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Of mixed Kenyan and Australian heritage, he had divine honey skin.
Whenever I was close to him, I always wanted to glide my touch over him.
All over his sculpted chin, his dimpled cheek, and lower still, onto his sinewy and sexy inked arms.
In recent years, he shaved off his waves and curls, opting for a cropped style that somehow made him even more lethal and even more enticing to me.
He was even more of a man than the 24-year-old I married, broader now, muscled, masculine, and fit.
His genes were sprinkled with magic; given Raff was gonna be a total stunner when he grew up, the kid was already a mini heartthrob.
Deacon practiced martial arts whenever he could, with a black belt and multiple tournament awards.
Then there was his scent.
His cologne and aftershave were subtle and sandalwood-infused.
When it mingled with his clean, natural musk, it drove me up the wall.
It was always so evocative, so sensual, so freakin’ haunting, always shattering me to the core every time I was near him.
Today, when I got a trace of him at the door, it took me back to when I used to lie in bed next to him and bury my nose in his neck, breathing him in right after making love.
The memory of us together, of how scorching we’d been between the sheets, hit hard and my breath hitched.
I had to stop this torture now.
My mind rebelled, still fixating on him, on how I loved his style, uniquely his.
As for his musicality, his sax playing brought grown men to tears in stadiums.
His songwriting was out of this world, his business acumen was off the charts, and now, at 36, his gravitas was undeniable.
He was beautiful, but he wasn’t mine because I lost him.
Torn apart after we caused each other so much agony and never dealt with the anguish.
My dashboard console chimed, breaking through my bleak thoughts as my mother’s name lit up the screen.
With a sigh, I tapped the answer button.
‘Salut maman,’ I said, as my Audi crawled forward three feet.
‘Ana, chéri, did you manage to get those neon goggles over to Deacon’s place?’
Théa’s warm alto filled the cabin.
She was a widow with a thick crown of dark, silver hair, and eyes and a mouth like mine.
A caring mother to me, she was also a fantastic grandmere to Raff, stepping in whenever I needed her support.
It helped that she lived in the same suburb as I did and was always close by to keep an eye on Raff if needed.
She also got along famously with Deacon’s mother, Yumi, a Kenyan woman with a brilliant, wild sense of humor and immense beauty.
Yumi and I remained close, and I was glad I’d kept her as a friend, given her well of wisdom.
Together with Christine, our nanny, and my best friend Shalini, these women formed my circle of support; a tight, functional village of sorts to raise Raff, and I was always grateful for it.
