uGULUVA Chapter 23

NCANEZWE CELE.

He looks down at himself the moment the bathroom door clicks shut behind her, a quiet curse slipping from his lips.

“Fuck, Ncanezwe,” he mutters, adjusting himself as he draws in a slow, frustrated breath.

That was a mistake. The cuddling. The closeness. He tells himself it is harmless, just a test of control. But somewhere between her warmth against his chest and the way she fits there so naturally, something shifts. He does not plan on wanting more. He does not plan on the instinct that rises so fiercely inside him—the need to hold her longer, shield her, claim the space around her as off-limits to the world.

And that is dangerous.

Something about this woman dismantles him quietly. The way she breathes. The way her presence alone stirs something primal in him. He does not need to touch her to feel it; just seeing her is enough to make his body react, to make his discipline waver.

He stares into nothing, his jaw tightening. He does not feel. He does not attach. And Phindile—no matter how tempting, no matter how easy it feels to forget himself around her—will not be the one to break his rules.

He exhales slowly, grounding himself. He just needs to play the game well.

*

[CONTAINS EXPLICIT CONTENT. READER’S DISCRETION IS ADVISED.]

PHINDILE GWALA.

I sit down on the toilet seat and release a slow breath as I finally pee, my body relaxing while my mind refuses to do the same. My thoughts keep circling back to what I woke up to. This man left for two hours—two whole hours—and somehow returned without me noticing, then pulled me into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I don’t remember hearing the door. Don’t remember footsteps. Nothing. Maybe I was too deep in sleep. Or maybe he moves like silence itself. The thought sends a strange shiver through me. When I’m done, I flush and stand, washing my hands longer than necessary, watching my reflection in the mirror. My face looks calm, but my eyes give me away—wide, curious, unsettled. I smooth my palms over my thighs, as if grounding myself, then turn off the tap and step out of the bathroom.

The first thing I notice is his back. Bare. Broad. Solid. He’s standing near the window, trousers hanging low on his hips, the early morning light carving shadows along his shoulders and spine. Smoke curls lazily from his fingers, thin and deliberate, as if even the cigarette knows better than to rush him. The room smells faintly of soap, sleep… and him.

I stop just inside the bedroom. He turns the moment he senses me, and our eyes meet. Something in his gaze has changed. His eyes are darker now, narrowed slightly, the playful ease from earlier replaced with something heavier. Controlled. Tense. Like a man holding himself back by sheer will. I feel it instantly—the weight on his shoulders, the air between us tightening.

My eyes betray me.

They drift, slow and unintentional, from his face, down his chest, over the hard lines of his stomach, and lower still. My throat goes dry. I swallow hard when I realise what I’m looking at, heat rushing to my cheeks before I can stop it as they stop at his d, is he really… that big?

He clears his throat, the sound low and rough, pulling me out of my spiral.

“My face is up here, Mamacita,” he says.

His voice is deeper than before, edged with something that makes my stomach flip—hunger, maybe. Or pride. Or both.

I snap my gaze back to his face, mortified, my heart hammering against my ribs.

“Sorry,” I mumble, though I’m not sure what I’m apologising for—looking, or feeling the way I do.

The corner of his mouth lifts, not quite a smile. More like a warning. He takes one last drag, then flicks the cigarette away, crushing it out with his foot as he steps closer. Not too close. Just enough for me to feel him. The silence stretches, thick and charged. And suddenly, I’m painfully aware of everything—my bare legs, my shallow breathing, the way the morning light makes this moment feel too intimate, too real.

“You sleep like the world can’t touch you,” he says calmly. “Didn’t even stir.”

I shrug lightly, keeping my eyes on the floor. “I was tired.”

His lips twitch—not quite a smile, not quite a warning. “Dangerous habit.”

The word dangerous settles heavily in my chest, lodging itself somewhere between my ribs. I don’t respond. I just watch him from the corner of my eye as he lets out a low chuckle, crushing the cigarette between his fingers with practiced ease, as if it had never meant anything at all. I turn toward the wardrobe, suddenly desperate for distance, for movement, for something to anchor me. I need to bath. I need water, quiet, space.

“We’re going outside for a swim after breakfast,” Ncanezwe says casually, like he isn’t aware of the way his presence shifts the air in the room. “Then we’ll come back, get ready for the anniversary date. You can get ready.”

He picks up his shirt from the coffee table, shaking it out slowly. I say nothing. I focus on pulling clothes from the suiticase inside the wardrobe —something light, something safe—pretending my hands aren’t trembling.

Seconds stretch. Too many of them. Then I feel it. His presence. Close. Too close. Fuck. Why didn’t I answer him?

I freeze as he steps in behind me. He doesn’t touch me—doesn’t need to. His breath brushes my neck, warm and deliberate, sending a shiver straight down my spine. I barely breathe, afraid that if I do, he’ll notice just how affected I am.

“Did you hear me, Mamacita?” he asks softly.

I nod, the movement small, almost invisible.

“Words, mama.”

My throat feels dry. My mind empties. How does he expect me to speak when he’s standing there like this, when every nerve in my body is suddenly awake? His breath shifts again, closer this time, like he’s testing how much control I have left.

“Yes,” I whisper finally, the word catching on my lips.

He inhales slowly, like he’s memorising me, then exhales and steps back, reclaiming his distance as if nothing happened—as if he didn’t just unravel me in silence.

“I’ll check up on the brothers,” he says, already walking toward the door.

The door clicks shut behind him. I stand there alone, clothes clutched to my chest, heart racing, trying to understand what just happened—and why it feels like the most dangerous thing in the world wasn’t my sleep at all, but the way he can walk away and leave me like this. What the f-uck was that?

I straighten slowly when I feel it again—that unwanted, undeniable warmth. My spine stiffens, my breath catching for half a second before I force it steady. What the f-uck was that?

I don’t allow myself to linger on the thought. I move instead, because moving is easier than thinking. I pull out my beige swimwear, smoothing it between my fingers, then a matching mini dress and my black sandals. I arrange them carefully on the bed, too carefully, like order might fix what my body refuses to listen to. My toiletry bag follows, placed neatly beside them. Everything feels deliberate. Controlled. Unlike me.

I slip out of my pajamas, my skin flushed, hypersensitive, as if every nerve ending has decided to wake up all at once. Heat rushes through me again and I pause, palms braced against the edge of the bed, head bowed.

When was the last time I felt like this? Not just aroused—unsettled. Thrown off balance. My chest rises and falls a little too fast. I close my eyes briefly, then grab my bathing cloth and turn toward the bathroom before my thoughts can spiral any further.

Cold water. That’s what I need. Something to shock sense back into me.

I turn on the shower first, the sound of rushing water filling the bathroom. I adjust my hair with steady hands, slipping on a shower cap, the routine grounding me in familiar motions. I step under the spray without hesitation.

The cold hits immediately.

I gasp softly as it bites into my skin, my shoulders tensing as a shiver runs through me. I stand there, unmoving, letting the water cascade over me, down my back, over my arms, my legs—everywhere—like it’s trying to rinse something away.

I close my eyes. At first, it works. My breathing slows. The noise drowns out everything else. Then my mind betrays me. His breath on my neck. His voice slips in quietly, uninvited. Calm. Controlled. Too close. The way he looked at me earlier—measured, unreadable, as if he saw more than he let on. My chest tightens. My breath stutters. I swallow.

I draw a slow breath, my body reacting before my mind can catch up. My hand lingers against my boobies, a quiet, grounding touch as heat curls low in my stomach. I bite down on my lip, steadying the sound that threatens to slip free, forcing myself to stay silent, controlled—even as my pulse betrays me.

“No,” I murmur to myself, barely audible over the water removing the hand from my titties but the image sharpens anyway. Not something he did—something he could do. Something about the way he occupies space, the way silence bends around him. My palms lift instinctively to my chest again, fingers curling slightly as I squeeze my right boob again and I let out a low moan.

This is ridiculous, I think.

Dangerous. But instead I avoid my thoughts and I let my hand fall slowly down there and I rub my c-lit while my breath hitching as the thought of him settles over me. The cold water traces my skin.

I close my eyes and give in to the feeling building low in my body while I insert one finger inside myself and soft sound slips from my lips—unrestrained, needy.

“Oh…”

My hips shift instinctively, chasing the ache, my pulse quickening as the heat intensifies. Every sensation feels sharper—the water, my breath, the way my body responds to the image of him so vividly in my mind. I move with the rhythm of that thought, slow at first, then more urgent, adding another finger and my breathing uneven.

“Oh God…”

Pleasure coils tighter, the world narrowing to nothing but sensation and want. My head tilts back, a broken cry escaping me…

*

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