Page 27 of Him Too

Jordin sat across from me, curled up on my leather couch with a glass of wine in her hand. She was mumbling under her breath every so often—motherfucker this,motherfucker that.

We’d been sitting like this for hours. I didn’t mind, but I hated the way her annoyance took over her whole energy. It made me mad that I hadn’t gotten a chance to lay hands on her husband myself.

Men like him pissed me off. Lied with a smile. Promised things they never intended to honor. That wasn’t me—I never lied to women, never pledged fidelity I couldn’t give. But if I did? I’d damn sure honor it.

The thought of Oak throwing away what he had with her made my jaw clench. Jordin wasn’t just any woman.

She sipped her wine, her foot tapping on the edge of the couch. The mean look on her face didn’t suit her.

I leaned back in my chair—legs spread, one arm draped over the armrest—and watched her for a beat before speaking. She needed something to pull her out of her own head.

“So,” I said, “what’s with all the tats?”

Her head snapped up, brow furrowing. “What?”

I gestured to her right arm, where thorny flowers climbed her skin. “The ink. You don’t seem like the type.”

She rolled her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You just… I don’t know. Seem clean. Like you were too busy being good at everything to sit down and let somebody needle you up,” I teased, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth. “How many you got?”

Her lips curved slightly, despite herself. She set the glass on the table.

“More than you’d expect. Leyani—my best friend—talked me into the one on my neck. Said it would make me look sexy.” She touched the heart tucked under her jaw. “I was always the cute, chubby girl. I wanted to be sexy. I ended up liking the pain.”

That caught my attention. My eyes sharpened, tracing the line of her throat.

“The pain?” I leaned in. “You like it? Why?”

“Yeah,” she said softly, like she was testing the weight of it. “It reminds me I’m alive.”

I stayed quiet. She always talked more when I didn’t push.

Suddenly, she stood. One fluid motion.

She turned her back to me, fingers gripping the hem of her dress. Slowly, she pulled it up, sliding it over her thighs, her hips, until it dropped in a pool of black at her feet.

She was left in nothing but a brown lace bra and panties that matched her skin.

The low sigh I let out would’ve been embarrassing if she’d heard it. The sight didn’t just ache—it consumed.

She didn’t meet my eyes when she turned and smoothed a finger over the tattoo above the curve of her mons:

what if this bodyetched in cursive.

“It’s from a poem by Adrienne Maree Brown,” she said, voice low. “A reminder to honor the body I was given, no matter how flawed it feels.”

“Recite a little,” I murmured, my voice rougher than I intended.

She nodded, gaze far away.

“What if this body is the promise of a lush future,

perfect for holding on to through another night of grief

that is not even shocking

because we all know