Cocoa Butter & Bad Decisions 🧴📱🙄
- Ebz Dixon
- Jun 10
- 4 min read
London, UK — Lewisham, SE13
The bassline rattled the window frame. Sweet rum dripped from the edge of the kitchen counter. Somebody’s aunty was wining slow in the living room to Beres Hammond. And Marsha? Marsha was on her third cup of Wray & Ting and trying not to look at him.
Dre. Twenty-eight. Trouble in Clarks.
He’d been gone for almost two years. Ran back to JA after one too many run-ins with the feds and some half-hearted dreams of starting a weed farm in Trelawny. But now he was back in London, leaner, darker, beard fuller, abs ridiculous. Still wore that cheeky grin that made girls forgive things they shouldn't.
Marsha hadn’t seen him since their last argument. Or rather, since she told him to get out and stay out. She was thirty-five now. Employed. Self-assured. Edges laid. She didn’t have time for road boys with dreams and no follow-through.
But here he was. In her friend Trina’s flat. Smelling like incense and cocoa butter. Saying all the right things with those eyes.
“You look good, Miss Independent,” he murmured, brushing past her to get ice. “Still single, or somebody finally get lucky?”
Marsha scoffed, sipped her drink. “Still allergic to grown-up conversations?”
He smiled. “Nah, I grew up. Jamaica humble a man quick.”
She didn’t answer. But her eyes did. Her eyes looked him up and down like he was oxtail and rice after a long fast.
The party faded into background noise. They were leaning against the wall now. Close. Too close.
“You still smell the same,” he said, voice low.
“And you still talk the same shit.”
But she didn’t move away.
Dre leaned in. His lips brushed her ear.
“I still remember how you used to ride me. Like you owned me.”
Marsha’s breath hitched.
“I’m going home,” she said.
He followed.
Her Lewisham flat was dimly lit, quiet. She dropped her keys on the side table and kicked off her heels. Dre shut the door behind them.
“I’m not feeding you,” she said without looking back.
“I’m not hungry,” he replied.
She turned, met his gaze.
And kissed him.
Not soft. Not curious. But hungry.
He kissed her back like he’d been starving for years. Grabbed her waist. Lifted her onto the hallway wall like she weighed nothing. Her skirt hiked up. His hands under her thighs. His mouth moved to her neck, biting just enough to leave marks.
“You miss me?” he asked.
“Shut up.”
He carried her to the bedroom.
They landed on the bed, hands frantic. Marsha peeled off her top. No bra. Her nipples hard from the cold and the heat of him. Dre sucked one into his mouth, tongue swirling, groaning into her chest.
Her hand slid into his waistband.
Still thick.
Still hers.
“You know the rules,” she said, grabbing his chin.
“Yes, Miss,” he replied.
She grinned. He hadn’t changed that much after all.
Marsha pushed him onto his back, climbed on top, straddling him like memory. She rolled her hips slow. Torturous. Just the tip brushing her entrance.
He whimpered.
“You gonna beg?”
“Yes, Miss.”
She slid down. All the way. Both of them gasped.
She rode him hard. Controlled. Her pace, her rules. His hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white.
“Don’t touch me,” she whispered.
He obeyed.
“Say please.”
“Please, Miss... please... I need to come...”
She slapped his chest. “You come when I say so.”
Her rhythm slowed. Deep, deliberate strokes. She leaned forward, licked his neck, whispered, “You still mine?”
“Yes.”
She clenched around him.
He cursed.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t let up until he was shaking beneath her, holding back the edge.
Then she gave it to him.
One long grind. Deep. Hard. Full.
He exploded. Loud. Raw. Eyes rolled back. Legs twitching.
And still, she wasn’t done.
She reached down, rubbed her clit with one hand, the other pressed flat on his chest. She rode out her own climax with a moan that filled the room.
“F**k... Dre...”
Her body shook. She collapsed beside him, breath ragged, skin glowing.
They lay there in silence.
Sticky. Satisfied. Silly.
Until he spoke.
“I still got my name tattooed above your waist.”
She turned to him. “You kept that foolishness?”
He smirked. “I kept all of it.”
Morning sunlight leaked through the curtains.
Marsha stretched like a cat. Sore, smug, satisfied. Dre was out cold beside her, one arm tossed over her waist like he earned the right.
He hadn’t.
She slipped out from under him, threw on her robe, and padded into the kitchen. The kettle was already boiling. Her phone buzzed on the counter.
New message from: @princess_tingz94“So that’s where he ended up? Cute. He was in my guts yesterday morning.”
Marsha stared at the screen, lips pursed.
Behind her, Dre shuffled into the doorway, still half-asleep.
“Morning,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “You made tea?”
She turned slowly. Calm. Collected.
“Your ex messaged me.”
He blinked. “What?”
“She said you were with her yesterday.”
“No man, she lyin’. She mad I stopped answering her.”
Marsha raised one brow. "You sure?"
He nodded too fast. “Course. Straight truth.”
She handed him her phone.
“Good. Then explain this.”
The video played on screen.
Princess. Legs spread. Dre’s voice in the background. Date stamp: yesterday. 9:47 a.m.
His mouth dropped.
“I can explain—”
“You really should’ve deleted the Bluetooth sync,” she said, sipping her tea. “My speakers caught the whole thing when it uploaded.”
His face went grey.
“You need to leave,” she said.
“Marsh, wait—”
She walked past him. Calm. Clean. Done.
“You’re leaking dick and lies. Not in my house.”
He stood there in boxers, holding his phone like it was on fire.
“And take your chain,” she added. “I don’t collect cheap jewellery. Just receipts.”
Dre picked up his clothes and shoes, stumbling over the front door mat. No kiss. No hug. No number saved.
As the door slammed shut behind him, Marsha lit a spliff, turned up her speaker, and blasted Tanya Stephens.
Then she pulled her bonnet tight, sat on her sofa, and opened Tinder.
Bad decision cleared.
Next contestant, please.
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