My Soft Spot @lovelikebuttahbaybee - Tumblr Blog

Vixen

Author's note: As requested, we giving Lucien Price some love. That man is walking ART. That man can create some bomb ass Artwork. This is for the ones that love them a ARTEEEST LMAO 🤌🏽 It's lengthy asf... cause your girl has been sitting on this and dragging to get this finished.. I hope yall enjoy, my babies.

READER| "If that man don't stop being so damn mysterious, I swear I'mma start checking his closet for secret identities and superhero suits" Dani's loud, wheezing cackle nearly made me snort sweet tea through my nose. I caught myself just in time, sputtering softly as I leaned back against the plush velvet cushions of my couch., curling my bare legs comfortably underneath my oversized shirt. "I'm dead serious, Dee." I laughed, shaking my head as the condensation from my mason jar dripped onto my knee. "We've been together for eight whole, uninterrupted months. EIGHT. Months. I know he wrestles for NXT. I know he makes the most unbelievable, rich, spicy Jollof rice I've ever tasted in my entire life. I know he hums songs under his breath in that deep, resonant baritone whenever he’s chopping scotch bonnet peppers."

I began counting off on my manicured fingers, feeling the familiar, warm flutter in my chest just mentioning his name. "I know he steals my favorite satin bonnet every single time he sleeps over because he forgets his durags at his house for his braids." I continued, my voice dipping into a gentle, playful drawl. Dani barked another laugh over the speaker. "Nah, he too damn big to be stealin' your bonnets girl."

Another wave of booming laughter echoed through my cozy apartment. The warm sound bounced off the crisp white walls, which were thoughtfully decorated with cascading pothos vines, framed vintage vinyl records, and tall wooden bookshelves overflowing with paperbacks I’d promised myself I’d reread whenever work slowed down.

It was home. It wasn't overly extravagant, but it was thoughtful, bright, and deeply mine.

Well... mostly mine.

Nnamdi had practically moved in over the last few months. It wasn't official by any stretch of the imagination, he still paid rent on his own place over near the WWE Performance Center in Winter Park, where he spent grueling hours training, lifting, and honing his craft for NXT as Lucien Price. But somehow, slowly and without a single formal conversation, his presence had seeped into every quiet corner of my life.

His t-shirts and dri-fit shorts had miraculously multiplied in my closet, hanging right alongside my dresses.

The rich, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne, a blend of amber, cedar-wood and spicy bergamot; permanently lingered on my couch pillows. A second toothbrush had quietly taken up residence in the porcelain holder beside mine. There were massive tubs of chocolate plant protein powder sitting in my pantry, heavyweight wrestling boots neatly aligned by my front door, a red PlayStation controller sitting on my coffee table that I had certainly never purchased.

Somehow, over these few months we had quietly transformed "your place" into "our space" in every single way that mattered. "You know what's crazy to me?" Dani said, her tone shifting into a perceptive frequency that only childhood besties could achieve. "What's crazy, Dee?" "I ain't heard you complain about that man a single time since you been with him." I bit the inside of my cheek, a helpless, warm smile blooming across my face before I could even attempt to stop it. "That because there's really nothing to complain about, Dani."

"Ain't nobody on God's green earth perfect, sweetie. Come on now." "I know that." "So what's his flaws then? Gimme something." I paused, holding my jar on my knee as I actually stopped to think about it. "Hmmm..." Silence stretched over the line as I mentally through the catalog of his quirks. "...He's stubborn as hell," I offered finally. "Mhm. Go on." "... And he never, EVER asks for help with anything, even when he's carrying multiple things at once." "Mhm. What else?" "He steals half my food every time we go out, even after swearing up and down he wasn't hungry."

"There we go. What else?" I frowned slightly, my eyes drifting towards my window as a quiet softness settled over my heart. "... Sometimes he disappears."

Dani's humor paused immediately. "What you mean, disappears? Like ghosting?" "No! No, Lord, not like that," I corrected quickly, shaking my jar, swishing my sweet tea around a bit. "Just....internally. Sometimes he just... goes really quiet." "How quiet are we talking?" "Like..." I searched for the right words to describe the intensity that lived behind those, piercing eyes of his. "Like he'll be sitting right beside me on the sofa. We'll be watching a movie, or cooking dinner together, or just running errands at the grocery store on a Sunday afternoon. But every once in a while, it feels like his mind leaves the room entirely. Like he retreats somewhere deep inside his own head."

Dani hummed thoughtfully, the background of her own kitchen rustling through the phone. "Have you asked him about it?" "I have," I murmured softly, "And he'll just offer me that slow, gentle smile of his. He'll kiss the back of my hand and say, 'I'm good, baby. Just thinking.' And that's all he'll give me." "And you don't push him for more?" "Why should I?" I smiled into the quiet space of my apartment. "I think everyone deserves a little corner inside themselves that belongs only to them. He gives me so much of his heart already." There was another long beat of absolute silence over the line. "You really love that man, don't you?" Dani whispered softly. My cheeks flamed instantly, the heat rising all the way to the tips of my ears. "I do not." "Girl, stop that damn lying." "I don't!" "You saying that with a smile on your face, ain't you?" "...Maybe a little bit." "You over there cheesing at nothing?" "...Possibly." "I KNEW IT!"

We both dissolved into a fit of helpless, belly-deep laughter, the kind of pure, sisterly joy that made your stomach ache and brought tears to the corners of your eyes.

Outside, as if on cue, the dark Florida storm clouds parted, allowing brilliant rays of golden afternoon sunlight to pierce through the overcast sky. Warm, honeyed light streamed through the glass, stretching across the dark hardwood floors and bathing the entire apartment in an amber glow.

Right on time, my phone vibrated hard in my hand, buzzing repeatedly as a notification popped up on the screen.

Nnamdi 🤎🥴

Just seeing his name typed out on the screen made something deep within my chest soften and expand.

Dani caught the sudden pause in my breathing. "...That's him, ain't it?"

I bit my lower lip, trying to suppress the swell of affection in my chest. "...Maybe."

"Girl, go answer your man and let me get back to my evening."

I lowered the phone to look down at the text message.

Nnamdi 🤎🥴 : Busy, Beautiful?

That was it. Two simple words. Short, direct, and completely typical for him. Yet somehow, whenever a message from him crossed my screen, it felt like a walking through the front door of a warm house after a long, freezing day. Safe. Grounding Before my thumb could even hit the reply, another blue bubble popped up right beneath it.

Nnamdi 🤎🥴 : Or are you still cussing out your coworkers?

A loud, unrefined laugh escaped my throat, so sudden that Dani heard it clearly through the speaker. "Not he got you giggling and shit." "Hush, Dee. Mind your business," I giggled, my thumbs flying across the keyboard to tect him back.

Me: First of all... Mind your own business, Mr. Oguayo. Secondly... Maybe I am... What's it to you?

The small gray typing bubble appeared on the screen almost instantly. Then it vanished. Then popped back up again. I smiled warmly at the screen. That was so typical of Nnamdi. He always deliberate about everything he did. constantly drafting and rewriting his owm words like every little sentence held weight. Finally, the screen lit up with his response.

Nnamdi 🤎🥴 : Put some actual clothes on.

I blinked at the screen in utter confusion. I lowered my phone and slowly looked down at myself.

One of his oversized, worn-out graphic T-shirt that hung off one shoulder. A pair of tiny grey cotton running shorts. One ridiculously fluffy pink socks pulled up to my mid-calf, while my other foot was completely bare against the cool wood floor. My hair was wrapped neatly in a dark blue silk scarf, completely devoid of any effort.

My jaw dropped. How in the world....

Another text flashed on the screen.

Nnamdi 🤎🥴 : I need you around 6.

I raised a dark eyebrow, a playful frown tugging at my lips.

Me: That's real suspicious 🧐

His typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. I could practically picture his handsome, carved face in my head, his dark Brown eyes narrowing slightly, his strong jaw setting as he debated exactly how much information to give away.

Nnamdi 🤎🥴 : Wear something comfy. & pretty, as always.

Me: Comfy and pretty? Are you taking me to a picnic or on a workout date, sir?

The gray typing bubble appeared immediately, pulsed for a second, and vanished.

Nnamdi 🤎🥴: Just be ready at 6. Don't overthink it, sweet face.

"He's up to something." I muttered out loud, setting the mason jar down on the glass coffee table. "I heard that!" Dani hollered. "What is he saying?"

"He told me to put on some 'actual clothes'. The nerve.... and be ready by six. Said to dress pretty and comfortable."

"Oooo, a date night," Dani crooned, her voice dripping with teasing sugar. "Look at Mr. Muscleman getting all romantical on a Thursday. You better go wash your ass and put on some smell-good, girl. I’m hanging up. Call me tomorrow with the full report!"

"Bye, Dee," I laughed, shaking my head as the line went dead.

I picked myself up off the couch, my fluffy pink sock sliding against the wood, and headed toward the bathroom to get cleaned up.

By 5:55 PM, I was smoothing out the vibrant backless green and yellow paisley-print maxi dress, making sure the halter necktie sat just right. I flat-ironed my hair into a sleek, bone-straight style that contrasted sharply against the open back of the dress, my skin gleaming and heavily moisturized.

At 6 PM on the dot, two heavy, rhythmic knocks echoed against my door.

I opened it to find Nnamdi occupying the frame of my doorway with a grounding presence. His black durag sat neatly over his fresh braided hair, the long tails disappearing behind his neck. It framed his face perfectly, drawing attention to the sharp line of his jaw and the trimmed beard that looked freshly edged. Tiny gold studs glinted from both ears as he shifted his weight. A fitted black crewneck T-shirt hugged his broad shoulders and stretched comfortably across his chest, outlining every hour he'd spent inside the PC without looking like he was trying to show off. The sleeves rested high against his biceps, revealing warm brown forearms that looked entirely too inviting.

He'd always kept his fits simple. Nothing about what he wore screamed for attention. But somehow, he still looked like the finest man I'd ever laid eyes on.

For a long, suspended second, he didn't say a single word. He just leaned one broad shoulder casually against the wooden frame of my doorway, his dark heavy-lidded eyes slowly sweeping down from the crown of my bone straight hair, past the gold pendant resting against my collarbone, all the way down to the hem of my dress where it brushed my ankles. The air between us seemed to shift, growing suddenly thick and warm, the ambient hum of the Florida evening fading into the background. I felt the familiar, delicious flutter in my stomach; that soft, breathless drop you only get when the person you love looks at you like you are the center of their universe. His gaze climbed back up, settling slowly on my face. A deeply affectionate, crooked smile broke across his handsome features, the corners of his eyes crinkling just a fraction. "Hey, Sweetface." he murmured, "You gonna keep staring at me..."

He tilted his head ever so slightly, "...or are you gon' let me in?"

A rush of warmth climbed my chest all the way to the tips of my ears, "I wasn't staring." I lied far too quickly, my voice betraying me before my face did. "You know you eyes do this thing when you lying, pretty lady," he murmured, his voice dipping low enough to send a shiver dancing straight down my spine.

After moving to the side, I crossed my arms defensively over my chest, though the traitorous grin threatening to break across my face ruined any real chance of intimidation, "I am not lying. I was merely appreciating the architectural structure of my own apartment frame." "Right. The architecture." He let out a low, rich chuckle that vibrated right through the doorway, shifting his weight so he was standing entirely inside the foyer now. The scent of his Armani Code cologne instantly filled the space, chasing away the faint smell of my vanilla room spray and wrapped around me like a heavy, comforting blanket. The heavy door clicked softly behind him. sealing us away ftom the outside world. Before I could even blink, Nnamdi closed the remaining distance between us. His large, warm hands settled effortlessly on my hips, sliding upward with a slow, deliberate heat that mapped the curve of my waist before spanning out across the open expanse of my back. A sharp, gasp hitched right from my throat. Because my dress was backless, the direct, skin-to-skin contact of his callouse palms against my spine sent an electic shockwave racing straight to my toes and to my center. My hands instinctively flew up to grip the thick cotton of his shirt, my fingers bunching the fabric as he pulled me flush against his chest.

"You smell good, mama,"he breathed against my hair, his voice practically vibrating through my bones. "You smell entirely too good. What is that? You smell sweet and edible."

"It's just my body butter, babe." I muttered into his shoulder, though my voice was suddenly a little breathless. I tilted my head back just enough to look up at him, drinking in the sight of his handsome face. "And you smell expensive as hell. Are you trying to distract me on purpose?" "Is it working?" he teased, the corner of his mouth ticking up into a smirk, that always short-circuited my brain. "Unfortunately, yes." His eyes softened, the playful edge melting away into something tender as he looked down at me. "I missed you today, sweet face," he whispered softly, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle against the exposed skin of my spine. "Longest Thursday of my life."

"We literally had lunch together six hours ago," I laughed softly, though my heart was hammering a frantic, happy rhythm against my ribs. "Six hours too long." He lowered his head, his gaze dropping momentarily to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes for a second of silent permission. When I parted my lips with a soft sigh, he closed the gap entirely. His kiss slow and deliberate, warm and tasting faintly of the mint gum he mush have chewed in the car. But the second my fingers tangled into the braids at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a fraction closer, a low rumble of approval vibrated in the back of his throat. His lips parted wider, deepining the kiss with a practiced, effortless hunger that made my knees feel boneless.

His hands shifted slightly on my back, his thumbs tracing the sensitve line of my spine, making me arch instinctively into his touch until there wasn't a single milimeter of space left between us. When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing just a little bit heavier, our foreheads resting together in the dim light of the entryway. "Damn, sweetface." he breathed, "You about to make me, make us late. 'Cause standing here holding you in the hallway is looking a whole lot better than wherever I planned on taking us."

My cheeks flushed hot, and I let out a breathy laugh, resting my forehead briefly against his solid chest. "Don't blame me. You the one who told me to get pretty."

"And you went and overachieved," he teased softly, leaning down to give me another kiss, but this time it was feather-light to the tip of my nose. A radiant smile slowly bloomed across my face as I gently pushed agsinst his face, stepping back just enough to catch my breath. "You sure you still trying to go...?" Nnamdi let out a low, rich chuckle, taking my hand and interlacing his fingers tightly with mine as he turned toward the door. "Oh, we're leaving, baby," he promised, a wicked little glint flashing in his eyes. "I've got plans. But trust me... the night is still young."

The drive out of my apartment complex and down the main road was filled with the low, rhythmic thrum of Jagged Edge's I Gotta Be, played lowly through the car speakers and the comfortable, easy silence that only came from months of genuine ease. I kept one arm resting on the center console, my fingers occasionally brushing against his warm wrist as he steered with one hand. I assumed we were heading toward Winter Park, maybe one of those ambient little outdoor bistros tucked away behind the boutiques on Park Avenue where we liked to grab late-night espresso.

Instead, Nnamdi smoothly flicked his turn signal into the bustling brighly lit parking lot of our local Publix. I blinked, turned to look at him as he pulled his car into a parking space that wasn't too far from the entrance. "Uh. Publix? What we doing here Mr.Oguayo? Because if you forgot to get groceries earlier for your house, I'm gonna–"

Nnamdi killed the engine, a slow knowing smile spreading across his handsome face as he reached across the console to tap me lightly on the nose. "You're not gonna do anything. But, keep talking reckless, sweetface, and I'll make you buy your own things for this date. So, come on. We need provisions." "Provisions for what? A stakeout? A pic-nic?" I teased. He chuckled as he slid out of the car. He walked over and opened the door for me, held out his hand and waited for me to climb out.

He still didn't answer. He just flashed that slow, crooked grin, wrapping his large, warm hand securely around mine, and led me towards the entrance to the store. If I'd knew he was stalling, I probably would've given him a much harder time right here in the produce section. But to my utter shock, the man who usually treated grocery shopping like a tactical military operation, marching straight to the protein aisle, grabbing his usually bulk of chicken and plant powder and heading to checkout in under ten minute flat– was now taking his sweet, leisurely time. We wandered past mountains of glossy green bell peppers and stacked pyramids of avocados like were tourists strolling through an open-air market in Lagos.

"Okay. Seriously," I laughed, catching him gently by the sleeve of his black tee as we lingered by the organic berries. "Who are you, and what have you done with Nnamdi? You been staring at those blackberries for a solid three minutes. They're berries." Nnamdi picked up a plastic clamshell, turning it over with an expression of intense, comedic concentration before sliding his dark, heavy-lidded gaze down to me. "A man likes to inspect his produce, pretty lady. Quality control. You want fresh fruit for later or no?"

"For later where?" I pressed, crossing my arms over my chest, raising a challenging eyebrow. "Because we passed three different restaurants on the way here, and unless you're planning to cook a five-course meal on a hot plate in your car, none of this makes sense."

"Patience is a virtue, mama," he murmured, his deep baritone dipping into that smooth, teasing register that always made my chest do a funny little flip. He dropped the blackberries into the cart and reached out, his warm fingers ghosting lightly over my bare shoulder before trailing down my arm to retake my hand. "Just trust me."

I rolled my eyes, a fond smile breaking through despite my best efforts. "Fine. But if we're cooking, I'm vetting the menu. I refuse to eat whatever experimental bodybuilder concoction you've dreamed up."

"You'll eat it and you'll like it," he chuckled, pulling me along as we navigated toward the veggies.

True to his word, the cart began to fill with a strange, highly suspicious assortment of luxury items.

We bypassed the usual bulk essentials and stopped dead in the specialty cheese and wine aisle. I watched, utterly fascinated, as Nnamdi actually stood before the towering wine racks, studying the labels with the same intense focus he usually reserved for studying his wrestling opponents' tape.

"Are we celebrating something specific, babe?" I asked softly, leaning my hip against the edge of the shopping cart as he reached for a sleek, dark bottle of red. "Or did you just decide to drain your bank account at the grocery store?"

He pulled a bottle down, turning it over to inspect before looking up at me, his eyes softening behind his long lashes. "Can't a man just want to spoil his girl with a good bottle of wine on a Thursday?"

"You barely even drink, sir," I pointed out, a gentle, teasing warmth spreading through my chest. "The last time you had a glass of wine at that dinner downtown, you looked at it like it was a complex mathematical equation."

"Tonight's a special occasion," he simply replied, dropping the bottle carefully into the cart before steering us toward the gourmet deli case.

From there, it was a full-scale operation. He let me pick out my absolute favorite dark chocolate-covered almonds, the expensive ones from the specialty display near the bakery, alongside a sprawling array of artisanal crackers, sharp white cheddar, prosciutto, and honey-roasted pecans for a charcuterie board.

When we finally migrated over to the meat and seafood department, the mystery of the evening started taking a slightly more delicious shape.

Nnamdi reached past the standard cuts, his broad shoulders shifting beneath his black tee as he flagged down the butcher behind the glass.

"Let me get two of the thick-cut ribeyes," he requested smoothly, his voice carrying that rich, resonant authority that always made heads turn.

My jaw dropped slightly as I looked up at him. "Steak? You're cooking steak?"

"I told you I was feeding you, sweetface," he said, turning back to me with a smug, handsome grin as the butcher wrapped our items in crisp white paper. "Unless you don't trust my cooking skills no more?"

"I trust your Jollof rice with my life," I admitted, stepping closer as he pulled me into his side, his arm wrapping securely around my waist. "Steak is a whole different arena, Mr. Oguayo. If you ruin my dinner, I'm billing you for emotional damages."

"You know my cooking is immaculate," he scoffed playfully, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of my bone-straight hair right there in the middle of the crowded aisle. "Just wait until you see what else I've got planned." What else?

The drive out of the Publix parking lot took us away from the familiar grid of Winter Park and out onto the quieter, darker stretches of highway cutting toward the outskirts of town. The amber glow of the Florida sunset had fully bled out, leaving behind a deep indigo twilight dotted with the first pale flickers of evening stars.

I sat comfortably in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing over at Nnamdi as he drove. He was completely in his element, one large hand resting casually at the top of the steering wheel while the other operated the gear shift. The soft, rhythmic pulse of his R&B playlist hummed through the car's speakers, washing over the quiet cabin.

Right as we crossed the county line, the screen of his phone, that was mounted securely on the dashboard, lit up. A notification banner popped up across the screen. I didn't mean to look, but when you're sitting six inches away from someone in a quiet car, peripheral vision is a harsh thing to ignore.

Leo: All set bro. Coast is clear. Take your time.

I watched Nnamdi’s jaw tighten just a fraction, that tiny, almost imperceptible micro-flex of muscle right beneath his trimmed beard. His dark eyes flicked down to the screen for half a second before he swiped the notification away with a smooth, practiced flick of his thumb. Not a single muscle in his broad shoulders twitched. His facade remained entirely impenetrable, cool and collected as if he hadn't just received a secret dispatch from a co-conspirator.

'This man is still giving Spy behavior', I thought, narrowing my eyes at him playfully.

"Everything alright in the world of professional wrestling, Mr. Oguayo?" I asked, tilting my head as I studied his profile. "Or are the boys plotting for another ruthless workout regimen?"

He spared me a brief glance, a slow, infuriatingly unbothered smile curving the corner of his lips. "Everything's strictly under control, pretty lady. Just keeping an eye on the schedule."

"Right. The schedule." I shifted in my seat, crossing my arms over the chest as the highway signs began to blur past us with increasing countryside. "Which brings me to my next question. Exactly how far into the wilderness are we driving? Because unless we're hunting for artisanal beef in Ocala, I'm pretty sure we passed civilization twenty minutes ago."

Nnamdi just chuckled, that deep, rumbling sound that always settled deep in my chest, and reached across the console to give my knee a reassuring squeeze. "Trust the process, sweetface."

"That's what kidnappers say, Nnamdi," I pointed out dryly, gesturing out the window at the dense, shadowy tree lines flanking the dark asphalt. "We are officially deep enough into the boondocks for me to become a true-crime episode. If I go missing, Dani is going to put your face on a billboard from here to Orlando."

"Let her try," he laughed, steering the car smoothly off the main highway and onto a narrow, winding side road framed by towering oak trees draped in Spanish moss. "She wouldn't even know where to start looking."

"True," I muttered, though my faux-panic was rapidly being replaced by genuine curiosity.

We drove down the secluded lane for another couple of minutes before he signaled and turned down a gravel drive, pulling to a stop in front of a charming, secluded artist loft, a detached, modern studio space surrounded by quiet greenery, completely removed from the noise of the city.

I stared out the windshield at the building, blinking in sudden confusion. "Nnamdi… whose place is this? Are we crashing an illegal underground painting rave?"

He put the car in park, killed the engine, and turned to look at me, a sudden, quiet intensity flickering in his brown eyes. The playful teasing melted away, replaced by something much softer, much more deliberate.

"Come here, mama," he murmured softly, leaning over to unclip my seatbelt himself, his knuckles brushing warmly against my collarbone.

He climbed out of the car and came around to open my door, extending a large, steady hand to help me down. As my sandals crunched softly against the gravel drive, I looked around in mounting bewilderment. There were no lights on inside the main windows except for a warm, amber glow spilling from beneath the heavy wooden double doors.

Nnamdi kept my hand securely in his as he led me up the front steps, pulling a brass key from his pocket and unlocking the heavy door with a quiet click. He pushed it open, stepping back to let me walk in first.

I took one step across the threshold, and stopped dead in my tracks.

My breath caught entirely in my throat.

The sprawling, open-concept studio was bathed in a breathtaking, amber-toned glow. Overhead, massive industrial glass skylights revealed the indigo night sky dotted with faint stars, while clusters of modern glass globe pendants and warm recessed lights cast a soft, welcoming sheen across the exposed white wood-beamed ceiling.

Dozens of flickering pillar candles nestled inside glass cylinders lined the floor, flickering against a rustic woven runner rug by the entrance and illuminating the paint-splattered drop cloths spread out over the pale hardwood floors.

To our right, a pristine white quartz kitchen island stood ready, meticulously set with a dark bottle of red wine, two wine glasses half-filled with ruby liquid, and a curated wooden tray holding a small bowl of fresh fruit, cheeses, and grapes. Elegant white barstools with sleek gold legs tucked neatly beneath the counter.

Along the back walls, large abstract canvases burst with vivid splashes of color, vibrant pinks, blues, and golds;l framed against the pristine white. Built-in wooden supply shelves and worktables stretched beneath wide windows overlooking the dark tree line, neatly organized with rows of bottled pigments, jars of brushes, and framed sketches.

Scattered around the room were tall wooden easels, a rolling metal utility cart loaded with art supplies, and a lone wooden stool parked in front of a blank, waiting canvas right in the center of the room. Over in the corner, another tall easel stood completely draped under a heavy white sheet, holding a silent, hidden secret.

The sweet, earthy scent of melting wax, fresh cedarwood, and rich paint drifted through the air, wrapping around us like a dream.

I slowly turned my head to look up at Nnamdi, my eyes wide with absolute shock.

He was standing right behind me, his hands resting gently on my bare hips, his chin tucked against my shoulder. In the warm, flickering candlelight, his dark eyes were shining with a nervous, vulnerable kind of energy I had never seen on him before.

"Nnamdi..." I whispered, my voice barely carrying across the beautiful, cavernous room. "What is all this? Whose place is this?"

"It's mine," he murmured softly, his deep baritone vibrating right against my back as his arms tightened around my waist. "Well... I rented it a few months ago. Set it up as a studio."

I spun around in his arms, staring up at him, my mind scrambling to connect the dots. "A studio? You paint? You never, ever mentioned you paint!"

A sheepish, remarkably boyish smile broke across his handsome face, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he rubbed the back of his neck with one large hand. "There's a lot of things I keep to myself, sweetface. Wrestling takes up most of my life, but... this is where I go when I need the noise to stop."

He reached out, taking my trembling hand in his.

"I never really showed anybody this part of me," he whispered, his thumb stroking the back of my hand with infinite care. "Except my family and Bronco. And, I wanted you to see it. All of it."

He gently led me forward, guiding me past the glowing island and toward the largest draped canvas standing proudly in the center of the room.

"And," he added, his voice dropping into that low, persuasive register that always melted my defenses, "I thought maybe... since you're alway designing beautiful things..." His fingers gave mine a gentle squeeze. "...and maybe tonight..."

He looked at me with that same quiet tenderness that had been undoing me for the last eight months. "...we could create something together."

My chest swelled so fast and hard it physically ached. I looked up at the finest, most mysterious man I had ever known, the flickering candlelight casting a golden halo over his face and sharp jawline, and realized right then and there that I was hopelessly, helplessly gone.

I let out a soft, breathy laugh, the lingering disbelief still dancing in the corners of my mind as I shook my head. "You're full of secrets, Mr. Oguayo. Eight whole months, and you managed to hide an entire second life inside an art loft."

"Not a second life," he corrected softly, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding pattern over my knuckles. "Just... my quiet place. Until now."

He led me closer to the towering, sheet-covered canvas that stood like a sentinel in the middle of the room. The flickering candlelight cast long, dramatic shadows against the white cloth, hiding whatever masterpiece; or mess, he had labored over in the dead of night when the wrestling world was asleep.

I reached out with my free hand, my fingertips hovering just an inch from the crisp white fabric. "Can I look now? Or is this for later?"

Nnamdi caught my wrist gently, stopping my hand before I could touch the corner of the sheet. A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips as he shook his head.

"Not yet, pretty lady," he murmured, his deep voice wrapping around me like velvet. "Earned things taste better. We eat first. Then I show you."

I dropped my hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh of protest as I turned my head to glare up at him playfully. "You are deliberately torturing me. You know that, right? You bring me out into the middle of nowhere, show me a secret art studio, and now you're dangling a mystery canvas over my head like a carrot on a stick?"

"It builds character," he chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to my temple before turning us toward the pristine quartz kitchen island.

As we walked back across the paint-splattered drop cloths, my eyes drifted over the counter again, the dark bottle of red wine, the crystal glasses, the artisanal cheese board, the fresh fruit neatly arranged in a bowl.

"Wait a minute," I accused, a playful grin breaking across my face as I turned fully to face him. "The wine... the cheese... the fruit. It was already here, wasn't it?"

Nnamdi didn't even try to deny it. He just offered a slow, unapologetic grin, his dark eyes sparkling with quiet amusement. "Guilty."

"You absolute fraud!" I laughed, swatting lightly at his broad chest. "You dragged me all through Publix, letting me pick out fancy chocolate-covered almonds and artisanal crackers like we were starting from scratch, when this place was already stocked?"

"Well..." He chuckled, stepping closer and wrapping his warm arms securely back around my waist, his voice dipping into that smooth, persuasive register. "The wine and snacks were here, yeah. But I didn't have the steaks. And more importantly, I wanted to walk the aisles with you. I wanted to see you fuss over the produce and threaten me about my cooking skills."

My heart did a soft, pathetic little flip in my chest. "You're ridiculous, babe."

"I'm efficient," he corrected smoothly, pressing a tender kiss to my forehead. "Stay right here for a second, mama. Let me go grab the groceries out of the car before they get warm."

With another lingering glance and a soft squeeze of my hand, he turned and headed back toward the heavy wooden double doors, stepping out into the warm Florida night.

Left alone in the breathtaking, candlelit sanctuary, I took a slow breath, letting the incredible reality of the space wash over me. The earthy scent of cedarwood and paint felt grounding, a hidden extension of the man I thought I knew inside and out.

A few moments later, the heavy door clicked open again, and Nnamdi walked back in carrying the Publix bags in one massive arm, his other hand shutting the door behind him. He carried the provisions over to the kitchen counter, quickly unpacking the thick-cut ribeyes, asparagus, and potatoes with the easy efficiency of a man who knew his way around a kitchen.

Once everything was put away , he wiped his hands, walked back over to where I was standing, and extended his hand.

"Come on," he murmured softly, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "Let me show you the rest before we start dinner."

He led me away from the main studio space toward a set of glass-paned doors tucked past the kitchen. When he pushed them open, my breath caught all over again.

The bedroom was an absolute sanctuary, bathed in the same flickering, golden glow of dozens of candles scattered gracefully across the dark wood nightstands, the dresser, and even the floor. A low platform bed dressed in crisp white linens and a heavy forest-green textured throw sat invitingly beneath a large abstract painting on the wall.

Just beyond it, separated by sleek black steel-and-glass frames, the open-concept bathroom looked like a luxury spa.

A deep, freestanding soaking tub took center stage, its wooden caddy holding a single candle and a small dish, surrounded by clusters of glowing pillars on the floor. Through the glass shower doors, dark stone tile and a rainfall showerhead gleamed softly, while plush, charcoal-grey towels were neatly stacked on a wooden bench beside a sleek double vanity with warm, glowing wall sconces and arched mirrors.

Nnamdi stepped up close behind me, resting his chin comfortably on my shoulder as we both looked out over the quiet, candlelit retreat.

"Well," he whispered, his warm breath fanning softly against my ear, sending a delicious shiver straight down my spine. "What do you think, sweetface?"

I turned slightly within the circle of his arms, looking up at him with genuine awe as the warm amber light flickered against his face.

"Nnamdi, this is incredible," I breathed, letting my gaze drift back over the stunning, candlelit room. "It's like a complete hidden world. How long did it even take you to put all of this together?"

A quiet, pleased smile touched his lips, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. "Long enough," he murmured softly, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding pattern against my hip. "Just wanted it to be right, just for you."

He pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead before taking my hand again, leading me back out of the tranquil bedroom sanctuary and into the open-concept studio space.

"Now," he said, his deep baritone carrying a note of playful determination as he guided me toward the pristine quartz kitchen island. "Dinner awaits. Have a seat, beautiful."

He pulled out one of the sleek gold-legged barstools for me, waiting patiently until I settled onto the plush white cushion before sliding it neatly underneath. Right away, he pushed the glass of dark red wine and slid the wooden charcuterie board closer to my fingertips, making sure I was completely set up like royalty.

"Don't lift a finger," Nnamdi instructed, turning toward the counter where our Publix bags were waiting. "Your only job right now is to look pretty and keep me company."

"Oh, is that right?" I teased, leaning back against the counter as I plucked a dark chocolate-covered almond from the board, popping it into my mouth. "So I'm just decorative furniture tonight? Got it."

He let out a low, rich chuckle, tying a brown apron around his waist, before his muscular forearms flexed as he began unwrapping the thick-cut ribeyes. "You're much better than furniture, baby."

From my vantage point perched at the island, I had the best seat in the house. I spent the next hour simply watching him work, sipping my wine, grazing on sharp cheddar and prosciutto, and just talking.

It was effortless.

The kind of easy, flowing conversation that only comes from months of deep comfort and shared history. We talked about everything and nothing, reminiscing about some of the more chaotic moments from his recent matches at the PC, laughing over funny text messages Dani had sent earlier that afternoon, and debating the eternal, high-stakes question of whether Jollof rice is truly superior when cooked over an open flame versus a stovetop.

As he seasoned the steaks with practiced precision and set the asparagus and baby potatoes to roast, I watched the way the soft recessed lighting caught the fresh braids framing his face, and how effortlessly he moved around the kitchen.

"You know," I mused aloud, swirling the ruby-red wine in my glass as I rested my chin in my hand, "I still can't get over the fact that you've been harboring a whole secret art studio. What else are you hiding from me, Mr. Oguayo? Are you a secret Broadway tenor? Do you moonlight as a master chef?"

Nnamdi paused, glancing over his shoulder with a slow, wicked grin playing across his lips. "Keep asking too many questions, sweetface, and I might just have to blindfold you."

"Threatening me with a good time? Bold strategy," I laughed, taking another sip of wine.

He shook his head, turning back to the stove as the steaks hit the hot pan with an immediate, mouth-watering sizzle that filled the air alongside the rich aroma of garlic and butter. The warm, intimate glow of the loft wrapped around us like a blanket, shutting out the rest of the world entirely.

The plates he set before us were an absolute masterpiece— perfectly seared ribeyes with a gorgeous crust, accompanied by tender roasted baby potatoes and garlic-buttered asparagus that smelled heavenly.

By this point, I was comfortably two and a half glasses deep into the rich red wine, feeling a pleasant, relaxed warmth humming softly through my veins.

As Nnamdi pulled out his chair and sat down across from me at the island, I paused for a quiet second, closing my eyes and bowing my head in a quick, silent prayer of thanks before picking up my fork.

Nnamdi watched me, his hands resting on the edge of the counter, a fond, patient smile curving his lips until I opened my eyes and took my first bite.

"Well?" he asked, raising a dark eyebrow expectantly. "Does it pass inspection, sweetface?"

"Mr. Oguayo," I groaned happily, closing my eyes as the tender, flavorful steak melted on my tongue. "If you keep cooking like this, I'm never going to leave you." His laugh echoed as he watched me eat, with a smile. "I hope you won't"

Dinner was a blur of rich food, easy laughter, and the kind of comforting intimacy that made the rest of the world feel miles away. But once the plates were cleared and the wine glasses refilled, Nnamdi's demeanor shifted just a fraction. A subtle, underlying current of nervous tension hummed beneath his usually unshakeable calm.

He stood up, walking around the island, and extended a large, warm hand toward me.

"Come on," he murmured softly, his thumb sweeping across my knuckles. "Time for the main event."

My heart gave a little flutter against my ribs as I let him lead me across the paint-spattered drop cloths back to the center of the loft, straight toward the towering, sheet-covered canvas that had been standing like a sentinel all evening.

Nnamdi stopped right beside it, stepping back just enough to give me full access. His dark eyes locked onto my face, watching my every micro-expression with an intensity that gave away how much this truly mattered to him. For eight whole months, this part of his soul had been locked away in the dark, hidden from everyone.

"You do the honors, pretty lady," he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, quiet rumble.

Taking a deep breath, I reached out with both hands, gripped the edge of the heavy white cotton sheet, and pulled it down in one fluid motion.

The fabric pooled at the base of the easel, and my breath hitched completely in my throat.

My eyes swept over the massive canvas, taking in every single stroke with the critical, appreciative eye of a UX designer who understood composition, contrast, and emotional weight, but stopping dead in sheer awe of the raw power of the piece.

It was a striking, high-contrast black-and-white portrait. The canvas depicted a woman's face, tilted back in a moment of utter, uninhibited release, eyes closed peacefully beneath long, dark lashes. Heavy, cascading streams of water or sweat; dripped and slicked over her high cheekbones, tracing the sharp line of her jaw and pooling down her neck with exquisite, hyper-realistic detail. The stark, bold contrast of the deep black background against the stark highlights gave it an intense, visceral depth that felt alive.

As my gaze traced the fluid movement of the water lines and the breathtaking emotion captured in the brushwork, I realized with a sudden, staggering jolt... it was me.

It wasn't just a generic face; it was the exact angle of my jaw, the curve of my lips, captured in a moment of quiet vulnerability I didn't even know he had witnessed.

Silence stretched heavily across the loft, save for the crackle of a nearby candle.

"Nnamdi..." I breathed out, my voice trembling slightly as my fingers rose to cover my mouth. I turned my head to look up at him, tears stinging hot and sudden behind my eyelids. "You... you painted this."

He hadn't taken his eyes off my face for a single second. The quiet anxiety in his posture slowly melted away, replaced by a profound, bared-soul relief as he reached out, his warm fingers gently cupping my cheek.

"I know I disappear sometimes," he whispered, his thumb brushing a stray tear from my skin before it could fall. "But this is where I go. Trying to capture how it feels just... looking at you."

The realization settled deep into my bones, warm and heavy and entirely overwhelming. My chest ached with a sudden, fierce rush of affection so profound it left me momentarily speechless.

I looked back down at the canvas, tracing the exquisite, stark contrast of the black-and-white paint, and then up at the man who had held this entire universe inside his head for months.

A slow, bold smile broke through the emotional haze, fueled entirely by the two and a half glasses of rich red wine humming happily through my veins. The liquid courage loosened the final threads of my inhibition, turning my awe into something wonderfully playful.

I stepped back from the easel, letting my gaze sweep over the open-concept loft, the blank canvas waiting on its stand, and finally back to Nnamdi.

"Well," I murmured, my voice dropping into a teasing, confident purr as I tilted my head up at him. "If you're going to capture my likeness, sir, working from memory in the dead of night feels a bit like cheating. Don't you think?"

Nnamdi blinked, a slow, dark spark of surprise flickering in his eyes as he tilted his head. "Is that right?"

"It is," I declared, taking a slow step toward him, letting the green and yellow fabric of my maxi dress swish softly against the drop cloths. "If you're truly a master artist, you should be able to do it in real time. With your muse right here in front of you."

He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, his gaze dropping to my lips before rising back to meet my eyes with a dangerous, heated intensity. "You want me to paint you right now?"

"I'm offering my services," I laughed softly, swaying just an inch closer, entirely surrendering to the relaxing buzz of the wine. "Though, considering how demanding this modeling gig is, I think my payment should include a refill."

Nnamdi’s crooked smile widened, a fond, helpless affection washing over his features. He reached out, his warm hand catching mine and giving it a gentle squeeze. "I think negotiations can be arranged, sweetface."

He walked me back over to the quartz kitchen island, pouring another generous splash of the dark red vintage into my crystal glass before topping off his own. After handing it back to me with a lingering brush of his fingers, he set down his glass and immediately went to work.

"Alright, stay right there," he instructed, his voice carrying that rich, authoritative ring that made my stomach flip.

With swift, focused movements, Nnamdi rearranged the studio floor. He angled the empty easel toward the soft glow of the recessed lighting, adjusting the height just a fraction. He grabbed the wooden stool, positioning it beside the canvas, and then pulled a plush modeling stand closer, draping a soft, textured white throw over it to catch the cascading fabric of my dress.

When everything was meticulously set to his standard, he turned back to me, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and burning with a quiet, artistic hunger.

He walked over, took the half-empty wine glass gently from my hand, set it safely on the counter, and wrapped both of his warm, calloused hands around my waist.

"Come here," he whispered, pressing a soft, slow kiss to my lips before guiding me toward the center of the room, ready to bring his vision to life.

He guided me toward the high-backed wooden stool positioned right beside the blank canvas, his hands lingering on my bare shoulders before he stepped back to survey the lighting and the angles.

"Stay right there, sweetface," he instructed quietly, his dark eyes sweeping over me one more time with a critical, intense focus that made my skin tingle. "Let me get prepped."

I nodded, resting my hands gracefully against the textured throw draped over the stool, letting the green and yellow paisley fabric of my maxi dress pool around me. But as I watched him turn away to prep his palette, the rich red wine coursing through my veins began to work its magic, loosening my inhibitions and dialing the atmospheric tension in the room straight up to a simmer.

Nnamdi reached up to the hem of his black crewneck t-shirt, grabbing the fabric and pulling it smoothly over his head in one effortless motion, tossing it aside onto a nearby worktable.

My breath hitched instantly, a familiar, involuntary flutter sparking deep in my chest. My eyes dropped instantly to his chest, and my brain completely short-circuited.

Even though I knew damn well how fine my man was; practicallyliving with him, touching him, seeing him day in and day out— there was something about the sudden, casual shedding of his clothes that short-circuited my brain every single time. And it was a two-way street; he knew it, too. The way his heavy-lidded gaze flicked down to track the sudden hitch of my chest told me he enjoyed the effect he had on me just as much as I was drowning in it.

Standing there in the warm amber glow of the studio, bare-chested and carved out of pure muscle, he was breathtaking. The tight lines of his sculpted chest and chiseled abs caught the candlelight, framing the delicate gold chains and pendants resting against his collarbone. The black durag hugged his fresh braids, and the smartwatches strapped to his wrists only added to that rugged, athletic edge. He looked less like an artist and more like a Greek god carved out of warm brown bronze.

My pulse spiked, a sudden wave of heavy, electric tension thickening the air between us until it felt almost suffocating.

Nnamdi noticed the way my eyes traced the broad expanse of his shoulders, a low, triumphant rumble vibrating in his chest as he stepped closer.

"Focus, sweetface," he teased softly, his voice dropping an octave as walked back over to me, his warm fingers gently nudged my chin upward, forcing me to meet his intensely dark gaze. "You're supposed to be modeling, remember?"

"It's hard to model when you're actively trying to distract me, baby," I whispered back, my tongue feeling just a little bit heavy from the wine as my hands instinctively found their way to his bare waist, sliding over the smooth, warm skin above the waistband of his shorts.

"I'm just protecting my wardrobe," he murmured innocently, though his eyes burned with pure desire as he leaned down, pressing a lingering, heated kiss to the corner of my lips before gently guiding me backward.

He helped me settle onto the plush modeling stand, arranging the vibrant green and yellow fabric of my backless dress so it pooled gracefully around me. But his hands lingered just a fraction longer than necessary against my bare spine, sending a delicious shiver straight down to my toes.

Stepping back only a few inches to pick up his charcoal and fresh canvas board, Nnamdi gave me one last smoldering look from behind the easel.

"Don't move," he instructed, his voice low and commanding.

I didn't plan on moving an inch.

I shifted on the plush modeling stand, adjusting my posture until my back arched just slightly, allowing the vibrant green and yellow silk of my backless dress to drape and pool over the white fabric on the floor like cascading water. The chill of the studio air hit my exposed spine, making my skin prickle, but the heavy, intoxicating heat radiating from Nnamdi more than made up for it.

He stood just a few feet away behind his easel, charcoal in hand, his dark eyes locked onto mine. For a long, suspended moment, he didn't draw at all. He just looked at me, traced the line of my collarbone, the tilt of my chin, and the way the candlelight played against my skin.

Then, with smooth, deliberate strokes, he finally went to work, the soft scratch of charcoal against the fresh canvas filling the quiet air.

I watched him back, resting my chin lightly in my hand as the wine hummed through my veins, stoking a slow, restless fire in my chest. Watching a man who was already a walking, breathing masterpiece effortlessly create art of his own was entirely unfair. The way the muscle in his forearm flexed with every stroke, the focused intensity carved into his sharp jawline, and the black durag framing his face, it was a visual hazard.

"You know," I murmured, my voice dropping into a low, teasing purr as I let my gaze slowly travel down his bare, carved chest, "it's honestly offensive to be this talented. Are you trying to intimidate me, Mr. Oguayo?"

Nnamdi didn't look up immediately, but a slow, smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. The charcoal scratched steadily against the board for another second before he lifted his gaze, his heavy-lidded eyes pinning me to the spot.

"Just trying to capture my favorite view, sweetface," he rumbled smoothly, his deep voice sliding over me like velvet. "Though it's kind of hard to concentrate when you're looking at me like that."

"Like what?" I batted my eyelashes with feigned innocence, shifting my pose just a fraction to make the dress slip lower against my shoulder. "I'm just sitting here, being a professional muse. You're the one standing there half-naked showing off."

"I told you, I was protecting my clothes," he teased, though his eyes flared with a hot, hungry spark that betrayed his innocent words. He took a few steps closer to the easel, his gaze darting between me and the canvas as his hand moved with fluid precision.

"Mm-hm. Sure you were," I laughed softly, my pulse hammering a frantic, eager rhythm against my ribs. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, the air heavy with the scent of cedarwood, wine, and pure, unfiltered chemistry. "If your technique on the canvas is half as good as your technique everywhere else, I might just have to commission a whole gallery."

Nnamdi paused, lowering the charcoal entirely. He let out a low, rich chuckle that vibrated across the loft, stepping out from behind the easel and dropping the sketching tool onto the rolling cart.

"Yeah?" he murmured, closing the distance between us in two long, effortless strides. He stopped right in front of the modeling stand, resting his large, warm hands on either side of my hips, his thumbs tracing slow, burning circles against my bare waist. "You want to talk about technique, pretty lady?"

My breath hitched, my hands automatically coming up to rest against his wide shoulders, my fingers sinking into the warm skin.

"If we're going to do this portrait right, Mr. Oguayo, you need an accurate reference for the drapery," I murmured, my voice dropping into a sultry, deliberate register as the wine gave me all the courage I could ever ask for.

Nnamdi's hands tightened instinctively on my hips, his dark eyes narrowing with a sharp, warning intensity. "What are you doing, sweetface?"

"Just helping my artist out," I whispered with a wicked little smile.

With slow, deliberate movements, my fingers found the delicate halter tie at the back of my neck and untied it. Before he could stop me, the vibrant green and yellow paisley fabric slipped down my arms, pooling completely around my hips and leaving me entirely topless in the warm, flickering candlelight.

Nnamdi’s breath caught sharply in his chest, his gaze dropping instantly. The dark, heavy-lidded hunger in his eyes flared so hot it practically scorched the air between us. His jaw clenched tight, the muscle ticking as he forced himself to look back up into my eyes, fighting a monumental battle between wanting to finish what he started and honoring the canvas waiting behind him.

"You're testing me on purpose, mama," he groaned, his deep voice rough and strained.

"Is it working?" I teased, sliding off the modeling stand and letting the dress rest precariously low on my hips as I walked past him toward the easel. The cool studio air brushed against my bare skin, but the heat of his gaze tracking my every step made me feel entirely feverish.

I paused beside the canvas, turning back to flash him a triumphant, teasing grin. "Catch me if you can, babe."

Nnamdi let out a low, groaning laugh, shaking his head as he finally relented. He grabbed his charcoal and moved back to his spot with hyper-focused speed, muttering under his breath about how he was going to pay for this later.

For the next several minutes, the studio was filled with the rhythmic scratch of charcoal. He worked with a fierce, concentrated intensity, his eyes darting between my silhouette and the board. Finally, with a sharp breath, he stepped back, wiping a smudge of dust from his thumb.

"Alright," he rumbled, his voice thick with a mixture of artistic triumph and sheer restraint. "The outline's done. You can move."

I grinned, stepping away from the pose and walking slowly toward him, completely unbothered by being topless, letting the loose dress sway low around my hips. "Already? Let me see your masterpiece, then. If you made me look anything less than magnificent, I'm demanding a refund."

Nnamdi chuckled, turning the easel slightly so I could see the raw, dynamic sketch taking shape on the board. The proportions were striking, capturing the curve of my shoulder and the arch of my spine with breathtaking accuracy.

"Damn," I breathed genuinely, the wine softening my voice as I looked up at him through my lashes. "Okay, Mr. Oguayo. I see you."

A proud, handsome smile broke across his face, but a sudden, mischievous glint flashed in his dark eyes as he looked down at me. He reached over to the rolling utility cart, picking up a paintbrush loaded with thick, rich black pigment.

"Since you wanted to be part of the process so bad," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he stepped directly behind me, "let's see how you do."

He pressed his warm chest against my bare back, wrapping his massive arms around me to guide my positioning. Standing right in front of him, entirely topless within the secure circle of his embrace, sent a fresh jolt of electricity straight to my core.

He took my right hand in his large, calloused grip, guiding my fingers to curl around the wooden handle of the paintbrush. With his other hand, he reached out, dipping the tip into a fresh dab of paint on the palette.

"Hold it steady, pretty lady," he whispered right against my ear, his breath hot and sending shivers cascading down my spine.

He pressed his hand over mine, guiding our arms forward until the brush touched the canvas. Together, we pulled a long, smooth stroke across the board, blending the dark pigments into the stark white space.

"There," he murmured, his chin resting softly against my shoulder. "Not bad for an amateur."

"I'm a natural," I whispered back, a breathless laugh escaping my lips.

Only, as he pulled back just an inch to admire our handiwork, the end of the paintbrush he was holding accidentally flicked forward, leaving a neat, dark smudge of wet paint right in the center of my chest.

Nnamdi froze, his eyes widening slightly as he stared down at the mark. "Ah— shit. Sweetface, I didn't mean—"

I looked down at the paint, then back up at him, a spark of playful retaliation instantly overtaking any lingering composure. The two and a half glasses of wine demanded chaos.

"Oh, so that's how we're playing?" I declared.

Before he could react, I dipped my index finger right into the jar of black pigment on the cart, spun around in his arms, and firmly smeared a thick stripe of paint right across his carved, bare chest.

Nnamdi let out a sharp gasp of disbelief, staring down at his chest before snapping his dark eyes back up to mine. A slow, dangerous, incredibly handsome smirk spread across his face.

"You did not just do that."

"I did," I laughed, already starting to back away across the paint-spattered drop cloths as he advanced on me like a predator. "And what about it, Mr. Artist?"

"Oh, you're going to pay for that one," he rumbled, lunging forward with a laugh as the art lesson officially devolved into a full-scale war.

Before I could dodge, he grabbed a handful of black pigment, but I ducked, planting both of my paint-covered palms flat against his broad, bare chest. I shoved him back, leaving two stark, perfect handprints of black paint stamped across his chiseled muscles.

Nnamdi stopped dead in his tracks, staring down at his chest before looking back up at me. His heavy-lidded eyes darkened instantly, shifting from amusement into something fiercely intense.

"Oh, you're playing with fire now, mama," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as a shiver raced straight down my spine.

He didn't hesitate. He lunged once more, catching me by the waist and pulling me flush against his hard, warm body. As we collided, the momentum sent us stumbling backward, and the loose, unspooled green and yellow dress slipped completely down my arms, pooling uselessly at our ankles as we hit the floor.

The air rushed out of my lungs. The playful paint war evaporated in a single heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, thick, suffocating wave of pure, unadulterated tension.

Nnamdi's large, warm hands splayed across my bare skin, leaving dark, messy handprints of wet black paint mapped heavily against my stomach, my hips, and gripping firmly around my backside as he lifted me effortlessly against him. My fingers, slick with the same black pigment, dug deep into the smooth muscles of his back, clawing blindly as I pulled him down with me.

We fell together onto the soft, paint-splattered canvas drop cloths spread across the floor right next to the wooden stool, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows over us. The air didn't exist anymore; there was only the suffocating heat of his body, and the raw, frantic rhythm of our breathing.

I scrambled on top of him, my hands moving frantically to the waistband of his shorts, working the drawstring loose before dragging them down and kicking them entirely away. Once he was completely bare, exposed to the candlelight, the sight of him sent an immediate jolt of electricity straight to my center. He was damn near hard as a missile, thick and straining against the heavy, undeniable friction of our bodies.

My fingers, still slick with dark black pigment, couldn't resist. I dragged my painted hands down his chest, tracing the carved lines of his ribs and mapping the trembling muscles of his hips, leaving fresh, messy strokes of black art across his skin.

He let out a low, gravelly groan, his eyes flashing with a desperate heat. But he didn't rush. He was the artist, and I was his muse, and he knew exactly how to orchestrate every single stroke.

With a sudden, seamless shift of momentum, he flipped us, capturing my lips in a kiss that was heavy, demanding, and so intensely sensual it made my head spin. Our bodies collided with a wet, frictionless slide as the black paint smeared between us like a second skin, mixing with our sweat under the dim glow of the candles. His mouth devoured mine while his hands mapped every inch of my body, tracing the curves of my waist and sliding firmly up to cup my ass, lifting me just enough to drive deep inside me.

A broken cry shattered against his lips. It was absolute perfection— he always filled me up completely, hitting every single sensitive nerve with a rhythm so precise and devastatingly right that I immediately lost all sense of time and space.

He slowed his pace just a fraction, keeping his heavy-lidded eyes locked onto my face. Nnamdi didn't just feel what I was feeling; he watched it. He knew every micro-expression by heart, the exact tilt of my head when he hit my sweet spot, the way my eyelids fluttered, and the precise moment when the pleasure started building into a blinding, unbearable wave. He knew when I was right on the verge of cumming, and he knew the exact cadence that would force me to beg for more. Hearing those broken, breathless pleas tumble from my lips was his absolute favorite thing in the world.

"Look at me, pretty lady," he mumbled against my jaw, his deep voice thick with possession.

As the coil inside me wound tighter and tighter, my eyes instinctively drifted shut, my head rolling back as I tried to surrender completely to the incoming wave. But Nnamdi wouldn't have it.

His large, warm hand slid smoothly up my painted stomach, tracing a path through the dark smears of pigment until his fingers wrapped firmly around my throat. His thumb pressed gently against the side of my neck while his long fingers spanned around the curve of my hip, anchoring me in place. He was fiercely dominant, demanding every ounce of my attention.

"Open your eyes," he commanded, his deep voice vibrating through my entire soul as he hammered into me from above me, driving me relentlessly toward the edge.

I forced my eyes open, staring straight into his dark, burning gaze as the orgasm finally tore through me like a lightning strike. My vision blurred, my back arching off the drop cloths as I cried out his name, completely undone by the intensity of his gaze locked onto mine while he dismantled me piece by piece.

My body spasmed tight around him, milking every drop of friction as I shattered completely under his hands.

And as the aftershocks rippled through my trembling limbs, leaving me breathless and gasping against his chest, I knew with absolute, dizzying certainty that this was only the first.

The first wave of my climax still lingered in shivers across my skin, leaving me boneless and gasping against his chest. But he wasn't about to let me drift.

Before I could catch my breath or even begin to recover from the blinding intensity of the first wave, Nnamdi's hands shifted. With effortless, commanding strength, he pulled me up, settling me right against his hips as he sat up, seamlessly shifting us into the lotus position.

Wrapping my legs around his waist, I found myself facing him entirely, pulled flush against his broad, heated chest. The intimacy of the position was almost indecent. Every single inch of our skin was slick with a mix of sweat and smeared black paint, sealing us together like a second skin.

Nnamdi loved this position for a reason. It was devastatingly dangerous for me, especially when I was already this sensitive. He knew my weaknesses by heart. The exact angle, the deep, unyielding pressure, and the way he could anchor me against his body while he fucked me. He knew it made me surrender completely, stripping away any remaining shreds of my defenses with a terrifying quickness.

And I didn't even try to fight it. Not a single ounce of me wanted to. A slow, proud smirk touched the corners of his lips as he felt my surrender, knowing he had completely broken me in the best possible way.

Outside, surrounded by the quiet Florida wilderness and thankful that there wasn't another soul for miles, the only sound in the candlelit studio was our ragged breathing and the soft slap of skin against skin.

He grabbed my hips, lifting me just an inch before driving up into me with a heavy, deliberate stroke that made my vision white-out.

"Fuuuuck..." he groaned, his voice dropping into a low, filthy rasp right against my ear. "Look at you. Taking every inch like a good girl for me. You love this, don't you, mama?"

I buried my face in the crook of his neck, letting out a shattered whimper as he set a punishing, gorgeous rhythm. But Nnamdi wouldn't let me hide. His large, warm hand came up, sliding into my hair and gently tilting my chin up so I had no choice but to meet his gaze.

Instead of demanding I stay open-eyed this time, his mouth captured mine in a kiss that was heavy, wet, and intensely sensual. He devoured my lips while his hips kept hammering upward, driving me straight toward a second orgasm with terrifying speed. The friction was excruciatingly good, melting the remaining marrow in my bones.

"I've got you, baby," he murmured, his breath hot against my lips as he kissed the corners of my mouth, pressing deep, reverent kisses to my cheeks and eyelids even as he tore me apart from the inside out. "You're doing so good, pretty lady. Let go for me. Come on, sweetface, give me one more."

The combination of his filthy, praise-filled reassurances, the rough slide of his hands gripping my waist, and the relentless, deep thrusts shattered my last remaining thread of control.

My second orgasm ripped through me with a violent, electric intensity. I cried out against his mouth, my eyes fluttering shut as my inner walls clamped down tight around him, milking every single pulse of his length.

The sudden, vice-like squeeze of my climax was his undoing. A dark, guttural growl tore from the back of Nnamdi’s throat. His rhythm shattered, turning wild and frantic as his own control snapped.

"Ah, shit—," he groaned, burying his face in my neck as he surged upward one last, punishing time, burying himself as deep as humanly possible.

His body went rigid, a series of powerful, shuddering tremors wracking his massive frame as he poured himself into me. He held me so tightly against his chest I could feel the erratic, thunderous thrum of his heartbeat matching my own, both of us dissolving completely into the paint-soaked drop cloths beneath us, breathless, trembling, and entirely undone.

For a long, lingering stretch of time, neither of us moved. We remained completely fused together right there on the paint spattered drop cloths in the center of the studio, neither of us willing to break the spell or disrupt the heavy, exhausted bliss washing over our skin.

Nnamdi’s arms were still wrapped securely around my back, his broad chest rising and falling in slow, steady rhythms against mine. The smeared black paint had dried cool against our skin, locking us together in a messy, artistic embrace.

"You good, baby?" he murmured quietly, his warm breath brushing softly against the crown of my head as his fingers traced lazy, rhythmic circles up and down my spine.

I let out a soft, contented sigh, pressing my cheek a little deeper into the warm hollow of his shoulder. "I think I might actually be paralyzed, Mr. Oguayo. But in a very good way."

He let out a low, rumbling chuckle that vibrated right through me, kissing the top of my head with a lingering, tender reverence.

As the frantic thrum of our heartbeats slowly began to quiet down to match the steady crackle of the surrounding candles, I turned my face slightly, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. The dim amber light caught the soft, affectionate crinkles at the corners of his dark eyes.

"Thank you," I whispered softly, my voice laced with genuine awe as my fingers gently traced the edge of a black paint smudge on his collarbone. "For bringing me here... for letting me in to see what you create. It's... Nnamdi, it's genuinely breathtaking. All of it."

A faint, handsome flush darkened the warm skin of his cheeks. He looked away for a fraction of a second, a rare flicker of bashfulness crossing his sharp features before his heavy-lidded gaze locked back onto mine.

"I told you it was my quiet place," he replied, his voice dropping into that smooth, comforting register that always melted my defenses. "I just... I'm glad you like it. Even if half the inspiration was just you sitting around looking pretty for the last eight months without knowing it."

I let out a breathless, fond laugh, swatting playfully at his chest. "You were stalking me with a paintbrush for months?"

"Observing," he corrected smoothly, a wicked smirk touching his lips as he tightened his grip around my waist. "Appreciating my muse. There's a distinct difference, pretty lady."

The moment was so effortlessly sweet, warm, and deeply intimate that it made my chest ache in the best possible way. Beneath the imposing, quiet exterior of an NXT wrestler and a man of a million secrets was a complete sweetheart who had built an entire sanctuary just to share his soul with me.

After lingering on the floor for a while longer, slowly untangling ourselves from the canvas and the mess of dried paint, Nnamdi finally helped me up.

"Come on," he murmured, pulling me gently toward the sleek, modern bathroom we had toured earlier. "Let's go get this off our skin."

Once we stepped into the glass-walled shower and the warm, rainfall water washed away the sweat, the paint, and the exhaustion of the evening, a sudden logistical realization hit me.

I leaned against the tiled wall, looking up at him as he rinsed the dark pigment from his braids. "Wait... We didn't bring any extra clothes. I left my apartment in a backless dress that is currently sitting in a puddle of black paint on the floor."

Nnamdi paused, turning off the water and sliding open the glass door. He reached for one of the plush, oversized charcoal-grey towels, wrapping it securely around his waist before stepping out to grab something from the double vanity.

He turned back with a knowing, infuriatingly smug grin plastered across his handsome face, holding out a neat stack of fresh clothes.

"Please tell me you didn't pack an entire wardrobe for me in advance," I blinked, stepping out of the shower and wrapping my own towel around myself.

"Of course I did, sweetface," he laughed softly, handing me a pair of clean, soft cotton sweatpants and one of his oversized, premium black graphic T-shirts. "Though, let's be real... I already knew you'd end up wearing my clothes by the end of the night anyway."

I rolled my eyes, a fond, helpless smile breaking across my face as I took the clothes from his hands. "You're entirely too smug for your own good."

"Just thorough," he teased, pressing a warm kiss to my lips. "Take your time, babe. I'm gonna go clean up."

Sometime in the deep, hazy hours of the night , after the candles had burned down to stubborn little pools of wax and the studio had grown blissfully quiet , we had finally migrated to the low platform bed in the back room, only to lose control and fall completely undone all over again in the dark.

When the first pale wash of dawn began to bleed across the Florida sky, tinting the horizon in shades of bruised violet and soft gold, I woke up feeling completely wrapped up.

Nnamdi was still sound asleep beside me, one heavy, muscular arm thrown protectively over my bare waist, keeping me flush against his warm chest.

Careful not to wake him, I gently lifted his arm, slid out from under his warm weight, and slipped back into one of his oversized t-shirts.

Padding quietly across the cool hardwood floors, I made my way toward the side windows to watch the sunrise paint the tree line in brilliant shades of amber and rose. But as I passed the main studio space, my steps stuttered to a complete halt.

The easel, which had held the rough charcoal sketch from the evening before, now bore a completely finished masterpiece.

I walked closer, my breath catching as I stared up at the canvas. It wasn't the exact pose from when I had been modeling on the stand; instead, it was something raw, fluid, and intensely intimate.

Set against a stark, deep black background, the striking silhouette captured the sweeping, elegant arch of a woman's back, illuminated by brilliant highlights of white and charcoal. It was fluid, abstract, and breathtakingly powerful, the visual embodiment of vulnerability and grace.

A profound wave of pride and fierce affection swelled in my chest. Even though it didn't match the rigid lines of the pose I had held, it captured something so much deeper. It captured how he felt when he looked at me.

Standing there in the quiet solitude of the morning light, staring up at the piece he had stayed up to finish long after I had drifted off to sleep, a quiet inner dialogue settled over my heart.

For eight whole months, I had wondered about the quiet corners of his mind—those moments when his gaze would drift inward and he would retreat deep into his own head. I used to think it was just a wall he put up to keep the noise of the world out. But seeing myself through his eyes, translated onto a canvas with such fierce, unspoken devotion, I finally understood.

He didn't disappear to push me away. He retreated to a place where he could love me louder, capturing the small, hidden pieces of us that words could never quite reach. He saw me not just as a girlfriend sharing his space, but as his art, his muse, and his peace.

And as I heard the heavy floorboards creak behind me and felt two warm, heavy arms wrap around my waist from behind, pulling me back against his bare chest as a low, morning-rough voice murmured against my ear, I knew I never wanted to be anywhere else.

"Early riser, sweetface."

I leaned back into him, resting my head against his shoulder as we both looked up at the canvas.

"You stayed up and finished it," I whispered, a fond smile breaking across my face.

"Couldn't sleep," he murmured, pressing a slow, tender kiss to my temple. "Had to get it out of my head. What do you think, pretty lady?"

I covered his warm hands with my own, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my spine.

"I think," I whispered back, my heart swelling to bursting, "it's perfect, baby."

He let out a low hum, before slightly squeezing his arms, "I know."

--------------------------------------

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