Page 46 of Cuffed By Your Love
I pressed the cloth to my palms, and the scent eased something tight in my chest, something I didn’t know I’d been clutching. “This is…”
“Yours tonight,” Elias said, eyes locked on my face, not the room. “I rented it out.”
I laughed helplessly. “You did not. Stop playing!”
“Gorgeous, I don’t play with you or about you.” He offered his arm. “Come on.”
We were led to a half-moon mixing station, polished onyx table, bronze droppers gleaming, crystal beakers catching candlelight, amber bottles waiting like little secrets. In the center, a turntable-style lazy Susan spun with labeled vials. Base.Heart. Top. A statement wall blazed across the room with graffiti loops in royal purples, greens, and golds:
We mix. We glow. We carry our scent into the world.
Kenya, owner, host, and the kind of beautiful that made someone sit up straighter, appeared with a conspirator’s grin. “I hear tonight is special. At Melanin Mixery, scent is language. You’ll pick a base to ground you, a heart to speak for you, and a top to announce you. When you’re done, we’ll pour your creations into matte black bottles etched in gold, and names, initials, or a word you want to carry. Behind you is our Glow Station for butters and balms. Staff will float, hype you, and keep the vibes right.”
, that oud and vanilla mix? That’s danger in a bottle. Keep it away from the wrong crowd.”
Kenya left us with trays of ingredients, and Elias slid into the stool beside me, leaning his elbow on the table like a student waiting for class to begin. His grin was lazy, dangerous, and sweet all at once.
I clapped like I’d just seen magic. “This is… this is my candy store.”
Elias leaned in, voice ghosting my ear. “I know.”
I slid into teacher mode fast because my hands knew where to go when oil and butters were involved. “Okay,” I teased, tying the provided apron at my waist. “Professor Nay’s class is now in session. Do not embarrass yourself.”
He smirked. “What’s my extra credit?”
“Not getting oil on your shirt.”
He pretended to adjust his collar like a good student, and I melted a little. I showed him how to spin the tray so the glass vials clicked with a satisfying little snick. “Base anchors you,” I said, tapping sandalwood and musk. “Heart carries your story. Vanilla, lavender, jasmine. Top is that first hello. Citrus, mint, bergamot.”
“Sounds like you,” he murmured. “Sunshine with an edge.”
I pretended not to hear my heart flip. “We start with butter at the Glow Station, so you have a canvas.”
We carried our bowls to the side booth, a clean white counter lined with jars of shea and cocoa butter, beeswax, and carrier oils. I pressed my spoon into the shea, and it resisted, then yielded in soft ridges. “You don’t force it,” I explained, folding in patient strokes. “You coax it. Heat from your hand helps.”
He took the spoon, muscles flexing… and promptly looked offended. “This little mountain fighting back.”
“Patience.” I covered his hand with mine, guiding the movement more slowly. Skin to skin, pulse to pulse. “Like that.”
His eyes dropped to our hands. “Noted, Professor Gorgeous.” He slipped, a dollop spotting his knuckle. I reached with a napkin and wiped him clean, and the spark that leapt between us was ridiculous.
We started choosing, him drawn to peppery spice and warm woods, me leaning toward citrus-bright with a soft floral hum underneath. He smelled everything off my wrist instead of the strip, like he needed to learn me specifically. I kept my hands steady while my insides wrote poems.
“Try lemon with jasmine,” I said, dribbling careful drops into my beaker. “It’s joy with a secret.”
He inhaled, gaze never leaving my face. “That’s you.”
“For you?” I handed him oud. “Add amber. And a whisper of vanilla. That’s heat and home.”
He mixed, brow furrowed, concentration so handsome it made me ache. When the blend felt right, he dipped a clean stick into his, then, God help me, touched the spot to the back of my hand and kissed it softly, testing scent the way men in old movies greeted their women.
“That’s”—my voice cracked—“not part of the process.”
He smiled, sin and sincerity. “It is now.”
We laughed, we built, and we spun the mix tray again and again until our bowls glowed with something new. Kenya returned, eyes knowing. “And what shall we etch?”
He looked at me first. I consideredPeace, and then shook my head. “Unapologetic,” I said. “I want to smell like I took up space on purpose.”
