4
1510 Words
I sipped the Earl Grey slowly, letting the warmth calm my nerves. Charles had settled across from me at the long neatly cleaned counter, his sleeves pushed up, a faint crease between his brows. He looked more relaxed now, less like the elusive fashion icon and more like a man who enjoyed good tea and even better company.
“This blend,” I said, cradling the cup, “it’s perfect. Subtle, but strong. Like your designs, actually.”
His mouth twitched with a small smile. “You see connections in everything, don’t you?”
I shrugged, embarrassed but pleased. “It’s just how my brain works. I guess it’s the storyteller in me.”
“You’ve got a rare gift,” he said, setting his cup down gently. “You don’t just write—you feel. That’s what made me agree to this as I have been reading your blogs since my niece told me about you.”
His words caught me off guard.
Yes Daddy, f**k me already.
I wasn’t used to such direct praise, especially not from someone like him. For a moment, I just stared into my tea, unsure how to respond.
“You know,” he added after a pause, “most people just want to know about the money, the fame, the ‘scandalous details’ of the brand’s growth. But you… you’re interested in the story under the fabric.”
He was wrong for this part, really wrong. I was interested in the d**k!
I was interested in the meat under the fabric, f**k!
His deep baritone voice was not helping at all
Why was he so slow to pick up the fact that my p***y had turned into brewing refinery by just staring at him.
But I had to play pretend.
I looked up, feeling my cheeks warm. “That’s the real story, isn’t it? Not the headlines, but the heartbeat.”
We shared a quiet smile.
Then, because the silence was starting to feel a little too long, I glanced around and said, “You’re so put together. I wonder what you home would look like, I guess beautiful. It would feel lived-in but still elegant. Like someone who reads a lot and appreciates silence.”
That was my first shot at him trying to know I wanted a special invite to his house already.
He chuckled. “That’s oddly accurate. I like space. I don’t do well with too much noise.”
“I’m the opposite,” I replied. “I love a bit of chaos. The fashion shows, the street markets, the back alleys of cities most people wouldn’t bother with. There’s always something unexpected.”
“Have you travelled much?”
“Not as much as I want to,” I admitted. “But I’ve got a list. Paris, obviously. Tokyo, for the edge. Lagos for colour and culture. You?”
“Been to all three,” he said, eyes distant for a second. “But not as a tourist. Always work. Never really had the luxury to wander and enjoy.”
“That’s sad,” I said without thinking. “All that beauty, and you’re too busy to take it in?”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Maybe I didn’t have the right reason to slow down.”
There was something about the way he looked at me then—curious, as if he was still working out whether I was the reason or just another observer passing through his world.
I quickly changed the subject. “Did you always want to do fashion?”
God knows the conversation was beginning to taste like burnt fried egg. I was too thirsty for this man to sit through this conversation and not show him how much I want him.
He leaned back in his chair and exhaled. “No. At first, I wanted to build houses. Be an architect. I used to draw buildings in the back of my school books.”
“What changed?”
“My mother.” His voice softened. “She was a seamstress. Small jobs. Hemming trousers, fixing zips. One day I saw her hand-stitch a gown from scratch. No pattern. Just instinct. It was… magic.”
I smiled. “So you inherited the eye?”
“Maybe. But not the patience,” he said, laughing. “She always said I was too stubborn to sew straight.”
“You know,” I said, resting my chin in my hand, “if you ever get tired of anonymity, you’d make a brilliant public speaker. Your voice alone could sell fabric.”
This was my second shot, the high witches of whoredom were dancing around my head like stubborn flies .
He raised an eyebrow. “Trying to get me out of hiding already?”
“Not at all,” I said, grinning. “But your story deserves to be heard. Even if it’s just on tape.”
There was a warm silence after that. The kind that didn’t feel awkward or empty—just… easy. I caught myself staring at the faint scruff on his jaw, the way his hands moved when he talked. Elegant. Precise.
Those hands certainly looked like they knew where they belonged, inside the warm depths of my v****a and if this man failed to catch this vibe, I dont know what I would do.
Stop it, I warned myself. He’s Olivia’s uncle. He’s also your dream interview. Do not be that girl who falls for the ingredients and gets cooked...
But my imagination was already ahead of me. I pictured him f*****g me while standing, thrashing me against the wall upclose, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Saying something soft, just for me. His lips—
I blinked hard, forcing my gaze away. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “Got lost in thought.”
He tilted his head, amused. “Anything interesting?”
“Oh, you know,” I said with forced lightness, “just how I’m going to write the most professional blog post ever without sounding like a complete fangirl.”
“You can be honest,” he said. “That’s what makes you good.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could, my phone buzzed. A message from Olivia.
Olivia: Did you thank me yet? Or are you too busy trying to get your next scoop from my uncle?
I nearly choked on my tea and quickly flipped the screen over.
“Everything okay?” Charles asked.
“Fine. Just Olivia being… Olivia.”
He chuckled knowingly. “She means well, even when she’s meddling.”
“She really does,” I said. Then I added, more seriously, “She’s always believed in me, even when I didn’t. If not for her, I’d probably still be writing blog posts for five followers and a dog.”
He looked at me intently. “And now?”
“Now?” I smiled. “Now I’m having tea with the one man I’ve dreamt of interviewing for years.”
He seemed to weigh that for a second before saying, “It won’t be the last time.”
I blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said slowly, “if you ever want more access—for future pieces, behind-the-scenes stories, even event coverage—I trust you.”
The weight of his words settled on me like silk. “You’re serious?”
“Completely.”
I stood then, needing to move, needing to process. I wandered toward nothing in particular. I need to rub my thighs together my v****a was aching and begging for his d**k.
He joined me, looking over my shoulder. “My parents. That’s Olivia’s mum there. We were close.”
There was something tender in his voice, a softness that made him feel more human, less distant.
“You’ve got layers to yourself,” I said.
“So do you,” he replied.
The clock chimed softly in the distance. I realised how much time had passed.
“I should go,” I said reluctantly, reaching for my bag. “I’ve taken enough of your evening.”
“You haven’t,” he said, walking me to the door. “This was… refreshing.”
We paused at the threshold. The air was warm, scented with the salt of the bay.
“Thank you, Charles,” I said sincerely. “For trusting me. For opening up this much.”
“Thank you,” he said back, and there was something in his eyes again. Something I couldn’t quite name.
I was disappointed. I wanted him eating my couchie, but there he was staring at me.
Just when I had lost all hope for an invite, he cleared his throat and said.
“You should come by my house some time, here is my address. We can have a proper interview then. Keep this a secret from Olivia!”
Definitely!
This part of the tea was forbidden, Olivia was certainly not going to sip this one.
- Writer
