Got Carried Away

Got Carried Away

After a few hours, I was at home, lounging in my favorite chair, watching a movie on Sony Max. I had just finished my house chores and was finally enjoying some quiet time when the doorbell rang.

"Who is there?" I called out.

"Come on, will you open the door for me?"

Wow. That voice. I knew it instantly—it was Cynthia.

Without wasting a second, I hurried to the door and swung it open. And there she was, standing with a small tray in her hands. It was neatly covered, but I could already catch the aroma of something fried—probably chin-chin.

"Can I come in?" she asked, her eyes locking onto mine. I must have looked dazed because I just stood there, frozen in place. I wasn’t expecting her, and damn, she looked gorgeous. With the tray in her hands, she reminded me of a traditional Igbo bride on her wedding day.

"Oh, please, forgive my manners," I finally said, stepping aside to let her in.

She walked straight to the chair and settled down. "What are you watching? And do you eat chin-chin?" she asked as she placed the tray on the table.

Is that chin-chin? I thought to myself. Of course, I do—I love the crunchy part.

"Yeah, I do," I said out loud, taking a seat next to her.

She unwrapped the tray, revealing golden, freshly made chin-chin. The scent of warm flour, milk, and butter filled the air. Without hesitation, I grabbed a handful and popped some into my mouth. It was still warm—crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, and full of flavor.

"You made this?" I asked, savoring the taste as it melted in my mouth.

"Yeah! You like it?" she asked with a slight blush.

"Of course. You must be really good in the kitchen," I said.

She chuckled. "Well, I wouldn’t call myself a pro, but I do enjoy cooking. Snacks, though? Not so much. But I love cakes! Oh my God, I could live on cakes."

We laughed, talking about food while watching the movie. The evening felt warm and easy, filled with the crunch of chin-chin and soft laughter. But then, Cynthia started getting sleepy. She shifted in her seat, stretched, and then—without a word—laid her head on my thighs.

At that moment, the movie faded into the background. The only thing that mattered was her—my Cynthia. I let my fingers trail gently through her hair, feeling the silkiness of each strand. Our eyes met, and for a second, it felt like time stopped.

Slowly, I moved my hand to her face, tracing her cheek with my fingertips. I didn’t want to startle her or be misunderstood, so I was careful—gentle. But as soon as my hand brushed her skin, she inhaled sharply and opened her eyes.

God. The warmth of her breath against my fingers sent a wave of something deep and unexplainable through me. A longing. A pull.

A moment hung between us, thick with something unspoken. And all I could think was—this, right here, was a dangerous kind of temptation.

Just look at her. See how beautiful she is. Her skin glows, smooth and radiant, even under my unskilled touch. And those lips—plump, soft, and tempting, like rose petals. Every time she speaks, her voice is like a melody, sweet and soothing to my soul. Her eyes, deep and honest, pull me in, and that smile—God, that smile! It’s so infectious that whenever she smiles, I can’t help but smile too.

And let’s talk about her natural beauty—flawless even without makeup. She looks like a goddess, effortlessly stunning. Her curves are confident, and when she walks, her body moves with grace and power. But beyond all that, it's her heart that captivates me the most. She’s kind, caring, and gentle in a way that makes me want to hold her, to feel her warmth, to taste the sweetness of her lips.

But what if I try and she gets mad? No—I have to be careful, to move with caution.

Slowly, I reached out and caressed her face, my fingers tracing down her soft skin to her neck. As my hand slid over her shoulder, I felt her breath hitch. She bit her lip, her breathing deepening, and when she opened her eyes, she found me staring at her just as intensely.

"I love you, Damie," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

"I love you too, honey," I responded without hesitation.

She reached up, placed her hands on my face, and gently pulled me closer. I felt a slight strain in my spine as she bent me down toward her, but at that moment, I didn’t care. Finally, our lips met.

God! Her lips were soft, warm—perfect.

As we kissed, she let out a quiet sigh, her breath warm against my skin. Her eyes fluttered shut as our lips moved together, tongues exploring, lips sucking. I could feel her body melting into mine. My hands trailed down, and instinctively, I reached for her chest. God, they felt just as soft as they looked. When I gave a gentle squeeze, she moaned—a sweet, intoxicating sound that sent shivers through me.

Emboldened, I lowered my head, pressing soft kisses down her neck until I reached her chest. She hesitated, her voice trembling as she murmured, "No, no, no, baby, please say no."

I paused, unsure if she meant it. But then she did something unexpected—she pressed my head down, guiding me. My heart pounded. She wanted this.

Her nipples were full, thick, and inviting. I took one into my mouth, sucking gently while massaging the other. Her moans grew louder, her body responding to my touch in a way that made my head spin. The more I explored, the more she surrendered.

And then I made a mistake.

I let my hand trail down, slipping beneath the waistband of her pants. That’s where I messed up. I shouldn’t have done that. She was a virgin. I was too. But I should have known better than to rush her like this.

As soon as my hand moved lower, she reacted—just like before.

"No, no, no, baby, please don’t," she said, her voice shaking.

I hesitated. The last time she said no, she didn’t really mean it—right? Maybe this time was the same?

But no. This time, she meant it.

I realized my mistake too late. She pushed me away, sitting up quickly. Her whole body tensed as she adjusted her clothes, looking nervous—almost scared.

That’s when I knew. I had ruined everything.

"Oh dear, forgive me, baby, I got carried away," I said, my voice filled with regret.

She shook her head. "No, I’m sorry. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have come here. It was a bad idea. I knew it from the start."

She sounded shaken, unsure.

"No, please don’t say that," I pleaded. "Come back and sit. I promise I won’t touch you again."

I just wanted to make things right. But when I stepped toward her, she backed away.

"I think I have to go home, Damie. My mom should be back soon."

She stood by the door, her hand on the handle, and I knew there was nothing I could do to change her mind. I even told her to take her chin-chin, but she refused, saying she’d come back for it later when my mom was home.

And just like that—she was gone.

I sat there, completely lost.

That evening, when Mom came home, she looked even more exhausted than usual. Before she arrived, I had already cleaned up every trace of what had almost happened between Cynthia and me. Dinner was ready, too.

It wasn’t like we had a strict division of chores in the house, but I usually made dinner because I knew Mom came home late, tired, and hungry. It wouldn’t be fair to wait for her to cook after a long day.

She had sacrificed so much for me—she still would. That’s why I did whatever I could to make things easier for her.

But tonight, even as we ate, my mind was somewhere else. Thinking about Cynthia. About how I had messed up.

And about whether I would ever get the chance to make things right.