"Don't matter how you was gonna say it. This something I need to handle." His eyes were serious. "You his lil’ sister. I respect that nigga too much to have him find out from anybody but me. And I respect you too much to make it seem like this is just some casual shit. 'Cause it ain't.”
"What are you going to tell him?"
"The truth." He shrugged.
"That I want you, and you mine now and that I'ma take care of you and protect you. I want him to know that I’m serious about you and this ain't no hit-it-and-quit-it type shit. And if he got a problem with it, we can talk about it, but it ain't gon’ change shit. You still gon’ be mine when the conversation over."
"He gon be so pissed off at me."
"Probably." Sosa didn't look concerned. "But he'll get over it. 'Cause he know me. He know I ain't on no bullshit, and he know I'll treat you right. He know I got money, I got my shit together,I ain't about to have you out here struggling or doing dumb shit. Once he see I'm serious about you, that I really want you and not just trying to fuck, he'll fall back. Might take a minute, but he’ll eventually come around."
"And if he doesn't?"
"Then we'll deal with it. we might have to scrap it out, let him get his shit off his chest. But like I said, ain’t shit changing."
I wanted to argue, to tell him he couldn't just take over like this, making decisions about how to handle my brother. But there was something about the way he said it, the confidence and certainty in his voice, that made me feel... safe.
"Okay," I whispered.
"Okay?" He sounded surprised.
"Yeah. Okay." I laid my head back on his chest. "You can tell him."
"That's my girl." He kissed the top of my head.
"He's probably gon try to shoot you."
"He can try.” He chuckled. "it won't be the first time a nigga tried it, and it won't be the last. But I ain't worried about it."
"I’m so fucking serious."
"Shidddd so am I." His arms tightened around me. "But like I said, I ain't worried about that shit.” I closed my eyes, feeling exhaustion wash over me.
"This is crazy."
"It is, but sometimes the best ideas is some crazy shit. Shid sometimes you just gotta say fuck it and go after what you want."
"You just gon’ decide we're together and that's it? So I have no say so in this shit huh?"
"Yup, and you let me." His voice was softer now, tender. "You could've said no at any point tonight. You could've told me to take you home, pushed me away, fought me on this. But you didn't. 'Cause you want this too. You want me just as much as I want you."
He was right again. I did want him just as much as he wanted me. I also felt like this shit was moving way too fast, I just hoped like I hell I didn’t end up regretting it.
* * *
I woke up to the sunlight cutting through them big ass floor-to-ceiling windows and the smell of food hitting my nose. For a second, I ain't know where the fuck I was, but my pussy quickly reminded me. My kitty was still throbbing from the way Sosa had beat it up last night.
I sat up slow, feeling every inch of what he did to me, and looked around. His side of the bed was still warm but empty. I could hear Lil Durk playing from somewhere in this big ass house, and my phone was buzzing on the nightstand. I had four missed calls from Mr. Clyde, and twelve missed calls from Yatta.
My dress from last night was hanging on some expensive looking chair, but there was a black t-shirt and some basketball shorts laid out on the bed. I grabbed the t-shirt and pulled it on. It hugged my curves, stretching across my chest and hips. The shorts fit too, sitting right on my thick thighs. I looked down at myself, his clothes fit me damn near perfect, which made sense since I wasn't a slim chick.
I had hips, ass, a little stomach, thick thighs, the whole package.
I walked down the hallway barefoot on the hardwood floors, as the smell of food got stronger, and I heard his sexy ass voice before I saw him. He was talking to someone on the phone.
"Nah, I told you handle that shit... I don't give a fuck what he said, make sure my traps running smooth or it's your ass... Aight, bet."
I stopped at the kitchen entrance. He was at the stove, shirtless in grey Nike sweats that hung low on his hips, phone tucked between his ear and shoulder while he cooked. His wholeback was tatted. He had money symbols, scripture, names of niggas who probably weren’t here no more. His muscles moved under his skin and I could see his gun tucked in his waistband, he had it on him even while he was cooking breakfast.