook my head. “Just one of those nights.”

One of those nights that had been repeating for years. One of those nights where I pretended I wasn’t hopelessly, pathetically in love with my best friend.

I didn’t want to admit it, but the truth had me in a chokehold—I was in love with a woman who would never love me back. Chai, Donald, why do you do this to yourself? To think she had the audacity to say we could never be that way. What did that even mean? That I wasn’t good enough? That I wasn’t her type? The words echoed in my mind, each repetition more painful than the last.

By 4 AM, I had had enough. My mood was so out of sync with the club’s high-energy vibe that even the bass-heavy music seemed distant, like it was playing from another dimension. The crowd moved like a pulsing organism, writhing and swaying to beats I could no longer feel. I pulled out my phone, the screen’s harsh light momentarily blinding me, and called my driver.

As I waited for the call to connect, a shadow fell across me. My Black Panther admirer approached, his presence commanding even in the dim, flashing lights. He moved with a confidence I envied, wearing his expensive suit like armor.

“Yo,” he greeted, his lips quirking up into a knowing smile. “Your girl ditched you?”

The question stung more than it should have. “Mm-hmm.”

“Sucks.”

“Tell me about it.” I sighed, running a hand through my hair. The simple acknowledgment from a stranger felt surprisingly comforting.

He leaned against the bar, studying me with those piercing eyes that seemed to see right through my carefully constructed facade. “You ever wanna hang out, try something new…” He slid a card toward me, the sleek blue design catching the strobe lights. “Call me.”

I glanced at it, then did a double-take as recognition dawned. This man owned a billion-dollar tech company—one Annette and I had pitched to more than once, without success. Wakanda Innovations, the name embossed in silver against the midnight blue background. Too bad I was straighter than an arrow. If not, my Black Panther eye candy would have made for a perfect switch from “Annetta” to “Wakanda.”

I pocketed the card anyway. “Thanks.”

He nodded and disappeared back into the crowd, leaving me alone with my thoughts once more.

The ride home was torture. The radio was clogged with Valentine’s Day dedications, love songs bleeding through the speakers like salt on an open wound. Mtchew. I reclined in my seat, exhaling heavily, watching the city lights blur past the window. Rain had started to fall, droplets racing each other down the glass, mimicking the tears I refused to shed.

Year after year, it was the same thing—spending Valentine’s alone, waiting for Annette to notice me, to choose me. I wasn’t asking for too much. I just needed her to want me. Love wasn’t even a prerequisite. Just… want me. The way I wanted her. The way I had wanted her since college, when she burst into my dorm room looking for her roommate and instead found a lifelong friendship that, for me, had always been something more.

Ed Sheeran’s “Perfect” came on. I let out a bitter chuckle, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. I’d seen this movie before, and I already knew how it ended—me going home alone, heart in pieces, like a teenage boy dumped on prom night.

“Your apartment or your parents’?” my driver asked, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

“My place.”

I needed the night to mourn. To come to terms with the truth I had been avoiding for too long. The thought of seeing Annette on Monday, of pretending like everything was normal, like I hadn’t touched her, tasted her, known the way her body molded into mine—it was enough to make me consider calling in sick for the first time in my career.

My apartment greeted me with its familiar silence. I kicked off my shoes, dropped my keys in the bowl by the door, and headed straight for the kitchen. The wine bottle beckoned—a nice Cabernet I’d been saving for a special occasion. Well, realizing you’ll never have the love of your life was pretty damn special, wasn’t it?

Sunday blurred by in a haze of Netflix’s Star Trek Enterprise and too much wine. I lost myself in starship adventures and alien encounters, anything to keep my mind off the encounter at Club Nova. By Monday, I had a splitting headache and the worst mood possible. I dragged myself to work, nursing a large coffee that did little to dispel the fog in my brain.

And, of course, in came Annette—boisterous as ever, her laughter preceding her into the office like a fanfare announcing royalty. She wore a crisp white blouse and a pencil skirt that hugged her curves in a way that made my mouth go dry. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, professional and put-together, nothing like the wild, free locks that had cascaded over her shoulders at the club.

“You look like shit, D,” she announced, perching on the edge of my desk and peering at me with mock concern.

This woman knew exactly how to twist the knife. First, she walked out on me. Then, she made me lose sleep. And now she was acting like none of it happened, like she hadn’t left me stranded in a sea of emotions I could barely navigate.

“Guess what?” she beamed, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I had the weirdest weekend.”

My heart stuttered. Did she remember? Had she recognized me at the club after all?

“I’m not interested, Annette.” I downed my coffee, the bitter liquid burning my throat, and fetched another from the break room. When I returned, she was still there, eyebrows raised in surprise at my dismissal. I powered up my computer, the startup chime was a welcome distraction. “I have emails to get through. Can you excuse me?”

“Get the stick outta your ass—”

“Oh, enough with the vulgar phrases, Annette. I’m sick of it.” The words came out sharper than I intended, laced with a frustration that had been building for years.

Her eyes widened. “What is wrong with you?”

I sighed, rubbing my temples where the headache pounded like a persistent drummer. “Nothing. I didn’t get enough sleep.”

She studied me for a moment, then her expression softened. She grinned, sauntered over, and tilted my chin up with her fingers—a casual touch that sent electricity up my spine. “Feel better, D.”

That touch. That fucking touch. It had the same effect it always did—my breath catching before I could stop it, my heart racing like I’d run a marathon. How could such a simple gesture hold so much power over me?

“Are you wearing a new cologne?” she asked, leaning closer, her scent—jasmine and something uniquely Annette—enveloping me like a warm embrace.

Duh. The scent from Club Nova. The one thing I had clung to, the lingering reminder of a night wasted on hope. I’d debated washing it off but couldn’t bring myself to erase that one connection to what might have been.

“Yeah? You like it?” I searched her face, daring her to remember, to acknowledge what had transpired between us.

“Smells kinda familiar.” She frowned, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“It does?” My pulse quickened. This was it. The moment of truth.

She squinted, leaned in even closer, sniffed again, and then locked eyes with me. My pulse pounded in my ears like a tribal drum, drowning out the office noise.

Say it, Annette. Say you recognize it. Say you remember.

“Can’t place it,” she said with a shrug, straightening up.

My heart sank. Of course she didn’t remember. Why would she? I was just another face in the crowd to her, forgettable, replaceable.

“Anyway, don’t forget this afternoon’s meeting with the design team.” She grabbed my coffee and took a sip, her lipstick leaving a perfect imprint on the rim. She walked off with a wink, hips swaying in a rhythm that had haunted my dreams for years.

I watched her go, feeling both relieved and disappointed. Part of me wanted her to know, to confront the truth of what happened at Club Nova. Another part—the cowardly part—was glad for the reprieve. At least for now, our friendship remained intact, uncomplicated by feelings she clearly didn’t share.

FIVE

The meeting was a disaster, a beautiful train wreck orchestrated by Annette’s unfiltered mouth. The conference room was too small, too warm, and too filled with tension. The design team sat huddled on one side of the table, their faces a mixture of anxiety and resignation. They knew what was coming.

Poor Onome had barely clicked to the second slide of her presentation when Annette made a face that could curdle milk. Her nose wrinkled, her eyes narrowed, and a soft but audible “ugh” escaped her lips.

“Don’t tell me you spent the entire weekend eating chocolates and sniffing flowers only to come up with this?” Annette scoffed, her tone dripping with disappointment, each word a verbal dagger. “This is exactly why I discourage taking Valentine’s Day too seriously. It melts the brain.”

Onome blinked, her finger frozen mid-click, her expression morphing from pride to dismay in the span of a heartbeat. She looked as if she was debating whether to cry or curse Annette out in her mother tongue.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, a gesture that had become almost reflexive in these meetings. “Annette, can we maybe try constructive criticism?” I suggested, trying to play peacemaker as usual.

“Fine,” she huffed, folding her arms across her chest like a petulant child. “Onome, darling, this design is…a choice. A bold one. But unless we’re catering to retirees who dream in sepia, we need colors that say ‘luxury escape’ not ‘my grandma’s lace doily collection.'”

The room fell silent, the hum of the air conditioner suddenly deafening. Onome cleared her throat and nodded stiffly, her knuckles white around her laser pointer. “I… will make adjustments.”

I threw her an apologetic glance before murmuring to Annette, “Do you ever stop to think before you speak?”

She turned to me, eyebrows raised in mock innocence. “You’re too indulgent with them.”

“One of us has to be.”

She smirked, leaning in closer, her breath warm against my ear. “Maybe you’re a softie ’cause you’re partly female.”

My breath caught in my throat. “What?”

“Your perfume.”

My stomach flipped. My heart? Completely dropped, plummeting to the depths of my being. Had she figured it out after all? The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick to breathe.

“What about it?” I managed, fighting to keep my voice steady.

She dragged her chair closer, the legs scraping against the floor, drawing curious glances from the design team. Her gaze locked onto mine, intense and unreadable. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“Your perfume,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over Onome’s resumed presentation.

My mind raced, thoughts colliding like freight trains. Did she know? Was she toying with me? Or was this just another of her games? “W-what about it?”

She pulled her seat even closer, our knees touching beneath the table, sending shockwaves through my system. She locked gazes with me, her eyes dancing with something I couldn’t quite identify—amusement? Desire? Mischief? “Why don’t you tell me?”

“There’s nothing to…” I stiffened when her fingers found my thigh, a gentle touch that sent my heartbeat into overdrive. Then sucked in a sharp breath when her hand moved higher, her intentions unmistakable.

“I wondered how she knew my address, clothes size, and underwear choice,” she murmured, her lips quirking into a knowing smile.

“Annette?” I whispered, my voice a mixture of disbelief and desperate hope.

“Do you want me to stop?” Her fingers paused, hovering, waiting for permission.

“God, no!” The words escaped before I could think, raw and honest.

She grinned, a victorious, radiant smile that lit up her entire face. Her hand moved with confidence, skilled and deliberate, as if she’d been waiting for this moment as long as I had.

Oh, God! A sudden rush of air to my lungs and ears drowned the sound of Onome’s speech on the psychology of colors. The room blurred around the edges, Annette the only thing in focus, a beacon in the fog of my desire.

Sweet fuck!

“Are you listening, ma?” Onome asked, her voice cutting through my haze of pleasure.

“Yes,” Annette said, her voice reflecting nothing of the sensual hell she’d dunked me in. She nodded encouragingly, the perfect picture of professional interest.

I bit hard on a clenched fist to silence the throaty moan that gurgled up my throat and unconsciously shifted in my seat, seeking more of her touch. My eyes, when they caught the subtle outline of her body beneath her blouse, triggered another moan I embarrassedly tried to cover with a fake cough.

“Do you need water, sir?” Onome asked, concern etched on her features.

Damn, and blast water. I need a drink, a tall glass of undiluted Annette. I briefly turned to Onome and shook my head, then returned my gaze to my tormentor, whose eyes were partly glazed with heat and mischief, a flush spreading across her cheeks.

“You’re doing well, Onome,” she said, her voice steady despite the storm she was creating beneath the table.

“I’m glad you like this new design, ma?”

“Yes,” Annette replied, giggling. “It’s perfect. Please carry on with your presentation.”

She kept her gaze fixed on Onome’s slides, nodded occasionally, and made targeted remarks that somehow made perfect sense despite the fact that her attention was clearly divided. She was magnificent in her control, her composure unwavering even as she drove me to the brink of madness.

Oh, my sweet and sexy fuckzilla.

Heat built within me, a pressure that threatened to explode at any moment. My skin tingled, my breath came in short gasps, and my world narrowed to the point where her hand met my body. If this continued, there would be no stopping the inevitable.

“Hmm… uh…. Thank you, Onome.” I rested my elbows on the desk and steepled my fingers, trying desperately to maintain a semblance of professionalism. “Please, let’s postpone this presentation.”

“What, why?” Annette asked, all wide-eyed innocence, as if she didn’t know exactly what she was doing to me.

I flashed her a death glare. She had to ask? I was no party pooper or anything. I’d match this game any day if I had time to prepare. Besides, after spending years wanting her, I’d run low on self-control. And given how deftly she was handling me, it was only a matter of seconds before I lost all composure.

“I have another color scheme I want to observe before the close of work.”

“Fair enough,” Annette said, did a quick adjustment, and removed her hand.

Come back here, you!

I took her hand and guided it back, “Let’s reconvene tomorrow, same time.”

“Okay, sir,” Onome said, then she and her team took all the time in the world packing and arranging their equipment, each movement seemingly slowed to a painful crawl.

“You can leave the stuff,” I said, then pressed a fist to my mouth to silence another moan.

Annette, the cursed vixen, giggled into her palm when I glared at the team in brimming impatience. Her eyes danced with mischief, enjoying my torment.

“Okay, sir,” Onome said, and they finally filed out in what felt like an eternity but was probably only seconds.

“God, Annette,” I said, drawing her close as soon as the door closed behind Onome and her team. The wait had been excruciating, every second an eternity of need and want.

“Rose,” she said as I hurriedly reached for her, my movements clumsy with desire.

“Daisy,” I said, recognition dawning like a sunrise. “So, you’ve been dreaming of me?”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked, her voice a mixture of accusation and wonder.

“I wasn’t sure my breath tasted better than arsenic.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Our lips met in a kiss that was years in the making, passionate and perfect. She tasted like coffee and desire, familiar yet thrillingly new. It was everything I had imagined and more—a culmination of years of longing, of stolen glances and suppressed feelings.

“This changes nothing,” she said when we finally broke apart, both breathless.

It doesn’t? My heart stuttered, fear creeping in.

“I’m only acting out a sexual frustration from a wasted night at Club Nova.”

I cradled her face between my hands, forcing her to look directly into my eyes. I needed her to see the truth that had been there all along. “I’ve wanted you all my life, Annette.”

“Wanted?”

“Loved.”

She giggled, a sound that lightened my heart. “You do, huh?”

“Of course I do, silly. Why else did you think I followed you everywhere?”

“I thought you liked my jokes.”

I chuckled and pulled her lips back onto mine. The kiss deepened, years of unspoken desires pouring into that single connection. When we finally separated, her eyes were dark with need, mirroring my own.

“Annette.” I held her close, savoring the feeling of her in my arms at last. “We fit so perfectly.”

She clutched my lips with hers and melted into my embrace. We moved together in perfect harmony, as if we had been doing this dance forever.

“Slow…”

“No, I like it hard, and I love it fast.”

Of course, I groaned in a delirious quiver. That’s how she’d want it. Hard and fast. And yes, like everything we have in common, I love it hard, fast, and made in Annette.

“You love me, don’t you?” I asked when we lay together afterwards, my heart still racing. I was in, not just physically but emotionally and mentally. I needed to know that she was, too.

“Sure.”

“Sure, what?”

She flashed me a funny look and grinned, “You sure are talkative, Rose.”

“Now you know my secret.”

“And I love your secret.”

“And me?”

“And you.” She traced my features with a gentle finger, as if seeing me for the first time. “I’ve always loved you, D. I just didn’t think you felt the same.”

“Is it safe to say you enjoy making out with girls?”

“I knew you weren’t a girl when you strapped me on your legs.” She moved slightly against me. “Your big D is too humongous to hide, Papi.”

“Papi?”

“You like it?”

More than you’ll ever know, ‘Netta, I smiled, feeling a warmth spread through me that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with belonging.

“There’s another side of me you need to know.” She nibbled my lower lip and locked her gaze with mine. “I like to dominate.”

“Of course you do,” I said in a sharp burst of ecstatic laughter, buried my face in the haven of her bosom, and hugged her tightly. Happy to be finally home.

In the next hour, and for the rest of our lives, we freely explored our connection, closed the Black Panther deal (turns out he was impressed by our pitch after all), remained Daisy and Rose at Club Nova on the occasional weekend, and still found moments of intimacy in the most unexpected places.

And, yeah. I still got a rush whenever she called me Papi.