The casual way he handled her made her stomach turn. She wanted to push him away, but to do that she would have to uncross her arms, and if she did, she risked exposing herself through the enormous armholes of the T-shirt. She kept her arms pinned to her chest, pressing the fabric against her body.
A ridiculous thought surfaced from nowhere: finders keepers, a childhood chant from her school days. If he found her breasts, would he claim them as his own? The image was so absurd, so alarming, that she nearly choked on a nervous laugh. She blinked hard, trying to chase the thought away.
John was watching her in the mirror now, his hands still on her shoulders.
‘See for yourself,’ he said, turning her gently to face the glass. ‘The colour suits you.’
Ngozi stared at her reflection. The pale blue T-shirt hung loose over her frame, its faded butterfly print trailing from the hem up between her breasts and over one shoulder. It was the kind of thing a teenage girl might wear to a birthday party, not something a grown woman should be caught in.
One breast shifted dangerously close to the gaping armhole, and she flinched, adjusting her arm to keep it in place. Crossing her arms only lifted them higher, making her cleavage more pronounced. She dropped her hands to her sides, then immediately tugged at the hem. The fabric stretched tight across her chest, and she saw with horror that her nipples were visible. She let go, her face burning.
‘This isn’t working,’ she whispered. ‘I need something else. Something with more coverage.’
‘You can change when your clothes are dry,’ John said, his tone patient but firm. ‘They won’t take long. In the meantime, let’s have that tea. You look like you need it.’
He turned her away from the mirror and steered her towards the door, one hand pressing lightly against the small of her back. Ngozi walked stiffly, every nerve in her body screaming that something was wrong. But she said nothing. She let herself be guided, because to object would mean admitting she had lost control, and she was not ready to face that truth.
*
Ngozi trailed behind him into the kitchen, her bare feet padding softly against the cool tiles. The oversized t-shirt swayed around her thighs, and with every step she was reminded of how little she wore beneath it. The compliments, the strange intimacy of being handled, the commanding tone of his voice—it all swirled together, leaving her dazed. It shamed her to admit, but some part of her was spellbound.
When had her husband last looked at her with anything close to admiration? Her husband barely spoke when he came home from work. He ate, scrolled through his phone, and fell asleep to the sound of the generator. In bed, the only noise between them was the heavy rhythm of his snoring.
‘Sit here,’ John said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen island. ‘I’ll make the tea. You alright, ma?’
Ngozi eased herself onto the seat and immediately felt the thong slide into an uncomfortable position. The chair’s surface was cool against the exposed flesh of her lower backside. This was the first time in her life wearing such underwear, and it demanded far more attention than the loose top. But how could she possibly ask a young boy for a decent pair of pants? Her face burned at the thought.
‘I’m fine,’ she lied. ‘Just… uncertain about this top.’
He moved behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders again. This time he leaned low, his mouth close to her ear. His breath was warm and teasing, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. Her ears had always been sensitive, and the nearness of his voice made her toes curl.
‘You can always take it off while you wait,’ he whispered.
Her lips parted, but no words came. The boldness of the remark left her breathless. She tried to summon anger, or at least indignation, but all she could do was grip the hem of the t-shirt tighter against her thighs.
‘You have beautiful hair,’ he said, running his fingers through the length of it. ‘Long, thick, and so soft. You must spend a fortune on it.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice barely audible. ‘Maybe I should just go home. This was a mistake.’
She made no move to stand. Her legs felt like paste.
‘Let me help you up,’ he offered.
But he didn’t wait for her answer. His hands slipped under her arms, his fingertips grazing the outer curves of her breasts. She gasped at the contact, her body tensing. He lifted her slightly, then let her sink back onto the chair. It was not enough to be called indecent, yet her skin prickled with awareness.
‘You’re very tense,’ he observed. ‘Here, let me help you relax.’
Before she could protest, his hands began working the muscles of her shoulders and neck. The pressure was firm and rhythmic, and despite herself, Ngozi let out a long, uneven breath. He was strong. His thumbs pressed into the knots along her spine, and she felt her resistance melting.
Then his fingers hooked the shoulder straps of the t-shirt and eased them down her arms.
She froze.
But instead of letting the top fall, he lifted her hands and placed them over her chest, holding the fabric in place.
‘So it doesn’t slip.’
Ngozi caught herself and straightened, silently scolding her wandering mind. She was a married woman, a mother, a deaconess in her church. She had no business letting an eighteen-year-old boy cloud her senses with soft words and softer touches. This was nothing but a moment of weakness.
The tea was ready. John poured two cups and set the kettle down.
‘Here, let me carry them. I don’t trust you not to spill this one too,’ he said with a teasing smile.
His voice had that easy authority again, and before she could think, Ngozi was on her feet, following him into the lounge.
‘Sit there,’ he said, pointing to the large sofa by the window.
She obeyed, sinking into the plush cushions. The t-shirt rode up as she sat, exposing the full length of her thighs. She tugged at the hem, but it was useless. Every time she pulled it down, the neckline gaped open, threatening to release one of her breasts.
‘I usually wear high heels,’ she said, for no reason at all.
Why had she said that? She barely recognised her own voice.
‘You have lovely legs,’ John said, settling beside her. ‘Long, smooth, shapely. I bet they look incredible in heels.’
Ngozi pressed her knees together. Each shift on the leather sofa reminded her of the thong, how little of her butt it covered. She squirmed, crossing and uncrossing her legs, before finally sitting still.
He handed her the tea, and she took it with both hands, grateful for something to hold. Her elbows came together, which helped keep the t-shirt in place. But she was acutely aware of how exposed she remained.
John sat close—too close. His thigh pressed against hers. Then his hand came to rest on her bare knee.
‘You look worried, ma,’ he said.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she whispered.
She stared down at his hand, dark and broad. It made her feel impossibly small.
‘I’m glad you came here today. It’s nice to have someone attractive to talk to. You look really beautiful. Did you just make your hair?’ he asked.
Without thinking, she lifted one hand to touch her braids. The movement caused her elbow to shift, and the T-shirt slipped sideways. A breast nearly escaped. She gasped, slapping her palm against her chest just in time, but the motion sent her leaning into him.
Now she was pressed against his shoulder, one hand clutching the fabric, the other gripping her coffee cup. She couldn’t move without risking further exposure.
John’s hand remained on her thigh.
‘No, I have an appointment next week,’ she said, trying to steady her voice.
‘Don’t cut it short. It’s lovely when it’s long,’ he said.
‘I should go,’ she breathed.
‘Wait for your clothes,’ he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.
‘I could come back for them,’ she offered weakly.
‘No need. They’ll be ready soon. You’re not scared, are you?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said, though the word came out like a squeak.
‘Then finish your tea,’ he said.
She lifted the cup to her lips and sipped, more for something to do than from thirst.
‘Do you like flowers?’ he asked.
Ngozi blinked. ‘Yes, I do. Though I can’t remember the last time anyone gave me flowers.’
Her voice cracked at the end. She hadn’t meant to sound so pitiful.
She considered standing, but the moment she rose, he would see everything—the thong, the bare skin, the shape of her. She stayed seated, her knees pressed together, her hands clenched around the cup.
‘The tea is nice,’ she said, grasping for normalcy. ‘You make it well.’
He smiled, leaning back and watching her with an expression that was far too knowing.
‘I can’t go home like this,’ she said again. ‘The top is too short. And too loose. I don’t look decent.’
‘I think you look perfect,’ he said. ‘It suits you. Shows off your beautiful legs.’
‘They’re not beautiful. I’m too short for that,’ she mumbled.
‘They’re shapely. Long in proportion. Very attractive,’ he said, his eyes travelling down her legs without shame.
‘It’s indecent,’ she insisted, her voice rising slightly.
‘Stop complaining, woman,’ he said, his tone suddenly firm.
The shift in his voice was sudden, like a door slamming shut in a quiet house. Ngozi froze, the teacup trembling in her hand. The boy beside her was no longer smiling. His jaw had tightened, and his eyes had gone cold.
It hit her then, with sharp clarity, how big he was. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick with muscle. He was only eighteen, but next to her small frame, he might as well have been a man twice her age. She had spent the last hour responding to his calm, authoritative tone, mistaking it for politeness. Now she saw it for what it was—control.
She should have fought back. She had attended the women’s fellowship. She had sat through workshops on assertiveness and self-worth. Yet here she was, shrinking into the sofa, her voice gone soft and uncertain.
‘You came here to speak to my parents,’ John said, his voice low and hard. ‘You wanted to report me. To tell them their precious son is a bully. Well, let me tell you something, ma. If you want me to leave your son alone, you don’t need them. You need me.’
‘There’s no need to be angry,’ Ngozi whispered. ‘We can discuss this. I’m not here to fight. I just want you to leave Chuka alone. You don’t have to be his friend. Just stop hurting him.’
‘I’ll make you a deal,’ John said, leaning closer. ‘You stop complaining about the clothes, and I’ll think about what you want.’
‘Alright,’ she said, nodding quickly, too eager to please. ‘I agree.’
She didn’t even know what she was agreeing to. The words had tumbled out before she could weigh them.
She felt stupid. Stupid for allowing herself to be cornered. Stupid for not leaving the moment she saw the house. Stupid for letting this boy dictate the terms.
‘Good,’ he said, releasing her wrist. ‘While I think about it, get me a beer. You can find the fridge, can’t you? Or is that too difficult for you?’
The sarcasm stung. But she rose from the sofa, grateful for a reason to move.
‘Yes, I can find it,’ she said quietly.
As she turned, his hand came down hard on her bare butt, pushing her forward.
‘Hurry up,’ he said.
She gasped, stumbling slightly. Her face burned with humiliation. But she did not stop. She did not snap at him or slap his hand away. She simply walked to the kitchen, her bare feet padding over the floor, her heart slamming against her ribs.
When she returned, she stood in front of him, holding the bottle with both hands. He didn’t reach for it. Instead, he closed his hand over hers, trapping her in place.
She was standing directly before him, close enough for him to reach out and touch her. The t-shirt hung loose, too short to be modest. She knew that if he lowered his eyes, he would see the thin line of the thong, perhaps more. But he didn’t look down. He held her gaze, unblinking, and she found she could not look away.
‘You have a nice butt,’ he said at last, his voice casual, as though he were commenting on the weather.
Ngozi swallowed. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She stood rooted to the spot, hot with shame, her hand still trapped around the bottle, his words settling over her like a net.
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