Black: 1000 Nights of Desires

**Chapter 1: The Confession** I am in lust with my godfather. The sentence lives under my tongue like a live coal, scorching every time I swallow. I sit on the edge of the worn leather sofa in Uncle Emeka’s living room, knees pressed together, glass of cheap red wine sweating in my hand, pretending to listen to the dying echoes of laughter from the family gathering that ended an hour ago. Everyone else has trickled upstairs or out to their cars—my mother muttering about early mass tomorrow, my cousins already scrolling t****k in the guest room, Aunt Chioma snoring softly on the daybed. The house has settled into that heavy, post-party quiet where the only sounds are the refrigerator humming and the occasional creak of old floorboards. Markus is still here. He stands by the window that overlooks the backyard, one hand in the pocket of his charcoal trousers, the other cradling a tumbler of single malt. The lamplight catches the silver at his temples, turns it almost platinum. He’s forty-eight now, still built like the man who used to hoist me onto his shoulders so I could see the procession during Corpus Christi, still smells faintly of cedar and expensive aftershave, still has that low, rumbling laugh that used to make me feel safe. Except safe is the last thing I feel when I look at him these days. I feel feverish. He turns, catches me staring. The corner of his mouth lifts—just a fraction, the way it always did when he knew I was up to something. “You’re quiet tonight, Dorcas.” I force a smile. “Just tired.” “Liar.” He says it softly, affectionately, the way he’s said it since I was twelve and tried to convince him the dog ate my homework. He crosses the room in three easy strides and drops into the armchair across from me. Our knees almost touch. “What’s on your mind?” Everything. Nothing I can say out loud. Not yet. I take a sip of wine to buy time. It tastes like regret and blackberries. “Just… thinking about how everything’s changing. I graduate next year. You’re always traveling. We hardly see each other anymore.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “You see me now.” My pulse kicks hard against my throat. I set the glass on the side table before my hand can shake. “Yeah. I do.” Silence stretches between us, thick as honey. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, studying me like I’m a contract he’s deciding whether to sign. “You’ve grown up, little one.” The old endearment lands differently tonight. It doesn’t feel paternal. It feels like a dare. I stand before I can talk myself out of it. My bare feet are silent on the rug as I close the distance. He doesn’t move, just watches me approach, eyes darkening by degrees. When I’m close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, I stop. “I’m not little anymore, Markus.” His Adam’s apple slides. “I noticed.” The admission is so quiet I almost miss it. My heart slams against my ribs. I reach out—slow, giving him every chance to stop me—and rest my fingertips against the open V of his shirt. His skin is warm, the dark hair there coarser than I imagined. He exhales through his nose, a sound that’s half sigh, half surrender. “Come with me,” I whisper. I don’t wait for an answer. I turn and walk toward the kitchen, hips swaying just enough to be deliberate. I hear the soft creak of the armchair as he rises, the measured tread of his shoes behind me. The kitchen is lit only by the under-cabinet LEDs and the moon spilling through the window above the sink. I stop at the island, grip the edge of the cool granite. Behind me, Markus pauses in the doorway. I don’t turn around. “Pour me another glass.” He moves. The clink of the bottle against crystal. The soft glug of wine. Then he’s behind me—close enough that I feel the brush of his shirt against my bare arms. He sets my glass down in front of me, but his hand doesn’t leave the stem. His fingers cover mine. I tilt my head back until it rests against his shoulder. “I’ve wanted you for years,” I say, the words scraping out raw. “Not as family. As a man.” For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then his free hand finds my waist, fingers splaying wide, possessive. He turns me slowly until I’m facing him. His eyes are black in the low light, pupils blown. He searches my face like he’s looking for a trap, for hesitation, for anything that will let him walk away. He finds none. Markus sets the bottle down with deliberate care. Then both hands come up to cradle my jaw, thumbs brushing the corners of my mouth. “Dorcas,” he says, and my name has never sounded so heavy, so hungry. “You don’t know what you’re asking.” “I do.” My voice cracks. “I want to know what it feels like when you stop being careful with me.” Something breaks behind his eyes. He kisses me like a man who’s been holding his breath for years. His mouth is firm, demanding, tasting of whisky and salt. I open for him immediately, desperate, and he groans into the kiss—a low, animal sound that vibrates through my chest. One hand slides into my hair, angling my head so he can go deeper; the other bands around my lower back, hauling me flush against him. I feel every hard inch of him pressed to my stomach and I whimper into his mouth. He lifts me onto the island in one smooth motion, my thighs parting around his hips as though they were made for it. The cold granite bites into the backs of my legs but I barely notice. My fingers are already tearing at the buttons of his shirt. They scatter across the tiles like tiny gunshots. His skin is hot under my palms, muscles flexing as he shrugs the shirt off without breaking the kiss. When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing like we’ve run miles. His forehead rests against mine, eyes closed, jaw clenched. “We shouldn’t,” he rasps. I hook my legs around his waist, lock my ankles at the small of his back. “Then stop.” He doesn’t. Instead he kisses me again—slower this time, savoring, tongue stroking mine in lazy, filthy circles. His hands roam. Under my blouse, across my ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through lace. I arch into the touch, gasping when he finds my n****e and rolls it gently between finger and thumb. “Markus—” “Shh.” He kisses the corner of my mouth, my jaw, the sensitive spot under my ear. “Let me feel you.” His hand slides down, cups me through my skirt. Even through cotton and denim the pressure makes me jolt. I’m already soaked, aching, and he knows it—the low, pleased sound he makes against my throat tells me so. He pulls back just enough to look at me. His lips are swollen, hair mussed from my fingers. “Tell me to stop, Dorcas. Right now. And I will.” I reach between us, palm him through his trousers. He’s thick, heavy, straining against the zipper. When I squeeze, his hips jerk forward involuntarily. “Don’t you dare,” I whisper. His mouth crashes back to mine. We don’t speak again for a long time—just mouths and hands and ragged breathing. His fingers find the hem of my skirt, push it up. Mine fumble with his belt. The metal clinks. The zipper rasps. Then he’s pressing against me, hot and blunt through the thin barrier of my underwear, rocking in slow, deliberate thrusts that make stars burst behind my eyelids. I’m trembling. He’s shaking. We break apart only when air becomes necessary. His chest heaves. Mine does too. We stare at each other, wide-eyed, stunned by how fast it escalated, how inevitable it feels. He brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead. “This changes everything.” “I know.” A muscle ticks in his jaw. “No going back tonight.” I smile—small, reckless, utterly sure. “Good.” He exhales a laugh that’s half groan, then kisses me again, softer this time, almost reverent. But the hunger is still there, coiled tight beneath the tenderness. And neither of us is ready to let it go.