HEAT IN LAGOS - by Bu Kun

The generator’s hum was a lullaby beneath the sounds of the Lagos night—car horns in the distance, the faint echo of Afrobeats spilling from a nearby bar, and the rhythmic whir of the ceiling fan overhead. Amaka stood by the open window of her Lekki flat, the satin robe clinging to her skin, damp from the city’s humid embrace. She had just showered—again—trying to cool the heat that wasn’t just from the weather. Behind her, Chike leaned against the doorway, shirtless, a bead of sweat running down his chest. He had come over to fix the light in her kitchen, or so she had pretended when she called. She didn’t turn when she felt him come closer, but her breath hitched as his fingers gently grazed her waist. "You always call me when something breaks,” he murmured. “And you always come,” she replied, her voice a soft challenge. “I come,” he whispered into her neck, “because I know you want me to.” His hands were firm as they slid around her waist, pulling her back against his chest. She let her head fall to his shoulder, the city’s chaos fading as the quiet storm between them began to build. He kissed the curve of her neck, slowly, reverently, as if Lagos itself had slowed down for this moment. When he turned her to face him, she saw the hunger in his eyes—and the restraint. That made it all the more dangerous. All the more thrilling. “Leave the lights off,” she whispered. “Let’s burn in the dark.” Part 2: "Burn in the Dark" The light from the streetlamps outside cast golden stripes across the room, painting her skin in shadows and fire. Amaka’s breath was shallow now, her body pulsing with anticipation as Chike lifted her effortlessly onto the edge of the windowsill. The marble was cool beneath her thighs, a contrast to the molten warmth between them. “You really want the dark?” he asked, brushing a strand of damp hair from her cheek. “I want the dark,” she murmured, “but not silence.” He kissed her then—slow at first, testing the edge of her desire. She answered with a tug of his bottom lip, a soft bite that made him groan into her mouth. That was the moment the tension snapped. Hands explored without apology—her robe slipped open, his fingers sliding along the curve of her back, tracing the arch she gave him in return. The fan spun above them, unnoticed now, as heat radiated from their joined bodies. Chike took his time, not just touching but learning her again, as if her skin spoke a new dialect each night. She responded with soft sighs and moans that made his restraint unravel. Each gasp became a prayer, each stroke a confession. Outside, Lagos moved on—cars rushing past, life pulsing beyond the walls—but inside her flat, time thickened and curled like incense smoke. There was only her voice whispering his name, only his breath against her collarbone, only their bodies dancing to the slow, relentless rhythm of want. When they finally collapsed against each other, slick with sweat and tangled in sheets, the world slowly returned. She smiled lazily, eyes still half-lidded. “What’s going to break next, so I can call you again?” He chuckled, kissing her shoulder. “Your self-control, maybe.”

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