SYNOPSIS𑁤 there's an old saying that if you knew then what you know now, you'd have done things differently. even if just a little. karesse shaw is living proof of that. then again, maybe not.
WARNINGS𑁤 smut. dirty talk. unprotected sex. multiple positions. infidelity. age gap (15 yrs). toxic/unhealthy dynamics. codependency. unhealthy relationship dynamics to the max. unhealthy attachment. toxicity through and through. topics pertaining to grief, illness, pregnancy complications, and death. morally gray characters.
WORDS𑁤 fifteen thousand and some change (15k+)
PAIRING𑁤 roman reigns x younger!blackoc
CREDIT𑁤 photos from pinterest and instagram. title graphic and mdni banner by me. gold divider by @/pixopix / melo gif by @/princedevitt and roman gif by @/fabxpunk
AUTHOR’SNOTE𑁤 this is part one of two. what started out as a simple oneshot turned into this massive, lore heavy storyline that was initially inspired by a reel but took on a life of its own. i wrote/am writing it in non-chronological order, so i did my best to piece things together as cohesively as possible. also, this is a hot fucking mess in every sense of the word.
The overwhelming sound of applause, consisting of cheering and clapping, is nothing more than cacophony. Fodder for the rage that soars throughout her body. Born as irritation the minute she heard the haunting opening sound of a theme he hasn't used since the night before his historic title reign came to what many considered an epic conclusion and one of the best main events of all time.
But it gradually reverted back to aggravation when he walked onto the makeshift stage, shiny, gold belt over his shoulder. He'd clearly showered, flyaways of his usually neat, slick bun indicative of how he most likely took a blow dryer to dry what he could and was allowing the Vegas humidity to do the rest.
She doesn't remember it being this warm last year.
Last year….
The same year she said would be the last year.
That she swore up and down during one of their many…many heated arguments over the phone—the ones that she ensured took place on the privacy of her backyard as she paced the length of the pool deck—that it'd be a cold day in hell before she attended one of his shows.
Mania be damned.
And she didn't necessarily lie.
She's not there for him.
She's there for him.
Carmelo.
Her boyfriend.
Well…
And just like that, a fresh wave of intense anger is revived when she recalls what invited the emotion that's been dominant and consistent when it comes to that irritating ass man.
He's fucking ridiculous.
But she should have known. She should have known that there was no way in hell for last night to end the way that it did and he not have something up his sleeve. He was far too calm upon her departure for him to not be scheming and planning. He probably already had Paul on the fucking phone before she even hit the elevator.
April 18th, 2026 — WrestleMania 42 - Night One
The feel of his big, calloused hand palming and squeezing her ass preceded the loud echo of that same hand coming down on her ass, the slap echoing throughout the suite but ultimately lost among the pre-existing, louder dominant noises.
The headboard brutally beating into the pillows they'd learned a long time ago absorbed the only set of noises that could be controlled and maintained. Everything else was always something beyond the realm of control, including the way she cried out and cursed at the stinging aftermath of his slap.
Karesse detested the way that his deep voice managed to overpower everything else, that she could hear that dark chuckle even in the midst of his heavy balls slapping repeatedly against her pussy that both throbbed and squeezed around his thick ass dick. In all the years that'd passed, every time still felt like the first time. That unforgiving stretch and impossible depth that always made her initially dub over, hand—when not restricted—reaching for her stomach.
It was unreal how deep he always felt.
How deep he was.
"I don't know why you're trying to be so quiet." She kept her eyes and mouth shut, more than certain that if she bit down on her lip any harder, she'd draw blood. The same way he drew back almost entirely before ramming back into her. Karesse's nails scraped against the sheets, searching for a sort of anchor that was ruined at least three positions ago. Damp, soaked, somewhere in between and beyond, whatever the case, they were no use.
"Acting like you ain't in tears over how good this dick feels," he continued, once more palming the globe of her ass that bounced off his dick with fervent passion and desire. Naturally, she needn't put in much effort, but as always, it was a high she couldn't not chase. "How it always feels." Couldn't not heed to the aching in her lower back that he kept pushing down on as he rammed his cock into her. Couldn't not eagerly throw her ass back to meet him thrust for thrust. "How your Tribal Chief always makes you feel."
It was a road that offered one end and one end only.
"S—shut up," she managed through heavy pants, the weight of her breasts slapping against her chest just another source of deafening sounds that couldn't be avoided.
One of many things that could never be avoided with the man behind her.
But Karesse was suddenly pushed down on the mattress, the absence of Roman's cock in her weeping, needy, pulsing pussy a deprivation that had her instantly groaning through closed lips. Frustration briefly spiked to an all time high when he flipped her over on the mattress like she weighed nothing, and despite that being far from the case, especially since the birth of their daughter, it tracked.
She licked her lips and soaked in the sight of his big, hulking body over hers, the groaning of the mattress underneath the weight of his knee lost in the way her eyes could only focus on his dick. Thick, erect, hung between his equally thick tree trunk legs, the tip flushed and glistening with their conjoined juices.
Roman smirked down at her before reaching for her ankles and pushing back her legs before his gaze refocused to her spread legs and throbbing cunt. His eyes darkened.
"That's a pretty ass pussy right there." Karesse watched with a coiling stomach as he brought his thumb to his mouth, pink tongue swiping over the pad before it disappeared between her legs. Her head lolled back at the slightest but stirring press of it against her swollen clit. "All puffy and creaming from taking daddy's big dick."
Karesse started to trail her hand down her slick body to tend to her throbbing, sensitive pearl only to feel a shift.
Roman's hands locked behind the back of her thigh, his baritone voice dropping an octave as she heard the bed creak once more and felt his minty breath between her legs. "And she taste just as good as she looks."
Her clit was exchanged for the back of Roman's head. Her fingers nestled and tangled into his silky, dark curls as he the sound of him slurping on her pussy for what had to have been the third time tonight had her writhing and moaning on the bed.
"Stop all that damn moving," he groaned, ceasing only momentarily to issue his one and only warning. Countless, prior experiences taught her well that he was a one and done. After that, he'd just use his strength to lock her down against that mattress while he ate her out until she was practically sobbing and begging him to stop. That she couldn't take it anymore.
It never made a difference.
From the moment their sexual relationship reached the level to where he didn't have to factor in her inexperience, that was all she wrote.
He always put her through the mattress and flipped, bended, contorted her in ways she didn't even realize were ways.
But it was when he finally decided that she'd had enough, Karesse on the brink of pulling her hair out by the roots, that the atmosphere shifted when they changed positions once more. For the final time. And she knew this well and with all the confidence when he kissed his way up her body until he reached her mouth. His hands hooking behind her thighs that autonomously locked around his waist the same way her wrists crossed behind his neck as her fingers tangled in his hair while they continued to make out. His pace shifted to accompany this more intimate positioning of their connected bodies.
Karesse panted and moaned into his mouth as he transitioned from that filthy mouth of his that would make Only Fans highest paid worker blush and stammer to the proclamations that always caused warmth to bloom in her chest.
In her heart.
"….always you…."
"….fucking hate being away from you…."
"…..I love you…."
It was the last one—often repeated more than once—that she always reciprocated. She didn't know how not to. Not in these singular moments where everything outside of what she felt in the deepest part of her soul didn't exist. Where, even if a facade, everything seemed and felt right.
She drowned in it willingly.
But it was a temporary sort of quicksand, as when they both reached their fill, and he peeled himself off and away from her, Karesse remained in bed as the reality that existed outside of the room gradually returned to the front and center.
Where it should have never left.
"We're going on the road with him."
Subtle yellow lighting reflected off the defined line in the middle of his back, shadows in between the bulging muscles that were flexed from the mid-movement of him pulling his shirt back on. She tried to distract herself by counting the amount of bruises—varying shapes, sizes, and hues—along with tiny scrapes and cuts. Some from the fight.
Some from her nails clawing down that same back not even ten minutes ago as he thrust desperately and sloppily inside of her before exploding, ropes of warm, white, hot cum still seeping from her swollen, puffy vagina.
But the moment he turned around, her distraction was deprived and irritation revived. The scowl on his face already letting her know exactly where this was about to go.
Where it always went.
"What?"
Karesse rolled her eyes and leaned back against the headboard. Her hands against her chest keeping the thin fitted sheet covering the bulk of her body that was still slick with sweat that had her edges and kitchen all but completely reverted back to its kinky kurly state.
"You heard me," she repeated. "I said we're going on the road with him."
Roman kept his gaze steady on her, finally pulling his shirt over his head before following up with a newfound but understand irritable tone. "What the fuck does that mean?"
"Roman," she sighed. "You know exactly what it means." Because it's exactly what she'd done with him at some point. "Melo wants us to join him for a little bit so we could spend time together, and I said yes."
Forever watchful and observant, Karesse kept her focus on him while her free hand hidden under the soft sheets tapped at the mattress that still felt damp under her fingertips either from the mess they'd made of the perfectly clean, pristine sheets prior to her arrival to his room.
It's what allowed her to see that familiar flash gleam in his eyes. "And why the fuck would you say that?"
She closed her eyes. "Roman—"
"You're not going."
Karesse's eyes snapped open just as quickly as they clamped shut. Her bottom lip dipped open just enough for a tiny breath to escape. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." He walked across the room, snatching his pants off the velvet, cream colored chaise lounge they started on as he reclined back and tugged her on top of him, impaling her on his dick that she role with a disgusting amount of fervor and desire before they transitioned to the bed. He snatched his pants and turned around, face morphed into that irksome ass scowl that made her want to punch him right in his beautiful ass face. "You're not taking my daughter away."
It wasn't that Karesse was expecting Roman to leap for joy at this news. No, she knew the moment she finally gave Melo an answer as they sat on the sofa together in their shared suite following her getting Bri down for bed that it would be a whole fucking thing. She just wasn't expecting to already be over all of it before the fireworks could even fully begin.
"Stop being dramatic. You'll still see her." She contemplated sharing that she'd already asked for Melo to send her over the set of dates he knew and had so she could start figuring out flights back home to accommodate that. Because that's all she's ever done it, seems. Accommodate him.
"When?" He pressed, stepping into and sliding up his joggers. "When you feel like it?"
"And how is that any different from how things are now?"
Her sharp rebuttal was met with silence followed by his eyes diverting to the adjacent wall. "That's fucking bullshit, and you know it." She leaned back in bed, arms pressed to her side to keep the sheet intact, knowing full and well what exposure of her nude body would do to him. To the both of them. He flicked his gaze back to her. "I'm with her almost every day of the week." Another gleam she opted to ignore as well as the dip in his volume. "I'm with you."
Karesse couldn't necessarily deny him that. From day one of Briella Mae's arrival into the world, Roman has always done any and everything he could and can for their daughter. That included heading right over to her/their house right after dropping off his youngest two children with her at school. He essentially took care of Brie while Karesse worked, because while many hailed working from home being the easiest thing ever, holding a supervisor level position in a mostly male dominated industry meant that she had to ensure to cross every 'T' and dot every 'I.'
Especially as a black woman.
Roman kept their baby girl busy while she worked her nine to five that was often filled with small to large gaps in the day that allowed her to spend time with them, and when Brie was down for naps, him.
Sometimes, it all felt so….domestic.
And for a second, it worked. That warmth in her chest that bloomed and was borderline overwhelming every time he looked at her like that, stroked her soft skin as they laid in bed together, limbs as entangled as their souls. Made her feel what no one else ever had.
But that was then, and this is now.
Nothing has ever felt or been more different. A realization that made her counter that much easy to issue.
"Will you be this summer?" She pressed. "Will you be with her or me most of the week when your kids with her are home for the break?"
"Karesse—"
"When you wine and dine them all over the world cosplaying as this perfect husband and dad while sneaking FaceTime calls with me and Bri while wifey is being pampered at the spa and the kids are laughing and having the time of their life in the background?"
Karesse hated everything about this conversation, but nothing filled her with more rage and hostility than discussing that bitch. Hate has always felt like such a strong word to use towards another human being. At least, that's how she's always felt. And perhaps it was the—now that she's older and can look back—ridiculous, childish back and forth between the two of them, that set them down the path they ended up on.
Nasty texts that once resulted in Karesse throwing her phone across the room when she received a 30 second clip of the two of them having sex.
Roman and his wife.
It eventually followed up with Karesse hitting an Uno Reverse card as she pulled up her iCloud and sent over an almost five minute, first person POV video of Roman eating her out.
But again, all of that would prove nothing more than child's play compared to the ultimate, culminating event that, even a little over a year over, Karesse still can't bring herself to fully think about, let alone discuss.
All she knows is that she hates that bitch with every fiber of her being, Briella Mae will never be around her alone, and that her hatred has no expiration date.
Period.
Rendered silent once more by a truth he couldn't deny because she, because they, lived it, have lived it several times over, Roman resorted to what he always did when backed into a corner.
He projected.
"Isn't that what you'll be doing if you go gallivanting around the country with him like some fucking groupie?" He sneered. "Dragging my daughter—"
"Oh, you're so full of shit." Any little amount of effort and consideration she'd set aside for the conversation is DOA and was DOA the moment he started off by telling he what she wasn't going to do with her child. She tried. Truly. But Roman could be so fucking impossible at times.
He could also be hypocritical, and in that moment, he was both.
His presence was suddenly the cause of her discomfort and prompted her to kick the blankets off as she also started to journey across the suite to redress.
"Karesse—"
"This conversation is over with."
As she slid her dress over her body, completely disregarding her soaked panties she planned to just toss in the trash, she could feel his heavy footsteps behind her.
"The fuck it is," he huffed.
She spun around on her heel, looking up and glaring while attempting to adjust the top of the sleeveless dress that kept rolling down over her boobs. "I have nothing to say to you right now, Roman."
Nothing nice, anyway. Sliding on her heels, it was only when she was upright that she felt his hand on her arm, her body yanked into something hard and warm and far too inviting for everything that just occurred over the past five minutes.
"Rom—"
"Karesse."
She kept her eyes closed, refusing to meet the gaze she already knew would have her melting in his embrace instead of how tempted to shove on his chest with little to not results. His hold, in many ways, was relentless.
"Hear me out." Resilience somehow remain undeterred as she kept her eyes shut despite the feel of his hand on the small of her back, the other gliding through her hair that hung, partially straight, partially curled over her shoulders and fanned her back. "She starts preschool in the fall."
"I know that."
"Then we need to be getting her ready for that," he countered, voice significantly softer, in that way it always relegated to when he realized she was shutting down on him. When he realized that, once more, he allowed his emotions to get the best of him and had subsequently put his foot in his mouth. "She doesn't need to be dragged from city to city every week—"
"But it was okay when we did it with you?" Her counter was accompanied by the way she forced her eyes to open just in time as his jaw ticked, the smart remark she knew he wanted to say shoved aside for something less antagonizing but just as irritating.
"That was different," he said, voice even. "There was a reason."
"And there's a reason now, Roman. The only difference is that you're not that reason anymore, and that's something you can't seem to accept."
Because when the roles were reversed, their daughter almost thirteen months, Karesse had done the exact same thing she was proposing. Joined Roman on the road for a couple months. Went with him from city to city with their young daughter in tow, and while perhaps the disastrous fallout from that whole debacle fueled part of his vehement objection to her plan, it wasn't enough to get her to change her mind.
The minute Karesse accepted her boyfriend's offer, the deal was done.
She didn't tell Roman to ask for his permission. She told him so he'd know in the next couple of weeks, she and baby girl would no longer be an easy 15 minute drive from his big, fancy mansion in the gated community where police roamed on the regular and kids could play freely and safely in the street without a care in the world.
That reminder, however, along with the way his hand started to inch its way down her body allowed Karesse to remember where she was and who stood before her.
With what was objectively unnecessary force, she jerked out of his embrace and forced herself to ignore the brief pang of hurt that flashed across his face.
If she had a dime for every time the role was reversed.
"I have to go," she said, refusing to entertain what should have never been revisited in the first place. She should have never replied to his text. "Besides, your family is waiting for you."
Yeah…..his failure to follow after her or even try to prevent her from leaving the room—wouldn't have been the first time—should have tuned her into the fact that he was up to something.
She just could have never anticipated it was this.
The time it takes for her to actually get to him is infuriating for a variety of reasons, most of which stem from the fact that what should be enjoyable, one of the happiest days of her life, has been soiled by the man who's been nothing but a thorn in her side since the day they met almost five years ago.
May 22nd, 2021 — Playmates
"He's back."
Karesse lifted her eyes from the wad of cash in hand that she just finished counting and met the vibrant emerald eyes of her coworker.
Kiana, KiKi, was easily one of the most beautiful women Karesse had ever laid eyes on. A flawless, deep complexion. Sharp, perfect features with striking eyes and curves that made every man and woman who laid eyes on her swoon almost immediately. Her no-nonsense approach to the business and life in general was something Karesse looked up to the moment she met the woman almost a year prior.
Almost a decade older but looking the same age as Karesse, there'd always been an almost maternal dynamic between them what with her always looking out for the, in many ways, naive twenty year-old.
Hence her heads up.
Karesse turned in her seat as Kiki slid in between her chair and the other unoccupied seat. They were in the midst of switching sets, hence why more bodies ambling and moving about vs sitting like she was. Karesse was on the tail end of her shift while a handful of the many other women were just getting started, hence the overwhelming aroma of perfume, fluids, and far too much hairspray.
"What?"
Kiki chuckled. "You heard me." She focused on the successful application of the first eyelash before turning to the young girl. "Well? You better go make that money, girl."
Money. The one thing Karesse never seemed to have enough of. Even what with her taking up her secret job as a "midnight ballerina" in conjunction with her part time job at Starbucks. The amount of income brought in covered her tuition, sure, and it most definitely made life significantly easier than where she started—utterly broke and on the brink of having to drop out of school after fucking up as badly as she did—but after all her other expenses, she barely broke even.
The past month, however, had been different.
Largely due to the man who was, as he had been for the past few weeks, waiting for her. He wasn't the first man who dropped a stack on her for private lap dances, but they were far, few, and in between. Not to mention the visits were always sprinkled out.
This man, however, had quickly become a regular as had the generous tip he always left. It'd helped a lot. Karesse would never deny that, but it didn't stop all the questions that rushed though her brain every time he showed up.
Some of which were answered when Kiki clued her into the fact that her…admirer of sorts wasn't some average Joe. He was famous. A professional wrestler, which explained his disgustingly perfect build. Valleys of solid, hard muscle that always flexed under her gentle touch as she danced atop him. A man like him was built for some sort of contact sport.
He was the top billed athlete in his sport, at that.
And paid very…very well according to several sites.
He was also married.
A stunning wife and four beautiful kids. That part didn't necessary surprise her, however, as she'd quickly learned through her time at the club that wedding bands were often nothing more than props for men to maintain and feign the image of wholesome, family men.
Roman Reigns was no different.
And yet he was.
Because unlike many of the men she was forced to entertain with balding, uneven hairlines, and arrogance that didn't match their 5'6 height they always rounded up to 5'10, Roman carried himself with regality and swagger that tracked. He was exactly who he thought he was, and that was….intriguing to Karesse.
Hence the way something in her stomach twisted every time he showed up—as he had, consistently, every Saturday night for almost the past month.
So while she continued to be surprised every time she exited the dressing room and maneuvered her way through the dimly lit and congested club, bodies mushed together, and met his waiting expression, she couldn't deny there was always a level of relief that accompanied his appearance.
If he intended for his visits to become a regular thing, she could get used to that.
Could get used to him.
A sentiment that was all but confirmed later that evening when what'd become routine quickly progressed into something else.
Her eyes lifted to his, her arms around his neck as she straddled his lap. The thin strings of her barely there top undone less than a minute into the song, hence the way her breast were free, exposed, and pushed against his chest. But it was the way his hands glided up her back, another roughly grasping at her ass, fiddling with the gold bottoms her ass all but swallowed, that made her take pause.
She struggled to keep her smile at bay, fully allured by not only his hypnotic gaze, but the scent of his cologne. Most men who requested lap dances carried with them a subtle odor she forced herself to ignore, as she recognized it was often a minimal level of perspiration fueled by the difficulty that came with composing themselves to keep the erections at bay.
Roman, from the night they met, always smelled good. Even with the bulge she felt pressing against her through her spread thighs. "You're not supposed to touch."
A cardinal rule she laid out the first time she entered the room with gold lining edging and dark green velvet furniture, accompanied by a pole and small platform to allow for greater flexibility and performance.
It was a rule he'd always respected.
Up until now.
He chuckled, and it made her body shiver. His voice was so damn deep. "Then push me away."
She had two options in that moment. Do exactly as he said. Or do exactly what she wanted.
She went with the latter.
Karesse grabbed his face and smashed her lips against his, instantly moaning and melting when his own hands pulled her close. She'd only kissed a couple of guys in her life at that point, but less than ten seconds into said kiss, it easily jumped to the top of 'best kiss' ever list.
She might have initiated it, but he quickly took control, tongue over her bottom lip and in her mouth, as his hands continued to explore her body while she writhed on top of him. Her moan, however, must have triggered something for him. He interrupted said kiss, her minty breath fanning his face, lips eager to feel his back on hers as he eyed her quizzically.
"How old are you?"
Karesse chuckled and shook her head, kissing around his mouth. "Now's a fine time to ask."
But what she considered a potential poor attempt at weird ass foreplay, he fully meant.
His mouth set into a frown. "I'm serious."
And she knew it. Could tell by the shift in his voice and stalled venturing of those big ass hands touching her all over, leaving invisible trails of growing heat and desire in its wake.
She sat back on his lap and smirked. Her hands found his and guided them to her chest. Unlike many of the girls she worked with, she didn't have massive ass tits—homegrown or manufactured. A moderate C cup, what she lacked up top was more than made up by the ass, thighs, and hips she used to wine, shake, and jiggle all over that stage to keep her bank account in the green and life on the right track.
Still, titties were titties, and the way he'd always eyed hers with hunger indicated they were big enough for him, and that was good enough for her.
She locked her palms on top of his, catching the subtle twitch of his thumb over her puckered, dark nipples. "How old do you think I am?"
But despite that minute sign of cracking, his resolve remained. "How….old."
Karesse, to her credit, maintained the image of indifference as she forced a sigh. "Twenty-five." Except her answer did nothing to chip away at the way he continued to eye her. She chuckled, praying her growing apprehension didn't betray her. "What? You wanna see my ID?" She shook her head. "Come on, you really think they'd let me work here if I wasn't grown?"
Her second question followed up with the way she leaned over and kissed the shell of his ear seemed to do the trick. His hands lifted to her waist and then the back of her hair when he yanked her head back and smashed his lips back onto hers.
She smiled into said kiss.
Yes. Yes, they would.
Because she was, in fact, not that grown. Sure, her ID reflected a DOB that matched what she'd just told him, but what twenty year-old didn't have a fake ID?
They clocked it the day she attempted to apply, desperate and with no other options, but they also saw what had always been the case for her.
That while her face leaned on the youthful side, she was thick in all of the right places, thus age restrictions being optional and inconsequential.
So while it wasn't a lie reserved specifically for him, as it was a reserved, default lie, it was still the beginning of what she could have never imagined to be a life changing journey.
June 5th, 2021
Karesse flashed a small smile and placed the five dollar bill in the open palm of the delivery driver who offered a distracted grin, the white ear buds in his ear that peaked through shaggy brown hair clearly more interesting than a customer's pleasantries.
Accepting the boxes, the heat from which traveled to her fingertips and made her bite down on her lip with a tiny hiss, Karesse bumped the door closed with her hip. She started to shift the boxes close to her chest, allowing the smaller one on top to slide close to her chest, as she went to turn the deadbolt lock. However, the weight of the boxes were relieved and allowed her both hands to lock the door back.
Roman stood before her, the boxes in hand that she could barely hold with two hands looking like two small to-go plates in his big hands and against his even bigger, broader chest. The private rooms they'd spent time in before transitioning outside of the club always seemed too small for someone like him, and despite her apartment being twice the size of the room, it still felt too small for him.
Karesse was unsure if there was a place that could accommodate someone like Roman Reigns.
"Thank you," she murmured. Turning to finish locking the door, she spun on the heel of her sock covered feet to see him looking down at the boxes curiously. "What?"
His gaze lifted to her, and he chuckled. "Think you got enough?"
Karesse rolled her eyes and shrugged, pushing her silky hair behind her ear. "You look like you like to eat."
She quickly realized that it was the wrong choice of words when something flashed in his gaze as he raked his eyes over her. "You ain't wrong."
Clearing her throat and doing her best to play off how flustered she felt, which was stupid as fuck considering he'd seen and groped every inch of her, Karesse walked into the kitchen, Roman in tow. Hitting the switch, she shuffled over to the fridge and bit down on her bottom lip seeing limited options.
"Ummm, is—"
"Water is fine," he answered. She turned to see he'd placed the boxes down on the counter and was standing with his arms crossed. It was only then she realized he'd removed his hoodie that didn't make much sense for one to wear in June, especially what with the brutal Floridian heat.
But she figured it was more so to help conceal his identity, especially with the way he kept the hoodie over his head as they climbed the two flight of steps it took to reach her apartment.
"Cool," she agreed. Karesse pulled out two water bottles from the pack of 24 that sat on the floor where linoleum met the carpeted area that stretched throughout the rest of the two bedroom apartment, sans the single, shared bathroom.
Plates prepared and drinks in hand, it wasn't until they migrated to the living room and the TV played some random replay of an old SVU episode that Karesse felt the strange tension that'd never been felt prior to this—their first time interacting outside of work—gradually melt.
"I didn't think you could even eat this stuff," she muttered, picking at her crust, eating it piece by piece, dipping it in the wing sauce that was just about gone. "Let alone this much."
He chuckled. "I probably shouldn't."
"Yeah, I heard old people have to be mindful of their diet and shit. Especially active old people." The small smile played on her lip as he looked at her with irritation that only made her grin widen. She waited until she was done chewing, reaching across to grab a napkin to dab at the corner of her mouth. "What?"
"Shut up." She did so only for the sake of the water bottle she'd twisted the cap off to down the remnants of food that remained despite thorough chewing. She was always so damn hungry after work. People don't realize what energy is expended from dancing. The first few weeks of work, she most definitely tapped out and passed out on her bed the minute she got home. "Where's your roommate?"
She took pause for a second but remembered her mentioning said roommate when he indicated initial reservation regarding them going back to her place. Not that they really had much of a choice.
They damn sure couldn't go to his place. For…obvious reasons.
"Home," she answered. "She always goes back home for a month at the start of summer. I think she'll be back sometime next week." Or perhaps after that. Amanda had always been…not the easiest person to catch up with. On top of holding some type of position within her sorority, being a student athlete, and working a part time job meant very little downtime during the school year. So as far back as when they first met, assigned as roommates during freshman year, summer, ironically, has always been the stretch of the year where most communication occurs through texts, phone calls, and FaceTime.
When Amanda was in town though, they always made sure to link up. Even if just for the night.
If only she knew who Karesse was "linking up" with right now.
"Ya'll close?"
Karesse looked over at him, watching as he started to fold over his used napkin atop the now empty, barely any crumbs outside of the stains of the wings plate that he reached over to place on the coffee table.
How his plate was twice the size of hers in terms of serving size and yet she was still trying to finish up her food was beyond her.
"Yeah, she's really cool." Karesse shrugged. "Wouldn't have agreed to move in with her off-campus if she wasn't."
"She still in school, too?"
Perhaps that random acting class she took freshman year paid off, cause the ease in which she skillfully hid the panic that arose at his question, was nothing short of a masterclass level performance. The trepidation that quickly brewed at the sight of his dark, thick eyebrows scrunching together from confusion mixed with curiosity. Spiked at the thought of him pushing for more information that would eventually expose the lie regarding her age.
Karesse offered a small nod. "Never too late to go back, right?"
He chuckled, leaning back against the sofa, her focus briefly shifting to his inked arms. His tattoos were obviously a nod to his Pacific Islander heritage—Samoan, if she recalled the Wikipedia page right—but she wondered if they held specific meaning beyond just cultural. "You say that shit like you're old."
"You would know."
The way he rolled his eyes made her smile return. "What's your name?" As if already knowing what her counter would be, he offered the clarification unrequited. "Your real name."
Once more, this man who she still knew so little yet so much about rendered her silent. One of the first rules Kiki drilled into her when she first started at the club was the importance of anonymity. Men, people, whomever, sought places like Playmates because it was a sanctuary for just that—invisibility. The ability to shed organic, birth assigned identification in exchange for whoever one wanted to be. Dancer or customer.
It was why they all went by stage names.
Velvet was hers. Red Velvet, initially, but she'd quickly ditched the adjective when she learned it was a reference to her complexion.
Karesse was many things, but a colorist was and would never be one of them.
She swallowed, reaching to place her empty plate atop his. "You're not very good with asking questions in a timely manner, are you?"
Because asking her age after she was practically naked, on his lap, lips swollen from their heated makeout session was one thing, but inquiring about her government after agreeing to return back to her place was…something.
Maybe stranger danger was a thing only stressed to little girls growing up. Not boys.
Leaning back into the arm of the sofa, she pulled her legs up to her chest as he shrugged indifferently. "What are you gonna do? Kick my shins?"
Karesse quickly stretched one leg just enough to, in fact, kick him. His leg that felt solid and hard against the ball of her foot. He caught her ankle, keeping her steady so that the heel of her foot sat on his big thigh. Licking her lips, she watched and felt the chills shoot up her body when he traced small circles on the span of skin where the top of her foot met her leg. "I'm serious."
She could tell.
Again, she considered deflecting. Perhaps even coming up with another alias, but guilt ate at her. He hadn't, to her knowledge, been dishonest with her regarding his own identity. Granted, unlike herself, he didn't really have the luxury to do so. While she had her own social media footprint, it was nothing compared to his own.
She already knew so much about him, while he knew so little about her.
It felt….wrong.
But beyond that…she didn't want to lie to him.
Not again.
And certainly not about this.
He'd met Velvet, but maybe, maybe it would be nice if he could meet and get to know Karesse.
"Karesse." She answered after a good two minutes of silence, something stirring in her stomach at the way the corner of his mouth rose to break the smallest smile. "My name is Karesse."
What makes it infinitely worse, however, is that Karesse can't entirely place the blame on him. Naturally, as is the case with most lies, he eventually found out the truth.
She was forced to disclose her dishonesty.
That when they met, while he was only three days away from his 36th birthday, she was only eight days away from her own.
Her 21st birthday.
He didn't talk to her for a week after that, and Karesse truly believed her short-lived, whirlwind romance with her rich, older, sexy ass man was but a thing of the past. And she couldn't blame him. Granted, her age being the deal-breaker and not his marital status was definitely….something.
Turns out neither were large enough issues for him to block and delete her number, because when anger settled, he was back, and it was like….like nothing happened. Not enough to ruin what they'd started to build.
And they continued to build. Because pretty soon, visits to the club and him coming to see her transitioned into her going to see him. Paid flights with first class seating into whatever city he was in for the night. Domestic and abroad. It started as a sort of….companionship, perhaps. Friendship? Maybe both, as it didn't seem to take very long for openness beyond the surface level topics to be unlocked on both sides.
July 24th, 2021
"Is there a reason you got these so damn long?"
Karesse fingers paused mid unraveling. She'd just gotten through with detangling a stubborn section of her hair locked into the kanekalon with the rat tail end of her comb. A success she was proud of until someone just had to fucking ruin it.
Again.
She looked over her shoulder, arms at her side keeping the blanket close to her chest unlike his that was bare, like the rest of his surprisingly warm body she was nestled into. In between his thick legs as he worked to help her take out the braids she should have taken out at least a week ago but kept pushing off.
So his surprise, unannounced visit provided the perfect opportunity to cut down a usually two to three hour job in half. At least, that would be the case if not for his lack of co-operation.
"Ya know, if you worked half as much as you complained, we'd almost be done by now." She huffed, reaching for another braid, using that same metal end to start to undo from the bottom of the plait, hoping and praying it would unravel naturally and without any unnecessary effort.
He sucked his teeth, the feel of him wading through her remaining braids, as if searching for the shortest one, only made her roll her eyes. "We would have been done if you didn't have so many of them." Men. "And next time can you pick a color that isn't the exact fucking same as your hair? It all looks the same."
The speed in which Karesse angled her body to ensure he could feel the intensity of her glare defied physics. "Because your blind ass refuses to put your damn glasses on."
Glasses that sat on the nightstand beside her bed that she'd picked up for him during a late night Walmart trip several visits prior where he'd cursed lowly at forgetting his glasses. Something that took her by surprise at first given she'd never really seen him use them. But she remembered. Remembered and picked up a pair, having asked that same day of discovery what strength he used.
He cut his eyes, and Karesse had to take a moment to take pause. Despite it going on almost two months since they met, the nature, depth, and connection between them—the two least expected individuals—was something she still hadn't fully processed. She knew that she cared for him something serious though. In ways she'd never felt about anyone else. Ever. "Smartass. How are my glasses going to help me distinguish black from black?"
Even if his old ass was irritating the living shit out of her.
His disrespectful ass introduction and irritating ass, hypothetical question quickly snatched her back to focus on the task at hand.
"Shut up," she muttered and turned back around. Peripheral vision granted her a glimpse of him reaching for the scissors off the dresser making her turn her head once more. "And you better not cut my hair."
"Stop moving so damn much, and maybe I won't."
Another smile cracked on her face despite the way she elbowed him in his hard ass stomach only for him to grab her arm, his thumb caressing the skin above her elbow. A gentle, subtle touch that evoked a sigh and the way her eyes fluttered as reclined back into him.
His mouth against her temple as she bit down on her bottom lip and managed a low, murmured, "you're an asshole."
He made a sound while she placed her hands over his muscled forearm that settled across her stomach under the sheets. "So I've been told."
They fell into another round of natural, normal silence in a way that most would find partially uncomfortable, if just a tad bit. But that was never the case with them, maybe towards the beginning of their relationship, but at that point, too much had been shared and experienced for them to be anything but comfortable.
Beyond that.
"I wanna ask you something."
Karesse stilled and suddenly wished that some distance existed between them so she didn't have to feign the bulb of tension that bloomed at his unexpected statement. She eventually found it in her to turn her head and look up at him. "Well, you gonna ask or did you forget already?" He rolled his eyes as she upped the ante, grateful for the small bit of successful deflection. "It happens with old people."
"Keep talking, Res." This time, she was the one to roll her eyes as she looked forward and reached for a braid to unravel. His mouth dipped to her ear as she bit back a smile. "The day I finally show you what this old man can do…" Her stomach coiled and throat grew tight at his husky, deep ass voice and the subtle graze of his finger on the underside of her breast. "You won't be saying or doing shit after the fact."
Her lips parted ever so slightly, and her thighs clamped together. Roman chuckled, clearly aware of her not so subtle reaction to his….promise? Either way, it was followed up with a return to his opening statement. "Why do you talk to yourself whenever we're in the car?"
"What?" She turned to look at him, the scowl on her face making him chuckle as he reached to push a few renegade braids from near her eye. "I—I don't talk to myself."
Even as she refuted it aloud, Karesse couldn't ignore the pang in her chest at both his question and the reality before her. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Try as hard as she did to be subtle about it around people who didn't already know, with how much time they'd spent together over the past two months, it was only a matter of time.
A part of her was surprised it'd taken him this long to ask.
He eyed her skeptically as she resisted the urge to push that pesky strand of his loose curls out of his face. For a man, he had some beautiful ass hair, and the fact that his routine was all but three steps and done made her sick to her stomach. Men. "Well you certainly ain't talking to me, and I know you're not talking to the driver so—" His eyes narrowed, voice and expression the blend of playful and serious. "You hear voices or some shit?"
"You're so aggravating." She sucked her teeth and elbowed him once more. "No, I don't hear voices." Karesse wasn't entirely sure, but she could have sworn that was a thing with one of his colleagues. Randy something? She couldn't be too sure. Her attendance at his shows were predominately focused on him and the Bloodline. Everyone else was background noise. "Like I said, I'm not talking to myself. Not…not really."
"Not really?"
She glared and focused on the TV mounted above her dresser. A gift from him to replace her old one that was fine but for the crack in the bottom left corner that caused a triangle of black and kaleidoscope colors that continued to spread. Something that didn't really bother her, but it bothered him. Thus his replacement. Just one of many things throughout her room that were courtesy of the man she was pressed up against. "I'm—I'm singing. Or…saying lyrics or—" Karesse blew out a breath and bit the inside of her cheek. "I told you that my parents died when I was younger, but I guess…I guess it was more that they were killed."
She could feel the way he tensed behind her, nonverbal indication of immediate regret, almost. "Karesse—"
"Car accident. Drunk driver. Obviously, I survived, but they…"
"Karesse—"
Another attempt to stop what'd already been started, but despite the typical somatic symptoms that accompanied discussion of what was without a doubt the hardest thing she'd ever been through, there was little desire to stop. No part of her that vied for a way out. She didn't love the discussion, but it wasn't unbearable, either. And if she had to take a guess, it was largely due to the man she was speaking to.
"After that, being in a car was….it was hard for me." Horrific. It was horrific. Screaming, crying, and vomiting at just the thought of it that few in her life, at the time, honored in a way she needed. "I was forced to do therapy for a while, and the therapist suggested a couple of things to help, and they did, I guess. But the thing that really helped, that stuck with me, for whatever reason, was when she told me to find my happy place and return to it whenever I was in a car."
The faintest smile grew on her face as memories of horror were flooded with recollections of ardent joy.
"We always had music playing in my house, and my mom—she loved Whitney. Played I Wanna Dance With Somebody so much that to this day, I hate that damn song. But—" For some reason, his quiet chuckle was calming. As was the way he rubbed small circles against her stomach. "I Believe in You and Me was her absolute favorite. My dad used to come up behind her as she played it while fixing dinner or folding clothes, and he'd hold her, and they just—they were so happy, and it made me happy. One of my favorite memories of them. With them."
She swallowed, gradually returning to a reality that was a lot less bleak than usual returns following her disclosing of a painful, traumatic past. "So anytime I'm in a car, I repeat the lyrics to myself and go to my happy place to keep myself from panicking." Karesse angled her head once more to gaze up at him, managing a small smirk. "Make sense? Or do you need a better explanation. I know old men can—"
He silenced her with a kiss that made her want to lean into him and never sit up, never do anything to rip her from that moment. Especially with the way he cupped her face, gentle and tender, her eyes fluttering just enough to make out the way his eyes focused on her and reflected something strong and unspoken.
But it was felt.
From that day forward, not a car ride with him has occurred without I Believe In You and Me already playing before either he or their driver can even open the door for her. And when it's the two or three of them, his right hand is either always on her thigh or holding hers.
Always.
Karesse often wonders who fell first. One some level, it felt like that award went to her. Looking back, she certainly started to fall before he did.
She must have.
One doesn't let a married man fifteen years their senior take their virginity in the presidential suite at the Ritz Carlton without some level of feelings existing.
Strong feelings.
Feelings that suddenly mean nothing and everything when he finally walks into the room. Showered once more, as he always does after the many different events that take place post Mania. Especially after a win.
But it's the casual appearance, the usual one that greeted her when he'd meet her in his suite after SmackDown and what said casual attire means that has her with her guard all the way up. Even more than before.
This bastard….
She marches over to him as he turns to ensure the door behind him is locked. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
He turns around, eyeing her up and down before chuckling and sauntering past like he didn't even hear her.
Karesse closes her eyes and reminds herself that she promised both herself and her baby girl that she'd never lay a hand on Roman like that again. It was wrong.
But he's fucking pushing it.
He's pushing her.
He always does.
She's right behind him, following his big frame as he plops down on the sofa. "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you."
Roman sits with his legs spread, phone in hand, focus on the screen that reflects in his eyes and highlights the faint bruise above his cheek.
She wishes Punk had hit his ass harder.
"So talk."
Her tongue hits the roof of her mouth like her anger meter ticks to the farthest right of the spectrum.
"What do you mean we'll see your ass all summer?" She jumps straight to it, knowing that time is not on her side for a variety of reasons. Too many possibilities grow exponentially with each minute she remains with the man before her. The longer she stays, the higher the chances she'll end up doing something she'll regret.
Always does.
"You're part time now."
He continues to tap away on his phone with one hand, the other resting on the top of the sofa with the way his arm is stretched out. Fuck, his big ass almost takes up on the whole damn sofa. "Not anymore."
"What do you mean not anymore?"
Roman finally decides to grace her with his attention, lifting his eyes from his phone only to look at her like she just asked him what color the sky is.
"I won the title."
Unfortunately. "I know."
Irritation mars his handsome face. For a second, she takes note of the bags under his eyes. He looks exhausted. Probably is.
Matches, especially longer ones like the master class he put on with Punk, always take more out of him that he likes to admit. If he's ever even admitted it to anyone. Because the way he disclosed it, disclosed his condition, almost quietly, during one of their many nights together as she sat on her knees behind him, hands working to smooth out the tight knots and kinks in his back and shoulders, it felt like an admission.
One meant for her ears and her ears only.
"So I have to defend it," he continues. "I have to kick off this title reign."
"You don't have to be full time to do that, Roman," she reminds. "Hell, you were part time for almost the entire last year of your last title reign. Have been part time for years now—"
"Yeah, well not anymore."
His interruption is sharp, to the point, and accompanied with that dip in his already deep ass voice. The subtle change in intonation that always prefaces him saying something to piss her the fuck off.
Too bad she beats him to it.
"Full time husband and father seemed to have gotten a lot shorter than I remember." She crosses her arms over her chest, fully aware of the anger that flashes in his eyes. She's also fully uncaring. "Or maybe just pretending to be all that is getting old."
His jaw ticks, and he looks away, running his hand through his beard she can tell he recently touched up, the gray hairs she used to lay in bed and count as he slept completely blended in. Black on black. He turns to look back at her. "Watch your mouth, Karesse."
She scoffs. "You really gon' sit there and tell me to watch my mouth?" Pointing to herself, she steps closer as his focus remains on her. "After the shit you said tonight? On live fucking TV for the whole world to hear?"
Several things were said this evening, but Karesse can still feel the way her entire body stilled, the sound of music playing, people laughing, completely drowned out. How Melo tensed next to her. Stark contrasts to the way Brie clung to her with one arm, the other extended as she pointed to the TV mounted in the corner of the private room.
"Hi, daddy!" She waved happily, as if Roman, who sat among the commentators wearing that smug expression, freshly obtained title sitting in front of him, could see his youngest child's happy greeting.
It briefly revived the bile in the back of her throat as she sat in the private box and watched him celebrate his win with them.
The gentle, heartfelt way he hugged and dapped his two sons. Kissed his other two daughters on the top of their head.
Kissed her.
Karesse was forced to blink away tears as she worked to distract her daughter from witnessing the sight that broke her mother's heart. That would one day break her own heart when childlike naivety could no longer shield her sweet baby girl from the devastating truth of her parental dynamics.
When she no long accepted why daddy could only spend the night sometimes and could only call her on the phone or FaceTime her on the tablet when bedtime rolled around and she just wanted to cuddle with him.
Truths Karesse, for her own mental sake, refuses to allow herself to think too much about. She will have to. Do more than just think. Will have to confront. But they're not there yet nor is she even close to working though all of the other present….shit that is is her life.
She would like to blame the crowd who kick-started it all. Carried over what's been heavily pushed online to something catapulted to the surface for the devil himself to address.
"Melo." Roman spoke in that smug ass tone that made her want to punch him in his face. Again. Eyes focused on the camera, it felt more like he was focused on her. Like he was speaking directly to her versus the man who stood beside her, his own retained title over his shoulder, other secured around her body, hand on her hip. "See, you seem still a little fresh in this business." A beat. "You did a big thing tonight, but I done that many times."
Everything after that was completely inaudible and stomped under the intensity of rage that she had to quell for the sake of the people around her, primarily the man beside her and the child in her arms.
Because to and for most, perhaps even Carmelo, it was nothing more than a reference to him retaining his US Championship title in his three way match against Sami and Trick. His first WrestleMania match.
But Karesse knew better.
She knows Roman, and she knows that his snide ass remark was nothing more than a cheap shot and dig to the fact that Carmelo, being the damn near perfect man that he is, of course utilized what should have been his moment to make it theirs. To jump out of the ring, greet her where she sat with close family and friends, on both their ends, and to reach for the small, red velvet box that his dad handed him with a huge smile on his face.
He proposed.
He proposed, and she said yes for over 50,000 attendees and God knows how many viewers watching through various streams to see.
Including Roman.
So no, while a clever cover, what with feeding into the massive push for a storyline and match between her now fiancé and ex/baby daddy/whatever the fuck he is, Karesse knew better.
She knows better.
Roman's hungry gaze rakes over her frame, the way she's bent over unintentionally allotting him an up close view of her cleavage, breast shoved and pushed together through her thin tank top.
"Did I lie?"
His simple, smartass comment, however, prevents her from focusing too much on the stare that creates a strange sense of discomfort and something she refuses to feed.
It reminds her why she's here.
"I am not a fucking toy, Roman!" Her volumes jumps at least two levels, but it seemingly has little to no effect on the man who's never looked more unbothered. "I'm not a punchline you can throw out there when you wanna prove who has the bigger fucking dick."
"Well, we both know the answer to that."
"I'm serious!" Karesse snaps. "This isn't a fucking game. This is my life. My life that you keep injecting yourself into when you have no business."
He sits forward, phone discarded to the side of him, matching both her energy and intensity. "You wanna drag my daughter across the country so you can be with your little boyfriend and expect me to be okay with it?"
"He's not my boyfriend." Karesse counters calmly. "He's my fiancé."
For whatever reason, there's an almost bitter aftertaste following that final word leaving her mouth. What should be some level of pride and excitement is nothing more than a bullet to lodge into Roman's hubris and to tackle his fragile ego.
It's….it's wrong. The sudden discomfort that stems from the ring on her finger. A placement that also feels….wrong.
But that's another issue for another day.
Regardless of confusing feelings, the objective is accomplished in the way he looks away, muttering darkly, "yeah, well, we'll see about that."
She scoffs. "You're unbelievable." A hypocrite. A fucking hypocrite is what he is, regardless of the fact that black band he's never seen without when the cameras are rolling is nowhere to be seen right now. It never is when he's with her. "I don't even understand what your goal is in this. You're on Raw now. Melo is on SmackDown. We won't even be in the same cities."
The closest they'll come to crossing paths is PLE's, and even then, the likelihood of Roman working any outside of the major ones that Melo most likely won't be on the card for is slim to none. So—
"Was." His interruption to her mental pondering draws her focus back to him. "He was on SmackDown."
Karesse grows silent, partially waiting for a follow-up that isn't even necessary. Not when she takes a step back to think about what he just said.
What it means.
Her shoulders drop. "What did you do?"
Roman, however, resumes his unbothered stance, leaning back against the sofa once more. "You heard the people. They want a feud between me and—"
"What did you do?" She interrupts, voice weighed down with grit and growing anger.
Head tilted, the small smile on his face has never made her feel so disgusted. "He's on Raw, effective as of next week."
"No. No." She shakes her head, unsure who she's attempting to convince at this point. Herself or the man who can never seem to just leave her alone. "He—he just retained tonight. The US Championship is a SmackDown title. He can't—"
"People drop titles all the time, Karesse." He shrugs. "Sometimes even at the first show after their big win."
She can only stare at him. Can only look with absolute disgust how fucking unbothered he is by some of the grimiest shit she's heard and seen in some time.
"What the fuck, Roman?" Karesse can barely contain her anger. Can feel her body trembling from the extent of rage she feels in this moment. Her palm burns with desire to connect with his stupid, smug ass face. "You're mad at and wanna punish me so you take it out on him? Fuck with his career?" It's disgusting. "What kind of weak ass shit is that?"
He keeps his vow low in tandem with his morality. "I told you to watch your mouth."
"Fuck you!" She snaps, completely uncaring of if her voice travels through what she would think are thick ass walls. Who gives a fuck. The whole floor could hear as far as she's concerned. "You're a pussy ass nigga for that!"
"I'm not gonna tell you again—"
"I don't care, Roman!" Her icy tone slices though his supposed indifference as he looks away and brushes the tip of his nose with his thumb. "That's what you don't seem to understand. I don't care about what pisses you off or upsets you." Karesse scoffs and shakes her head. "Why should I when you don't give a damn about me and my feelings?"
At that, he turns to look at her once more. To say she can't see the shift, the lessening caustic tone of his voice replaced with something familiar that she refuses to acknowledge. "You know that's not true."
"Oh?" Another scoff as she crosses her arms once more, fully prepared to throw at him every fact that, try as he might, he'll never be able to dispel. The truth can never be negated. "I tell you that I want to spend time on the road with my partner, my fiancé, and the first chance you get to fuck with that, to fuck with me—"
"No. You didn't say you wanted to go. You said he wanted you to go—"
"What difference—"
"The difference is that whenever you bring him up, it's what he wants. What he thinks. It's never what you want. And we both know why." Karesse refuses to rip her gaze away or break the eye contact between them even as he lifts his big body from the sofa. Stands directly in front of her, so close that craning her head up because of their height difference grants her a view close enough to see the specks of gold in his eyes. "It's because you don't want him. You can stand there and try do deny it all you want, but I know and you know it's truth."
The silence is damning. The sound of her heart beating wildly and erratically drowning out everything else.
But she can't let it win.
Can't let him win.
Can't let him keep winning.
"You know what I want, Roman?" Karesse steps forward, her voice a whisper that infiltrates the tension fueled silence. "I want you to stop interfering in my life. I want you to stop using our daughter as a pawn—"
"That's fucking bullshit and you know it—"
"No. It's not. It's the truth, and you know it." Karesse swallows, the exhaustion of this whole thing taking its toll when hurt bleeds into the frustration. "I do everything I can to keep our coparenting as peaceful as possible for the sake of Bri, but sometimes…."
"What?" He presses, tilting his head and pushing her in a way no one else can. Or ever will, most likely. The anger ebbed away by her own emotional pain easily picked up and utilized to maximize his vexation. "You want a formal custody agreement? Is that what you want?" She closes her eyes and drops her head. Here he goes. "Fine. Let's do it." Karesse lifts her head just in time to witness the sneer before the bomb. "You won't last five fucking minutes in that courtroom."
And just like that, all defenses are instantly dismantled. The drop of her shoulders, slight widening of her eyes and tightening of her chest preceding the intrusion of memories she'd give anything to rid herself of permanently.
"No!" Her shouts echoed throughout the courtroom as she worked to free herself from the hands persistent and hellbent at grabbing her. "I don't wanna go!" Tears filled her eyes as she refused to rip her eyes from Keith who wrestled against the court officers who restricted him. The judge's warnings drowned out under the sorrow of what'd just occurred. "Please, Mr. Judge! I wanna stay with Keith!" A beat. "I wanna stay with my brother!"
"Karesse."
It's the desperate, concerned call of her name that rips her from memories shoved so far to the back of her mind that despite years of trying her damn hardest, she's never been able to purge. Never been able to forget.
Never will.
"Fuck," Roman curses lowly, as she gradually returns to the reality before her versus the one behind. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I shouldn't have said that."
Recognition continues to grow as she becomes aware of the fact that not only is he standing directly in front of her, but his hands are on her. Gently cupping her face, his lips pressed against her hairline. She closes her eyes, standing completely still, frozen in place and time as he continues to issue apology after apology.
Finally, however, the ice thaws enough for her to regain control.
To revoke the power from a past that's only ever debilitated.
She shoves at his chest, growling, "get the fuck off of me!"
He's unmoving, arms around her waist, keeping her boxed in. "Kar—"
"I said get off!"
But in true Roman fashion, he stands firm, feet planted and anchored into ground she feels trembling underneath her. Because that's what he always does. Causes the collapse while also standing ten toes down in and for the recovery effort. Always ready to catch what he made fall.
And she does just that.
The beating on his chest and shoving against his solid frame gradually settles and transitions into the way she clutches his shirt.
"How could—how could you s-say that to m-me?" She cries, hating the way his gentle touches, the way his coarse fingers stroke back her hair. and his hand on her hip tugs her just enough to where the desire to lean into him is all but unavoidable. He's like a vortex she can't seem to resist despite all the ways in which he absolutely can be resisted. "You know—"
"I know," he murmurs. Voice hoarse and almost pained, her eyes shut when he presses his lips to hair hairline and the material of his shirt becomes further intertwined in her fingers as her grip tightens. His as well. "I'm sorry." Resolve all but disappears as she finally stops her body's autonomous pull, falling into and against his chest. "You know I would never do that to you or Bri." Her lips press together, eyes clenching shut tighter when he cradles the back of her head. "I love you two too damn much to ever do that to ya'll."
And as sick as it might be, she believes him. Knows that he would, in fact, never do that. For reasons even beyond why such a cruel threat triggered her as much as it did. Because Karesse has been embedded too long in the game that is Roman Reigns to not know him better than most. To know that his inability to manage his temper when backed into a corner will almost always result in him resorting to the lowest of blows.
Followed by immediate regret.
It's become a pattern of theirs, and Karesse lost sight a while ago as to whether or not the recognition of said pattern allows her to forgive him as "easily" as she does. Because she knows he doesn't actually mean it.
Or if it's nothing more than reason #94825903 as to why this game of theirs is one she'll never be able to fully step away from.
Even if they didn't have Briella Mae.
"Stay with me tonight." She stills in his embrace, unsure exactly as to when she transitioned from clutching his shirt to wrapping her arms around him. "Bri, too," he adds, as if it wasn't a given. There has never been a just her since the birth of their daughter. What was once the two of them has been the three ever since. If she's in his suite, so is their baby girl. Naturally so. Because despite the dysfunction that is her parents dynamic, in Bri's eyes, nothing is more normal or right than staying in the same space as her mommy and daddy. "Please." The desperation in his voice tugs at that place in her heart that's never been able to resist him. The part that reciprocates his longing in every sense of the word. "I just want to be with you two."
Karesse can't tell which sickens her more. That in the span of less than five minutes he can go from saying the cruelest of shit to her to being the only person can who can soothe her as such—holding her, professing love, and issuing recompense in any way he can.
Or the fact that she agrees.
November 5th, 2021
The thrum of the base was resounding and relenting. Battling against the boisterous noise of a packed courtyard, bodies mushed together and arms raised with either phones in hand recording or drinks that were either seconds away from being downed or drowned in the sea of individuals, spilling onto the courtyard.
Karesse was in the latter of two groups.
Lips stretched into a broad smile that'd been on her face from the moment she and Amanda started pre-gaming. Music blasting as they helped each other get dressed, hair and makeup prioritized over outfits that left little to the imagination and snagged attention as soon as they sauntered in.
Her bare legs against the cool metal seating in the stadium was dulled out by adrenaline that beamed and soared watching the Panthers score a game winning touchdown in the last ten seconds of the game. The applause was thunderous. For her first two years of college, despite never having a strong interest in sports, she made it a mission to attend every football game. Mostly and primarily because batting her lashes at the right players always meant admission into the best parties.
Parties that, eventually, were a large part of the reason she fucked around and lost her scholarship.
But that was then, and Karesse had learned her lesson the hard way. It'd been forever and a day since she allowed herself to be dragged back to any frat house or off campus apartment. She knew better, but beyond that, she was doing better.
And tonight was not an exception to that. She'd more or less made Amanda swear a blood oath to not allow her to make any reckless ass decisions, and with her roommate and best friend also on the same 'we can't fuck around' grind, it made for the perfect accountability partner.
That didn't mean, however, that Karesse couldn't let loose. This was her senior year and thus her last chance to attend Homecoming. She wasn't about to miss out on a good time, especially when things were going so well in her life.
Better than well.
Way….way better than well.
"Oh shittttttt!" The DJ's voice boomed from his setup, transcending over the crowd and kick-starting various, similar sounds from fellow attendees. Including Amanda who stood beside Karesse and tugged on her arm.
Karesse smiled and lowered her arm to meet glazed over eyes that reflected a certain level of inebriation but not to the point that it deterred or concerned her. While they were both certainly a little tipsy, Karesse, like Amanda, knew their limits. Had partied hard enough their freshman and sophomore year to know now what was the end of the line. They were buzzed. That was about it.
"This our damn song." Amanda threw her hands up as Karesse stuck out her tongue playfully and threw her head back to down the rest of her drink before tossing the empty cup into the crowd.
"Damn sure is."
She easily ignored what sounded like someone protesting and began dancing with her friend, each lady singing out loudly and proudly to Doja Cat and Saweetie's collab that'd easily gone triple platinum in their household since its release.
But the ante was upped when the DJ transitioned to the next song that had Karesse ready to find the nearest table to jump on on so she could be allotted the room needed to shake ass like she really wanted to.
"Damn, I ain't seen your ass in a minute, Shaw."
The loud yet calm, smooth voice that managed to transcend the crowd gathered Karesse's attention. She immediately rolled her eyes. "You know I don't be outside like that no more."
Christian James smiled, emphasizing the dimples in his cheeks and the tooth gems on his canines. "Oh, trust me, I know."
Once upon a time, the 6'1 tight end with light eyes, a pretty smile, and a chiseled body with abs so defined and cut she could slice bread on and with them was someone Karesse cared about. As much as someone coming off an almost two year relationship and away at school for the first time could. They were in the same public speaking class and at the time, true to her nature, she'd been too shy to interact or introduce herself. Them sitting next to each other, however, resulted in him introducing himself, her doing the same, and the rest was history.
They'd vibed well enough, connected on a level she hadn't experienced with a guy outside of her ex, and they'd gone on a handful of dates. She'd rocked his Letterman at points. He made sure that she made it home safe from every party she attended and that no one ever took advantage of her during several nights of drinking to the point where she blacked out. Even leaving a note and Advil on the nightstand for her to take whenever she woke up. The whole nine yards. But at the end of the day, her lack of willingness to sleep with him ended up being the thing that made their flame fizzle out. And she understood it. She respected it, because she could see he tried his best to make it work, but like most guys her age, most men, he needed more.
And she wasn't able or willing to do that.
So they "broke up" in whatever way two people who never actually dated could.
Karesse never referred to him as her boyfriend and vice versa. It was an amicable parting, and they'd run into each other from time to time, but this was the first time they'd interacted beyond the small smile and nod of acknowledgment.
He raked his eyes over her. "You look good."
Karesse started to bite on her bottom lip but remembered her lipstick and instead returned the compliment. "So do you."
And he did.
He'd put on some weight since freshman year, and it looked good on him. His white polo clung to his muscles and highlighted the ink on his right bicep that she didn't recall.
It was that dark ink, however, that reminded Karesse of something.
Roman.
The unanswered texts and missed call she'd forgotten to return as his outreach attempts occurred in the midst of she and Amanda getting ready. She'd meant to call him back while Amanda drove them to campus, but it'd slipped her mind.
Fuck.
But the music transitioning to Juvenile, Amanda gleefully tugging on her arm, and Christian smirking at her all served as other forms of distraction. His eyes twinkled with mischief she understood fully.
"For old time's sake?"
It only took Karesse a minute to contemplate and decide. She could call Roman back later.
He'd understand.
She tilted her head and adjusted her dress, hiking it up mid thigh as she turned around and bent over. Looking back over her shoulder when he moved behind her and started to glide his hand down her back.
"You know it."
It took exactly three slamming on her finger against the snooze button for Karesse to finally find it in her to wake up. And even then, she'd laid in bed and groaned quietly at the sun that peaked through closed blinds for her to muster the strength just to sit up. An action that immediately made her wince as she scratched at her scalp through her bonnet. Stretching her arms made a sort of soreness shoot through her body that she hadn't experienced in a while.
Not since she went through two weeks of intense pole dancing lessons before being "approved" to hit the stage.
Sitting up in bed, leaning against her headboard, the prior night's events gradually returned to her recollection. She wasn't hungover. Didn't have that raging headache that made her bury her head under the covers and hide away in her dorm for hours on end until she could drag herself out of bed. But damn was she exhausted.
What time did we even get back in?
A question that made her grab her phone and drag her hand over her face as she typed in her passcode to unlock it. But the several red numbers next to the green icons at the bottom of the screen as well as the time reflected in the top right corner immediately made her stomach drop.
Fuck.
She never responded to Roman.
She frowned and cursed lowly, briefly contemplating waiting until later but given that it was already almost noon, later seemed like a not great idea.
Her fingers quickly navigated to his contact, thumb hovering over his number when she considered something. She was almost certain she'd never called him on a Sunday. Text, sure, but call?
It made her take pause.
What if….
Karesse took a deep breath and reminded herself that if he was….busy, he simply wouldn't answer the phone.
It was that simple.
She hit call.
Kicking the blankets back, she started to make a quick detour to make sure Amanda was alright but quickly remembered that she wouldn't have made it home if Amanda didn't. They were a package deal, and knowing her roommate, Manda was either also just waking up or still wrapped up in her blanket.
The ringing on the other end ceased as a second of noise followed a quiet, "hello."
"Hey," she smiled, hating the way she almost forgot that he couldn't see her. See the way her eyes lit up at hearing his voice that somehow sounded even deeper over the phone. It was something even more divine when he first woke up. "I'm sorry, I was—"
"Where the fuck were you, Karesse?"
Her smile instantly dropped. It was only then she realized that the harsh tone evoked with his question matched the almost clipped, tense way that he answered the phone. "I'm—I'm sorry?"
"I asked you a question." The frown on her face deepened with each confusing, acrid word that left his mouth. "Where the fuck were you?"
"I—" Stammering wasn't really a character trait of hers outside the first few minutes of meeting someone, and even then, it was more the quiet, short responses vs a clear indication of evident, palpable anxiety. But if there was a moment that called for such conduct, this was it. "I—I was out. It—it was Homecoming, and—"
"You were supposed to be there."
Somehow, the frown on her face deepened. "What?"
It wasn't like this irritated side of him was something she hadn't seen or experienced before. Months of them….whatever one would call it had allowed her to see that he could be….moody. Even more than that. He had a temper, for sure. She saw it firsthand every show she attended, but it was difficult to reconcile the man she saw on TV to the man she spent a good chunk of her time with. Even more, learning as much as she did and had about him, who he was as the Tribal Chief made all the sense.
Out there, he was who he had to be. With her, was who he wanted to be. They had their moments though, for sure. He could be a dick, and she wasn't for the temper tantrum.
Rarely, however, was this extent of that side of him directed towards her. Perhaps until now.
And especially this level of vitriol.
He sounded furious.
His level of anger, however, didn't make any sense to her.
Especially that last statement.
What was he—
And as if someone turned the light on in the room of realization, Karesse's stomach fucking dropped.
"Oh my God."
She ripped that phone away from her ear so quickly that it almost snatched her bonnet off in the process. Fingers hurriedly tapping at the screen to open up her calendar and click yesterday's date confirmed the worst.
Fuck.
She lifted the phone back to her ear, closed her eyes, and slammed her palm against her forehead. "Shit, Roman, I—I completely forgot."
Forgot felt like an understatement. Like the sort of thing one does when they miss an assignment or fail to pencil in an exam or added assignment to their planner. That was one thing.
Forgetting that he'd booked a flight and planned for her to attend his latest PLE was something entirely different.
And clearly, he felt the same.
"You forgot?" His tone, albeit understandable, made her wince. "How the fuck did you forget that?" Suddenly, the hangover wasn't looking so bad. Being on the receiving end of an upset Roman Reigns was the last thing on her itinerary for the day. "I told you about this weeks ago."
"I know. I know." She sighed and shook her head, suddenly wishing she'd have FaceTime'd him so he could see how truly apologetic she was and how bad she felt. "I guess, I just—I'm sorry. I'll be at the next one," she offered, hope revived. "I promise."
Even if she had to set reminders for every damn day leading up to said event, she would make sure this would never happen again.
"What makes you think you're invited?"
At that, her shoulders dropped.
Him making and organizing her flights to his shows or PLE's was a bit of a regular thing. Sometimes, it felt like she spent more time at the airport than her own apartment these days. Not that she ever complained. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined being flew all over the country—and beyond—by a man like Roman.
And it wasn't even the underlying implication of his question that their arrangement was about to change that was shifting the tides away from regret. He had a right to be upset with her, sure. Time and money wasted would irritate anyone.
It was the level of his vitriol, however, that was starting to irritate her.
"Roman, I made a mistake, okay?" She scoffed. "I—"
"And who the fuck was that boy that you were all over?"
Another question that took her back for several and obvious reasons.
"What are you—"
But once more, another door opened as she once again pulled back her phone to navigate. This time to the app with the yellow icon that revealed several Snapchat stories she didn't even really remember uploading. Naturally, the sound was muted as it was being used for the phone call, but audio wasn't needed to understand what she was watching.
The motion of her ass bent over and twerking against a lap. Her being hoisted over a set of shoulders. The way she was laughing and giggling while posing with and against Christian and Amanda as well as a few other familiar faces. Several, as some of the clips surveyed the multitude of crowds she was immersed in. Truly playful, innocent moments that she could fully understand and see how he could see as otherwise.
She suddenly regretted showing him how Snapchat worked and making him an account. Remembered the way he grumbled about "never" using "that shit." But he'd made himself out to be a liar, because swiping up certainly revealed his username in the list of viewers.
Karesse closed her eyes once more.
This was a fucking mess.
Licking her lips, she blew out a breath and opted to switch to speaker, allowing the phone to settle into the sheets. "He—he's just a friend. Barely even that."
"I couldn't fucking tell."
Again, his tone lapped at her waning contrition.
"We didn't do anything." And he, of all people, should know that. "And I was just—I was just having fun." A good ass time that suddenly felt like the worst night of her life given the verbal reprimand she was receiving from the least expected person ever.
"You had an obligation, Karesse." Something about his tone, disciplinary almost, struck something within her. "I don't understand—"
"Oh my God, it was one show. What's the big fucking deal?" She snapped, partially aware of where the sudden defensiveness was coming from but fully unwilling to acknowledge said source.
But if he was angry before, he was pissed following her matching his energy. His voice a borderline growl on the other end with an uncharacteristic undertone of desperation and anxiety. "The big fucking deal is that I needed you there!"
"I've gone to almost all of your shows since we met, Roman! Why did I need to be at this one?" If not actually all of them, and even though she didn't have the results of his match, she already knew it wasn't like he lost so what was his fucking malfunction?
Karesse threw her hands up, fully frustrated and flustered, hating the way her eyes were starting to water and her chest was tightening. "For fucks sake, I'm 21, and it was my last Homecoming. Sue me for being a stupid college kid who just wanted to let loose for one fucking night! What do you expect?"
The silence on the other end was both unexpected and unsettling, the latter magnified exponentially when his voice took a 180.
"You're right," he said. The almost calm intonation making her stomach churn and cuddle. He hadn't sounded like that since....since he found out she'd lied to him about her age. "What was I expecting?"
She closed her eyes. Fuck. "Roman—"
Her station eclipsed by the call dropping occurred in tandem with the collapse of something deep within her chest.
a/n: so, obviously, there are a handful of similarities between this and the 'with series' what with karesse being a long-term mistress, if we will. so i did my best to make her characterization and backstory the opposite of reader as well as gave this storyline a shit ton more layers. this one will def fuck with your head cause the nuances are insane. karesse and roman are....something. a hell of a lot more backstory in part two as well as wifey's pov.
Warnings | 18+ only | MDNI| profanity, angst, morally grey characters.
Word Count | 3.3k
Summary | He's trying to be a better man, she doesn't want a better man. She wants him. AKA; Jireh refusing to let this man give up on them.
Masterlist
"since you been gone I been having withdrawals, you were such a habit to call"
Roman was no stranger to women attempting to use him for a come up, but this scenario was something he truly could not understand. After their one and only encounter on the bus, she'd taken to following behind him like he was some sort of messiah. Most women usually understood that sexual relations with him were a one time thing. Yet, she was determined to keep her name attached to his, even though he'd been avoiding her like the plague.
He thought he'd set the record straight after one disturbed incident that resulted in him getting security involved. Late one night, he'd been lounging across the sofa on his bus, waiting for his driver to arrive and set off to the next city. The knock on the door puzzled him, Charlie had his own set of keys…maybe he'd forgotten them. Swinging the door open, he was shocked to lay eyes on Aaliyah, dressed in a trench coat and if the peek of her bare chest revealed anything, he was sure there would be minimal clothing underneath. Sending her on her way was no easy feat. The young woman determined to prove her “worthiness”, the idea made him queasy.
After that night, he was sure she'd finally withdrawn her interest in him. He was wrong. Unaware that she would be attending tonight, her appearance in his section was disconcerting. He could have stopped her approach, but admittedly his undivided attention was needed elsewhere. He knew immediately when Jireh arrived at the club, the air seemed to shift with her presence. Up on that balcony he watched her. The way she took shots like they were water and he knew she would be hurting the next day. The way her hips swung and ground up against Jordan had him following in her footsteps, throwing back whiskey as if it didn't burn the whole way down.
It wasn't his intention to even speak to her that night, trying his hardest to stick to his promise of giving her space. He wasn't sure if it was the alcohol in his system, but his stomach hardened at the sight of them together. It must've been the liquid courage sending him barreling down those stairs in pursuit of her.
When he arrives home from the club, his body moves on auto pilot. Undressing. Showering. Redressing into his lounge wear. The entire time her words rang loud in his ears on a traitorous loop
“I want you to miss me."
The feel of her body was ingrained in the back of his mind, like an old friend returning home. If he sat still enough, he would still be able to taste her on his tongue. It was maddening. She admitted that she missed him, let him explore the warmth of her mouth and pussy, then he watched her walk away with another man. He should have stopped her. Told her she was coming home with him. He never got the chance, because of course with his luck, Aaliyah was a part of the search party sent to find them in that dark parking lot. Taking one look at the way she scurried right up to him, Jireh fled, into the waiting arms of another. She stared after him as she was whisked away and he’d give anything to know what was running through her mind.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, the phone in his hand blurs in and out of focus. "I miss you" stares back at him. The same message he's typed and deleted several times over the last few months. If you asked him, he'd tell you that he's not a good man, never has been. He's selfish and even after everything, he wants to keep her for himself. He knows she's better off with someone else. Can see the way Jordan looks at her, the same way he did whenever she was too busy to notice. His chest ached with the realization,never having been one for religion,but in good faith he knew that he must let her go. The letters disappear one by one as he erases them. Typing up the new message burns his fingers like his body knows this is a grave mistake.
"What happened tonight can't happen again. We need to stay away from each other. I miss you too, but I can't be what you need. For both of our sakes, please Jireh. "
Without another second of analyzing, he presses send. There's no big exhale of relief, the impending sense of doom and despair continues to spread around him. dragging calloused palms down his face, he lets himself sink back into the cushion of the hotel mattress. Staring at the ceiling, the pressure in his chest never subsides.
The buzzing of the phone is what rouses him. Unsure of when he fell asleep, he grapples around for the device. Not buzzing from a text message—but a phone call. She's calling him. She wants to talk to him. He considers not answering and after waiting too long the call ends, making the decision for him. Until it rings again, vibrating his body with it. Deciding to take his hiding like a man, he reluctantly answers.
"Hello" he answers calmly, the sleep evident in the rasp of his voice. For a moment the line is silent.
"I got your message" she sounds serene. He's sure she's calling to agree with him, to let him know that this will be their last time ever speaking and that she hates him and wants nothing to do with him. Yet, in true Jireh fashion—she shocks him. "I got your message and I.. why didn't you tell me earlier….that you missed me." he lets out a deep sigh at her words, she'd always been so stubborn
"Jireh… come on, don't do this please"
"No, you're making this all about you. What about what I want? I don't want you to stay away. I don't want to stay away—"
“Jireh—"
"You're saying you can't be what I need, how do you know that? when have I ever said that?"
"I know—"
"you obviously don't know anything…I think about you all the time. Everyday I think about you. I would have told you that if you'd just talk to me."
"..I think about you too—"
"Then why are you doing this? you said you miss me, don't you want me to be happy?" He can hear it then, the panic, how miserable she sounds beneath her bravado.
"I do want you to be happy, that's not what I'm saying—"
"Then what are you saying? That you're giving up? You don't want to put in the work to do right—"
"Don’t put words in my mouth Jireh you know that’s not true—"
"I'm confused— you're confusing me. You said it yourself, if I wanted your attention all I had to do was ask. Here I am asking and you're pushing me away. again. I told you i didn't want space. i. didn't. want. this. So you don't get to just throw me away. it’s not fucking fair. You kissed me in the parking lot. You tell me you miss me and in the same message you tell me we can't do that anymore—"
"You don't understand" The sigh he lets out is deep and weighted.
"Help me understand. I want to understand. How am I supposed to help you if you don't let me"
"I don’t need any help. I've always told you that"
"and look where that got you. look where it’s always gotten you"
"you don't need to be with someone like me—"
"Don't tell me what I need!"
" You need to listen to me. I can't be what you need. It'll never be enough. I can't give you what you want—"
"I've never asked you to be anyone else other than who you are. All I've ever asked is that you stay—is that you stay and—"
"and look where we are now. I couldn't even do that right. You're not thinking clearly—"
"I'm thinking very clear. I know what I want."
"How many times are we gonna do this back and forth"
"That's up to you babe." The three beeps signify the end of their conversation leaving him stumped once again. The phone goes to voicemail when he tries to call her back. The first time, the second, and the third. More confused than ever, he lets himself drift back into the pillows, praying for the confines of sleep to bring some reprieve.
—
A gentle breeze trickling in through the agape balcony door is what wakes him. An unfamiliar coldness overtaking his senses. Letting his head fall to the side, bleary brown eyes blink open. The sheer curtain flowing with the wind perplexes him. He would never sleep with an opened balcony door. She must have cracked it in the night, tired of overheating under the weight of his body.
Closing his eyes once more inhaling the fresh air, he lets his hand feel around for her under the blanket. The further his hand extends without brushing against her, the more confusion sets in. He discovers her on the right side of the king sized bed, sprawled with her back turned towards him, not where she lay the night before.
They had a system. No matter where they were, he slept on the side closest to the entrance to the bedroom. The night prior he vividly remembers falling asleep with her curled to his chest, caging her in as her trembling form came down from yet another high. Rolling onto his side, he lets his hand graze across her bare back before sliding it to her front to drag her body further into the middle of the bed. The movement rouses her.
"Nooooo, let me sleep" she grumbles, attempting to roll back to the far side of the bed.
"Too far" he murmurs, still attempting to pull her into him. With a huff, she flops over onto her back, extending one arm into his vicinity in an attempt to placate him. Raising it up to his lips, he peppers kisses onto her fingers, trailing them down onto her palm, never once taking his eyes off her. She looks so serene. Unburdened by life and its many expectations. Pulling her hand away, he inspects her lithe fingers, from the deep curve of the french tips on her nails, down to the gold band around her finger. The marquis cut diamond glitters in the morning sun and it brings a small smile to his face when he hears her grumble once again, detesting his movement.
She was never a fan of early mornings, always requesting they spend more time under the dreamy haze of sleep. Finally giving into his pestering, she rolls to face him throwing herself onto him with a deep huff. The nibbles she plants on his throat make him chuckle and she squeaks when he lands a swift crack on the bare skin of her backside. Propping herself up on an elbow. Her sleepy eyes gaze down at him, while her hand coast along his unshaven jaw. The small smile that graces her face is melancholy when she plants a chaste kiss on his lips, fingers continuing to trace around his mouth.
"Don't you wish it could always be this way" she whispers at him letting her chin rest upon his chest.
"What?" he wonders, letting his eyes blink closed, the feeling of her hands on him soothing him back into a peaceful slumber.
"Us, don't you wish we could just stay like this forever"
"We could, if you really wanted to, might have to quit my day job. I'm sure they'd understand" he jokes back
"No we couldn't" she responds somberly. Forcing his eyes open he casts a glimpse in her direction. "And why not"
"Because you won't let it be this way" she returns. Planting a lingering kiss on the corner of his mouth before rolling away to retreat from the warmth of their shared bed.
Sitting up, preparing to follow after her, the sound of a blaring alarm startles him. Eyes flying open he shoots up from the bed. Taking a moment to settle his racing heart. He listens for any indication of movement.
"Jireh" he calls out, only to be met with the expected silence.
Looking around, there was no ajar balcony door, no gentle breeze, No Jireh. The only noise in the room came from the sounds of the city outside of his penthouse hotel suite. He falls back onto the cool pillows then, another restless night with dreams filled of what could have been. The buzz of his phone on the nightstand makes him hold his breath. He knows that it's her—again.
It started just days after their encounter at the club. It started off innocent enough but still, he knew what she was after.
Stepping under the scalding water, the heat washes away the aches in his bones. The purpling skin around his midsection takes him back to that night. She'd told him that she loved him and begged him to stay—and he agreed. So why was he standing under this shower colder than ever despite the steam surrounding him. Drowning in the absence of her presence.
He lets his eyes drag from watching the water pool and swirl down the drain, up to the shelving containing her body wash still sitting where she left it all that time ago. Scooping it up, he takes in the smell—her smell. It brings back memories of days just like this. Long shows followed by even longer travel to get back to the home they once shared. His house was vacant damn near, no homey feeling, no feminine touches. Sterile, with just enough items to show proof of life. There was no music, no perfume wafting through the air. No candles burning at all times of the day. Just him and his thoughts—thoughts of her.
The pinging of his phone on the counter gives him pause. Another one. He wonders what it'll be this time. A photo? A video? A second consecutive chime sends him back to earlier in the day. Three photos all sent minutes apart, each one of her in an increasing state of undress. It sends blood rushing to his groin and he can't help but be ashamed.
They're supposed to be splitting up, untangling their lives and yet she's doing everything in her power to keep her presence confining him. Closing his eyes, he thinks back to the last shower they took together. Her moans echoing off the walls. He can feel the pseudo slam of her hips against his own as if he was making love to the ghost of her presence. His hand drifts and squeezes his aching shaft. stroking himself twice before another message comes through as if she knew he was pleasuring himself at the thought of her. Promptly shutting the water off, he wraps a towel around his waist, stalking from the steamy room and leaving the phone on the counter.
IMAGES REMOVED FOR CONTENT LABEL
She was torturing him. Three weeks. Everyday for three weeks she sent him photos, videos, sometimes even voice notes. She called out to him like a siren and each day he was being pulled further and further into her orbit. He was a lonely sailor at sea, barely surviving. Yet just ahead he could see land. Safe and warm, glittering with promise of well being. Yet he stayed afloat, deeming the promised land too fruitful. He knew that when he docked his boat upon those sacred lands the tides would turn and that safe haven would be sent affray all at his own hand. Yet with each passing day he couldn't get himself to turn away. To end this game of cat and mouse for good. Maybe because in the back of his mind he knew that she wouldn't let him get away. Each day he held strong was a testament to his will and strength. Every buzz of his phone was a constant reminder of what he would be leaving behind.
She'd been bold lately. Slowly but surely slipping him into the messages. Two wine glasses on the counter instead of one. A cast of the frame a bit too far to the left and there he was in the background of her video. His toothbrush next to hers. His voice in the back of her voice memos. His hand on her thigh. Each one increases in intensity. She was letting him know without saying it, that this would be his replacement. Prior to his involvement with Jireh, he held no ill will against the man. Saw him multiple times a week at work and they'd never been anything other than cordial with each other.
IMAGES REMOVED FOR CONTENT LABEL
At first glance, he can't be sure what he's looking at. That's what he keeps telling himself. His vision must be going with age, maybe he should call up his optometrist for further clarification. Glaring down at his phone, he was sure that the next time he laid eyes on Jason Jordan, he would do something vicious. Where they were, he had no clue. All he knew was that he was staring at a photo of her, sprawled across a bed with another man's head between her thighs. The longer he stared the faster his heart raced. Without a second thought, he pressed the phone button at the top of the screen. She answers on the third ring.
"Hi baby!" she answers chipper at the idea of finally hearing his voice.
"What the hell is your problem? what the fuck was that Jireh" he wastes no time, wanting to get to the bottom of whatever game she’s playing.
"What do you mean?" she asks, feigning innocence.
"You know what the fuck I mean. Why would you send me that? Is he there right now?"
"ummm maybe, you should come here and find out"
"Jireh..don't play with me right now"
"I would love to be playing with you right now but you're being a big meanie. You don't even respond to my pictures half the time. I put a lot of thought into those you know"
"oh do you? so you must've put so much thought into the one you just sent"
"I did. "
"I—"
I was thinking about you… and every time you used to do that." her admission shocks him.
"Remember all those times? I think about them a lot" her tone is velvety, like sweet music to his ringing ears. Around his waist his pants grow tighter at the images flashing through his mind.
"You miss it too, I know you do" her voice breaks through his stupor.
"You can't send me stuff like that. You need to stop sending me all these messages—"
"I would if you’d just—"
"what's it gonna take—what's it gonna take Jireh please I can’t take this"
"Come home." and with that, those 3 finalizing beeps ring out in his ears.
—
August 31, 2025 | Clash In Paris
He'd won, yet in every way he'd still lost. His first taste of victory in what felt like months, ripped away and replaced with the bitterness of embarrassment. Carried out on a stretcher as if he was weak and incapable, just to end up with a measly diagnosis of bruised ribs. The last time he'd sustained such injury she'd been there. Been there to caress and hold him. To let him know that he wasn't a failure. Even as they slept that night, the way she clung to him was affirmation. She cared for him, no matter the circumstances.
After the last time they spoke, all correspondence ceased. No more photos. No videos. No breathy voice memos to keep him up at night. The silence was worse. Was she officially done with him? Had he staked the final nail in the coffin? So badly he wanted to call her. To beg on his knees for her forgiveness. To tell her he needed her, but he was a coward.
She must like Jordan enough to keep him around, even if for weeks she’d been sending him photos of the most intimate parts of her body. Sex was the last thing on his mind at the moment. The low hum of the TV is what pulls him back into consciousness. The deep breath he attempts to take is halted by the stabbing pain across his chest. Slowly sitting up, he reaches for his phone to check the time. At the sight of her name, his heart skips a beat.
He shouldn't answer. Shouldn't give into the temptation, evidently when it comes to Jireh, temptation is never too far. As he sits there contemplating his response, a knock resounds through the room. Without even needing to check, he knows it’s her.
AN: im trying something new with this formatting. Pleas please let me know if this is confusing for too choppy. I had this idea but had a hard time executing my vision. As always, please excuse mistakes.
Also if anyone wants to be added to a tag list please let me know, I forgot who all asked last time, so sorry guys! lol
I done been through hell and god damn back tryna get this fucking post out to y'all! if this came up on your dash 100 times im sorry! I barely know how to work this shit! I'm one million percent going to figure out how to post those text visuals, Tumblr has me fucked up.
to celebrate her boyfriend’s wrestlemania win, your best friend drunkenly invites you to her and roman’s hotel suite to fulfill his longtime wish for a threesome. but after things take a turn for the worse during the night, no one’s relationship is ever the same.
bf’s!boyfriend!roman x black!reader x black!bestfriend!oc.
Your close friend had seemingly made it her life’s mission to pull you outside the entrapping four walls of your apartment for the first time after the break up that’s been suppressing the free-spirited girl she’s always known you to be.
Close friends since college, the two of you have lived many lives together. Many of which begin when the sun goes down because, as if you two are nocturnal, you come alive at night— bar hopping in New York, hookah lounges in Toronto, girls night out in San Antonio. Pictures of you two during your escapades are sprinkled throughout both of your social media accounts dating back several years prior, accounts that blew up following the success of both of your social media influencer careers.
Those escapades came to a gradual halt when you met your ex. It was a relationship that sucked you dry and turned you into a shell of the person you used to be, and the people around you recognized it before you did despite how frail you felt because of the depleted nutrients. Nasir was the type of man who looks like the sun until the door closes and takes the light with it..
It started off subtle and passive. Then verbal. Until you had to start wearing Miu Miu shades in the most casual of settings. You told yourself his last transgression was the final. And it was, because you left him a month ago.
Since Eden had a front row seat to all the shit he put you through, that alone called for celebration. The fact that tonight is also Wrestlemania is just the cherry on top.
Drinks in hand, the two of you sat ringside as you watched the matches leading up to the the main event. You weren’t really familiar with the sport and since she’s been to a few of these throughout the extent of her relationship with her wrestler boyfriend, you found yourself muttering questions to her every now and then. As many as she’s been to and as often as you tend to accompany one another to entertainment events like this, this was your first one ever. Any invitation you’d be sent by her to attend regularly scheduled programs like RAW, you’d reject.
Simply because Roman has never made you feel particularly welcome.
His demeanor with you is notoriously cold, with conversations short and clipped like you’re the most uninteresting gnat in the room. There’s something innately menacing about him, whether it be his build or his quiet and brooding disposition, or both, that just adds insult to injury. That makes you feel like a nuisance whenever you’re in his presence.
Eventually, you made peace with it. After all, many men aren’t fans of their girlfriend’s homegirls and you’re sure you’ve done something to rub him the wrong way somewhere along the line.
In reality, you aren’t aware of just how much he really dislikes you. How he’ll stare a while longer when she's wearing a shade of lipstick that reminds him of your signature one. How much, despite your knowledge, his guilty conscious compels him to talk down on you to Eden in your absence, as if she knows the truth in her heart and doing so is the head-start he needs to convince her otherwise. How many nights the thought of you behind his lids were the only reason he was able to reach an eye-rolling orgasm inside of his girlfriend.
If fate worked in his favor that day in Miami, it would’ve been you instead of Eden.
He had his sights set on you since you first climbed onto the yacht hosting Zilla’s small get together; the orange bikini you were spilling out of, your black curls wrapped under a silk head wrap and freely cascading past your shoulders striking enough to pull him out the conversation he was having— but you weren’t alone. You were there with a man he would later assume to be your boyfriend, a close friend of Zilla’s.
He was staring at you long enough to pick up the subtle but tense interactions between you and him throughout the day: the way he jerked at your upper arm during your secluded conversation in the cabin that Roman could slightly see through the window from where he was seated, the way your face would light up when someone would address you after you returned only for it to quickly drop once everyone looked away as if it were never real, the way this all coincidently began after you started socializing with everyone— with the men.
The way you seemed to sink into a cocoon of your own afterwards.
Nasir never liked it when you were too social for his liking with other men. He always felt like you needed to be seen and not heard, and sometimes even the former was pushing it.
When Eden, who he thought was just another friend of Zilla’s, approached him, he entertained her even though his eyes kept wandering past her shoulders. She was interesting enough to hold a conversation. Held a couple degrees. A real stunner. Thick where it mattered. Brown like he likes. It wasn’t until a quick surf through the Instagram account she gave him when he got home revealed that she and you were not only friends, but extremely tight if the frequency that you appeared on her feed had anything to say about it. Courtside at the Cavaliers, oversea trips to Jamaica, dinners at Nobu.
He’d never admit it if he were ever confronted, but it’s why he decided to pursue her further. Something about you had captivated him and it was the only way for him to keep you in his orbit. He had to see you again.
Initially, the friendship between you and her was his saving grace. It was the tie that bound you to him. Yet, by the time general observation made it crystal clear that you were too loyal to mess around with someone your friend had already expressed interest in, he’d already found himself in a situationship with Eden. That realization about you and the one that he was starting to develop feelings for Eden, albeit far less strong than the ones he had to pretend like he didn’t have about you, morphed their situationship into a serious relationship.
He wanted to give him and Eden a chance.
If that meant suppressing his feelings and icing you out to keep his distance, then so be it— and it has. For two years.
The crowd makes some noise as you and Eden smile, wave, and blow a kiss at the camera that broadcasts your faces on the celebrity guest Jumbotron with a centered textbox that reads: Eden Westbrook & Tatiana Montgomery.
When it’s time for the main event, you watch the way he manhandles grown men in the ring like they’re his kids and he’s bringing them to work with him. The loud thud of the ring mat and the cheer of the crowd bookends every brutal move between he and the name of whoever it on the receiving end of the ass whooping he’s handing out.
His wet hair drapes around the sharp lines of his nose and jaw, the exertion of sheer force glazing his tan body in a layer of sweat. And when he retains his title after the three count, he slowly raises the belt into the air above his head, smirking as the announcer enunciates the phrase ‘and still.’
The victory lap is easy, relaxed. As thundering pyro erupts into the sky and past the roofless stadium, he climbs on top of the middle rope turnbuckle to bask in the glory of adoration before he pauses when your presence catches his attention. You assume he’s looking at Eden and grin at her side profile as you clap alongside the fans.
The threesome was her idea.
Once the liquor starts invading her system, Eden has a track record that precedes her— she is easily the wildest girl you’ve ever met. She outpaces you by a large gap, which was one of the things most appealing about her when you two first met. She always brings a sense of fiery spontaneity to what can be a very mundane life. So once you’re all in the section of French .95 to celebrate the win and she’s had enough 1942 Don Julio to override her good judgement, she’s dropping the inquisitive bomb onto your lap.
It isn’t something he’s ever asked her for, but it’s something she knows he’s always wanted. And if she’s honest, once she gets past a particular level of tipsy, she starts feeling really sweet and generous; generosity that stems from a pool of love the shade of magenta pink. Because she loves him and she’s proud of him. Proud of the way he’s managed to overcome the years and years of adversity in the company and came out on the other side as supreme as he is. Tonight is living proof.
Giggly and tipsy yourself, you slither behind her as she drags you over to him in the ill-lit nightclub and file this under just another one of you and her’s unruly escapades despite the fact that you’ve never done anything like this before. Thinking about nothing past the present.
Twin bitches. Twin bitches. Twin bitches hoppin off a jetskiiiiiiiiiiiii.
Roman, just as intoxicated, bends his neck down so Eden’s mouth meets his ear as Travis Scott’s ‘Topia Twins’ blares through the crowded building.
The tone of her ‘let’s get outta here’ is suggestive, but even more so considering the fact that you two are hand in hand and you're looking up at him with those watery doe eyes of yours. He’s almost positive he’s picking up what she’s putting down, but to confirm his hunch, he cautiously glances once more at his girlfriend and she responds to it with a wordless, coy smile.
The fluorescent halls of The Bellagio are a blur as you three walk to the door of their suite, you and her in a fit of nonsensical laughter at a joke cracked on the drive over fifteen minutes ago. The beeping of the key card precedes the swing of the door open before you blindly usher in and drop all your belongings onto the room’s wooden coffee table.
A flick of one switch out of many reveals a spacious and sleek suite before engulfing the room in dim but warm light. The floor to ceiling windows provide an omniscient view of the concrete jungle of downtown Houston’s horizon as building lights illuminate the city in vertical constellations in the dark backdrop of the night.
Everyone is in the middle of peeling off of their outermost layers and throwing them onto a heap on the bedroom carpet when a small gasp is sucked out of Eden’s lungs. She glares at the phone in her hand, “shit. It’s the Uber driver. He’s said he’s circling back. I left my I.D in his car.” She snatches her skirt off the ground and quickly squeezes back into it, “okay. Um. Get comfortable, I’ll be back in ten.”
You pause slipping the spaghetti straps off your shoulder and look between her and Roman.
“—We can wait.”
“—Lemme go get it.”
She slips into her sandals and picks up the key card as she rushes towards the door, “it’s just ten minutes, get comfortable. Just… no kissing and don’t get started started without me.”
When she slips out the door, you turn back around and suddenly feel trapped in the lions den once you spot him seated on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. At the same time, realization sinks in; tonight marks the first time you’ll be intimate with a man other than Nasir in years. A milestone that’ll belong to Roman of all people very soon.
Lowly, “c’mere.”
You hesitate, glancing behind your shoulder at the door Eden left out before looking back at him.
He smirks like he can read your mind, “you scared?”
“We can… wait.”
“You gon stare at me for ten minutes?”
You blink at the prospect and roll your lips into your mouth. That is silly. She did encourage you to get comfortable before she left. Break the ice, perhaps. Once you muster up the courage, you slip out of your cheetah print kitten heels and prowl towards him, taking the hand he holds out for you when you’re close enough and patting on his lap with his other hand as a cue for you to straddle.
When you once again pause to look at the door as if this a boundary you aren’t meant to cross, Roman lightly tugs on your hand to gravitate your eyes back to his. “We’re just following her instructions.”
You nod, exhaling a nervous breath and climbing onto his lap on the foot of the mattress. In the blink of an eye, he slinks his hand between your bodies to grip the hemline of his tee and pull it off his torso. It’s in that moment that you take a minute to, for the first time ever, mull over how strikingly handsome he is. You’ve never looked at him in that light before, but it’s undeniable in this moment as he slips his hands underneath your dress and runs them along the warm skin of your outer thighs.
“Why’re you so tense?”
“Huh?”
“You’re tense, Tati. As fuck.”
“Oh uh. Sorry.”
His hands sneaks past your thighs as the supple of your ass spills past the gaps of his spread fingers, each knead drenching the gusset of your thong in the arousal from your radiating core until your hips start slowly following the motion over his growing bulge.
As under the influence as he may be, he has an inkling that doing this with you out of all people isn’t the greatest idea in the world. He knows how he feels, and how long he’s felt that way. But selfishly, he’s always wanted to know what you were like. What you feel like. What you taste like.
Nasir never deserved you. Never. He’s half a man. Roman doesn’t know the full extent of the abuse, Eden would always keep the harrowing details to herself, but from what he has heard and seen himself, he knows you’re just something that happened to fall into the lap of a hungry wolf feeding off the light in your eyes. Hell, a couple of times he and Nasir got into small scuffles over unrelated matters far less trivial that showed your ex’s a bitch that cowers under the weight of men his own size. It’d get real sticky if Roman ever found out what he was doing to you behind the privacy of closed doors.
Eyes closed at the warmth traveling from your core and spreading throughout your body at the sensation of his erection pressing perfectly against your clit, you’re taken by surprise when you feel his mouth at your throat right under your ear. He sucks little red marks onto the sensitive skin until you’re whimpering and then pulls the fabric of your dress down so the supple swells of your chest spill out for his eyes to eat.
His name is a whisper that melts into a sensual moan as he takes one into his mouth and gropes the other one. His free hand at your ass pulls your thong into a fist, tightening the pressure of the fabric against your clit. You feel him everywhere and your pussy’s making a mess.
When Eden returns, positions are assumed. He lies down on his back with her sat on his face, your warm tongue lathering his dick up from tip to base before slowly taking him to the back of throat.
He’s big. You aren't above admitting you salivated a little when he finally stripped down for you see bare. Veiny. Thick. Big enough to guarantee a hell of a great night. Gripping his base, you suction your cheeks around him as you bob until he’s groaning into Eden. And when you finally let up and revert to running your tongue on the underside of his throbbing length as you knead his balls, he suddenly requests a switch of position.
Eden straddles and slowly slides him inside her, her hands on his lower abdomen as she rides his dick. A few inches north, you’re straddling his chest with your body faced towards her.
You bite your bottom lip as he licks and kisses, taking your swollen pearl into his mouth and applying gentle pressures with the tip of his tongue. He pulls your hips back onto his face when the intensity changes and you try to inch away from the pleasure, followed by a sharp smack against your ass. You mewl and coo as he eats you out within an inch of your life, your wet pussy drooling all over his mouth and beard.
Once he makes you and Eden come at the same time, she unmounts him and lies on the bed to catch her breath— only crawling over to the edge of the bed when he stands between your legs as he sheaths himself in a condom.
One of his hands pushes one of your legs to your chest, and one of hers pushing your other reminds you of her presence. You close your eyes and lie your head onto the bed as he slaps his dick against your pulsating clit, sparing Eden one last glance before he’s pushing at your entrance.
He stares at your parted mouth with a similar expression as he stretches your tight pussy out, a few experimental thrusts of his hips warming you up. It takes a little while for you to get accustom to him, but when you do, you’re gasping and inching away from the overwhelming sparks of pleasure running through you.
He tightens his grip on the legs pushed against your chest and tugs you closer to the edge of the bed to keep you still, his thrusts making your pussy drool all over his cock despite the resistant hand that flies up to his abdomen, “that feels so good, doesn’t it? Talk to me.”
“Yes. S…so good. Oh.”
You look so pretty. You always do, but especially right now. He has half a mind to stop and take the rubber off just to make it that much better for you but as much as he’s loosing sight of the fact that his girlfriend is still present, he’s still has a light grip on reality.
You’re creaming on him. All over him. You can’t help it. Each thrust of his big dick inside you presses so deliciously against your tight walls, you can’t help it. You cry out for him and you don’t know why, “Roman.”
It becomes biological. Primal. Prey and predator.
The only sounds audible in the suite are the wet squelch of sodden skin, his grunts, and your desperate cries as he nails you to the mattress. Your arousal drips past your pussy and flows down your ass, staining the duvet underneath.
Eden, growing slightly uneasy at something she can’t put a name on just yet, pipes up, “okay wait baby, slow down.”
Her hand moves from the back of your leg to his forearm, but you interpret that as a simple cue for him to take it easy on you and that’s the last thing you want so you shake your head and shakily speak, “n-no. It’s okay.”
His voice is low and provocative as he looks down at you through hooded eyes, “don’t want me to stop hm? Wanna come all over daddy’s big dick don’t you? Say it.”
He tugs on your hand and places his mouth over three fingers, slowly sucking on them for lubrication before placing them at your clit. You get the message and start rubbing yourself in tight circles as he stuffs you full and whine, “please don’t stop. It feels so good.”
He fucks you like that for a long while. For so long, until your eyes are rolling back and you’re squirting in light spurts with every press of his hips, your head thrown back.
You go to turn your head to check in with your friend after the minute of reprieve he gives you, but he’s slowly pressing his big cock deep inside your creamy pussy again and it renders your effort useless. You moan and grope at your supple breasts, whining when his dick catches and massages your little sweet spot. “Oh.”
“There she is. This is my pussy now.”
Neither of you two register the implication of the words he just let slip, you’re too aroused to. He’s fucking you too good to. You just mewl and take the mind-numbing pleasure coursing through your veins.
Eden, on the other hand, registers it perfectly— and it’s sobering. Her brows lightly tipped inward, she blinks twice before looking between the two of you and slightly sitting up.
His mouth at your ankle, he grunts as your creamy pussy winds tighter and tighter around his dick in no time. He presses into you slowly. Passionately. Until he’s not thrusting at all, just pasting his hips against yours and grinding it in an up-and-down motion.
You don’t know what to do with yourself. Your fingers grip at the sheets and look up him with a pained expression, speechless despite your dropped jaw.
He nods with exaggerated, mock compassion as the bedsprings creak. “I know. I k-know. Fuck. Give it to me. You’re right there.”
He’s so big. Everywhere. His arms. His thighs. His chest. His dick. He’s all consuming. Engulfing. Despite it, you recognize how tender he’s become with the way he’s fucking you. It’s intimate in a way it probably shouldn’t, but it feels too good and you’re way too close to intervene.
When you can’t take it anymore, you slightly nod your head to silently communicate to him that you’re coming as you wrap your legs at his back and pull his cock deeper into your wet pussy. Your head cranes back into the bed, your back forming an arch as an intense, slow, long orgasm rips through you.
In between your sweet cries of ecstasy, he leans forward onto you, his gyrating hips stimulating your clit as his fat cock presses at your g-spot— elongating it further. “Mhmm. Taking all that dick. M’so proud of you. Fuck, love this tight little pussy.”
Eden gets up, “actually, stop.”
Roman keeps working you through your orgasm, his eyes following her off the bed. Trance broken, “what?”
“I changed my mind cause… no. Just stop.”
Floating down from your high, you look up at her from underneath him. Airy, “huh…?”
He slowly slips out of you when he registers her serious expression, his balls pulsating and nerves still on edge from his missed orgasm.
She looks at you, her tone clipped. “Get up. Get dressed and go to your suite.”
Roman’s brow’s furrow, “Eden.”
“I said get up.”
You rise off the bed and blink, slinking your undergarments back on as they do too. Her agitation feels like a cool bucket of water to the face. It’s sobering. Clearly, she’s upset. You can’t pinpoint at exactly what because your mind is too muddled from the best orgasm you’ve ever had, but the bottom line is that your friend is upset and you had a hand in it. That’s not a good feeling.
Roman pulls his boxers up to his waist and watches you slip your dress back on. He looks at Eden, “baby, relax. Why’re you acting like that?”
She didn’t like that at all. If she’s honest, you two looked too acquainted. It looked too natural. She could feel the chemistry and it made her feel like an outsider. The shit he was saying was just the straw that broke the camel’s back. Absolutely fucking not. But she’s too aggravated to communicate that at the moment so she spits out the unpacked version of the truth, “I changed my mind. I’m not comfortable with it anymore. I want her out.”
Upset with the way she’s going about it, he goes to argue with her, but you know her. There’s no conflict resolution with her when she’s in the heat of the moment, so you roll the spaghetti straps of your dress up your arms and decide it’d be better to give her the night to cool down and discuss what happened tomorrow. You slide into your kitten heels as she crosses her arms at her chest, “it’s okay. I’ll go, it’s no issue. Whatever I did, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you in the morning, E.”
As soon as the door closes behind you, she starts to tear up.
Roman, as lost as ever, gets closer. “Eden…?”
“That’s my pussy? I love this pussy? What the hell is the matter with you Roman?”
He blinks when the realization that that’s what must’ve upset her dawns on him. He just got so enthralled in you that he stopped trying to control his mouth, “baby. That’s just sex talk.”
It could just be sex talk, but that paired with what she saw? What she felt? It’s not just anything and she can’t be convinced otherwise. Her nose flares, “have you two fucked before?”
His heart starts racing, “are you serious?”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“No. We’ve never fucked before. I’ve never cheated on you, Eden. What the fuck?”
She stares at him for a second before snatching the remainder of her clothes off the floor, her voice cracking. “I’m going to the other bedroom. Don’t follow me.”
He watches her leave and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, sighing. A hand runs through his hair.
He’s never seen her this upset before. Shit, maybe he did take it too far. He just couldn’t help himself. It’s you. Who knows if he’ll ever get the opportunity to have you like that? He couldn’t pass it up. He’d regret it for the rest of his life if he did. He loves Eden, and despite the fact that your existence make it difficult to be in love with her, he cares about her deeply. You’ve just plagued him his head and his heart for so long.
Now that he’s had a taste of you, he’s more conflicted than he’s ever been.
.
Your head is throbbing.
That’s the first thing you notice when you peel your eyes open in your Bellagio suite.
Light spills in through the gaps of the lace curtains and bathes you in its warmth as you groan and stretch underneath the duvet, which leads you to your next discovery. Your thighs, too, are sore.
The reminder catapults you into last night and sinks your stomach. You and Eden have never really been at odds in the past. So naturally, her being upset with you is unsettling. In hindsight, last night going left was inevitable. You don’t know what any of you were thinking. You, as her friend, should’ve never been in the mix. Also, there wasn’t enough clear communication about boundaries. Whatever it was that pissed her off, you’re sure it could’ve been avoided if that conversation was had.
Still, that doesn’t make you feel any less horrible about any of it.
And Roman.
Fuck.
You’d be lying if you said you’re not looking at him in a different light. It’s impossible to see the neat version of a piece of paper after it’s been crumpled. Especially since he’s the first man you’ve slept with since Nasir, which is just another reason why it was a terrible idea. You’re still too vulnerable. It wasn’t smart.
You sigh and blindly pat around the bed for your phone, bringing it to your face and unlocking it. 10:11 A.M. She’s usually up at this time. You roll your lips into your mouth and open you and Eden’s conversation on iMessage, typing, deleting, and retyping the perfect message on a loop before you eventually land on the right one.
to EDEN. 🍸
still @ the bellagio. let’s talk before you fly back to L.A tonight please. love you always.
Except when you send it, your usual blue message turns green.
Sent as SMS.
You blink twice and sit up, a fold between your brows. You call her number and you get sent straight to voicemail. You exit out of your messages, go to Instagram, and type in her username.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒𑁤 as roman and solana continue to work towards consummating their marriage, solana, especially, is also starting to realize that not only is intimacy not something to fear—it's something to enjoy. thoroughly.
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𑁤 fluff. angst. themes and references to csa and sexual harassment. sexy time aka mild smut. fmc is sexually inexperienced. mmc has a filthy mouth.
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒𑁤 six thousand and some change (6k+)
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆𑁤 roman reigns x black!oc
𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𑁤 photos and gif's from google, pinterest, and instagram. title graphic and dividers by me.
𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐏𝐎𑁤❝la isla bonita❞ by madonna
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𑁤 so this takes place over a couple of things. starting after chapter 11 and ending right before chapter fourteen. it also references 'say you won't let go' and this blurb.
An embarrassing amount of enthusiasm soars through Solana’s body as she watches the passing scenery shift from retail to residential to—eventually—the familiar, heavily secured entrance to Roman’s estate.
Their estate.
Their home.
It’s something she’s not sure she’s been able to fully grasp just yet. How a place she once dreaded and prayed to one day escape has become a sanctuary. The house she grew up in was just a house. Perhaps something more before her mother was killed, but after that? It’s been nothing more than a prison.
This…..this is a home.
Her home.
Warmth continues to bloom in the base of her stomach, the smile stretched across her face as she nearly jumps out of the SUV the minute the door is open. Not even her usual, quiet ‘thank you’ to the driver and Solo as she jogs across the cobblestone driveway and up the perron staircase that leads to their large Mediterranean-style double entry door. She fiddles around with her purse, pulling out, using, and sliding the key back into her bag in under a minute. Instantly, she’s welcomed with the clean linen scent of the plug ins she’d replaced just this morning.
As if she knew.
“Roman?” Her voice echoes throughout the grand entryway as she tosses her purse onto the steps that she speedily rounds to venture down the hall that leads to his office. “Roman?” Heart beating and anticipation reaching a boiling point, it’s when she’s standing outside the open double doors that it ruptures into a burst of dopamine.
He’s leaning back against the front of his desk. Arms crossed, black, tight fitting shirt hugging his inked arms and highlighting the definition of his strong, broad shoulders. Dark jeans with, of course, dark shoes. Black diamond necklace around his neck that’s partially obscured by his loose curls that are down and free vs the slick, neat bun he usually styles his hair into every morning.
It’s when his eyes shift to her though that her brief state of paralysis is shattered.
Solana’s cheeks hurt from how hard and deep she’s smiling as she closes the distance between them, running up to him, eyes shutting when he quickly and easily welcomes her into his arms.
She wraps her arms around his neck, his secured around her waist as she breathes in the scent of him. Her fingers near the nape of his neck, the feel of his hard body against hers doesn’t cause her to tense nor panic but rather relax in a way she now realizes she hasn’t been able to ever since he left.
It’s a realization that makes her clutch him tighter.
She bites down on her bottom lip at the feel of his soft lips on her temple, pressing a kiss that’s followed by a low chuckle. “Miss me?”
A happy giggle tumbles out her mouth as she relaxes her arms, gliding her palms down his chest and allowing her heels to relax against the Persian rug. She cranes her head back to look up at him, seeing the tail end of him nodding and almost scowling at something behind her.
It’s only when she turns her head, however, that she realizes it’s not something. It’s someone.
Several.
Even without the view of their faces as they empty out the room, it’s not hard to make out the individuals she somehow completely missed the moment she locked eyes with her husband. Neat braids. Bleached curled ends. Dark clothing. Similar gait. A bald head, pin striped suit, and a…waddle of sorts.
The twins.
The twins and Paul Heyman.
And for the first time since Bayley and Naomi unintentionally spoiled Roman’s early return, her smile drops.
She turns back to Roman, frown in full force. “I’m sor—”
Her apology is lost in the midst of her husband lowering his head just enough to catch her lips for a kiss that makes her initially gasp only to quickly—and naturally—melt. Her fingers scraping against and wrinkling his shirt as she leans into it and him, their bodies meshed into one. But it’s when he gently bites down on her bottom lip that she gasps quietly, and he pulls away.
She has to fight the urge to pull him back.
“What I tell you about that?” Lips parted, stomach coiling, her eyes flutter as he gently grabs her chin. “Huh?” His thumb glides across her bottom lip as she works to settle the nerves that are like rapid fire in her stomach and the heat that suddenly has her second-guessing her decision to go with jeans over the skirt.
It’s suddenly much warmer than she remembers.
“I don’t want to hear none of that apologizing shit,” he dismisses. “Unless—”
But before her brain can kickstart that usual spiraling and overthinking that’s been her default for so long, she observes the way his gaze flicks down from her face to her chest, eyes flashing with something before he motions with his chin for her to step back.
She does as such, hating the way her fingers tingle and flex at her side, the separation of the two of them making her frown deepen for reasons she can’t explain.
Solana continues to stare at Roman, the seconds that pass without him saying anything nothing short of torturous. But a shift occurs when he reaches for her hand and raises her arm, again motioning in a way she somehow understands. Starting to turn around when he stops her just as she’s about to make a full 90 degree twist. Looking over her shoulder and the way his full lips part and a low profanity slips out lessens the anxiety swirling in her stomach.
“Unless it’s for not including a picture of your fine ass when you text me this morning.” He bites down on his lip as the bashful smile on her face instantly returns as does the way she turns to face and lean into him. The swipe of his thick tongue across his bottom lip and the refocusing of his eyes onto her chest once more making the heat travel up to her cheeks. “The fucking audacity to apologize when all I’m looking at and see are your big ass tittie—”
“Roman!” Solana giggles, reaching up and slapping her hand over his mouth. It’s a short-lived, forced silence when she drops her hand and head, eyes slightly widening once more, though significantly less than when she first looked at herself in the mirror after dressing. “It’s—Bayley and Naomi told me to get it. I didn’t—I told them it was too revealing—”
Outside of training and helping her learn how to fight, near the top of Bayley and Naomi's list of changes have focused heavily on appearance. Namely, wardrobe. Solana is almost certain that most of the clothes she moved into the house with now sit at the bottom of a donation bin.
If not burned.
Her closet and drawers mostly consist of entirely new pieces, several of which came with price tags so exorbitant that she still cringes whenever she thinks about how much money Roman has dished out on just clothes alone. Not to mention the shoes, accessories, purses, and more. It feels....it feels too much, sometimes. Similar to the sentiments experienced when she stood in front of the full body mirror in her bedroom. Adjusted the top at least five different times before accepting that no amount of shifting material that felt three sizes too small as it was could prevent the way her breast were so....exposed. Or the way her jeans hugged every curve of her lower half.
Especially her butt.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Once more, his hands have found home on her body, one curving around her back and settling on her ass, the other creeping up her stomach. “All this body you got, and you always trying to cover it up.” A quiet, sharp intake of breath when he loops his thumb through the metal clamp sitting closer to her stomach versus the middle of her chest. Her throat tightening as his long fingers span across her right breast with a gentle squeeze that makes her eyes shut once more. He says something low and indecipherable and dips his head to the crook of her neck. Her head naturally nods to the side, allowing him greater access to her neck that he starts to suck on.
“Roman….” She swallows. “What—what did you say?”
His coy response is followed up with kisses to the corner of her mouth. “When the time comes, I’ll show you better than I could ever tell you.”
Anticipation spurs but is forced away when the shock of his return reminds her why he was gone in the first place.
“Are you alright?” She lifts her hands to palm his bearded face. “Were you able—did you—”
Truth be told, Solana still isn’t entirely sure what required him to be away for almost a week. In all their correspondence during his absence, he never shared, and she never asked. But it doesn’t mean she can’t inquire about the status of whatever the task or dilemma was.
“Yeah,” he answers. “I did.”
There’s something in the way his jaw shifts and volume drops that makes her want to press. Want to follow-up with a question inquiring about veracity. She doesn’t believe that he’s lying, but there’s something underneath the surface of his answer.
Regardless, she doesn’t want to push, thus her deciding to leave it alone.
For now, at least.
“Good.” She nods, pressing her lips together and allowing her fingers stroke the top of his cheat, pushing away some of his curls. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back early? I would have made sure I had something cooke—”
“Solana, you’re my wife. Not my personal chef,” he reminds. His hands settle on her ass, as that almost lighthearted tone returns with his reiteration. “You don’t always have to—”
“But I want to.” She interrupts only to catch herself as she shakes her head. “Sor—I just….I feel like it’s the least I can do.” Another quick, efficient catch that allows her to reel in the apology she already knows he won’t accept on the grounds of it being unnecessary.
Even if she doesn’t necessarily agree.
Roman sighs. Her eyes flutter when he reaches to stroke the top of her hair. She understands that he’s made clear several times over that if she likes something, then that’s all that matters. But it seems her haircut is something he really likes and that makes her own approval of it that much stronger. “You don’t owe me anything.”
“Yes,” she whispers. “Yes, I do.”
It’s a topic that they’ll always have to agree to disagree on, and naturally so. He could never truly understand what life was like before him. When she lived in that house for almost thirty years, majority of which were filled with an unspeakable amount of abuse and torture. Solana has no doubt that if not for Roman, she would have died in that house the same way her mother did. And if not by the hand of her dad or brother, then her own.
She would have eventually taken her own life. Been successful.
But she didn’t.
She won’t.
Because of him.
Because of Roman.
And that’s a debt no amount of verbal and nonverbal gestures of gratitude can ever fully repay.
So whether Roman wants to admit it or not, she does owe him.
She owes him her life.
Tropical the island breeze
All of nature wild and free
This is where I long to be
La isla bonita
Solana’s hips wind in slow, almost sensual movements, her voice low just enough for her to hear the way she sings along to one of her favorite songs even under the sound of running water that fills the sink with soapy water.
She glides across the kitchen to grab the stack of dirty plates that she rinsed on the left side before depositing them into the right. A small smile on her face when she hears a high-pitched bark.
“Dulce.”
Her sweet Pomeranian is sitting to the right of her, on the rubber mat in front of the dishwasher. Looking up with her fluffy tail wagging.
“Dulce, you had your dinner already.”
Dinner Solana prepared while also making dinner for herself and Roman as she waited for him to return home from work. Dinner along with an extra treat.
Or two.
But Dulce has moments of gluttony, and, of course, a canine nose, hence her probably smelling the leftovers Solana already stored into plastic containers and has sitting near the stove until it’s cooled down enough to refrigerate.
The followed up bark along with hoisting her butt up in the air to further emphasize her bark and stance of protest makes Solana roll her eyes.
“No mas, Dulce.”
The final decline issued in Spanish seems to do the trick as Dulce walks away, tail lowered, and determination subsided.
It makes her roll her eyes and resume her singing as she finishes loading the dishes into the sink. The hypnotic and addictive melody, however, seems to overpower her focus and will, even as she hits the faucet to turn off the water, sink completely filled. A small smile on her face and joy in her belly when she closes her eyes and dances around the kitchen. Nothing choreographed or complex in terms of movements but rather natural movements fueled by the music and overall happiness felt for the first time in a long time.
Solana isn’t sure she’s ever felt as happy as she feels now. In this life that she now calls hers. Existence traded for living. A life never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined or envisioned for herself.
She giggles and spins around only to jump and gasp loudly. Slaps her hand over her mouth.
“Mio dios!”
Roman stands near the entrance of the kitchen, arms crossed, dressed in sweats and a white, fitted undershirt. His eyes are focused on her, lips turned into a small smile.
“Don’t stop,” he encourages. “I’m enjoying this.”
But his enjoyment comes at the expense of her embarrassment as she rushes over to the island to grab her phone. She lifts it up and jabs the pause button before lifting her head, gasping once again when she realizes Roman is no longer a few feet away.
He’s right in front of her.
She licks her lips and stammers. “You—you scared me.”
Solana doesn’t even want to think of how long he was standing there just….watching her.
He makes a sound and strokes a tendril of hair between his index finger and thumb. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound it.
But it’s insignificant as she yelps when he lifts and places her onto the granite island. “Roman—”
“I want to ask you something, and I need you to be honest with me.”
The smile is swiped away, her anxiety extrapolating despite the way he continues to look at her without any trace of irritation or anger. Just curiosity that’s evened out by the almost soft tone of his voice.
Solana clears her throat, fingers naturally shifting to toy with the hem of her shirt. “O—okay.”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “What was it you saw on your phone during dinner?”
Her shoulders slump.
As much as she would love to play coy, to pretend she doesn’t know what he’s talking about, there are several real, valid reasons as to why none of those are good options.
Outside of her being a terrible liar, Roman can see through anything, and him detecting her subterfuge would set them several steps back. It would be counterproductive to all of the work they’ve been putting in to make this marriage real. To make their relationship real.
Not to mention, the last time she lied or didn’t tell him the truth, didn’t tell him at all, it didn’t end up well. Sure, it was the segue for them navigating how to learn and live with each other, but it would still be a step back.
And Solana is tired of being held back and bogged down by things of the past.
The present is here and what matters most.
It’s more or less what was reflected in said text she received in the group chat from Bayley and Naomi that encouraged her to follow through what she’d shared with them a few days ago when they were out shopping. Right before she cut their outing short to reunite with her husband.
Her husband who continues to stand and wait patiently for an answer.
Solana briefly dips her gaze to her lap. “There’s—“ She takes a deep breath.
I can do this.
Nodding to herself, she lifts her head at the same time she murmurs, “there’s a man—”
“What man?” Roman cuts in. Whatever calm existed before is replaced with urgency, his expression hardening. “Tell me.”
His abrasive tone is intimidating, but it’s not intimidating enough to render her silent. She powers through her anxiety, all while still fiddling with her shirt.
“He—he’s been coming into the library the past two weeks, and—he—he makes comments about me. To me.” She shakes her head, adding almost desperately in lieu of the way Roman rolls his neck, jaw ticking. “Not—not mean! Just—just inappropriate. Like—like he’s flirting with me.” It’s beyond flirting. Sexual harassment, as Bayley and Naomi called it when she provided specific examples. Examples she won’t share with her husband given the way his anger seems to be jumping leaps and bounds based on the crumbs she is providing. “I—I told him I’m married, but—but he doesn’t stop.”
And therein lies the problem. The main one, at least. As nerve-wracking as it was to attempt to assert herself, to actually lift her hand and show off the diamond ring she’s not sure how anyone could miss, and double down on her requests for him to cease the flirtatious comments, it did nothing.
He chuckled, shrugging his shoulders and stuffing his hands into his pockets. He gave a smile that made her skin crawl, mouth and nose slightly crooked, teeth more cream than white. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”
“Solo tried to step in, but I—”
“I’ll handle it.”
Roman’s interruption is quiet and sharp. His eyes are narrowed, the flames dancing in his irises and anger rolling off his shoulders exacerbating her anxiety. The tension is palpable and fills the kitchen in way that feels both suffocating and unbearable.
It makes her stomach drop, intrusive thoughts breaking through the surface.
“Are you angry with me?”
Her whispered question causes a complete 180. His brows furrow and mouth dips into a frown. “Solana….” He moves his hand to the back of her neck, the other sliding behind her as he tugs her to the edge of the counter and steps closer so that he’s standing between her legs. “No. Of course not, baby. Why would I be? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Reassuring words that crack but don’t destroy the dense surface of deeply ingrained trauma. “I don’t—I don’t know. I just. Maybe—maybe I shouldn’t.” She swallows, emotion deep. “Maybe I shouldn’t dress so—”
“Don’t.” His interruption is immediate and sharp, his finger stroking her kitchen area as he moves his other hand to her face, forcing her to lift her chin. “Don’t do that shit. I don’t give a fuck what you wear. You could be fucking naked, and it still doesn’t give anyone the right to—” He stops, closing his eyes and clearly shoving away revived feelings of anger. But his eyes focus on her once more and instantly soften. “I’ll take care of it….alright?” She nods, managing a small smile, noticing the way she’s stopped fiddling with her shirt and instead has her hand on his chest. A hand that’s dropped when she sets aside reservations and leans into desire and him.
She wraps her arms around his neck to hug him.
Her eyes shut and tension melts away entirely when he returns her embrace, kissing her temple, mumbling, “thank you for telling me.”
Solana swallows the lump in the back of her throat.
“Thank you for believing me.”
She can’t be certain, but she swears he holds her tighter at her whispered response.
A minute or two pass before he taps her hip and pulls back. “Go shower. I’ll finish the kitchen.”
Solana opens her mouth to protest or at least offer some assistance, but he’s already shaking his head. “I got it.” He helps her down onto the floor, hands remaining on her waist as she cranes her head back to look up at him. Their height difference is astounding. “We can watch that deceit show.”
She giggles, smile widening. “Pretty Little Liars?”
“Same difference.”
Solana opts against correcting him, instead reaching for her phone and accepting his offer. “O—okay.”
But it’s when she turns to leave and feels his hand slap her ass that she turns around giggling, smile never breaking nor diminished. Just big and real. She reflects what she feels.
“Roman!”
“Dulce!”
Solana giggles, stepping into the house, closing and locking the door behind her and her puppy who seems keen on getting back in the bed. She’s noticed that Dulce doesn’t seem to like being disturbed when she’s found that deep REM of sleep that has her body either halfway hanging off the bed or curled into a ball. Solana will be grateful once her sweet girl is fully potty trained, and judging by the way Dulce hauled ass to head back up the steps to go back to sleep, so will she.
Pushing her hair behind her ear, Solana heads into the living room, realizing that she left her phone up on the counter in the bathroom. It doesn’t take much for her to opt to leave it there and grab it before they go to bed. The group chat had gone silent shortly before she hopped in the shower, and with Roman being with her, there’s little need for it.
If any at all.
The sound of her slippers slapping against the hardwood flooring is silenced when she enters the carpeted area where Roman is already sitting and waiting for her on the sofa facing their open kitchen. Lamps on either side turned on instead of the bright, fluorescent overhead lighting assists in setting the mood for the their late night viewing. Pretty Little Liars. Ever since his late night drugstore run where he picked up enough period products to get her through the next year and the subsequent joining of her watching one of her favorite shows, several occasions have occurred where he joins her on the sofa or turns over to face the TV when she watches from the comfort of their bed.
Truth be told, Solana can’t tell which she enjoys more. Him watching the show or his commentary that never fails to put a smile on her face despite him being completely serious.
“I don’t understand why these damn girls are never in school.”
“Are all the male characters on this fucking show pedophiles?”
“How many goddamn episodes are gonna end in these stupid ass cliffhangers?”
But despite his many, many, protests about said show, it doesn’t stop the way his eyes stay glued to the television.
And Solana’s focus briefly switches to said television when she’s met with the splash screen instead of the familiar still frame of the Liars in front of the casket.
“Is it not—” She easily and quickly snaps her mouth shut when she returns her gaze to her husband. “Wh—what? What’s wrong?”
The second question is naturally and possibly necessary given the way his expression is the perfect blend of stoic and unreadable. She can tell that he’s not actually upset. His furry brows aren’t caved and his mouth not set into a scowl that emphasizes the age lines under his eyes and near the top of his sharp cheek bones.
But he is something.
“Is that my shirt?”
Solana’s eyes immediately drop downward as she takes in her attire. The black shirt that drapes off one shoulder and is elevated around the chest area by her breast, nipples perked and poked against the soft fabric.
She swallows. “Yes. I—I’m sorry.” Closing her eyes, she shakes her head and attempts to explain despite the million and one thoughts swirling around in her head. “I was just—I was doing laundry the other day, and I—I grabbed one of your shirts. I didn’t think—”
“Solana.” She snaps her head up to look at him, seeing the way he’s edged his big body to the edge of the sofa. Watches how he lifts his hand and beckons her towards him. “Come here.”
She licks her lips, anxiety doubling with each slow step taken in his direction. Trepidation that triples when he suddenly reaches for her hand, tugging her forward with enough force that she nearly stumbles if not for the way he eases her onto his lap. Slippers toppling off, her hands anchor onto his shoulders and valiant attempts are made to ignore the way her legs on either side of his thighs cause her/his shirt to hike up, exposing the fact that nothing exists underneath said shirt expect for her underwear.
Or the way their bodies….connect.
Roman starts with his hands on her waist before gradually easing them down to her hips, bunching up the shirt. His fingertips brush against her skin and evoke a pulsing sensation in her chest and elsewhere.
Her lips part as he drags his mouth along her jawline, her head instinctively nodding back, forcing his lips to ghost over hers. “You can wear anything of mine anytime in any way that you want as long as I get to see you in it.” His deep, breathy reassurance has a twofold effect in that it completely obliterates the anxiety she now realizes was fully unnecessary, but it also heightens the heat and desire that seem to be increasing with every passing second. Roman’s lips curve up into a smug smirk as he trails his index finger across her hip. “Or out of it.”
Her smile instantly returns, but it’s accompanied by that burning sensation in her cheeks. Flustered isn’t a strong enough word to explain what she feels. But it doesn’t stop the way she mirrors his smile or the way she leans into his touch. “Are you always so….explicit?”
“You think that’s explicit?” He chuckles quietly, hands gliding up and down the small of her back as he tugs on her bottom lip. “Pretty girl, you should hear the shit I don’t say but think.” Her eyes shut and hands shift to his face, their eyes locking as he somehow finds a way to pull her closer despite the fact that their chests are already mushed together. The aroma of her perfume and his cologne conjoined and complimentary. Them. It's them. “All the damn time...”
Naturally, Roman is the one to make the first move. The one to capture her lips for a kiss that, as most, starts out tentative. Slow and unsteady, allowing the opening and option for departure or retreat. For her to cease and set the pace and expectations. As he always does and has, especially since they’ve been working up to intimacy. And given her…setback two days prior, Solana is immensely grateful.
For all of it. For his kindness. For his patience. For him. It just makes the feelings that continue to grow by the day grow that much stronger.
Feelings that feel unlike anything she’s ever felt before.
Towards anyone.
Ever.
But reassurance is provided when she steps out of her comfort zone and kisses him back with an intensity and passion he usually directs towards her. An unspoken sign of approval that she’s fine. More than fine.
A nonverbal that’s fully received by him when he reclines back into the sofa, leaving them at an angle as she hovers over him, never once breaking their heated kiss. Thermal sensations growing when his hands continue to explore her body in ways that are both familiar and new, the latter especially prominent when his left hand drops down to squeeze her ass and the right travels to her breast.
Both under her shirt.
His fingers ghosting the swell of her big breast is what forces her to break the kiss as she gasps against his mouth.
Though her vision is just as hazy and muddy as her brain feels, she’s fully aware of the way his eyes rake over her face.
“You want me to stop?”
It’s an easy answer. She shakes her head and quickly remembers his rule. “No.” Reaffirmed in the way she kisses him again, once again interrupted when he takes her hand and gradually guides her into newfound territory. This isn’t the first time he’s touched her beyond and under her clothes, but it’s never exceeded quick, simple caresses. There’s nothing quick though about the way his hand cloaks over her breast, giving a gentle squeeze and flick of his thumb over her nipple. Or how he interrupts the way their mouths move against and with each other to pay her neck an equal amount of attention and appreciation.
Solana’s breathing easily descents into uneven territory as Roman continues to palm her breast and suck on her neck, the latter motion the same one that’s left those marks on her that warrant blushing and stammered, stumbled explanations when pointed out by Naomi and Bayley.
But it’s hard to have any sort of reservation with how good he’s making her feel.
“Roman….”
Her body naturally arches into him, the friction of her crotch over his lap palpable in several different ways for both him and her. But it’s only when she grips his bicep, fingers digging into his inked skin that he lifts his head, eyes bouncing from her eyes to her lips.
“You trust me?”
Another question with only one answer.
She nods, voice soft but sure. “With my life.”
Solana observes the way an un unidentified sentiment briefly gleams in his expression, halfway expecting him to say something only to be met with silence that’s both defining and booming.
Her eyes remain locked with his when he returns and tightens his grip on her hips just enough, gently moving her back before gradually sliding her forward. A jolt of something powerful and throbbing spurs from between her thighs when her still clothed and covered vagina glides over something hard and probing.
Him.
It’s him.
Her jaw drops open, however, and her fingers dig into his shoulders when he does it again. For a brief moment, she starts to ask him, to tell him, to stop. It’s the most…..contact they’ve had in this way. His hands—and mouth—have explored every inch of her except there. It’s been the one level she’s been unable to unlock for him.
Until now.
Because fear is easily shoved to the back burner when Solana realizes something stronger burns within. Has her eyes fluttering and her stomach coiling in the same way it did when he…..touched her in front of the mirror.
Except this somehow feels stronger. It is stronger.
And Roman, being Roman, must have found a way to invade her thoughts. He stills, thumb moving circles through her shirt. His shirt. “You want me to stop?”
Solana swallows, her throat dry all over again for another set of reasons. “No.”
“Good.”
He does it again.
That slow, precise drag of her body on top of his lap, over his large erection that pokes against her most sensitive space. That probe in conjunction with the motions making her grip on his shoulders tighten, her eyes flutter, and low, airy moans spill out of her mouth. Staccato like breaths that intensify in tandem with the consistent rhythm he creates. Each connecting touch electrifying and increasing the throbbing and need that burns bright and blinds behind her closed eyes.
“That’s it….” His deep voice powers through the blissful haze that has her leaning forward, head on his shoulder, her hands dragging down his huge, muscular arms. “Good girl.”
Solana can’t tell which is heavier, more intense. The way her heart is thumping against her ribcage or the way she finds herself moving in sync with his guided motions, chasing the feeling and pleasure that she’s slowly realizing is not inaugural.
She’s….she’s felt this before.
Never this intense, but close.
So close.
The mirror.
When he touched her as they stood in front of the mirror and he forced her to watch as he simultaneously worked to hack away at her body insecurity but to also grant her a first.
An orgasm.
And that’s exactly what he’s doing now.
“Oh my—” She gasps, whimpering and eyes clenching shut at the coiling in the pit of her stomach and her throbbing vagina, wet and sticky underwear swallowed by her thick pussy lips. The fabric bunched up resulting in her bare skin brushing against his cotton sweat pants, also damp, the resulting friction amplifying her bliss.
“Roman, I—” She gasps, rendered a stammering, moaning, writhing mess. God. It feels so good. “I’m—I—”
“I know,” he murmurs, stroking the sides of her ass, kneading into the meaty flesh. “Just let it go, pretty girl.” Her mouth drags open, his shirt embedded between her teeth as her eyes clench shut. “Take it. Take what’s yours, Solana.”
Something about his words, or perhaps the combination of it all, spurs liberation. Thrusts her over the finish line as she gasps loudly, groaning lowly and continuing to grind atop his lap as an overwhelming, debilitating, and titillating wave of phenomenon drowns her. Has her clinging onto him, using his body as a necessary anchor. Roman’s strokes up and down the small of her back accompany the way he kisses her temple help her settle back down to whatever earth is at this point.
It takes a few moments for her to reorient to reality, let alone find a way to verbalize a complete sentence.
Still panting and reeling, she manages to lift her head to look at him. “Did—did I—”
“Hmmm.” He slides his hand towards the side of her body, thumbs once more moving with soft caresses that make her eyes struggle to stay open. “You tell me.”
Solana starts to frown when she watches his gaze gesture down, forcing her own to follow and instantly widen.
“Oh my God.”
It wasn’t that she couldn’t feel the….moisture between her legs and coating on the inside of her still trembling thighs. Despite sexual experience limited to a horrific violation as a child, Solana knows enough, especially since marrying Roman, to understand how the basic physiology behind intimacy works. She knew that she was wet.
She just didn’t realize how wet. Or rather, how much.
Roman’s light gray sweats are soaked, reflecting a deep, dark color that glistens with clear and white liquid as is the portion of her underwear, most of which is still embedded deep inside her slick folds, but the edges present with the same saturated color.
An immense amount of something else comes over her when she lifts her head to meet her husband’s smug expression.
“I—I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”
An apology silenced when he kisses her. “You better get used to that,” he remarks, kissing the corner of her swollen lips. “Because the minute I get to do all the things I want to do to you…”
His follow up statement as his hungry gaze soaks in the sight of her alert Solana to a milestone she’s only now realizing.
She didn’t stop him.
Didn’t have to force or push him away from overwhelming, horrifying flashbacks and touches that were far too triggering. There was apprehension, sure, but it was surrounded by the realm of unknown. Unmarked territory.
Or it was.
It creates an immense amount of pride that makes her smile return, small and emotional, but present.
She swallows once more as he pushes her hair behind her ears. “Did you....umm….”
Where the question comes from, she hasn’t a clue, but seeing the mess she made, it couldn’t have all been from her. It wasn’t. The noticeable stain above his crotch—that she still feels poking her—proved as much.
“Not about me.” He shakes his head, stroking her bottom lip when she opens her mouth to protest. “Besides…I’ve come enough at the thought of you.” Her stomach twists as his voice deepens. “Next time I come because of you will be because I'm finally inside of you.”
Her chest tightens, but it’s not from fear.
It’s from anticipation. The more they continue to explore and work towards the ultimate goal, the more and more she can feel the trepidation waning.
Less and less like a dream and more more like an actuality.
Like it’s not a matter of if but when.
She sneaks a quick, nervous kiss to the bridge of his nose, watching the corner of his mouth lift into a small smile. “I—I have to change.” Her underwear only, really, but still a change, nonetheless.
Except as she dismounts herself from his lap, legs wobbly but enough to keep her on her feet, Roman suddenly reaches for her hand.
She opens her mouth only for him to ease in with a swift, low. “I want to watch.”
For the briefest second, she’s confused. Ready to follow up with a clarifying question only for it to settle in almost instantly at the way his gaze darkens and dips to between her legs.
Oh
The alarm bells start to ring and blare in her ears, anxiety making its grand return. But instead of hijacking the drivers seat, it’s relegated to a passenger position that sits and watches. Is but a witness to the way Solana drops his hand and refuses to allow that nagging voice in the back of her head to take over and dictate.
Forces it to watch.
The way she slides her hands underneath the shirt, ensuring to slide in from the back versus the front, allowing it to raise mostly behind instead of front. Hooks her thumbs through the band, rolling them down her legs and stepping out.
All the while never breaking eye contact.
But her eyes widen once more when Roman snatches her soaked panties from her palms. Horror instantly transforms to something that makes her thighs snap together as he balls them up and lifts them to his face. Eyes shutting as he inhales deeply. Solana feels like the carpet underneath her suddenly became a lot less stable as the ground underneath shakes with vigorous fervor.
Her mouth drops open, but nothing comes out.
Roman simply smirks and leans back against the sofa, legs spread, seemingly uncaring of the large wet spot on his crotch. “I think I’ll keep these.” His long arms stretch across the top of the dark leather sofa, pink fabric seeping through his fingers that are clamped around her underwear. “They won’t be the first.” He drinks in the sight of her, expression smug once more as he glosses his tongue over his bottom lip. “Damn sure won’t be the last.”
Solana hasn’t the slightest clue what to say to that. What she even could or should say.
So she says nothing, murmuring a quiet “I’ll be right back,” and making haste for the staircase. It’s not until she’s in their bedroom, however, leaning back against the door that she looks down. Slowly pulls up the shirt and spreads her legs just enough to see what she started to feel the minute Roman instructed her to disrobe in front of him.
Dark inner thighs damp, pussy lips glistening from a fresh, new wave, clear droplets gliding down her smooth skin.
She closes her eyes and releases a shaky breath, allowing the shirt to drop and drift against her trembling body.
Maybe….maybe she should take another shower.
Or two.
a/n: tbh, the private jet scene towards the beginning of chapter fourteen always felt a tad bit out of left field. this last scene was intended to take place near the beginning of chapter thirteen, so it would have been:
makeout scene in chapter 11, mirror scene in chapter 12, this scene in chapter 13, and the private scene at the beginning of chapter 14 as the “build up” moments to roso’s first time.
but i opted to omit it as it felt out of place for the chapter's overall tone. looking back, i think it would have worked. but just know this was canon in my mind just not reflected fully in the main story....if that makes sense.
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