WHERE CONTROL ENDS
1938 Words
CHAPTER 6
I didn’t sleep.
Not really.
Just lay there, eyes open in the dark, watching shadows stretch across the ceiling like accusations. Duke’s message echoed in my head, louder than it had any right to be.
Then stop pretending you ever had the rules.
He was right. And I hated him for it.
By morning, I was up before the sun. Showered. Dressed. Lip gloss perfect. Eyeliner sharper than my mood. I needed out of that apartment. Out of my head. Out of whatever twisted orbit Duke had spun me into.
I called Belema.
“Tell me you’re dressed,” I said.
A yawn. “What time is it?”
“Time to make poor decisions.”
She chuckled. “Come get me.”
By eight, we were seated at a rooftop café in GRA, sunglasses on, mimosas in hand. Port Harcourt shimmered below like it had secrets to sell. The sun was already hot, the sky too blue, and the world too smug for my liking.
“You look better,” Belema said.
“I’m not.”
She sipped. “Still thinking about him?”
“I called Tamuno last night.”
She raised a brow. “And?”
“And I still thought about Duke.”
She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Just nodded, slow and understanding. “It’s like that, then.”
“I don’t want it to be.”
“But it is.”
I finished my drink in one long swallow. “He messaged.”
“And?”
“He sees me,” I said. “Too clearly.”
“That’s dangerous,” she said. “But addictive.”
We didn’t say anything after that. Just sat there, watching the city wake up. The sound of traffic, laughter from a nearby table, a plane carving the sky.
Then Belema leaned in. “So what now?”
I looked at her. Then at my phone. Duke’s message still sitting there like a dare.
“I stop pretending,” I said.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I see him. On my terms.”
Belema smiled. “You’re not afraid?”
“I’m terrified,” I admitted.
She raised her glass. “Good. That means it might be real.”
I didn’t text him.
Didn’t call.
I showed up.
Not out of pride. Not even out of confidence.
Just instinct.
He’d sent the message, hadn’t he?
Then stop pretending you ever had the rules.
Fine. I wouldn’t.
His hotel in Old GRA was the kind that didn’t advertise discretion — it assumed it. Tall, quiet, and cold like old money. The doorman opened the door like he recognized me, like women like me showed up at this hour all the time — half-made-up, half-ashamed, all bravado.
I didn’t need directions. I remembered the floor. Remembered the room. My fingers trembled just once — when I knocked.
The door opened slower than my breath.
And there he was.
Duke.
Shirtless. Low-slung sweatpants. Eyes darker than night and twice as dangerous. His expression unreadable — the kind of calm that came after a decision was already made.
I didn’t speak.
He didn’t either.
I stepped inside. The door closed behind me.
Still silence. Still heat.
He walked toward me, slow and deliberate. Every step made my chest tighter. He didn’t reach for me — not right away. He just studied me, like I’d come here to be inspected, not touched.
“You wore gloss,” he said.
I nodded.
“Good.”
His thumb traced my bottom lip, slow and teasing.
“You like being watched, don’t you?”
I swallowed. “You were the one watching.”
He smirked, low and wolfish. “I still am.”
Then he kissed me.
Not soft. Not sweet. Like a storm that had waited long enough to break. His mouth devoured mine — hot, confident, tasting like the end of everything good and the start of something better.
I kissed him back with all the heat I’d swallowed since Lagos. All the ache. All the hunger.
He turned me, pressed me against the wall with one arm beside my head. My hands were already at his waist, sliding beneath the waistband of his sweats.
“You came here to finish what we started?” he asked against my neck.
“No,” I whispered. “I came to lose.”
That made him growl.
Low. Dangerous.
Like the word "mine" might slip out next.
He lifted me. Just like that. Carried me to the bed like I weighed nothing. My crop top was gone in seconds. His mouth found my breasts, slow licks, wet kisses — not rushing, not begging. Just taking.
He laid me down, then stood to peel off his pants.
I watched.
And for once, I wasn’t pretending.
I was stunned.
Thick. Dark. Smooth. Ready.
He climbed over me, lips dragging down my stomach, teasing the waistband of my panties with his teeth. When he pulled them down, he didn’t stop to admire. He didn’t need to.
His mouth was on me before I could even gasp.
Tongue firm. Rhythmic. Patient.
I bit my lip.
Failed to hold back the moan.
“You taste like you’ve been thinking about me,” he murmured against my heat.
“I hate that I have.”
“Liar.”
He went deeper.
Fingers inside.
Curling just right.
Thumb circling where I needed it.
My legs shook. My hips lifted. My hand clutched his head like I’d drown if he stopped.
“Say my name,” he said.
“Duke.”
Louder.
“Duke—f**k—”
I came like a wave crashing — full-body, loud, and too soon.
He didn’t stop. He let me ride it out, mouth greedy, like he wanted to memorize the way I broke.
When he kissed me again, I could taste myself on his tongue.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I want you inside me.”
He didn’t make me ask twice.
Condom. Then heat. Pressure. Stretch.
And then— full.
I gasped.
He stilled.
Looked me straight in the eye.
“Still want to pretend you’re in control?”
I dug my nails into his back.
“Shut up and f**k me.”
He did.
Slow at first — long, deep thrusts that filled more than just my body. He rolled his hips like he owned the rhythm and I was just catching up.
Then harder.
Deeper.
The headboard hit the wall.
My breath hitched.
He grabbed my jaw, made me look at him while he moved inside me like it meant everything.
“You feel that?”
I nodded, dazed.
“Good. That’s not just d**k. That’s me. That’s everything you’ve been avoiding.”
I whimpered.
He flipped me — hands on my hips, ass in the air. Took me from behind with slow strokes that got harder, meaner, until I couldn’t remember my own name.
Only his.
He pulled my hair. Bit my shoulder. Whispered filth into my ear like promises.
And when I came again, it was with a scream muffled into the pillow.
He followed, groaning my name like it hurt to let go.
We collapsed.
Sweaty. Spent.
Heartbeats still racing.
He didn’t speak.
Neither did I.
He just reached over, pulled me into his chest, and let me breathe.
I should’ve gotten up.
Should’ve left like I always did.
But I didn’t.
Because somewhere between the silence and the s*x, something shifted.
He wasn’t just a mistake anymore.
He was a problem I wanted to solve with my whole body.
And maybe my heart.
He didn’t let go.
Even after our skin cooled and the sweat dried between us, Duke’s arm stayed draped over my waist like a warning or a claim—I couldn’t tell which.
The room smelled like s*x and something unspoken. Something hovering.
I lay still against him, my cheek on his chest, listening to his heartbeat like it might explain something I couldn’t ask. He wasn’t asleep. I knew because his fingers kept tracing lazy circles on the small of my back. Absent-minded. Possessive.
“I should go,” I whispered, more out of habit than desire.
“You won’t,” he said.
I didn’t move.
Because he was right.
He was always right. And that scared me more than his silence ever could.
We lay there for a while. Not talking. Not touching, except for his hand that wouldn’t stop moving like it needed to remind itself I was real. That I was here.
“You came to me,” he said finally, voice low, still hoarse from earlier.
I nodded against his chest. “So?”
“You don’t do that.”
I lifted my head, met his eyes. “Don’t act like you know me.”
“I do,” he said. Calm. Certain. “Better than you want me to.”
That made my stomach twist.
Because there it was again—his uncanny ability to slide past every defense I didn’t even know I had. Like he saw the parts of me I hadn’t offered. The ones I kept hidden behind my gloss, my ego, my body count.
“You don’t know s**t,” I said, sitting up, pulling the sheet over myself like it could shield me from how raw I suddenly felt.
He didn’t flinch. Just leaned back against the headboard, bare chest glowing in the muted hotel light. “You’re running again.”
“I’m getting dressed.”
He watched me slip out of bed, walk naked to where my panties were flung, slow and deliberately unbothered.
“Is this where you pretend it didn’t mean anything?” he asked, his voice almost mocking.
I faced him. “It didn’t.”
He smiled then. That slow, wicked tilt that said he knew I was lying.
I hated how much I wanted him to say something real.
I hated more how much I wanted to stay.
“I don’t fall for people like you,” I said, mostly to remind myself.
“People like me?”
“Dangerous. Complicated. Quiet enough to make me wonder what you’re not saying.”
He got out of bed, walked toward me, and stopped just inches away. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. Close enough that if he touched me again, I’d forget every reason I came here tonight that wasn’t about him.
“I’m not asking you to fall.”
“Good. Because I won’t.”
He leaned in, brushed his lips against my jaw, soft this time. Almost tender. “No, Alice. You’ll crash.”
Something in my chest skipped. Then twisted.
I pushed him back gently, forcing a smirk. “You’re too sure of yourself.”
“And you’re not sure at all.”
I picked up my top, pulled it over my head without breaking eye contact. “This doesn’t change anything.”
“It already has.”
I should’ve left then. For real. Slipped out the door with my pride intact and a good story to tell Belema. But I hesitated. My hand on the knob. My pulse still in the sheets.
“Goodnight, Alice,” he said, voice like velvet on bruised skin.
I didn’t say it back.
I left without looking over my shoulder.
But when I got into the Uber and stared out at the quiet Port Harcourt streets, my reflection in the window told me everything I didn’t want to admit.
I’d let him in.
Not just into my body.
But deeper.
Somewhere messier.
Somewhere real.
And I didn’t know how to get him out.
- Writer
