Ties That Tether

by Jane Igharo

  This is a new level of intimacy between us, holding hands across the table like a couple out on a date. It should feel slightly awkward, but it doesn’t. The gesture is as natural and unforced as my abbreviated name on his beautiful lips.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he says, stroking my knuckles with his thumb. “The man in the elevator with you. Who was that?”

  “Um . . .” I didn’t expect that question. “Elijah. His name is Elijah.”

  “And who is he?”

  “A friend.” Well, that isn’t exactly true. “We dated. When I was nineteen. But that was a long time ago. A very long time ago.”

  “In the elevator, he was holding your hand.”

  “Um . . . well . . .” I huff and sink into the velvet seat. “Rafael, do you remember the night we met when I told you my mom set me up on a date?”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  “Remember I told you setting me up is kinda her thing—she tries and tries, hoping to get it right.”

  He nods.

  “Well, Elijah was one of her tries.”

  “What?” He frowns. “Your mom is trying to set you up with your ex?”

  “Yeah. That’s why he was at the office—in the elevator, holding my hand. We were going on a date my mom arranged.”

  “She wants you guys to be together. And, of course, there’s a chance because you two have history.”

  “No. There isn’t a chance, Rafael. Elijah and I are done.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know, Azere.” He sighs and pulls his hand from mine.

  He’s hurt. I wish I knew what to say to make things better, to make him hold me again, but I don’t have the words. For minutes, music fills the silence between us. He watches me, but my eyes travel around the room.

  The band is back. They are playing something slow, sly, and seductive. On the dance floor, a few couples are swaying and grinding. When Rafael stands, I’m baffled.

  “Come,” he says, extending his hand with the same grace and gallantry as an Elizabethan gentleman. “Dance with me.”

  “I don’t know how to dance to this type of music.” A fast beat, I can handle. But this music requires something different from my body. It requires me to tempt and tease my partner, to ignite passion but to keep it contained all while remaining graceful. “I can’t.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got you,” he says, his voice laced with conviction.

  “Okay.” Trust, not in my ability but in his, inspires my submission.

  On the dance floor, he assumes control. His hands are on my hips, and at his will, I roll my pelvis into his—in and out—like waves touching and parting fluently. Our bodies are in perfect sync, complementing the band’s tempo. I’ve somehow been transported into the movie Dirty Dancing. I’m Baby and Rafael is Johnny.

  “Zere.” He leans into me, and his warm breath brushes my neck. “Let’s play a game.”

  “What kinda game?”

  “Truth or dare.” His lips glide along the curve of my pierced ear. “I’ll go first.”

  He dips me, and the upper half of my body curves and sways over his arm. I dangle for a second or two, and he springs me upright. When I face him, I’m breathless.

  “Truth or dare?”

  I take in a gulp of air before uttering my answer. “Truth.”

  “Is there still something between you and Elijah?”

  “No. There isn’t.”

  “But you went on a date with him.”

  “No, I didn’t. There was no date. As soon as the elevator opened, right after you walked out, I lied to Elijah. I told him I was feeling sick, and I couldn’t go to lunch. He left, and I went back to the office.”

  That’s the truth, and Rafael searches my eyes as if trying to ensure so. He doesn’t say a word. He continues to lead our sultry dance, and I focus on him like he’s some rare, unearthed treasure.

  “Why did you lie, Azere?” he asks suddenly. “Why did you lie to Elijah?”

  “Because of you, Rafael. My mom gave me hell for canceling that date, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t go through with it because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because the night before, I was kissing you, and it was amazing.”

  “Amazing?” He stops dancing. “Azere, you pushed me away.”

  “Rafael, it was also scary because . . .”

  “Because what?” he asks.

  “Do you want to know why I left your hotel room while you were sleeping?”

  Of course he does. He’s basically been begging for the answer.

  “It’s because I knew that if you woke up and looked at me and kissed me, I wouldn’t leave. I would have stayed with you and disregarded every other responsibility in my life.”

  Because he has that effect on me. From the moment we met, he’s had that effect on me. “That’s why I couldn’t stay, Rafael. And that’s why I pushed you away. Because being with you makes me a little less aware of every single obligation in my life.”

  “What kind of obligations?”

  “My family,” I say. “They expect things from me. And, Rafael, you’re a complication.”

  He frowns and opens his mouth, and just when I think he’s going to ask how he stands as a complication, he says: “I’m sorry.”

  “No. Please don’t apologize. It isn’t your fault. You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s just the way things are.”

  “The way things are.” He considers the words for a moment and then shakes his head as if rejecting them. “Do you care about me?”

  “What?”

  “Do you care about me, Azere? Because I care about you. Very much.” He places two fingers beneath my chin and lifts it slightly. “I think about you all the time. Frankly, I haven’t stopped since the night we first met. And I have no clue what force conspired to make us meet again, but I am so fucking grateful to it. Because the best part of moving back to Toronto, the best part of working at Xander is you, Azere. You’re the best part.”

  “Rafael.” My fingers slip into his hair, flopping the silky locks side to side. I want to tell him I care about him too and that lately, he’s in my thoughts as well as in every one of my prayers. I want to tell him that he has brought a sensible chaos into my life that has inspired me to reenvision my future. I want to tell him that I’m carrying his child and already I love it more than anything or anyone. But instead, I gather a fistful of his hair and pull his head forward. His lips touch mine, and I control the ardent kiss. When he takes over, I’m breathless.

  Right now—his hand secure on my waist, our breath mingling, our tongues intertwining—temptation seems too hard to fight. It stupefies me, makes me senseless to everything but him.

  “I believe it’s my turn,” I say, panting. Our lips part but remain close enough that we inhale and exhale each other’s breaths. “Truth or dare?”

  “Dare,” he says, his voice hoarse.

  I take in the setting—the people dancing, chatting, drinking under the beam of low lights—and look at him. “I dare you to take me home and do everything you wanted to do to me that night at the office.”

  In an instant, he’s guiding me through the crowded dance floor. He takes care of the check and then leads me out of the club.

  In the car, before pulling out of the parking spot, he kisses me but pulls away before either of us can enjoy it. “Soon,” he says.

  Soon. The only word capable of containing me as he focuses on the road.

  When we arrive at my apartment complex, he parks the car and looks at me, a thrill in his eyes. He leans forward, presses his lips to mine, and the word soon becomes an unbroken promise.

  chapter

  19

  In the jam-packed elevator, we stand apart. I’m desperate to touch him, but strangers fill the space between us. The anticipation is exhilarating and causes the pulse between my legs to intensify.


  On the eleventh floor, we slither through the huddle of laughing, chatting people. As we walk down the hallway, we remain apart. At my door, I fumble with the key before inserting it into the lock and pushing the door open.

  He takes me into his arms the instant we’re inside my apartment. We kiss and stumble down the corridor, banging into the walls and rattling picture frames hung on nails. We make it into the bedroom and kick off our shoes. As he unfastens the zipper at the back of my dress, I release the buttons on his shirt, revealing a sculpted chest layered with a light sheet of hair. The shirt lands on the floor, and the dress loosens, the spaghetti straps gradually falling off my shoulders and exposing more of my brown skin. At the full reveal, Rafael tenses—his jaw locks in a square and his temples pulse.

  When my back sinks into the duvet, I think of Rose in Titanic, lying naked before Jack as he sketched her. Rafael isn’t capturing my likeness with charcoal, but his unhurried gaze shows he’s taking mental snapshots of the curves that frame my body and the fullness of my breasts and the length of my neck and even the slant of my collarbone that sticks out too sharply. This—me lying naked and untouched and him looking over every inch of me with hungry eyes—is the most erotic moment of my life.

  Finally, seconds or maybe minutes later, he makes a move. He kneels at the end of the bed and pulls my legs apart. “Do you know how long I’ve wanted this, Azere—how long I’ve wanted you?” His lips press along my inner thigh, gradually moving higher and then stopping. He licks me once, and I moan. Twice and I quaver. Thrice and I sob. When his tongue finally slides inside me, I grip the edges of the bed. My hips buckle, and his hand lands on my stomach and keeps me in place. As he continues licking and sucking, gathering my juices and flavors into his greedy mouth, his hand on my stomach inches high. He cups my breast, takes an erect nipple between two fingers, and tweaks it hard. The combination of multiple sensations sends me screaming, pleading, crying as a climax builds and implodes.

  “Rafael.” My voice is raspy, heavy with desire. “Please.” Even in this state—spent, limp from the pleasure he’s selflessly given— I’m not satisfied. I won’t be until I’ve felt every inch of him inside me. “Rafael.” I groan, arching my back against the bed.

  “You taste so good.” There’s a sensual playfulness in his eyes as he licks his lips. “I’m reluctant to stop, but since you’re so eager . . .” He stands and drops his pants. Through his white boxer briefs, the bulge at his pelvis is apparent. When his boxers come off, my eyes expand, astounded and ecstatic, as I take in his size.

  There’s a shiny wrapper in his hand, which he pulls apart. As I watch him roll the latex over his considerable length, my heart flutters rapidly.

  He aligns his naked body with mine, the weight of his hard chest against my soft breasts. “I’ve been distracted for days now. I can hardly function right. And it’s all because of you, Azere.” He kisses me. “Now, here you are. So beautiful. So fucking perfect.”

  Slowly, he eases into me. His hardness fills me, his length hits every fraction of me. His rhythm is impeccable—shallow thrusts followed by a sudden plunge and his name falls out of my lips, mixing with soft moans and rough breaths. His mouth comes over my nipple, grazing it with the sharp edges of his teeth, tasting it with the tip of his wet tongue, and sucking on it with the whole of his warm mouth. His actions send me into a frenzy, and I dig my toes into the duvet and my nails into his back.

  In one swift movement, with very little effort, he hooks an arm around my waist and mounts me over him. His eyes encourage me to take control, and I do. With my hands propped on his chest, I begin a slow up and down pace. My round breasts, glazed with sweat, bounce as I move; Rafael cups them and rotates his palms against their softness and fullness. When I change maneuvers, shifting my hips back and forward, he groans. I relish the control he’s given up, but it doesn’t last.

  In another swift move, I’m on my back and he’s on top, pinning me down with his strength. He takes hold of my leg and lifts it high, placing it over his shoulder. My flexible body settles comfortably into the new position, and he moves faster, traveling further, reaching a spot no man has ever reached before.

  Oh. My. Gosh.

  My skin tingles as pressure and pleasure build and build. I’m spent, but despite my drooping lids, my stare doesn’t waver and neither does his. I don’t shy away from his blue eyes that are so intense, so saturated with emotions. The moment is so sincere and intimate, it solidifies our connection and amplifies all the sensations we’re experiencing until long, loud, winded moans erupt from both of us.

  I gasp, trying to catch my breath, and he drops on his back and draws my feeble body over his. Slowly, our forceful pants fizzle out.

  “Azere,” he says, stroking my braids, “look at me.” I can’t find the strength to do that, so he lifts my chin gently until our eyes lock. “I need you to understand something.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “This is not another one-night stand.”

  “Okay. Then what is this?” I watch his lips for an answer.

  “More,” he says. “This, you and me, it’s more.”

  “More.”

  He nods, and I smile.

  “Okay, Rafael.”

  He holds me against his body, my ear pressed to his chest, his fingers working along the length of my braids. Tonight, right now, there is nothing beyond these four walls. There are no obstacles, no weight of obligation, no heartfelt promise linking the living to the dead. There is no prejudice. Every path has been paved, every door open, every mountain reduced to dust. Stars realign in our favor. The universe revolves around us.

  His hold tightens, and we lay in the dark, fostering a connection so deep, it’s as if a needle and thread are stitching our hearts together.

  chapter

  20

  In the morning, sunlight slips through the lace curtains and draws shadowed patterns on Rafael’s serene face. Under the duvet, his arm is around my waist, securing my naked body to his. He’s tired. I am too. Various interruptions kept us from sleeping through the night. First, his hardness against my backside jolted me from sleep. The next interruption came a little past three—approximately an hour after the first. In the dark, my lips found his, and I drew him out of sleep.

  After that session, we couldn’t sleep. With me nestled at his side, he asked to hear the story my father used to tell me—the one about the cruel king who falls in love with a kind palace maid.

  “Story, story . . .” I chanted. I waited for a response and realized he didn’t know it. “You’re supposed to respond, story.”

  He frowned, puzzled.

  “It’s a Nigerian thing. As children, it’s what we recited before telling a story. It’s how my father told us stories.”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “Is there more to it?”

  “Yeah. I say, ‘Once upon a time.’ And you respond, ‘Time, time.’ Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Okay. Story, story . . .”

  “Story.” He even got the rhythm right.

  “Once upon a time . . .”

  “Time, time.”

  I told him the romantic tale, and he listened attentively, and a little after four, when the story ended, we fell asleep.

  Now, according to the clock on my vanity, it’s 10:15 a.m. He’s probably exhausted, but I want to wake him anyway. I have the strangest urge to sing him a morning lullaby, something hushed and mellow that will gently lure him awake. It’s a pity when that urge is overpowered by another—the urge to vomit.

  In my stomach, nausea writhes like snakes in a pit. The sickening sensation intensifies. Vomit rises. Chunks of food scrape my gagging throat. I roll off the bed and run to the bathroom. After shutting the door, my head comes over the toilet bowl. The substances tickling my throat surge through my mouth again and again. After every release, I’m light-headed.<
br />
  “Zere.” Rafael is at the bathroom door. “Are you okay?” There’s concern in his disembodied voice.

  “I’m fine.” Lies. My head is throbbing and my vision is blurry.

  “Zere, you don’t sound fine.”

  “I’m totally fine. Just chilling on the bathroom floor, doing a little puking. It’s really no big deal.”

  “I’m coming in.”

  Before the knob twists open, I turn the lock.

  “Azere, open the door. You’re sick. I’ll take you to a hospital.”

  A wave of morning sickness doesn’t warrant a visit to the hospital. Because it’s my third time experiencing the illness this week, I know rest is the only remedy.

  “I just need to sleep it off. That’s all,” I tell him. “You should go home.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  And I don’t want him to. Not after last night. But he can’t see me like this—frail and nauseous with chunks of vomit probably at the corners of my lips. He would likely want to know why I’m sick. And what would I say? What answer would I give to divert him from the truth? How would I look into his eyes and lie? After last night, I can’t lie to him, and I’m certainly not ready to tell him the truth.

  “Rafael, just go. Please.”

  “All right. Okay.” Disappointment lowers his pitch. “I’ll check on you later. I’ll bring lunch.”

  “You don’t have to do that. Besides, I won’t be home later. I’m going to my mom’s. I gotta mow the lawn.”

  “Mow the lawn?” Outrage spikes his pitch. “Azere, you can’t do that. You’re sick.”

  “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” I huff and with that sharp release of air comes a sudden release of vomit.

  Rafael is banging on the door, demanding I let him in. My head is over the toilet bowl while I puke. Not the post-sex morning I envisioned. I imagined snuggling with him for at least an hour, then wearing his shirt as we made breakfast—him flipping pancakes and me cutting fruit. Lastly, I imagined us sitting at the table, eating from each other’s plates, sharing kisses between each mouthful. Alas, that is not the case. Not even close.