Nash zipped up his freshly bought athletic jacket, its charcoal mesh glinting subtly in the streetlight glow.
His joggers clung to lean muscle, and his fresh kicks hit the pavement with a steady, confident beat.
He was in fire, both physically, mentally and in his pant. A figure that those who used to know him would be frozen once seeing him again.
But the true attraction was walking next to him.
Zayela turned every head.
She looked like danger and temptation in denim.
Her black halter crop top hugged her massive chest tight, thin belly chains glinting against her toned brown stomach. Her low-cut ripped jean shorts clung to her hips like a second skin, exposing the straps of a barely-there thong.
Gold hoops swayed from her ears, and her dark curly hair was tied up high, messy and flawless at once.
A soft vanilla scent followed her with each step, new shampoo. Or maybe perfume, Nash couldn't tell. All he knew was, she looked like the cover of a dream.
