WILD HONEY: The Chronicles Of Alice Jaja

PARTY GIRLS

CHAPTER 2

He didn’t hesitate after I said it.

His mouth crashed into mine like a dare finally accepted, and I tasted all the forbidden things on his tongue—heat, salt, desperation. My back hit the fridge door as he pressed into me, hands greedy now, one tangled in my hair, the other sliding under the waistband of my sweatpants like he owned the air I breathed.

The cold milk cartons rattled behind me. Somewhere, something fell off a shelf. I didn’t care. I was wet and wide open for him, moaning into his mouth as his fingers parted me, as he dipped into the place only a fool would touch if he valued his job—or his life.

But that’s what made it sweeter.

“You’re soaked,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

“You’re late,” I replied.

He dropped to his knees like worship was instinct. My sweatpants came off in one pull. The cool air hit my thighs, then his breath—hot, shaky, reverent. And then his tongue.

Jesus.

He licked me like he’d studied me. Not like a man who’d been tempted, but like one who’d been planning the moment in his head, over and over, until fantasy cracked open into this reckless, wet reality. His tongue moved slow at first—teasing swirls, soft flicks—but when I grabbed the back of his head and ground my hips against his mouth, he groaned and gave in.

Sloppier now. Wilder.

The sounds were obscene: slurps, my gasps, the hum of the fridge, the drag of silk on tile. My robe slipped completely off one shoulder, n*****s hard and exposed, one of them catching the chill, the other warm from his palm as he reached up to pinch and twist.

I was riding his mouth like it was made for me.

Like he’d been born just to kneel between my legs and drink from me.

When I came, it was with my head thrown back, mouth open, hands buried in his hair, legs shaking so hard my knees nearly gave out. He held me through it—didn’t even stop licking—just groaned like the taste of me was his drug and he’d been waiting for the high.

When I finally looked down, he was wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes glazed, lips swollen, jaw shiny with me.

“You’re dangerous,” he said.

I pulled him up by his shirt. “Then f**k me like I’m worth the risk.”

He didn’t even take me to the couch. He spun me around, bent me back over the fridge the way I’d started, and pulled his zipper down like he was losing patience. I felt the heat of him against my ass, thick and ready, and I pushed back, greedy for it. For him.

The first thrust made me cry out, a broken sound swallowed by the kitchen air. He was big. Too big to slide in easy—but I didn’t want soft. I wanted bruises. I wanted to feel it tomorrow when I crossed my legs. And he gave it to me just like that—gripping my waist, slamming into me with the rhythm of a man trying to f**k regret into existence.

The slap of skin. The sound of my moans. His name in my throat like prayer and profanity.

And the thrill that at any second, one of my parents’ staff could walk in and see me bent over the fridge getting ruined by someone on my father’s payroll.

I came again—harder this time. He followed after, groaning my name into my neck, hand tangled in my hair, breathing like he’d just run from a crime scene.

In a way, he had.

When it was over, we didn’t speak. I pulled my robe back on, grabbed the coconut water from the counter, and took a long sip while he zipped up and avoided eye contact.

“I’ll see myself out,” he muttered.

“Good boy.”

I didn’t need him to stay. I didn’t even need his name. I just needed that edge. That danger.

That reminder that I was still in control.

Even when I was naked.

Especially when I was naked.

I didn’t always crave the dark. It crept in slowly, like perfume in a closed room—sweet at first, then suffocating.

Before Belema, before cocaine off glass tables and men twice my age moaning my name like it cost them something, there was one night that changed everything.

It was the term break after my SS2 exams. My parents had traveled—some government function in South Africa. I was sixteen and alone in the house for the first time.

There was a driver. New. Maybe twenty-five. His name was Akin. Clean-shaven, soft-spoken, too polite for his own good. But he had these eyes—steady, black, the kind that looked like they already knew you naked.

I wore a yellow slip dress one night—no bra, no shame. I caught him staring in the hallway mirror. Not directly at me, of course. But at the curve of me.

I stood behind him and whispered, “You can look properly, you know. I don’t bite.”

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. But he breathed louder.

That was enough.

I walked away smiling, knowing I’d lit a match and left it burning.

Later that night, I found him in the kitchen, shirtless, microwaving jollof. I walked in slow, barefoot, with that same yellow dress riding up my thighs. I didn’t say anything. I just leaned against the counter and let silence turn into tension.

He didn’t touch me. Not then. But he looked at me like he would die if he didn’t.

I loved it.

The next day, he quit. Packed his bags and disappeared. My father barely noticed.

I thought I’d feel abandoned.

Instead, I felt powerful.

Like I could bend any man’s will with just a glance.

That’s when it began. The hunger.

The need to be seen. Wanted. Desired to the edge of destruction.

Belema’s voice broke through my thoughts like music through a fog.

“Alice! Stop daydreaming and get dressed. Party starts in an hour and I’m not showing up alone.”

I blinked, grounded again in the now—lace panties, half-rolled blunt on my nightstand, and a black sheer dress draped over a chair like temptation.

Tonight wasn’t for memory.

It was for chaos.

And Port Harcourt was about to taste us again.

The compound on Peter Odili Extension was already alive when we pulled up.

Loud music pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat on drugs. Cars were parked on every inch of the driveway—Range Rovers, G-Wagons, one matte-black Lamborghini that looked like it belonged to sin itself.

Belema was in the front seat, applying lip gloss in the rearview with the kind of precision that came from years of seduction.

“You ready?” she asked without looking at me.

I adjusted the straps of my black sheer dress, the one that clung like smoke and barely hid the lace underneath. No bra. No apologies.

“Always.”

We stepped out of the car, heels clicking like gunshots on the pavement. Two men at the gate straightened the moment they saw us. Security, but not for safety—for status. Parties like this weren’t just fun—they were currency. And we were the most expensive thing on the menu.

Inside, the lights were low and red, like a brothel with a DJ. Smoke curled around us, the air thick with weed, champagne mist, and Chanel No. 5. A woman moaned softly in the corner. Someone was already half-naked in the pool.

Belema led the way through the haze like she owned it. Maybe she did. This was her world. I was just the chaos she brought with her.

“Shots?” she yelled over the music.

I nodded. “Make it three.”

The bar was crowded. A guy in a black kaftan and Cartier glasses tried to touch my waist. I let him—for one second—just to feel the tension crackle between us. Then I turned, smiled, and said, “Not yet.”

He laughed like he’d won something. Men always did.

Belema returned with a tray—three gold-rimmed shot glasses, each one sparkling with tequila and sugar. We clinked.

“To sin,” she said.

“To secrets,” I replied.

We drank.

The warmth hit instantly—sweet, sharp, then soft. Like a lover’s slap followed by a kiss.

The night blurred.

We danced. God, did we dance. My hair stuck to my back, sweat trickling down the curve of my spine. Hands found hips. Bodies collided like planets. I felt alive. I felt untouchable.

Until I saw him.

Across the room.

Tall. Broad. Dangerous in a way that wasn’t about muscles or money. He had presence—like he didn’t need to speak to command a room. He was watching me. Not the way other men did. Not like prey. Like property.

His eyes didn’t move when I caught him staring. He tilted his glass, slow, deliberate. And smiled.

I turned away fast, heart stuttering.

Belema leaned in. “Who’s that?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered. “But I want to.”

She laughed. “You always want the ones that look like danger.”

I smiled. “Maybe I am danger.”

I didn’t look back right away.

I knew the rule: never give a man too much attention too soon. Make him wonder. Make him chase. But my skin buzzed like I’d touched something electric. That look he gave me? It lingered. Like oil on silk.

Belema and I drifted through the crowd, pulled into corners of laughter, clinks of bottles, the occasional kiss from someone we didn’t need to remember. We were girls built from decadence—pretty, poisonous, and too drunk to care.

Later, in the guest bathroom lined with gold faucets and cocaine dust, I looked at myself in the mirror. My pupils were wide. Lips smeared red. There was a bite mark on my collarbone I didn’t remember earning. I loved it. Every bruise, every smudge of chaos felt like proof I was alive.

When I stepped out, the music had changed. Slower. Deeper. The kind of bass that sinks into your body and stays there.

He was waiting by the hallway. The man from before.

He hadn’t moved much—but I knew it wasn’t coincidence. He’d positioned himself exactly where I had to pass. Smart. Subtle.

As I walked by, he leaned in—not close enough to touch, but close enough to make my breath catch.

“You don’t belong here,” he said.

I smiled, not stopping. “Neither do you.”

He let me go. Didn’t follow. Didn’t ask my name. Just watched, like a wolf deciding if the deer wanted to be hunted.

And maybe I did.