Page 11 of Body Language (Mind, Body, & Soul #2)

Niveah

I couldn’t stop smiling to myself. The night before, I had Kendrix Givelle coming undone through a goddamn phone. No hands on him, no FaceTime, not even a skin pic. Just my voice.

That’s always been my gift. Making love to a man’s mind before I ever touch his body. Most of them don’t even realize they gave me the keys to the whole car until I’m halfway down the highway.

And the crazy part is that it had been years since I was even interested in a man for real. But he wasn’t surface-level. He wasn’t giving corny lines or fake deep. And once he explained that whole circus with Arlette, I was even more on gang to get a taste of his pockets.

And if I was being honest with myself?

I wanted to see what he was about.

Even though I swore I was gon’ behave and play hard to get, I already knew that was a lie. He was too damn fine, and the bottomless mimosas weren’t gonna help my case.

I showed up to the brunch spot looking like a soft-spoken problem. Brown sugar body wrapped in a black two-piece set with my navel piercing peeking out, hoop earrings, and a face that said expensive taste but emotionally unavailable.

Kendrix Givelle.

The man looked good enough to piss me off. White tee under a designer denim jacket, beard trimmed just right, gold chain resting like it was hand-placed by God himself. That same calm confidence like nothing could shake him, but I was determined to try.

“So, what you ordering?” he asked, sitting across from me with that little smirk that made my knees lock under the table.

“Chicken and waffles,” I said, sipping my mimosa. “Because I’m sweet, but savory.”

He chuckled. “Oh, you a food philosopher now?”

“I’m a lot of things,” I said, licking fruit from my drink off my thumb like I wasn’t already being disrespectful on purpose. “You just getting to know the top layer.”

“Oh yeah?” He leaned in. “What’s under that?”

I took another sip. “Therapy. Childhood trauma. And a mouth that’s gotten me into and out of some crazy shit.”

He laughed. The food came out and we both damn near moaned when the plates hit the table. We started eating, talking about everything and nothing at all. Like two kids skipping school, high off life and each other.

He asked what my dream job was.

“I wanna open a dance studio,” I said with my mouth full. “Not just pole, either. Ballet, jazz, hip hop, heels—all of it. A space for girls who need an outlet, not judgment. I want it to feel like freedom when you walk in.”

That made him look at me different. Like he saw me in a light nobody else had even flipped on yet.

He leaned back, smiling. “That’s dope as fuck. Pretty face and mind to match it.”

That’s when I started blushing and talking more shit.

“You got all these compliments lined up like you practice them in the mirror.”

“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “Wanna see the mirror?”

I gasped and grabbed my mimosa. “See, and here I was thinking you were respectful.”

He winked. “I am. Unless you want otherwise.”

One more sip and I was gon’ be sitting on the man’s lap.

“Okay, random,” I said, biting into my waffle. “If you could be any animal, what would you be?”

He wiped syrup from his lip, thinking. “A panther. Smooth but deadly when needed. What about you?”

“A raccoon.”

He blinked. “Wait, what the fuck?”

I grinned. “Because they be minding their business until they’re not. They’re nocturnal like me, always got a snack in hand, and survive in chaos with a full face mask on.”

He laughed so hard he dropped his fork. He leaned across the table again, his eyes locking on mine like he could see straight through the sass and right into the softness.

“So, what would it take for me to get your real name?” he asked, voice low and smooth like butter melting on the edge of a stack of pancakes.

“Just keep making me laugh like this. And don’t be weird.”

He raised his glass to toast. “To not being weird.”

I clinked mine against his. “And not fucking this up.”

“You know what,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin. “Come ride with me.”

I damn near choked on my drink. “Ride where?”

“Nowhere crazy. Just… ride with me. Get some fresh air and chill.”

I squinted, setting my glass down slow. “Nigga… you could be a whole serial killer. You think Ima just hop in your car like this ain’t how those missing documentaries start?”

He smirked, unbothered. “If I was a serial killer, you’d be the last one I killed.”

I gasped. “Excuse me?!”

“I mean… look at you.” He shrugged. “Why would I take you out the game when you the most entertaining thing I got going?”

I had to laugh, even though I tried not to. “You’re sick.”

“Only for you,” he said, grinning like he knew exactly what he was doing.

I leaned back, arms crossed. “So what you tryna lure me with, huh? Candy? A puppy? A fake Netflix password?”

“Nah,” he said, leaning closer. “Gas tank on full, music you gon’ like, and a man who drives with one hand.”

I blinked. “Mmm. Okay, Mr. Drive-With-One-Hand. You know that’s the national symbol for ‘I got good dick,’ right?”

“Exactly,” he said, not even blinking.

I shook my head, sipping my mimosa. “You’re too confident for me.”

He smiled slow. “And you too curious not to find out.”

I wasn’t supposed to get in his damn car. And yet, there I was, leaned back in the passenger seat, a blunt in my hand, R&B sliding through the speakers like the whole night had been curated by God Himself.

“Hit that again,” Kendrix said, his one hand on the wheel, the other resting lazy on his thigh.

I took a pull, exhaled slow, and looked at him sideways. “You know you the reason I’ma end up texting my bestfriend talking about, ‘I think I love this man.’”

He smirked, not looking away from the road. “Damn. That quick?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I said, passing the blunt back. “It’s just the weed talking”

He hit it, blew the smoke smooth out the corner of his mouth, then looked over at me. “Or maybe it’s the way I got you singing every word like you auditioning for my personal band.”

“Boy, shut up.” I laughed, but I didn’t stop singing. Summer Walker was pouring out the speakers, and the both of us were singing like we were the background vocals.

He shook his head. “This some simp-ass shit.”

“Facts,” I agreed, still laughing. “But I love it.”

“Nah, you love me,” he teased, giving me that side grin like he knew he had me.

I rolled my eyes, hiding my smile. “What the Fuck? You obviously don’t know who I am.”

He laughed so hard he almost missed the turn. “See, that’s that shit. You be talking crazy but got the nerve to blush when I look at you.”

“I ain’t blushing” I said quickly, flipping my hair. “That’s just the weed.”

“Mmhm.” He handed the blunt back, his fingers brushing mine slow on purpose.

I pulled on it just to keep from saying something stupid.

The way my stomach flipped, I had to remind myself who I was.

Niveah ‘Don’t-Fall-For-No-Nigga’. I been fine without ‘em and I could keep being fine.

But damn. He smelled good. He made me laugh easily.

And the way he gripped that steering wheel with one hand had my thighs damn near clapping.

He glanced over at me again. “What you thinkin’ about?”

I exhaled slow, passed the blunt back, and smirked. “You.”

He raised an eyebrow, that grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh yeah?”

“Don’t get cocky,” I teased, shifting in the seat. “I mean it in a way of… where does this whole connection take us?”

The way his jaw flexed when I said it had me second-guessing if I’d gone too far, but I have a reason for everything I do and say.

“Since you wanna be all deep and mental,” he said, “let me say this… when I lock in, I lock the fuck in. So keep that in mind, Pretty.”

I turned my head back toward the window, hiding my smirk behind another pull from the blunt.

Yeah. I got him right where I wanted him.

But the way he said it didn’t feel like a game. It felt like a promise. A warning.

I blew the smoke out slowly, turning back to him with a lazy grin. “That supposed to scare me?”

“Nah. Supposed to prepare you.”

“Mm.” I tilted my head, acting like I wasn’t two seconds from melting into his passenger seat. “You’re the one that should be prepared. I don’t come with a warning label. I come with a survival kit.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “See, that’s what I like. You talk that shit but keep blushing.”

“I don’t blush,” I shot back quick.

“Pretty,” he said. “You damn near pink right now.”

I smirked and leaned back in the seat. “I had you moaning through the phone last night. I’ll take that over a simple blush any day.”

He damn near choked on his own laugh. “Oh, so you just gone throw that back in my face?”

“You started it,” I said.

He shook his head, grinning hard. “That’s crazy. You really bragging about that?”

“Im not bragging. Just reminding you that if I can make you fold over the phone, imagine what I can do in person.”

His grip on the wheel tightened, and I caught it.

“Dangerous,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Mmhm. And you like dangerous, remember?” I teased.

“You gone be the death of me.”

I smirked, turning my head toward the window like I didn’t feel my thighs pressing together. “Better pick out a nice casket then.”

We both burst out laughing and by the time the laughter stopped, the car slowed. We were pulling up to a big beautiful home.

We rolled up slow, and my eyes got wide. The driveway alone looked like it cost more than everything in my neighborhood put together.

I sat up straight. “I know you’re not taking me to your damn house.”

Kendrix burst out laughing. “Nah, Pretty. Not yet.”

“Not yet?!” I whipped my head at him. “Nigga, what you mean not yet? You got a five-year plan already?”

He smirked, easing the car to a stop. “Relax. This ain’t mine. It’s my parents’ house.”

I blinked at him. Then blinked again like he’d lost his damn mind. “So you mean to tell me… we went from brunch, to blunt, to ‘surprise, meet my mama’ in less than four hours?”