Page 116 of Rather: The Therapist

“Come ‘er with your feisty ass.”

“Feisty?”

“A fucking pitbull in a skirt. I’m going to have to warn these ditzy ass broads to pipe down or–”

“Go casket shopping with their besties.”

I embraced his warmth, standing between his legs with my arms on his shoulders.

“A fucking grenade, waiting to detonate.”

“Goodnight, Kofi.”

His hands closed in around me.

“I enjoyed you today. I look forward to the next time.”

“You’re a busy man.”

“I am. But when I have another free day, yours will be the first number I dial.”

“I won’t hold my breath.”

“Don’t, because it might be a while.”

“I’m sure.”

“Goodnight, Rather.”

He released me, but not before pressing his lips against my forehead. Because the heat was slowly rising in the kitchen, I tried freeing us both from temptation. Though my views of Kofi were changing with each hour of the day, the attraction hadn’t been abolished completely. It was intact.

He was quicker on his feet. His hand cupped my chin, pulling my face closer to him, closer to his lips. And, sooner than I could protest, his was on mine. They’d gone as quickly as they’d come. I placed a hand over my mouth, trying to determine if it was illegal to enjoy the feel of Kofi or if it was alright.

“Until next time.”

Stunned into silence, I nodded, watching him walk out of the kitchen and down the hall. Seconds later, the front door closed and I was left alone with my thoughts. Thoughts of betrayal. Guilt plagued me.

Priest.

My chest caved. My heart plummeted. My mouth hung. My nostrils flared.

How the right thing could feel so wrong and the wrong thing feel so fucking right was beyond me. Kofi was the man I was set to marry. Kissing him shouldn’t have felt criminal but somehow, someway it had. Because, despite him becoming my husband soon, my body didn’t belong to him. Not now. Later.

Priest.

It was him. I was his.

Thoughts of him led me into the doorway where boxes were waiting for me. Locking the front door was my first order of business. Next was unboxing. I dipped a hand in the tray on the console table and retrieved the mail opener.

The tape split with ease. I cut them all before digging into the first box. It was filled with a few more. I removed the one on top.

My cheeks burned and my mouth filled with saliva as I stared at the Chanel box. Without removing the top, I already knew what was inside because I had one just like it upstairs in my bedroom. Priest had kicked my ass in tennis, doing damage to my Chanel sneakers.

“My God, he’s everything,” I sighed, pressing the box against my chest and closing my eyes.

Two skirts.

Four shirts.

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