“Okay?” I breathe out, asking in disbelief.
With her eyes trained to the table, still fluttering, she eventually moves them to meet mine and murmurs, “No more running. No more operation shutdown in self-protection mode to protect something you already have.” I look at her, not exactly following. “You have my heart, Azmir. I didn’t give it voluntarily. I even hated you at times for conquering it, but I no longer have it to protect. It’s yours.”
Baby…
I can’t speak to affirm. I’m in total shock.
She whispers with determined eyes, “I told you, Azmir, no more running. I may have been knocked clearly off kilter by your…forceful…all-consuming presence in my life, but I’m no weakling. I’m yours. To love, honor, respect, and protect, but not to coddle.” Her resolute eyes dance in mine. She wants me to understand her message. “I’m here for you. We’ll get through this.”
There’s a long pause between our words. A cloud-exchange taking place over our table. She has just pledge her devotion, denouncing ever doubting me again. Now it’s my turn to take her at word. She said we’d get through this.
“Azmir, baby, say something,” she whispers on an insecure cry. I know she needs my assurance. She’s just taken a huge leap of faith, something that typically terrifies her. I try to fight my incredulous state.
“I wanna fuck you so bad right now,” I murmur, not entirely in jest. I also want to scoop her into my arms and shower with her with declarations of eternal love and protection.
Rayna’s eyes illustrate the speed of her mind, processing my words. Her head falls back as a shriek of laughter erupts from her belly. She laughs so hard and long, tears pours from her eyes. I let go of a chuckle myself, at her hearty merriment. I don’t know how to express how much I love this moment between us. It’s pivotal and delights me.
After finishing dessert, we make our way to the art boutique, where we pick up a Francesco Basso painting, capturing Rayna at her last showcase that I missed. I’d scored expensive ass Franco Basso to seize an image of her in action so that Rayna can see the fire in her eyes when she dances. She maintains that she only does it for recreation, but the emotion she puts forth while dancing is something I’ve longed for since I saw her dance at my birthday party. Because I’d taken so long to be intimate with Rayna, I grew attached to her and wanted that same passion applied towards me. As much as it makes me sound like a little bitch, it’s the truth and took some time for me to cop to.
We’re standing in the middle of a private showing room in the back of the popular boutique. Rayna’s mouth is cupped by her shaking hands and her breathing is erratic.
“Oh, my god, Azmir!” I hear mumbled beneath her hands.
Franco is standing next to the easel that boasts the painting, wearing a measured smile. Smug ass. When I came to him with the idea, he tossed his fucking nose in the air, saying he’d had a waitlist for some king in a third world country as if I gave a fuck. I’d been one of the few who helped his soft ass out of a financial bind a few years back. And while he’s paid me back, he wouldn’t come off his $6,000 price tag…that needed to be paid in advance. Goddamn prick!
A sales rep peeks through the black curtain that closes off the room in search of him.
“Ah! Ah!” he sucks the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “I with a customer!” Franco’s Italian accent is brutally thick, until he talks money. Then he seems second generation American. He’s so fucking melodramatic. The rep scurries out of the doorway and his eyes arrives back to my beautiful fiancée who’s still awestruck.
“Are you going to say something, Brimm?” I urge as softly as I can muster. I’m anxious.
She slowly turns to me, finally releasing her mouth. “Jimmie is on a four year waitlist for his. And when he signed up with a deposit, it was six. That’s how I know his work…from Jimmie,” she whispers forcefully. “Did you know that Mr. Basso came to the U.S. with nothing and is now one of the most sought after artists? Michelle Obama has two of his paintings and is waiting on her third!”
“I sent it to her just last week,” Franco hisses while rolling his eyes.
Rayna jumps a 180 degree angle. “No!” she gasps. “You can’t be…” She then looks back over to me.
Franco has a contented smile plastered on his face. Cocky bastard! He knew my lady didn’t recognize him.
“Let’s go, Brimm. We need to discuss where we’ll hang this Basso,” I speak softly as I wrap my arm around her waist.
Her body is rigid; she’s really in shock. And I’m growing annoyed by the second from simply breathing the same air as this asshole. I want my lady alone, in my bed, beneath me, shaking from the art of what’s hanging between my legs.
We give our goodbyes to Franco and make our way home.
Chapter 5