uGULUVA Chapter 24

NCANEZWE CELE.

I head downstairs, intent on finding the brothers, but my steps slow the moment I pass Qhawe’s room. The door isn’t fully shut. A low groan slips through first—strained, unguarded—followed by his wife’s soft, breathless giggle. I don’t need to see anything. I know exactly what’s happening in there. I turn away immediately.

Something tight coils in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. Instead of continuing downstairs, I change direction and reach for my cigarette, my fingers already itching for it. I need air. I need distance. I light up, inhaling deeply, letting the smoke burn my lungs as if it might cauterise the thoughts clawing their way to the surface.

Because she’s the problem. Being around her does things to me that I don’t like. That I don’t allow. My mind betrays me with images I shouldn’t be entertaining, with urges that feel reckless and loud in a life built on control. I grit my jaw, exhaling smoke slowly, forcing myself to breathe evenly.

This—this is exactly why I keep my distance. I finish the cigarette and decide I’ve given her enough time. More than enough.

When I open the bedroom door and step inside, the first thing that greets me is the sound of running water. Steady. Relentless. I pause, frowning slightly. How long do women take to get ready?

I step in and push the door shut behind me, and that’s when I hear it. A breathless sound—soft but unmistakable—slipping through the noise of the water.

“Ohhhhhh F-ckkk,” my body goes still. Another sound follows, drawn-out, unguarded, like someone lost in the moment. My hand tightens instinctively. F-uck.

I glance toward the bathroom door just as another muffled cry reaches me, more controlled this time, as if she’s catching herself.

“OHHHH GODDD!”

My lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk despite myself. So that’s what she’s been up to. The thought alone sends heat rushing through me, unwelcome and intense.

My body reacts before my mind can shut it down, tension building low and sharp. There’s something about her—something in the way she sounds, the way she exists—that gets under my skin far too easily. I don’t move closer.

Instead, I grab another cigarette and step out onto the balcony, leaving the sliding door slightly open.

Enough to see. Enough to hear if she comes out. I settle into the chair, lighting up again, smoke curling into the air as I stare out at nothing in particular. I’ve been smoking too much since arriving here. I know that.

But it’s the only thing keeping me grounded, keeping my thoughts from spiralling where they shouldn’t. I focus on the slow burn of the cigarette, on the rhythm of inhale and exhale, forcing my body back under my control.

Still, the heat lingers.

And no matter how much smoke fills my lungs, she’s still there—right behind that door—unsettling me in ways I refuse to admit out loud.

*

Phindile finishes her bath, the warm water still clinging to her skin as she tightens the towel around her chest. She catches her reflection in the bathroom mirror, taking a slow, steadying breath.The tension that had been coiling in her body had loosened slightly, though a heat lingers in her core every time she remembers the feel of his breath against her neck. This… this is better than before, she tells herself, even as the memory makes her pulse race. She steps into the bedroom, careful not to look at anything else. Her focus is singular—until the familiar scent of nicotine brushes her senses, mingling with the faint air drifting in from the balcony.

Oh Lord… Her heart skips. Her chest tightens as she realizes he is here. Panic nudges at her, but the running water in the bathroom has masked her entrance. Maybe he hasn’t noticed yet. Just act normal, she urges herself. A low clearing of his throat shatters any pretense. Phindile freezes, the towel clutched tightly against her chest. Her eyes meet his—dark, small, rimmed with red from the lingering smoke—filling the room with a tension that presses against her skin. He sits just a few meters away, yet it feels like he is everywhere at once.

“Ncanezwe,” she says, her voice trembling slightly as it cuts through the charged silence.

He leans back slightly, his gaze lingering, unrelenting.

“Mamacita,” he says, the word low, husky, deeper than before. Phindile swallows, feeling the heat climb her throat.

“I’ll give you space,” he continues, flicking the cigarette into the ashtray with a subtle crash, his eyes tracing her form with slow, deliberate hunger—from her face, down to her thighs, her knees, even the delicate curve of her toes. He finally looks back up, scanning her completely before rising from his seat.

Phindile holds his gaze as he comes closer, the space between them shrinking with every heartbeat. Her eyes drift briefly to the place that made her touch herself in the bathroom, and her breath catches. He stops in front of her, slowly pulling off his t-shirt. Her breath hitsched again, the silence between them electric, charged with everything left unsaid.

When the shirt hits the floor, he leans in, close enough for her to feel the warmth radiating from him. She tilts her head slightly, closing her eyes, granting him a subtle permission he doesn’t need to push. He inhales deeply, his lips brushing her neck, then teasingly flicks his tongue against her skin once before pulling back.

“Remember what I said, Mamacita,” he murmurs, his gaze locking onto hers, the weight of his words heavier than the summer air. “Be a good girl for me.”

The room seems to pulse with heat as he walks away toward the bathroom, leaving Phindile standing there, breathless and trembling, a small whimper escaping her lips despite herself.

Phindile exhales shakily, trying to cage the ache still humming low in her core. She shakes herself lightly, grounding her mind as her fingers find the small bottle of lotion tucked in her toiletry bag. The warmth spreads through her palms as she smooths it over damp skin—shoulders, arms, down her legs—each deliberate stroke a tether to herself, even as her thoughts keep circling him.

Once her skin glows, she reaches for her swimwear: a sleek, beige one-piece thong with gold accents catching the light. She slips into it slowly, adjusting the straps, pressing the fabric gently to her curves. Then the mini dress—light, airy, opaque enough to feel like armor—slides over her body, the hem grazing her thighs just so. She steps back, checking herself in the mirror. The reflection is… safe. Distant. Yet the thought of him somewhere in the room keeps her pulse quickened.

At the vanity, she ties her braids into a neat bun, taking a moment to smooth lip gloss over her lips. Every shadow, every subtle movement in the room, pulls her alert; every creak twists her stomach.

The bathroom door creaks. She freezes mid-smile at her reflection, sensing him stepping out. Slowly, deliberately. Her eyes flick to the mirror without moving her head fully.

Ncanezwe emerges, water still dripping down his chest, each line of his torso sharp, defined. A towel wraps low around his waist. Her gaze lingers longer than she intends, tracing the water’s path over his skin, the curve of his muscles.

He catches the corner of her reflection in the mirror, that slow, teasing smirk tugging at the edges of his lips. The subtle confidence in him sends heat climbing her spine, and her hands tighten briefly at her sides. He picks up his clothes, draping them casually over his arm, deliberately ignoring the lingering weight of her gaze, and slips back into the bathroom.

The door closes behind him, and Phindile exhales again, trembling slightly. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears as warmth pools low, a reminder of how alive—and vulnerable—he makes her feel, even from a distance.

*

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