Page 76 of Own It

“I am.” She stared up at me intently before I bent down to peck her softly. “Sit with me for a moment.”

“I can’t right now, baby.” I ran my hands down my face, feeling like a dam about to burst.

“Please?”

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I sat down in the space the plate once occupied, after she moved it, and took a moment to look her way.

“What now?” I feigned a smile as I glanced at her. That sweet perfume she wore had become her signature in my fucking mind.

“What’s wrong?” She cozied up to me, her soft hand caressing the nape of my neck in a way only she could do.

Unable to hold it in any longer, I felt the tears ski down my cheeks as I stared straight ahead. I heard Daylin gasp very lowly, almost muffled.

She kissed my face, moving closer to me while still massaging my neck.

“My brother . . .” I could barely get the sentence out. “My brother died.”

Daylin took a sharp intake of air before getting down onto her knees to look up at me.

“Which one? How?”

“Zaire.” I shielded my eyes, vision blurry due to all the tears that had formulated. “Got some bad dope and . . . fuck.” I grunted.

My body rocked slightly, but I stayed silent as I felt Daylin climb up into my lap and hug me against her sweet-smelling chest. She was warm, soft, and inviting, making a nigga hold her closely and shut my eyes to bask in the comfort.

This was different. Though LaMia and I dated a long ass time ago, I still remembered the nigga I was and how I behaved in the relationship. A nigga had to be strong at all times, and back then, I felt no type of way about the shit. My father raised me to be tough, regardless, and instilled in me that whatever happened to Josias, Zaire, and even Ayan would be on me. I carried that shit into my relationship with LaMia, and she expected it from me as well.

Daylin didn’t. She encouraged me to talk, share my fucking feelings, and shit I wasn’t a fan of doing prior to meeting her, but I felt relaxed around her. If she was playing me to get away, she deserved the shit, because she was a fucking master at her work.

“Oh my gosh.” She cradled me tighter against her chest. “I’m so sorry.” She thrust her soft lips against my temple. When I tried to pull away from her, she halted me. “You’re supposed to be this upset, Rakim. I haven’t known you long, and I can see how close you all were and how much you loved him. Get it all out,” she coached, and it somehow made a nigga sob harder than a bitch.

No sound, all tears and body trembles as every moment I spent with Zaire seemed to be on replay in my mind.

“I should’ve done more for real.” I sniffled. “I should’ve picked his ass up and threw him into rehab. I fucked up.” I shook my head as much as I could while laying on her chest.

“This is not your fault.” She tilted my head back, palming both sides of my face as she eyed me sternly. “I know you were his big brother, but he was a grown ass man. You did what you could to protect them, and Zaire loved you for it. He told me so.”

“He did?” I frowned, attempting to recall her having any conversation with him.

“Yes. I was on your head about how you were acting one day when he was watching me, and he told me how much he appreciated you.” She kissed me slowly and pulled back some, allowing our eyes to catch for a moment before we kissed some more.

My hands went down to grip her ass as she hugged my neck, fusing our bodies together. When I began to lift the T-shirt she had on to take hold of the waistband of her panties, she thwarted my movements.

Though I had been tearing that pussy up for days, I knew she felt guilty.

“Daylin.” I kept them in my grip as her hands encased mine. “You want me to bring that nigga to you so you can tell him to his face?” I queried, waiting because I was prepared to do that shit.

“No.” She smirked, fondling the back of my head with her free hand as she drank me in.

Kissing and sucking on her collarbone, I whispered, “I need you.” Taking her bottom lip into my mouth, I smacked and groped her ass. “You got a nigga feelings jealous.”

This wouldn’t be a semi-lovemaking session like the night of the party. I needed to fuck.

Saying nothing else, she slipped her tongue into my mouth, removing her hands from being atop mine simultaneously.

Pushing her panties to the side, I exposed myself before lifting her slightly and bringing her tight pussy down onto the head of my dick. She whimpered mid-kiss, face bunched, so I gave her some time to adjust, measuredly working her further down every so often.

Daylin had some of the wettest pussy I’d ever experienced, and I couldn’t be sure if it was all me or the fact that she’d been abstaining from sex for so fucking long, but I wasn’t complaining. It was addictive, fat, and beautiful. When niggas discussed pussies looking like a work of fucking art, they were referencing Daylin Conrad.