Erotic Monday Night: A worthy apology, by Tiwa Says

I believe that there is an intention behind every action. When someone behaves a certain way, it is not random. There is always a reason for it.

The interesting thing is that when people we care about disappoint us with their actions or inactions, we make excuses for them because we don’t want to face up to the betrayal. We would rather want to remain in denial.

I’m not one of those people. Dayo and I had a misunderstanding, and it escalated. Emotions raged, but I confronted him and told him exactly how I felt. The evening was ruined; we both walked away angry.

A few days later, I heard a knock at my door. I assumed it was the delivery guy, so I hurried to the door. To my surprise, Dayo stood there with a sad look and a package in his hands. I let him in. The room was quiet for a few minutes, then he began to talk.

He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. The package sat between us on the sofa like a third person in the room—wrapped in brown paper, tied with simple twine. I didn’t reach for it. I just watched him, arms crossed, heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

“I brought your book back,” he said finally, his voice rough. “The one I borrowed. And… I brought you something else.”

I didn’t answer. My jaw was tight, my chest still a knot of hurt and anger. How many nights had I replayed that argument? How many times had I told myself I was right to say what I said, that his silence afterward proved I’d hit a nerve he didn’t want to face?

“I know I fucked up,” he continued, dropping his gaze to the package. His fingers fidgeted with the twine. “You were right. I made excuses. I didn’t want to admit that I let you down. It was easier to get defensive, to walk away, to pretend I was the one who’d been wronged.”

I let out a slow breath. “And now?”

“Now I’m here. I’m not running this time.”

He slid the package toward me. I hesitated, then pulled the twine loose and unfolded the paper. Inside was a small wooden box, the lid inlaid with a tiny brass compass. I lifted the lid; it held a single sheet of folded paper. I opened it.

“I’m sorry I lost my way. You’re my true north. Please let me come home.”

The handwriting was his—a little shaky, like he’d written it more than once before settling on those words. I pressed my lips together, feeling the sting behind my eyes. I’d wanted him to feel the weight of what he’d done. I had needed proof that he understood. And here it was, carved and inked and laid bare.

“I made the box myself,” he said. “Took me three days. I wanted to give you something that meant I wasn’t just saying words. I wanted to show you I’d put in the time.”

I set the paper down gently, my fingers brushing the compass. Then I looked up at him. He stared back at me, his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for me to throw it all back in his face.

“I don’t want to be angry anymore,” I said, my own voice barely a whisper. “But I need you to promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Next time you’re scared or hurt or whatever it is that makes you shut down—you talk to me. You stay. Even if it’s hard. Even if you think I’ll be mad. You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

He nodded, a single tear slipping down his cheek. “I promise. I swear to you, I promise.”

I stood up and closed the distance between us. He pressed a kiss to my forehead, and then his arms were around me, pulling me tight against his chest.

“I missed you so goddamn much,” he murmured into my ear.

I clung to him, breathing in his familiar scent. My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “I missed you too.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes searched mine, asking permission. I gave it with a small nod, and then his mouth was on mine.

The kiss was hungry, desperate—all the words we couldn’t say pouring into the press of lips and tongue. His hands slid down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me against him. I could feel the heat of his body, the hardness growing against my thigh. I moaned into his mouth, my own hands roaming up his chest, pulling his head closer.

We stumbled backward, knocking against the couch. He broke the kiss just long enough to pull my dress over my head, then he took off his shirt and tossed the clothing somewhere behind us. His mouth traced down my neck, teeth grazing my collarbone, while his fingers worked on unhooking my bra.

Dayo scooped me up, laid me down on the couch, and laid me out on the mattress like I was something precious. But his touch wasn’t gentle—it was urgent, demanding, his hands mapping every inch of my skin as if to reclaim what had been lost in the days of silence.

I tugged at his zipper, and slid the jeans down his hips. I got on my knees and took his big and hard erection in my mouth. It felt so warm and strong as I stroked it with my tongue. He trembled as I licked his shaft and rubbed his tip with my fingers. He called my name.

Dayo pulled me up, laid me down and whispered in my ear: “Tell me what you need.”

“You. Inside me. Now,” I responded.

He looked into my eyes as the head of his cock nudged at my entrance. I looked back at him—his face flushed, his eyes dark with want.

He teased my clitoris with his dick head till it was wet with my juice, then he pushed inside me in one slow, deep thrust. I cried out, my nails dug into his shoulders as I took him in. He stayed there for a moment, both of us savouring the feeling of oneness.

Then he began to move.

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Every stroke was deliberate, intense—each one felt like a promise, an apology, or a declaration. I wrapped my legs around his waist, meeting his rhythm, delirious with pleasure. His mouth found mine again, sloppy and desperate, as we moved together.

“Don’t stop,” I begged. “Please, don’t stop.”

He drove deeper, harder. His mouth found my breast and he sucked them hard. The pleasure was overwhelming it couldn’t be held any longer. I shattered, my orgasm ripped through me in waves, and I clenched around him. He followed a few strokes later, his hips stuttering and his groan loud as he emptied himself in me.

We stayed tangled together, slick with sweat, hearts hammering. He kissed my shoulder, my neck, my lips—soft now, tender. I ran my fingers on his bald head, feeling the tension finally drain from his body.

“You’re my true north too,” I murmured.

He laughed, a wet, broken sound, and held me tighter.

I would love to hear your comments: Telegram: @tiwa_says; WhatsApp: 09161129108; and Email: tiwalolaoke@yahoo.com.

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