He’s the president’s son and you weren’t supposed to rendezvous with him who would’ve thought he would be obsessed with you
Life felt stiff, always listening to your parents and their expectations with their stuffy suits. You didn't ask to be put on a pedestal but you were. You had to feed into the rebellious child of a politician stereotype just to feel normal. Everything you did was closely watched. What school you went to, your academics, your after school activities, everything was watched by those you felt didn't matter. You felt like you didn't have room to breathe.
"You must act accordingly. Don't embarrass us." Your mother's stern voice warned you countless times. You rolled your eyes like any other time.
"I know." You would repeat back. It was just what you did to get her off your back.
Your college life was your favorite. Secret service wasn't allowed on campus for risk of other students. As soon as you stepped away from campus, you were back to your old life. This was your sanctuary, the people there could care less about your status. You all came for the same thing, whatever your parents signed you up for and party. It was the way life went on campus.
You aced exams so your parents wouldn't get suspicious. You even kept going to those after school sports they signed you up for. All this to make room for a cold beer after losing beer pong at the end of the night. Your day to day changed when you met Tyriq, the president's son. He was adored by many around him, it was just who he was.
His birth shocked the country since his mother was the president's mistress. That's what many on the outside saw anyway. The insiders knew that he loved that woman like no other. He showed it time and time again how he felt for his wife but Miss. Pope? Oh how he adored the powerful woman.
When you learned the story, you wanted a love like that but not in that way. It was silly but you believed in right person wrong time. Things happened and sometimes you could fix it and sometimes you couldn't. Fitzgerald and Pope showed that clearly. They didn't care how it looked as long as they were together.
Tyriq spent much of his time doing sports or hanging out with his friends but when he saw you? He liked to have died. You both were at another infamous campus party. This one was ran by a fraternity who decided to celebrate their founding day. When you pulled up with your homegirls, people were already passed out on the lawn from drinking. You didn't want to be them especially since the sprinklers automatically turn on in the middle of the night.
"They gon' be mad because there's an assignment due tonight." Leona stated with a shake of her head.
"They'll just cry to the professor like they always do and then get an 'A'." Verity said as she rolled her eyes at the mere thought of it.
"That's true because that's the senates son." Leona laughed as you followed with laughter of your own.
"Girl his daddy got him, trust." You assured them as you all walked along the grass. The party was bumping as per usual.
Verity froze before searching around like she was missing something. You and Leona started looking around too hoping to pick up on what she was doing. She stood up with narrowed eyes as her gaze scanned the area. Leona sucked her teeth before putting a hand on her hip. She knew Verity was on some bull.
"Alright now, I'm not bout to play with you." Leona stated, clearly becoming irritable.
"Y'all hear that?" Verity whispered as she ducked low. You both followed now concerned with what she was hearing.
"No? What's going on?" You asked just as worried.
"It's a shot." She laughed loudly as she practically galloped to the entrance. Her purse swinging on her arm.
Leona let out an annoyed noise. "Remind me to smack her 'fo we leave." You agreed as you both made it inside.
You walked up on her with a glare. "You make me sick, you know that?"
"Girl we here to relax before we have to go back to our mundane lives." She rolled her eyes at you before waving you off.
Verity was all about finding a way to take a load off. It was just how she was. What was the point of hard work if you couldn't enjoy life afterwards? She made sure it paid off and in this case it did because she got through the week. Today was about letting go.
"Verity, you make it sound like we living paycheck to paycheck." Leona said rolling her eyes. Verity glared at her.
"Girl we might as well be, hell. They just threw us in this mothafucka." She sassed as you snorted.
"Girl we are kids of powerful people." Leona reminded her but verity just waved her off. "Same thing."
The party was loud and as usual for a fraternity, packed. You could hear the constant hooting and hollering from all for corners of the house. You looked over to your left and saw some people leaned on walls trying to look cool. This wasn't the place, this wasn't high school anymore. The young adults were free to be themselves without their parents judgment.
"I don't know about y'all but I'm getting me a drink!" Verity squealed before shimmying to the kitchen.
You and Leona laughed at her before Leona dragged you along. "Alright now, I don't want nothing strong. We still gotta get home." You told Leona which she nodded.
"Live a little! It's Friday too. Besides Benny gonna come get us!" Verity smiled mischievously.
Your eyebrow raised as you eyed her. "Benny? Who would rather shit in his hands and clap before getting out his bed in the middle of the night?"
"He said he's cool with it since he'll be out tonight." She stuck her tongue out at you.
"We can always call a taxi." Leona whispered to you before handing you the drink.
The night was as good as a Friday night at a fraternity party could get. Verity was drunk and having a dance off in the main room. Leona went to go cheer her on while you sat by the pool with your feet in the water. The night air was cool and the stars were out—a perfect night. You took a deep breath in as you took in the sounds of the night.
"You usually alone?" A voice spoke through the quiet.
You opened your eyes and looked towards the direction of the voice. Tyriq emerged from around the sliding door. You snorted before resuming your relaxation. "You usually sneak up on folk?"
He put his hands up in defense. "Alright, I earned that one."
He sat next to you causing you to peek one eye open. He got nice and comfortable in the lawn chair before turning to you. You couldn't help but to laugh at him. He was not serious, he couldn't be. He laughed along with you but mostly with confusion etched on his face.
Your laughter quieted down before you eye him again. "What do you want, Tyriq?"
"I can't just talk to you?" He asked with a small laugh to follow.
"Typical one liner from a frat boy." You snorted as he rolled his eyes.
"But I'm on top of my classes and I'm not goofing around." He spoke in a matter of fact tone. You eye him once more not believing him at all.
"Okay I do goof off from time to time but overall I'm focused." You just scoffed and shook your head at him.
"Yeah okay." You teased before laying back on the lawn chair. His jaw dropped before he started going back and forth with you jokingly.
That night went on and on until you both couldn't go on anymore. What was an innocent conversation turned into his hands all over your curves. His deep voice whispering sweet nothings into your ear while your nails dug into his back. His hips snapping into yours repeatedly until you both came undone. However, it was an honest mistake.
The next morning you woke up in his dorm room, sun beaming into your skin. You blinked away the pain from the harsh rays only to find yourself tangled up in the president's son's arms. You couldn't believe you did something like that. It was the one thing you promised yourself you would never do. You lifted his arms off of you and rushed to find something of his to wear. You would be damned if you wore the same outfit out of here. You dressed yourself, snuck past the many passed out bodies in the house and out the door.
You got numerous calls and texts from your friends asking about you. Your roommate was worried about you and called even more than they did. When you finally made it home, you put the chain on the door and went to your room. Your body shivered at the thought of last night. His teeth sinking into you occasionally made you want to scream. You couldn't believe you let yourself fall into him like that. All you could do was try to forget him.
Which you did, you couldn't try hard enough with all the questions you were getting asked either. "Girl we tried to call you because Benny came through and he was ready to go." Leona explained, a hand on her left hip.
"Yeah he would not let us leave without you." Verity said with an eye roll.
"He was quick to leave me at a party." Leona sassed with a roll of her eyes.
Verity sucked her teeth at Leona. "That's because you adamant about leaving with your older cousin who had just came into town."
Leona shrugged her off, not wanting to hear the story. "So? Who was he?"
You could have nearly choked by how taken back you were. "Excuse me?"
"Girl please don't act prude with me right now." Leona sighed softly. Verity snorted before turning away from the group.
"There was no guy. I poured too heavy as usual and just took whatever empty room there was to lie down. I didn't realize I slept til the morning." You shrugged off the lie that slid out your mouth so easily.
Verity knew how you got when you were drunk, sleepy. You'd be hype one minute and drowsy the next. It was just how you were especially when you mixed the drinks yourself. "You taking a grown man's room and leaving him to sleep in the elements is killing me." Verity laughed through her hand.
"They were all sleeping everywhere. On the pool table, lawn chairs, hell even the steps had people on 'em." You rambled making Verity laugh harder.
"You should've took some pictures." Verity wheezed making Leona grimace.
"Alright now it's not that funny." Leona said scooting closer to you.
Your lie was one you had no choice but to keep. You didn't want anyone to know what happened that night. You just wanted to pretend it didn't happen but that was easier said than done. Tyriq isn't the type to just let things be when there's a signal they should be. That's what made him more like his father. That's what made him cling to you like no one's business.
I’ve been holding this for a long time let’s thank Quinn for Tyriq’s audio: The bodyguard 😛 it was so good ugh
⋆˚୨୧˚⋆ WARNINGS— flashing, teasing, dry humping, orgasm denial? , jackson being down bad, slight choking, word count: 0.8k
𝑴𝑰𝑵𝑶𝑹𝑺 𝑫𝑶 𝑵𝑶𝑻 𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑨𝑪𝑻
The living room is fairly quiet except for the low him of the AC in the background. You quietly tiptoe down the stairs to see that Jackson is still here. You groan internally, but another part of you is relieved that he never leaves unless your father tells him to.
Your footsteps are incredibly light, making sure to avoid creaky parts of the floor. Finally, you spot him on the couch, just sitting there in complete silence. After a few moments, you decide to sneak up behind him only to notice him typing away on his phone.
Your breath hitches when you see his veiny hands and thick fingers. There have been so many times when you imagined how his fingers would feel inside of you.
How it would feel if he curved his fingers just right, hitting that sweet spot inside your walls. You imagined the pads of his fingers rubbing your clit in a slow, sensual pace that would drive you insane.
You clamped your legs together at the thought of him being inside you. It wasn’t surprising that you were already getting wet just from thinking about him. You fantasized about Jackson almost every single day.
Without hesitation, you carefully lifted your oversized tee to reveal your bare pussy. You weren’t going to touch yourself, atleast not this time. You just wanted to feel how wet he made you.
You took your middle finger and slowly dragged it along your folds and you were soaked. A tiny smile crept up on your face as you saw the sticky mess that Jackson had caused.
He shuffled a bit from his spot on the couch and you froze, terrified of him catching you. Thankfully, he was still glued to his phone.
Suddenly, you decided to pull your large tee down and come into his view.
Jackson flinched when he saw you appear out of nowhere, silently cursing at himself for not hearing you come down the stairs. “Wh-What are you still doing up?” He asked.
You shrugged your shoulders. “I’m thirsty.”
He simply nodded and turned his attention back to his phone.
You smiled and headed straight to the kitchen to get something to drink. You knew he’d watch you and he certainly was.
He tore his focus away from his phone to get a good look at your retreating figure. His pants began to tighten the longer he stared at you. What drove him even crazier was the sight of your tee barely covering your ass when you bent down to grab something in the fridge.
“You want something to drink?” You asked. At this point, your shirt rode up completely and your ass was on full display.
Jackson felt himself getting harder while his mind was racing. All the things that he wished to do to you started to cloud his mind. He was truly at a loss for words.
You finally decided to stop teasing him. Slowly, you made your way over to him and he started to get nervous all of a sudden. You saw how he began to wipe his palms on his pants and looked at everything else but you.
“Eyes up here, Jackson,” you urged, placing your fingers under his chin.
You instantly sat on his lap and he never took his eyes off of you. You felt how hard he was through his pants and let out a quiet moan.
His hands immediately gripped your ass and he squeezed it hard, making you arch your back. He lets out a low groan as he moves his hands to your hips. “F-fuck… you’re gonna get me fired.”
You ignore him. You didn’t give a fuck.
You slowly roll your hips back and forth, taking in how good his length feels against your throbbing clit.
He throws his head back from the overwhelming pleasure. You decide to go even faster, letting your hands find their way to his throat. Something had awakened inside of you as you squeezed his throat even harder. Your stomach was fluttering with butterflies as you felt the sensation of his jeans on your clit.
Jackson’s breath was getting heavier and his grip on your hips got even tighter, reminding you that he was just seconds away from cumming. You stopped your movements completely and he cranked his head up in frustration.
“N-no, please…” he whimpered softly. He tried so hard to make you roll your hips with his grip, but you wouldn’t budge.
You liked seeing him like this. All desperate and needy for you. So fucking desperate to cum.
You removed your hands from his throat and guided his fingers to your soaked pussy. Another moan came out of him as he felt your wetness. You leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Have a good night, Jackson.”
You quickly got up and made your way upstairs as if nothing ever happened.
Jackson let out a loud groan, aggravated at the pathetic state that you left him in. He looked down at his pants to see he that he was embarrassingly hard, and noticed the small wet spot that was left by you. He threw his head back in anger, leaving himself with no choice but to finish himself off for the third night in a row.
╰┈➤CHAPTER ONE !
After a disastrous date and an even worse casting announcement, Karnation Noel James tries to calm herself the only way she knows how: with a late-night Dairy Queen run and a phone call from her best friend. But when a simple trip to throw away her trash leads her straight into Tyriq Withers—the childhood best friend, college love, and father of the son he still doesn’t know exists—Karnation’s carefully built life begins to crack.
They haven’t spoken in years. Their families no longer speak. She left Florida, transferred schools, and raised Karter alone while turning Tyriq into the fictional man the world fell in love with.
Now, with Tyriq cast as Lorenzo Anders in the film adaptation of her bestselling novel, the past is no longer buried.
It’s standing right in front of her.
And this time, Karnation may not be able to run before the truth catches up.
Lips ghosted over the bare slope of her shoulder with the kind of patience that felt almost cruel, not quite a kiss and not quite restraint, just the warm, deliberate promise of his mouth moving over skin he had learned too well, and Karnation shut her eyes hard enough to see stars behind them, her breath catching somewhere between her throat and her chest as she let her head fall back against him like the sea finally surrendering to the pull of the moon.
She was wearing those little college shorts that barely had the decency to pretend they were doing a job, soft cotton clinging to the generous curve of her hips while the oversized shirt she had stolen from him rode up at her waist, bunched beneath the spread of his hands as if even fabric knew better than to get between them when Tyriq Withers got quiet like this.
And he was quiet in the worst way.
The dangerous way.
The way a storm got quiet over open water before it rolled in and swallowed the whole shore.
His chest was warm and solid against her back, his body wrapped around hers with that easy, arrogant confidence that made it clear he was not simply holding her, he was anchoring her, claiming space around her like a man who knew the earth beneath his feet belonged to him only because she was standing on it.
“Karnation,” he murmured, dragging her name against her shoulder like a match struck slowly against stone, his voice low, roughened by want and amusement, the kind of voice that made her feel like some poor mortal woman in a Greek myth who should have known better than to answer when a god came down from Olympus wearing sweatpants and a crooked smile.
She exhaled his name before she could stop herself.
“Tyriq.”
It slipped out as naturally as air, as naturally as blinking, as naturally as the tide coming home no matter how many times the shore pretended it had learned how to live without it, and when she turned her face toward him, there was already a smile waiting on her lips, soft and wicked and too pleased with itself for a woman who knew exactly what kind of trouble she was inviting.
His eyes dropped to her mouth first, because of course they did, because Tyriq had always looked at her like desire had a language and she was the only book he knew how to read without stumbling, and then his gaze lifted to hers with that devastating half-smile that made him look like sin had gotten a scholarship and a starting position.
“You so fine,” he said, and his hand tightened just slightly at her waist, not enough to hurt, never enough to hurt, but enough to remind her that he was there, that he was real, that he had been trying to behave and clearly resented her for making that impossible. “Shit be pissing me off.”
Karnation let out a quiet laugh, breathless and lazy, her lashes dipping as she leaned back into him with all the smug grace of Aphrodite stepping out of the foam knowing whole wars had been started over less than the curve of her shoulder.
“Mhm,” she hummed, tilting her head just enough for his mouth to find the warm line beneath her jaw, “wha’ you gon’ do ’bout it?”
Tyriq laughed under his breath then, not loud, not boyish, but low and charmed, the sound rolling through his chest and into her back like distant thunder crossing dark water, and that was the problem with him, really, because even when he was being impossible, even when he was being too fine and too smooth and too aware of the effect he had on her, he still had that pull, that heat, that gravity, like Poseidon rising from the sea with salt on his skin and trouble in his smile.
He turned her a little in his arms, slow enough to make her feel every inch of the movement, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back while the other lifted to her chin, his thumb brushing there with a tenderness that made the tension sharper instead of softer, because Tyriq had always known how to mix sweetness with danger until she could not tell which one she wanted more.
“How you want it, mama?” he asked, and the question did not land like pressure, it landed like worship, like invitation, like a man kneeling at the edge of a temple with fire in his hands and patience in his mouth. “You want me sweet with you, or you want me honest?”
Karnation’s smile faltered for half a second, only because he had a way of saying things that made the room feel smaller, warmer, charged at the edges, like the whole world had narrowed down to his hands on her and her breath trying not to embarrass her.
“You know how I want it,” she whispered.
His brows lifted, amused, cocky, handsome enough to be offensive.
“Nah,” he said, his mouth brushing the corner of hers without giving her the kiss yet, because he was cruel when he wanted to be and charming enough to make cruelty look like romance. “Use your words, pretty girl.”
And there it was, that awful heat, that slow flood, that mythic unraveling of sense and pride, because Karnation Noel St. Patrick could write men into monsters and lovers into legends, could turn heartbreak into bestselling chapters and make entire audiences ache over a man she had survived in real life, but standing there in his shirt, in his arms, with his breath warm against her lips, she was just a girl again, barefoot at the edge of the ocean, pretending she was not waiting for the wave to take her under.
“Karnation,” he hummed against her neck, her name leaving his mouth like it belonged there, like he had carved it into his tongue years ago and had only been waiting for the right moment to speak it soft enough to ruin her.
His lips brushed the curve beneath her ear, warm and maddeningly patient, and the whole room around them seemed to melt into something golden and unreal, the edges of the memory softening like sunlight over water, like she was standing waist-deep in some ancient sea while the tide curled around her calves and dragged her backward into a past she had sworn she was done drowning in.
“Karnation,” he murmured again, deeper this time, amused by the way her breath betrayed her before her mouth could form any kind of lie.
She could feel him everywhere.
Not in the obvious ways, not in ways she would ever confess to anyone with a straight face, but in the old ways, the haunting ways, the ways memory made a man larger than life when absence had been given too many years to make a myth out of him. He was behind her, around her, his chest a warm wall at her back, his hands resting at her waist like he knew exactly where he had left them, like time had not passed, like there was no child asleep in a room down the hall with his face getting stronger every year.
“Karnation.”
His voice folded over her like velvet, low and familiar and impossible, the kind of sound that did not simply enter a room but slipped beneath the skin, warm enough to comfort, cruel enough to bruise, dragging with it the ghost of late nights, dorm-room laughter, hands on her waist, promises made with mouths too young to understand the weight of forever.
“Karnation.”
The dream trembled, thin as silk caught on a nail, and for one suspended second she was not sitting beneath amber restaurant lighting with a half-melted ice cube sweating against the rim of her untouched drink, but somewhere years behind herself, somewhere softer and more dangerous, where Tyriq Withers still looked at her like she was the only woman God had ever taken His time with.
“Karnation, you here?” her date asked, and just like that the memory snapped clean down the middle, leaving her blinking across the table at Marcus Hill, who had advertised himself on Hinge as six-foot-five with the confidence of a man who clearly believed numbers were more of a suggestion than a measurable fact, because in person he was, with devastating commitment and no visible shame, an astounding and underwhelming five-foot-four.
Karnation had damn near walked past him when she first entered the restaurant, her eyes searching politely above the crowd for a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black button-down, only to hear her name called from somewhere near her elbow, and although she had been raised better than to let shock settle openly across her face, the Lord Himself must have seen the way her spirit stumbled.
Still, in Marcus’s defence, and she was trying very hard to be fair because therapy had taught her not to punish one man for the sins of another, at least this one had brought his wallet, which was already an improvement from Jamie, who had ordered caviar with the shameless confidence of a man expecting a woman to pay for his seafood-based audacity before “realising” he had left his card in another jacket, and better still than Nicholas, who, to his credit, had pulled out his card at the bar only for the poor thing to decline with a sound so sharp and public that even the bartender had looked embarrassed on his behalf.
“Yeah,” Karnation said, forcing her mouth into something that resembled a smile while her mind quietly packed away the sound of Tyriq’s voice and locked it behind another door, “sorry, long day, what were you saying?”
Marcus leaned forward like he had been waiting all evening for permission to resume performing interest, his forearms settling on the table with an intimacy he had not earned, his eyes making one brief, lazy attempt to meet hers before drifting—again—to the neckline of her dress, where her cleavage had apparently become the most fascinating topic of conversation at the table.
“I was asking what you do for work,” he said, drawing the words out in that slow, syrupy way men used when they wanted to seem thoughtful but had no actual intention of listening to the answer, nodding before she had even responded, as if whatever came out of her mouth would merely be an obstacle between him and the version of the night he had already written in his head.
Ah, yes, Karnation thought, the infuriatingly slow talk, the ceremonial first-date pretending, the ritual in which a man asked a woman about her life not because he was interested in the architecture of it, but because he understood that questions were the social toll one had to pay before attempting to touch what did not belong to him.
Marcus Hill did not care what she did for work, not really, not in any way that mattered beyond the faint curiosity of whether it sounded impressive enough to repeat to his friends or profitable enough to imagine benefiting from later, because Marcus had spent most of the evening speaking to her nipples and cleavage with far more devotion than he had ever offered her face.
She was deleting Hinge tonight.
Not pausing it, not hiding her profile, not giving dating apps one more delusional chance because maybe there were still good men somewhere buried beneath shirtless gym selfies, “just ask” bios, and men who called themselves entrepreneurs because they owned a ring light and three unopened boxes of protein powder.
Deleting.
Burning the bridge.
Letting the algorithm starve.
“I’m an author,” she said, her voice smooth despite the exhaustion sitting behind it, because if there was one thing Karnation Noel James had mastered, it was sounding composed while privately planning an escape route, a skincare routine, and the emotional autopsy of every bad decision that had led her to a man lying about five-foot-four like inches were a state of mind.
Marcus blinked at her as though she had told him she worked in international espionage, his face arranging itself into that uniquely male expression of surprise that always seemed to arrive when a woman turned out to have a life beyond being pretty in dim lighting.
“An author?” he repeated, letting the word sit in his mouth with the same confused caution one might use for a foreign food they did not want to admit they had never heard of. “Like… books?”
Karnation stared at him for a beat longer than grace required.
“No, Marcus,” she said, lifting her glass and taking a slow sip of water because wine would have only encouraged the wickedness in her spirit, “like parking tickets.”
His laugh came too late, too loud, and far too eager, rolling across the table like furniture being dragged over hardwood, and Karnation offered him a polite smile that did not reach her eyes, the kind of smile women learned somewhere between their first bad date and their first real heartbreak, all teeth and restraint, all social mercy and silent violence.
“Nah, nah, I mean, that’s dope,” he said, nodding as if she had just been granted his approval and ought to feel blessed by it. “What kind of books you write?”
“Romance,” she said.
Marcus’s eyebrows lifted.
Of course they did.
There it was, that ugly little spark, that immediate rearrangement of curiosity into assumption, as though the word romance had crawled across the table, unfastened the buttons on her dress, and whispered something obscene into his ear, because men like Marcus heard romance and thought only of bedsheets, red wine, and women writing down fantasies because reality had failed to give them anything worth remembering.
“Romance?” he said, leaning back in his chair now, dragging his gaze over her with a new boldness that made her fingers tighten, almost imperceptibly, around the stem of her glass. “So you be writing all that freaky stuff?”
Karnation exhaled through her nose.
There were several versions of herself inside her at any given moment, and unfortunately for Marcus, the gentlest one had clocked out around the time he had spent six uninterrupted minutes explaining cryptocurrency to her despite knowing nothing about it except the word blockchain, while the tired one had begun gathering her things spiritually, and the mother in her was already calculating how quickly she could get home, wash her makeup off, check on Karter, and crawl into bed beside the warm little body of the only male on earth she was currently interested in tolerating.
“I write love stories,” she said, because explaining the difference between romance and whatever brain-rotted category Marcus had stored it in felt like charity work, and she had already done enough unpaid labour in this lifetime. “Complicated ones.”
Marcus hummed, still looking at her mouth like it had offended him by forming sentences.
“So, like, based on real life or you just be making stuff up?”
Karnation’s fingers stilled.
It was an ordinary question, thrown out carelessly between a half-finished appetiser and Marcus’s second old-fashioned, but it landed in the space between them with the soft, deadly precision of a blade slipping beneath silk, because for all her interviews, for all her rehearsed answers, for all the elegant ways she had learned to dress the truth until it looked like craft instead of confession, there was still a part of her that flinched whenever anyone got too close to the grave she had buried Tyriq in.
Making stuff up.
She almost laughed.
If only.
If only Lorenzo Anders had come to her in a dream, whole and fictional, born from nothing but imagination and discipline and the particular madness of a woman with a deadline, instead of from Tyriq Withers leaning against her dorm room door in grey sweats and a black hoodie, smelling like rain and soap and something expensive he could not afford, smiling at her like he already knew she would forgive him before he even apologised.
If only those blue eyes had been invention.
If only that devastating height, that lazy arrogance, that almost holy mouth, that talent for breaking things without looking surprised at the damage, had been something she had designed instead of something she had survived.
“I make things up,” Karnation said, and the lie came out so beautifully that for a second even she admired it.
Marcus grinned, satisfied by an answer he had not earned the depth to question, and reached for his drink again, ice knocking against glass as he stretched one arm along the back of the empty chair beside him, settling himself into the evening as though there were still a possibility this night might end anywhere other than with Karnation blocking him before dessert.
“That’s cool, though,” he said. “I always thought about writing a book.”
Of course he had.
Karnation watched him with the dead-eyed patience of a woman hearing a man announce a dream he had mistaken for a plan, her earrings catching the restaurant light whenever she tilted her head, her lipstick untouched, her posture flawless, her soul somewhere on a train platform fleeing the scene.
“Oh?” she asked.
“Yeah, like, my life is crazy, you know what I’m saying? I got stories. I just don’t got time to sit down and actually write it.”
A small, cruel smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she could stop it.
“That does tend to be the writing part.”
Marcus laughed again, still not entirely sure whether he was being teased or insulted, which was perhaps his greatest mercy.
Across the restaurant, a waiter glided past with a silver tray, leaving behind the warm scent of butter, garlic, and seared steak, and Karnation’s stomach turned—not because she was hungry, though she had forgotten to eat properly today between a meeting with her agent, a tantrum over a missing dinosaur sock, and Karter’s determined attempt to feed blueberries to the living room plant—but because something about the evening suddenly felt too rehearsed, too familiar, too much like one of those transitional chapters she hated writing, the kind where the heroine tried to convince herself she was moving on while the narrative quietly prepared to punish her for lying.
Her phone lit up beside her plate.
Once.
Then again.
Then again.
Karnation glanced down, expecting a text from her mother, maybe a picture of Karter asleep with his foot pressed against the wall and his curls stuck damply to his forehead because he fought bedtime like it was a legal accusation, but instead she saw three notifications sitting on her lock screen from Jazmyn, each one more aggressive than the last.
JAZMYN: BITCH.
JAZMYN: ANSWER YOUR PHONE.
JAZMYN: DO NOT OPEN TWITTER IN PUBLIC.
Karnation’s whole body went cold.
Not dramatically, not in the way women went cold in books with trembling hands and fluttering hearts, but with a quiet, internal freeze that started somewhere beneath her ribs and spread outward, turning her fingers careful, her spine rigid, her face composed in the exact way it became when life was about to embarrass her in front of God and strangers.
Marcus was still talking.
Something about discipline now, about how he could write a book if he really locked in, about how people had always told him he was naturally creative, and Karnation nodded at the appropriate intervals while sliding her thumb across her phone beneath the edge of the table.
Another message came through.
JAZMYN: GIRL THEY CAST HIM.
The restaurant noise receded.
Forks against plates, low conversation, laughter from the bar, the hum of soft jazz, Marcus’s voice spreading itself uselessly across the table—all of it pulled back like tidewater, leaving Karnation stranded in the sudden, roaring silence of her own pulse.
For one foolish second she thought Jazmyn meant Lorenzo.
Not him, him.
The character.
The man on the page.
The monster she had turned into art.
The heartbreak she had polished until readers called it romantic.
Her thumb moved before her mind could stop it, opening the message thread, and Jazmyn, clearly having abandoned all restraint, had sent a screenshot from some entertainment account with a caption large enough to be seen even through the blur of Karnation’s disbelief.
TYRIQ WITHERS OFFICIALLY CAST AS LORENZO ANDERS IN THE HIGHLY ANTICIPATED FILM ADAPTATION OF KARNATION NOEL JAMES’S BESTSELLING NOVEL, RUIN ME GENTLY.
For a moment, Karnation did not breathe.
She simply stared.
At the headline.
At his name.
At the picture beneath it.
Tyriq Withers, older now, sharper somehow, his face no longer softened by college-boy arrogance but carved by fame, money, discipline, and the kind of public hunger that made men look untouchable even when you knew exactly how human they could be in the dark. His hair was cut low, his jaw shadowed, his mouth unsmiling, his eyes fixed somewhere past the camera with that same infuriating distance he had always worn when he wanted the world to chase him.
And God, she hated that her first thought was not anger.
It was recognition.
Because time had not made him unfamiliar.
It had only made him worse.
Worse in the way a flame was worse when it had learned patience, worse in the way a storm was worse when the sky went quiet before it split open, worse because the boy who had once ruined her life had become a man the world applauded for being beautiful while she had been left to raise the evidence of him alone.
“Karnation?” Marcus asked, and this time his voice did not fold over her like velvet, did not haunt or ache or reach some buried place in her, because it was only Marcus, poor lying Marcus, who had added an entire foot to his dating profile and still somehow expected honesty from the universe.
She locked her phone.
Too fast.
Not fast enough.
“You good?” he asked.
Karnation lifted her eyes to him, and whatever he saw there must have startled him, because for the first time all evening, his gaze stayed on her face.
“I’m fine,” she said.
It was such a magnificent lie that she almost applauded herself.
Her phone vibrated again beneath her palm, insistent and wicked, Jazmyn no doubt spiralling somewhere with snacks, a bonnet, and enough profanity to season a Sunday dinner, but Karnation did not look down this time, because looking made things real, and if she looked again, she would have to accept that the past had not only found her, it had been cast, announced, photographed, and placed on every entertainment page with her name attached to it.
Tyriq Withers was playing Lorenzo Anders.
Tyriq Withers was going to stand beneath studio lights and say the lines she wrote in the loneliest months of her life.
Tyriq Withers was going to read pages where she had disguised his sins as romance, his absence as mystery, his emotional cowardice as depth, and he would do it with that face, that voice, that mouth, completely unaware that every woman who had ever called Lorenzo fictional had been loving a man who once left Karnation pregnant and heartbroken before she even knew how to tell him she was carrying his child.
Across the table, Marcus frowned.
“Bad news?”
Karnation almost smiled.
Bad news felt too small for what this was.
Bad news was a flat tyre, a missed deadline, a toddler colouring on the wall with permanent marker because silence in a house with a three-year-old was never peace, only warning.
This was not bad news.
This was divine mockery.
This was God clearing His throat.
This was the universe dragging a chair up to her carefully arranged life, sitting down uninvited, and saying, Now, let’s discuss what you thought you buried.
“No,” Karnation said, sliding her phone into her bag with hands that did not shake because she refused to give any man, living or remembered, the satisfaction. “Just work.”
Marcus nodded, relieved to return to territory where he could pretend to understand her.
“Yeah, work be crazy,” he said.
Karnation looked at him then, really looked at him, at the too-tight shirt, the borrowed confidence, the watch that seemed desperate to be noticed, the mouth still shiny from bourbon, and she felt a sudden, almost tender exhaustion wash through her, because Marcus was not the villain here; he was merely the wrong man at the wrong table on the wrong night, caught in the crossfire of a story he would never be important enough to enter.
“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for her clutch. “I need to go.”
His face fell. “For real? We just got here.”
“We’ve been here forty-seven minutes.”
“Damn, you timed it?”
“I’m a writer,” she said, standing with such calm elegance that the chair barely made a sound beneath her. “Details matter.”
Marcus stood too, hurried and confused, his napkin falling from his lap like a surrender flag.
“Wait, did I say something?”
Karnation paused.
There were many answers to that question, several of them unkind, most of them accurate, but she was too tired to teach another man how to recognise the exact moment a woman’s patience left her body.
“No,” she said softly, and because she was not cruel enough to destroy him over a battle he had not started, she added, “I just remembered I have somewhere else to be.”
It was not technically a lie.
She had to be home.
She had to be with Karter.
She had to stand in the doorway of his room and look at her son’s sleeping face, the soft curve of his cheek, the stubborn little line of his brow, the lashes too pretty to be fair, the mouth that pouted exactly like hers when he was upset and smiled exactly like Tyriq when he was getting his way.
She had to remind herself that whatever was coming, whatever door fate had decided to kick open, her life was not a romance novel no matter how many people mistook her pain for entertainment.
Her life was packed lunches and bath toys, dinosaur pyjamas and nursery invoices, small socks in impossible places, bedtime stories read twice because Karter always looked up at her with those devastating eyes and said, “One more, Mama,” like he knew she would give him the moon if he asked sweet enough.
Her life was not Tyriq Withers.
Not anymore.
Marcus opened his mouth as though he might protest, but Karnation was already turning away, already moving through the restaurant with her shoulders back and her chin lifted, every inch of her polished, composed, and immaculate, even as something old and wounded dragged itself awake inside her chest.
Outside, the night air hit her bare arms with a chill sharp enough to feel personal.
She made it three steps from the restaurant doors before her phone rang.
Jazmyn.
Karnation stared at the screen for one second, two, three, then answered and pressed it to her ear.
“Before you start screaming,” she said, her voice quiet and dangerous, “I know.”
On the other end, Jazmyn inhaled like she had been waiting her entire life for permission to lose her mind.
“Karnation Noel James,” she said, each syllable loaded, reverent, and horrified, “please tell me why I just opened my phone and saw your baby daddy cast as the man you wrote because of your baby daddy.”
Karnation closed her eyes.
The city moved around her, cars sliding through wet streets, strangers laughing beneath awnings, some couple arguing softly near the curb like heartbreak was ordinary, like it did not sometimes grow legs, get famous, and walk right back into your life wearing a casting announcement.
“I don’t know,” Karnation whispered.
And she hated that it was true.
Karnation sighed as she shook her head, a frown settling between her brows while she stood there beneath the restaurant’s glowing awning like a woman trying very hard not to let her life turn into a press release, and because panicking in public felt beneath the version of herself she had spent years professionally assembling, she took one slow breath in, held it until her ribs stopped threatening betrayal, then released it through her mouth with the careful discipline of a woman who had once spent an entire book tour answering questions about “female resilience” while actively running on three hours of sleep and emotional duct tape.
Compress, she reminded herself, closing her eyes for half a second.
Remember the seven steps, Karnation.
Not because the seven steps had ever actually fixed anything, but because her therapist, a soft-spoken woman named Denise with terrifying cheekbones and the ability to make silence feel like an indictment, had told her that spiralling was not the same thing as processing, and Karnation, unfortunately, loved to spiral with a literary flourish.
“I heavily doubt it,” she said into the phone, her voice still too calm, too polished, too close to the voice she used in interviews when someone asked her whether Lorenzo Anders was inspired by anyone real and she had to smile like she had not built a fictional empire on one man’s emotional negligence. “How is Karter?”
Jazmyn made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a prayer.
“Girl, do not try to mother your way out of this conversation.”
“I’m not mothering my way out of anything,” Karnation said, stepping toward the valet stand with her clutch tucked tight beneath her arm, though they both knew that was exactly what she was doing because Karter was the one subject capable of making her heart unclench even when the universe had just slapped her with a casting announcement and called it fate. “I’m asking about my son.”
“Your son is fine,” Jazmyn said. “He ate half his pasta, refused the broccoli like it personally wronged him, made me read the dinosaur book three times, then told me I skipped a page when I absolutely did not skip a page.”
Karnation’s mouth twitched.
“He always knows.”
“He does not know,” Jazmyn said, offended. “That child cannot read.”
“He can sense betrayal.”
“He can sense vibes, I’ll give him that, because when I told him it was bedtime he looked me dead in my face and said, ‘Mama don’t do it like that,’ like I was some underpaid substitute teacher.”
Despite herself, despite the headline still glowing behind her eyes, despite Tyriq Withers standing in the middle of her life again like a ghost who had found good lighting, Karnation laughed softly, the sound escaping before she could stop it, thin and tired but real enough to loosen something inside her chest.
“That sounds like him.”
“Exactly like him,” Jazmyn muttered, and the pause that followed was so loud Karnation could hear every word her best friend did not say.
Exactly like him.
Karnation’s smile faded.
The valet pulled her car forward, sleek and black beneath the restaurant lights, expensive enough to announce success but practical enough to hold a car seat, loose baby wipes, three forgotten toy cars, and at least one emergency packet of fruit snacks crushed beyond recognition somewhere beneath the passenger seat. She thanked the valet, tipped him, then slid behind the wheel with all the grace she could manage while her emotions crawled around beneath her skin like they were looking for an exit.
“Don’t start,” Karnation said as she shut the door.
“I ain’t said nothing.”
“You breathed judgmentally.”
“I breathed normally.”
“You have never breathed normally a day in your life.”
Jazmyn gasped. “And this is why your son likes me better when you’re not around.”
“My son tried to trade you for a biscuit last week.”
“And I would’ve let him if it was a good biscuit.”
Karnation shook her head, but the humour helped, softening the sharpest edge of the night as she placed her phone in the console, switched the call to Bluetooth, and waited for Jazmyn’s voice to fill the car speakers like a very loud conscience with lip gloss.
The screen blinked, connected, and immediately Jazmyn’s voice boomed through the car.
“Now that I’m in surround sound, let me say this properly: what in the Tyler Perry cinematic universe is going on?”
Karnation dropped her head back against the seat and stared through the windshield at the dark street ahead.
“Jaz.”
“No, because I need answers. Out of every actor in America, every man with cheekbones and unresolved trauma, every six-foot-something light-skinned menace with a SAG card, they chose Tyriq Withers?”
Karnation started the engine.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want you to say this is a prank.”
“It’s not a prank.”
“I want you to say they got hacked.”
“They didn’t get hacked.”
“I want you to say that man is not about to stand on a film set and recite dialogue you wrote at three in the morning while crying into a bonnet and pretending it was character development.”
Karnation paused with her hand on the gear shift.
“First of all,” she said carefully, “I do not cry into bonnets.”
“You absolutely cry into bonnets.”
“I cry beside bonnets.”
“You cry in the vicinity of bonnets, fine, but the point stands.”
Karnation pulled away from the curb, merging into the slow pulse of evening traffic with the kind of focus one usually reserved for surgery, because if she let her mind drift too far, it would find Tyriq’s face again, older and colder and somehow more beautiful in a way that felt deeply unfair considering she had done the decent thing and become sleep-deprived, emotionally responsible, and permanently responsible for another human being’s packed lunches.
“I’m not thinking about it tonight,” she said.
Jazmyn went quiet.
For two whole seconds.
A record.
Then, “You are literally thinking about it right now.”
“I’m driving.”
“You drive and overthink. That’s your brand.”
“My brand is award-winning contemporary romance.”
“Your brand is pretending you’re fine until your left eye starts twitching.”
“My left eye is not twitching.”
“Karnation.”
“It’s resting.”
“Your eye is having a small seizure.”
Karnation tightened her grip on the steering wheel and tried not to laugh because laughing felt too close to crying, and crying felt like permission, and permission was dangerous on a night like this, when one crack in her composure might split her open wide enough for every buried thing to climb out.
She made it three traffic lights before the glow of a Dairy Queen sign appeared down the road, bright and red and absurdly comforting, like God Himself had decided that if He was going to reintroduce her baby daddy through a Deadline-adjacent casting announcement, He could at least offer her a Blizzard as reparations.
Karnation slowed.
Jazmyn immediately caught it.
“Where are you going?”
“Nowhere.”
“Why did your indicator just come on?”
“Because I’m an excellent driver.”
“Karnation Noel James.”
“I need something cold.”
“You need therapy.”
“I have therapy on Thursdays.”
“You need emergency therapy.”
“I need a Dairy Queen.”
Jazmyn went silent for half a breath, then sucked her teeth with the weary resignation of a woman who had known Karnation too long to argue with her chosen coping mechanisms.
“You are not about to process the father of your child being cast as the romantic lead inspired by him over a large Oreo Blizzard.”
Karnation turned into the drive-thru.
“I’m not processing. I’m purchasing.”
“That’s worse.”
“It’s not worse if I use Apple Pay.”
“You think capitalism is going to save you?”
“No,” Karnation said, easing her car behind a minivan whose back window was covered in stick-figure family decals and one aggressively cheerful bumper sticker about dance mums. “But it may briefly distract me.”
Jazmyn sighed so hard the Bluetooth crackled.
“You know what? Get me something too.”
“You’re at my house.”
“And you have a freezer.”
Karnation stared at the menu board with the intense concentration of a woman choosing between dessert and a nervous breakdown, her eyes scanning over sundaes, Blizzards, dipped cones, and milkshakes as though one of them might contain divine instruction.
“What does one order when one’s past becomes employed by one’s intellectual property?” she murmured.
“A restraining order,” Jazmyn said.
Karnation snorted.
The speaker crackled.
“Welcome to Dairy Queen, what can I get started for you?”
Karnation leaned toward the window, gathering herself with the same dignity she used on red carpets.
“Hi, can I please get a medium Oreo Blizzard, extra Oreo, and…” She hesitated, because her night had already been ridiculous and moderation seemed like a moral stance she had no interest in taking. “Actually, make that a large.”
Jazmyn cackled.
“That’s my girl.”
“And can I also get a small strawberry sundae with extra sauce?”
“For me?” Jazmyn asked.
“For Karter.”
“Girl, that baby is asleep.”
“For tomorrow.”
“Lies.”
“For me tomorrow.”
“At least tell the Lord the truth.”
Karnation ignored her. “And one dipped cone, please.”
Jazmyn gasped. “Now who is the cone for?”
Karnation stared ahead, deadpan. “The emotional support passenger.”
“You are alone in the car.”
“Exactly.”
The poor Dairy Queen worker, who was almost certainly not being paid enough to witness this woman unravel through dessert logistics, repeated the order in a tone that suggested he had heard stranger things and had chosen peace long ago.
Karnation paid, collected the bag and Blizzard at the window, then pulled into a parking space instead of leaving, because driving while balancing ice cream, suppressed panic, and unresolved romantic trauma seemed like the sort of multitasking that got women featured in cautionary local news stories.
She parked beneath the faint buzz of a streetlight, set the bag carefully in the passenger seat, and took the first spoonful of Oreo Blizzard with the solemnity of communion.
For a moment, neither woman spoke.
Then Jazmyn said, softer this time, “Kar.”
Karnation closed her eyes.
There it was.
Not the jokes, not the yelling, not the dramatic best friend commentary she had needed like air five minutes ago, but the gentler voice beneath it, the one that had sat with her on bathroom floors, held Karter when Karnation was too freshly postpartum to stand without pain, read early drafts of chapters where Karnation swore she had invented everything, and never once asked why Lorenzo sounded like a man they both knew.
“I’m okay,” Karnation said, but it sounded thin even to her.
“No, you’re not.”
The spoon paused halfway to her mouth.
Outside, cars moved through the drive-thru in slow loops of headlights and exhaust, people buying sundaes and chicken strips and pretending the world was ordinary because, for them, it was. For them, Tyriq Withers was just an actor, a handsome man in headlines, a fantasy cast in a role fans were already screaming about online.
For Karnation, he was the boy who had once kissed her like a vow and disappeared like a coward.
He was the man her son resembled when he smiled too wide.
He was the name hidden in the middle of Karter’s like a secret she had never meant to say out loud.
“I can’t do this tonight,” Karnation whispered.
Jazmyn’s voice softened until it almost disappeared beneath the hum of the car.
“Then don’t do it tonight. Eat your ice cream. Come home. Kiss your baby. Take your lashes off before you cry, because you know the glue be fighting for custody. Then tomorrow, we figure out who knew, who approved it, and who needs to be cursed out in alphabetical order.”
Karnation let out a shaky laugh, pressing the back of her hand beneath one eye before anything could fall.
“I’m not crying.”
“Good, because those lashes cost money.”
“They were complimentary from Glam House.”
“Then cry if you want, actually. Free lashes don’t count.”
Karnation laughed again, fuller this time, even though her chest still ached, even though the headline remained lodged behind her ribs, even though somewhere in the world Tyriq Withers might already have the script in his hands, might already be reading Lorenzo Anders without knowing he was reading himself.
She took another bite of ice cream and stared out at the night.
“I should’ve never written that damn book,” she said.
Jazmyn scoffed. “Girl, please. That damn book bought you a house.”
“It also resurrected my baby daddy.”
“It did do that.”
“And now he’s going to be in my face.”
“Probably.”
“Reading my words.”
“Definitely.”
“Playing Lorenzo.”
“Unfortunately.”
Karnation swallowed hard.
“And he doesn’t know.”
This time, Jazmyn said nothing.
The silence was worse than any joke could have been.
Karnation looked down at the Blizzard in her lap, the spoon sinking slowly into softening ice cream, and for one terrible second she saw Karter instead, three years old and warm from sleep, curls crushed against his pillow, one little hand tucked beneath his cheek, breathing easy in a world where his mother had been the whole sky because she had never given him reason to look for another.
“He doesn’t know about Karter,” Karnation said, barely above a whisper.
“No,” Jazmyn said carefully. “He doesn’t.”
Karnation’s throat tightened.
“And now I’m going to have to see him.”
“Yeah.”
“And he’s going to see Karter eventually.”
Another pause.
This one gentler.
“Maybe,” Jazmyn said. “But not tonight.”
Karnation nodded, even though Jazmyn could not see her.
Not tonight.
Tonight, she could sit in a Dairy Queen parking lot like a tragic woman in a suburban opera, eating a Blizzard with one hand and holding the steering wheel with the other, trying not to think about how the past had a body, a voice, a contract, and a call time.
Tonight, she could go home.
Tonight, she could kiss her son.
Tonight, she could pretend for a few more hours that the door had not already opened.
Then, very calmly, she reached into the bag, pulled out the dipped cone, unwrapped it, and took a bite so aggressive the chocolate shell cracked down the side.
Jazmyn heard it through the car speakers.
“Was that the cone?”
“Yes.”
“Did it deserve that?”
“No.”
“Do you feel better?”
Karnation chewed, swallowed, and stared at the email until the words blurred slightly.
“No,” she said.
Then she took another bite.
“But it’s helping.”
Karnation decided, with the sort of calm that usually came right before a woman either changed her life or committed a misdemeanor, that she was going to throw everything away.
Not metaphorically, though God knew there were several things she would have liked to toss into a municipal bin with the rest of the evening’s trash, beginning with the casting announcement, Marcus Hill’s fraudulent height, the entire Hinge app, every man who had ever used the phrase I’ve always thought about writing a book, and, if she was being honest in the privacy of her own wicked little mind, the memory of Tyriq Withers standing beneath a Florida porch light at seventeen, smiling at her like he had already decided she was going to ruin him and he was grateful for the privilege.
No, unfortunately, she meant physically.
The Dairy Queen bag in her passenger seat had become a crime scene of emotional eating, collapsed napkins, a spoon licked clean with unnecessary violence, the remains of an Oreo Blizzard she had promised herself she would only take “a few bites” of before somehow reaching the cardboard bottom like a woman possessed, and a chocolate-dipped cone wrapper that looked as though it had survived a natural disaster, and because Karnation Noel James had not spent years carefully cultivating an elegant public image just to be found dead in a rental car surrounded by evidence of a sugar-based breakdown, she pulled into the side of the car park, parked beneath a flickering light that made the entire area look like the opening scene of a low-budget thriller, and gathered the rubbish with all the dignity she had left.
Which was not much.
Jazmyn was still on Bluetooth, still very much in her ear, still making herself at home in Karnation’s panic like it came with snacks and a sectional sofa.
“Girl, where are you now?”
“I’m throwing things away.”
“Emotionally or physically?”
“Both, if God is listening.”
“Karnation.”
“What?”
“You are not about to go digging in a Florida car park bin at night dressed like somebody’s divorced stepmother with publishing money.”
Karnation looked down at herself, offended despite everything, because the dress was black, fitted, expensive, and objectively beautiful, even if the evening had turned her into the human embodiment of a deleted paragraph.
“I do not look like a divorced stepmother.”
“You look like the woman the stepchildren fear respectfully.”
“Good. Fear is underrated.”
“And why are you even in Florida again?” Jazmyn muttered, as if she had not already asked this seven separate times in the past twenty-four hours. “This state has bad energy for you.”
Karnation’s jaw tightened as she leaned across the passenger seat and scooped up the bag, her phone tucked beneath her chin for one second before the Bluetooth stretched Jazmyn’s voice across the car again.
“I’m here because my agent said it was important that I attend the first production meeting in person.”
“Your agent is going to hell.”
“My agent got me a seven-figure adaptation deal.”
“Your agent is going to hell in designer shoes.”
Karnation almost smiled, but it faded before it properly arrived, because Florida sat outside the windshield like an old wound disguised as weather, all warm air, wet pavement, palm shadows, and memories waiting on corners she had spent years refusing to drive past. She had not been back properly since she left, not really, not in the way a person returned home and let the place touch them again; she had flown in for quiet business when she had to, kept to hotels, avoided old neighbourhoods, dodged familiar names like bullets, and made sure every visit was so brief it could not grow teeth.
After Karter was born, she had transferred out so quickly people barely had time to gossip before she was already gone, belly flattened but heart still swollen with the kind of pain nobody could see unless they knew where to look, and the families that had once moved around each other like kin—her mother and his mother trading recipes and church shoes, their fathers talking lawn care like it was national security, Karnation and Tyriq running barefoot through backyards, then hallways, then college campuses, growing from children into something neither family was prepared to survive—had fallen silent with the breakup.
Not all at once.
That would have been cleaner.
It happened the ugly way, by degrees, with missed calls, cancelled dinners, polite excuses, mothers who stopped saying each other’s names, fathers who no longer lingered after service, cousins who chose sides without admitting they had chosen anything at all, and the heavy, humiliating knowledge that one broken love had been strong enough to fracture an entire village.
And Tyriq had never known the worst of it.
He did not know that she had left Florida carrying more than heartbreak.
He did not know that the little boy asleep back at the rental house with Jazmyn had his exact smile and her stubborn mouth and a middle name Karnation had only allowed herself to use because some weak, grieving part of her had still loved him too much to erase him completely.
“I’m fine,” Karnation said, which had become less of a statement and more of a decorative accessory at this point.
“You keep saying that like repetition makes it true.”
“It works in marketing.”
“It does not work on me.”
Karnation grabbed the Dairy Queen bag, her keys, and the little paper receipt that had somehow attached itself to her dress like even the trash wanted emotional closure, then stepped out of the car into the humid Florida night.
The air was thick and warm against her skin, carrying the smell of fried food, rain-soaked asphalt, car exhaust, and something sweet from the drive-thru window, and for one ridiculous second she was sixteen again, standing outside a different Dairy Queen with Tyriq after football practice, both of them too broke to order separate Blizzards, his spoon invading hers every three seconds until she threatened to bite him and he laughed so hard he nearly dropped the cup.
She hated memory.
Memory had no manners.
It just walked into rooms uninvited, sat down on the good furniture, and put its feet up.
“I’m throwing the bag away,” she said, mostly to herself, and marched toward the bin at the edge of the car park with the sharp, purposeful steps of a woman who had decided that if she could not control fate, casting announcements, or the emotional terrorism of nostalgia, she could at least control litter.
The bin was fuller than it had any right to be, overflowing with fast-food bags and drink cups, one cardboard tray balanced on top like it had been placed there by somebody who believed physics was for poor people, and Karnation stared at it with contempt before lifting the Dairy Queen bag by two fingers.
“This is disgusting,” she murmured.
Jazmyn snorted through the speaker. “You ate it.”
“I meant the bin.”
“You also ate from a building attached to the bin.”
“Do you want your strawberry sundae or not?”
“Respectfully, I apologise to the bin.”
Karnation rolled her eyes and shoved the bag down, pressing it beneath a cardboard cup with the sort of focus that did not match the task, because somewhere between the Blizzard and the trash can she had decided that everything attached to this night needed to leave her body, her car, her orbit, and her spirit immediately.
The napkins went in.
The receipt went in.
The spoon went in.
Her patience went in spiritually.
Her good sense had apparently been gone since college.
Then, because luck had always had a personal vendetta against her, the wind caught one loose napkin and sent it skidding across the wet pavement like a tiny white flag making a dramatic escape.
“Oh, for the love of—”
“Karnation, leave it.”
“I am not littering.”
“You are in heels.”
“I have committed to the mission.”
“The mission is stupid.”
“The mission is civic responsibility.”
“The mission is you avoiding your feelings with sanitation.”
Karnation ignored her, bending carefully to catch the runaway napkin before it slipped beneath a parked black SUV, her fingers closing around damp paper just as a pair of trainers stepped into her line of sight.
Not Marcus’s shiny loafers.
Not some stranger’s sandals.
White trainers.
Expensive, clean, familiar in the way a person’s presence could become familiar before the rest of them fully arrived.
Karnation froze.
For one second, she saw only the shoes, the hem of dark trousers, the long shadow cast across the pavement, and then her body, traitorous thing that it was, knew before her mind did.
It knew in the bones.
It knew in the ribs.
It knew in the place beneath her heart where she had once carried his son and refused to say his name out loud.
“Karnation?”
The world narrowed.
Not gently.
Violently.
The voice came down over her like weather, deeper than it had been when they were young, rougher at the edges, weighted now by years, fame, distance, and whatever life had done to him since the last time he stood close enough for her to smell his cologne, but still unmistakably his.
Tyriq Withers.
Her childhood friend.
Her first love.
Her greatest heartbreak.
Her son’s father.
Standing in a Dairy Queen car park while she crouched beside a bin holding a wet napkin like some tragic, well-dressed raccoon.
For a moment, Karnation could not move.
Then pride, that old loyal friend, grabbed her by the back of the neck and hauled her upright.
She stood slowly, smoothing one hand down the front of her dress as though this had been intentional, as though she regularly knelt by bins in designer heels for environmental reasons, as though her life had not just folded in on itself in the most humiliating possible location.
Tyriq stood a few feet away, tall enough to make the air around him feel arranged in his favour, his body broader than memory had allowed, his face older in ways that should have made him easier to look at and instead made him unbearable, because time had not softened him, not really; it had sharpened him, carved boyish beauty into something more dangerous, turned the careless Florida boy she had once loved into a man the world now photographed from low angles and called devastating.
He wore a black hoodie despite the heat, sleeves pushed up over forearms she hated herself for recognising, a cap pulled low, and there was a paper Dairy Queen cup in one hand, which was so absurdly normal she might have laughed if her lungs had not forgotten their purpose.
Behind him, near the SUV, two men hovered with the unmistakable posture of people paid to notice problems before they became headlines, and one of them looked from Tyriq to Karnation with curiosity quick enough to make her stomach tighten.
Tyriq, though, did not look away.
Neither did she.
For years, she had imagined seeing him again in ways that made her feel prepared, because women like Karnation survived by rehearsing disaster until it felt manageable; she had imagined red carpets, courtrooms, hotel lobbies, charity galas, a cold, elegant meeting arranged through lawyers, some eventual confrontation where she would be dressed perfectly and emotionally unavailable, where he would see what he lost and she would be too healed to care.
She had not imagined this.
She had not imagined a Dairy Queen car park.
She had not imagined a wet napkin.
She had not imagined the man who had been announced that same night as Lorenzo Anders finding her beside a trash can with Oreo Blizzard still cooling her tongue.
God, apparently, was a comedian with poor boundaries.
“Karnation,” he said again, and the second time hurt worse, because the first had been shock, but the second carried recognition, disbelief, and something else she did not have the emotional bandwidth to name.
Her name sounded the same in his mouth.
That was the problem.
After all these years, after all the silence, after all the birthdays he had missed without knowing they were birthdays, after all the nights she had held a crying baby and whispered, It’s okay, Mama’s here, after all the times Karter had looked up at her with Tyriq’s eyes and made her feel like love and punishment were sometimes born wearing the same face, her name still sounded like something soft when he said it.
She hated him for that.
“Tyriq,” she said, and the fact that her voice did not crack felt like a personal victory worthy of a trophy.
His jaw moved once, like there were too many words trying to fit behind his teeth and none of them had been approved for release.
“I—” He stopped, glanced around the car park, then back at her. “Damn.”
Karnation’s brows lifted, because apparently after years of no contact, after being childhood friends turned strangers, after their families had stopped speaking, after he had somehow been cast as the fictional man she had built from the wreckage of him, the first real word he had for her was damn.
“Eloquent,” she said.
His mouth twitched.
Not quite a smile.
Almost worse.
“You always did say I needed to read more.”
“You always did prove me right.”
The words came out too easily, sliding into the old rhythm before she could stop them, and for one dangerous second something familiar sparked between them, quick and bright and humiliating, because their bodies apparently had no respect for the years she had spent convincing herself that silence was closure.
Tyriq looked at her like he heard it too.
Like he felt the muscle memory of them.
Like he remembered being eight years old and pulling her braids because he liked her, twelve and carrying her book bag because another boy had tried to, sixteen and standing outside her house until her mother turned the porch light on twice, nineteen and kissing her in a way that made every future man feel like a substitute teacher reading from the wrong lesson plan.
“I didn’t know you were in Florida,” he said.
“I didn’t announce it.”
“Clearly.”
The word had no edge, not exactly, but it carried enough history to make her fingers curl around her keys.
Karnation looked past him, toward the SUV, toward his people, toward anywhere that was not his face.
“I was leaving.”
“You always do that now?”
Her eyes snapped back to his.
There it was.
The first crack.
The first ugly little piece of the thing neither of them had ever said properly, because they had not spoken in years, because the last version of them had ended in half-messages, missed calls, pride, anger, distance, a transfer form, a pregnancy test held in shaking hands, and two families grieving something they pretended was only a breakup.
“Excuse me?”
Tyriq’s face hardened for a second, then shifted, regret passing through his eyes so quickly someone who did not know him might have missed it.
But Karnation knew him.
That was the hell of it.
She knew every weather pattern of that face.
“I ain’t mean it like that.”
“Yes, you did.”
He exhaled, looking away, jaw tight beneath the shadow of his cap.
“Maybe I did.”
Karnation gave a soft laugh, but there was no humour in it, only disbelief wearing lipstick.
“Wow.”
“Karnation—”
“No, it’s fine,” she said, lifting one hand with all the elegance of a woman politely declining a plate of poison. “I’m glad we got here quickly, actually. Saves time.”
He took one step closer.
She took one step back.
His eyes dropped to the movement, and something flickered across his face.
Not anger.
Pain, maybe.
Good.
Let him have a teaspoon of it.
“Karnation, I haven’t seen you in years.”
“And yet you recognised me near a trash can. Beautiful full-circle moment.”
His gaze moved over her face, slower now, almost disbelieving, like he was trying to reconcile the girl he had known with the woman standing in front of him, the childhood best friend who used to fall asleep on his couch during summer storms with the author whose name now sat above his next film contract, the girl who had once loved him in Florida heat with the woman who had built a life far enough away that he could not touch it.
“You look…” he began, then stopped.
Karnation tilted her head.
“Careful.”
That almost-smile threatened again, but this time it came with something sad behind it.
“I was gonna say good.”
“Good is safe.”
“I’m trying to be.”
“You weren’t always.”
The sentence landed between them like glass breaking.
Tyriq went still.
The men by the SUV suddenly became very interested in looking elsewhere, which would have been funny if Karnation’s chest did not feel like someone had reached inside and twisted.
For the first time since he had said her name, Tyriq looked fully unguarded, not famous, not polished, not Lorenzo, not the man fans edited into slow-motion thirst traps, but the boy from Florida who had once sat beside her on a curb at midnight, sharing chips from a corner store bag, promising her that whatever happened, they would never become strangers.
And then they did.
They became worse than strangers.
Strangers did not know where to aim.
He swallowed.
“I deserved that.”
“You deserved worse.”
“I know.”
That answer bothered her.
She wanted denial, defensiveness, something she could sharpen herself against, but his quiet agreement unsettled her, because it suggested that years had passed for him too, that he had not remained frozen at the exact point of damage where she had left him in her mind.
Karnation hated nuance.
Nuance ruined perfectly good resentment.
Her phone, still connected to the car Bluetooth, suddenly emitted Jazmyn’s voice from inside the vehicle, faint but loud enough through the cracked window to carry.
“KAR? HELLO? WHY DID YOU GO SILENT? DID THE BIN GET YOU?”
Karnation closed her eyes.
Tyriq looked toward the car.
One brow lifted.
Despite the emotional violence of the moment, Karnation felt heat climb her neck.
“My friend,” she said tightly.
“The bin?” he asked.
“Do not.”
And then, because the universe had clearly decided subtlety was for other people, Jazmyn’s voice rose again.
“KARNATION NOEL JAMES, IF YOU ARE OUT THERE FIGHTING A RACCOON OVER A BLIZZARD CUP, I SWEAR TO GOD—”
Tyriq’s mouth twitched.
Karnation pointed at him.
“Laugh and I will end your career before wardrobe fittings.”
He pressed his lips together, but the laugh still escaped him, low and disbelieving, and the sound hit her with such sudden, vivid force that for half a second she was back in childhood, back in summer, back in his mother’s kitchen with Kool-Aid moustaches and scraped knees, back before love became complicated enough to need lawyers, agents, and secrets.
The softness almost killed her.
So she reached behind her, opened the car door, grabbed the phone from the console, and snapped, “I’m fine.”
Jazmyn went quiet.
Too quiet.
Then, in a voice stripped of every joke, she said, “Who is that?”
Karnation looked at Tyriq.
Tyriq looked at her.
The night held its breath.
“No one,” Karnation said.
Tyriq’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A small tightening near his eyes, a shift in his mouth, the kind of wound a proud man would deny if asked directly.
Jazmyn, however, had never respected denial as a concept.
“That is not no one,” she said slowly. “Karnation… is that—”
“I’ll call you back.”
“Do not hang up on me if that is who I think it is.”
“I’ll call you back,” Karnation repeated, and ended the call before Jazmyn could start speaking in tongues.
The silence afterward felt huge.
Tyriq watched the phone disappear into her clutch.
“No one?” he asked.
Karnation looked up at him.
“What did you want me to say?”
His voice lowered. “The truth.”
The laugh that left her then was soft, stunned, and meaner than she intended.
“The truth?” she repeated. “That’s rich coming from you.”
His shoulders shifted beneath the hoodie.
“I never lied to you.”
“No,” she said, stepping closer now because anger had finally burned through the shock and warmed her blood enough to move. “You just left out the parts that mattered, disappeared when things got hard, let pride speak louder than love, and made silence so comfortable between us that eventually I stopped trying to cross it.”
His eyes flashed.
“You transferred without telling me.”
“You gave me every reason to.”
“I called you.”
“After.”
“I came by your mama’s house.”
“After.”
“I asked about you.”
“After, Tyriq.” Her voice stayed quiet, but something in it shook hard enough for him to hear. “Everything with you was always after.”
He stared at her, and she could see him absorbing it, trying to argue, trying to reach for the version of events where he was hurt too, where he had been abandoned too, where she had vanished and left him standing in the wreckage without explanation.
And maybe that version existed.
Maybe in his story, she was the one who disappeared.
Maybe in his family’s story, Karnation was the girl who broke their son and took the old closeness between two households with her.
Maybe in the neighbourhood’s story, they were just another couple who had loved too young and lost too loudly.
But in Karnation’s story, there had been a bathroom floor, a pregnancy test, her mother crying silently at the kitchen sink, a transfer application completed with trembling hands, and a baby boy born with a head full of dark curls and a face that made every nurse in the room say, Oh, he looks just like somebody.
Tyriq did not know that.
He was standing in front of her wounded by a book, by a breakup, by years of silence, and he had no idea he had a son asleep across town clutching a stuffed dinosaur under one arm.
The thought sobered her so violently that her anger vanished.
Not softened.
Vanished.
In its place came fear.
Tyriq must have seen it, because his expression shifted again.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Karnation.”
“Don’t.”
“I know your face.”
“No, you knew my face,” she said, forcing the words out cleanly even as her pulse started to climb. “You don’t know anything about me now.”
His gaze held hers.
“That’s what you think?”
“That’s what I know.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
The Dairy Queen sign hummed above them.
Cars whispered past on the road.
Somewhere behind the building, a machine whirred, making ice cream for people whose lives were not currently collapsing into a Greek tragedy with sprinkles.
Tyriq looked down at the cup in his hand, then back at her.
“I saw the announcement,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
Of course he had.
“I assumed.”
“I didn’t know until tonight.”
That surprised her, though she refused to show it.
“You didn’t know you were cast?”
“I knew they wanted me. I didn’t know it was official. I didn’t know they were announcing tonight.”
“How lovely for both of us.”
His mouth tightened.
“I didn’t know you wrote him like that.”
Karnation went still.
The air changed.
“What?”
Tyriq’s eyes did not leave hers.
“Lorenzo.”
Her throat went dry.
“I write fiction.”
“Do you?”
The question was not cruel.
That made it worse.
He was looking at her with something too close to recognition, like maybe he had read enough, heard enough, felt enough in the pages to understand that the man he was about to play had not been invented from air.
Karnation lifted her chin.
“Yes.”
He stepped closer, slowly this time, giving her every opportunity to retreat.
She did not.
“Then why does he sound like me?”
There it was.
The thing she had known would come, eventually, just not beside a trash can, not with melted ice cream in the passenger seat, not on the same night the world found out before she had time to build armour around herself.
Karnation’s grip tightened around her clutch.
“Ego has always been your most consistent trait.”
Tyriq’s eyes narrowed faintly.
“You named him Lorenzo Anders.”
“And?”
“My middle name is Lorenzo.”
Her silence betrayed her.
His voice dropped.
“Anders was the street we grew up on.”
Karnation could hear her own heartbeat.
Loud.
Humiliating.
Alive.
Tyriq stared at her like the last few years had become a room he had just walked into and found full of his own fingerprints.
“You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”
“I thought we would never speak again.”
The honesty came out before she could dress it up.
Tyriq absorbed it like a hit.
For one second, neither of them looked like adults anymore, not the bestselling author and the famous actor, not the woman with secrets and the man with a contract, but two kids from Florida who had built a whole world out of proximity and then burned it down with pride.
“You wanted that?” he asked quietly.
Karnation looked at him, and because she had spent years surviving the consequences of his absence, because she had given birth without him, raised a child without him, made herself into a woman without the families that once held her up, and still somehow stood here with her knees threatening weakness because his voice had learned how to say her name in a lower register, she answered with the only truth that would not destroy them both.
“I wanted peace.”
Tyriq’s face shifted, pain breaking through before he could hide it.
“And did you get it?”
Karnation thought of Karter asleep under dinosaur sheets, of tiny shoes by the door, of sticky fingers on her cheeks, of laughter in the kitchen, of loneliness made luxurious because she had no choice but to gild the cage she woke up in every morning.
She thought of the books, the awards, the interviews, the house, the life, the polished version of herself everyone admired because nobody saw what it cost to keep shining.
Then she looked at Tyriq Withers, standing in front of her after years of silence, cast as the man she had created from the ache he left behind.
“No,” she said softly.
His eyes searched hers.
“Karnation…”
She stepped back then, because if he said her name like that again, the night might split open and everything she had buried might come crawling out before she was ready.
“I have to go.”
He did not stop her, not with his hands, not with his body, but his voice followed her like it always had.
“You staying in town?”
She opened her car door.
“That’s not your business.”
“It is if we’re working together.”
Karnation turned back to him slowly.
“We are not working together. You are acting in a film based on a book I wrote. There’s a difference.”
His gaze sharpened.
“You always this cold now?”
She smiled, but it did not touch her eyes.
“You always this late?”
That shut him up.
For a second, satisfaction flared through her, quick and ugly, but it burned out almost immediately, leaving only exhaustion behind.
Tyriq looked at her with his jaw tight and his eyes too dark, and Karnation knew—knew with the same bone-deep certainty that had made her freeze when he first spoke—that this was not over, that no amount of distance, fame, motherhood, book deals, or silence had prepared either of them for the violence of being real to each other again.
She slid into the driver’s seat.
Before she could close the door, he spoke one more time.
“I missed you.”
The words entered the car before she could shut them out.
Simple.
Unadorned.
Devastating.
Karnation sat there with one hand on the door, staring straight ahead through the windshield, because if she looked at him while those words were still warm between them, she might do something unforgivable, like believe him.
So she closed the door.
Started the car.
Put both hands on the wheel.
And when her phone lit up with Jazmyn calling again, when Tyriq still stood in the car park behind her, when Florida pressed close and humid around the windows like the past trying to get in, Karnation pulled out of the parking space without looking back.
Only when she reached the road did she let herself breathe.
Inhale.
Hold.
Exhale.
Compress, she reminded herself, though her hands were shaking now.
Remember the seven steps.
But the problem with the seven steps was that none of them explained what to do when the man you had spent years turning into fiction looked you in the eye beside a Dairy Queen trash can and told you he missed you.
And none of them, not one, prepared a woman for the fact that she would have to go home afterward, kiss a sleeping little boy with that same man’s face, and pretend the whole world had not just begun tilting toward the truth.
tags : @mamasturn @sheinaskirt @authentic-girl03 @k0niiii-blog @trustmymood @glizzymcguirex @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @blackfemreaderr @blckblossom @trustmymood @unicoo @yourleogf @uniqueoutlierblog @og-goddesstrill @determinednot2fall @melaninhawtie @xoadaraox @thatssokarii @kirayuki22 @the1miscief @plan3tch1ld @daliscrim @szatears @that-one-anxious-mango @sonder-slut @saintaquarius @shellyyy177 @daliscrim @demovies @myginterlude @herasxq @mqueenmelanin @nussaxstrem-blog (lmk if you wanted to be added or removed )
in which, you and cameron had been sworn enemies from the moment you were introduced, but one night together changed everything. now you have to figure out if it’s for better or worse.
¡warnings! smut. 18+ (story building/lotta plot if you into that!) frenemies, hidden feelings, party setting, alcohol consumption, explicit language&use of the n word, adult themes, yearning, angst, heavy tension (cameron in his feelings bad chile.)
a/n was in a horrible writing slump, but i’m coming off it. had to participate in my lovely moots challenge! i got some more good shit for y’all as well! just getting started i promise. 🫦
your best friends engagement party couldn’t have come at a better time.
after the insanely busy week you’ve had preparing for your next feature release, you’re looking forward to a moment away from the noise. surrounded by people you love and too many drinks that you won’t even bother keeping count of.
but when you finally turn into the cul de sac, all pristine lawns and dreamy homes hidden behind tall, iron gates, your smile fades. that matte black audi rsq8 amongst a sea of cars crowding the street catches your attention instantly.
your foot slams down on the brake. hard.
tires screech loudly, and your whole body jerks forward before flying back against the seat, the cool leather biting your skin from such force.
“you have to be fucking kidding me…” you whisper in disbelief. frozen in the middle of the road, eyes glued to what you’re praying is a figment of your imagination, but there it is clear as day.
his truck.
cameron cade—heartthrob. rookie of the year. the san antonio saviors’ steel armed quarterback whose earned himself the cover of every magazine imaginable celebrating the insane season he’s had. whose name claimed too many news segments to count.
how can you not love him? they say,
so charming. so charismatic.
but to you he’s an egotistical, loud mouthed asshole.
you’ve only tolerated him because he happens to be your close friends teammate, and right hand man. in the entire year you’ve known him, getting along with someone has never been more difficult. the two of you can’t go ten minutes in the same room without butting heads.
he’ll comment on how you should loosen up and stop taking shit so seriously, then you’d shoot back with an insult to his intelligence and recklessness.
a never ending cycle.
well…at least it was.
before you teetered off the line of ‘toleration’ into something much, much worse.
it started off as a normal enough night. you sat alone, tucked away in your usual shadowy corner of the hole in the wall you escape to whenever you’re tired of your meticulous schedule. humming along to familiar songs and letting your body catch the beat of the rest, nothing but your watered down daiquiri keeping you company.
until somehow, your eyes found each other’s through the violet haze that swallowed the room.
a slow, patronizing smirk curved at his lips as he watched you. i mean he always did, but this time felt different. suffocating. even with the sea of bodies that thrashed wildly in the space between, his stare was cutting through everything else like you were the only thing he cared to look at.
that was when you forced yourself to tear your eyes away from his. briefly, anyway.
because the next time you glanced in his direction he was already dapping the man beside him, and, annoyingly, making his way over to you.
his stride was relaxed but careful. broad shoulders leveled as he smoothed a hand over his head, dressed down in a simple black tee that stretched with the muscles of his biceps, and camouflaged cargo’s hung low on his waist. the diamonds layered neatly around his neck danced and shimmered with every step he took,
and then he flashed that pearly smile. the kind that always comes with too much charm and even more calculation. almost like his signature
“what you doing in here by yourself?” his low red eyes roamed over you, “actually, nah, don’t tell me— he paused dramatically with a hand held out “one of your niggas stood you up”
straight out of his provocative playbook. he knew exactly what to say, what to do to get a reaction from you
and of course it worked.
you scoffed, folding your arms over your chest
“i’m enjoying my alone time. you need something cameron? or do you just enjoy fucking with me?”
“a little bit of both, sweetheart” he answered easily through a laugh that rivaled the music thrumming loudly in the air.
“not your ‘sweetheart’.”
he laughed again, harder.
the scowl on your face should’ve been enough to send him back where he’d come from, at least it did the trick with every other man who’d tried their luck, but cameron cade never worked like that.
instead, he wore your annoyance like a badge of honor. it only made him want more. need more.
despite your very clear protest he slipped past the divider separating your empty, quiet corner from the chaos of spilled drinks, drunken off-beat dancing and slurred lyrics and plopped down beside you on the suede lounge sofa. dangerously close. arms outstretched along the back, claiming the little space left between you
then came the stupid jokes, and the laughter that you’d tried so hard to fight. you don’t remember how things got so .. comfortable. touchy. but his fingers traced idly over the skin of your inner thigh right at the hem of your skirt as he talked you into a shot,
“just one,” he murmured, those greenish blue eyes burned into yours, and the heat that crawled up your neck under his gaze should’ve been your first warning.
“i promise. i’ll let you go back to your ‘alone time’. you can keep acting like you hate me” his tongue moved slowly over his bottom lip before he caught the plush, pink skin with his teeth
you shifted in your seat some, not by much, just enough that his fingers inched higher,
but you didn’t stop him. if anything, you settled into it. comfortable with the warmth sneaking across your skin
yet another warning.
“fine. one shot. then you’re leaving”
“say no more”
as the night progressed one shot became three, then six, then ten, and cemented stares loaded with desire quickly turned into his large, greedy hands firm on the curves of your hips pulling you back flush against him, welding your bodies together on the dance floor.
“so damn pretty” he lowered himself to your ear, “ion think you should be dancing on me like this.”
you fought a smile, trying to ignore the way his thumbs drew slow, measured circles into the dips in the skin of your lower back,
“unless you tryna get us into some trouble”
you remember the way your breathing hitched. the quiet laugh you tried, and failed, to swallow. pulse quickening
“that’s inappropriate cameron” you warned, amused. still winding your hips teasingly as the rhythm of how many drinks moved through you. a rough, throaty sound escaped him, and his grip on your waist tightened.
“mm,” he hummed, “you ain’t deny it yet.”
he lingered on your ear for a moment before his lips crept down your neck, whispers of his breath rolled down your skin, warm, gentle. despite the way your heart pummeled through your chest you forced a scoff
“please. you’re drunk, and obviously horny—”
“nah” he cut in. “i think we both know that’s not what this is.” his voice dipped seductively low, “just been waiting on you to let me know sum”
he pressed his palms down harder, guiding your hips right into the thick outline of him sitting heavy against your backside through his pants.
your eyes grew wide as he rubbed up against you. awestruck by how big he was, and the heat growing in between your thighs was a betrayal to your detestation for him, yet you let yourself melt further into his arms as they snaked around your bodice.
fingers grazing gently up his forearms locked around your waist and resting at the crease of his elbows. his hands slid higher, unhurried over your bust, and before you knew it the pad of his thumb rested on your chin, lifting your face to meet his
every dangerous word hanging between you barely hid behind his hazeled eyes.
you gulped,
“cam…” you said through a shaky breath, unsure if it was another warning for him or your own needs clawing at you
he smirked, “be a big girl (Y/N)” he murmured, slowly closing in on your lips “gone ‘head, tell me what you want”
that night, you relinquished yourselves to each other completely.
you heard it in the way he breathed your name, felt it in the way he mapped out every inch of your body with his tongue and his lips, memorizing, like you belonged to him.
but then you woke up the next morning cocooned in his egyptian cotton sheets, his large arm draped over your thigh, loosely but still claimant, his flushed face softened with content, pink lips parted as he snored softly.
that’s when the gravity of everything came crashing down on you.
you realized that you didn’t regret a single thing. how easy you gave in to temptation, how you’d let yourself fall into him. how much you wanted to do it again.
and that was exactly the problem.
you knew it wouldn’t just go away, fade into nothing like your usual one-offs do. this wasn’t that. whatever it was held weight, so much so that it swelled and bloomed in your chest, all invasive. eating at you the longer you stayed.
so you left quietly and convinced yourself it was the best thing for both of you.
then the unanswered phone calls and endless texts came rolling in, each one more revealing and a lot less composed than the last.
(11) cameron.
cameron.
9:17 am
you okay? why’d you leave?
9:50 am
wya?
11:23 am
(Y/N).
12:11 pm
?? damn so we just not gone talk?
still, you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. you were too afraid of what would come of it, and what it might mean moving forward.
your heart pounds the more you think about it all. his chains cool against your skin, draped between your bodies glistening in sweat. his sea green irises fixed on yours as he delved slow and deep into your sweetness. savoring every second he had you to himself. whispering every filthy thought that he’d been harboring against your parted mouth.
a violent shudder moves through you, your breathing hollow as you sink lower into the seat.
fuck.
having to be in the same space as him now, forced to face the fact that you’ve been blatantly avoiding him for weeks feels like some kind of cruel joke played by the universe.
but maybe you’re being dramatic. at least you hope so. you’re both adults who are more than capable of celebrating your friends without the extra,
right?
you tighten your eyes shut, take a deep, steadying breath and then slowly ease your foot off the brake,
cameron’s annoyed, for lack of a better word.
not the kind that could easily be hidden behind the dark tint of his shades, or cloaked by a practiced confidence that he’s gotten way too good at—the warm smile, easy laugh, relaxed shoulders. it’s loud, and strikingly obvious.
truth is he doesn’t know if he’s more annoyed with you or himself. not because he regrets it, no. never. if anything that’s the problem.
it’s because whatever he feels for you isn’t new. it snuck up on him, surface level in the beginning. a pretty face with too much attitude, a body that you have to see to believe. but then it festered into something deeper. hidden in plain sight. right beneath every snide comment, every pointless argument in an attempt to garner attention from you.
maybe it was the way your intelligence seeped into the insults you threw at him, those dimples carved deep into your cheeks softening words that were supposed to hurt, or how your round hips swayed in that hypnotic, mouthwatering rhythm even when you were storming away from him like he didn’t matter.
but when you’d disappeared so suddenly, the radio silence, the avoidance after everything that happened. he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe that night means more to him than it does to you.
and even still, that didn’t stop him from canceling his obligations for the weekend to be here, in your vicinity.
it didn’t stop his fingers from hovering over your contact name just this morning, rereading every unanswered text. hoping that you’d finally find something, anything to say back.
irritation grows the longer he lets his mind wander. he shakes his head slightly, his tongue pressing hard against the inside of his cheek as he tries to settle himself, balancing the glass of champagne that he’s barely touched on his restless knee.
he leans back into the garden chair with his long legs outstretched over freshly cut grass, one arm draped over the backrest, almost like a statue planted in the middle of a heap of people bustling around him.
everyone’s some kind of tipsy. loud, dancing and singing along horribly off key to the kaytranada mix pulsing from speakers placed throughout the backyard
“yo,”
jeremiah, the man of the hour announces himself as he approaches, winding between the guests scattered in his path.
“you good? over here looking like security, scoping the scene out and shit.”
cameron manages a small chuckle at that, sliding the shades down the bridge of his nose and peeking over the rim at his homeboy
“it’s a nice day. maybe i’m just enjoying the weather, nigga.” he lies easily as he brings the champagne he’s been babysitting to his mouth and taking a more than generous sip of the peach flavored bubbly
jeremiah narrows his eyes at him unconvinced
“weather my ass,” he mutters “you ain’t moved from that spot since you got here. you high?” he quizzes
he grumbles. if only. maybe he’d actually be enjoying himself. probably catch a dance or two with one of the many women flashing bright smiles and lustrous eyes in his direction, indulge in the chase until the party thinned out, get a happy ending,
but he couldn’t. not even close. and he hates that he knows exactly why.
“shit, i wish.” cameron hums into the glass, still sipping, trying to focus on anything but you and failing miserably.
jeremiah huffs a laugh, “man come on. it’s some people i want you to meet”
he finishes off his drink with a hard swallow before obliging, and as he stands from his seat he can’t stop his eyes from flickering back to the sliding glass door that he’s been keeping watch on all morning. silently bracing himself for the moment you walk through it.
meanwhile, you and delaney walk arm in arm through the corridor. after you’d squeezed the life out of her—erupting squeals of congratulations and gushing over her engagement ring—it took no time at all for the scolding to start.
“you told me he wouldn’t be here! i cannot believe you set me up like this” you whisper yell
“i did not! he specifically said he had to be in atlanta for the weekend” she argues “well, that’s what he told us at the time” she adds, quieter now “but everything’s chill i swear. there’s a lot of people who can buffer, it’ll be fine”
then she snorts, “and this is partially your fault for being fast anyway.”
you’re chuckling before you can stop it, but you straighten up immediately
“shut up. don’t try to shame me. i’m grown”
“girl, whatever” she swats a hand at you with a laugh “you know he asked me if you were coming right? must’ve put it on him good”
“delaney, please stop talking.”
“i’m just saying!”
your hushed bickering bounces off the tall walls and high ceilings.
the further you move into their gorgeous, spanish revival style home, the livelier it is. every shade of pink and green imaginable has taken over the space.
music bleeds in from the dj booth outside, laughter and chatter heavy in the air as familiar faces blur past. the sweet smell of waffles and syrup circles, indulgent scents of grease and seasonings from fried meats threaded into it all.
but none of it does anything to calm the nerves coursing like lightning through you.
“i need a drink. there’s no way I’m dealing with this shit sober.” you mutter, already veering toward the neat lineup of mimosas and champagne
delaney hums thoughtfully beside you,
“mmm i don’t know, you get real talkative when you drunk.” she pauses “that’s probably how you ended up folded like a pretzel in the first place” she jokes
you bump her with your hip, eyes rolling as you help yourself to a glass “do not piss me off.” a laugh escapes “you already skating on thin ice. better be lucky you look cute in that dress”
the pair of you make your way onto the deck outside and you down half your mimosa in one go, watching the crowd stir
across the yard cameron stands amidst a group of men, sipping on his second drink. barely listening to jeremiah’s relatives run their mouths about the saviors getting to the super bowl next season.
he’s being attentive of course, he has to be. the facade wouldn’t work otherwise. so he gives a nod here, an opinion there,
until he takes yet another absentminded glance at the door out of muscle memory, and finally sees you.
just that quick, he almost forgets how you’ve slighted him. he can’t think about that right now. not even a little bit. everything else fades into nothing, jeremiah’s voice and the hearty laughter that follows dulls once his eyes latch onto you. unmoving.
your smooth chocolate skin catches the sunlight like it belongs to you, meshing deliciously with the capris set that clings to your figure like a canvas showing off the work of art underneath.
he bites down on his bottom lip to contain a grin that's forming at the disgusting thoughts that begin running rampant.
and then, somehow, when you’re squeezing your way through all of the commotion,
your eyes find him. and he’s already looking back at you.
dressed in an off-white knit shirt, paired with a leather jacket and light washed jeans. a silver patek gleams on his wrist each time he lifts the glass to his lips courtesy of the sun, and his sandy brown hair is buzzed low and neat. casual, put together. dangerously so.
your breath catches, and every hazy memory of that night wrecks into you instantly as the depth of his stare reaches you from clean across the yard.
cameron’s mind betrays him as well. he can’t unsee your perfect, bare body beneath his. glazed in sweat and kissed by beauty marks in all the right places. your legs closed tightly around his figure pulling him closer as he slowly burrowed himself as deep as he could go into your sopping wet warmth.
and that voice.
his name has never sounded so angelic coming from you.
judging by the way you’re looking he knows none of what took place is lost on you either. that alone is enough to satisfy him
a slow, knowing smirk pulls at his lips as he raises his glass, still holding your eyes. taunting you.
your heart thrums faster and you tear your eyes away from his, leaning into delaney,
“i can’t be around him. not right now”
“you’re a damn editor, i thought y’all worked better under pressure?”
if looks could kill, she’d be good as gone.
“delaney, i’m serious.”
“okay, okay” laughter slips from her “we’re just gonna go speak real quick i promise” she assures, keeping her stride, closing in on the collection of men faster than you’d hoped. the panic on your face is clear as day.
“and please relax. you look like you about to pass out”
“don’t tell me to relax!” you whisper yell
jeremiah notices the two of you first and turns to face you as you approach, his eyebrows lifted in surprise
“well damn,” he drags out, grinning “look who finally found her way here” he reaches for his bride-to-be’s hand instinctively before sliding an arm around her, pulling her to his side
“you had her on lockdown or something?” he passes a glance back and forth between you,
“it’s good to see you too jer” you huff a laugh, trying to keep yourself steady “and congratulations again” you raise your glass before taking another much needed sip
they all pass head nods and greetings. all of them except him.
cameron doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t have to. his stare says it all.
and when you turn to meet his gaze, it feels like a rip current pulling everything you’ve been trying to ignore free. those icy blue irises bore straight through you.
“hey.” you manage
he doesn’t respond. not yet, anyway.
his jaw tightens as he takes you in slowly, top to bottom. plump lips lathered in your signature liner and gloss, your breasts spilling perfectly into the the blush pink satin, those round hips curving into your thick, soft thighs, like a full course meal. and he’s starving.
still, his mouth opens before he can think,
“you good?” it isn’t an ask, it’s a statement. the venom threaded into his tone couldn’t be more obvious.
jeremiah notices the heat building,
“oh shit,” he leans down to whisper to delaney “they finally did it huh?” he chuckles. “hush, babe i can’t hear” she palms his chest, watching along with him
you clear your throat, “um…yeah, i’m fine” you say quietly “are you?”
he simply nods, “i’m straight.”
he isn’t. not in the slightest.
probably because you’re standing here looking so pretty and put together, untouchable—unbothered while he’s burning up beneath the surface. it’s fucking with him. badly.
he steps closer, and the air thickens immediately. you stiffen at the closeness
“ion like assuming, so i’ll ask. you been ignoring me?” he quizzes. well, kind of. it seems more accusatory than anything.
“no i’ve just been busy. haven’t had any time to do anything else besides work, really.” you answer through a quiet, nervous laugh. lying straight through your teeth.
camerons lips twitch into a smile. he can’t decide if he wants to laugh or lose his mind
busy.
he almost glances around for a camera, fully convinced you’re playing a trick on him. you have to be.
he then inches even closer to you, so close that heads are starting to turn in your direction,
“‘busy’,” he reiterates, voice dipped as he tilts his head at you, “so thats what it is now?”
a dry humorless chuckle escaped him, “you bullshitting, (Y/N).”
you gulp
heat claws at your neck, and your gaze drops to the shine of his shoes for a split second, voice hushed,
“cameron..please. don’t.”
“nah, i’m just curious” he shrugs, calm, but the the unwavering, hard stare tells another story “tryna understand how you so busy that you can’t answer a call or a text.”
“what exactly do you want me to say?”
“i want you to stop playing with me.” he says quietly, still holding your eyes as if he’s daring you to look away. somehow, the whispered words feel more dangerous than if he’d yelled,
and that alone is enough to make you feel things you’re not supposed to. not here. not now.
“i’m not trying to..” you wrap your arms around yourself, shifting weight from one leg to the other,
the party is still coursing around you despite your own issues brewing, music still thrums loudly, people still dance wildly, but even then you catch the eyes of a few in the group watching the interaction, whispers traveling back and forth between them as they tune in. cameron follows your gaze
and then,
“come here.” his hand comes up, fingers lightly brushing your elbow
your breathing catches “people are looking—
“i don’t care. you think i’m finna have this conversation in front of everybody?” he grasps your arm, not firm but still enough to let you know it’s not a request
he then turns placing his half empty glass onto the bar, before you know it he has your hand in his steering you through the thickening crowd. past the pool full of children screaming and laughing, the table of elders slapping cards down and shit-talking as they play a game of spades,
and somewhere behind you, delaney and jeremiah smile knowingly at each other,
“pay up, you lost. i told you it was coming” he hooks an arm around her neck and delaney playfully rolls her eyes at her fiancée
“looks like we’ll be at another wedding soon”
you’re pulled into a room tucked away on the far side of the house, free of anyone who could’ve wandered off from the party. crisp white linen’s and natural light pouring in from the windows illuminating the space on its own. he closes the door behind himself, the soft click of the lock sounds off right after
doesn’t say anything for a while.
he simply slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans and leans back coolly against the door, as calm as ever, like he isn’t obviously blocking your only way out. guarding it almost. head tilted as he studies you
the weight of his stare makes your stomach tighten, and then he quietly laughs, but there’s no humor in it
“you really ‘bout to stand here and act like nothing happened?” he asks pointedly.
you shake your head “that’s not what i’m doing, cam. it’s just not as simple as you’re trying to make it.” you fidget with the rings on your fingers, attempting to ground yourself,
“and we were drunk.” it comes out quicker than you can think
silence stretches between you. so charged that you can feel the tension circling you both as challenging stares passed back and forth
and then a sharp breath slips through him, “well it’s simple as fuck to me. drunk or not, i don’t bring just anybody back to my crib and do everything we did”
“that’s hard to believe,” you shoot back instantly “and today isn’t even about us, but who’s surprised that cameron cade can’t stop thinking about himself for one fucking second.”
of course you’re projecting.
he sees it all over your pretty, conflicted face.
truthfully, you just don’t want to face the fact that in all of the intricate responses you typed out but never sent, you wore your heart on your sleeve. you let yourself be honest about your feelings for once, and you hate that he is the reason.
the man that’s so easy to despise, so easy to dislike is the one that has you scattered.
a smile creeps across his lips. the way your delicate brown eyes flash at him, and those shimmery lips wrapping around each word, yeah, you look good.
way too good.
just the sight of you like this is making his pants swell
“you can’t stop thinking about me either,” he says softly, tilting his head as his brows lift in amusement . “felt good letting it all out for me that night, didn’t it?” he taunts, pushing himself off of the door as he speaks.
your breath snags in your throat,
“stop.” you say, barely above a whisper
“why?” he steps closer, “you wanna keep pretending youn want nothing to do with me?” you swear you feel the wood beneath your feet shifting with the weight of him
you take a step back out of instinct to put space between you but he just advances faster, closing the gap in one single stride. the distance between you shrinks to almost nothing,
“cam—
“i guess that’s easier than admitting you want me— he smirks, clearly amused as he gestures back and forth between you “this, right?”
“now you’re just being arrogant, per usual. move.”
it comes out sharper, louder than you want it to, but it’s the only thing keeping you from combusting right now.
you try to slip around him and start toward the door but he swiftly grabs ahold of your arms as you pass, spinning you right back into him. you gasp, the wind knocked from your lungs at the sudden closeness. too close. you’re chest to chest
his breath rolls down your cheeks, those lustful eyes locked onto your face, your lips as he anchors you to him
“or what?” he murmurs
“cameron,” you warn, averting your gaze “i’m not playing.”
his hand shifts from your arm and slithers up the side of your neck until his thumb dips below your chin, tilting your face back up so you have no choice but to meet his eyes again
“(Y/N),” he says quietly, his face mere inches from yours, closing in slowly “i’m not either.” he whispers
your breathing picks up and your heart beats so hard that it’s ringing in your ears, it feels like it may burst through your chest. you shouldn’t be, but fuck you’re a mess.
and he knows it.
your lips trace each others now, teasingly,
you breathe, head shaking slightly “w-we can’t do this here, the party—
“watch me.”
his lips crash into yours, sending the both of you stumbling back into the door with a heavy thud, and despite every warning blaring loudly in your head, your body is taking the lead before your mind can stop you.
your hands move quickly along the front of his toned chest, yanking the leather from his arms and tossing it aside, leaving him in the shirt underneath.
now the two of you are in a whirlwind of deep, messy, tongue heavy kisses, the only sound filling the room being your desperate moans each time you retract and the sticky wet sounds of saliva being passed back and forth as your lips melt together
“fuck i missed you” he groans against your mouth, “swear i been going crazy thinking about you, us, everything” his muscles are flexing and contorting as he fumbles with the waistband of your capris, dragging them down roughly over your hips.
his large hands travel until he’s palming your ass cheeks, and then without a single warning his hand flies down hard against your soft skin. the sound cracks like lightning,
you gasp, eyes wide “ohh— a whimper slips in between kisses. combined pain and pleasure lingers, stinging and flooding the seat of your panties all at once,
“don’t do that shit again. when i call, answer”
“cam—
another smack comes down onto the other cheek even harder, your knees almost give out beneath you, buckling from the force
“ever. say it.” he demands roughly
“mmh—fuck,” you breathe, “i-i’ll never do it again” a smirk tugs at his lips, satisfied before he pulls you back into the kiss,
“good girl.”
his tongue slides deeper and slower into your mouth, he then catches your bottom lip gently between his teeth, drudging a gasp from you
“you love when i get rough with you huh?”
you nod feverishly, almost desperately, your face softening under his hungry gaze. his fingers hook into the waistband of your hot pink lace panties already ruined by the sticky heat between your thighs from his touch. you shimmy a little to help him get them down your legs.
he pulls back and pauses his movement just to stare at you. reveling in your beauty. your two toned lips kiss swollen, slick and glistening with saliva, coils falling freely cradling your face. everything about you is unreal. he’s practically foaming at the mouth.
“i’m never letting you go, i promise” he shakes his head, and then he’s back in action again. rushing to undo his belt before the button of his jeans. rushing to get his hands on you how he’s been dreaming about since the last time
you don’t have any time to catch your breath before his large, muscled arms are lifting you onto his waist effortlessly, flattening your back against the door.
there’s no slowing down now. not that you want him to.
your legs lock around him, and you’re ready to take everything that he’s been more than ready to give you.
he presses his forehead against yours and lines himself up with your entrance. in one quick motion his hips snap into your pelvis, filling you with every inch of him in a single deep, hard thrust.
“shit!” you yelp, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. an intense pleasure rips violently through your core and both of you grapple tightly to each other, shallow breaths traveling between your parted lips,
“so fucking tight, mama” he strains. a guttural sound escapes him as your slick warm walls clench around his length.
“god—wait” you plead, louder than you should, but the sweet sound of your voice, so melodic and needy just ignites a fire in him.
“after all that shit you been talking, you can’t take it?” his brows furrow as he taunts you, rolling his hips in a torturous rhythm. stretching you to fit the girth of his shaft just right with each push
“you’re just s-so deep, cam, fuck” you cry, tightening your eyes shut, trying to take him fully. steadying yourself with a grip on his broad shoulders as he delves into you faster “mhm,” he hums, voice rough “i want you to feel every fucking inch”
he’s watching intently as your face contorts into a pouty, fucked-out mess, which only gets him harder
he then hoists you up higher, angling you just right for more access, stimulating pleasure in all the right places.
a throaty, broken moan leaves him, “pussy taking me so good, getting wet as fuck for me—” his jaw falls “all fucking mine, ain’t you?” he’s slamming everything into you relentlessly, the wood bends and creaks beneath your bodies, his large fingers indenting your thighs to ground himself as he drives into you harder.
you inhale sharply, “y-yes, cameron i’m yours!” he sinks deeper. closer than you thought possible. your head rolls back, eyes drifting to the ceiling and slow, warm kisses creep up your neck before he suctions his lips to your sweet spot, sucking hard enough to undoubtedly leave a mark behind,
“baby— nngghh— fuck, you so perfect” he mutters breathlessly into your skin, thrusts deepening like he never wants to leave. the sound of your combined juices echoing off of the walls, sticky and wet
“can’t believe i ain’t get my hands on you sooner”
it’s confetti from there. your moans rivaling each other’s, skin smacking, and you both unraveling completely.
“please don’t stop, cam” you mewl, heat burrowing in your core, twisting and curling through every inch of your body as you get closer to the edge
he slides a large hand into your hair tangling his fingers tightly in your coils, forcing your eyes to his
“you gonna cum for me pretty girl? hmm?” he hums against your parted mouth. his hips snap harder, drilling precisely into that same spot over and over,
the repeated pummeling of your button drags a long, feeble moan from your lips,
“mhmm let it all out, i’m right here, baby. i got you”
and just like that, you tip over your breaking point. pleasure springs from the pit of your stomach, bursting with an intensity too overwhelming for you to handle.
you fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, “fuckk cameron im cumming— i’m cum- you bawl against his parted lips, gasping and shivering, walls tightening as you melt into him and he comes right behind you. driving himself as deep as he can go, burying himself there
“mmm s-shit— a low, choked moan tears through him and he brings his mouth to yours, kissing you slow and filthy, his breathing uneven as he holds you there. filling you up with his warm seed.
he breaks the kiss and rests his forehead on yours, but you don’t speak. you can’t. instead, you melt further into the other’s embrace. something unfamiliar—new dances between you, and all either of you can do is stare.
silently coming to terms with the fact that there’s no going back after this.
the room is eerily silent as the both of you get yourselves together. not in the awkward way that feels suffocating and uncomfortable. it’s more … warm.
and then,
“i meant what I said (Y/N)” he turns to face you after he gets his jacket on, bringing a hand to the curve of your hip and pulling you in, “i don’t wanna let you go. this ain’t just sex for me”
“i know...me neither, it’s just—” your eyes fall from his for a moment and you exhale slowly, letting yourself feel everything you need to before you continue,
“you and me—this could be messy. always moving, always trying to keep up with our careers. that’s not easy”
he huffs quietly, nodding as he takes your words in, “that’s true, but nothing good ever come easy. how you think we got here?”
“still, cam” you shake your head “everything would change. our friendships could too. you can’t just say that without knowing what it means.”
your eyes find his again, and you can visibly see him pondering on whether or not he wants to go through with speaking his mind, and then he finally decides,
“i said it ‘cause shit already changed, a long time ago. before today, way before that night” he reasons, “i was damn near doing and saying anything just to get your attention at one point. it been that bad.”
you tilt your head and a smirk curves at your lips. shock decorates your face at the admission. of course you assumed there was mutual attraction, he’s a handsome man, you’re drop dead gorgeous, and you’re both well established, but you didn’t think he’d ever let it get deeper than that.
hell, you didn’t think you’d ever let it get deeper than that.
both of his hands grace your hips now, rubbing absentminded circles “listen, i’m not asking you to figure all this out right here. i just need you to know where i stand”
the usual edge to his tone isn’t there. he’s..him. not cameron cade, just cameron. it makes you want to melt.
heyyy girly. i have cameron cade request. could you write abt him coming home after a long road-game trip and only wanting to spend time w f!reader because he missed her a lot and yeah. just fluffy and plss include smut. ty i love your stuff already!!
🜼 A/N: i was giggling and kicking my feet writing this. whoever recommended this, i love you forever. i hope you enjoy this my cherries <3 muah.
You had been watching Cameron's location like a hawk ever since he told you he was on the way home. It had been nearly a week since you last saw him, so of course, you missed him like no other. He still had around four more hours left on the road, so to occupy your time, you decided to do your hair and watch movies. So, when your doorbell finally rang, you were sitting on the couch with your roller set in and bonnet on, drinking a cup of tea.
You pretty much sprinted to your front door, throwing it open with a big smile on your face as you looked up at your boyfriend. Cameron immediately dropped his bag and reached down to hug you. Your arms went around his neck and your legs around his waist. He wasted no time in hoisting you up so you were sitting comfortably in his arms. "I missed you, mama." Cameron said with a small laugh as you pressed kisses all over his face. "I missed you too!" you said in a soft-excited voice.
He finally walked inside the house with you still in his arms and closed the door and locked up the house smoothly. Cameron walked into your living room and sat down on the couch, pulling you into him in a tight hug. You could tell he missed you just as much as you missed him. Every chance he got, he would text or call you just to tell you that. He pressed his face into your neck and inhaled.
You giggled softly and moved your neck to indicate that it tickled. "Have you been home yet?" You asked curiously. "Nah, I came straight to you."
"Why?"
"I needed to see your pretty ass face. Like, I really missed you. A nigga was really 'finna go insane." He said, looking at you with a smirk on his face.
You grabbed the nearest pillow and hit him with it. "Whatever, nigga." you said with a laugh, which ended up making him laugh. Cameron was the most serious unserious person you had ever met. To someone who had never met him before, they would probably think he was being serious all the time.
"Nah, forreal though, it's been a long ass week. It was starting to drain the life out of me. Being with you makes me feel grounded; it reminds me that I'm doing all this for a reason. You my safe space, ma. Ain't that what y'all be saying?"
You squealed and grabbed his arms, wrapping them around your waist. You gripped his face in your hands and kissed all over it. "Awwww! I'm your safe space, Cam?"
"Hell yeah, on some forever shit." You gasped dramatically and pretended to faint. Moving off his lap and onto the couch. He used your moment of vulnerability to tickle you. You jolted up immediately. "Cameron!" You hit him in the chest, making him stop. "You just tried to kill me!" you gasped, trying to take in all the air that you could.
"Dramatic ass."
"You hate me." Cameron grabbed one of your arms with one hand and your waist with the other to pull you upwards, now straddling his lap again. "I could never hate you, baby." It was the tone of voice in which he said it that made you swoon. He said it like it was the only thing in the world he was sure of. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his chest, hugging you tightly.
You and Cameron sat that way for a little while, just holding each other and enjoying each other's company. You couldn't help but to be grateful for him in your life. He was the best boyfriend you could have ever asked for.
"Are you hungry?" you asked.
"Yeah, ma. I could eat." Cameron nodded against your neck.
"Okay," you moved off of his lap and started your walk to the kitchen. Of course, being the clingy nigga he is, he was right at your ass following you to the kitchen. As you made food for both of you, he was right there with arms around your waist and his face in your neck; and when you brought up personal space to him, he had the audacity to say: "Don't know what that is." Like at this point dont even bother.
When you were done plating the food, you jumped up to sit on the kitchen counter. "Thank you, baby." Cameron moved to stand in front of your legs. "You're welcome, my love." He kissed you again, and again… which led to a more passionate kiss. You moaned into his mouth, enjoying the feeling of his lips on yours. Before things got too carried away, you softly pushed him away. "Eat, nigga." you pointed down at his bowl, and he let out a laugh before moving to finish his food.
After you were done eating. Cameron took your bowl from you and washed both of them out. "You didn't have to do that. I could've done it, baby." He shook his head subtly, not responding. He always wants to do things for you— and it's always been that way, ever since you met him.
After he was done washing the dishes, you grabbed his arm and pulled him back in between your legs. "Thank you for doing that." You pressed a kiss to his cheek, and he put his arms on both sides of you, caging you in. "What you thanking me for?" He genuinely looked confused. You laughed softly and reached up to smooth out the furrow in his brow. "I can't say thank you?"
"Nah, I gotta nother way you can thank me," he lifted his hand and double-tapped his lips—this goofy ass man. You laughed and gripped his face in your hands and pressed a kiss to his lips. "Hmmm," he said in that deep, smooth voice. "Again." You gave him another kiss. "Damn, that shit still didn't satisfy me."
You scoffed playfully; you knew you had no problem with giving him another kiss. When you went in to kiss him this time, you gave him multiple pecks at once, so you knew he would be satisfied. As soon as your lips touched his for the last time, Cameron decided to use that opportunity to deepen the kiss.
His tongue glided against yours with precision, the sounds of your lips moving against each other didn't do anything but turn you on even more. You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled it up, resting your hand on the center of his chest, feeling his body heat radiate off of him. You ran your hand up and down, feeling the smoothness of his chest and the ridges of his abs.
"More, please," you pleaded. He obliged immediately, pulling your sleep shorts and your panties down at the same time. Cameron grabbed behind your knee and pulled it up. The move stretched your legs apart, allowing him easy access.
He used his unoccupied hand and put it against your pussy, moving against the skin slowly, teasing you. "Babyyy," you whined. He looked up at you, staring straight into your eyes, as he inserted a finger inside of you. Your mouth fell open wordlessly. As he inserted a second finger, his eyes stayed on you the entire time, watching your reaction for any change. You let out a shaky moan when he pulled his fingers out and pushed them back in. He repeated that action—slowly— again and again to get you used to the feeling of his fingers inside of you.
Once he saw your eyes roll back, he began to pick up his pace. "Fuckk, you look so pretty like this, baby." He leaned down and started kissing your neck, licking and sucking all of the area he could reach, causing you to get wetter and wetter.
"You hear this pretty shit gushing, mama?" In your blissful state, you did your best to nod your head. "Yeah?" you nod again. "Yesss, I hear it, baby." He started to move his fingers in a 'come here' motion, touching your G-spot every single time. The feeling snuck up on you without warning. You gasped and gripped the front of his shirt, balling it up in your hand. "I'm cummingggg!"
Cameron slammed his mouth onto yours as you clenched and pulsated on his fingers. You moaned in his mouth and convulsed in his grip. He picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, and carried you into your bedroom.
He set you down on the bed, and when you started to lie down, he stopped you. "Nah, turn around." Oop. You stopped in your tracks. From the corner of your eye, you could see him start to get undressed.
You obliged and got on your hands and knees, arching your back and pushing your ass into the air. When Cameron got behind you, he smacked one of your ass cheeks— hard. You squealed from the unexpectedness of it, and he did the same to your other cheek before soothing them both.
"You so pretty, Y/N. I missed you, mama." It sounded like he groaned out the words, like he was in complete awe of the scene before him. He put himself at your entrance and pushed in. Drawing a moan out of you as he did so. He eased out of you and slammed back in. "Cam!" you moaned.
He set a steady pace, drawing out every sound from you that he could. You stretched out both arms in front of you and started meeting his thrusts. "Yeah, you got it, mama. Throw it back for me." You felt him slow his pace, so you did as you were told and began throwing it back on him. "Good girl," he grunted. Smacking your ass hard, then smoothing it over.
His grunts and moans were doing something to you; it was something about a man not being afraid to be vocal in the bedroom. Cameron leaned down, his back on yours, and grabbed your arms, putting them behind your back and pulling you upright— your back now against his chest. "You're doing so good, baby. Taking this dick so good, fuck." He said in your ear. Followed by grunts and moans that had your eyes rolling back.
"It feels so good, please don't stop." You mewled. Cam wrapped one of his hands around your neck and the other gripping your breast, pinching and twisting the nipple. His strokes became more erratic, and he moved in and out of you at such a relentless pace. The sounds the two of you were making was music to his ears.
"I feel you tightening around me, you finna come for me, mama?"
"Yessss,"
"Go ahead, come on this dick," he bit down on your ear. When the pleasure that was building up inside of you exploded, your mouth fell open on a silent moan. You felt him tense up behind you, indicating that he came at the same time as you did.
When he let go of your neck, you dropped onto the bed, panting and waiting to catch your breath. Cameron fell beside you on the bed. You were out before you could even watch Cam clean you up. When you woke up the next morning, you were greeted by the smell of breakfast and fresh fruit.
You climbed out of bed, body still a bit sore and legs still wobbly, and walked to your kitchen. In there, you saw a shirtless Cameron, only wearing a pair of sweatpants, plating breakfast for you and him. You walked up and hugged him from the back, basking in his body heat. "Morning, mama," you said it back to him and kissed the center of his back before walking away and towards the table.
That day, Cameron dedicated it to taking care of you and only you. You truly did have the best boyfriend ever.
i thank yall so much for the love and support, it means so much to me that yall are enjoying my work. i hope you guys enjoyed this. dont be shy to request what you would like to see next! (any fandom) see you in the next one my cherries, muah <3
・❥・ ch. synopsis: in which the past is learned but the future is is threatened.
warnings: 18+ content, (MNI or be blocked indefinitely) cussing/swearing, stalking, obsession, flashbacks, drinking, smuttt— oral sex (f and m receiving), kissing, touching, pnv penetration, mild dominance, dubious consent, creampie. threats, de*th/murd*r.
a.n: this was fun to write lol, onto more secrets getting revealed…..
on the jukebox: ‘Eyes Without a Face’ by Billy Idol ✨
flashback— then, 3/12/2022
“It’s over? Just like that? Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“It’s not like it’s a simple decision, Chiara, okay?! You have to think about how this makes me look if I don’t show up for her—“
“For her— fuck her! What about me?! Show up for me, you asshole!”
Sitting in the driver’s seat of your parked car, your car phone was at full volume. Arms crossed, you were getting more and more pissed off by the seconds.
“What’s so fucking dire about her that you have to go breaking us up again for?”
You had full intentions of tonight being a great solo outing— The Saviors were playing tonight and you wanted full view of the game at Ward’s bar, some loaded fries and a fresh cocktail right near it. You’d gotten dressed, did your hair, you felt good.
But of course any feelings of goodness would be short lived when it came to your relationship. You and your love had been together for two years and the blues were starting to settle in.
Everything felt like a problem, everything felt like an issue, or a need to be corrected, like you were doing something wrong. You specifically. Your call outs on him felt pure, his felt intentionally small and petty.
So in typical relationship fashion, the toxicity showed its face and instead of asking for space or even breaks, the two of you had small break ups every now and then. The ‘on and offs’. This was round two.
They say third time’s the charm, right?
Your love sighed heavily, you could picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “She’s pregnant, Chiara… a-and it’s mine.. the baby is mine. And I have to be in her life, okay? I can’t—“
Your hearing suddenly went radio silent, it felt like you’d been plunged in the fucking twilight zone.
“Wait wait, I’m sorry— you did what? She’s fucking what?”
“Pregnant, Chiara, pregnant! Is that clear enough for you? I fucked up, alright? W-we were broken up and—“
“SO YOU CHEAT ON ME WITH A BITCH I DON’T KNOW AND GET HER FUCKING PREGNANT?! ARE YOU FUCKING—“
The hottest tears streamed down your cheeks with ease, your voice cracking as you screamed out. His end was silent.
Your sob was soft but it rocked you and shook your body in the driver’s seat of your car. You prayed no one could see you and thanked God for the darkening night skies.
“Out of all of the things you could put me through, I would’ve never thought about this. You are vile, you are the lowest of fucking low, and I fucking hate you”
“Chiara—“
“You shut the fuck up talking to me. As much as we go through what we do, I’d have never thought to hurt you this way, ever. But you know what, you have an obligation that exceeds way more than me, go do that. Fuck you and fuck that bitch”
You didn’t allow him to get another word in before hanging up the car phone.
You reached over into your glove compartment and grabbed a spare set of napkins, pulling down your sun visor to look yourself in the mirror.
Patting gently at your cheeks and under your eyes, at your black lined eyes that already ran and disappeared.
Sadly, this wasn’t the first time your love had broken your heart but the trajectory of the reason he was doing so was far greater than before.
It’s what had you still sitting in one of the bar booths as closing time neared. You drank what you could but even then, you didn’t have it in you to get drunk. You were too sad. Thankfully, Ward’s occupancy made it so everyone was in their own world, everyone just left you alone.
Good.
You tried to eat, tried to watch the game, tried to sip. But you cried more than that. Too depressed to move, too depressed to really acknowledge what was going on.
“Hey, the bar’s closed, I’m about to start locking these doors. Do you have a ride home?”
You looked up, a man approached. Your emotional, hazy vision had him hardly registering to your eyes but with the closer he got, the clearer he looked.
You recognized him as the bartender that greeted you when you when you first walked in.
“I’m sorry?” You mumbled.
“I asked if you had a ride home? Or are you sober enough to drive? It’s closing time and you’re the only one here”
Leaning out and looking around, you were surprised. Nobody else resided in the sports bar, it really was just you and this man. This man that sported dark denim jeans and a Henley. This man with scruff and stubble, sandy brown low cut hair, and—
“You have really pretty eyes”
The man chuckled and shook his head, “can I call somebody for you?”
Somebody. Besides Michelle, you had a somebody you could’ve called.. or so you thought. That alone had you tearing up, it wasn’t long before you were crying again. A soft sob escaped your throat, your hands reached up to cover your face.
“I’m sorry—“ you choked out, “sorry sorry sorry, n-no, you don’t h-have to call anyone. I drove myself and m-my last drink was water. ‘M just s-sad and tired but I live close, I can drive myself—“
You grabbed your purse and stood up, you didn’t expect for the bartender to gently stop you with a hand on your wrist, he sported a frown when you looked at him.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
You sniffled, “I-I don’t know if you’d get it”
The man only smiled and took a walk back to the booth, your wrist still in his grip. He sat down and you did the same, a bit reluctantly.
“Try me”
You coughed out a giggle, “you don’t even know my name”
“Then what’s your name?”
“Chiara”
“Chiara? Pretty. Chiara, I’m Ledger, it’s nice to meet you”
He held out his hand for you to shake, you ignored the roaring butterflies that spread wild in your chest. You took his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Ledger”
Cordially removing your hands from each other, you shifted in your seat.
“Well Chiara, I’ve seen many things in my bar and though you aren’t the first person to ever cry here, you are the first one to be last. Usually I’m hauling out a grown ass man here at two a.m. but a woman? I’m just a little curious”
His tone was lighthearted and you could tell he was trying to be welcoming and make you feel better.
“Lay it on me, I’m all ears for you”
For you? You tried not to blush. Was he flirting? Or just being really nice?
God, you wouldn’t have minded either. Ledger was easily one of the most handsome men you’ve ever seen in your life. Handsome was an understatement.
You sighed, “where do I even start?”
You didn’t mean to hold up Ledger Ward as much as you did. You weren’t even drunk but once you got started with your rants, it was hard to stop.
Two a.m. turned into three a.m. and Ledger was already familiar with parts of your personal life like he was another Michelle. He knew about your relationship.. or rather, ex relationship. He gave respectful advice and it was safe to say, Ledger wasn’t a big fan of your ex.
Or the new revelation that your ex is now a father and how he seemingly became one behind your back.
“And now that leads me here” you mumbled, already becoming emotional once again, “in the back of your bar crying and barely having the good time I wanted to have”
When a tears began rolling down your cheeks, you reached for the napkin you’d been using all night but Ledger Ward was faster.. and much more softer.
Call it him hating seeing a pretty woman cry. Both hands reached out to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away at the tears on your cheeks and under your eyes.
“No more of this, he doesn’t deserve it.. excuse my language but that fuckin’ guy, Jesus Christ. You sound like a pretty good woman, Chiara, and you sound like you’re at your best when you’re in love. To be treated the way he’s treating you is bullshit, to put it mildly”
You only stared into his focused eyes as they continued wiping at your face.
“Can you believe that somehow and someway, he still says that he loves me?”
Ledger immediately dismissed it, “you know that’s not true, right?” He held your face in a manner that was doing something to your beating heart, like he’s known you. “No real man that loves his woman will put her through the shit he’s put you through.. s’not love, Chiara.. and if it is, it’s not the kind you deserve”
Ledger felt you lean into his palms, eyes closed and nuzzling. Still something in him didn’t want to pull away from you. He didn’t know you and you didn’t know him for comfort to be this intense. But nobody was stopping each other.
“What kind of love do I deserve if it’s not this kind?”
Ledger paused, only for a beat.
“Someone who sees you for you.. who sees the way you give your heart and will do everything to cherish and protect it, so you’re not in the back of sports bars crying—“
Immediately you laughed, a genuine one that had your eyes crinkling and baring all of your teeth. It made Ledger’s own heart swell.
“I feel like if you were given a sense of security, you wouldn’t have to question the love you’re receiving. You don’t really seem that secure, sweetheart”
Sweetheart? Still cordial or flirting? But it seemed like the more you stared into Ledger’s greens, some things were being made clear than others.
Though he didn’t ask a question, you still shook your head no. “‘M really not, if I’m being honest”
Ledger also shook his head, his thumbs just ghosting over your cheekbones. “…too pretty to feel like that”
Call it a lapse in judgement.
Closing your hands over his wrists to use for leverage, you mildly, cautiously hoisted yourself forward and over the table.
Your face hovered over Ledger’s, noses brushing against each other, lips just centimeters apart. A spark turned into a charge, your eyes flickered from his lips to his eyes.
“Take what you need from me, you deserve it”
That sent you over.
The kiss was soft but had a heated, fervor to it. Your mouths fit perfectly and moved in a rhythm that was unlike anything you’d ever felt before.
Both of your lips moistened, the sounds of the smacks every time you pulled back for even a second sent straight to your loins.
One of Ledger’s hands stayed on your face while the other slithered to the back of your neck, keep you on him. You couldn’t help the whimper that buzzed in your throat, he was a damn good kisser.
When he pulled back, you stayed close. But the feeling that kept buzzing is what had you saying—
“Take me home, please”
When Ledger walked you to your front door, you were on him again. Arms slithered around his neck as his hands caressed your back.
The same hands that would slide down over your ass and under, subtly telling you to jump. And when you did, he held you tight. Still kissing you breathless, this time with an edge, with a dominance that had his tongue dancing furiously with yours.
Somehow you managed to unlock your door. Somehow you managed to lock it back even as Ledger was walking you through your house, still so drunk on you.
“Where’s your bed, sweetheart?”
“Just up the stairs and to the left”
Maybe it was the thrill of the moment that had your vision spotty. One moment Ledger had you under him, the feeling of your duvet on your back.
The next moment, you were stripping— his helping hands getting your jacket off, your shirt over your head, and reaching behind to unclip your bra. In the next, your needy hands reached out for his belt, desperately undoing it.
You never got to feel his cock in your hands, only when he was gently breaching past and stretching your walls. You were so noisy— the smallest whimpers, pleas, and cries that was music to Ledger’s ears.
He was completely hovered over you, stark naked like you. Your cover draped off of his shoulders, his hands on either side of your head.
When he dipped down to kiss you, you welcomed it. As if you weren’t already slick enough, you were growing wetter around him. It was easy for Ledger to fully bottom out.
His thrusts were shallow but meaningful. One pull back and a firm push back inside of you until he found a rhythm. It was enough to have your body jutting in the bed, in his hold.
One of his hands reached down to grasp the outside of your thigh. “Around.. put your legs around me, baby”
Of course you followed suit.
“You’re so fucking beautiful” Ledger muttered down to you, he stared fully into your eyes, close to piercing your soul. “So fucking beautiful”
There was a sparkle in his eye that you were trying to figure out. Meanwhile a soft layer of tears brewed in yours.
“Really?”
Ledger nodded, kissing you again, “you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met in my life.. in this town.. but there’s so much more than that, sweetheart”
He kissed your lips again. From your lips to your cheeks to your jaw, up to your ear.
“Sweet”
Kiss.
“Kind”
Kiss.
“Loyal”
Kiss.
“Loving”
Kiss.
“Caring”
Kiss.
All while you cried out from beneath him, your nails scratching at his back and tearing into his skin. Your ankles locked around each other, desperate to keep Ledger exactly where he was: so fucking deep inside of you.
But his words were hitting you straight in the heart. It was everything you wanted to hear, everything you needed your love to say to you.
Ledger pulled back from you and softly took a hold of your leg, draping it over his chest, your ankle hanging on his shoulder.
“Oh fuck” you cried, Ledger was back hovering over you, stuffing you with so much of his length now that he had you opened up. “Mhm— Ledger.. ‘s so— God, I c-can’t take it”
“Yes you can” he kissed you again, a mix of comfort and condescension to it, keeping at the pace that was making you lose your fucking mine. “‘Cause you’re my good girl, right? My beautiful, sweet, good girl, right? You won’t quit on me, right baby? Right, Chiara?”
Still he fucked you good, still he fucked you through your whines that grew louder. Welcomed the way you held onto him tighter.
You didn’t miss the primal like look in his dark greens as he stared down at you. You also didn’t miss his slick hand that crept up and gripped your chin.
“Your ex boyfriend ever fuck you this good?”
Immediately, you shook your head.
“Never”
“Naw? So why you cryin’ over him?”
You opened your mouth to respond but Ledger was thinking about something else. He was swift with the way he handled your body, picking you up in his arms and hauling on his feet.
He walked your body to your mirror and placed you before him, your back to his chest. Legs open, back arched, Ledger pushed back inside of you, picking up his rhythm and pace.
“Shit” you moaned, your hands held onto your dresser.
He slithered a hand into your hair and held on gently but firmly.
“Look at yourself and listen to me” The man behind you melted into your back, eyes staring at you through the mirror, his face in your neck.
“You don’t deserve the shit he puts you through, not when there’s a man like me that can show you way better.. and fuck you even better..”
Your eyes rolled to your head pathetically, hips subtly moving to fuck him back and match his thrusts.
“You hear me, baby?”
“Yes!”
“Good fuckin’ girl” he suckled your neck, still watching you, “there’s no better man for you out there than me and I can prove it. Just give me a chance”
Tears you didn’t know you were holding in suddenly streamed down your cheeks, you laid a hand over one of Ledger’s that gripped your hip. Tears of both pleasure and sadness.
“Please..” you muttered, “please don’t hurt me”
With his hand in your hair, Ledger gave you a soft tug to tilt your head back. His greens were now much more gentler as they peered into your watery ones.
Ledger Ward gave you a smoldering, passionate kiss. You could feel all of his intentions, feelings, and emotions on your lips and tongue.
“I promise I won’t”
Regret would swell in your chest three weeks later. Three weeks that you spent with Ledger, learning Ledger, enjoying Ledger… loving Ledger?
You hung out with him at his shifts at the bar, helped him close, ate food with him after hours. Not to mention sleeping over at your house and his every other night. Nights that almost always ended in the best kind of sex you’d ever had in your life.
Sex where Ledger always got you off more than twice and still had the energy afterwards to feed you, to shower with you, to help you relax in his arms under the moonlight.
But it was more than the physical. You texted every day, called whenever you both could. Ledger Ward was a funny, sweet, sensitive, and considerate guy. He was always up before you with a good morning text or asleep before you with a goodnight text.
He made you feel seen, loved, and appreciated.
But there was a part of you that still pulled back from giving Ledger your all. Maybe that’s why the regret in your chest hurt so bad.
Sitting in your car outside of Ward’s, you tried to calm your emotions as you knew you had to do this. Maybe the setting wasn’t appropriate but it has to be done.
Finally, you got out and approached the entrance. When you walked inside, the bell rang and immediately got Ledger’s attention. Ledger, who looked up from behind the bar and smiled brightly at you.
“Hey, baby! Come ‘round” when you walked to the bar top, Ledger greeted you with a soft kiss on the lips, further sinking your heart. “How are you?”
Swallowing, you gave him your best smile but even Ledger could see something was wrong. “G-Good! I’m good! How are you today?”
He tilted his head, “yeah? You look pale— are you feeling okay? Do you need anything to drink or eat?”
You couldn’t verbally answer him, he was so fucking sweet. Instead, familiar tears welled in your eyes. Ledger acted immediately.
Excusing himself from the bar top, he met you and took you by the wrist, walking to the back.
“What’s the matter, Chiara?”
Still the tears slid out of your eyes. You fell into his chest and wrapped your arms around his torso. Sobbing.
Ledger only frowned and held you close to him, rubbing your back.
“Hey, whatever it is, we can fix it, right? Do you want to talk about it?”
“He called me back.. and says he wants to work it out with me…”
Disappointment filled Ledger’s chest and plummeted his own heart. Still he held you, still he tried to relax you. He didn’t respond after a moment.
“And you want to give it another try? With him?”
He felt you meekly nod against his chest. The man couldn’t say he wasn’t sad. Neither of you were officially together with each other but Ledger hoped he was at least showing you what you were missing.
That was why letting you go was harder and why he really couldn’t fight for something that never was.
“I just—“ you pulled back to look at Ledger, “p-please don’t think that I don’t care about you because I do! Ledger, please, you’ve— you’ve been my confidant and my best friend through that shitshow and I am forever indebted to you. I just.. t-there’s history and—“
“And you don’t want to throw it away if there’s some way it can be fixed? I understand” his smile was sad and pathetic, still he leaned down and kissed your forehead, “I can’t say I’m happy but thank you for telling me”
You held him tighter, “are you mad at me?”
Ledger shook his head vigorously, “no, never”. He kissed your forehead again.
“All I ask is for you to not forget about me because I’ll never forget about you”
Currently — now.
Somehow Ledger managed to untangle himself from you and you still slept soundly. He quietly plucked the photos off of his mirror, grabbed his phone, and crept out onto his patio backyard.
Kurt Peterson was picking up the other line.
“Hey Ledge—“
“She knows me, Kurt” Ledger said in a hushed tone, pacing out on his grass, “she fucking knows me and I don’t remember her at all—“
“Woah, hey, calm down, calm down. Who is she? Who are we talking about, Ledger?”
“Chiara”
Kurt went silent for a moment. “What do you mean she knows you?”
“Like she has photos of us together from years ago, years ago before I almost lost my fuckin’ mind. 2022. She has print out, digital camera photos of us back then and I can’t remember a damn thing”
Kurt took a breath which in turn, inspired Ledger to do the same. Worked up and freaking out, he had to try to think clearly.
“Damnit that is right around the time you had your accident… well, I mean, isn’t this a good thing? Or can it be? I know you don’t remember anything but I think Chiara would love nothing more than to jog your memory, right?”
Ledger sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, “Kurt, can you at least try to see things at my level?”
“I get why you’re confused, buddy—“
“I don’t think you do! Because the only reason I’m freaked out is because she’s been acting like we’re strangers this entire time. If we were actually friends or more back before I lost part of my memory, why isn’t she bringing that up? Or hasn’t brought it up?”
That rendered Kurt silent.
“Yeah I can’t try to combat that, Ledge. Can I ask, how did you find these photos?”
It was Ledger’s turn to be silent, his heart immediately upping a speed. He opened his mouth to speak but Kurt filled the space.
“When do you plan on talking to her about this?”
He sighed, “definitely today because I’m too nerved about this. I’ll let you know how it goes”
When Ledger made his way back inside, he made a beeline to his bedroom to find you, only to see nothing. But the sound of his shower going gave him his answer.
His feet took him to his kitchen, opening his fridge and grabbing things to make the basic egg, bacon, and toast combination.
By the time his bedroom door opened and alerted him of your presence, the toast and the bacon were already done cooking. Ledger was focused lastly on the eggs.
You walked into the kitchen, hair wet, and dressed in one of Ledger’s plain white tees and underwear that peeked out some.
“Hey, good morning” Ledger smiled at you softly. He wasn’t expecting for you to walk up to him and plant a full one on his lips. Arms around his neck, on your tippy toes, you greeted him sweetly.
“Mhmph” Ledger groaned, he held your body to him with one arm, the other worked to scramble the eggs. “What was that for? I don’t mind but w-what was that for?”
You pulled back to look at him, “just wanted to say thank you for last night, I really appreciate you being there for me”
Ledger blushed softly and kissed your cheek, “I’ll always be here for you, Chi, you never have to question that”
This time you kissed his cheek, you stayed attached to him as he still scrambled the eggs.
“Cookin’ for us?”
Ledger smiled, “I figured we could use it after last night. I know it was a real emotional one and—“
You pressed your body to the man and dipped your face into his neck, chaining butterfly kisses to the side of his skin. Right side… the middle at the column of his throat… and finally the left side.
Ledger tried to clear his throat and focus, but your kisses became more grounding and intentional.
“— a-and I know you w-weren’t feeling.. the best.. I just w-wanted to do something nice for.. you.. oh.. Chiara, what’re you doing, sweetheart?”
Your lips moved up to his ear, “‘m not doing anything, baby, keep on talking to me, what were you saying? You’re cooking to make me feel better?”
Ledger let out a shaky breath as you continued, nibbling at his ear.
“Actually, Chi, t-there’s something I n-need to talk to you about. C-can we sit—“
You unraveled yourself from him but suddenly sunk down to your knees before him, hands teasingly creeping up his basketball short clad legs.
“Chiara—“
“You wanted to talk to me? Talk, I’m listening”
Except it felt like you weren’t. Not when you’d pulled his shorts down and came face to face with his dick, a half erection he was sporting.
“Oh.. fu— Chi, baby, please, ‘m trying to focus”
“Then focus, don’t mind me”
Opening your palm, you dribbled a healthy amount of spit and grabbed his dick with one hand, beginning to jerk his base. A firm fist, up and down, back and forth. His chest began to heave, his mind going foggy.
“I-I can’t, not when you’re touching me there. Fuck, sweetheart… what’s gotten in you this morning?”
You giggled and boldly kissed his tip, “‘just wanna make you feel good.. I think you deserve it..”
The man above you couldn’t respond even if he tried, not when your lips fully closed over the head of him and began blowing him, sucking like you were trying to kill him.
Pleasure danced everywhere in Ledger’s body despite him trying to fight it. But it was useless. He moved the skillet of cooked eggs off the eye, turned it off, and focused back on you.
You opened your mouth deeper to take more of Ledger, all while your hand on him still stroked and began caressing his balls. It wasn’t long until Ledger was threading his hands in your hair to hold your head.
“Fuck, Chiara.. just like that, please don’t stop..” Ledger moaned, tossing his head back.
You bobbed your head, taking him more, and creating a little mess. It might’ve been the sexiest thing Ledger’s ever seen from you. You were already a dream to look at but to see you so salacious…
Of course he was—
“Fuck, Chiara, ‘m gonna cum” He began gently pumping his hips, “just like that, just like that, just like that— mhmph fuck! Please keep going, baby, please..”
Even when his release coated your throat, you still kept your mouth on him. Still caressing him, still sucking him in, still killing him. When he finally relaxed, you said nothing.
Nothing as you kissed his thighs, nothing as you happily tucked his cock back into his shorts with a smile, nothing as you stood up and kissed him.
“You and me, tomorrow for dinner? Date night?”
Call it the post orgasm high that had Ledger nodding almost immediately. It was cute. Kissing him again, you disappeared into his bedroom.
This time it was Ledger that was silent. Silent as he watched you come back out in your leggings from the night before, your jacket, with your shoes on. You approached him and gave him another kiss.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night”
After you left, Ledger sat on his couch, the photos in hand. He couldn’t stop staring at them, especially the one of you two kissing.
Clearly your bond was deeper than being friends. Maybe it was why you hadn’t mentioned anything yet. But there was a comfort there big enough for you to just blow him in his kitchen, you could’ve told Ledger this secret.
His phone suddenly lit up beside him.
‘Chiara ❤️’ — Excited to see you tomorrow. Thank you again for being there for me during my lowest last night, you’re truly one of a kind ❤️
‘Chiara ❤️’ — I’m thinking Benny’s Steakhouse tomorrow night? I can call and make us a reservation. Let me know if that works for you :)
His eyes flickered from the screen to the photos, from the photos to the screen. Dinner suddenly sounded like a great idea. Ledger texted back.
‘That works great for me, see you tomorrow night ❤️’
And you surely would.
When Ledger picked you up from your house that next night, he had the photos in the pocket of his navy blue cargo pants.
You looked drop dead gorgeous as he helped you inside his truck, not before accepting your greeting kiss on the lips.
“You look great, Ledge”
“Thank you, sweetheart, you look even better”
The restaurant accommodated your reservation perfectly. You walked in with Ledger, your arm looped in his as the hostess walked you to your table.
Ever so the gentleman, Ledger helped you into your seat before taking his across from you. It was a nice table out in the open and in the midst of others that were seated in the same manner.
“I’ve never been here before but it seems really good, seems like you’ve got an eye for the places out here” Ledger smiled.
“Thank you! I mean, this town is nice and small enough where you can get away with finding places and trying them. There was a time in my life where I had some… time on my hands and after doing some driving around to clear my head, I found this spot. They stay open a lot later than other restaurants so after it happened— I mean, after driving, I walked in and they served me. I think you’ll like it here”
Ledger never tore his eyes from you as you rambled, you were so gorgeous, so soft spoken, and he loved how comfortable the two of you were getting.
From yesterday to tonight, Ledger knew he had to talk to you about the photos but he had to change his approach.
He was growing madly in love with you every day, he didn’t want to lose you, especially if there really was a good explanation for things.
“I think as long as you’re here with me, I’m gonna like it even more” he winked, acknowledging your soft blush. “So you tell me, what’s good here?”
Towards the middle end of the night, you and Ledger had already gotten your food and drinks. Maybe it was the good food and good company but it kept Ledger in good spirits.
He smiled and laughed genuinely, his heart raced the kind of race any time you also laughed or looked at him. It reminded him of how much he truly felt for you.
But as a moment of died down laughter came into the space, Ledger knew he had to take advantage of it.
Reaching out, he took hold of your hands, lifting them to his lips and kissing the fronts. “Chi, while we’re here, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about”
You nodded eagerly, “anything”
The man took a steadying breath, “I found these photos—“
“Well isn’t this just cute? My dead daughter’s ex boyfriend out and— look, Dan, he’s got himself a new one!”
Both you and Ledger looked to your left and approaching your table was a woman you’d never seen before.
But when you looked at Ledger, all color drained from his face. The obviously tipsy older woman got closer.
“I said you’re a bold one, right? Still got the nerve to be out and parading yourself to this town like you’re so clean and holy”
“Millie, please—“ Ledger tried.
“Please? I’m sure that’s what my daughter said to you plenty of times that night—“
“Ledger, who is this and what is she talking about?” You finally cut in. Ledger Ward was feeling swarmed.
“I’m no one important to you, my dear, it’s all about sweet Ledger boy, here!” She began getting belligerent, “my sweet boy at one point who turned out to be a good for nothing murd—“
“Miss Millie, stop!” Ledger demanded in a hushed tone.
“Or what? You’ll get me how you got my daughter? Is that it? I’ve still got my eye on you and I’m not losing it” Millie looked at you, “sweetie, if you knew what was good for you, I’d leave him where he stands, you don’t want to end up in a land field somewhere!”
Before the moment could get even worse, a security guard with the hostess appeared at your table.
“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave the restaurant. Too many patrons here have complained of your noise and currently harassing this couple— you need to leave, right now”
Millie put up no fight to leave, she only left you and Ledger with a glance that was unfamiliar to one but very familiar to the other.
“What the hell was that—“
“C’mon, we’re leaving”
Ledger opened his wallet and dropped two hundred dollar bills on the cloth before reaching over and grabbing your hand.
“Ledger—“
“Let’s go, Chiara”
Still hand in hand, he ultimately dragged you to the truck and helped you inside before getting himself situated. Ledger said nothing as he started the truck and began driving the way back to his house.
“Ledger, please” you began, “who was that? And why was she talking to you like that?!”
But the man was too deep in his head to really hear you and want to respond. He ignored you, even when you followed him into his bedroom and asked again.
“Why aren’t you talking to me, baby? Please just talk to me and tell me what’s going on. You looked petrified and if there’s a way that I can help you, just please tell me!”
Still pulling at his heart, still hoping to hold and keep yours.
Ledger approached you and captured your lips in his, his arms securing around your body to keep yours close. His kiss was pleading, desperate, needy, it was easy for you to melt.
“I— p-please don’t make me talk about it.. I can’t, not yet.. I need you… please, Chi, please, I can’t be alone tonight”
He pecked at your lips and ran his hands down your back until they found your clothed ass. In the same breath, he began kissing your neck.
“Please, baby”
Back arching, chest pressed to his, and a moan slipping from your lips, how could you deny him?
It was how Ledger had your body on the edge of the bed, your dress bunched up to your waist, panties long gone (or in his pocket), and Ledger’s face buried in your pussy.
Gripping the thighs that was salaciously spread open, his tongue devoured and tore you apart. Warm, heavy, often frantic, but gentle and intentional. Ledger Ward ate you like a man in love.
And of course, you were noisy. Noisy and touchy. With your hands deep in his low cut, you cried out.
“‘S so good, baby, so fucking good… yes—oh! right there, right there, please!”
His mouth took you into a deep state of pleasure that you’d been missing for a long time. But what you probably loved the most was it felt like Ledger had already known your body.
The man felt the same way. You’d helped each other get stripped naked and a strong sense of nostalgia washed over Ledger as he hovered over you.
As you wrapped your legs around him, as he began sinking inside of you, inch by thick inch.
“You take me so well, sweetheart” Ledger groaned, leaning down to kiss you. He’d begun to move, shallow thrusts that had you clinging to his body.
“Only for you, baby, only for you” you whispered to him, “she loves you already… can you feel how wet I am?”
You brought one of his hands to rest on your clit, sopping and engorged.
“Can you feel what you do to me?” You muttered. Ledger nodded surely.
“You feel so fucking good, Chiara… so fucking good, I-I don’t know how long I’ll hang on” he kissed you again, “‘just wanna be good for you”
You moaned into the kiss, nails tearing into his back. When he pulled back, your eyes caught sight of his chest.
More specifically, the deep tissue scar that still had a color but was beginning to blend into his skin.
Your hand reached up and ghosted over it, entranced. “It’s healing well.. you’re healing well.. what happened?”
Ledger, still fucking you, looked down to meet your eyes. His greens doing dark but instead of unfamiliarity and why you were touching his trauma, he leaned more into you.
“Kenna stabbed me”
“Why?”
Tears well in Ledger’s eyes but his face hasn’t contorted into a sad emotion, he looked stoic and determined, his hips still moving and powering.
“She wanted to leave me.. I got angry”
Ledger didn’t know why you nodded but you nodded.. nor did he know why you responded:
“I know”
When you kissed him and ran your nails down his bare chest, it quickly shifted his mind. You kissed him hard, a small hint of possessiveness in the mix.
“I won’t leave you”
Ledger’s heart thumped, “you promise?”
You nodded immediately, “I promise”
“I love you” Ledger sputtered out, his thrusts now growing sharper and deeper, “I love you so much, baby, don’t ever leave… don’t ever leave me..”
When your release slammed into you, Ledger welcomed your screams into the corners of his bedroom. His name on your tongue like a prayer.
The way your back arched, breasts pressing into his chest or the way your dark tresses splayed all over his pillow because of your withering body. Your greedy, juicy walls throbbing and thrumming, closing around Ledger.
When his release came close, you tried to loosen your legs but Ledger clasped a hand over your thigh, shoving himself deeper inside of you. He shook his head, feeling your slight resistance.
“Please, just this one time” he pecked your cheek, “‘swear I won’t ask for it again, I just.. I need you.. wanna feel you..”
Another lapse in judgment. You nodded.
“Okay”
When you kissed him for the umpteenth time, that’s what had Ledger Ward finally letting go. Mounting you completely, Ledger continued thrusting until his body stilled.
“Mine mine mine mine mine” he whispered more to himself as a guttural groan tore from his throat.
Soon, his release was coating the deepest parts of you, stuffing you the fullest you’d ever been. So much too, some had already began seeping out and onto the sheets.
God, you were so fucked out and weak in Ledger’s hold. He kissed you for the final time of the night and easily maneuvered your body onto your side, his arms caging you to his chest.
Your last memory was the warm duvet coming over your shoulders and the sound of Ledger’s heartbeat.
The next morning had you waking up without Ledger. He was still in the house, you could hear frantic like pacing from the living room.
Taking your time getting situated due to your sore body, you grabbed a shirt from his dresser and threw it over your head.
You walked into living room as the news channel played on his TV. He hadn’t heard or seen you yet.
“In a more recent, troubling development, the city is investigating the death of a woman after her body was found behind a dumpster in the early hours of this morning. Police are asking if you’ve seen or heard anything to report it to this anonymous tip line”
When the news channel produced an image, your eyes widened.
“Is that Millie?”
Ledger turned to look at you, panic and tears in his eyes.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
hey stinks 🎀 : @darkseidex @bamb1ss @the1miscief @444urimagination @mamasturn @plan3tch1ld @saintaquarius @sugarysweetdreamz @yourleogf @wabi-sabi1090 💫 (those that don’t engage with the story but asked to be in the taglist, I will remove you!)
: ̗̀➛ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: cameron cade x best friend black!reader
: ̗̀➛ 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆: M 18+, NSFW
: ̗̀➛ 𝐖.𝐂: 2.03K
: ̗̀➛ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: best friends who finally do the do.
: ̗̀➛ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: ROUGHLY EDITED, explicit sexual content, porn with no/minor plot, unprotected sex, rough sex: manhandling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, dirty talk, slight breeding kink [he has you in a mating press], slight toxic!cameron, slight aftercare, abrupt ending [i didn’t know how to end it gang 😭]
: ̗̀➛ 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: my official first tyriq[and characters project] I do have many more coming! I am trying to raise £200 to help with a short fall. I’ve had some shifts cancelled on me so I’m behind on bills! If any of you can donate I would appreciate it PayPal. 💕
Regardless, please reblog, comment and like 💕
“Damn baby, why didn’t you tell me you had all this good pussy?”
Cameron mumbled against your bare leg that were currently hiked over his broad shoulder, his voice dripping with admiration a lot sweeter than the way he was fucking you.
The question was rhetorical but emphasised just how much he was enjoying being inside of you.
Goosebumps broke all over the surface of your flushed and damp skin, choking on a whiny moan as your cunt tightly squeezed and pulsated around him. The throbbing sent a shiver down the length of his spine and settled in his bones. A flurry of chopped sobs poured from your mouth as your climax began to climb. You were so close. And he could feel it all.
You would have tried to answer his question but in truth - you didn’t know how to.
The two of you met during freshman in college - sharing the same physiotherapy classes and the two of you instantly clicked. When he first approached you - you couldn’t believe that he’d even talk to you. When you first arrived on campus, his name was uttered in every corner. He was the person to know because of his projected career. You had wanted to keep away from him - you didn’t like attention being drawn to you at all but Cameron just had to be enrolled on your course.
Even worse, he came to sit next to you.
You stilled at just making eye contact with him. Low sitting blue eyes, dimples deep as he smiled, rosy lips begging for attention and from his seated position alone you could tell that he was tall. He made sure that you couldn’t ignore him and you hated that fell for his charm, hook, line and sinker.
The attraction was shared and the chemistry intensified with each interaction but nothing ever came off it.
Football. Girlfriends. Endorsements. A great rookie career - all of it got in the way.
So friendship is what you settled for and you were grateful just to be a part of his journey.
Unfortunately for you, he was relentless. The friendship status did not matter to him at all and Cameron steadily flirted with you like the devil of temptation resided in his flesh. Always hanging around, giving you his undivided attention when you were close. Treating you just on the edges of a girlfriend, yet always teasing the word ‘friend’ in front of you. You always let it wash over you because being close to him in any capacity was worth it.
That attraction however, could not be denied and could not be hidden. And he’d picked up on it and he played with it - he played with you. He enjoyed teasing you. Kissing you on the neck, hands on your lower waist as he moved past you, hugs that lingered. Girlfriends be damned - you were the apple of his eye even if you denied what you were to him.
So that was how you found yourself in his penthouse - on a supposed regular night in with your best friend on his days off. So how you ended up in your current predicament was unbeknownst to you.
A movie, typical gossip, a game of tease.
From there all it took was a kiss.
A soft brush of your lips when he leaned down above you, whispering teasingly against your lips, fingers underneath your chin before gripping your jaw so that you couldn’t shift your eye contact away from him. So that he could see all of that want dripping out of your eyes.
“Do it.” You dared him.
And it was no surprise that he listened.
You had been so determined not to fall into his orbit and now you were on your back, sweating out your hairstyle, tank top ripped and panties pulled to the side as he manhandled you in every way. Your pussy stretched out and creaming around the thickest dick you’ve ever had in your life as you moaned in bliss. Fuck, you loved every second of it.
Cameron’s thrusts were deliciously brutal, his hips snapped into yours as your legs hang over his shoulders. He fucked you like you were a bitch in heat and you sounded just like one. Your mouth dropped open as your cries and whines could not be contained, sounding real pretty for him.
He breathed heavily through his nose at the sight your cream coating the length of his dick. Cam wedged his hands underneath the arch at the base of your back and gripped tight. He used your body as leverage to fuck into you even deeper.
The heat of the bedroom was making you delirious as much as the way his fat mushroom tip was pushing against your softest spots. You were so loud and Cameron drank all of your sounds by shushing you with rough kisses.
The wet clapping emitting from where your bodies connected was getting so loud, Cameron had to look down. His loud moan barely registered through the fog clouding your senses.
“You’re sooo fucking wet baby. Gushing all that good shit all over me, fuuuccckkk.”
You were looking up at him, doe eyed, a soft crease pinching in-between your eyebrows with your teeth biting onto your bottom lip as you tried to control it. He was hitting all of your good spots and it was so intense, it sat like a weight on your chest.
Then, Cameron pushed your legs back so that your knees were touching your ears and he moved to hover directly above you. He used his upper body to contort you into the perfect position for him - ready for his taking and you were in awe with how it left you feeling. The weight of pleasure sinking into your bones, deeper and deeper.
“O-oooh!” You gasped as you pulled on the sheets underneath your fingertips.
His beautiful, blue eyes never left your face as he watched your pretty face surrender into the pleasure he was delivering. Your eyebrows drew together tighter, as if you were about to cry, your lips forming into an ‘o’ form as he slowed down his strokes, letting you enjoy the feel of him. Inch by inch.
Soft curves and hard muscles colliding into each other. Naked,skin on skin - still, felt like there was a barrier between the two of you. The thought slamming into you, nothing will ever be enough, you will always want more. Cameron groaned as he felt the pain of your nails breaking into the skin of his back as you unintentionally brought him closer.
You were begging for him without words and that caused him to smirk in satisfaction. Cameron couldn’t believe you had been keeping this type of connection away from him. The type of connection that quenched your thirst but left you famished for more.
He was brought out of his thoughts by the feel of your trembling fingers tracing his bottom lip, tugging it free from his teeth. He placed a tender kiss on the inside pad of your thumb before his eyes drew back to where your bodies connected. The sight of it caused all of his blood to soar down to his aching dick.
Slathered all over his base was milky white. It built up generously and it accumulated so much the flapping wetness caused his eyes to roll to the back of his head. He couldn’t believe you’d ever get this wet.
“Yeahhh mamas, I can’t believe she’s this wet for me …”
Cameron doesn’t take his eyes off your cunt as he slammed back in, the wetness drawing a delicious drag with drag. He threw his head back as a deep groan left him. The sound was so primal it sent nasty shivers down your spine and settled in your pelvis.
But you didn’t move your hand away from his pelvis as he was folding you even deeper. In fact, Cameron, lowered his upper body until he was completely folded over yours. His pelvis ground against your clit, his trimmed hair brushing your clit - hard.
Cameron was wild in his lust.
He sucked bruising kisses into your neck, his tongue trailed hotly up to your mouth to claim it in a deep kiss. It was all consuming, overwhelming. His long tongue flattened against yours in maddening swipes, sucking the muscle sloppily into his own mouth which made you lightheaded.
Blood rushed to your ears as he ground his hips up again, hammering away at that spot inside you but not enough to make you cross eyed and your hand pressed on his abdomen.
Cameron kept his eyes on as you gasped desperately. Your eyes closed as he nipped at your bottom lip which caused you to sigh softly. His tongue darted out and soothed the sting of your bite before whispering inside your mouth- eyes glazed, “Move that hand, baby.”
You didn’t move your hand but he did it for you. He grabbed your wrist and trapped it above your head as he drilled into you. Your mind was mush the more he thrusted into you so you didn’t even try to think straight. Cameron was so caught up in the moment - not just from the heat of your pussy but how tight and how creamy you were.
Letting out a string of swears, Cameron captured them by bringing your mouth into another overwhelming kiss. His cock aching whilst he swallowed your wails as you twitched and ached around him.
Until you couldn’t take it anymore. Cam gave another harsh yet hard roll of his hips into your swollen opening while he was battering at that tender spot inside of you and then … you were coming.
And fuck! You were coming, hard. Your nails clawed at Cam’s rigged muscles as a swarm of stars completely eclipsed your vision whilst your body went into shock with wave after wave of vicious pleasure.
Your wails were so loud, you struggled to recognise your voice. But Cameron had a clear view to the ecstasy flooding your face he pumped his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into your body. Filthy words of praise and encouragement directly in your ear, prolonging your orgasm.
“That’s it, babygirl … I love the way you’re cumming all over me…”
Tears spilled from your eyes and you were close to passing out when Cam dropped his head into your chest and took one of your swollen nipples into his mouth, his thrusts slowing down in tempo as he shot his cum deep inside of your heat with a muffled groan.
He filled you up to the brim and then popped out your nipple out of his mouth with a satisfied sigh.
The both of you were riddled with tiredness, thighs were killing you, and your body was trembling like a leaf but a grin had etched onto your lips regardless as Cameron placed calming kisses everywhere his lips could touch.
He slowly pulled out, warm yet concerned eyes checking over you for any sign of discomfort as you basked in the glow of the aftermath. Your eyes closed as you sank into the softness of the blankets beneath you. You left his kisses on your cheeks in the tender way that you’d grown accustomed to.
“You okay sweet girl? I didn’t hurt you did I?”
“No, baby. I’m good.” You shook your head as you hummed in satisfaction. You felt him shift away from the bed, leaving you in your peaceful lonesome until you felt him wipe you down gently with a wet towel. You heard a thud as he tossed to rag onto on the floor when he was done.
You felt the bed dip beside you before Cameron slipped up behind you. Your hands reached behind you and brought him closer with a soft hum. You had crossed that line in your friendship and you couldn’t process what it meant for the future for the both of you. But you’d bask in whatever this moment meant for you.
Cameron nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “We’ll never just be friends after this.” He mumbled.
He was right about that. Nothing would ever be the same.
Can we get more Teddy and Iris I feel like they get the least amount of screen time :(
SAY I’M CRAZY | TEDDY SPENCER
Pairing: Teddy Spencer x Black OC! Iris St. John
Summary: Before they were Teddy and Iris, he was Teddy, spiraling because she didn’t love him back.
Songs: Bad Romance by Lady Gaga | Give In To Me by Michael Jackson
WC:
Warnings: Morally gray characters. Slightly obsessed!Teddy. Teddy is spiraling.
Note: well. Here ya go I guess lollllll
J'veux ton amour et je veux ta revanche. J'veux ton amour, I don't wanna be friends
Thursday. 6:52 PM. Humidity. Rain. A depressing combination. Or relaxing. Depends on who you ask.
Droplets slid down the windshield.
Then they were scared off by squeaking wipers.
Oh well.
Cracked leather squeaked beneath his thighs.
The steering wheel whined beneath his palm.
And the light, dammit, the streetlight glared at him like it’d been personally offended.
His nostrils flared.
Teeth ground together.
Jaw locked like a deadbolt.
A fool.
Theodore Spencer—thought to be a fool.
His eyes cut toward the passenger seat. Worn leather. Cracks in the headrest. The carrier, chariot for the bundle of irises plucked carefully and wrapped tenderly.
His neck moved slowly.
Eerily.
Toward the house—her house.
She knew better. She should have. Than to leave the blinds open when engaging in secrets not meant to be told.
He could’ve laughed—he did.
Loudly.
Enough to rattle the air freshener hanging from the mirror.
Enough to shake the car on its axis.
Because it was…funny.
Ironically hilarious.
Devastatingly humorous.
That’s what pain was. Humorous.
That’s what it had to be to look at it. To sit in it. To feel it before his heart leapt from his chest and slid under the wheel, prepared to be crushed more than it already had been.
And the sight was…sickening.
Disgusting in the purest form.
Shameful in the highest regard.
Trembling fingers found themselves against his bottom lip. He tapped—once. Then twice. Then three times.
He swallowed thickly.
It was a movie. Horror. He didn’t mean to attend. Didn’t want to.
Teddy didn’t like horror films.
Iris knew that.
So, he thought.
Because, why, why, would she do this? Have him sliding down sleet-covered roads and dashing past vehicles honking just to witness…this?
He nearly gagged.
Xavier.
Iris.
Xavier and Iris.
Teddy.
On the outside.
Watching.
The way her arms flailed and her chest heaved. Her face was beat-red beneath layers of foundation stained with tears. And Xavier, that fucking idiot, stood there. With his shoulders squared back and hands tucked in his pockets like he’d been humbly nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize—what did she see in him?
Comfort? Highly unlikely.
A good lay? Debatable.
Company? She had better.
…unless she wanted him.
No.
…
No.
What could it be, huh? She had tears streaming down her face, sobs lodged in her throat, and he didn’t have the decency to comfort her. Knowing damn well he was likely the problem.
But what did he do?
What did he do?
He kissed her.
Of course he did.
What other option did she have?
When she’d accepted trash, he’d convinced her it was gold.
And Iris…
She kissed him back.
Like she wanted to.
Needed to.
Teddy’s eyes dropped to his lap.
He nodded once.
Okay.
When he glanced up again, their hands were intertwined.
They turned the corner.
The corner toward her bedroom.
Teddy’s mouth twisted sourly.
Then the text—” Raincheck? Under the weather.”
She was fine.
She didn’t…
Why lie?
Just be honest.
I chose him over you.
you don’t have to lie.
truth costs you nothing.
am i a joke to you?
i don’t…
The flowers cried on to the seat beside him. Lonely. Sad. Yeah. He understood.
The window squeaked as it sank into the car door.
He bent over.
Clutched the bouquet—
like a bomb.
And flung it on the concrete.
-
Tags: @darkseidex @amirawrah @ga33y3 @ariesthesun @simplementemeencantafutbol @szalipcombo @sheinaskirt @melaninhawtie @unicoo @imperfectlyperfect78 @ariesthesun @blckblossom @fifi-asco @youreadthatright @mauvecherie-writes @imperfectlyperfect78 @uniqueoutlierblog + let me know if you want to be added or removed.
Mizan Henderson has enough on her plate helping Grant Spencer run for councilman without his son becoming her biggest distraction. Teddy Spencer is younger, reckless with his charm, and far too confident for a man she keeps trying to resist. But after a few stolen kisses and months of tension neither of them can ignore, Mizan realizes Teddy isn’t just chasing her for the thrill of it.
He wants her.
And the more she tells herself he’s too young, too complicated, too close to the campaign, the harder it becomes to deny that Teddy Spencer may be exactly the kind of trouble she’s been craving.
a request made by the lovely @blackfemreaderr
Mizan Henderson sighed as she let her eyes fall shut, the sound leaving her slowly, wearily, like the last breath of some temple priestess who had spent all day bargaining with gods too arrogant to listen, her fingers raking back through the sleek fall of her silk press while the expensive silk of her tailored suit clung coolly to her skin and did absolutely nothing to ease the dull, punishing throb blooming behind her temples.
Moonlight poured through the tall windows of her office in pale silver sheets, laying itself across her desk, across the scattered files, across the careful plans for expansion she had spent weeks shaping into something clean, practical, and politically survivable, only for Grant Spencer — dear friend, brilliant man, and colossal pain in her ass — to walk beneath a set of campaign lights and start throwing out promises like Zeus flinging thunderbolts from Olympus, reckless and grand and entirely unconcerned with who had to stand below and deal with the fires once they struck the earth.
He had a gift for it, truly, a maddening, almost mythic talent for stepping in front of a crowd with that handsome statesman’s smile, opening his mouth, and turning months of strategy into a labyrinth she then had to escape from before sunrise, leaving her to stand beside him with her chin lifted, her smile polished into place, and her nerves stretched thin as Ariadne’s thread while she silently calculated which donors needed soothing, which department heads needed calling, which impossible promise now had to be made possible simply because Grant had decided the people deserved poetry instead of policy.
She could not stand him sometimes, could not stand the effortless way he created storms and expected her to become Athena afterward, armored and composed, arriving with wisdom in one hand and a battle plan in the other, as if she had not spent the entire day holding his campaign together with prayer, coffee, and the fraying edges of her patience.
The door opened with a soft click, and Mizan let her eyes fall shut on another exhausted sigh, though she still watched through the lazy veil of a half-lidded gaze as her assistant moved carefully around the outer office, gathering her purse, her coat, the stack of folders Mizan had already told her three times to leave until morning.
She had dismissed Soledad nearly twenty minutes ago, but the woman lingered the way loyal people often did, hovering at the edge of another woman’s burden as if devotion alone could lighten it, and Mizan, who had long ago decided that martyrdom was a disease powerful women were expected to contract with grace, refused to let anyone under her suffer simply because she herself had been sentenced to another night inside the labyrinth.
“Are you sure, Ms. Henderson?” Soledad asked, pausing in the doorway with her bag looped over one shoulder, her voice soft with that particular kind of concern that made Mizan feel both grateful and embarrassed. “I can stay for a while.”
Mizan opened her eyes fully then, lifting her head from where it rested against the back of her chair, and gave the woman a tired but affectionate look, the kind of look Hera might have given some faithful handmaiden who did not deserve to be dragged into Zeus’s nonsense simply because she happened to work inside the palace.
“Go, Soledad,” she said, waving one elegant hand toward the door as if banishing her from the underworld before the gates closed for the night, “get out of here, and kiss the kids for me, alright?”
Soledad’s face brightened at once, relief and fondness blooming there before she nodded, shot Mizan one last grin, and gathered the final pieces of her day with a sudden quickness that betrayed just how badly she wanted to return to a house filled with noise, warmth, homework spread across a kitchen table, and children who would still smell faintly of bath soap when they wrapped their arms around her neck.
When the door finally shut behind her, silence settled over the office like a dark god taking his throne, thick and solemn and intimate, leaving Mizan alone with the moonlight, the campaign files, the expansion plans, and the grim knowledge that Grant Spencer’s mouth had once again made offerings she was expected to drag down from Olympus with her bare hands.
She exhaled through her nose, slow and controlled, before rising from her chair with the weary elegance of a queen who had survived court all day and still had blood on the hem of her robes, her heels whispering against the polished floor as she crossed to the cabinet where the 1945 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti waited behind glass like something stolen from Dionysus himself.
The bottle caught the moonlight when she lifted it, dark and gleaming, absurdly expensive, impossibly old, the kind of wine men with inherited names collected so they could pretend they understood patience, and Mizan poured herself a glass far taller than decorum allowed because decorum, at that hour, could go straight to hell with Grant’s campaign promises and every smiling donor who had praised her composure while mistaking it for peace.
She brought the glass to her lips, letting the first sip sit heavy and rich on her tongue, and had barely swallowed before a voice came from the doorway behind her, low and amused and familiar enough to make every nerve in her body sharpen before she even turned around.
“Rough day?”
Mizan jolted so sharply that the wine nearly kissed the rim of the glass, her whole body turning toward the sound before her pride could instruct it to remain still, and there, standing in the doorway as if the moon had carved him out of shadow and sent him to test her, was Teddy Spencer.
He was tall in that effortless, infuriating way some men were tall, not merely by height but by presence, broad-shouldered and composed, unmoving beneath the silver spill of the hallway light, his hands tucked with careless ease into the pockets of his coat, his face calm enough to be cruel and beautiful enough to make a woman want to pray against temptation before temptation learned her name.
He looked like something the old poets would have warned her about, like Hermes if he had traded mischief for menace, like Apollo if the sun had set behind his eyes and left only the heat behind, like some young god who had wandered down from Olympus with a crooked mouth and too much confidence, knowing mortal women had ruined themselves for less.
Mizan hated that her first thought was not why are you here? but God, he looks good.
Her sigh came quieter this time, sharpened by irritation at herself more than at him, and without making a performance of it, without letting her face soften into pity or guilt or anything that might insult the two hard, sacred years he had put between himself and a bottle, she turned back toward her desk, tipped the glass over the bin, and let the dark, expensive wine disappear without ceremony.
The 1945 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti fell into the trash like an offering poured at the wrong altar, wasted and necessary, and when the last red ribbon slipped from the glass, she nudged the bin beneath her desk with the toe of her heel, as though Hades himself could take the evidence and keep it buried.
Teddy’s gaze followed the movement, not loudly, not greedily, but with the stillness of a man who noticed everything and filed kindness away before anyone could name it, and Mizan reached instead for the bottle of water waiting near the edge of her desk, twisting it open with more force than required before drinking deeply enough to wash the brief taste of wine from her mouth.
She did not want him smelling it on her when he stood too close, did not want that sharp, fermented ghost between them, did not want to become, even accidentally, a hand reaching from the past he had crawled out of with bloodied knuckles and clenched teeth.
Only after she had swallowed, only after she had set the water down and gathered her face back into something worthy of a campaign office and not a confession booth, did she lift one brow at him, her voice cool even as her pulse betrayed her beneath the silk of her suit.
“You always sneak up on people like that?” she asked, as if he had not entered the room looking like a punishment she would have enjoyed too much to repent for.
Teddy’s mouth curved, not enough to be a smile, not enough to be mercy, but enough for Mizan to know he had caught every single thing she was trying not to give him, from the way she had startled at his voice to the way she had poured out a fortune in wine without flinching, and the fact that he did not immediately thank her for it only made the gesture sit heavier between them, quiet and intimate, like an offering left at the feet of a god neither of them was ready to worship.
“I don’t sneak,” he said, stepping farther into the office with the kind of unhurried confidence that made the room feel smaller around him, his voice low and smooth, warmed at the edges by amusement. “People just don’t listen when I’m coming.”
Mizan’s brow lifted higher, though her fingers curled around the water bottle with unnecessary firmness, as if plastic and a screw cap could save her from a man who had walked into her office looking like a beautiful mistake with a pulse.
“That sounds like a personal problem,” she said.
“It’s about to be yours if you keep acting like you don’t hear me.”
There it was.
Not loud.
Not crude.
Not even rushed.
Just Teddy Spencer standing in her moonlit office, two years sober, too young by every argument she had rehearsed, too steady by every standard she wanted to use against him, looking at her like he had already read the verdict and was simply waiting for her to stop objecting in bad faith.
Mizan turned away first, because one of them had to, and because if she kept looking at him, she feared she would start remembering too clearly what his mouth had felt like against hers the last time she had let him get too close, when they had been alone behind the town hall after Grant’s donor dinner, when Teddy had said her name like it belonged in his mouth and she, fool that she was, had let him prove it.
She moved behind her desk with a practiced elegance, placing distance between them like a queen retreating behind palace gates, but Teddy watched her do it with the same patient amusement of a man watching someone build a fence on land he already owned.
“You need something?” she asked, sliding a folder into a stack that did not need straightening. “Or did you come here to haunt my office like a campaign-funded ghost?”
“I came to see you.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is when it’s true.”
Mizan’s lips pressed together.
That was the problem with Teddy, really, that he had learned how to weaponize simplicity, how to say a thing plainly enough that there was nowhere for her to hide from it, no excess language to dissect, no political vagueness to turn into a negotiation.
He did not talk like Grant, all grand arches and marble columns, every sentence built to impress a crowd; Teddy spoke like a man placing a hand beneath her chin, not touching her, not yet, but making sure she knew exactly where his attention had settled.
“You shouldn’t be here this late,” she said.
“Neither should you.”
“I work here.”
“So do I, apparently,” he said, glancing at the papers scattered across her desk, the mock-ups, the marked-up proposals, the notes written in her tight, elegant hand. “Since my father keeps making promises in public and leaving you to drag the sun across the sky like Helios with a migraine.”
Despite herself, Mizan almost smiled.
Almost.
She caught it before it could become visible, though Teddy’s eyes narrowed with that infuriating satisfaction that told her he had seen the ghost of it anyway.
“Do not compare me to Helios.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I were Helios, I would have driven the chariot directly over Grant’s head by now.”
Teddy laughed then, a low, surprised sound that moved through the office too warmly, too familiarly, and Mizan hated the way it loosened something behind her ribs, hated the way her body responded to his amusement like Persephone hearing spring call her name from beneath the earth.
“See?” he said. “That right there.”
“What?”
“That’s why I came.”
“For political violence disguised as mythology?”
“For you,” he said, and the humor dimmed without disappearing, leaving something more dangerous in its place. “The real you. The one who comes out when you forget to be untouchable.”
Mizan stilled.
The office seemed to still with her, the moonlight caught across Teddy’s cheekbones, the city beyond the glass moving somewhere below them while the two of them stood inside a silence that felt too alive to be empty.
“You don’t know me well enough to say that,” she said, though the words lacked the sharpness she wanted them to carry.
Teddy took another step forward.
Not enough to crowd her.
Enough to make her notice.
“I know you pour out wine because I walked in.”
Mizan’s jaw tightened.
“I know you send your assistant home because you don’t believe your suffering should become company policy.”
Her fingers went still against the edge of the desk.
“I know you clean up Grant’s messes before most people even know he made them, and I know you pretend that doesn’t make you tired because everybody in this town is addicted to you being capable.”
“Teddy—”
“And I know,” he continued, his voice lowering, steady now, no smile, no swagger to hide behind, “that every time I get close enough for you to remember you want me, you start talking about my age like it’s scripture.”
Mizan inhaled slowly.
There was the blow.
Clean and deliberate, right beneath the armor.
She looked at him then, really looked at him, and regretted it almost immediately because Teddy was not playing anymore.
His face had changed, not softened exactly, but sharpened into something honest, something that made him look older than the number she kept throwing between them like a shield, his eyes fixed on hers with an intensity that made her feel seen past every silk blouse, every press statement, every polished campaign smile she had ever worn like a mask.
“You are younger than me,” she said.
“Six years.”
“That is not nothing.”
“It’s not a prison sentence either.”
“It matters.”
“To who?”
“To everyone.”
Teddy tilted his head, and the movement was so calm, so faintly arrogant, that Mizan wanted to throw the water bottle at him.
“No,” he said. “It matters to you because it gives you something clean to point at.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Teddy, do not come into my office at night and start diagnosing me because I let you kiss me twice.”
“Three times.”
Mizan’s lips parted, outrage and memory striking at once.
His mouth twitched.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You counted too.”
She did not answer quickly enough.
That was answer enough.
Teddy’s gaze dropped for half a second to her mouth, and Mizan felt the glance like touch, felt it as sharply as if he had crossed the remaining distance and dragged his thumb along her lower lip.
The last kiss had been the worst one to remember, not because it had gone too far, but because it had stopped too soon.
A narrow hallway.
The campaign office dark behind them.
Rain ticking against the windows like impatient fingers.
Teddy’s hand braced against the wall near her head, his mouth warm and certain, Mizan gripping his coat lapel like she meant to push him away but pulling him closer instead, both of them breathing like they had stolen something from the gods and expected thunder for it.
And then she had ended it.
Because she was older.
Because he was Grant’s son.
Because the campaign could not afford mess.
Because she had a reputation sharp enough to cut herself on.
Because wanting him felt like standing at the edge of the Aegean with Poseidon calling her by name, knowing full well the sea did not ask politely before it swallowed whole kingdoms.
“You need to leave,” she said.
Teddy did not move.
“No, I don’t.”
Mizan let out a humorless little laugh, though her pulse had begun to climb, traitorous thing, beating against her throat as if trying to get closer to him before she could stop it.
“This is my office.”
“I know.”
“So when I tell you to leave—”
“You don’t want me to.”
The words landed between them with such calm certainty that it should have offended her.
It did offend her.
Worse, it thrilled her.
Mizan rounded the desk before she could talk herself out of it, needing motion, needing anger, needing something sharper than the want unfurling low in her stomach, and she came to stand before him with all the authority she used in council chambers, donor meetings, and rooms full of men who underestimated women until they were bleeding from the consequences.
“You are very sure of yourself for a man who keeps getting told no.”
Teddy looked down at her, and the small, wicked smile that touched his mouth was pure disaster dressed in a good coat.
“Mizan,” he said softly, “you have never told me no.”
Her breath caught.
She hated that.
Hated the accuracy.
Hated the quietness.
Hated that he did not say it like a challenge, but like evidence.
“I have told you to stop.”
“No,” he said, even gentler now, which somehow made it worse. “You told yourself to stop. You told the room to stop. You told the campaign, and my father, and whatever imaginary headline you got running through your head to stop. But you never looked me in my face and told me you didn’t want me.”
Mizan’s throat worked.
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was crowded with every almost, every kiss, every late-night glance, every time she had felt Teddy behind her before he spoke, every time his hand had brushed her lower back in public and she had wanted to lean into it instead of stepping away.
“You think you know everything,” she said.
“No,” Teddy murmured. “I know this.”
He stepped closer then, finally close enough that the air changed, close enough that the faint scent of him reached her, soap and cold night and something warmer beneath it, close enough that Mizan had to tilt her chin up to keep eye contact and hated him for the satisfaction that flickered across his face when she did.
“This thing between us?” he said. “It’s not me chasing smoke. It’s not me reading signs that ain’t there. It’s not some boy with a crush making a fool of himself because a beautiful woman looked at him twice.”
Her breath thinned.
“You are making a fool of yourself,” she said, because cruelty was easier than confession.
Teddy smiled like she had kissed him.
“Maybe.”
“Teddy.”
“But I’m not wrong.”
His name sounded different in the office at night, softer than she intended, almost intimate, and he caught that too, of course he did, because Teddy Spencer caught everything he could use against her and then had the audacity to use it gently.
“You want me to be wrong so bad,” he said. “That’s what’s killing you.”
Mizan shook her head once, slow, warning.
“What is killing me is your inability to respect a boundary.”
“A boundary?” he asked, eyes flashing with amusement again. “Baby, that boundary got your lipstick on it.”
The room dropped out from beneath her.
Mizan stared at him.
Teddy stared back.
And there it was, that flash of swagger she had been trying not to crave, not boyish cockiness, not empty bravado, but that clean, dangerous confidence of a man who knew exactly where he stood and had no intention of lowering his head to make her comfortable.
“Do not call me baby,” she said, though her voice had gone quieter.
Teddy’s gaze flicked down her face again, slower this time, lingering near her mouth before returning to her eyes.
“Then stop looking at me like you like it.”
Her hand moved before thought could catch it, two fingers pressing against the center of his chest, not a shove, not quite, but a warning, and Teddy’s eyes lowered to where she touched him as if her hand had become a brand.
He did not move back.
Of course he did not.
He only looked at her hand, then at her, and something in his expression made Mizan feel, absurdly, like she had been the one who crossed a line.
“You are Grant’s son,” she said.
“I know who my father is.”
“I am his running mate.”
“I know who you are too.”
“I have worked too hard to be reduced to gossip.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do.”
“No?” Her laugh came brittle now, because fear had entered the room and dressed itself as sarcasm. “Then what are you trying to do, Teddy? Walk into my office after hours, look at me like that, talk to me like that, and what? Expect me to forget there are consequences?”
His expression changed at the word.
Consequences.
It sobered him more effectively than any rebuke had, pulling something older and darker into his face, something shaped by recovery meetings, family expectations, old shame, and every morning he had chosen not to become the man his worst nights once promised he would be.
“No,” he said. “I don’t forget consequences.”
Mizan’s hand softened against his chest before she could stop it.
Teddy noticed.
His voice lowered.
“I live with mine every day.”
The ache in her skull became something else, something behind her ribs now, tender and unwelcome.
“Teddy,” she said again, but this time it was not warning, not really.
He leaned in just slightly, not enough to kiss her, not enough to trap her, but enough that the space between them became a living thing.
“I’m not asking you to risk your name for a boy,” he said. “I’m not asking you to sneak around with somebody who doesn’t know what he wants. I’m not asking you to clean up another Spencer man’s mess.”
Her eyes searched his.
“What are you asking?”
“For you to stop playing with me.”
The words were quiet.
Firm.
Bare.
Mizan forgot how to breathe for a second.
Teddy’s gaze held hers, and all that swagger, all that teasing confidence, all that effortless Apollo-in-a-dark-doorway beauty settled into something more dangerous because it was sincere.
“You can tell me to leave,” he said. “You can tell me not tonight. You can tell me the campaign matters more, or my father matters more, or the town matters more, and I’ll hear you. But don’t stand here acting like the problem is that I’m young when the truth is you’re scared I’m not.”
Mizan’s lips parted, but nothing came out.
He was too close.
Too right.
Too Teddy.
And she hated him for making her feel cornered by honesty instead of pressure, for leaving her the door open while standing there like every road still led back to him.
His eyes dropped once more to her mouth.
This time, he did not hide it.
“This is the part where you tell me I’m wrong,” he murmured.
Mizan’s fingers were still against his chest.
She could feel his heart now, steady beneath her touch, not racing like hers, not betraying him the way her own body had gone mutinous.
“You’re wrong,” she whispered.
Teddy’s mouth curved.
“Liar.”
The word should have made her angry.
It did.
But anger, with Teddy, had begun to feel dangerously close to hunger.
She pushed at his chest then, harder this time, though he only took half a step back, not because she had forced him but because he allowed it, because even in his arrogance he understood the difference between pursuit and capture.
“You need to learn when to quit,” she said.
“I did.”
Her eyes flickered.
He held her gaze.
“I quit drinking,” he said. “I quit lying to myself. I quit waking up and pretending I didn’t remember what I did the night before. I quit a lot of things, Mizan.”
The softness vanished from his mouth, leaving only that calm, devastating certainty.
“But I’m not quitting you just because you’re scared of wanting me.”
Mizan stood there beneath the moonlight, silent and furious and entirely too warm beneath her silk suit, feeling like some woman in an old myth who had spent years building a city only for a god to arrive at the gates and say her true name.
“You are insufferable,” she said.
“I’ve heard.”
“Arrogant.”
“Sometimes.”
“Too young.”
His smile returned, slow as sunrise over a battlefield.
“And yet,” he said.
Mizan’s eyes narrowed. “And yet what?”
Teddy took one step backward, giving her air, giving her space, giving her the victory he knew would not feel like one.
“And yet you threw away a glass of wine I didn’t ask you to throw away,” he said. “You drank water because you didn’t want me smelling it on you. You keep saying I’m too young, but you remember every kiss. You keep telling me to leave, but you still haven’t opened that door.”
Mizan’s breath hitched, small enough that anyone else might have missed it.
Teddy did not.
His gaze softened just a fraction.
“I know what no looks like,” he said. “I respect no. I’ve had to learn a lot about respecting no, about living with lines and not crossing them just because I want something.”
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, rougher at the edges.
“But this ain’t no, Mizan. This is you begging me to be weaker than what you feel.”
The words slid beneath her skin.
For one suspended second, she saw the truth of them clearly, saw herself standing there in all her expensive restraint, trying to turn desire into ethics, fear into wisdom, longing into discipline, as if wanting Teddy Spencer were some monstrous thing she could kill if she gave it a respectable enough name.
Outside, the town slept.
Inside, the moon watched.
Mizan lifted her chin.
“You done?”
Teddy smiled.
“No.”
Of course not.
God help her, of course not.
He moved toward the door then, slow enough that she understood he was choosing to go, not because she had won, but because he wanted her to know he could leave without being chased and still be felt in every corner of the room.
At the threshold, he stopped and looked back at her.
“You have a good night, Ms. Henderson.”
The formality struck her harder than baby had.
It put the distance back between them with surgical precision, and from the faint satisfaction in his eyes, he knew exactly what he had done.
Mizan’s mouth tightened.
“Teddy.”
He turned fully.
Mizan hated herself for saying his name, hated the way it left her mouth softer than any warning had a right to be, hated even more that he looked pleased to hear it, as if he had known the sound would come eventually, as if he had walked toward that door with all the patience of a god leaving an altar unattended, certain the worshipper would call him back before the flame went out.
“What?” he asked.
She stood there for a breath too long, pride and want warring inside her like Athena and Aphrodite over the same ruined city, one demanding strategy, dignity, restraint, while the other stood barefoot in the ashes and smiled because desire had already won before the battle began.
Then she moved.
“Wait,” she whispered, following him before she could gather the lie of composure around herself again, her heels quiet against the polished floor as she crossed the office and looked up at him, her brown eyes catching on the blue of his with the helpless pull of shoreline surrendering to tide, Poseidon’s waves meeting warm sand, caressing it, claiming it, retreating only to return again, just as he had done with her once, twice, three times now.
It had been the third time he kissed her, but not the only time they had seen each other bare.
Teddy knew what lived beneath the silk of her blouse just as surely as she knew what lay beneath the shirt he wore, knew the warm brown of her skin beyond tailored seams and campaign armor, knew the sound she made when she forgot to be careful, just as she knew the planes of his chest, the strength beneath his restraint, the dangerous stillness of a man who could want violently and still choose not to take what had not been freely given.
“I don’t want you to go,” she whispered.
Teddy’s expression shifted, not into triumph exactly, though there was a flicker of it there, a spark low and golden like Apollo catching sight of dawn before anyone else had opened their eyes, but into something quieter, more dangerous, more pleased because she had not given him everything, only enough to prove he had not imagined the war inside her.
“No?” he asked, taking one slow step closer, his voice dipped low enough to brush against her nerves. “That so?”
Mizan swallowed, and the motion drew his gaze to her throat before he returned it to her face, gentleman enough not to touch her yet and wicked enough to make her feel every inch of the space he left between them.
“What about Danica?” she whispered.
At that, Teddy chuckled, the sound low and rough around the edges, not because he found the question funny, but because he found her funny, standing there in all that silk and discipline, throwing another woman’s name into the room like a shield when both of them knew she had been bleeding jealousy through her teeth for months and calling it indifference.
“Danica?” he repeated, his mouth curving as he drew another step closer, until the air between them became warm, charged, almost indecent.
“The blonde,” Mizan said, lifting her chin with all the dignity of Hera watching Zeus misbehave from across Olympus, though the faint tension at the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “Blue eyes. Pretty. Very convenient.”
“Very convenient,” Teddy agreed, and the smile on his face turned sinful enough to make her pulse trip over itself.
Her eyes narrowed. “So you admit it?”
“I admit she was around.”
“Teddy.”
“I admit,” he said, softer now, leaning just slightly into the space between them, “that I let her be seen around me because I thought maybe you’d stop acting like you ain’t got a jealous bone in your body.”
Mizan’s breath caught, though she covered it quickly, folding her arms beneath her chest as if silk and posture could save her from the truth he had placed at her feet.
“So she was a ploy.”
“A bad one,” he said, and there was no shame in his face, only that infuriating honesty that made him impossible to dismiss. “Because I underestimated your self-control.”
Her mouth tightened.
He looked at it.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Then his gaze lifted again, and the heat in it made the moonlight feel useless.
“Though,” he murmured, “you did take it out on me eventually.”
Mizan’s eyes flashed.
Teddy’s smile deepened, and God, she hated him then, hated the memory he had dragged into the room with them, hated the way her body remembered before her pride could object, remembered hands fisted in fabric, remembered the sound of his breath catching against her mouth, remembered the kind of pleasure that had felt less like surrender and more like revenge offered on an altar, something hot and sacred and spiteful enough to make Aphrodite laugh from the seafoam.
“That was a mistake,” she said.
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“I’m not deciding,” he said, voice dropping as he stepped close enough now that she could smell him, clean skin and cold night and that warm, dangerous Teddy beneath it all. “I’m remembering.”
Mizan’s lashes lowered for half a second, and he caught that too, of course he did, because Teddy Spencer had made a religion out of noticing the things she tried to bury.
“You used her to make me jealous,” she said.
“I tried.”
“And you thought that was smart?”
“No,” he said, and the honesty of it almost irritated her more than a lie would have. “I thought it would make you stop pretending.”
“And did it?”
His gaze moved over her face, slow as a tide pulling secrets from the shore.
“You tell me,” he said. “You’re the one who called me back.”
Mizan swallowed as she looked up at him, the movement small but not small enough for Teddy to miss, because Teddy Spencer had become fluent in every betrayal of her body, every softened breath, every lowered lash, every tremor of restraint that passed through her like a warning from the gods.
His hands lifted slowly, giving her all the time in the world to move away, to stop him, to turn this into another argument she could win with posture and pride, but she did not move, and when his palms finally settled at her waist through the silk of her suit, the touch was firm enough to make her breath catch and careful enough to remind her that confidence, real confidence, did not need to take what had not been offered.
“There she is,” he murmured, his voice low, warm, and ruinous as his hands slid along the clean lines of her jacket, tracing the shape of her through expensive fabric like he had every intention of learning her all over again without rushing a single lesson. “That’s the woman I’ve been talking to all night.”
Mizan’s eyes fluttered shut despite herself, her chin dipping as his hands moved with slow certainty, over her waist, along her ribs, down to her hips, not frantic, not boyish, not pleading, but possessive in that controlled way that made her feel like he could have been starving and still known how to savor.
“Teddy,” she whispered, but it came out too soft to be a warning.
“Mhm,” he answered, and the hum of it brushed over her like heat. “Say it like that again and I’m gone think you like me touching you.”
Her eyes opened, narrowed, though the effect was weakened by the fact that her hands had found the front of his shirt and stayed there.
“You are too sure of yourself.”
“No,” he said, leaning closer until his mouth hovered near her cheek, not kissing her yet, just letting the nearness do something cruel and electric to the space between them. “I’m sure of you.”
Mizan’s breath shook once.
Teddy smiled like he felt it.
“You can stand there in all this silk and politics and pretend you don’t know what you want,” he continued, his thumbs pressing slow circles at her waist, “but your body tells on you every time I get close.”
“That is an arrogant thing to say.”
“It’s an honest thing to say.”
“It’s inappropriate.”
“So was calling me back.”
Her lips parted, but no clever answer came, not when he was looking at her like that, not when his hands had tightened just enough to make her aware of every place she wanted him closer, not when the moonlight had turned his blue eyes mythic and merciless, Poseidon-dark despite their color, all tide and command and knowing patience.
Teddy dipped his head, his mouth near her ear now, his breath warm against her skin as he spoke.
“You know what your problem is, Ms. Henderson?”
“No,” she whispered, though she absolutely did not trust him with the answer.
“You keep treating wanting me like it’s a scandal,” he murmured. “Like it’s some dirty little campaign secret you can bury under paperwork and late nights and that pretty mean mouth of yours.”
Mizan’s fingers curled tighter in his shirt.
His smile touched her temple before his lips did, the almost-kiss somehow worse than the kiss itself.
“But it ain’t dirty to want me,” he said. “It ain’t wrong to want me. And it damn sure ain’t one-sided.”
“Teddy…”
“There you go again.” His hands slid to the small of her back, drawing her half a breath closer, enough that she could feel the heat of him through both their clothes, enough that the line between restraint and surrender thinned into something bright and dangerous. “Saying my name like it’s supposed to save you.”
“It might be a warning.”
He chuckled, soft and wicked.
“Baby, if that was a warning, you’d have stepped back by now.”
Her eyes snapped to his. “I told you not to call me that.”
“And I told you to stop looking at me like you like it.”
The silence after that was hot enough to burn.
Mizan hated how badly she wanted to smile, hated how badly she wanted to slap his chest and kiss the arrogance clean off his mouth in the same breath, hated that he stood there younger than her and somehow not young at all, wearing confidence like inheritance, like sin, like something passed down through Spencer blood and sharpened by everything he had survived.
“You used Danica to make me jealous,” she said, because if she did not say something sharp, she would do something foolish.
“I did.”
“That was childish.”
“That was strategy.”
“That was poor strategy.”
His grin came slow, devastating.
“Still got you mad months later, didn’t it?”
Mizan scoffed, but he caught her chin lightly before she could look away, two fingers beneath it, not forcing, only guiding, only asking her to meet him honestly for once.
“There’s my answer,” he said.
“I did not say anything.”
“You don’t have to.” His gaze dropped to her mouth again, and his voice lowered into something that felt made for dark rooms and bad decisions. “You get real quiet when I’m right.”
“You are insufferable.”
“And you’re beautiful when you’re jealous.”
“I was not jealous.”
“No?”
“No.”
Teddy nodded slowly, as though considering the lie with great seriousness, his thumb brushing once along the edge of her jaw.
“So if I told you Danica called me yesterday—”
Mizan’s eyes sharpened.
There it was, quick and involuntary, lightning flashing behind a temple door.
Teddy laughed under his breath, not loudly, not cruelly, but with the satisfaction of a man who had just watched the truth step out wearing her face.
“Mizan.”
“Do not play with me.”
“I’m not playing with you,” he said, and the humor left him so suddenly that her breath caught all over again. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
His hands settled on her hips now, strong and sure through the silk, and he drew her close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep his eyes, close enough that every argument she had prepared began to feel ridiculous in the face of a body that had already chosen a side.
“I don’t want Danica,” he said. “I didn’t want her then. I don’t want anybody standing next to me at dinners hoping you’ll look over. I don’t want some easy thing that doesn’t scare me, doesn’t challenge me, doesn’t look at me like she’s deciding whether to kiss me or ruin my life.”
Mizan’s mouth softened despite herself.
Teddy noticed, and his voice dropped lower.
“I want you,” he said. “I want this attitude. I want this mouth. I want that little look you give me when you think I’ve gone too far and you’re trying to decide if you’re offended or interested.”
“You are bold.”
“I’m sober,” he corrected quietly, and something in her chest pulled tight. “I don’t waste time pretending I don’t want what I want anymore.”
Mizan went still beneath his hands.
He let that sit between them, not as a wound, not as a plea, but as truth, bare and steady and harder to resist than all his teasing had been.
Then his thumb brushed her hip, slow as a secret.
“And right now,” he murmured, “I want you to stop hiding behind my age and tell me what you actually want.”
She swallowed.
His eyes stayed on hers.
“Say it.”
“Teddy—”
“No.” His voice softened, but the command stayed. “Not my name this time. Your truth.”
Mizan’s breath came shallow, her hands still caught in his shirt, her body held in the dangerous mercy of his restraint, and for one terrible second she felt like Aphrodite herself had dragged her to the shoreline and left her there, waves licking at her ankles, daring her to pretend she did not want the sea.
“I want you,” she whispered.
Teddy’s eyes darkened.
Not with surprise.
With satisfaction.
“With your chest, Mizan,” he said, his mouth hovering over hers now, so close that each word touched her before his lips could. “Say it like you ain’t ashamed of it.”
Her fingers tightened.
“I want you.”
“There she is,” he murmured, and his smile turned soft enough to be dangerous. “Was that so hard?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
His lips brushed the corner of her mouth, barely there, a punishment disguised as mercy.
“Good,” he said. “Maybe next time you’ll stop making me drag the truth out of you.”
And then he kissed her.
Mizan gasped against his mouth as he lifted her, the sound swallowed between them before it could become protest, her hands flying to his shoulders as Teddy reached behind her with one arm and swept the neat, tyrannical kingdom of her desk into chaos, folders sliding, pens scattering, expansion plans fluttering to the floor like fallen prophecies from Delphi.
“Teddy,” she breathed, half scandalized, half breathless, her mouth still so close to his that the shape of his name brushed his lips more than the sound of it reached the room.
“You called me back,” he murmured, setting her on the edge of the desk with a certainty that made her pulse kick, his hands braced on either side of her, caging her in without trapping her, giving her nowhere to look but at him and every opportunity to tell him to stop.
“You did not need to destroy my desk.”
His gaze flicked down to the papers strewn across the floor, then back to her, and that slow, wicked confidence curved at the edge of his mouth again, all Spencer arrogance and blue-eyed trouble, as if Apollo himself had learned how to lean over a woman in moonlight and make devastation look like devotion.
“I needed space.”
“For what?” she asked, though her voice betrayed her, thin at the edges, threaded with want she could no longer dress up as irritation.
Teddy looked at her mouth.
Then her eyes.
Then her mouth again.
“For you to stop running.”
Mizan’s breath hitched, and he caught it, of course he did, because the man caught everything, every tremor, every softened blink, every little crack in the marble statue she had spent years carving herself into.
“I am sitting still,” she said.
“No,” Teddy murmured, stepping between her knees with a calmness that felt more dangerous than haste ever could have. “You’re cornered. There’s a difference.”
Her chin lifted, pride sparking even as her fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders. “And you think you cornered me?”
His smile deepened.
“No, baby,” he said, voice low enough to make her stomach turn molten. “You walked over here yourself.”
Mizan shut her eyes for half a second, because that was the problem with Teddy Spencer, the terrible, infuriating, undeniable problem with him; he did not lie to make himself look powerful, did not need to embellish the evidence, did not have to force the truth into the room when she kept dragging it in by the throat and then acting offended when he named it.
When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her with that same focused hunger, not reckless, not drunk on impulse, not the boy she kept accusing him of being in order to save herself from the man standing between her thighs with restraint clenched so tightly in his jaw it looked like prayer.
“You are too arrogant for your own good,” she whispered.
“And you’re too stubborn for yours.”
His hands moved then, slow along the outside of her thighs, over silk and warmth and the clean lines of her suit, his touch firm enough to make her breath catch but measured, deliberately measured, like he knew the difference between claiming and taking, like he wanted her to feel the power in his hands and the discipline behind it.
Mizan’s lashes fluttered despite herself, her body betraying her in small, humiliating increments, and Teddy lowered his head until his mouth hovered near her jaw, not kissing her yet, just breathing there, just letting the almost of it drag across her nerves.
“You know what I like about you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, though the word came out softer than she intended.
“You fight like Athena and look at me like Aphrodite when you think I’m not paying attention.”
Her eyes opened sharply. “That is ridiculous.”
“That is accurate.”
“It is arrogant.”
“It can be both.”
She might have laughed if his mouth had not touched the line of her jaw then, a slow, barely-there kiss that made the sound die in her throat, her fingers tightening on him as though she meant to push him away and anchor herself to him at the same time.
“Teddy,” she whispered again.
He drew back just enough to look at her, his face close, his eyes darkened by moonlight and want and something more patient than either.
“There you go saying my name again.”
“Would you rather I say someone else’s?”
His smile vanished.
The air shifted.
Mizan felt the change immediately, felt the heat of it move through him before he even touched her again, and something wicked in her, something jealous and feminine and long-denied, lifted its head like a goddess rising from seafoam.
Teddy’s hand came to her chin, gentle but sure, tilting her face back to his.
“Try it,” he said softly.
The words were quiet, but they landed like thunder over Olympus.
Mizan’s lips parted.
He leaned closer, his thumb resting at the edge of her jaw, his voice dropping into something smooth and lethal.
“Say somebody else’s name while I’m standing right here, looking at you like this, touching you like this, and see if I don’t remind you why you called mine.”
Her breath left her in a shaky rush.
“Teddy…”
“There she is.”
He kissed her again, and this time it was not careful in the way the first had been careful, not tentative, not exploratory, but deep and certain, the kind of kiss that felt like Poseidon striking the shore in a storm, like the sea had finally grown tired of asking the sand to admit it wanted to be ruined.
Mizan made a sound against him that she would have denied under oath, her hands sliding from his shoulders to the back of his neck, her nails grazing lightly as she pulled him closer, and Teddy answered with a low groan that made the room feel smaller, darker, less like an office and more like some ancient temple where respectable women went to lose arguments with gods.
His hands gripped her hips through the silk, dragging her closer to the edge of the desk until there was no polite distance left between them, until all her careful composure was pressed against all his controlled hunger, until every reason she had rehearsed seemed to scatter across the floor with the rest of her papers.
“You still thinking about Danica?” he murmured against her mouth.
Mizan opened her eyes, dazed and irritated and burning. “Do not bring her up while your hands are on me.”
Teddy smiled against her lips. “You brought her up first.”
“I am warning you.”
“Good.” His hands tightened slightly at her waist. “Warn me again. I like when you get mean.”
“You are impossible.”
“And you keep kissing me.”
She tried to turn her face away, but he followed only enough to brush his mouth against the corner of hers, teasing, patient, infuriatingly sure of himself.
“Say it again,” he murmured.
“What?”
“That you want me.”
Mizan’s throat moved, pride rising out of habit, but Teddy’s thumb stroked once at her waist, slow and devastating, and her body answered before her mouth could lie.
“You heard me the first time.”
“I did.” His lips brushed her cheek. “I want to hear it again.”
“You are greedy.”
“For you?” He pulled back, looking at her fully now, blue eyes fixed on brown with a heat that made her feel stripped down to something older than language. “Absolutely.”
The honesty of it quieted her.
Not because it was gentle, though it was, beneath the arrogance and the swagger and the smile that made her want to both slap him and kiss him senseless, but because it was direct, because Teddy did not hide from wanting her, did not dress it in strategy or irony or plausible deniability, did not make her feel foolish for being desired by him.
He wanted her openly.
Boldly.
Like wanting her was not a mistake, not a scandal, not a lapse in judgment, but a fact, plain and bright as a god stepping out beneath the sun.
“I want you,” she whispered.
Teddy’s eyes softened for half a heartbeat, and somehow that was more dangerous than the hunger.
“Again.”
Mizan swallowed.
“I want you.”
His mouth curved slowly, beautifully, terribly.
“There we go.”
Then he kissed her as if he meant to reward the truth, his hands sliding up her back, pressing her closer while she arched into him despite every sensible part of herself screaming from some distant shore, and when his mouth moved from hers to the side of her throat, Mizan’s eyes fell shut as though surrender had become gravity.
“Teddy,” she breathed, fingers tightening in his hair now, ruining the neatness of him with a satisfaction that felt dangerously close to victory.
He hummed against her skin, the sound low and pleased.
“You keep saying my name like that, Ms. Henderson, and I’m gon’ start thinking you forgot all about that age difference.”
Her eyes opened, fire returning at once.
“Do not get comfortable.”
He lifted his head, grinning now, gorgeous and insufferable, the kind of man women in myths would have blamed on curses because admitting they wanted him willingly would have ruined their reputations.
“Oh, I’m very comfortable.”
“You should not be.”
“Why?” he asked, brushing his thumb along her lower lip, his gaze following the motion with a reverence that made her stomach dip. “You gon’ send me away again?”
She said nothing.
Teddy leaned in, his mouth hovering over hers.
“That’s what I thought.”
Mizan hated how badly she wanted him to kiss her again.
Hated how badly she wanted him to know it.
Hated most of all that he already did.
“You are playing a very dangerous game,” she whispered.
His smile turned slow, smoky, inevitable.
“No,” Teddy said, voice soft against her mouth, “I’m done playing.”
Mizan looked at him for a long, suspended moment, her breath still caught between them, his hands still warm at her waist, her desk a ruin beneath her and her papers scattered across the floor like fallen prayers, and then something in her changed so quietly that Teddy almost missed it.
Almost.
It was not surrender.
That was what made his pulse kick.
It was worse than surrender, sweeter than surrender, more dangerous than surrender, because Mizan Henderson did not melt beneath pressure like some girl too overwhelmed by a man’s hunger to remember her own power; she settled into herself instead, as if some older, silk-draped goddess had lifted her chin from within, Aphrodite not born from seafoam this time but stepping out of strategy, out of restraint, out of every long night she had spent being too composed to be touched properly.
“You’re done playing?” she repeated, her voice low enough now that it seemed to move beneath his skin rather than through the air.
Teddy’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but awareness, because the woman in front of him had gone soft in all the wrong ways and sharp in all the right ones, her hands still resting against him, her knees still bracketing his hips, her mouth kiss-swollen and calm, too calm, the kind of calm that made a man realize he had been standing in shallow water thinking he understood the sea.
“That’s what I said,” he murmured.
Mizan’s gaze drifted over his face, slow and deliberate, not shy, not frantic, not girlishly overwhelmed, and Teddy felt every inch of that look like fingertips, felt it move from his eyes to his mouth, from his mouth to the line of his jaw, from his jaw to his throat, where his pulse betrayed him with one hard beat beneath his skin.
Her lips curved.
Not much.
Enough.
“You sure?” she asked.
Teddy’s hand tightened at her waist before he could stop himself, and Mizan felt it, of course she felt it, because her smile deepened with the kind of satisfaction women like her did not need to announce; it simply arrived, draped in perfume and patience, wearing red lipstick in spirit even when her mouth was bare.
“You asking because you care?” he said, trying for that same smooth confidence, though his voice had roughened at the edges.
“No,” she whispered, lifting one hand from his shoulder and letting her fingers trail down the front of his shirt, not gripping him now, not pulling, just tracing the neat line of buttons with a slow, idle intimacy that made the muscles in his stomach go tight. “I’m asking because men get brave when they think they’re the only ones who know how to want.”
Teddy stopped breathing for half a second.
Mizan watched him do it.
That was the thing, he realized then, the thing he had known in pieces but not fully understood until she sat on the edge of that desk with moonlight over her cheekbones and destruction beneath her heels; Mizan was not passive in her wanting, not hesitant because she lacked heat, not restrained because desire had not found her, but controlled because she knew exactly what lived in her and exactly what men became when they were invited close enough to feel it.
She had grown woman seduction, the kind that did not rush because it did not have to, the kind that did not beg for attention because attention came and sat at her feet eventually, the kind that could turn a lowered voice into a hand around a man’s throat and make him thank her for the pressure.
“You been walking around here,” she said, her fingers moving lazily back up his shirt, “leaning in doorways, saying my name like you bought stock in it, looking at me across rooms like you had some divine right to know what I look like when I stop being polite.”
Teddy’s mouth parted, but no answer came fast enough.
Mizan’s eyes lifted to his.
“Now look at you.”
His jaw flexed.
“Look at me how?”
“Quiet,” she said softly.
The word was a kiss and a blade.
Teddy gave a low laugh, but it came out less amused than affected, less confident than he wanted it to sound, and Mizan’s hand flattened against his chest as if she could feel the shift under her palm, that slight, delicious falter in him, the moment his swagger met something older than challenge and realized it had been invited into a room where she knew the furniture better.
“Don’t start something you not ready to finish, Mizan,” he warned, but the warning lacked bite because his eyes had dropped to her mouth again.
She tilted her head.
“Baby,” she said, and the way she said it was nothing like the way he had said it to her.
His entire face changed.
Mizan saw it and almost laughed, because there it was, there was the crack in all that Teddy Spencer confidence, not broken, not ruined, but opened, like a temple door at midnight, one little word from her mouth turning his arrogance into hunger so visible he could not hide it behind that crooked smile fast enough.
“You like calling me that,” she murmured.
Teddy swallowed.
Mizan’s thumb brushed the center of his chest, slow as a secret.
“But you like hearing it more.”
His eyes sharpened, darkened, and he leaned in as though he meant to take her mouth again just to shut her up, but Mizan lifted two fingers and pressed them gently against his lips before he could, her touch soft enough to be tender and bold enough to be command.
Teddy froze.
There was power in that stillness, his power and hers tangled together, because he could have kissed her fingers, could have pulled her hand down, could have turned the moment back into something he led, but he did not, and that obedience, quiet and chosen, lit something in Mizan’s blood so hot that her smile faded into something heavier.
“See?” she whispered. “You do know how to listen.”
Teddy’s breath moved warm against her fingertips.
His eyes did not leave hers.
“Mizan.”
“Mhm.”
“You keep talking to me like that…”
“What?” she asked, her voice dipping lower as she leaned closer, close enough now that her perfume wrapped around him, warm and expensive and faintly sweet, something ambered and floral that did not ask permission before becoming memory. “You gon’ lose all that composure you came in here pretending you had?”
He exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, but the hand at her waist betrayed him again, sliding a fraction lower to grip her hip with that careful restraint that told her exactly how much effort it was taking him not to drag her closer.
Mizan glanced down at his hand, then back up.
“There he is,” she murmured, echoing him with a smile that made his throat go dry. “That’s the man I’ve been talking to all night.”
Teddy let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it had not been so close to a groan.
“You think you funny.”
“I know I’m right.”
“You like playing with fire?”
Mizan leaned in until her mouth brushed the corner of his jaw, not a kiss, not quite, just the ghost of one, just enough softness to make him tense like a bowstring.
“I’m older than you, Teddy,” she whispered against his skin, her voice a velvet thing with teeth beneath it. “I was lighting matches before you knew what burning felt like.”
His eyes fell shut.
Only for a second.
But she saw it.
And God, that little surrender nearly ruined them both.
Because Teddy Spencer, beautiful, confident, relentless Teddy Spencer, who had walked into her office like a young god with thunder in his pockets and the nerve to call her bluff, had closed his eyes under the weight of her mouth near his jaw like she had placed a crown there, like she had become the thing he had been chasing and the thing chasing him back.
Mizan kissed his jaw then, slow and deliberate, one soft press of her mouth that carried more danger than all his teasing had, and when Teddy’s hand flexed at her hip, she kissed him again, higher this time, near the corner of his mouth, close enough that his breath changed.
“You done playing?” she whispered.
His eyes opened, blue and hot and unsteady in a way that made her stomach dip.
“Respectfully,” she whispered, her lips brushing his when she spoke, “you’ve been on my nerves for months.”
Teddy laughed then, low and helpless, and the sound warmed the space between them until even the moonlight seemed to blush against the windows.
“Yeah?”
“Yes,” she said, her hands smoothing over his shoulders now, adjusting the collar of his coat with unhurried precision, as if he were something expensive she had decided to ruin carefully. “Coming into rooms smelling good, standing too close, looking at me over Grant’s shoulder like you wanted me to forget I was in public.”
“I did want you to forget.”
“I know.”
“I wanted you to come find me after.”
“I know that too.”
His smile flickered, hungry and admiring. “You know everything, huh?”
“When it comes to men like you?” she said, letting her fingers drift to the back of his neck, where they settled with slow possession. “Enough.”
That should have irritated him.
It did.
It also made him want to kiss her until she forgot the sentence entirely.
Teddy leaned closer, but she kept him there, not stopping him, not rejecting him, just holding him in that unbearable almost, her mouth a breath from his, her eyes steady on his face as if she wanted to watch him want her in real time.
“You’ve been so busy telling me to stop playing,” she whispered, “but I don’t think you know what happens when I do.”
Teddy’s jaw tightened.
Mizan saw his bravado gather itself, saw him reach for that smooth line, that clever answer, that thing he could say to put himself back on top of the moment, and she cut it off by brushing her thumb lightly along the nape of his neck.
The words died in his throat.
Her smile returned, softer now, more pleased than cruel.
“Oh,” she murmured. “That’s where it is.”
Teddy stared at her.
“What?”
“Your off switch.”
His laugh came rough. “You think so?”
“I know so.”
Then she did it again, slower this time, nails grazing lightly at the base of his neck, and Teddy’s head dipped before he could help it, his forehead almost touching hers as the breath left him in a measured, furious exhale.
Mizan’s eyes gleamed.
For once, Teddy had no immediate comeback.
For once, all that bam-bam-bam confidence had stumbled into the quiet trap of a woman who did not need to raise her voice to make a man fold, and the sight of it put heat in her cheeks, heat in her chest, heat in every place she had been trying to govern like a campaign budget.
“You’re dangerous,” he said.
“No,” she whispered, her lips brushing his again, barely, almost chastely, which somehow made it worse. “I’m grown.”
Teddy’s hands slid more securely around her waist, drawing her closer until she sat at the very edge of the desk, his body warm between her knees, his restraint no longer hidden but held there, visible and shaking in the muscle of his jaw.
“And grown women,” she continued, her voice so soft he had to lean closer to hear it, “don’t need to chase boys.”
His eyes flashed.
There it was.
She had touched the line on purpose.
“But I’m not a boy,” he said.
Mizan’s gaze lowered to his mouth.
“No,” she agreed quietly, and the admission landed between them like a match dropped into oil. “You’re not.”
Teddy’s grip tightened.
Her hands slid from his neck to his chest, smoothing down slowly, feeling the strength beneath the fabric, the disciplined body, the living warmth of him, the man beneath every reason she had tried to dismiss him, and when she looked back up, her expression had changed again, desire no longer hidden behind sarcasm but wearing it like perfume.
“That’s the problem,” she whispered. “You keep giving me a reason to remember that.”
Teddy’s mouth hovered over hers.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Yeah.” His voice dropped, confidence returning now but altered, rougher, humbled by how badly he wanted her and made sexier by the fact that he did not try to hide it. “I want you remembering. I want you in meetings trying not to look at me because you remember. I want you fixing my father’s messes with that serious look on your face while knowing I know exactly how you sound when you stop being serious.”
Mizan’s breath caught.
Teddy smiled, slow and devastating because he had felt the hit land.
“There she is,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth softened. “You are obscene.”
“I’m honest.”
“You are trying to get yourself in trouble.”
“With you?” His gaze moved over her face, open and hungry and worshipful in a way that made her feel terrifyingly beautiful. “I been in trouble.”
Mizan kissed him first this time.
Not because he cornered her.
Not because he demanded truth.
Not because he teased it out of her with all that blue-eyed arrogance and knowing patience.
She kissed him because she wanted to, because she was tired of making desire wear a courtroom suit and stand trial beneath fluorescent lights, because the taste of him had been haunting the edges of her restraint for months, because Danica’s name had irritated her more than she would ever admit, because Teddy Spencer looked at her like wanting her was not a lapse in judgment but a law of nature.
And Teddy, for all his swagger, for all his certainty, for all his bold talk about being done playing, folded into that kiss like a man who had been waiting at the shore for the tide to finally come in.
His sound was quiet, deep, almost swallowed, but Mizan felt it against her mouth and smiled into him, just a little, just enough for him to feel that too.
He pulled back a fraction.
“Don’t smile like that,” he said, voice rough.
“Like what?”
“Like you know what you’re doing to me.”
Mizan’s lashes lowered, and she looked at him from beneath them with a softness that was anything but innocent.
“But I do know.”
Teddy stared at her, his throat working once, and the sheer satisfaction that moved through her was so warm and feminine and wicked that she almost understood why goddesses in old stories started wars for sport.
“God,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.
Mizan touched his face then, her palm smoothing along his jaw, and Teddy turned slightly into it before he could stop himself, the movement so small and so intimate that her teasing softened into something dangerous for a different reason.
There he was beneath all that confidence.
Not weak.
Never weak.
But affected.
Open in flashes.
Young only in the sense that he had not yet learned how to pretend indifference when something mattered to him, older in every way that counted because he knew the cost of wanting wrong things and still stood there choosing carefully.
“You really do want me,” she whispered.
Teddy’s eyes lifted to hers.
“I told you that.”
“I know.” Her thumb brushed his cheek. “I think I like hearing it.”
His smile came back slowly, but it did not fully hide what she had done to him.
“Then I’ll tell you again.”
Mizan’s hand drifted down to his collar, fixing what she had already ruined. “Go on.”
Teddy’s brows lifted. “You giving orders now?”
“I’ve always given orders.”
“That right?”
“Yes.” Her fingers curled lightly in his shirt, tugging him closer by a whisper. “You just finally learned how to follow them.”
Teddy’s eyes darkened so quickly she felt it like weather changing over open water.
“Mizan.”
“There you go saying my name,” she murmured.
He laughed under his breath, but it broke halfway when she shifted closer, her knees drawing him in, her silk-covered body aligning with his in a way that made them both go quiet for one dense, dangerous second.
“You want me to say it pretty?” he asked, mouth near hers.
“I want you to say it like you mean it.”
His hands moved to either side of her face, holding her now with a reverence that stole some of the smugness from her expression, his thumbs resting near her cheeks, his gaze so fixed and consuming that Mizan felt the woman in her, the strategist, the seductress, the campaign blade, the tired queen, all fall silent beneath the force of being plainly wanted.
“I want you,” Teddy said, no tease in it this time, no ploy, no Danica, no doorway swagger, only the rough velvet truth of him. “I want you when you’re mean. I want you when you’re tired. I want you when you’re standing next to my father pretending I don’t have you distracted. I want you when you look at me like you know better, and I want you even worse when you forget that you do.”
Mizan’s eyes searched his.
His thumb brushed once beneath her cheekbone.
“And I want you to stop acting like I’m some bad decision you stumbled into,” he added, softer but no less certain. “Because I’m not stumbling, Mizan. I walked right to you.”
For once, she did not have an answer sharp enough to save her.
So she gave him something better.
She leaned in, slow enough for him to feel every inch of anticipation, and kissed the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, then the line of his jaw again, each kiss deliberate, unhurried, grown in the way only a woman who knew the value of patience could be grown, and Teddy’s eyes fell shut as his hands slipped back to her waist, holding on like she was the only thing keeping him upright.
“There,” she whispered against his skin. “That’s better.”
His laugh was strained. “You like me quiet too much.”
“I like you honest.”
“I am honest.”
“Not when you’re talking.”
His eyes opened. “You got a problem with my mouth?”
Mizan’s gaze dropped to it.
The room seemed to hold its breath.
“No,” she said softly. “That is actually the problem.”
Teddy’s smile went slow, but before he could reclaim the moment, before he could say something slick and ruinous and very Teddy, she caught his chin lightly between her fingers and kissed him again, deeper this time, with the kind of confidence that turned him molten beneath her hands.
And Teddy folded.
Not because he lost power.
Because she made putting it down feel good.
He folded in the way his shoulders loosened beneath her touch, in the way his mouth followed hers instead of leading for once, in the way one hand slid up her back and held her there like he had found something sacred in the middle of all that campaign wreckage, in the way his breath broke when she tugged gently at his lower lip and whispered his name like she had decided it belonged to her after all.
“Teddy,” she breathed.
His forehead touched hers.
“You keep doing that.”
“What?”
“Making me forget what I came in here to say.”
Mizan smiled, slow and satisfied, the grown woman in her glowing beneath silk and moonlight like Hera wearing Aphrodite’s perfume.
“You came in here to tell me to stop playing.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Teddy looked at her, at the warmth in her brown eyes, at the mouth he had been craving for months, at the woman who had finally stopped hiding long enough to show him that wanting her was not a chase but a duel he had been lucky to survive.
“And now,” he said, voice low as he kissed her once, then again, softer, slower, “I’m thinking I should’ve asked nicer.”
Mizan smiled against his mouth, and that smile did something to him, something worse than a kiss and sweeter than a confession, because it was not shy, not uncertain, not the smile of a woman being won over by a man’s arrogance, but the quiet, satisfied curve of a woman realizing exactly how much power she had been holding in her hands the entire time.
“You should have,” she whispered.
Teddy stilled.
Not completely.
His hands were still on her waist, his body still between her knees, his mouth still close enough to steal breath from hers if he wanted to, but some sharp, instinctive part of him recognized the change in her tone, recognized that Mizan Henderson had stopped retreating and had started deciding, and God help him, that was the thing that made his pulse trip hardest beneath his skin.
She lifted one hand to his jaw, her fingers soft against the clean line of it, and turned his face back to hers when his eyes dropped to her mouth too quickly.
“Look at me,” she said.
And Teddy did.
Immediately.
The obedience was so clean, so natural, so unforced that Mizan’s breath almost caught on it, because this was what people did not understand about men like Teddy Spencer, men with pretty mouths and dangerous confidence and enough swagger to walk into a room like the room had been waiting on them; sometimes the strongest thing about them was not how they took control, but how beautifully they gave it up when they finally met a woman they trusted to hold it.
“There you go,” she murmured, brushing her thumb along his cheek. “You listen so well when you stop running your mouth.”
His eyes darkened.
“Mizan.”
“No,” she said softly, and the word was not harsh, but it landed with the weight of a hand pressed gently to the center of his chest. “Don’t start talking now.”
Teddy’s mouth parted around whatever clever thing he had been about to say, some smooth, wicked line meant to tilt the room back in his favor, but Mizan’s thumb brushed over his lower lip before he could release it, and the words died there, warm against her skin.
She felt him swallow.
She smiled.
“There he is.”
Teddy let out a quiet, breathless laugh, but it had none of the old ease in it now, none of that doorway arrogance he had carried into her office like a torch. This laugh was lower, rougher, almost helpless, dragged out of him by the simple fact that she had touched his mouth and told him not to speak, and he, Teddy Spencer, had listened.
“You like this too much,” he murmured.
Mizan tilted her head, brown eyes calm on his blue ones, Poseidon’s sea finally learning that the shore was not helpless beneath it, that sand could pull, hold, swallow, shape the very water that thought itself the conqueror.
“I do,” she admitted.
His breath shifted.
That was the difference with Mizan. She did not pretend innocence once she stopped pretending refusal. She did not giggle and shrink from the power in her own desire. She looked at him with grown woman certainty, with the kind of patience that made a man feel studied, chosen, handled.
She slid both hands to the front of his shirt and smoothed the fabric down slowly, not because it needed smoothing, but because she wanted to feel the hard, careful tension beneath it, wanted to feel how still he could become for her, wanted to know whether all that swagger could survive the simple command of her touch.
It did not.
Not fully.
Teddy’s lashes lowered for half a second, and Mizan’s smile deepened.
“You came in here so sure of yourself,” she whispered. “Telling me to stop playing. Telling me I wanted you. Telling me what my body was doing.”
His hands tightened at her waist, but he did not interrupt her.
Good.
She leaned in, brushing her mouth against the edge of his jaw, barely a kiss, barely anything at all, and felt the way his shoulders went rigid beneath her hands.
“Now look at you,” she murmured.
Teddy exhaled slowly through his nose.
“Careful.”
Mizan kissed the corner of his mouth, then pulled back before he could catch hers properly.
“Is that a warning?”
His eyes opened, heavy and hot. “It’s a request.”
That pleased her more than the warning would have.
Mizan slid her fingers up to his collar and adjusted it with unhurried precision, making him wait, making him stand there between her knees with his hands on her and no permission to rush, no permission to turn his want into action until she allowed it.
“You want something?” she asked.
Teddy stared at her.
For a second, pride flashed across his face, masculine and instinctive, the old reflex of a man used to winning with one smile, one line, one step forward.
Then Mizan’s fingers slipped to the back of his neck, nails grazing lightly at the place she had already discovered made him quiet, and Teddy’s eyes fluttered, just once.
There.
That was it.
That was the truth beneath all the arrogance.
He wanted her enough to yield.
“I want you,” he said, voice rough.
Mizan’s expression softened, but only slightly. “Better.”
He gave a low laugh. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“You grading me now?”
“I’ve been grading you.”
“And how am I doing?”
Mizan let her gaze move over him slowly, from the beautiful frustration in his eyes to the tight line of his jaw, to the way his hands still held her as if he could pull her closer but would not dare do it before she let him.
She leaned forward until her lips brushed his ear.
“You’re learning.”
Teddy’s hand flexed at her hip.
Not grabbing.
Not taking.
Just reacting.
And that reaction made heat curl low in Mizan’s stomach, because there was something devastating about having a man like him like this, about watching all that confidence remain intact while still bending toward her, about realizing he did not feel smaller beneath her direction, only hungrier, sharper, more devoted to the tension because she was the one controlling its pace.
“Ask me,” she whispered.
His brow pulled faintly. “Ask you what?”
Mizan drew back enough to look him in the eye. “Ask me if you can kiss me again.”
Teddy went still.
The room held its breath around them, moonlight silvering the wreckage of her desk, the scattered files, the old wine still buried in the bin beneath them like some abandoned offering to Dionysus.
His mouth curved, just a little, because Teddy Spencer still had that mouth, still had that nerve, still had enough boldness in him to make submission look like flirtation instead of defeat.
“Can I kiss you again, Mizan?”
Her name sounded ruined in his voice.
She liked it.
She liked it too much.
“Nicely,” she said.
His smile flickered, but his eyes darkened in a way that told her he understood exactly what she was doing to him and liked it more than he wanted to admit.
“Can I kiss you again, please?”
Mizan’s breath caught despite herself.
Because there it was.
There was the thing that made Teddy dangerous in a way younger men rarely were. He did not mistake being led for being weakened. He did not bristle so hard against her hand that he broke the moment trying to prove himself. He stood there, beautiful and burning, asking her nicely because she told him to, and somehow it made him look more like a man than all his chasing ever had.
Mizan touched his face again.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Teddy kissed her.
Not before.
Not a second early.
Only when she gave him the word.
And when he did, it was slower than before, deeper but not rushed, his mouth moving against hers with that same devastating confidence, only now it had changed shape, now it followed the rhythm she set, now every press of his lips seemed to ask, like this? here? more? while his hands stayed where she had allowed them, firm at her waist, careful at her hips, waiting for her body to answer before he took another inch.
Mizan made him wait anyway.
She kissed him once, then pulled back.
He followed.
She caught his jaw.
He stopped.
A tiny sound left him, frustrated and low, and Mizan smiled so close to his mouth that he could feel it.
“Greedy,” she whispered.
“For you?” he said, breath rough. “Always.”
Her smile faded into something warmer, heavier.
“Good answer.”
Then she kissed him again, and this time she let him have more, let her hands slide into his hair, let her knees draw him closer, let the silk of her suit whisper against him as she shifted on the desk and pulled him into her space like a queen dragging a beautiful soldier down from his horse.
Teddy folded into her with a low sound against her mouth.
Not weak.
Never weak.
But willing.
So willing that it made Mizan’s head spin.
His hands slid up her back, then stopped when her fingers tightened in his hair.
She pulled back just enough to speak.
“Hands where I can feel them.”
Teddy’s eyes burned into hers.
“Yes, ma’am.”
The words left his mouth low, teasing at the edges, but the effect was immediate and violent, heat flashing through Mizan so quickly she almost lost the upper hand out of sheer reaction.
Almost.
Instead, she dragged her thumb across his lower lip, slow and approving.
“That mouth of yours,” she whispered. “It’s always either getting you in trouble or getting you out of it.”
Teddy kissed her thumb lightly, eyes on hers.
“Which one is it doing now?”
Mizan leaned closer, her lips brushing his, her voice soft enough to make him strain for it.
“Both.”
His breath broke.
And that, more than anything, made her blush-hot with power.
Not because he wanted her. She had known that. Not because he had chased her. She had known that too. But because Teddy Spencer, with all his blue-eyed confidence and his dangerous smile and his relentless mouth, was standing between her thighs on the edge of her ruined desk, waiting for permission, following her lead, letting her make him ache on purpose.
She kissed him again, but this time she did it like a command, slow and thorough, until he stopped trying to predict her and simply answered, until the tension between them stopped feeling like a war and started feeling like choreography, his heat, her pace, his hunger, her hand at the back of his neck guiding the rhythm.
When she finally pulled away, Teddy looked at her like she had taken the sun out of the sky and hidden it under her tongue.
“Mizan,” he said, hoarse.
She lifted a brow. “Yes?”
“I’m trying real hard to behave.”
Her smile came slow, soft, devastating.
“I know.”
His eyes narrowed. “You like that too.”
“I like many things about you behaving.”
“Yeah?”
Mizan’s hand slid down from his hair to rest over his heart, feeling it strike hard beneath her palm.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Mostly that you only do it for me.”
Teddy stared at her for one long second, and then his head dipped, not to kiss her, but to press his forehead against her shoulder as if he needed a moment, as if her words had gone straight through the armor of his swagger and found the softer, more dangerous thing beneath.
Mizan’s fingers slipped into his hair again.
Gentler now.
Still in control.
“Look at you,” she murmured, lips near his temple. “All that chasing, all that talking, all that confidence.”
Teddy breathed a quiet laugh against her. “Don’t start.”
“And you just needed someone to tell you where to put it.”
He lifted his head slowly, eyes dark, mouth parted around a retort that did not come.
Because she was right.
And they both knew it.
Mizan kissed him again before he could recover, smiling when he followed her lead without hesitation, smiling when his hands settled exactly where she wanted them, smiling when the great, arrogant, beautiful Teddy Spencer softened under her direction like the tide finally admitting the moon had been pulling it all along.
Mizan smiled, slow and sovereign, her fingers tightening gently in Teddy’s hair as she tilted his face back up to hers and whispered, “You can chase me all you want, baby, but don’t ever forget who’s holding the leash…now get on your knees baby.”
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