BLACK OC!(Clover.) x Joey Bada$$ as "Unique" from Raising Kanan.
(A/N: I don't condone sex in the church. I intended to completely revamp this story, enhancing it overall, even the detailed smut section. However, I hope you enjoy it!❤️🫡🤣)
Summary: You were a churchgoer to your aunt's church on Sundays, until Unique took over as the new pastor, His arrival brought a wave of change, including a growing attraction between you and him. As you confessed your feelings to him, a scandalous affair you had to hide, threatening to tear apart the church and your faith.
Warnings: praise, dirty talk, in the church, slow seduction, spanking, choking/breathplay, head (male receiving) teasing, rough sex.
His back leaned against the crimson-cushioned armchair with his deep brown eyes fixed on the group of churchgoers leaving from the pews as their hushed chatter filled the spacious sanctuary, the double doors closed behind the two black women standing between the pews, inviting the silence in the church. The scent of his cologne filled the air, a mix of musk and sandalwood that added to his allure. The four walls are painted in a vanilla cream hue adorned with stained glass windows, the sunlight peeks through casting a warm orange glow.
"Clov' can you believe that 'Nique is the new custodian/minister of the church?" Simone whispered softly, her eyebrows raised in confusion.
"Nope, I can't believe it at all.." Clover whispered back, shaking her head from side to side.
Ever since the moment Unique engaged in a persuasive conversation with Clover's aunt, Athena Clark, the notorious kingpin of New York, he maintained his henchmen actively working on the streets, while he effortlessly accumulated wealth. With his loyal right-hand man Worrell by his side, Unique's suave demeanor and irresistible charm managed to win over Athena's trust.
Clover sported a sleek black knee-length dress that hugged her curves perfectly paired with matching heels adorning her feet, her dark brown skin with her brown eyes on display, and her honey brown tresses swayed gently at her shoulders with a gold heart-shaped necklace hung around her neck and her small gold hoop earrings swung from her ears.
Although the members of the church were less than thrilled, Athena silenced their criticisms and transformed Unique's involvement into a profitable venture. Surprisingly, the church harbored a greater number of drug addicts than Unique had anticipated. Consequently, he assumed the roles of both custodian and chairman for the church situated in Aristoa Queens.
But ever since Unique took over, something had shifted within her. His sermons were captivating, his words resonating deep within her soul. There was an undeniable connection between them, one that went beyond the realm of spirituality.
The churchgoers didn't say anything but only kept it to themselves. Worrell wasn't too convinced that Kadeem changed his ways from the start, but Unique had had his eyes on Clover for some time now, and their attraction toward each other grew deeper.
"Yo, I'll be headin' to the stash house for the night 'Nique. I'll page you if anythin' goes down or when Raq is workin' her way up." Worrell mentioned, he steps off the stage.
His boss gave him a subtle nod with a hint of authority, "A'ight then, Thank you Worrell.." Unique replied, standing up from the chair.
Unique sported a black fur coat paired with a matching black tee shirt, his deep ebony skin and glinting gold herringbone chain shone underneath the crescent moon-hued lights, and black dress pants pooled around his legs as his sly grin showed his gold fronts along with a single gold hoop earring dangling from his right ear. His freshly cut low fade is on display.
"Miss Clover," he called out, his voice smooth as silk. "Would you care to join me in the pews?"
Her heart raced at the invitation, a mix of excitement and guilt flooding through her. She hesitated for a moment, however, her desire overpowered any sense of rationality. "Yes Kadeem.." Clover finally spoke up, giving him a nod.
As Worrell and Simone filed out, Clover found herself lingering, unable to tear her gaze away from Unique. His eyes met her, a knowing smile playing on his lips. It was as if he could sense the turmoil within her, the desires that she had kept hidden for so long. The doors closed behind them, leaving the two of them alone in the church.
Kadeem took a seat in the front row of the crimson-cushioned russet brown pews with Clover settling beside him, his arms resting on the headrest of the pews, their eyes locked on each other as the tension filled the air.
"Is there anythin' you want to talk to me about Clov'?" Kadeem asked her, tilting his head toward her as he caught a glimpse of her shy smile.
She exhaled a soft breath from her lips as Clover gathered her thoughts in the depths of her mind, and mustered up the courage to tell him.
"I came here today because I have these desires and feelings for you.." Clover confessed, her teeth tucked between her lips.
"As the new pastor of this church, I'm here to tell you that there's nothin' to be ashamed of baby. We all have desires..." He added with a grin, gently twisting his thick gold rings adorning his fingers.
"So tell me, what do I do with these desires Kadeem?" Clover asked softly, her heart beating out of her chest.
His devilish smirk etched on his attractive face, "We can explore them together, Clover." He replied, his voice laced with mischief.
The naughty thoughts of doing such salacious acts in the church made her feel nervous, She had never imagined herself in such a scandalous situation, but there was something about Kadeem that drew her in, something she couldn't resist.
"Let me show you a different kind of worship."
Clover gently caressed Kadeem's face, her touch sending shivers down his spine.
"You are so beautiful. And I want to worship every inch of you," he murmured, his lips brushing against hers.
He captured her lips in a passionate kiss with the soft smack of their lips filling the empty church. "Worship me then.." She whispered, her lips brushed his.
She bashfully scoots closer to him, her knees touching his. She gently stood up from the couch and crouched between his legs, "Can I touch you baby?" she asked softly. He nodded in response, his teeth tucked underneath his bottom lip. Showing off his glinting gold fronts.
Her hands deftly unbuckled his black belt with her cheeks growing hot at the sound of his zipper unzipping, gently sliding down his pants and grey boxers. His dick sprung free from the deep green fabric and stood at attention, "Kadeem, you're so big.." Clover cooed, she pecked the tip of his dick, Clover heard him say 'fuck' under his breath.
"Is this dick all mine?" Clover hummed with a sly smirk, her hand stroking his dick gently. Hearing him grunt deeply in response.
Her hand stroked his length with the veins of his dick protruding against her fingerprints, Kadeem threw his head back onto the plush pillow as his large hands instinctively gripped the headrest of the pews, "Damn Clov'. It's all yours baby.." he moaned raspily, He thrusts his hips into her hand. In desperate need of friction.
She watched his glossy precum seep from his tip, and her tongue eagerly tasted it that flowed, eliciting a moan of pleasure from her.
Clover skillfully took his length in her mouth with her head bopping up and down on his dick, eliciting deep grunts from the young male. "fuck, that's my girl" he praised, his hand resting on the crown of her head.
Clover's eyes watered slightly as she fought against her gag reflex, her tongue traced across the veins of his dick. She relaxed her throat, allowing him to slide deeper, the sensation both overwhelming and exhilarating. Kadeem's grip tightened in her hair, his hips thrusting gently as he guided her rhythm.
He softly nudged her head, causing the tip of his dick to brush against the back of her throat, while he tilted his head backward. "Use that pretty mouth baby..." Clover's moans were muffled by his length, her hands gripping the pews for support. She could feel the heat building within her, her panties pooled with her essence. Staining the red carpet underneath them.
"You look so pretty like this.."
Without a utter from him, "f-fuck..i'm-" he moaned loudly, his gold rings brushed across her dark brown skin, "Come then, baby.." she muttered, as he poured his thick warm jets of cum into her mouth. She swallowed every drop of him and he gently pulled her off of him before giving her a passionate kiss on the lips.
"I think you deserve a reward for that baby girl.."
Clover had a smirk adorned on her face, "Worship me Kadeem.." Clover whispered, gently taking off her black lace panties as she flung them at him.
Kadeem caught them in his hand and passed them back to her, "You're such a bad girl..." he cooed, pecking her forehead. He pulled up his boxers and pants.
"Hello? Pastor Kadeem?" a fellow pastor named Joesph called out. His voice echoed upstairs and stepped closer to the balcony.
Clover's eyes widened for a bit from hearing Joseph's voice before Kadeem quickly carried her to the back of the church, Kadeem carried her through the dimly lit narrow hallway of the holy sanctuary, his steps echoed off the walls as he unlocked the door in front of her.
————
He opened the door as he strode through the threshold, entering the brightly lit spacious room as he closed the door behind them with a gentle click.
"That was a close one huh?" Clover joked, bursting into laughter.
Kareem playfully rolled his eyes at her and he gently laid her on her back on the plush chocolate brown leather couch, his gaze never leaving hers.
"Yeah it was..." he chuckled lightly, his fingers traced patterns on her bare thighs.
"You ready?" He asked gently, pecking her lips twice.
"Yes.."
Clover gently parted her legs for him revealing her glistening pussy, Kadeem pulled his pants and boxers down a bit as he gently rolled his tip across her wet folds and throbbing clit, "Look at you, already fuckin' wet for me.." Kadeem teased, his teeth tucked between his lips.
He leaned in gradually as she did the same action, his lips pressed onto her lips, he tilted his head to the side, deepening the kiss as their tongues swirled in different directions, "please...i need your dick..." she mumbled, their kisses both stifled their moans, as he delicately guided his dick between her wet folds, causing her mouth to part slightly.
"yes..just like that.." Clover moaned softy, throwing her arms over his shoulders.
Kadeem pushed his hips forward, slowly sliding his length into her tight, wet walls. Clover gasped at the feeling of him filling her up, "I-i love this dick baby..." she gasped, her walls clenching around him. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips tightly as he began to move, setting at a steady pace.
"And I love this wet pussy..." he praised, his eyes locked on her face twisting up in pleasure. The sounds of their moans and skin slapping together filling the room. His large hand wrapped her throat as he gently applied pressure, forcing her gaze on his.
Kadeem's thrusts grew harder and faster, his hips meeting hers with each powerful movement. "Oh fuck! Kadeem!" Clover chanted, her nails dug into his back, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist as she felt his tip kiss her cervix.
The couch creaked beneath them, deepening their connection. Her wet walls clenched around his dick as he moaned again, "You're taking this dick so well baby.." he grunted deeply, her moans growing louder and more desperate, he reached down between her legs and rubbed her clit in tight circles, his thumb covered in her juices, pushing her closer to the edge.
"Oh—shit! I-I'm cumming..." Clover announced, her nails scratching onto his back, leaving new welts on his deep ebony skin, their melanated skin glistening with beads of swear underneath the lights.
"Let it all out baby..." He praised through her climax, passionately kissing her lips.
Her juices gushed all over his dick completely with their lips breaking apart, Clover's orgasm washed over her as she cried out loudly, her her body trembling beneath him. Kadeem gently pulled out of her right on time before he too reached his peak. He came on her stomach and the young male stood up from the couch. He grabbed her hand and pecked the back of her palm.
Kadeem pulled up his boxers and black pants with his eyes on Clover getting dressed before the night time arrived. "So tell me did I fulfill your desires baby?" He asked gently, buckling his belt together.
"Yes you did, I'm impressed Pastor Kadeem." Clover chuckled lightly, smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress.
"I never knew worship could feel this good," she whispered, her teeth tucked between her lips.
Clover and Kadeem walked out of his office as they smiled at Joseph with fake smiles, Kadeem closed the door behind him. Greeting the young brown-skinned man with kindness.
"Is everything alright down there?" He asked, raising an eyebrow at them.
"Yes, everything is just fine Joseph. Just discussing sermons with Kadeem.." Clover chuckled lightly,
"Oh, that's great. Have a great and safe night out there.." Joseph told them, giving them a warm smile. He stepped out of the church.
They exchanged pleasantries with Joseph, making small talk about church events and upcoming sermons. Clover feel a rush of excitement and guilt as she maintained her composure, knowing what had just happened between her and Kadeem in the sacred space of the church.
Once they were alone in Kadeem's car, Clover turned to him with a serious expression on her face. "Kadeem, what we just did...it was incredible, but we can't let it happen again."
"You're right, Clover. We crossed a line today, and it's important that we keep it ourselves..."
"Why the fuck were you stayin' out so gotdamn late at night again hm?"
With an air of elegance, she perched on the plush chocolate-brown couch, her arms and legs crossed in an unwavering stance. Her stubborn gaze bore into her husband as he puffed on a blunt, exhaling thick clouds of smoke into the air. The scent of jasmine perfume and weed mingled together, filling the room. The soft sound of Faith Evans' "Soon As I Get Home" drifted from the radio, barely audible as she turned down the volume with her delicate fingertips. The medium-sized living room was adorned with coffee-cream walls, adorned with frames of the couple's wedding day and a few works of art. The bright orange recessed lights shone down on their melanated skin, heightening the tension in the room. The thick, heavy atmosphere was palpable enough to cut with a knife.
"Lanae you know damn well why I'm always out of this fuckin' house so late, I'm workin' on these streets to provide for you! When I'm busy, You can call Worrell, Donnie and Tyree on what the fuck I'm doin' for our family yo!" Unique spat, frustrated, pointing to the phone on the answering machine that wasn't glowing red.
As Unique's gaze narrowed, he crushed the blunt into the ashtray, the drug coursing through his veins. Despite the temporary calmness it brought, his nerves remained frayed by the ongoing argument.
"If you need proof, just give Worrell, Donnie, or Tyree a call and ask them what I'm doing for us. It's frustratin' to see that red light on the answering machine not blinking, telling me that you haven't even bothered to check for my messages Nae." Unique spat with intensity, his finger pointing toward the silent machine.
"I'm not calling them niggas, I'm pagin' you! Then why the hell I'm smellin' perfume on you, Kadeem? Are you cheatin' on me? 'cause I swear I'll knock that grill out of yo' mouth and make sure that bitch never sees the light of day nigga!" Lanae exclaimed, her voice laced with anger and frustration.
Lanae stood up from the couch, her black slippers gliding over the polished hardwood floors, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Getting closer to his face, It was just another day, another argument.
Lanae draped herself in a sleek jet-black silk robe, hugging her curvaceous body while the soft fabric rubbed against her thick thighs. The sleeves stopped at her elbows, allowing her to flaunt her soft melanated skin. To complete her look, she adorned a black paisley banana on her dark brown curls, which bounced gracefully at her shoulders. Her thick glasses rested behind her dark brown pupils, and she kept her feet cozy with black slippers and black tube socks. A shimmering gold necklace around her neck with the initial 'L', sent a slight shiver down her spine from the cold metal.
"First of all, I ain't fuckin' no other bitch and I was workin' with Raquel this mornin' second of all, I'm not a bum ass nigga who cheats on his wife! This is the seventh time with this bullshit Nae Nae!" Unique shot back, pinching his forehead. He regretted putting out his blunt just now, realizing he relied on marijuana to soothe his nerves.
For the last few weeks, Unique and Lanae have been constantly at odds with each other. Their relationship had become quite toxic, with pointless arguments leading to more fights. However, the constant bickering had taken a toll on both of them, leaving them feeling drained and exhausted.
"I knew it! I knew that old bitch liked young niggas like you! Matter of fact, if you're partnerin' with Raquel so much then why don't you just leave with her hard-headed ass son!"
Unique glared at his wife with a mean mug, a deep exhale escaped from his nostrils. He took a step back from her, his anger simmering inside. all he did was take deep breaths to calm his temper down because It seemed like they were on the brink of a breaking point, and Lanae's accusations were only adding fuel to the fire.
Unique knew that he needed to keep his cool, but it was getting harder and harder to do so. He took a deep breath and he couldn't explain himself again.
With his beige timberlands firmly planted on the brown hardwood floor, Unique spun on his heels and strode towards the door. Without a word to his wife, he swung the door open and stormed out of the house, the sound of his footsteps clicking on the concrete.
Lanae slumped onto the couch, tears streaming down her cheeks as she watched him go. Her heart sank as she heard the car doors slam and the engine revving, the sound of tires screeching as he tore out of the quiet neighborhood, leaving her alone with her tears.
———-
After a few hours of him being gone, Nae realized that the argument was stupid. She understood that Unique has been toiling tirelessly to provide for her and she knew he wouldn't cheat on her.
Just as Unique swung the door open and stepped back into the house, the realization hit her like a ton of bricks. He shut the door behind him and he locked eyes with his wife, Lanae, who promptly stood up from the couch. The couple made their way towards each other, their gazes locked in an intense embrace.
"Kadeem, I'm sorr—" but he interrupted her with a rough kiss, his hands tenderly cupping her face. They locked lips messily while Lanae's soft moans were stifled with each brush of his plump lips. Despite the ash and liquor on his breath, his enticing lips were just as intoxicating.
The throbbing sensation between her folds drove her wild, while Kadeem's twitching member in his pants caused a low groan to emit from him.
With lightning speed, Unique lifted his beloved and placed her on his shoulder, his lips curling into a seductive smirk. "If we fight then we can make up right baby?" He grinned, strutting confidently down the hallway and into their bedroom, closing the door with a thud.
—————
His bare back lay flat against the red silk sheets, Kadeem's strong right hand gripped the sides of her neck while his left hand held onto her wide hips, keeping her in place. He pressed her naked back against his broad chest as his slim hips swiveled with a rampant rhythm, driving into her with precision. Her eyes rolled back as his large hand kneaded her C-cup breast, his fingertip slightly pinching her erect nipple. "Fuckk! Kadeem!!" she moaned out, unable to contain her pleasure as her body shook and bounced under his rough touch.
At this point, these two had already forgotten what they were arguing about in the first place when they were in the moment right now, Unique was such a tease during sex, he can rough, fast or slow whichever she wanted. He will deliver. "You love this dick?" he groaned lowly, He rammed upwards into her with a steady and powerful rhythm, hitting her favorite spot that made her see stars.
She felt his hot breath on her neck, urging her to come undone with him. "Y-Yesss! I love that dick! Daddy!" Lanae sobbed out, tears of pleasure rolling down her rosy red cheeks, She arched her back while pressing her body closer to his as she felt the heat building up inside her. The wet noises of her pussy swallowing his dick aired out in the bedroom.
Kadeem moves his hand from Lanae's breast and slowly moved it down to her clit, his middle finger gently massaging it in fast circles. "I love this pussy...Don't you forget that.." Unique moaned, She let out a soft moan, her wide hips moving in rhythm with his touch as they continued to move together, the sound of their skin slapping filled the room, building the intensity of their passion.
Unique watched in awe as Lanae's body tensed up, signaling her impending climax. With a few more thrusts, their movements became more frantic, leaving a mess of sheets beneath them. "You're makin' a mess Nae Nae," Unique cooed, her delicate hands gripping the silk sheets. "I-i'm cummin—"Lanae was cut off by the sudden rush of her climax, her white creamy essence spilling over his thick manhood. He was in a trace as his dick glistened under the dim lights before he too reached his peak, filling Lanae with his hot cum.
With a swift motion, Unique pulled out of her wet core, his hand gripping the sides of her neck and demanded, "Open wide for me, my baby girl." He released his hold on her neck as she opened her mouth wide while sticking her tongue out and angling his member at her mouth. Meanwhile, her lover pumped himself quickly, "Lanae..fuckk" He deeply grunted as he climaxed, spilling his warm cum onto her tongue. She moaned lewdly at the taste of him as Unique watched with a satisfied smirk. He pulled her chin towards him, planting a messy kiss on her lips.
The married couple fell onto the bed with their bodies entangled, their shoulders touching as they tried to catch their breath. The argument they had earlier seemed like a distant memory now. Unique pulled Lanae closer, holding her in his loving arms, planting gentle kisses on her forehead. "I'm sorry Nae Nae..." he apologized softly, brushing her raven curls away from her face as he pecked her lips twice. Lanae giggled, her heart swelling with love for him.
"I love that gorgeous face," he beamed with a smile. His New York accent slipped from his lips, They both knew that their bond was too precious to be ruined by a petty argument. They were blessed to have each other, and nothing could ever change that.
Summary: On a regular Friday after work before waiting for one of his latest videos, your neighbor Kadeem brought you a package until you found out that your fine ass neighbor was your favorite adult flim star, Unique.
A/N: it's been a minute since I wrote about Joey, enjoy! don't forget to leave comments, likes to support, drop a request if you like.
Warnings: dirty talk, praise, orgasm denial, fingering, use of AAVE, cussing, tapes. rough sex, choking kink, protected sex, consensual for both parties, AU where Unique is in the modern day world, pet names.
It was a typical Friday night, the kind where the world outside felt like a distant echo while you nestled into your cozy apartment with a bag of snacks and a comfy pink blanket in your bedroom. The smell of something sweet and lavender wafted in the room.
The flickering light from your TV danced across the four on your brown skin as you scrolled through your favorite adult site, your heart racing with anticipation for the latest video featuring Unique.
Your freshly two-strand twisted locs hung in front of your face, your fingers carefully pulled out the black rubber bands.
The black screen with red trims displayed a white loading icon that was frustrating, while the message read, "New video arriving soon—don't miss out on UniqueDaDon!"
With a deep sigh, your face contorted in frustration as you rolled your eyes, the weight of impatience settling heavily in you. Your thumb angrily swiped up the screen, dismissing the page with a flick that felt almost like a release.
You shut your phone off and tossed it onto the pillow, the device landing with a soft thud, mirroring your exasperation.
Where was Unique? Your favorite porn star, Friday, Wednesday and Monday nights before 11pm were his usual scheduling time on the adult site. He was never late either, this was new.
A sudden yet alarming knock on your door jolted you back to reality. You glanced at the time—11 PM. Who the hell could it be?
Your heart raced for a different reason now, but as the doorbell chimed, your phone's camera revealed Kadeem's familiar face. You sighed in relief, putting down the gun that had been your recent purchase.
"Y/N, you've got a package! It's a crockpot, right?" His voice was teasing, laced with that signature charm that made your heart flutter.
Damn it. They accidentally sent your purple crockpot to him. That was the last time you ordered anything online without double-checking the delivery address.
"Uh, yeah! Just, uh, some... new cooking material for my collection!" You called back, trying to play it cool, but the heat creeping up your cheeks gave you away.
You opened the door, your heart racing as you took in his appearance. He wore a black tee, paired with sweatpants. and those dark brown eyes of his sparkled under the orange hallway lights.
Kadeem chuckled, his laughter deep and rich, echoing through the thin walls between your apartments. "Cookin' material, huh? What'chu cooking tonight?" he teased, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed casually.
"Maybe some beef stew this time, hopefully it turns out good, not too soft, if not, i'll just order take out," You replied with a nod.
"I always smell something good from your apartment, I know you're good at what you do," He said, smiling a bit.
He resided directly opposite you in the upscale, five-story apartment complex located in the suburbs, where both of you occupied units on the first floor. This location suited you due to your job at the nearby library, which provided a tranquil environment.
Kadeem resided in apartment 102 while you were in apartment 101; the building was quiet and uneventful, mostly occupied by residents or college students who minded their own business.
You tried to play it cool, but the heat creeping up your cheeks betrayed you. "Uh, thanks for bringing it over," you said, trying to sound casual.
He leaned against the doorframe, his hands stuffed in his pockets. "You know I got you, Y/N. Just doin' my neighborly duties," he replied, stepping a little closer. He leaned casually against the doorframe, the air thick with unspoken tension.
"So, what you into these days? Besides, ya know, cookin'?" His gaze dropped to your box, and you felt your heart skip a beat, knowing he couldn't see the website you had been on.
You smirk, trying to deflect. "Oh, you know, just the usual. Binge-watching, and the occasional art pieces of mine." You shot back, trying to keep it light-hearted, but the heat of the moment was palpable.
You wanted to be done with this conversation quickly before you missed a notification, pursuing your lips. Especially testing out your new crockpot.
"Well, thanks again Kadeem, I'll be sure to let know you if I need to smoke weed," You quickly said, eyeing him up and down.
"Anytime, Y/N," Kadeem replied back, as he walked away from the door and toward his apartment door.
"Bye Kadeem," You sang playfully with a smile, waving back to him before closing the door.
He sold marijuana to nearby residents while working as a full-time adult film actor to cover his expenses, on a reputable black-owned porn site that strictly filtered out unsavory characters, minimized ads.
He exclusively showcased black women or curvy black women in his content. In their mid-twenties and some older, in their early thirties. From this very neighborhood.
His work wasn't much vanilla, nor too many hardcore videos, if there was a fantasy from the woman then Unique would fulfill it. He was always at the top row of the home page, verified with five stars.
After work, you would smoke weed with him since he was your plug, chatting about your day, and you always made a point to pay him. However, Kadeem consistently reminded you that it was free of charge.
Your heart raced as you clicked on the notification, the familiar thrill coursing through you.
"Oh shit, I can't be late," you whispered quickly, grabbing your phone with ease.
You ran inside of your bedroom and grabbed your laptop, putting it on the charger, you flipped the light switch and the darkness filled the room.
You snuggled into the blankets of your bed to get comfy, grabbing your earbuds and plugged it in your phone below, the timer on the adult site went to 10 seconds, as the logo of the website flickered on the black ink screen.
"Five...four...three..." You mumbled under your breath, your eyes glued to the screen.
"Now Unique wants to post on time, huh?" You sang lowly but smirked a bit, biting down on your lip.
The intro music softly faded in and out, and suddenly there he was Unique displaying that signature smirk that made your stomach flip. You felt a rush of heat flood your cheeks. Good thing this video wasn't recent either.
The video began with Kadeem showed off that signature smirking, lying down at the front of his bed with his hands behind his head, a smirk on his face and while the black woman with the same dark brown complexion as him, crawled toward him with the dim light of the room that felt as intimate as your own.
Your mouth went agape once the video faded out, and you quickly came to a sudden realization, the same man who was your plug, lived across from you was your favorite porn star? How the hell did you not see that?
His hands adorned gripped her throat, momentarily constricting her airflow, eliciting a soft harsh gasp from the woman, passing the condom to him, her hands rested on the headboard as he lifted her and settled down onto his dick. She began riding him with a steady pace.
"Faster, you pretty slut,"
His eyes flickered back to the camera with a playfully glint as if he was looking at you through the screen, letting low groan from the warmth of her walls gripping his dick tightly, "Talk to me, baby. Tell me how good you're feeling,"
Every moan, grunt, thrust spurred you on, the ache in your stomach made you squirm underneath the blankets, and your tiny whimper left your lips.
"Lord, help me," you whispered, sinking deeper into the pillow as you tried to ignore the ache building inside you.
You knew you shouldn't be watching this, especially when you had just seen him a few moments ago, but here you were, it felt all too real. Your breath hitched and panted heavily.
And then he did that one thing you liked, talking to the wrong through her climax.
"There you go, let me have it,"
Once the video was over and swiped up to exit, you quickly ran toward the bathroom and accidentally knocked over your small dresser, the thud noise echoed through the walls. You screamed out loudly.
"Shit, all this fucking time, it was him," You mumbled to yourself, wondering how you did not see it.
You were still bewildered by the fact that it was really him, and you imagined how it would feel to be in her place, to have those hands on you, to feel that body against yours. That friction with him.
Just then, the doorbell rang again, pulling you from your reverie. You cursed out loud, but curiosity got the better of you. You cleaned up mess, and threw the glass in the trash. "Who the fuck could it be now?"
You quickly paused the video and tossed your phone aside, throwing on a hoodie to cover up as you made your way to the door, your heart racing once again.
"Y/N, you good in there? I heard you scream and a loud thud. You alright?" Kadeem's voice echoed through the door, concern lacing his tone.
"Yeah, just uh...tripped over something! I'm good!" you called back, trying to sound nonchalant, but the slight tremor in your voice betrayed your nerves.
"Alright, just checking on you," he replied, and you could hear the concern in his voice. "You know I'm just across the hall if you need anything. Like...you know, a good smoke or a good meal."
You chuckled awkwardly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again, but it wasn't just from embarrassment anymore. It was that undeniable attraction you felt toward him, mixed with the knowledge of what he did for a living, that sent your heart racing.
You stood at the door, then opened it revealing Kadeem there. Still dressed in the same attire, while you exhaled a blissful sigh. "Actually, I don't feel like cooking tonight, I could use a good meal,"
"Dinner is on me, I got you. What do you want to eat?" Kadeem asked in a warm tone, his eyes on you, you felt the heat rush in your cheeks again.
"I'll just take some wings and fries, my drink can be a fruit punch, ranch on the side too by the way," You added, batting your eyelashes at him.
"Done," he said, pulling out his phone, scrolling through the DoorDash app, typing in the food, the drinks and the sauce.
"While we wait, can I ask you something Kadeem?" you said softly, your tone a bit nervous yet steady. You walked over to the light purple couch with him, you took a seat on the left side.
He looked up from his plate, his eyes flickered back to you, while he gently plopped onto the couch beside you, "Of course you can, what's on your mind?"
You hesitated briefly, but the moment felt right. "So, um... this might sound a bit weird, but I've been watching a lot of your content online. Like, you know, Unique? Your videos? I'm a fan."
"You're a fan of my videos?" he asked in a soft tone like he was surprised a bit. His body shifted toward you and his knees brushed against yours.
"Yeah, you're good at what you do,"
Kadeem smiled at what you said to him, "I appreciate that, but you know, I could tell you were a fan. Your comments always stood out, they were always so funny, and clever,"
Your heart raced as you processed his words, feeling exposed yet thrilled. "So you've been watching me watch you?" you teased, your voice playful despite the heat washing over you.
"Can you blame me? You're kinda hard to miss. Cute as hell, smart, sexy, funny, beautiful, always with that smile," he replied, leaning back against the couch, as he flashed that charming grin. "And trust me, I've got fantasies of my own about you."
You swallowed hard, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. "Are you serious?" you asked, trying to keep your voice steady, but the way he looked at you made it hard to concentrate.
"Let's just say, I've imagined what it'd be like to have you in many positions," he said, his voice low and smooth, sending shivers down your spine.
Kadeem had a crush on you, and those feelings surpassed into something deeper, but your imagination did run wild.
"I've had a few of the same." You could hardly believe the words spilling from his mouth, it made your heart race.
"But honestly, I'd rather just have you all to myself, no cameras," he admitted, his tone shifting to something more intimate.
You tried to speak but the words caught in your throat. You weren't sure how to respond.
"Tell me what you want, Y/N. Don't hold back," he replied, his voice a tempting whisper.
"No cameras. Just us, I want it to be real, you know?" you confirmed, your voice steady with sudden confidence.
Kadeem's expression softened, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "I like the sound of that."
You took a deep breath, the weight of his question hanging in the air. "So you want me to fuck you Y/N?" he asked you with a smile on his face.
You nodded nervously yet spoke up, "Yes, I do. But fuck me like you hate me yet you can't resist me, spank my ass, gently choke me, praise but without the word good girl, and edging, give me some direction, like that rough edge in your videos,"
"I can definitely do that. But I'll make sure it's all about your pleasure too. I want to know what makes you feel good but just say no when you want to stop" he mused, nodding at you.
Before you could respond, the doorbell rang again, breaking the moment. You shot him an apologetic smile and jumped up, He rushed to the door.
As Kadeem opened it, the delivery driver stood there with the food, the aroma of garlic parmesan wings and fries wafting in, making your stomach growl. You couldn't wait to eat.
"Perfect timing!" you exclaimed, he grabbed the bags from the driver and tipping him generously before closing the door. He hurried back to the couch, where you were already eyeing the spread eagerly.
He placed the bags on the brown polished coffee table, hissed from the heat touching your skin.
"So you like garlic parmesan?" he asked, opening the containers to reveal the steaming wings and crispy fries, each accompanied by little cups of ranch.
"I like what I like, so how have you been?" you replied, your heart still racing from the earlier conversation as you settled back next to him, the food between you both.
"I've been good, this is the kind of night I can get behind—good food, good company," he replied with a smile, picking up a wing and taking a bite, savoring the flavor.
You laughed softly, feeling the playful energy between you both. "And you enjoy my company?" you suggested, dipping a fry in ranch and offering it to him.
"Absolutely," he replied, leaning in to take the fry from your fingers, his lips brushing against your fingers. The simple action sent a thrill through you, igniting the chemistry that simmered beneath the surface.
After your food was finished, thrown in the trash and both of you washed your washes your hands, you grabbed his hands and led him to your bedroom, nudging the door open to the room that was neat. The walls were painted a soft lilac, a comforting hue.
Thankfully you did some spring cleaning this morning, so the vibrant floral sheets and candles gave the room a cozy feel. The smell of fresh linen and lavender filled the air.
The bed was in the middle of your bedroom, with the dresser in the corner and a small bookshelf beside it overflowing with novels and trinkets collected over the years. The vibe Kadeem got from it was one of warmth and personality.
"Nice place you got here," he remarked, taking in the surroundings with appreciation. He stood in the middle of the room with his
"Thank you, I try to keep it comfortable and inviting," you replied with a grateful smile. Was this man trying to steal your secrets on interior decorating, or was he just being polite?
You grabbed a condom from the dresser and passed it to him. "Will it fit you?" you asked him, a teasing glint in your eye, though your voice carried a hint of genuine curiosity as well.
"Trust me, it'll fit," he said with a wink, taking off his shirt while unwrapping the condom and tossing it onto the bed. "Now, you ready for this?"
Your eyes almost sparkled with lust as you nodded, you felt the lust building up inside. His dark brown skin was beautiful, and his chest was toned, each muscle defined under the soft glow of the candles.
"More than ready," you breathed, your heart racing in rhythm with the pounding of your pulse. You tugged at the edge of your shirt, pulling it over your head to reveal your breasts.
After taking off your shorts and panties, you wiped your sweaty hands on the towel you had used before tossing it into the hamper. You were so damn nervous but took a few breaths to keep your cool.
You bent over onto the bed and wiggled your ass at Kadeem, he responds by giving it a rough smack, you stifled a moan while he towers over you.
With that, you pushed him gently back onto the bed, the soft mattress cradling you as he hovered over you. His chain dangling in your face and kissed your lips again, pulling down his sweatpants and boxers, his dick was thick and hung near his thigh. That was a monster.
"Damn," you mumbled to yourself, your jaw hung low. You were damn speechless for the first time but you swallowed quickly.
"Like what'chu see beautiful?" Kadeem asked with a grin, flipping the light switch, the darkness filled the room but he turned on the other light switch to dim.
It wasn't too dark in the room but just enough light to see both of you, he kneeled onto the bed and hovered over you again.
You almost covered your face until he grabbed them, your cheeks heating again like a blushing bride getting ready for her wedding day, "Don't hide that pretty face from me," he added.
He stepped closer, his hands framing your face as he leaned in to capture your lips in a heated kiss. You melted into him, the soft pressure of his mouth against yours made you moan.
Your legs spread open for him, his eyes on your pussy then flickered back to you, his fingers gently fingered your pussy, you gasped softly, "Shit, no teasing, Kadeem please..." you whimpered biting your lip, he definitely wanted to do that first.
He chuckled darkly at your quick reply, his mouth wrapped around your nipple and kept pumping his fingers in and out of you at a tortuous, fast pace. He loved every moment of his, the faces you made and the way your moans echoed through the walls, alerting the residents Kadeem fucking you good.
Your essence spread all over the bedsheets, driving you wild in pleasure. "Fuck..m-more," you babbled softly, moving your hips to his fingers. Kadeem smirked at you while picking up the pace. You were a wet whimpering mess, legs shaking as he watched you break apart underneath him.
"Fuck Kadeem, just like that!" You reached for him desperately, when his fingers curled up inside you with reckless abandon, your back arched and your hands clutched his shoulders.
His hand grasped and kissed your breasts, releasing your wrists while your hands rested on his neck. His mouth sucked your nipple and his fingers kept that pace, "You better not cum till I say so," he said with his voice raised an octave.
"Ohh...fuck! Fuck! Kadeem!" You moaned again, catching the faint squeaks from your bed as you scoot away, "No runnin' from me, that's the rule," he replied as he grabbed your wrists again. All you could was scream loudly in pleasure from his other finger pinching your clit again.
"I-i need y-your d-dick, Kadeem," You lamented in between sentences, feeling that familiar knot tightening in your stomach, his lips slotting against yours, your mouth parted for a scream of pleasure. That had his dick harden from you.
His tongue explored your mouth and twirled with yours. swapping spit in the deep kiss and leaving a spit chain as he pulled away from you. you were so tired of the damn teasing, your hands squirming in his clutch.
"Look at you, all lost in it," Kadeem spoke up, feeling the pleasure from you, the heat raised, his thumb swiveling onto your clit and essence pooling around his finger.
"That feels too good!"
You were betrayed by your pussy, every thrust of his finger made your body scoot across the bed and you shifted and turned, and your skin began to heat up. You essence gushed onto his fingers, he stopped immediately and withdrew his fingers from your pussy. You couldn't help what body knew what to do, he released your wrists and spanked your ass roughly.
"What did I say? You don't listen..." Kadeem barked at you, his nose rubbed against yours.
Your chest rose and fell as you took a moment to compose yourself after nodding at him. You clenched the bedsheets while he enveloped your body, directing his thick dick towards your wet entrance.
His half-lidded eyes watches how your mouth parted for a slut like moan when he shoved himself inside you, pleading the man to fuck you harder. Bullying his dick deep inside to fit every inch, fulfills that craving of friction. "Already so fucking wet-damn.." he muttered.
"Kadeem, you're soo big," You trailed off after a plethora of moans, he knew that you were speechless and only answered with a wild moan or two. Kneading your other breast while giving long, deep strokes that go dizzy and dumb, He likes this side of you, the way your body responds to him. He was definitely gonna make you his.
"You're mine," He whispered in your ear, digging deeper into you again as he watched himself go in and out effortlessly, your wetness coating his dick like a blanket. He wanted to get every drop, he moaned at the sight.
He brought his body closer to yours, your arms wrapped around his neck and his thrusts went sporadic, the gold chain touched your collarbone and you shook from the cold metal, "M-mine, you're all mine," you trailed off
Nails scratching relentlessly onto his back with every ruthless thrust, Kadeem kept grunting and raspily moaning from that, he was spurred on from the way you bounced under him to your moans, this was better than his video, you were finally filled up to the brim by him. "Keep scratching me up pretty girl, I'll fuck you harder," he groaned lowly.
The sounds of skin slapping against skin and your breathless moans, echoing off the walls as you saw the colors of the room blurring from your tear-filled eyes. As if the room was spinning, the bed creaked from the movement from when he picked up the pace again, thrusting deeper and harder, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. "That's my girl, you're doing so good, baby,"
"That's it, let it build. You can do it," he encouraged, his voice a low growl that resonated within you.You felt your swollen pussy clench around his dick tighter. "Let me cum, Kadeem,"
"You can cum now,"
With that, you came undone immediately. Your essence left a big mess on his dick and bedding, He followed suit by filling you up and you screamed loudly, the soft glow of the lights casting light onto your bodies. Kadeem collapsed beside you.
"You good?" he asked in concern with his eyes flickering toward you, you nodded weakly. "I'll run you a hot bath,"
"Damn girl, you're something else," Kadeem panted lowly, looking at you while kissing your lips.
"I can definitely say that same thing about you, baby," You chuckled lightly.
He picked you up and carried you into the bathroom, running a hot bath for you while he gently settled you into the foamy bath, sighing in bliss at the touch of the warm water on your skin. He pulled up his sweatpants, then crouched near the tub. He looked like he had something on his mind.
"Can I take you out for a date?" He asked you with a steady tone, his eyes locked with yours.
You smiled at the man and nodded in agreement, bringing your legs close to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. "Yes, you can, you remember what's my favorite place?" you asked him, heat in your cheeks.
"Yeah, that Italian restaurant around the corner. I can pick you up around 8? This weekend?" he asked you with a gentle tone, smiling at you.
"It's a date then," You replied with a warm smile. Feeling that warm fuzzy feeling in your stomach. This was a great Friday night, now he was all yours.
♡(Requested By @caashmoneynae \/ her writing is amazing! )♡
Black Fem! Plus Size Reader x Joey Bada$$ as “Unique” from Raising Kanan.
Summary: You and Unique had a toxic relationship, after the two of you moved on. He decided that it was time to get you back.
(Warnings: a toxic relationship, spanking, PWP, dirty talk, unprotected sex,)
—————
The man leaned back on the plush grey suede couch, listening to the muffled conversations of his bodyguards and crew. Laughter filled the spacious room, adorned with palazzo red and gold wallpaper, and the scent of marijuana lingered in the air. His attention was solely focused on the ten stacks of cash arranged neatly on the mahogany coffee table, held together by red rubber bands. His dark brown eyes remained fixed on the pile of money, contemplating his next move.
Unique was finishing up a few deals in his stash house around Queens late at night, the corners through the block weren't useful anymore but Unique made sure to add more customers using his stash house and his plan was successful by being one step ahead before anyone else.
"Any new word on the street Worrell?" Unique inquired of him, taking a long drag from the blunt in between his fingers.
Worrell's ears perked at the question his boss asked him, besides crime, corruption, and violence lastly Raquel working her way up, the new word on the street was about you, your new boyfriend. His right-hand man had let him know of any news to Unique. It didn't matter what it was, as long as the news is valuable for his knowledge.
Nervously, he discreetly cleared his throat while maintaining a composed expression, directing his words at Unique. "Uh, well, there are a few baseheads on the corner and Raquel been trying to get her spot. oh, and Y\/N has recently started dating someone new," Worrell muttered quietly, as if not wanting those last few words to be heard.
Unique quickly rose from the couch shooting a mean mug at Worrell, his face was written with anger and jealousy but mostly jealousy clouded his mind. He heard it clearly despite him talking under his breath, this wasn't even close to being bad. Shoving the blunt into the ashtray on the square-shaped coffee table while strolling toward Worrell.
Unique's hands gripped the collar of Worrell's black jacket while roughly shoving Worrell into the wall "The fuck you heard on the street nigga? Speak the fuck up man!" Unique spat harshly, his eyes had rage in them.
"Nique you ain't gon' like it—" Unique interrupted him with a loud tsk and evil grin, "Don't make me repeat myself unless yo' ass is ready to eat a bullet Worrell.." He threatened him coldly, meaning every word.
Another fight with his boss would painfully extricating not just physically but mentally exhausting for Worrell, there was no use to keep it silent.
"I–word on the street is Y\/N got a new nigga yo.." Worrell confessed, keeping his hands to his sides while sighing in defeat.
His face switched from jealousy to livid when he heard the truth, letting go of his collar. Taking in the information about his ex but her new man can't be in the picture either, not on his watch.
You and Unique's relationship was toxic, it wasn't just the late nights alone in your shared house waiting by the phone, paging him all night for an answer and never picking up. He didn't cheat on you but you knew he wasn't that stupid.
You knew from the jump that his line of work would keep him occupied in the streets, you broke up with him last year for the sake of your peace, and your mental health. You moved on to better things, got your own money, your own house and was an author.
"Who's the new nigga and what's his name yo?" Unique spat coldly, wanting who the man was with his ex.
"His name is Divine, they're living at her crib but he's in his office in Brooklyn that's all I know Nique." Worrell explained, held his hands up defensively. Nothing wanting more tension clouding the room.
"Maybe next time if you got info for me, don't hesitate nigga. Matter of fact when Divine gets off work, send my people over there and pay him a lil visit." Unique spat with ice-cold revenge laced on his lips, bringing frostbite to those who stood in his way.
——————
His balled-up fist banged on her front green door with flared nostrils and knocked like he was the police, frantically tapping his shoe on the porch, "Y\/N open the fuckin' door yo! I know yo' ass hear me knockin' girl!" Unique spat furiously, halting his knocks causing people to stare but quickly mind their business 'cause they didn't want any smoke with Unique.
The green door swung open to reveal the brown-skinned woman with your scrunched-up face. "Yo! Who the fuck—" you spat harshly until she saw him at her door, your eyelids squinting with irritation.
What the hell does he want this time? You mentally thought to yourself, sighing in annoyance.
"What the fuck do you want Kadeem? It's my day off from work and I'm not in the mood for your bullshit today." You spat severely, your hand resting on your hip.
For more than a moment, Unique was distracted by your beauty which he was always paid attention to until this time he had a good look at you. Her thighs, your wide hips and your brown skin, the scrunched-up face that he found adorable.
You sported a black silk robe that hugged your curvaceous body with your burgundy tresses laid behind your ears and covered by a black paisley pattern bandanna.
"I came here for a talk Y\/N." Unique spat, using your name that mad butterflies swarm in your stomach when he called you that. Jealously clouded his mind and his eyes were still on your curves for a bit.
Earning an annoyed groan from you while he strolled his way into the medium-sized furnished living room, brushing past you with the smell of his strong cologne and weed invading your nostrils, smacking your lips and shutting the door behind him. He needed a real answer from you, not Worrell.
Unique turned around on the heels of his timberlands with his steps getting closer to her, towering over you shooting a scowl at you. "So when the fuck was you gon' tell me about this new nigga named Divine? Is he wit' you now or what?" He questioned furiously, clenching his jaw.
"First of all, since when do I have to tell you about my man Kadeem hm? It's none of your business who's giving me some dick and hitting it right!" you spat defensively, holding your hands up in disbelief. Shooting straight at his fury.
Unique slowly shook his head in disbelief with a loud tsk, you had the nerve to rub this relationship in his face yet he didn't give up so easily when it came to anything including you.
"Y\/N if it's about you then that shit is my business and you're my girl, yo' ass know damn well I'm better than him. Better than anyone else you've dated after me you heard?" Unique spat with venom, his New York slipped from his lips.
You almost couldn't believe what you wer hearing from him, shaking your head in disbelief while your arms crossed, he was possessive at the worst times, the tension between the past lovers flooded the room with your brows knitted together.
"So is Donald the bitch ass nigga here or at work? 'cause whatever you two got. That shit is dead just like he is, baby." Unique grinned devilishly, his straight face on cue. meaning every word sparks a flame inside his ex.
You felt a shot of anger from what he told you, spewing profanity at him while pushing him but it wasn't effective, "So you have him killed 'cause you can't let me go?" You shot back, you stared into his eyes, smacking your lips in irritation.
Unique would do something like that to keep you all to himself, even if you were all his or not. All mine, he thought to himself.
"You're leavin' my house right now! I didn't miss you then and didn't miss you now." you spat at him angrily, telling him to leave your house over and over again but he wasn't listening.
You scurried to the door gesturing your hands to the front door watching Unique stand still in the same spot where they were talking in the middle of the medium-sized furnished living room, not budging despite you telling him to leave, why didn't he?
"Kadeem, I'm not your girl anymore yet you say that shit like I'm still yours." you grumbled, sauntered back to him. using the last ounce of your wrath.
Unique sauntered slowly towards her with his plump lips curled up in a grin while getting closer to your face causing your back to hit the wall and his minty fresh warm breath tickled your skin, sending chills down with a low shudder. "Why are you so quiet now hm?" Unique hummed softly, his thumb tracing your bottom lips.
His index finger resting underneath you chin and lifting it up forcing you to gaze up his dark brown eyes, "I call yo' bluff when you say you don't miss me when I know you actually do baby."
Those set of words were true it was like he could see right through her, "Why tell me that you ain't my girl anymore? Ain't you still mine Y\/N? Unique questioned flirtatiously, ducking his head in the crook of your neck while pecking your brown skin using his plump lips.
His hand gently latched on the sides of her neck with his knee parting your legs, "You thought I forgot about how good I make you feel?" He teased playfully, earning a soft whine from you, "Kadeem please.." you whined, Your bottom lip is submerged by your teeth, while your panties gather together due to the playful actions, not only because of the gradual allure, but solely because of Unique.
A dark chuckle from Unique against your skin, "Please what? Talk to me yo." He went on, his left hand pulling the drawstrings revealing your naked body. The sight of your nude curves made his dick twitch in his pants earning a groan from him.
"Please just fuck me.." You pleaded, your hand grabbing his hand and placing it on your black lace panties, he slowly slide past the hem of your panties with a soft gasp leaving your lips, his finger rubbed your clit in slow circles.
"Let's head upstairs to yo' room then."
—————
His naked back rested against the red slik sheets with his right hand latched around the sides of her neck and his left hand gripped your wide hips holding them in place, your back pressed against his chest while his hips relentlessly rocked into you, your eyes rolled back from his hand roughly kneading your breast with his finger grazing your erect nipple, "Kadeem Shitt!" you chanted loudly, giving your body time to shake, bounce underneath him with the excessive pleasure you received.
Your hands balled up the sheets from your walls tightening around his thick dick, "Still don't miss me baby?" Unique teased playfully, biting your earlobe. You nodded frantically, unable to speak from taking so much dick. "Use yo' words beautiful." he cooed, reeling you in with a pet name. "I missed you so much! fuckk!!" He lets loose vindictive yet ruthless thrusts as if your pussy was calling out to him encouraging Unique's dick to hit it harder till it was swollen, "I missed you too." He grunted huskily, his grip tightened around your neck.
His thumb grazed your throbbing clit while he roughly rammed into you sending you into heaven on earth except it was erotic and only them in this bed, you were moaning like a porn star, tearing the sheets apart, your legs must've gone numb when his tip kissed your cervix. "Say you're mine." he groaned, throwing his head back from the immense pleasure.
"F-fuckk! I'm yours!" you sobbed out, tears trickling down your cheeks. Your climax peaking early. "I-i'm cummin—oh shit..i can't hold it...i'm yourss." you panted softly in between his sloppy, slow thrusts. "Let it out." The lovers moaned and came in sync, kissing messily with a thin line of spit in between your lips, you squirted on his abdomen while coming undone on his dick, soaking the sheets.
"So that's how you feel about me baby? You made a big mess. You wanna another round baby?" Unique cooed, slowly pulling out but your palm touched the girth of his dick earning a groan from her man, "Yes please.." You moaned weakly, under his spell.
Unique quickly pushed your body forward so you can be on all fours, submissively arching your back in the air in a slutty way, the skin-to-skin slapping and the wet squelching noises flooding the room, "I love this pussy, gettin' so wet for me..fuck." He rasped in between his low grunts, his palm smacking her ass, leaving his handprint on you as he saw it turn red, watching his dick go in and out effortlessly, "I-i love that dick..i missed you being inside of me," you slurred out, sounding like you were drunk off his dick.
The right side of your face was mushed against the red satin sheets taking every inch of his dick from behind growing more wetter from their hot sex with your voice getting low and raspy when he rolled his hips into you, latching his hand around your neck to bring her face in, kissing your lips sloppily."I'm better than him, better than anyone else. I'm all you need." Unique grunted, his hips slowly gyrated becoming sloppier after each stroke.
"I'm the only one who fucks you better, gets this pussy wetter and knows how to handle you." Unique went on, giving more than a few strokes in. Your knees buckled while falling flat on the mattress.
"I'm cummin' again..." You let out raspily, throwing it back on him trying to match the slow motion in his thrusts. Your backside clapped against his pelvis, your juices gushed on his dick a bunch of times while unleashing his nut through your warm sticky walls, "Oh shit!" They moaned in sync, filling her up to the brim as both of them enjoyed their climax. Swiftly pulling out of you.
Your bodies flopped on the bed while laying side by side, Unique pulled her in kissing her temple. reeling the covers over their naked bodies and watching you softly sleep peacefully.
———————
♡♥︎♡
♡♥︎♡
He’s Back.
Black Fem! Reader x Rio. (from Good Girls.)
Summary: You decided to start over in a new town with your daughter until your ex-boyfriend Rio shows up to make peace, you're weren't convinced.
-—————
"What's up mama?"
Your gazes intertwined, your warm brown eyes connecting with his in a powerful exchange. The sound of his raspy voice sent a shiver down your spine, filling you with unease. He leaned against the booth's neutral beige seat, he sat with his daughter by his side, cradling a stuffed teddy bear in her tiny arms. Observing him scoop up a spoonful of vanilla ice cream and delicately guide it into his daughter's mouth, her laughter filled the air, bringing a genuine smile to his face. The low murmurs of conversation blended with the clinking of silverware against the pristine white porcelain plates, enveloping the entire restaurant. The beige-painted walls enclosed them in a tranquil ambiance, creating a serene silence that permeated the room.
"What are you doing here Rio?" you asked him, your voice shaky.
You and Rio shared a complex history, stemming from your great partnership within his crew and casual friends-with-benefits. You had sought only temporary pleasure, but your captivating persona as a former ruthless gang leader unexpectedly captured Rio's heart.
Your connection surpassed sheer physicality, evolving into something far deeper, especially for Rio, who fell deeply in love with her. Your straightforward nature, intellect, and cunning ways only added to your allure. Eventually, their love bore fruit in the form of their precious daughter, Sage.
However, life took an unexpected turn for you, prompting you to leave everything behind, including Rio, and taking Sage with you. Settling in a quiet town, you found solace working as a waitress while Sage was in preschool.
Still, you couldn't shake the certainty that Rio would eventually track them down, his longing for their reunion or even the possibility of building a family weighing heavy on your mind.
His sly smirk curled upon his face as Rio carefully wiped the traces of vanilla ice cream from the corners of Sage's mouth using a napkin, "Thank you, Daddy..." she said gently.
Rio nodded in response, "You're welcome princess.." he replied, Rio shifted his gaze toward the brown-skinned woman standing before him, his eyes raking down the curves of your body through your uniform.
"I just wanted to see my two favorite girls.." He smirked, his eyes filled with adoration as he met your gaze once again.
You felt your heart skip a beat, a mix of emotions flooding you. You couldn't deny the undeniable chemistry that still crackled between them, despite the distance and time apart.
Your voice slightly shaky as she replied, "We've been doing just fine without you, Rio. You can't just waltz back into our lives whenever you please." Her words held a hint of bitterness, a defense mechanism she had built to protect herself and Sage.
Rio's smile faded, his gaze softening. "I know, Y\/N. I messed up, But I never stopped loving you and our daughter. I want to be there for both of you, to make things right." His voice was filled with sincerity, his eyes pleading for a chance to prove himself.
You clenched your jaw, torn between your own desires and the fear of getting hurt again. You had worked so hard to create a stable life for your daughter, shielding her from the dangerous world she once knew. Could you risk it all for a second chance at love?
Sage tugged at your hand, your innocent eyes looking up at her mother and brown skin glowed. "Mommy, is he my daddy?" shd asked, her voice filled with curiosity and hope. Your heart ached at the question, realizing the impact your decision would have on your daughter's life.
Taking a deep breath, you mustered up the strength to respond. "Yes, Sage. Rio is your daddy." you glanced at Rio.
"But that doesn't mean things will go back to the way they were. We need to take things slow and rebuild the trust that was broken."
He nodded, a determined look crossing his face. "I understand, Tiana. I will do whatever it takes to earn your trust again. I want to be a father to Sage, and I want to be by your side, supporting you."
"When my shift is over, I'll go home and then we'll talk."
————
Even if you desired to, you didn't deny it after coming home, preparing dinner, and putting their daughter to sleep, you and Rio sat on the sofa, conversing about their shared history and potentially their future.
"What do you want Rio?" you asked, fiddling with your gold necklace.
"I want to be with you, baby, I want to be a family again," Rio replied, his voice filled with sincerity.
You looked into his eyes, searching for any signs of deception or insincerity. You saw nothing but genuine love and remorse. A part of you wanted to believe him but was this a trick?
"I want that too," You admitted quietly, your voice laced with vulnerability. "But we can't just ignore the past and pretend like it never happened."
Rio nodded, understanding the weight of your words. "I've got a question though," he said firmly. "Did you ever catch feelings for me?."
You felt your heart soften at his words. "Of course I did, I was trying to hide it but when I ran off, these feelings were still there.." you admitted.
Rio smiled, relief washing over his face. "I'm glad, Y\/N. I've seen that you've changed too, you're still beautiful as always."
Your cheeks grew hot as he reached out and took your hand, their fingers intertwining. "We have to take it slow, Rio."
You cradled his face in your hands with their eyes locked, his lips crashed into yours with unbridled passion.
—————
Your bare back pressed against the crimson couch, your legs hung loosely over his shoulders, his hands held them firmly in place. Your hips rolled with his tongue, He knelt on the carpet, you cursed under your breath, "Rio..shit." you buried her face in the pillow while he pleasured you with his lips on her wet folds. Although your legs tightened around his face, he gently separated them and pinned your legs above your chest.
"How could I forget you taste this good." he whispered, you whimpered from the strokes of his tongue across your folds, your back arched as you moaned loudly. "Fuck! Rio!" you exclaimed, your hand gripping the back of his neck, your nails dug into his shoulders. "I've missed hearing you scream out my name every night, baby," Rio murmured huskily as he kissed your thighs with affection.
"I missed you so much," you gasped as his thumb circled your clit again. He enjoyed the way your moans grew louder with his hand resting over your mouth to hush your cries, He relished the flavor of you as he licked and finger fuck you, enjoying you sweet essence with every movement.
Your stomach tightened and your toes curled. "I'm...I'm..." Your words were cut off as your juices spilled out, caught by him in every your eyelashes gradually fluttering apart while he firmly grasped your chin and passionately kissed you, letting you savor your own essence on his tongue. Instead of uttering words, you expressed your overwhelming pleasure through moans.
You swiftly got out of the couch and promptly changed into your pajamas, observing Rio as he settled down on the couch. You laughed and leaned down to kiss him, your hands roaming over his body.
"You're the best you know that?" he added, his voice raspy with desire, you gripped his chin as you pecked his lips twice. "Yeah, I know.." you replied confidently.
"I love you.." he said, your eyes widened a bit, but you didn't want to hesitate, "I love you too.." you replied, pressing your plump lips against his, warm and soft as you tasted yourself on his lips.
You looked at him with a mischievous glint in her eye. "My turn," you said, and pushed him down onto the couch.
Summary: It was one thing to become Unique's enemy, but to also become his obsession was much worst, after your investigation on him for the past week, questioning him, left with no clues, but ended up with the loss of your partner, Unique begins to enter his way into your life permanently.
Warnings: praise, obsession, heavy dirty talk, pet names, delusion, mention of murder, cursing, slight degradation, creampie, loss, overstimulation, biting, choking kink, mean!Unique, teasing, dominance, dumbification, corruption play, submission, crying, use of the n-word, crazy angst.
————
Southside Jamaica, Queens 1993.
It was a frigid fall evening in the bustling streets of New York City in 1993. The city was stagnant with the weight of crime and drugs, creeping into every corner, remaining a vice grip its citizens.
You were seated in the spacious office of the police department, the rhythmic click-clack of keyboards melded with the incessant ringing of phones, underscored by the low hum of indistinct conversations among officers engrossed in their work.
A rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with a hint of vanilla, offering a strange comfort amidst the chaos.
"Work, and home. In that order." You mumbled to yourself, your eyes fixed on the computer.
Being a detective, however, was no easy task. While law enforcement was somewhat fulfilling their duties, you harbored a gnawing suspicion that all this turmoil could be traced back to a single man…Kadeem "Unique" Mathis.
He was the most formidable and feared drug kingpin from Southside Jamaica, Queens, a name that evoked dread and respect in equal measure.
You were sent to do an investigation on Unique, questioning, and talking, too much damn sweet talking from him as always. So far, you have been left with nothing, except that he gave you condolences on Cairo.
Your brown eyes shifted from the flickering computer screen to the picture frame that held a captured moment between you and Cairo Lewis, your partner in the department.
The image of you two hugging each other, side by side, was a reminder of laughter and camaraderie, a snapshot of two young cops in their early twenties, who had met at the academy and formed an unbreakable bond.
You remembered the warmth of those days…a whirlwind of playful banter, quick-witted sarcasm, and the almost noticeable love that lingered between you, hinting at a deeper connection.
You weren't just colleagues; you were thick as thieves, navigating the complexities of work and emotions together.
It was clear that Cairo held a special place in your heart, and it seemed he felt the same way about you. You swore not to fall in love after that, not after losing him.
But now, that connection felt like a choking vine wrapped around your heart, squeezing tighter with every memory. The thought of Unique nagged at your mind, planting seeds of suspicion that perhaps he was involved in Cairo's tragic death.
"Another day without you, Cai. If only you could see me now," you whispered, your voice quivering with unresolved grief. As the words escaped your lips, you reached for a tissue from the nearby box, desperate to wipe away the tears that threatened to spill, blurring your vision of the world without him.
Unique had a chilling reputation, especially after his mysterious return from the dead, an event cloaked in gossip and speculation. But for you, he was more than just a name; he was an ex-lover from your high school days.
You hoped he would change his life for the better after your breakup, but what you saw now was a man transformed…irritable and resistant to reason.
A distinctive scar on the right side of his otherwise handsome face hinted at a life filled with violence and turmoil. Behind his stylish clothing, dazzling gold chains, and that devilish smirk lay a man you hardly recognized.
Today seemed like an ordinary day until your boss contacted you regarding the investigation they assigned to you.
"L/N, could you come to my office for a moment?" Police Chief Cole called out, her voice cutting through the ambient sounds of the precinct.
She leaned slightly out from the door of her office, a confident figure framed by the polished wood and stark white walls.
You felt a jolt of surprise, your fingers froze above the keyboard as her soft yet authoritative voice reached your ears.
Police Chief April Cole; her brown skin glows under the fluorescent lights, and her brown tresses was pulled back into a sleek bun. Dressed in a crisp police uniform that fit her like a second skin, she held your gaze with her warm yet intense brown eyes.
Damnit, it was the wrong time to be called in by your boss, but still, work had to be done regardless.
You rose from your chair, the soft creak of the wood beneath you almost echoing in the noisy room. With fast strides, you made your way through the hall, each step. Stepped through the door to the spacious office of the police chief, you were met with a commanding presence.
She gestured for you to sit, her hand slicing through with an authority that demanded attention. "Have a seat," she instructed, her voice steady yet laced with urgency. "I need to discuss something damn important with you." Her expression was grave, devoid of the usual pleasantries.
As you settled into the wooden chair, the surface cool against your skin, you felt the plush light green cushion offer some comfort against the tension. You crossed your legs, an instinctive gesture meant to steady yourself, while your gaze locked onto hers, seeking answers.
"Yes?" you responded, your tone mirroring the seriousness of the moment, hanging in the air like an unsolved mystery.
"Your investigation into Unique has been very impressive; I must say, that history you have with him adds quite a depth to your work. So far, it seems that case is closed," April Cole said with a sharp nod. Her expression remained tight-lipped and unreadable, making it difficult to discern her thoughts.
"Yes, I'm fully aware of that, and I have no doubt that I was mostly to assist in gathering information. However, as I've conveyed to everyone—yourself included—I didn't manage to uncover anything substantial. What I did lose, though, was my partner, Detective Cairo Lewis," you replied, locking your gaze onto hers, wanting her to grasp the gravity of your loss and the toll it took on you personally.
She paused for a moment, allowing the weight of her statement to settle before her features softened just a bit as she turned her attention to you.
Everyone in the department knew that it was difficult for you to resume the investigation, just be a pawn in this dangerous game, all you wanted was justice for your best friend. You couldn't get any clarity, but his family took it so much harder. They were able to have a funeral for Cairo, and you attended.
"Despite the investigation being closed, there was no evidence connecting Unique to Cairo's death," April responded firmly, her voice laced with conviction.
You weren't convinced by her statement at all, by what you felt in your intuition, and what you heard from Unique, was he trying to send a message to you? Trying to provoke you?
"I'm deeply sorry for your loss, and I know that both of you meant a lot to each other," she added, her tone shifting gently, conveying the sincerity of her condolences.
Even though there are only a handful of black women in the police department, they certainly require a scapegoat, a diversity hire, or someone to take the fall.
"I've had enough of your fucking condolences, flowers, cards and all of it. I've grieved enough, but I know that nigga is responsible, I.." You trailed off with a gulp, trying to fight those tears again.
April shook her head, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, her head dipping to meet your gaze, and you stood up from the chair. You took a deep breath and chair, you didn't want to face her about this again, not anymore.
"I know what that feels like, to lose someone you care about, but why don't you go home and sort out your feelings for Unique? I—" April spoke up until you held up your hand to cut her off, why would say that?
She was trying to make you approach your breaking point, and you couldn't do it right now, all you wanted to do was go home. "Don't go there, not here, not now, not ever. You hear me, Chief?" You shot back, your icy gaze struck at her.
April flinched from your gaze, holding her hands up in defense, "I'm sorry—-," But you interrupted rather quickly.
"No, you're not, you've wasted my time, and my friend didn't get any justice at all," You exclaimed, shaking your head from side to side.
With a shot of adrenaline, you stormed out of the office, grabbing your brown trench coat and briefcase as you left the police department. The double doors slammed shut behind you.
Your eyes darted across the busy street filled with passing police cars and pedestrians as you hurried down the concrete stairs and turned right toward the parking lot.
Unbeknownst to you, one of Unique's henchmen, Xavier, posed as a police officer, watching you from his vehicle. Dressed in a uniform, he followed your every move as you entered your sleek black Nissan and sped off with a screech.
April's claims about your feelings for Cairo or Unique felt misguided; this entire case felt like the police were using you as bait to get closer to Unique, leaving you with nothing.
You couldn't help but wonder, "Why did I become a cop in the first place?" as you stuffed your hands into your pockets.
You reflected on the question, a wave of frustration washed over you; all you wanted was to make a difference in the lives of others.
Yet, deep down, you understood that the world was riddled with the same issues—corruption, misconduct, and a law enforcement system that felt like a farce.
With a curt nod, he maneuvered away from the bustling streets, deftly paged Unique using the number he had saved for you. He needed to relay the message that you were on the move.
He quickly provided Unique with vital information, unaware that you weren't the only one delving into a investigation. As Unique prepared to approach, hinting at the unexpected visit that were about to unfold.
———-
As you pulled into the driveway of your charming one-story house, painted in a soft shade of light green, a sense of relief washed over you as you stepped out of the car.
The door slammed shut behind you, punctuating your return home. Your all-black heels clicked rhythmically against the concrete as you made your way toward the front door.
You fished your keys out of the deep pocket of your trench coat, pausing for a moment to take in the sprawling neighborhood around you, with its neatly manicured lawns and trees swaying gently in the evening breeze.
With a heart full of comfort, you carefully turned the doorknob and nudged the door open, stepping into the inviting embrace of your cozy living room. The familiar scent enveloped you as you closed the door securely behind you, locking the world outside away.
Standing in the center of the living room, you closed your eyes for a brief moment, allowing the tranquility of home to settle in.
After that, you opened them again, you slipped off your trench coat, the fabric whispering against your skin, and kicked off your shoes, feeling the coolness of the hardwood floor beneath your socks.
You hung the coat in the closet, inhaling deeply the delightful blend of pumpkin spice and cinnamon that filled the air, undercut by a hint of citrus and the deep notes of a dark cherry cologne that felt hauntingly familiar and comforting.
Wait a minute, you didn't wear that cologne at all. The only person you knew that wore it was, Unique. He couldn't have broken into your house now, did he?
"How's that investigation goin' on so far, Detective?" Unique drawled out, his voice laced with flirtation and malice.
You swiftly pivoted on your heel, fingers deftly gripping the cold metal of your gun nestled in your black belt. With precision, you aimed it directly at Unique, who lounged on your chocolate brown couch.
Unique was sprawled out, sat man spread on the couch, arms resting across the armrests. Clad in a snug-fitting black tee, he wore a few gold chains that glinted in the light, a single gold hoop earring hanging from his right ear.
The black leather jacket he sported, embellished with gold belt buckles along the sleeves, combined with matching black pants, made him a striking figure. A devilish smirk played on his lips, heightening the tension in the air.
"The investigation is closed, thanks to you and the police department wasting my fucking time. I never expected company, but somehow, you always manage to barge back into my life, Kadeem. Why?" you demanded, your voice trembling slightly, betraying your attempt to sound strong.
A dark chuckle escaped Unique's lips, rich and rumbling, sending a rush of heat through your core. He rose from the couch with an effortless grace, towering over you as he approached.
His commanding presence overwhelmed you, and as you felt your back gently press against the smooth wooden door, his eyes close to yours.
The barrel of the gun pressed against his clothed chest, a reminder of the precarious situation. With deliberate slowness, he reached out, his hand guiding your gun aside, yet you still clutched it tightly, the weapon resting resolutely at your side.
"Don't act like you ain't happy to see me, baby. You know a nigga can't forgot his first and only love, right?" Unique cooed with a grin, his eyes locked with yours crazy in love.
"Cut the sweet talk, 'Nique. I'm not happy to see you. And why the hell did you get my house?" You asked in a clam tone, your voice was still serious.
You wanted to raise the cold barrel of the gun and strike him across the face. But instead, you held the weapon steadfastly at your side, your hand trembling ever so slightly.
"Why you lyin' to me? I wanted to pay my favorite detective a visit, see how your fine ass was doin' lately, that's all," Unique promised, smirking evilly.
You released a shaky breath, grappling with the intensity of his gaze—a look that was simultaneously twisted and passionate.
"Do you still think that you mean something to me?" You shot back, your head shook at him.
It struck you with a jolt; the love he harbored for you was there, like a force that had never dimmed or waned. You could see it in his eyes, that deep, unwavering affection that lingered through all the chaos between you two.
"We've always meant somethin' to each other, you know that?" Unique provoked, his voice was warm yet still cold.
You planted your gun back onto your belt, and walked away from him, your shoulder bumping into his, causing him to stumble back. "That's some bullshit, and you know it, Nique." you shot back, your eyes rolling at him.
He spun around to face you, following right behind you as you strode through the hallways, and you halted near your threshold of the bedroom.
"What is this unhealthy obsession with me, you've got the streets, the money and the power. What more do you want, Unique?" You inquired, shrugging your shoulders.
"It's simple, Y/N. All I wanted was my girl back, that's all. And I won't let anyone or anythin' get in the way between us," Unique shot back, his voice was slightly raspy, with a hint of iciness.
Your brown eyes locked on his deep brown ones, biting your lips to keep it from trembling. You knew who he was talking about, Cairo. You had to confront him about this, you had to be right. You felt it in your gut.
"You mean Cairo, don't you? I know you killed him—why did you do it?!" You yelled back, your voice broke with emotion, hands clutched the sleeves of his jacket, slipping the fabric off his arms. Falling to the hardwood floors.
His face transformed as he gazed at you, the warmth of his feelings evident in the way his face softened. Your solitary tear cascaded down, landing on his t-shirt, betraying the deep impact your gaze had on him.
Yet, in an instant, his mood shifted, his eyes narrowing into a soft, icy glare—a blend of affection and unrest, snapping his fingers once he heard his name again.
"Ah, your nigga—well, your friend, I guess—he tried to put up a fight, but in the end, he folded like a cheap deck of fuckin' cards. Last I checked, aren't you still mine? I noticed the way he looked at you, just like I used to," Unique retorted, his tone carrying a gentle undertone.
Your heart raced at his words, and you felt anger and hurt surge within you.
"You think that gives you the right to take his life? You think that makes you the better man?!" You shot back, your voice rising with each word, the emotions you had pent up boiling to the surface.
Unique stepped closer, invading your personal space, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made your breath hitch.
"You don't get it, do you? It's about what you mean to me. I'd do anythin' to protect what's mine. I saw you in my mind when I almost fuckin' died, still smellin' your perfume from that night we kissed," he whispered, his voice low and raspy.
"That's what you think love is? Possession?" you challenged, your voice trembling as you tried to maintain your composure.
You hurriedly retreated into your bedroom, the soft moonlight filtering through the curtains. As you stumbled onto your bed, the faint squeak of the mattress echoed, eliciting a smile from him that felt both inviting and foreboding. It was as if he were harboring some deeper intention, just waiting for the right moment.
Unique entered the room, shaking his head slowly in disapproval, a soft tsk escaping his lips. His deep brown eyes locked onto you, intense and piercing, igniting a flicker of unease that made you instinctively flinch under his gaze.
For the first time, you were almost scared.
"It's not possession, baby girl. It's passion, it's fire that keeps on burnin' for you, it's everythin' you and I used to have, and I need you in my life," Unique replied back, his voice laced with a softness yet firmness.
You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. The way he looked at you—intense, hungry—made it hard to breathe, let alone think straight.
"So you try to waltz back into my life, and expect everythin' to be the same, you can't be serious Kadeem, killin' Cairo just to get me?" You shot back, your voice filled with unease.
"Yes, but I understood that things change, we change but my love for you ain't changin' beautiful, and I know that I'm right about what I feel about you. Nobody can separate us, right?" Unique asked again, tilting his head to the side.
What love meant to Unique meant so much more, Some might see it as delusion, but for him, it was real, what he felt for you, he ached for you, and died, literally came back from the dead for you.
Just to kiss you, feel your touch. He knew that it would be worth it to be in your arms again.
"Of course I see it, we have something but Cai—-" You spoke up, but he held your gaze ever intensely, you stopped speaking after that. Knowing that he would be frustrated if you kept saying that name.
"Don't say his name; instead say mine, Y/N." Unique's voice dripped with a teasing intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.
"Does he know how to love you the way I do? How to handle you—manhandle you that is—how to fuck you like a nigga who truly hates you?" His words were sharp, a mix of challenge and allure, echoing with a hint of possessiveness.
You felt your fingers clench the blankets tightly, your heart racing as you pushed yourself up from the bed. His smirk was infuriatingly magnetic, and you found yourself leaning closer, the desire to wipe that arrogant grin off his face battling with the undeniable truth of his words.
"What makes you think that's true, Kadeem?" you shot back, trying to inject some defiance into your voice. But your body betrayed you; you could feel your thighs tighten, and your breath hitched under his unwavering gaze.
Unique's smirk deepened, "Yeah, just like that..." he praised, his eyes on you, revealing the glint of his gold fronts as he held your stare with an intensity that felt both loving and crazy.
His tongue flicked out to glide over his plump lips, almost as if he were savoring the very essence of your uncertainty. "C'mon now, you know I'm right.." he teased again.
He stepped closer, circling you with the confidence of a predator playing with its prey, holding your gaze captive. "If only you could see yourself right now, I bet that you're wet too, just from a nigga speakin' to you like this, I know you and your body, Y/N." He shot back, biting his lip.
You could feel your skin prickling in response to his words, the heat radiating through you even without a single touch. Your panties were soaked, and it was infuriating, and yet, you loathed the way he ignited a fire within you that you couldn't extinguish.
"Y/N..You ain't told me to leave, when you had so many fuckin' chances, from the way your thighs clenched—I don't touch you. But you really want a nigga get mean with'chu, that's why. Look me in the face, and tell me that you don't miss me, that you don't want me.." Unique concluded with a firm yet soft undertone.
"Kadeem—-" You breathed with a shaky exhale, as if you were able to get some oxygen in your lungs.
He circled around before stopping in front of you, he was in desperate need to see your reaction, your face softened but yet arousal washed over him, raising his brow suggestively. "Still don't think it's true? Can't even admit damn yourself.." He leaned in closer.
"Fine! Maybe I did miss you, but I'm not scared," You shot back, your gaze softened at him, written with unspoken desire.
Unique's head snapped at you, his face twisted with frustration and amusement, "See? Was that so hard? You scared of what I'll make you feel?" He teased you again, as if you were a nerd and he was your bully on Monday morning.
You scoffed at him with a eye roll, but you shot back with firey venom. "I'm not scared of you, Unique."
"Prove it to me then, baby," Unique fired back, his breath warm against your ear.
————-
You lie naked on the soft mattress of your creaking bed with him, moaning softly as you deepen the kiss, tilting your head. Unique hovers above you, his hand sliding up your neck, squeezing gently. A loud moan escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. He pulls back slightly, still gripping your neck, observing as your hips squirm against him, seeking more friction. Your wet walls tighten around him, and he groans, "You're so fuckin' nasty girl—damn," before thrusting into you with a teasing, deliberate rhythm.
By the way your body was responding to him he could tell from every kiss, thrust, every touch that felt so good for you, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the way he held you down with a possessive grip, fucking you faster, as rolling his hips, elicting desperate moans from you, "Kadeemmm..Fuckkk—I missed you!" Waves of pleasure consumed your entire being, you were a wet, babbling mess underneath him, it became too embarrassing for how good it felt.
Before you could hide your face from embarrassment, he tilted your head to face him, gripping your jaw tightly. Unique gave your ass a harsh smack, making you hiss in reply, "*I missed you more, I want to see you take it good, just like you're supposed to.*" His words made your face warm as you kissed him, but he squeezed your neck. "*This pretty face is just for me,*" he said, planting a sweet kiss on your lips while pushing deeper, watching glossy tears fall down your face as he kissed your cervix with his tip.
Your heart raced as you locked eyes with him, that familiar spark igniting. "Kadeem, please..." you gasped sharply, you wanted him to keep going. "*You just don't listen, Y/N. Why?*" Unique teased, tilting his head as his hands found your breasts, pinching your nipples hard. You let out choked sobs, pleading, "M-Moree, please..." The wet slapping sounds of his thrusts filled the air, each one deep and relentless, as if he wanted to stay buried inside you forever.
Unique slowly pulled out, a teasing grin on his face as he locked eyes with your tear-streaked cheeks. You whimpered, "N-noooo, don't stop..baby," but he did, enjoying your frustration. Your nails dug into his arms and back, only fueling his desire as his dick throbbed inside you. "You need to be good for me first," he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, before kissing you sweetly.
Leaning against the bed frame, he held your thighs while you clung to his shoulders, your nails digging in and making him hiss. "Think you can take it? Ready?" he asked, a wicked smile on his lips. You nodded and replied, "Yes." With that, he gently pulled you down onto him, stretching you inch by inch. Both of you gasped softly as his tip hit your spot, filling you completely. "Take it then," he grinned, watching you with sheer delight.
With your hips moving in a wild rhythm on his lap, Unique couldn't take his eyes off you. Making you his, as he noticed the glistening mess around his dick as you moved, breathlessly confessing, "Just the way—fuckkk, I love you... such a beautiful sight and a fuckin' mess." He paused, panting, feeling the familiar tightness. Pulling you down to press your chest against his, he whispered, "I love you...desperate..and...all fuckin' mine." He maintained that pace, nearing his climax, gripping your hips tightly, leaving marks before delivering a playful smack.
"I... gotta... c—" you whined, but before you could finish, Unique changed his pace, halting your climax instantly. "W-wait for me, i'm gon' fuck you real good, cum with me first..." he urged, fucking you until you went dumb, his hand on the small of your back and neck as he thrust into you with relentless force. Your legs shaking between him as damp tears, twinking stars blurred your vision, and you whimpered in his ear. "Awww, don't worry, we can come together now..."
Moments later, his face twisted in pleasure as he groaned, releasing every drops inside you just as you came undone around him. "That's my girl...fuck," he murmured, kissing your shoulder and then your lips softly.
Both of you collapsing onto each other's bodies as he pulled out, taking in the reality of the situation and closing your eyelids from utter exhaustion, unable to speak, and drifting off to sleep in his arms, as he pulled you close to him, kissing your forehead. "I love you so fuckin' much," whispered, his voice a soothing balm in the moment.
You nestled into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. "I love you too, Nique," you whispered, sighing in bliss, that heartbeat of his was a strange blend of comfort and danger, that you once fought for, Gratefully, you had been using birth control, but now he had reentered your life, and you needed to decide on your next steps.
For the moment, though, you just wanted to relax in his embrace and drift off, which you did. The quiet and darkness of the room helped you both to sleep peacefully.
Summary: Your girlfriend Megan returns home from the tour when she finally comes home, you have a sexy surprise for her in the bedroom.
———————
You nervously bite down on your plump bottom lips with your foot tapping on the light purple rug as your back slouches against the couch. The television played one of your favorite TV shows as the theme song played softly, you grabbed onto the heart-shaped pillow. Trying to calm yourself down in the process.
“I hope she makes it on time..” you whispered, holding on tight to the purple heart-shaped pillow.
You awaited the return of your girlfriend Megan after her triumphant tour for her album. Your immense pride in her made the wait unbearable, as you counted down the moments until you could be reunited again.
Your ginger tresses were pulled back by a purple paisley bandana with your black tee shirt and matching shorts that hugged around your thick thighs, your cocoa skin glistening from the moonlight while your brown eyes settled on the television screen.
Today was the day that she can finally come back to you, you can be in her arms and cuddle close to her.
You heard the door creak open with Megan announcing her arrival, “Baby I'm home!” she hollered, a sigh of relief leaving her lips as she closed the door behind her. There she was, She was so beautiful.
You eagerly got up from the couch and ran towards the tall woman, your arms embracing her waist and laying your head gently on her chest, savoring her familiar scent as your brown eyes were fixed on her.
"I missed you so much Meg," you whispered softly, your voice filled with longing.
Megan's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as she pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. "I missed you too, my love," she murmured, her voice laced with affection.
"I don't like being away from you." Megan pouted, her index finger lifting your chin.
You crashed your lips onto hers, tilting your head to the side to deepen the kiss. Her soft tongue glides across your lips with your mouth parting, a moan left your lips. Megan gently pushed her tongue into your warm mouth as your tongues intertwine in
sync, lip-locking with her sensually a few times, the soft smacking of your lips colliding filled the living room. Words couldn't explain how much you missed her.
The both of you pulled away from each other and you left a trail of saliva between your lips.
Her hands cupped your face lovingly with a smirk curling up on hers, “Damn, you really missed me huh?” she teased, her thumb swiping over your cheek.
“How many times do I have to tell you Megan? Yes I did.” You giggled with an eye roll. Your hand sent a playful smack on her plump ass.
You looked up at her, your eyes filled with adoration. "Well, I have a surprise for you," you said, a mischievous smile playing on your lips.
"Oh? What is it?" she replied, a playful tone in her voice. Her eyebrows raised together.
You took her hand and led her towards the bedroom, your heart pounding with anticipation. You entered the room, Megan's eyes widened at the sight before her. The room was dimly lit, with scented candles casting a warm glow. Soft music played in the background, setting the mood.
"What's all this?" Megan asked, her voice filled with wonder.
"It's a surprise," you replied, a seductive smile tugging at your lips. "I wanted to welcome you home properly."
Megan's eyes darkened with desire as she realized what you had in mind. She stepped closer to you, her thumb gently tracing the outline of your jaw. "You always know how to make me feel special," she whispered, her voice husky.
You leaned into her touch, you pecked her lips twice."I wanted to show you just how much I missed you," you confessed, your voice laced with affection.
“Show me then..”
“Take off your clothes first…”
This new boldness from you ignited a fire in Megan, she loved every bit of this though.
Megan crawled toward the bed draped with red silk sheets with vibrant rose petals, she laid on her back and sliding off her pink crop top and pink miniskirt, throwing the clothes across the floor and unhooked her bra. Her breasts fell down gracefully and sliding off her pink panties from her ankles, Megan threw them across the room with a smirk on her face.
Megan slid her fingers into her mouth and rubbed them between her clit, “Come and wet this pussy up baby..” she purred, softly gasping.
“You're so beautiful…” you whispered softly, pecking her lips twice. Your knee parted her legs gently.
“Not as beautiful as you..” Megan whispered, she pecked your nose and cheek sweetly.
You crouched between her legs and bit down on your lips, your fingers parting her wet folds as slid your fingers between them eliciting a soft moan from Megan, pumping your fingers in and out of her at a steady pace, “shit! Right there..” she chanted, her teeth biting down on her bottom lip.
Your hand slithered toward her plump breast and massaged them in circles, you watched her hips roll against your fingers, you moaned softly as your clit throbbed in response, “Fuck…Y\/N..” Megan gasped softly, her eyebrow furrowed together, your thighs clenched from the ache. You desperately wanted to be touched by her. Her wet walls clenched around your fingers and her essence covered up your digits.
“My beautiful girl..” you praised, pumping your fingers faster and faster.
“Oh—fuck! baby..i’m cumming..” Megan dragged out, her hands tightly gripped on the silk sheets. Your fingers curled up inside with your thumb grazing over her clit at the same time, "let it out.." you panted heavily, her soft moans filled the room.
Megan's climax rutted through her body with her head falling back onto the pillow, her essence gushed
“What about you?” Megan panted lowly, her lips formed into a pout.
You slid off your tee shirt with your breasts falling gracefully and slid off your shorts and panties allowing the clothes to fall on the bedroom carpet, you crawled onto the soft bedsheets and crawled toward her, Your legs intertwined with Megan's as you pressed your wet pussy pressing against hers. Your hips rolled at a steady pace, “oh fuck..Megan..” you moaned softly, your low-lidded eyes watched her breasts bounce.
The soft squelching sound filled the room. “Aww, it sounds your pretty pussy missed me too..” Megan teased, her hands gripped a portion of your asscheeks and your throbbing clits rubbed together.
“I-i love you..i missed you so much!” You groaned wildly, wrapping your arms around her waist, drawing her near and your nipples rubbed against hers, sending you on cloud nine. You refused to leave paradise alongside her, moaning loudly and breathed heavily, your headband slipped off your hair, and you moved your hips rhythmically alongside Megan.“You're so cute when you moan like that…” A sheer of sweat glistened over your melanated bodies under the dim lighting. Megan adorned your cocca skin so much.
This feeling almost felt so foreign to you but the way your wet folds latched onto hers drove you wild, with both of your juices gushing over each other’s thick thighs, "I love you more.." Megan slurred, cutting herself off with a moan.
You moved closer, engaging in a fervent kiss with her, with your tongues intermingling. Megan's eyes closed in utter delight, while she hugged you tightly. The two of you swallowed each other's moans with saliva trickling down to your chin. “I-i’m cumming…baby.” you slurred out, rolling your hips at a faster pace.
Megan broke the kiss, "I want to cum with you…fuck! Only you!” Megan keened, tears of pleasure rolled down your cheeks. Knots tightened in your stomach, you both screamed in pleasure. Both of your juices gushed over each folds and trickled down your thighs. waves washing over you. You clung to each other, bodies trembling as you threw your head back. A wave of pleasure washed over you.
Your breathing slowed down after as she pecked your lips twice sweetly, Megan collapsed beside you and her arm draped over your waist. You turned to face her, smiling as your fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare chest.
"I love you," you whispered, your voice filled with adoration.
"I love you too, my beautiful girl." She replied back, her thumb swiped over your cheek. You snuggled closer to her, feeling content and complete. Drifting off to sleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
Summary: After six months of his recovery from the brutal beating from his brother, Ronnie and finally getting everything back, the first thing Unique does is return home to you. You almost couldn't believe it but your husband was alive.
A\/N: Here’s something cute about Unique, enjoy! ❤️ don’t forget to reblog, comment and like to support, remember don’t be afraid to send in a request they’re always open.
Warnings: angst, praise, words of affirmations, rough sex, biting, descriptions, spanking, consensual intimacy, use of AAVE, mention of violence, established marriage, slight hair pulling.
His snow-white polished Beamer gently rolled onto the driveway of your house, with his deep brown eyes locked onto the familiar beige interior of it, the small windows covered by black curtains spanned across it, and small green bushes cornered the sides of the house.
Beloved memories of you and him remained in his mind, choosing to keep them as close as possible.
He killed the engine, the low rumble fading into an unsettling silence as he reached for the door handle. Outside, Unique stepped out cautiously, a tight grip around his emotions in the forceful slam of the door.
There he was in the flesh, Kadeem “Unique” Mathis. The man came from the dead, the man took over the corners of Queens. Asserting his control over the streets, putting the fear back in people who looked his way, or even walked the same street as him.
The soles of his beige timberlands clicked sharply against the uneven cobblestones, each step echoing into the night as he made his way toward the front door of the black lumber, its dark facade looming like a shadow.
Unique paused before the door, drawing in a shaky breath that felt heavy in his lungs. He exhaled softly, feeling the anxiety creeping around him like a tightening fog, his mind a frantic whirlpool of anxious thoughts.
His thoughts, distorted and fragmented, raced to piece together the chaotic reality surrounding him. He focused, forcing himself to latch onto the crucial details of the moment, and despite the turmoil, he found clarity.
He had severed Raquel’s connect to her drug supply, dismantling the very foundation of her business. The gravity of his actions settled heavily upon him and in the heart of Queens, intertwining with the sharpness of his thoughts.
His hand reached out, and hovering over the doorknob.
Why was he so nervous?
Unique suffered a brutal beating from his brother, Ronnie who bashed his head in with a steel pipe. After that, Unique crawled himself out of the woods, and called Early Tyler to save him that looming night.
The scars were still on the right of his head, but he didn't let it break him. Unique wanted to those scars to be a reminder of how resilient he was, and how he fought to survive.
But still, Unique wished a thousand times for it to only be him to kill Ronnie instead of Kanan, to be the one to end the madness on his own.
Ever since that night, Unique made it his mission to recover, and worked his way up. Ronnie was dead, and his enemy Raquel was still fighting hard and strong to get her spot back.
For the first time, Unique was nervous about revealing himself to you. He imagined the scenario in his head so many times, knowing that you would cry, possibly scream as if you saw a ghost. Or you would just hug him.
Words couldn't even explain how much he missed your presence, your laugh, your smile and everything else about you.
He missed you so much.
Without hesitation, he knocked on the door twice. He heard the footsteps approaching the door, Unique exhaled softly, relishing to still feel the oxygen in his lungs.
“Who the fuck is it—” You yelled but the moment you opened the door, your breath caught in your throat.
There he was, the man you thought you’d lost forever.
Unique stood there, looking just as handsome as ever, with that charming smirk playing on his lips, those familiar top-row gold grills glistened, but the wear of battle lingered in his eyes.
“What’s up Y\/N?” he breathed, his voice low and rough, the sound washing over you like a warm wave.
“Kadeem? Baby, is that really you?” You stepped back, disbelief coloring your voice.
“Yeah, baby, it’s me. I'm home,” He took a step forward, and the way his eyes locked onto yours made your heart race.
You stepped aside, as he walked inside the house and he closed the door behind himself, his eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. The scent of lavender and peppermint filled his nostrils.
Unique sported a red and black satin bomber jacket, underneath a crisp white tee shirt that hugged his toned chest.
His dark pants tapered down to the fresh white sneakers, you could see the gleam of gold chains layered around his neck and his right ear was adorned with a gold hoop earring.
You noticed the way his hair was freshly styled, the curls cropped close but still showing off the texture.
“Home?” You whispered, shaking your head, tears falling from your eyes. Your husband wiped your tears away.
“Damn right I am, missed you like crazy, baby girl,” he said, a playful glint in his gaze.
You didn’t waste a second; you flung yourself into his arms, feeling the warmth of his body envelop you. “I thought I lost you for good, the police told me that your body was gone,” you sobbed, holding onto him tightly, as if you were afraid he would disappear again.
“Never, I ain’t goin’ nowhere, and I promise I’m here to stay. You know that?” Unique murmured into your locs, pressing a kiss to your forehead and lips.
You pulled back to look into his eyes, the scars on his head made your eyes flick toward it. “Ronnie did this to you? I heard he was dead but you look different…I mean, the scars…”
“Yeah, they remind me of where I been, but Ronnie ain’t break me,” he said, brushing your fingers over the scar on his head.
You nodded, feeling a swell of pride for the man in front of you. “I’m just glad you’re alive, Unique. I missed you so much.”
“Missed you too, baby,” he said, his voice softening. “Now, come here.” He pulled you close again, holding you tightly, as if he never wanted to let go.
“Let’s get you something to eat, I made dinner, but you can get some sleep and you must be tired,” you replied, trying to regain your composure.
“I ain’t tired, but I’m hungry for you,” he teased, a mischievous smirk on his face. “But I’ll take your love too, that’s my favorite dish.”
You laughed, a light sound that felt foreign after all the worry and dread of the past months. “You always know how to lighten the mood, huh?”
“Only for you, baby. I got time today and I got a lotta love to give, and I’m ready to show you just how much I love you,” he smirked, he leaned closer.
You felt your cheeks heat up, the emotion in the room shifting filled the air. “Unique. I want you.”
“Good,” he smirked, pulling back to look you in the eyes.
He leaned down, smashing your lips. You melted into his lips by kissing him back, your hands gripped his arms as he deepened the kiss, pouring all of his pent-up longing into that moment.
“Damn, I missed you,” he murmured against your lips, his hands roaming your waist, pulling you closer.
“Can I ask you something Kadeem?”
He nodded in response, waiting for you to speak. “Of course you can, beautiful,” he said. You exhaled before looking up at his eyes, your hand rested against his cheek.
“Were you giving me money in my mailbox in those past months?”
“Yes, it was me. I wanted to provide you while I was layin’ low, it killed me that I wasn't there for you, Y\/N,” Unique confessed to you.
“I knew that I wasn't losin’ my mind, because I knew that it wasn't Raquel sending me that shit, it was you, baby,” You smirked with light chuckle.
“Baby,” you breathed, feeling the heat between you. “You have no idea how scared I was. I couldn’t—”
“Shh,” he interrupted, placing a finger over your lips. “Ain’t no need to dwell on the past, baby. We here now, and I’m makin’ sure you know how much I love you.”
With quickness, he swept you off your feet, carrying you into the room, the door slamming shut behind you. You giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck as he kicked off his boots, the warmth of his body against yours.
“Now, let’s make up for lost time, yeah?” he said, setting you down on the bed. His lips ghosting over yours, peppering kisses along your lips.
“Yeah, let’s do that,” you replied, pulling him down for another kiss, taking off your clothes as he did the same.
The two of you were laid against each other naked, he hovered you and your melanated skin was kissed tenderly as he gently spread your legs apart. He looked down at you, and kissed you again but it was passionately.
With a gentle thrust, he filled you up completely and you moaned wildly, you immediately broke the kiss as he began thrusting at a faster pace, Unique still remembered how you liked it in the bedroom with him, the thickness of his dick pulsed inside you. He felt so good, “Oh..fuck!” you mewled, nails scratching at his back.
Burying his face into the warmth of your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin. Leaving hickeys in his path, Unique wanted you to feel every inch of him as if it was the first time, not the last time. “I missed you so fuckin’ much, I'm sorry, I love you,” he groaned, pulling away to look away.
“Kadeem, don't be sorry…i love you too,” You gasped sharply, your nails digging into his shoulder. Unique brought his body closer to yours to feel more of that heat, each thrust made your body quiver and twitch.
Your wetness created a pool in his lap. “Damn girl,” he grunted lowly, reaching out for your breasts and fondling them, It felt like a dream come true to him, to be finally reunited with you.
The bed creaked underneath both of you adding to the intensity of the sound of your ass clapping against his thighs, “So fucking..good,” You panted, eyelids closing shut, the cold metal of his rings made your nipples erect, and you let out a unrecognizable moan.
He fisted your locs in his hand and pulled you back in a sloppy kiss, deepening the kiss again as you responded by tangling your tongue with his, “Good girl,” he murmured against your lips, thrusting more forcefully.
The way your pussy made his dick disappear ever so perfectly elicited low groans from him, He continued to thrust into you forcefully causing your essence to pour out, each stroke fast and filled with passion. “Look at you, that pussy cummin’ already?” he teased, His hand wrapped around your neck, forcing you to look at him, grinning evilly at your reaction.
He loved the way you responded to him, the way your hips moved in rhythm with his. Unique had missed this—missed you—more than he could ever put into words. His hand delivered a rough smack onto your ass, “Y-yes! I'm cumming!”
You felt the wave of pleasure crash over you, your body trembling beneath him, your essence pouring onto his dick as you cried out his name. Unique followed suit, his warm cun spilling into you as he groaned your name. He kissed the side of your face, before he kissed your lips again.
“Damn, baby,” he panted, collapsing onto the bed beside you, both of you gasping for breath. You turned to face him, a soft smile gracing your lips as you traced the outline of his jaw with your fingers. “I missed you.”
Unique turned to you, his eyes softening as he pulled you close. “I missed you too.”
“I don’t want to ever lose you again, Unique. Promise me you’ll always come back to me,” you murmured, your heart aching at the thought of being separated again.
“I promise, baby,” he replied, his voice steady and filled with sincerity.
As you nestled into his side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours, the pain of losing him was finally gone, he was here. “Now, let’s get some sleep, and in the morning,” he said, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
You nodded, feeling safe and content as you drifted off to sleep in the arms of the man you loved. He brought the blanket close to your bodies before falling asleep next to you.
Summary: You had a big girl crush on your friend, better known as Teyana Taylor. However, you forgot that you invited her to your place on your day off and decided to confess your feelings for her.
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Your deep brown eyes fixed on the vibrant laptop screen with your fingertips dancing across the keyboard in a speedy manner, you quickly saved the black-owned fashion settlement for your boss and you pushed the ’save’ and ‘send’ buttons before you sent it to her. You gently closed the laptop and rested the electronic on the dresser, letting out a sigh of relief from your lips.
You were finishing typing your paper for your boss on your day off in your house, you wanted to work on your day off. But your boss didn't want you to.
Your knotless ginger box braids were neatly tucked in your red bonnet, you sported a black tee shirt paired with black shorts and mismatched socks adorned your feet. Your brown skin glistened from the lights. You had finished cleaning around your house and taking a shower.
“Almost…Done!” You sang playfully, your teeth tucked between your lips.
You heard a soft knock on your front door and you smacked your lips in annoyance, you stood up from the couch as you peeked through the peephole, it was your best friend? Teyana. She was holding a white plastic bag of two styrofoam food containers and soda cans.
Shit! You completely forgot that invited her over to your house for your day off, she told you that you didn't have to type it because you deserved a break but your workaholic senses were speaking to you louder than her thoughtful words, You put in a lot of effort at your job as an assistant and yet believed you were not accomplishing anything on a day off.
You yanked your bonnet off your head and tossed it in your bedroom, your box braids fell gracefully at your shoulders.
It was a mix of your fear of failure and your overthinking that brought you to this stressfull mindset.
You swung open the door and stepped aside to let the woman in, “Hey Y\/N, I brought you some food on the way here, got us both birria tacos.” Teyana sang playfully, she rested the food containers and soda cans on the small coffee table.
Teyana wrapped her arms around your body in a warm hug as you hugged back, her soft perfume wafted in your nostrils and your heart fluttered from her touch, the two of you gently pulled away from each other. “I missed you girl, how have you been?” Teyana asked kindly, smiling at you.
“I’ve been good, finished up some work for my boss. I missed you too.” You replied softly, scratching the nape of your neck.
Damn she's fine, you mentally thought to yourself.
“Did you take a break though? Isn't it your day off?”
You sighed while you looked into her eyes, you knew she was right. “Yeah, but I had to finish it,”
“There you go again, pushing yourself until you're tired.”
The truth was you had a crush on your friend, Teyana Taylor. She was so talented, she can sing, dance and act, choreograph, direct, write, design fashion. She wore whatever she wanted without a care in the world and she still looked so gorgeous. You thought the crush would subside but the crush became real feelings for her.
“Thank you for bringing me some food, I've been wanting to try those too.” You said softly, grabbing your drink and food container from the table.
“Yeah, I remember when you sounded so excited to tell me about them, you were so cute.” Teyana added, lightly chuckling as she grabbed her soda can and food container.
You flushed from her words with your hand reaching for the remote, you played a random movie on Netflix and sipped your water bottle before opening your container, dipping your taco in the tangy sauce as you took a bite, the tangy, spices danced on your tastebuds.
“Mmm, these are so good, I'm glad that you got me these..”
“Anytime boo.”
As the movie gradually played on your television, your heart thumped out of your chest. You picked up your empty food container and threw it away in the trashcan. “Just tell her..” you whispered to yourself, exhaling a breath.
You couldn't help how nervous you were to tell her that you liked her, you've seen her!
“Hey…um T-Teyana there’s something I need to you.” You sputtered, your eyes roamed through the house.
She turned to face you with concern etched on her face, wiping the corners of her lips using a napkin.
“I-i like you T, more than a friend. I've had these feelings for you for a while now. Every time I see you my heart races.” you confessed, as you sipped your water bottle.
Teyana eyes’s widened slightly as her lips curled up in a smile and her index finger lifted your chin to force your gaze onto hers.
“I feel the same way about you too Y\/N. You're beautiful, ambitious and kind.” She confessed, her tongue grazing her lips.
“I’m so happy that you feel the same way.” You whispered, your hands cradling her face.
“Please Teyana, I need you..” you whined softly, you moved her hands to the small of your back.
You leaned in gradually as she did the same action, your lips pressed onto her plump lips, her lips were so soft and plump, she tilted her head to the side, deepening the kiss as your tongues swirled in different directions, saliva tricked down your chin. swallowing each other’s moans, your clit throbbed in response and your heart was damn near doing backflips. Your bodies are pressed closer with the heat rising into your body.
Her lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses. You softly moaned, the pleasure coursing through your veins. Teyana's hands found their way under your shirt, lifting your shift off your head, her soft hands rubbed your breasts in circles and she made your breath hitch. “Just like that..” you panted, clenching your thighs together.
Teyana latched her warm mouth on your erect nipple with her tongue swirling around your sensitive areola, you slid off your shorts and tossed them on the floor, she bites her lips at the sight of your glistening pussy.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful," she whispered against your skin.
"I've wanted you for so long." you whispered back, your hand resting on the nape of her neck.
Her fingers sliding between your wet folds, pumping them in and out at a steady pace, your head fall back on the pillow. “Good girl..” she praised, trailing kisses along your neck.
You hips rolled against her slender fingers as she played with your breasts, teasingly flicking her tongue on your nipple. “Oh shit.” she moaned softly, kissing you passionately.
Your hand sliding past her shorts with your index finger rolling on her throbbing clit, “I-i want you to feel good too..” you whined softly, pumping your fingers in and out of her. Feeling her juices coating your digits.
Both of your juices gushed around each other’s fingers, moaning together with her as the both of you rolled your hips. “oh fuck!” you moaned loudly, panting heavily.
Your hands found their way to the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head to reveal her toned body. The sight made your pulse quicken and your core ached.
“W-wait, Teyana can you lay down for me?”
Teyana laid down on her back and slid her shorts and panties.
You crawled toward the woman as your hands rested beside her head, you leaned down, your lips descended upon hers as your tongue gradually slid across her soft plump lips. Staining your lips with strawberry-flavored lip gloss, You loved every bit of this.
You pressed your breasts against hers, your erect nipples touched hers. “Your titties are so pretty..” you praised, rubbing your breasts against hers teasingly over and over again, your heart thumped out of your chest again. “T-Teyana…” you moaned softly, your mouth hung open as you felt her fingers slid between you folds again, you moaned so slut like.
Your tongue flicked on your fingers before you turned around with your plump ass was in front of her face, your heart thumped out of your chest once you took a long glance at her wet pussy, “You're so wet for me..” you whined softly, your fingers sliding between her wet folds, gradually pumping your fingers in and out. Watching her juices pour out of her pussy after every stroke.
“Oh fuck…Y\/N,”
Your heart did a backflip from her slut like moans and your name in between, Teyana’s hands gripped your ass and brought your pussy to her lips, “this is such a pretty pussy..” she moans, her thumb rubbing your throbbing clit in circles, “yes—fuck!” You keened, Teyana pumped her fingers out of your wet folds, your breath quickened in pleasure. You suckled roughly around her clit.
“Play with that clit baby.” She teased, her hand gripping a portion of your asscheek, slurping up your juices as you did the same.
You heart swelled, you couldn't believe that she was pleasuring you, she was all yours, you moved your head away to moan loudly, “oh yes! Suck it harder..” you groaned wildly, Teyana sucked your clit roughly with your tongue slithered across her wet folds. Teyana gently pushed her tongue between your folds, butterflies swarming in your tummy, both of your moans were muffled from the two of you eating each other out.
You legs intertwined with Teyana's as you pressed your wet pussy pressed against hers. Your mouth hung open as you fell gracefully onto the bedsheets, "I can't beileve my pussy is touching yours.." while Teyana propped up on her elbows. She maintained good posture, sitting upright on her ass, “so fucking wet..” while holding onto your leg against her chest with her right arm and grasping your other leg. You wiggled your hips alongside Teyana, You felt a strong desire for her, your pussy yearned for her intensely.
“My pretty little slut..” Teyana moaned softly, heat sinks into your body. her hips rolled with yours, she watched your face twisted up in pleasure under her, you broke down in bliss.
“I’ve always wanted you..only you..” you groaned wildly, Teyana’s eyes locked onto yours with love. She watched both of your juices gushing over each other’s thighs and your breasts bouncing, “your pussy is mine..” Teyana moaned softly. Your clit throbbed with hers, the soft squelching sound sent the two of you into pure ecstasy.
“I-i’m cumming…” you slurred out, wiggling your hips wildly. Your hands gripped the bedsheets bedside your head once you felt a wave of pleasure wash over you, your folds twitched and gripped on hers lovingly.
“Let's cum together baby..”
Knots tightend in your stomach suggesting your climax, your essence scattered on her pussy just as hers did on yours, the two of you shaking as your bodies connected.
Teyana fell onto you, while you held her close, and she showered your neck with kisses while you reciprocated by kissing her lips twice. Your bodies pressed tightly against each other, and droplets of sweat traced a seductive path.
Warnings: a dominant Megan, slight teasing, head (fem reviving) sex toy(strap) dirty talk, praise, short fic.
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You lay on your stomach against the soft bed with the light pink blankets, swinging your feet at the tall woman who stood prettily in front of the full-length mirror. Smiling at you.
She spends the night at your house for the start of summer simply because she misses you so much. Your smile, your laugh and your sense of humor.
“Baby, you’re so beautiful,”
Megan giggled and stepped toward you, kissed your lips sweetly. You hopped off the bed and stood in front of you, looking up at her with a smirk.
You were only 5’2 which you’ve grown to love when you once wished to be tall as a kid. Your locs pulled up in a bun and melanated skin.
While Megan was a lot taller than you which was an experience all on its own. Standing at 5'10, she had a commanding presence that made your heart race every time you were near her.
"What are you smirking at, little one?" Megan teased, her voice low and playful.
You bit your lip, feigning innocence. "Just admiring my tall, gorgeous girlfriend."
She laughed, a sound that sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. "You think you can sweet talk me into getting what you want?”
"Maybe," you replied, your voice dripping with sass. "But I know you love it."
Megan stepped closer, her body radiating heat as she leaned down to whisper in your ear. "You know I can be dominant if you let me, right?"
Your breath hitched at the implication. You had talked about this before, the idea of her taking control. But hearing her say it made you feel a rush of excitement. "I...I wouldn’t mind," you admitted, your cheeks warming up.
"Good, because I want to be little bad for me" she smirked, pulling back to look into your eyes.
You swallowed hard, feeling a thrill run through you. "What do you have in mind?"
Megan's gaze darkened with desire as she walked you back toward the bed, gently pushing you down onto the soft blankets. "Just relax and let me take care of you," she said, her voice smooth and sultry.
You nodded, the anticipation building in your chest as she climbed on top of you, her weight comforting yet thrilling. "Megan..."
"Shh," she interrupted, placing a finger over your lips. "I want you to be quiet and just enjoy."
With that, she began to shower you with kisses, trailing her lips down your neck and across your collarbone. Her short hair swung over her ear.
"You're so beautiful, baby," she murmured, her breath hot against your skin. "I want to hear you say it."
"I’m beautiful," you breathed, already lost in the moment.
"Good girl," she praised, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "Now let's have some fun."
She pulled down your shorts and panties, lifting your grey tank top. Your titties bounced out and gently she palmed them, As she took off her clothes, leaving the both of you bare underneath the dim lighting.
Megan’s thumb rolled over your clit and you gasped softly, her tongue gliding up and down on your wet folds, slurping and swallowing your essence, dripping down her chin.
“Your pussy tastes so good, so beautiful..” Megan moaned.
She continued her delicious assault, causing your back to arch off the bed with pleasure.
"Megan," you whimpered, your fingers tangling in her hair. "Please, I can't take much more."
She looked up at you with those sultry eyes, a smirk playing on her lips. "Oh, but we're just getting started, baby. I want to make you feel incredible."
With that, she dove back in, her tongue working magic as she focused on your sensitive spots. You could feel the heat pooling in your core, the pressure building as she expertly brought you closer to the edge.
"That's it," she murmured against you, sending vibrations through your body. "Let go for me."
You could hardly think, the sensation overwhelming as you teetered on the brink of ecstasy. "Megan... I’m going to—"
"Not yet," she interrupted, pulling back just enough to catch her breath. "I want you to hold it for me.”
Your heart raced as she reached for the strap she had brought along, securing it around her waist. "You trust me, right?" she asked, her voice low and commanding.
"Of course," you replied breathlessly, your body aching for her.
"Good," she said, positioning herself between your legs. "I want you to feel every inch of me."
As she pressed inside, a moan escaped your lips, the fullness taking your breath away. "Oh fuck, Megan."
"Look at you," she praised, her voice dripping with affection. "So perfect for me. Just relax and let me take care of you."
She began pushing his hips, perfectly hitting that sweet spot inside you. “S-shit, yes! You fuck me so gooddd!” you cried out, hands balling up in the blankets.
If only she could your walls clenched around her, she could only see your pussy clench around it. Your wetness gushed on the sheets below, gripped your thighs and looked down at her.
“Is my girl feelin' good huh?” Megan teased, biting her plump lips. Feeling your nails scratch at her back and thighs, she groaned at the pain.
“So good, baby, so good!” You hollered, throwing your head back in pleasure. Pulling her down by her neck for a kiss.
“P-please, I want to ride you!”
She immediately gripped your hips, lifting you up and watched your body shake against hers, your arms around her neck, pulling you close to her, Moving her hips upwards at a new pace, “Fuck! Fuck! Megan!”
Tears rolled down and burned your cheeks, your breasts pressed against hers, nipples touched. “Damn baby?" she asked, her breath hot against your ear.
Her juices pooled around her thighs, mixing with yours. Making a mess on the strap everywhere, “That pussy is so tight,” Moaning loudly with you, as the rhythm steady and intoxicating. Your body responded eagerly, the tension building once more.
"So good... I can’t—"
"Yes, you can," she encouraged, her pace quickening. "I want you to come for me. Show me how much you love it."
The pressure in your core grew more intense, a delicious burn that only she could ignite. "I’m going to—"
"Now, baby! Let it go," she commanded, and with that, you shattered, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you cried out her name. Your essence poured into everywhere, with her still inside. The two of you collapsed in the same position.
Megan pulled out of you, and you moaned in a shaky breath, heavily breathing with you. She took up the strap and cleaned it with a disinfectant wipe, placing it back in the bag.
Her gaze fixed on your blissed-out expression. "Look at you, so beautiful when you come apart like that," she said, her voice thick with satisfaction.
You lay there, panting, feeling completely spent yet utterly fulfilled. "You’re incredible," you managed to say, your body still buzzing from the intensity.
She leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft kiss, her thumb brushing against your cheek. "And you’re mine," she whispered, holding you close.
“You’re mine too Meg,” You shot back with a smirk.
“Of course I am,”
As you both settled into the afterglow, you smiled. You stood up and ran into the bathroom, taking a bath while Megan took a shower.
Changing into fresh clothes and changing the sheets, cleaning up immediately before snuggling up in the bed.
Tonight had been everything you had dreamed of and more.
Summary: Cameron had everything in the palm of his hand at the height of his football career, fame, you and the overflow of money. But now, you and Cam were in need of a break from it all. The two of you decided to go to this weird club he heard about on Halloween night for couples night.
Warnings: dirty talk, mention of death, fingering, public sex, choking, exhibitionist kink, angst, pet names, praise, overstimulation, sex club, short fic.
You couldn't shake your concerns for Cameron and his mental state. Everything related to the training, the early morning practices, and the bizarre yet intriguing rituals he shared about the team he was excelling with.
All for his favorite football player, Isaiah White, nearly aging, and almost retired quarterback of the San Antonio Saviors.
He was grateful for the love, and support from you after all these years of his professional football career, the dedication, hard work and sacrifice.
Everything all at once, if he could say the words.
Following his father's death, Cameron continued to mourn, much like how you were mourning a relative, despite having everything at his fingertips.
Eventually, heavy grief like that can cling to your mind like metal to a magnet.
What could you say or do to make him feel better? It seemed like everything was falling apart, and being built again in front of your eyes.
As you sat in the comfort of your living room, flipping through channels for something to watch, the rays from the television screen sprawled across your dark brown skin, and the door creaked open.
“Baby, I'm home..” Cameron called out, his shoes clicking on the hardwood, his voice echoed.
Cameron approached the couch, where you sat, curled up with your legs bent slightly. He leaned over, and kissed your cheek lovingly, your face warmed up in response. “Hey baby,” You spoke up.
“I watched the game tonight, and congrats on winning,” You replied with a small grin, biting your lip.
Cameron circled the couch, and gently plopped on the spot right next to you, faintly smiling, his gold chain hung around his neck, catching the light above.
“Thanks, Y/N. How was your day, beautiful?” Cam asked, his eyes on you, as you watched the television show before you.
Your lips curved into a smirk at your man calling you beautiful, however you knew something else to keep your mind off of the stress lately.
“It was good, same ol’ shit with my clients, being adamant about their decisions,” You spoke, your voice was casual.
Dating an NFL quarterback came with its advantages and disadvantages. The pressures of your job as a real estate agent significantly contributed to the stress, especially when clients hastily made decisions about purchasing a home.
“Same ol’ shit, hm? It’s always some crazy shit going on during Halloween night,” Cameron mused, shrugging his shoulders with a soft chuckle.
“Obviously. Speaking of Halloween, is there anything you want to do tonight? I rather not stay in the house all day.” You asked once more, your eyes shifted toward him, slouching in your seat. Your voice was tender yet casual.
“Do you want to go to this new club? One of my teammates told me about it, and they say it’s kinda cool, or a bit weird?” Cam asked softly, an unsure tone leaving his mouth.
His unsure tone made you suspicious, if the club was popular or underground, and you’d never heard of it, would you just go?
“What’s the name of the club?” You asked, your head tilting a bit.
“It’s called Black Ice, and it’s Halloween night, and couples night, which means that we have to show up in costumes,” Cam explained, his head lying on your shoulder, before kissing it.
"Never heard of it. I assume that the club is not too popular? Underground, maybe?" You asked, your brows raised. Hoping to figure out the mysterious club.
"Yes, that's what Chris told me. The team plans on renting the club out tonight.” Cameron explained softly, his lip faintly pursed.
An idea flickered in your mind for the costumes, sexy vampires? Perfect. You've had the right outfit for the occasion.
“Yeah, I'll go with you. It’s something different, right?” You chimed in, your eyes tracing along his body.
“You’re right. How about the costumes?”
“How about sexy vampires? I think it would be perfect.”
“That’s cool with me, vampires it is, then.”
——-—-
You, and Cameron sat comfortably in a private VIP section of the club, with his teammates dancing right in front of another section, the music thumping through the speakers in the right corners of the spacious room, you could smell the heavy scent of weed, spilled liquor, and indistrict chatter resounding all over
You wore a black dress that reached your thighs, complemented by a small cape around your neck, along with faux polished fangs in your mouth and artificial blood at the edges of your lips, finishing the look with black heels on your feet.
Cam chose to wear a black cape, shirtless with a sweaty, gleaming chest, tight-fitting pants, stylish black sneakers, and fake blood smeared at the edges of his lips.
The nightclub? Filled with diverse couples of different skin colors and genders, adorned in colorful costumes, moving closely together to an alluring melody, their bodies so tightly entwined that sweat is visible, their lips slightly parted as if to release a moan.
Was this a sex club? Strange.
"Is this sex club, Cam?" You asked, trying to spoke up over the music.
"What? I'm not sure, people are dancing very close, and it does look like they're fucking in here," Cam spoke, his voice slightly audible over the music.
The question lingered in your mind, but it felt rhetorical to you. You could grab a drink to soothe your nerves; you needed to unwind and concentrate on Cameron.
“I'm gonna go get a drink,” You spoke up, your voice faintly audible over the music.
Cameron couldn't catch what you said due to the music, but he did notice something; he got to his feet, responding with his protective instincts as his gaze connected softly with yours.
Cam rose to his feet alongside you, matching your movements. He wanted to be present at the bar with you for safety, displaying his protective nature. As his fingers wove together with yours, he surveyed the area with attentive eyes.
You sprang to your feet, swiftly making your way to the bartender for a refreshing glass of wine. And Cam pulled out his wallet, he retrieved a handful of dollars from it and gracefully slid the money across the sleek surface of the bar.
You held your drink in hand, as you, and Cam settled back into the couch, as you took a sip of your drink, swallowing every drop, feeling a rush of energy, exhaling a deep breath.
"Let's go dance, baby."
With a reassuring grip of your hand, you led Cameron to the crowded dance floor, and the bodies of the couples bump into your bodies, Cam wrapped his arms around your body pressed against yours. "Damn, baby..."
Your ass repeatedly whining in a circle onto his clothed crotch, he grunted and felt the blood rush through his dick, his tongue gliding across his lips. “Damn..”Watching your ass bounce against him spurred him on, as his hands squeezed your hips tight. His hands wrap around your neck gently, guiding you closer as your bodies swayed against each, sweat trickling from your skin.
"Come, closer.." You whispered to his ear, kissing his cheek sweetly.
Cameron leaned in, his warm breath fanning against your ear, sucking it softly. You moaned softly in response, and his hips were grinding against yours with rhythm.
“Touch me,”
By Your command, his hands hugging your body softly, all over the fabric, squeezing you tight in the costumes
"Come here real quick, baby girl." he playfully requested, with a sly grin. Your cheeks warmed up, as your bashfully moved closer to him, their knees touching. "In front of all these people, baby?" He asked softly. You nodded in response, he bites his lip, squeezing his arm.
Initially, you felt nervous about engaging in a sensual act amidst the sight of numerous people scattered throughout of the sex club.
“It’s a sex club, fuck it.”
“Fuck it, huh?”
"Yes, Cam..please," you replied in a hushed tone, you gently spread your legs for him as he ran his hand along the edge of your dress. With smooth deftness, he moved your panties aside and skillfully slide his middle finger between your wet folds, leaving your mouth agape. “Cam..fuck..” you moaned softly, your hips rolling against his fingers, your moans resounding.
You hugged him, holding him tightly, drawing your boyfriend near as he pumped his fingers rhythmically in, and out of your pussy. “Fuckkk! Your breast gripped through the fabric pressed against his hand, their bodies in need of friction.
Nuzzling his face into your neck, you felt his fingers curled up deep in your pussy, while his thumb tracing slow circles. A low groan escaped his mouth as her warm breath tickled his neck, and he whispered huskily, "Your pussy is getting so wet..." In a passionate moment, he tilted your head across the crowd, “Almost there..”spotting a woman being fucked against the walls of the club, “fuck..” her legs wrapped around her boyfriend’s waist, her eyes locked carefully with yours, her hands clutched the black fabric of her boyfriend’s cape, he untied the drawstrings of her dress, causing her halter top to gracefully fall, revealing her plump breasts.
Cameron firmly latched your nipple in his mouth while your boyfriend vigorously sucked on your areola with gentle bites on her skin, and he lovingly stroked your other breast. Eliciting her back to arch towards him. Your juices were wetting up on his fingers as his thumb was circling your clit again. Gently tasting you, savoring it before carefully sliding his fingers back in, evoking a gentle whimper from her. "You're so nasty baby, Open wide." he whispered, his words filled with admiration.
By his whisper, you parted your lips, he delicately slides his fingers into your mouth, muffling your moans that escaped from your, “C-Cameron..fuckk!” before he slides them out, a sharp gasp left your mouth.
He gently circled your clit with his thumb while inserting an extra third finger inside her. "C-Cam..y-your fingers.." you softly moaned, moving your hips with the gradual, pace of his fingers, Cam grinned devilishly at your face contorting in pleasure. “There you go, you like being watched..being finger fucked in the club…” He sees your cream flowing from the bottom of her dress, his lips and onto your breasts, his dick to harden in his pants, your juices flowed freely on his fingers after every stroke. “Y-yess! Fuck!”
"Look at you bein' so nasty in this fucking club." Cam teased, stroking his fingers at a faster pace. Your wet walls clenched around him, your wetness spilling out, again, and again.
You bucked your hips to his fingers, your juices to flow down to your thighs and soak the floor beneath, "Cam...please, I want to cum.." you mewled, whining softly. Tears welled up in your eyes from the pleasure, relentlessly finger fucking you without mercy, your body trembling against his.
"You deserve to cum in front of these people?" He teased, his tongue running across his lips, biting his ear, pumping his fingers again.
"B-baby, Y-yess.." you stammered softly, you moaned with each tender touch. Your legs quivered in response to his gold ring grazing your throbbing clit.
The echoes of your nasty moans echoed through the air, and someone catches you, and Cam. Yet, Cam swiftly tilted, faces her towards the crowd and gripping your chin, roughly yet possessively. “Cameron…”
Her breathy moans vibrated on his skin, "Oh shit!" heightening their shared desire. Cameron couldn't suppress a deep, guttural groan of his own. “So nasty..”He roughly massaged your breast while you held the back of his neck in your hand, closer. To feel the heat, the friction. You were so close to your climax.
He brought his lips to her ear, "It’s turning you on that they knew what was goin' on here?.." Cameron asked, plumping his fingers slower then faster. The clothes were soaked with your essence as he went deeper and deeper.
Your eyelashes fluttered close at his whispered question, your body trembling against his. Your fingernails dug deep into his neck, with a breathless voice, she responded, "Yes, Cameron."
a grin tugged at the corners of his lips as he moved his fingers faster, "You can cum." he groaned lowly, he pressed his lips against yours, his touch now more demanding, pleasuing you closer to the edge. Your moans grew louder, "Oh fuck..right there..." you mewled. Your hips rocking against his hand, and biting his lip.
“I’m cumming!” you screamed as your wetness flooded his fingers, splattering across the floors, he sucked his fingers dry, before licking his lips. “You taste amazing..” he sang playfully, with a grin.
Cameron planted a tender kiss on your lips, and he gently spinning you around to face him. “Did you like that?” he asked you.
You chuckled softly, and nodded. “Very much, so. I needed that, baby.”
The couple deciding to leave early and informing their friends of their departure, leaving the club hand in hand, despite you feeling hot and fanning yourself after their moment in the club, heavy in heat.
Little puffs of air, warm and wet against her shoulder blade, followed by a sticky hand slapping down on her chest like he owns her heartbeat.
“Up, Mama,” Messiah mumbles, voice thick with sleep and snot, “Cartoo?”
Malaya doesn’t open her eyes right away. Her back hurts. Not sharp pain—just that deep, stretched ache that comes from sleeping on her side too long with a toddler pressed to her spine. The kind of ache that says you made it through another day, now do it again.
Messiah shifts beside her, his couls wild, matted, and damp from sweat. His tiny sock is halfway off. He kicks once, like he’s dreaming of something fast, then kicks again on purpose, hard enough to jar her ribs.
“I’m up,” she groans, voice cracked, “Damn, boy.”
She doesn’t curse in front of him often, but it slips sometimes in the early hours, when her bones are heavier than her body and her soul feels like it got folded in the wrong drawer. The bedroom is dim, a single strip of light cutting in through the crooked blinds. Her sheets are half off the mattress, tangled around one of her legs. The baby monitor on the nightstand blinks blue even though Messiah’s already beside her. On the floor by the closet door is a pair of leggings, a half-folded towel, and the old tripod she kicks out of sight with her heel.
They start slow. She sits up with him in her lap, lets him rub his face against her stretched T-shirt like it’s a napkin, lets him drool a little on the neckline. Her T-shirt smells like yesterday. Baby wipes, cocoa butter, and the faintest trace of strawberry lube.
He climbs down with a grunt and waddles toward the bedroom door, “Snack!” he says. A declaration.
Malaya rolls her shoulders, feels the stretch pop down her spine. Her belly—still soft and full under the fabric—shifts slightly with the motion. She tugs down her T-shirt. Doesn’t bother with a bra. She rarely does unless she’s heading to work or logging in.
The hallway outside her room creaks as Messiah darts toward the kitchen, Jurassic Park socks sliding. She follows behind, bare feet padding over the plush carpet that covers the real floors beneath—cheap laminate hiding older scars.
The duplex is quiet, but it’s not still.
The living room has toys everywhere, plastic food in the play kitchen, a blanket crumpled on the couch from when she passed out watching Bluey alone. One of Messiah’s juice cups rolls across the floor when she nudges it with her toe. In the corner, by the window, her plant is dying. The leaves are yellow at the tips. She waters it anyway. Out of habit. Or hope. The kitchen’s narrow, with cabinets painted the wrong shade of white and fake-new appliances that buzz louder than they should. The stove clock is flashing 12:00. She hasn’t fixed it since the last outage. There’s a small pantry beside the fridge, barely enough space for snacks and ramen and the box of wipes she keeps hidden from visitors.
“Cheerios?” she asks, already reaching.
Messiah nods like a king.
She pours a handful into a bowl, no milk. He eats standing up on the couch, balancing one foot on the cushion like a little rebel.
She leans on the counter, arms crossed, eyes on the small strip of sun now widening across the floor. Her stomach growls. She ignores it. Her head hurts. She swallows that too. Outside, the city’s already moving—sirens, tires, the deep rumble of bass from someone’s too-loud car speaker. Inside, it’s just her and him and the weight and the stretch.
Messiah crunches dry Cheerios from the couch while cartoons mumble in the background, and Malaya steps into the narrow hallway, barefoot. Her duplex is small, but it holds her. Two bedrooms, one bath, and a little more space than the rent should allow. Landlord slapped some vinyl flooring in the kitchen and called it “newly remodeled.” The carpet’s fresh too, though she can still feel the unevenness of the floor beneath it. Messiah’s dinosaurs and action figures are lined up along the hallway wall, like they’re guarding something ancient. Her bedroom door sticks a little when she pushes it open.
Inside, it smells like sleep and yesterday’s body oil. The blinds are uneven, casting warped shadows over the dresser where her worn makeup bag sits untouched. Clothes are everywhere. Not messy—just lived in. A hoodie draped over the headboard. Her favorite pair of leggings folded wrong at the foot of the bed. Her work bag slumped against the side of the laundry basket, zipper half-open, badge peeking out like it’s tired too.
She peeks in on Messiah’s room. It’s chaos. Blankets on the floor. Toddler bed messy. A book open to the wrong page. A half-naked stuffed Mickey Mouse wedged under a tiny chair. It smells like powder, juice, and the lavender spray she mists at bedtime. She’ll clean later. Or not. She never pretends for nobody.
“Messiah,” she calls gently, “Potty time. Come on, baby.”
He shuffles down the hall, chubby legs moving fast, and plops onto his training seat in the bathroom like he owns it.
“I poo poo,” he announces. Confident. Serious.
Malaya exhales a soft laugh and steps out of her T-shirt, then peels down her panties. The c-section scar pulls faintly when she bends. Her reflection in the mirror is blurred from the steam already building up. She avoids looking too long.
The shower is fast. Has to be. Water costs and Messiah gets antsy if she’s gone too long. She pins her long Marley twists up into a high, loose bun. Some strands fall free anyway—new growth coils acting as baby hair tight against her damp forehead. She turns the water on hot, tests it with her hand, then steps in slow. A low hiss slips through her teeth as it hits her skin.
Her body isn’t the same as before. Softer now. Heavy in new places. Her stretch marks shimmer like whispers in the steam—silver along her belly and hips. She scrubs her arms in hard, fast circles, suds slipping down to her elbows. Over her inner bicep, she moves slower—right where her ink reads: What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.
Her hands move down. Across full breasts. Beneath them. Over her soft belly. Down thicker thighs. She cleans between her legs carefully—rinsing, pressing. There’s a deep, dull ache inside. She doesn’t linger on it.
Just something she lives with now.
She turns off the water before she’s ready.
The mirror’s fogged. Her face swims behind it. She wipes the glass with her palm but doesn’t look long. She’s got thirty minutes before they’re late. Messiah’s still babbling to himself on the potty. She dries off fast—body still dripping—pulls on a soft T-shirt with a cracked graphic print and thick socks. Her nipples poke through the fabric, but she doesn’t have time to care. She scoops Messiah up, wipes him down at the bathroom sink, wrangles him into a onesie with dinosaurs on it, then moves like clockwork.
She grabs:
Scrubs (grey today, slightly faded)
Her badge and lanyard (Parkside Outpatient— Midtown Campus)
Messiah’s bag with snacks, wipes, cracked tablet, and extra socks
Her work bag with her charger and the cheap deodorant she keeps forgetting to replace
Messiah’s starting to fuss, arms flailing as she zips his jacket.
“I don like it, mommy.” he whines.
“I know, baby. Just a little longer,” she whispers.
Her hands are full. Her throat feels tight. She presses her forehead against the front door for just one second before unlocking it.
Just one second.
Then she exhales and opens it to the world.
Her car is loyal. Ugly, but loyal.
A dusty gray 2015 Nissan Altima with a dented driver’s side door and a cracked back taillight covered in red tape. The radio only plays two stations without static. The air conditioner groans before it works. She keeps one of Messiah’s pacifiers on the dash like a totem. Dice hanging from the rear view mirror. The inside smells like apple juice and exhaustion—baby wipes, old fries, and whatever Black ice air freshener is losing its grip on the rearview.
The engine clicks when it starts. She waits, then reverses slow. Hollowell Parkway is already alive—school buses, mopeds, folks walking in neon uniforms toward the MARTA stop. Messiah kicks his feet in the backseat, half-asleep again, holding his stuffed Elmo like it might get snatched. The daycare is a small brick building tucked between a rundown convenience store and an old church that’s been boarded up for two years. A colorful sign above the door reads: Bright Futures Learning Center with faded cartoon animals dancing around the letters. The front windows are decorated with construction paper cutouts of autumn leaves.
Miss Tonya opens the door before Malaya can knock. She’s wearing a t-shirt with “Unbothered & Booked” printed across the chest and leopard print leggings. Her locs are pulled up in a pineapple. She’s got that voice that’s soft enough for toddlers and sharp enough for parents who test her.
“Morning, Mama,” she says, holding the door open.
“Morning,” Malaya spoke softly, lifting Messiah from the car seat. He clings to her neck.
Miss Tonya lowers her tone just enough, lYou got that payment?”
Malaya doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for her wallet with one hand while shifting Messiah’s weight to her hip.
It’s all crumpled bills and quarters—cobbled together from tips, change, a ten from Tamra, and what she was supposed to save for groceries. She pulls out $150 and hands it over.
“That’s the rest from two weeks ago,” Malaya says, her voice quiet, “I’ll have the next one on time.”
Miss Tonya eyes the bills, then nods slowly, “Alright. I know you tryna keep up. But we tight this month, okay?”
“I know. Thank you.”
“You know I love that baby. Just…don’t make me chase you again.”
Malaya nods again, stiff. Swallows hard.
She kisses Messiah’s cheek before handing him off. He doesn’t cry, but he looks back once as Miss Tonya carries him inside. The door closes with a soft chime. Malaya just stands there for a second. Watching the sun rise behind the building like it might burn something clean.
Then she turns and gets back in the car.
Parkside Outpatient Clinic sits just off a busy Midtown intersection, wedged between a Walgreens and a dentist office with busted blinds. The building’s flat beige exterior does nothing to hide the tension inside. The moment Malaya walks through the glass front doors, the smell hits: antiseptic, old carpet, microwave popcorn from the break room, and a little sweat from patients who’ve been waiting too long.
It’s always bright in here. Too bright. Lights that make you look sick, even when you’re not. Reception sits in a U-shaped desk straight ahead. Behind it, the clinic opens into a long hallway with numbered exam rooms on both sides. There’s a small nurse’s station in the back with a fridge for samples and a clock that ticks too loud. Posters on the wall tell people to cough into their elbows and schedule flu shots nobody wants.
Malaya’s station is halfway down the hall, next to a filing cabinet that never shuts right. She has a drawer with her name on it, a chipped plastic label from a label maker that barely stuck. Inside: pens, gloves, a phone charger, and a half-used bottle of ibuprofen. She clocks in on a mounted tablet near the break room. The screen is greasy.
Patients are already piling in—coughing, complaining, slamming clipboards on the counter. One man with a limp is shouting about how long he’s waited. A woman with three kids and no appointment is pretending not to hear the staff asking for her insurance.
Malaya smiles like she means it.
Her boss, Miss Denby, walks past in nude flats and a too-tight blazer. Doesn’t say good morning. Just nods like a queen barely recognizing her court.
Malaya’s head starts to pound before 9AM.
She checks vitals, processes urine samples, logs notes into the system that always crashes mid-entry. She eats her granola bar while standing. Takes two sips of cold coffee from her tumbler before it disappears. Someone always needs something. At 10:42, she follows a coworker—Nisha—out the side door for a smoke break. Malaya doesn’t smoke, but she needs the air.
Nisha lights up with the speed of a woman on edge, “Girl, you hear they tryna bring in some temp for front desk? Said we ‘undermanned.’ I said, ‘Bitch, we been undermanned.’”
Malaya chuckles, dry, “They gon’ pay her more than us, too.”
“Mmhm. Watch. Bet she can’t even spell phlebotomy.”
They stand in silence for a moment. The sun is warm on their forearms. The trash bins smell like old gauze and last week’s pot luck.
“You alright?” Nisha finally asks.
Malaya shrugs, “I’m breathing.”
“Let me know if you need help hiding a body.”
“Bet.”
She almost smiles. Almost. Then she tucks her badge back into her scrub pocket and heads inside.
The last four hours drag like wet laundry.
A man yells about his refill. A little boy throws up graham crackers on the waiting room floor. One of the nurses is crying quietly in the break room, pretending she’s just tired. Phones ring. The printer jams. Malaya’s feet ache. She walks the same hallway over and over. Exam room three. Back to station. Lab fridge. Front desk. Repeat. The armpits of her scrubs are damp. Her ponytail’s slipping, twists growing heavy. There’s a cramp starting behind her right eye, and she knows it’s the kind of headache that’ll outlast the sun.
At 2:08 PM, she gets a text.
Twan 🙄: u good? what time am I getting him?
Her jaw tightens. She replies quick, thumbs moving faster than her breath:
Malya: 5:30 at the latest. I paid the daycare fee u were supposed to handle. $150. You owe me.
Read. No response.
Of course.
She slides the phone into her pocket, breathing slow, swallowing back the heat bubbling under her tongue. That was grocery money. Gone. She’s tired of chasing men for things they should be doing without a prompt.
At 3:14, the notification hits. Just a soft buzz against her thigh. Her phone screen lights up under her badge.
[You have a new message.]
Could I get a pic? Sent 200 for it. Just the top.
No name. No real context. But she knows exactly where it came from. Malaya doesn’t hesitate. Just grabs her phone, slips down the hall, and turns into the staff bathroom. Locks the door.
She’s got two minutes.
The mirror hums under the fluorescent lights. The floor is cold tile. The soap dispenser’s busted. She sets her phone on the paper towel dispenser and rolls her shoulders back.
Then she peels her scrub top up and over. Her breasts fall naturally, full, wide-set, and soft with weight. The kind that don’t sit up on their own anymore, not since breastfeeding. Not since motherhood changed her body. Silver stretch marks lace along the sides like lightning beneath her dark skin. Her nipples are thick and dark, resting low, one slightly more sensitive than the other.
She cups them in both hands for a second. Lifts them gently. Tilts toward the light.
No face. Just chest. Just flesh. Just survival dressed up as seduction. She angles the camera. Clicks. The photo looks raw. Real. She doesn’t edit it. Doesn’t need to.
Upload. Done.
She breathes out.
Back on go the scrubs. She fixes her shirt, smooths the fabric, splashes water on her neck. One more look in the mirror—her eyes are tired, lips chapped, but her posture is solid. Stronger than most would guess.
She steps out like nothing happened.
Clock-out time hits at 5:37. She doesn’t stay a minute longer.
The city is dipped in honey light by the time she pulls out of the clinic lot. That slow, golden hour where the streets look soft even when they’re loud. People walking fast, leaning into their hunger or fatigue. Car horns echo. Somebody’s blasting trap gospel from their window. Malaya rolls hers down an inch to feel the air and doesn’t even notice when her eyes get glassy.
Her phone vibrates in the cupholder again.
Still no reply from Twan.
She lets the red light hold her in place, then taps into her private Instagram account. The one with less than 100 followers, no posts since last year. Her profile picture is blurry now, pixelated from too many crops and re-uploads. But it’s there. Him, too.
The last post still pinned.
A blanket in the grass. Messiah in her lap, cheeks shiny with drool and sunlight. Malaya looking off to the side, not quite smiling. No makeup. Curls pulled back tight. Tank top strap slipping off her shoulder.
The caption just said: “Everything I do.”
She remembers that day. The way Twan took the picture like he was doing her a favor. Like he wasn’t already texting some other girl ten minutes later. Like he hadn’t already decided he wasn’t staying.
She scrolls down and there it is—Keisha’s reel.
“It’s glow-up season, sis. Soft life only. If it don’t spoil you, it don’t deserve you.”
The music behind it is bass-heavy and fake happy. Malaya watches in silence, thumb hovering over the heart. She doesn’t press it. Just tosses the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned her.
Twan’s voice leaks into her head like rot water.
“I got you, Ma. I promise.”
“You stressin’ too much. Just sing, baby. Let me handle the rest.”
“You think I don’t care? Damn, why you always like this?”
She remembers the studio. Not the real kind, just a backroom with foam on the walls and a mic that didn’t work half the time. She remembers him standing behind her, hands on her hips while she tried to record. How she never finished a single track. How she wanted to sing, but all she did was swallow silence.
The car turns onto her street. Her duplex rises ahead like a tired sigh. She parks, engine ticking as it cools, and rests her head against the steering wheel for a second. She catches her reflection in the rearview—her twists loose around her face, her eyes heavy, lips dry.
That damn tattoo on her inner arm peeks out from her sleeve as she reaches for her bag.
What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.
It was supposed to be strength. A reminder. But today it just feels like surrender.
Inside the house, the air is warm and quiet. Her dying plant looks a little deader. The lights stay off as she moves through the living room. She pulls off her shoes with one foot, lets them thud. Her scrubs feel glued to her skin. Her body is begging to collapse.
She hears her mother in her chest.
“You wanted to be grown. So be grown.”
“Always caught up in your feelings, girl. That’s your problem.”
The words cling to her ribs like grease. She opens the fridge. Stares. Closes it again. She exhales through her nose. Rubs her hands over her face. Then she moves. Messiah will be home soon and tonight, the camera’s little blue light will blink again.
The knock is too light for a stranger.
Two quick taps, then silence.
Malaya opens the door with one hand still on the deadbolt. Messiah’s giggles burst through before she even sees him. He’s in Twan’s arms, gripping a juice pouch and sticky with sleep. Her son—all thick curls and cheeks and Velcro sneakers—reaches for her instantly.
“Ma-maaa,” he says, dragging the sound out like a song. Malaya softens without meaning to, arms already out. Twan passes him over too fast, like an item—not a child. Messiah’s bag hits the floor with a dull thud. His stuffed Elmo falls out, face-first.
“You good?” Twan says.
Malaya doesn’t answer. Her hand moves to support Messiah’s bottom, the other stroking the back of his head. His skin is warm, his breath sugary with whatever snack he was eating. She leans into him. Smells his hair.
Then looks past Twan.
His car is still running, headlights dim. In the passenger seat: her. The girlfriend. Baby hair gelled down, long lashes, scrolling her phone like this is a pit stop. She doesn’t look up.
Malaya’s voice dips low, “You owe me a hundred and fifty dollars.”
Twan blinks like he didn’t hear her, “What?”
“For daycare. You said you had it. You didn’t. I paid it. You owe me.”
Twan shifts his weight. Breathes in slow through his nose, “Damn, Malaya. You always—”
“Don’t,” she snaps, quiet but sharp, “Don’t start.”
He reaches into his pocket, exaggerated, like digging through gold. Pulls out crumpled bills and counts with a sigh.
“Eighty. That’s all I got till Friday.”
She stares at the cash. Doesn’t reach for it. Messiah squirms against her chest, tugging at her hoodie string. Her jaw clenches.
“Take it or not, damn,” Twan mutters, pushing the money toward her.
She snatches it. Not out of anger out of necessity. Their fingers don’t touch.
“I shouldn’t have to chase you,” she says, barely a whisper.
“And I’m here now,” he shrugs, “That count for something.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
She doesn’t look at the girl in the car. Doesn’t check if she’s listening. Doesn’t care. She just closes the door in his face. Not loud. Not petty. Just…final. Messiah hums against her chest, his thumb now in his mouth.
She presses her lips to his forehead, “Let’s get you a bath, baby.”
Bath Time
Messiah is perched on his little potty like royalty, cracked tablet in front of him playing some bright, chaotic YouTube Kids video about talking trucks and friendship. His chubby legs swing as he watches, juice-stained cheeks glowing in the dim hallway light.
Malaya doesn’t rush the bath. She never does. She crouches in the bathroom, legs already sore from the day, and turns the water on low. Checks the temperature twice with her fingers. Pulls the sweet almond bubble bath from under the sink, even though it’s halfway empty and not on sale anymore. She pours extra. Always does. The lights are dimmed, she screwed in a soft purple bulb a few months ago. It calms him. Makes the bubbles glow like clouds at dusk.
She arranges the toys.
The little slide suction-cupped to the tub wall.
Three plastic dinosaurs.
Marvel superhero’s.
His yellow boat.
A cup he insists is for “water magic”.
And a rubber duck with a bite mark in the tail.
“Okay, baby,” she says softly, “Let’s wash the day off.”
Messiah comes running, butt-naked and wobbly, tablet still playing in the distance. He climbs in without hesitation, squealing at the warmth. Water sloshes. Bubbles rise. He starts throwing the duck like it’s in battle. Malaya kneels beside the tub, rolling up her sleeves. Her bones pop. Her knees ache.
But her heart…her heart swells. She takes the soft washcloth and begins gently scrubbing him—behind the ears, under his arms, between the little rolls on his legs. He splashes, cackles, yells “Mama look!” every few seconds. Her hoodie gets soaked. Her arms drip.
And still, she smiles. Through it all.
She watches him, really watches.
That goofy grin. Those long lashes. His coils, soft from the water. His little hands trying to pour one cup into another and missing completely.
Tears prick her eyes. It hits all at once. That swelling, stinging, proud ache. Because she made this boy. She’s raising him. Alone. And some days, it still doesn’t feel like enough. She blinks fast. Doesn’t let the tears fall.
Just whispers, “I love you, Messiah,” into the steam.
He doesn’t hear her. But that’s okay.
She lets him play for a few more minutes, then drains the water, lifting him gently into a towel—the one with the little bear ears. He’s still giggling, legs kicking as she carries him to the bedroom. She lays him down on the bed and rubs him down with cocoa butter, slow and sure. The scent fills the room—warm, sweet, nostalgic.
“Feet up,” she says, and he obeys, still watching her with bright eyes.
She slips on his Buzz Lightyear jammies, then the tiny slippers he insists make him “go faster.” He dashes off to his play area, crawling into the tent full of pillows and action figures like he’s on a mission.
Malaya exhales, heading for the kitchen. Dinner is what she always makes when she’s too tired to think but still wants him to smile. Baby carrots. Dino nuggets. Kraft mac and cheese with a little extra butter. She sets up his high chair in front of the TV, slides in the tray, and turns on Trolls. His plate is colorful and warm, and he eats with his fingers, humming between bites. She sits nearby with her own plate—leftover shrimp and broccoli, barely warm, eaten with a plastic fork because the others are in the sink. She watches him. She chews slowly. Doesn’t taste much.
For two full hours, she is only his.
They color. They stack blocks. They scream along to the Trolls songs. He falls twice. She kisses both elbows.
At 8:45, it’s time.
She scoops him up, already blinking heavy. They brush teeth, fight over the toothpaste, and finally settle with a hug that smells like cocoa butter and toddler sweat. She turns on his nightlight—the one with the little rotating stars. Tucks him in. Kisses both cheeks. Pulls the blanket up just right.
“Love you, stinka,” she whispers.
“Wuv you too,” he mumbles, eyes already shut.
She shuts the door halfway, then turns on the baby monitor. Blue light hums quietly in the hallway. She stands there for a moment. Just breathing. Then moves toward the closet.
The Mask Comes On
“No face. Just fire.”
The house is quiet. Not peaceful—just quiet.
Messiah is down, his soft breathing caught on the baby monitor’s faint static. Nightlight on. Stars rotating on the ceiling. His Mickey Mouse tucked into the crook of one arm. He had fallen asleep mid-sentence. She’d kissed his forehead, turned out the light, and shut the door with a whisper behind her teeth.
Now she moves like shadow.
Light off in the hallway. The small squeak of the closet door and the rhythm of her breath. She pulls the basket from the back corner—not Messiah’s toy basket, not the laundry one—the one with the handles wrapped in satin ribbon and the faintest hint of strawberry lube clinging to the lining.
Her cam gear is inside.
She lays each piece out on her bed like tools in a sacred ritual. Phone. Ring light. Tripod. Mic. Clip adapter. Oil. Her robe. Next, she wipes down her camera lens. Always. Doesn’t matter if she did it yesterday. The screen has to reflect clean. No prints, no grease. No traces of the real woman who held her baby thirty minutes ago and whispered lullabies. She undresses in silence. Hoodie first. Sports bra. Then the leggings that peel away like second skin, still warm from Messiah’s hug.
Her body is real.
Not porn-perfect, not Instagram-polished. Full. Heavy in places. Her stomach bears the stretch of motherhood— the soft belly with skin that doesn’t lie. Her navel pulled slightly lower now. A map of silver-gold streaks curves along her hips and the underside of her breasts, shimmering faintly under the ring light.
She oils her thighs. Slow. Not for pleasure. For the sheen. For the way the light dances over her dark skin, turns softness into spectacle. She rubs the oil down her legs, across her lower belly, lets a small moan slip—not arousal, just the relief of warm hands meeting sore flesh. Her breasts are next. She lifts one in her palm, squeezes gently. Full. Weighted. Her nipples darker now. Fuller. A little sensitive. She wears the bralette—the faded burgundy one. No padding, just lift from memory. Then the black thong with the rip on the side. She tugs it so the tear’s out of frame.
Over that, her robe. Black, silky, cheap, but drapes like money on camera. She doesn’t tie it. No perfume. Just the cocoa butter from earlier, mixing now with vanilla scented body oil. She glosses her lips—clear, thick, high shine. Checks the angle. Adjusts the mic. Pulls her twists up into a messy bun. Slips on clear strap heels. Her toes curl inside them. Not for them. For her. For balance. For the click when she stands and turns.
She turns on her VPN. Opens ObsidianPlay.
Logs in as LaceyBlaze69.
The screen flashes. “No face. Just fire.”
She exhales. Checks the angle again. Face cropped, always. Just collarbone down. A tease of jawline if she leans in too close.
Chatroom open. Room fills slow.
Camera0ff logs in within sixty seconds. 1,000 tokens drop. No message. No request. Just that sterile username sitting quiet like it always does. Watching.
Her breath hitches.
She clicks “go live.”
The screen floods with hearts, requests, messages she won’t read until they tip. She leans into the mic, lets her gloss catch the light, then whispers:
“Hey baby. Miss me?” Her voice is syrup. Low and breathy. Barely real.
Tips roll in. Thigh oil. 175 tokens.
Close-up bounce. 400 tokens.
Finger suck. 100 tokens.
“Ride for me?” 300 more.
“Do it slow.” “Say you need it.”
She smiles soft. Doesn’t break eye contact with the lens. Which is to say—she never really makes it in the first place. She turns. Straddles her riding pillow. Slides her hips slow, deliberate, until the bralette slips just enough to expose the top curve of one breast. She lets it. Doesn’t fix it.
More tokens. More noise.
She adds more oil. Lets it drip down the slope of her chest, across her belly, gliding over her stretch marks like a second skin. She lifts her breasts in her palms, squeezes them together. Lets her fingers roll over her nipples until they shine.
Another tip comes in. POV request.
She presses record.
No face. Just moans.
Fakes a climax at 47 minutes in. Loud enough to make them believe it. Quiet enough to hear her baby monitor if it changes pitch. Her thighs tremble. Not from pleasure. From holding the pose.
When it’s done, she clicks “end stream.” Tips: $638.
Not the best. But good enough to sleep on. She pulls the hoodie over her head. Wipes the oil from her chest. Sits on the bed, lets her feet breathe, then glances toward the hallway, the faint hum of Messiah’s nightlight still glowing through the crack under his door. She lies down sideways. One arm under the pillow. Eyes open.
She doesn’t cry. Not tonight. But her lips part, just barely. And the words slip out like breath.
“We still here.”
Twice. Always twice. She closes her eyes. Baby monitor steady. Phone screen dark. Oil still drying on her thighs.
LaceyBlaze is gone.
Malaya’s just a mama again.
Time: 10:24 PM.
She was already exhausted before the day began.
Malaya had woken to Messiah’s whimpering cries from the bassinet beside her bed, her back stiff from sleeping half-curled with one arm draped over him like a shield. Her phone buzzed before her feet even hit the floor, a low battery warning and a string of unread texts from a co-worker asking to switch shifts. She ignored it. She scooped Messiah into her arms, kissed the warmth of his cheeks, and started the morning.
Bath. Oil. Pull-ups. Socks he kept kicking off. Feeding him oatmeal with mashed banana, wiping more from his chin than what made it in his mouth. He cried when she put him down to wash the bottles from the night before, and again when she tried to put on eyeliner with him on her hip. By the time she slid his diaper bag over one shoulder and balanced her lukewarm coffee in the other hand, she was already five minutes behind.
She dropped him off at the daycare off Hollowell, gave Miss Tonya a tight-lipped smile when she asked how things were going, and rushed out before the baby could start crying again. The only thing worse than the sound of it was leaving while it echoed behind her.
She made it to work just in time. Her badge didn’t scan the first time, and her manager raised an eyebrow when she clocked in two minutes before cut-off. The outpatient clinic was short-staffed again. She spent the entire day standing—prepping rooms, taking vitals, holding back a migraine while the phone rang, rang, rang. No time to eat. No time to breathe. She answered patient questions with a tight smile and a throat that burned from swallowing what she really wanted to say.
Her phone buzzed again at lunch. Miss Tonya.
Need someone to pick up Messiah. You said his daddy would come today. He ain’t show.
Malaya stood in the alley behind the clinic, one hand clutching her phone, the other fisting the fabric of her hoodie. She called Twan. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. She texted him once.
Don’t play with me. Come get your son.
Then she called her mother.
That turned into a fight. Her mama picked up with a tone already steeped in judgment, talking about how tired she was, how she wasn’t the one that laid up with a no-good boy and made a baby. Malaya begged through clenched teeth, promised it wouldn’t take long, promised to send a little money from her next check. Her mother still sighed. Still made her feel like she was seventeen and stupid. But she went.
By the time Malaya picked up Messiah and got home, she was running on fumes. He wouldn’t settle down. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be rocked. He cried when she sat him down to change her shirt. She fed him applesauce and soft chicken with one hand while scrolling her bank app with the other. Overdraft. Her heart dropped low and heavy in her chest. Rent was due next week. Her phone bill was past due. The streaming platform would take their cut in the morning.
The only thing she could think of to eat was ramen. She gave Messiah his bath first, wrapped him in the softest towel they owned, kissed the curve of his damp forehead. She whispered soft nothings to calm him, slow him down. He giggled when she kissed his belly, and for a moment, she smiled too. But the heaviness didn’t leave. It sank deeper. She held him until he dozed. Slid him into his toddler bed with the quiet care of a thief. She closed the bedroom door partway, leaving the baby monitor screen angled toward the living room.
She ate her ramen standing up in the kitchen. No music. No TV. Just the crunch of the seasoning packet against the bowl’s edge and the echo of the microwave beeping long after the food was out. She cried halfway through. Not the kind that shook her shoulders or made her gasp. Just slow, hot tears running down both cheeks as she stood there, slurping noodles, tasting salt that didn’t come from the broth.
It was already 10:17.
Seven minutes later, she sat on the living room floor and pulled off her hoodie. Left it in a pile beside the book-stack she used as a camera stand. She peeled off her leggings, rolling them down to mid-thigh. Her tank top clung to her body, nipple outlines showing through the worn cotton. Her stomach wasn’t flat anymore. Her thighs had small stretch marks. She didn’t hide them.
She reached over and opened the laptop. The soft hum of it booting up was the only sound in the room. The hallway light buzzed faintly through the open door, washing just enough glow across her skin to be visible in shadows. The living room had been cleaned earlier—sort of. Messiah’s toys were pushed to the side. His water bottle rested on the coffee table beside a crumpled burp cloth.
She didn’t fix her hair. Her twists were hanging down her back heavy and dull. No gloss. No lashes. No perfume. She didn’t turn on the ring light. There was no soundtrack tonight. Just the low hum of the TV. A faint chirp from the dead battery in the smoke detector. The rhythmic click of her mouse. She stared at the login screen of ObsidianPlay for longer than she meant to.
It was a choice. Every time. And every time it felt like giving herself away one frame at a time.
She clicked the button.
LIVE.
The feed opened in silence. Her face wasn’t visible. Just the low-angle view of her thighs parted slightly on the floor, her stomach rising and falling with every slow breath. She shifted, sighing softly. No music. No smile. No show. The screen filled with viewers faster than usual. Notifications pinged silently on the side. She didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t wave. Didn’t ask how anyone’s night was.
She just let them watch.
Her hands moved slow. She didn’t spread herself wide or arch her back in some performance-ready pose. She rubbed soft, absent circles over the fabric of her panties, then slid them down one leg at a time. Her breaths were audible now. Shaky. Tired. Real. She leaned back slightly, legs bent, her heels pressed into the carpet. Her head tipped back. Her fingers moved again—slower now, slower than any clip she’d ever sold. Her other hand reached up, held the hem of her tank to her chest. Her nipples were stiff against the fabric, her lips slightly parted.
Comments poured in, but she didn’t read them. Her eyes barely opened.
“Yeah,” she said, so quietly the mic barely caught it, “Right there.”
Her voice cracked just a little.
There was no moaning tonight. No over-the-top gasp. Just breath. Her body rocked gently, thighs twitching from effort. Her brows pinched at one point. She came without warning—low, quiet, like a tremble passing through her. She exhaled, shivering a little, and then she stilled. She didn’t thank the tippers. Didn’t flash a smile. She sat there for a while, still breathing hard, eyes locked on the baby monitor screen in the corner. And then her face turned, just slightly, toward the lens. For one fleeting second, she let them see the pain that came after.
She shifts her weight on the carpet and reaches just out of frame, fingers curling around silicone still cool from the air. She brings it back into view slowly, not teasing, not presenting it like a prize. Just honest. She doesn’t look at the screen when she settles it between her thighs. Her lips part as she guides it against herself, her free hand bracing on the floor. The first press makes her flinch. She exhales through her nose, steadying. There’s no rush. No theatrics. Just the slow push as she sinks down, inch by inch, her brows knitting together while her body adjusts.
Her hips roll once, experimentally. Then again.
She’s not fully gone yet. Her mind is still on rent. On the number she saw in her bank app. On the way her mother sighed like Malaya was a burden she never put down. But her body responds anyway. Her thighs tense. Her shoulders drop a fraction.
She starts moving with more intention.
Not fast. Just deliberate. Her tank rides up slightly with the motion, exposing the soft stretch of her stomach. The toy glides easier now, slick with her warmth. She presses her lips together, a quiet sound catching in her throat when it finally starts to feel good in that slow, sinking way that makes everything else blur.
Then the notification hits.
A large one.
Her eyes flick to the screen before she can stop herself.
Camera0ff tipped.
The number makes her inhale sharply. Her hips stutter. Her grip tightens. Something shifts in her chest, not joy exactly, but relief mixed with pressure. She sits up straighter. Rolls her shoulders back. Gives more than she was giving before.
“Okay,” she breathes, barely audible.
She rides it now. Still restrained, still tired, but present. Her movements grow steadier. Her thighs lift and fall. Her hand slides to her chest, fingers brushing beneath the hem of her tank. Her nipple presses against the fabric, dark and obvious now.
Her breathing deepens. Her eyes close.
She comes again quietly. No cry. Just a sharp exhale and a tremor that moves through her whole body. She stills with the toy seated deep, her head bowing forward as she rides out the sensation. When she lifts it, thick slick clings and stretches before breaking. It drips down the length, catching the dim light from the hallway.
She watches it for a second.
Calculating.
She swallows, then looks toward the screen.
“Y’all want me to,” she starts, stops, clears her throat, “Want me to clean it?”
The chat explodes.
She doesn’t wait for confirmation. She leans forward and wraps her mouth around it, slow and deliberate, lips slicking over what she just left behind. Her cheeks hollow slightly. Her tongue traces. She keeps her eyes down, lashes casting shadows on her face. It’s intimate in a way that feels almost too much. When she pulls it free, she doesn’t wipe her mouth.
Instead, she shifts position.
She sets the toy aside and spreads herself open with both hands, silent. No smile. No commentary. Just showing. Her folds glisten. Wet, messy, honest. She lifts one leg high, knee bent, opening herself further. The angle changes everything. Her tank slips again, revealing the curve of her breast, the edge of her nipple peeking out fully now.
She stays like that.
Breathing.
The chat goes wild.
Another tip hits.
Camera0ff again.
Her lips part in something close to a smile this time, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She glances once at the baby monitor, then back toward the lens, holding the pose just a few seconds longer. Then she lowers her leg, reaches forward, and ends the stream without a word.
She clicked end stream.
And the screen went black
$700.
She stares at the screen a moment longer than she needs to, index finger resting on the corner of the trackpad. Her thighs are still sticky with drying oil, her tank top clinging to her back where the sweat gathered. The light from the TV fades as she clicks it off, and the room dips into shadows. The baby monitor hums. Messiah turns over in his sleep. A rustle. A sigh. Then stillness.
Malaya exhales.
She doesn’t cry tonight. She doesn’t smile either. Just drags the oversized hoodie over her head, its hem brushing against her thighs. It smells like cocoa butter and detergent. Safe. Quiet. Not sexy.She wipes the toy down in silence, the towel already stained from the last few shows. She puts everything away like she’s locking up the register. Phone in hand. Screens closed. Earnings saved. She crawls into bed sideways. One knee bent. One hand beneath the pillow. The hoodie slips slightly at the neck, exposing the damp slope between her shoulder and chest. Her fingers scroll out of habit. Nothing to see. No one to talk to.
But then—the a message appears.
One new DM.
From a name she doesn’t recognize.
GodbodyAnon.
No icon. No bio. No posts. Just a message.
You always look tired after the ride. I’d take care of you if you let me.
Her thumb freezes above the glass. Something about the message stills her. Not the words, but the weight behind them. It doesn’t read like a demand. It reads like… observation.
She clicks the profile.
New account. No followers. No comments. Just silence and that single message. Not even a token trail. He’s either smart or watching from a distance. Possibly both.
Her first instinct is to block him. A man noticing her fatigue isn’t always kindness. Sometimes it’s just strategy. A soft angle to slip in before the hard push. But something holds her there.
She rereads it.
You always look tired after the ride...
Ride. Not show. Not bounce. Not “stream.” Ride. Like he was really watching. Her stomach tightens. Not fear. Not desire. Something more complicated. Something that coils near the ribs and stretches under the skin like memory.
She taps her nails against the glass. Types.
You new?
Waits. A full minute passes.
Not really. Just never had something to say until now.
She shifts on the bed. The baby monitor clicks once, then settles. Her legs are bare beneath the hoodie, toes flexing against the sheet. She tells herself this is curiosity. Not need. Not attention-seeking. Not loneliness.
Just curiosity.
You talk like you know me.
Another pause. Then:
You looked beautiful tonight. But your shoulders dropped when you thought nobody noticed. That’s what made me write.
She stares at the message. Her throat tightens.
She types, then deletes. Types again.
I’m not really the fantasy tonight. That’s what made it better.
He doesn’t ask for anything. No photos. No tip menu tease. Just stillness.
Then another message.
You ever let someone rub that oil in for you?
She clenches her legs together. The robe beneath her shifts. Her body remembers how long it’s been since hands touched her with care instead of cost. Since someone asked without expecting a transaction in return.
You don’t even know my name.
I don’t need it. I see you.
The lamp on the nightstand flickers low. Her chest rises once, slow. Then again. She looks at the monitor. Messiah is still. Peaceful. The one pure thing she’s managed to protect.
She shouldn’t keep typing.
She does anyway.
Don’t catch feelings over fantasy, baby. It’s dangerous in here.
He doesn’t respond right away. And that somehow feels worse than if he had. She leaves the thread open. No block. No warning. Just a flick of her thumb, a glance at the time, and the quiet breath she holds too long before she lets it go. In the dark, across town, Smoke watches the screen light up. He doesn’t type again tonight. He lets her linger.Malaya pulled her hoodie to her chin, closes her eyes without realizing she never locked her heart back up.
She doesn’t know who GodbodyAnon is.
Saturday Morning —8:32 AM
Messiah’s soft whine was what woke her. Not a cry, not a scream, just the slow, rising sound of his discomfort. Malaya stirred before she opened her eyes, hand instinctively reaching across the sheets for her phone. The screen glowed. Almost 8:15. The sun was already pressing light into the corners of the room, filtered through crooked blinds and dust in the air. She sat up slow, blinking the crust from her eyes. Her body ached— not sharply, but in that dull, mother-worn way that clung after days of doing too much with too little.
“Hey, baby,” she said quietly, voice still cracked from sleep. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to his bed.
Messiah kicked his feet at the sight of her. One sock missing. Pull up full. She kissed his forehead and lifted him into her arms, holding him against her chest as she moved into the kitchen. The floor creaked under her heel. There was no rush today. No badge to clip. No scrubs to wear. No clock to race. She changed him on the couch, humming something low as he babbled broken words at her. After, she set him gently into the high chair and snapped the tray in place.
She had $650 in her account. It wasn’t enough, not for everything, but she pulled out her phone while the water boiled for grits and she prepped the eggs and bacon. She’d push it towards rent anyway. Left herself with $42 and change. She’d get the rest on Friday. They ate together, him clapping his hands when the spoon danced in front of his mouth, her smiling soft between yawns and bites of toast.
It was their ritual. Saturdays were slower. Quieter.
After wiping his mouth and setting the dish in the sink, Malaya glanced toward the front door. Something felt…she didn’t know. Just felt. She opened it to check the mail, barefoot on the step in her oversized tee. The morning was cool, but not cold. Dew still clung to the railing.
That’s when she saw them.
Boxes. A stack of them. Three piled neatly, two others just off to the side, like the driver had run out of balance. Her name was printed on each label. Correct apartment number.
No mistake.
Malaya blinked. Looked up the street, then back down. Nobody was around. She gathered them slowly, carrying two at a time. Had to nudge one inside with her foot. Her chest was tight with curiosity. She hadn’t ordered anything. She slid a knife from the drawer and sliced through the first box.
A new cam stand. Adjustable. With a ring light mount and USB adaptor. The kind she bookmarked months ago but never bought.
Her brows lifted.
The second box had a sleek tablet. For kids. Protective case. Preloaded with learning games. She swallowed. The sound stuck in her throat.
Third box: LED lighting strips. New webcam. Velvet throw blanket. Microphone with a pop filter.
The fourth was smaller. Labeled discreetly. She opened it in her bedroom.
The air changed.
Inside was a Bluetooth toy, still in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Remote-enabled. Retail price burned into her memory from all the nights she window-shopped it. Two cute plugs in pastel pink. One with a gem at the base. Another with a rose-shaped tip. There was a note card tucked between tissue paper. No words. Just a barcode. Underneath that was a small glass bottle of perfume. Soft, powdery, with notes of honey and sandalwood. It smelled expensive. A new lip gloss. High shine. Nude brown.
And finally…
Lingerie.
Wine-colored lace, sheer with delicate embroidery. Her size. Malaya sat on the edge of her bed and stared at it all. Her hands were shaking a little. She reached for her phone, opened the tracking app she used to monitor wishlist deliveries.
MoTh3rL0ad88
All of them. Every single one. Whoever they were, they’d spent good money. On things she needed. On things she wanted but would never admit out loud.
Not just for the camera. For her.
Malaya blinked hard, the sting behind her eyes catching her by surprise. She turned away from the boxes and glanced at the monitor. Messiah was still in his high chair, gumming his spoon, humming to himself. She pressed her palms to her thighs then back to her chest then over her lips.
She smiled. Just a little.
She stood slowly, still half-dazed. The boxes were open now, contents spread across her bed like a strange altar, one of softness and pleasure, of being seen in ways she hadn’t felt in months.
Her phone buzzed in her palm.
Venmo.
She hadn’t even remembered checking it lately. Wasn’t expecting much. A few tips here and there. Maybe a stray twenty if someone had been generous during the last show. She opened the app without thinking.
And froze.
$2,175.42
Her heart stopped. She stared. Closed the app. Opened it again. Still there. Still real.
Messiah let out a squeal from the kitchen, banging his spoon like a little drum. She turned and looked at him, stunned. He burst into a giggle—that full-body kind that made his curls bounce and his nose scrunch.
Malaya laughed too, hand pressed to her chest like she needed to catch her breath.
“You see this, baby?!” she called, walking back to him with the phone raised, “You see this?”
Messiah just slapped his tray, beaming.
She glanced down at the payment note. It was split across three transactions. Anonymous tip amounts. No cute messages. No emojis. Just a username:
MoTh3rL0ad88
Her brows furrowed. She’d never seen that one before. Sounded like some old man. Some sugar daddy behind a burner account. Probably watched her show in silence. Probably the type to jerk off slow in a recliner while calling her “baby girl” in his head. Still, she didn’t care. She was grateful. More than that, she was lit up inside. The kind of lit that felt like fresh oxygen after being underwater too long.
Rent was covered now. Groceries too.
She could even stop at Marshalls, get Messiah a few new onesies, maybe that paw patrol blanket he pointed to last time. Malaya scooped him out of the chair and held him close, kissing the side of his head.
“Somebody lookin’ out for us,” she whispered, “Somebody out there…”
She didn’t finish the sentence. Just closed her eyes and let the moment settle.
8:56 AM—Smoke’s House, West End, ATL
The house was quiet the way he liked it, dim and disciplined, still holding the scent of eucalyptus from the cold steam that hissed under his bathroom door earlier. Fog lingered in the mirror, but not on his skin. His muscles glistened faintly, the sharp lines of his back twitching each time he flexed his grip around the mug.
He was shirtless now, black durag tied clean and flat, a soft knot resting at the nape of his neck. Black joggers hung low on his hips, waistband folding as he sat deep into the black leather sunken couch, one leg stretched long across it, the other braced against the floor.
His place was all restraint and ritual. Nothing cluttered. Nothing soft except the weight of the silence. The living room was curated in Smoke’s image—sharp, sensual, unbothered. Framed black-and-white photography along the wall, most too dark to read unless you studied them. The biggest one? A nude Black woman, faceless, her back turned to the camera, spine like a soft blade beneath skin. Strong. Still. Private.
The vinyl in the corner hadn’t been touched this morning. But the D’Angelo record stayed propped against the turntable like a holy book left open. He didn’t need the needle to move to hear the rhythm. He sipped his coffee slowly. No cream. No sugar. Mug heavy in his hand, warm against his rings. Silver kissed ceramic every time he drank. His other hand held a book—“Black Skin, White Masks.” Worn spine. Pages dog-eared, underlined, annotated.
Smoke always read with a pencil tucked behind his ear.
He underlined the sentence.
Not only must the black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man.
But his mind slipped.
A flicker from the phone on the end table.
Small screen. New alert.
Malaya had received the packages. Safely. Untampered.
He’d set it up that way—each delivery scanned and tagged with tiny RFID slips. The moment she brought them inside and tore the tape, he knew. No interference. No porch pirates. No missing pieces.
He took another slow sip.
And for a few seconds…just let himself see her.
Not the curated, filtered LaceyBlaze69 version.
But her. The girl who sighed when her feet hurt. Who rubbed her shoulder after holding her son too long. Who still wore cheap slippers from Walmart with the fur curling off the edge. She didn’t even like doing cam shows every night.
He could tell.
He’d watched enough to know what her real moans sounded like…and which ones were forced out just to hit a tip goal. She didn’t even smile half the time anymore.
And still—she did it.
Did it tired. Did it hungry. Did it lonely. Trying to be everything at once: woman, mother, provider, soft and strong in a world that didn’t know how to handle either.
That was what got him. Not the show. Not the flash of thighs or spit on toys. The ache she tried to bury. The softness she never got to show.
“Im see everything you try to hide, and that’s what I want to touch.”
That was how his obsession worked. Not loud. Not entitled. It bloomed in the quiet. In the in-between. He lifted his phone and pulled up the secured tracker connected to the final package. The one he packed himself. The one that hadn’t been opened yet. It sat in her apartment still sealed—he’d chosen every piece inside like a man sculpting the shape of a confession.
A Bluetooth toy, sleek and glossy black. Still warm from where it rested inside its molded case. Remote-enabled.
Two butt plugs in pastel pink. One tipped with a jeweled base. One shaped like a rose bloom.
A small bottle of perfume—powdered, faintly sweet, with notes of honey and sandalwood. A scent meant for the back of her knees. Her pulse points. Her sheets.
A nude gloss with high shine. Kissable.
And the centerpiece…lingerie. Wine-colored lace. Sheer. Floral embroidery at the cups. Scalloped trim. Backless. Cut to reveal. Her size. Perfectly matched. He’d studied her frame for months to get it right.
Smoke’s jaw tensed. She hadn’t opened it yet.
He liked that.
That it was still waiting.
Like him.
She’d put it on one day. Even if just for herself. Maybe while she fed her son, or cleaned her living room, or lay back and caught her breath before logging on. She’d tug those straps over her thighs. Adjust the bust. Smell that perfume drift off her collarbone.
And she’d feel it. The weight of being wanted. By someone she didn’t even know…was already in love with her bruises. He flipped the page in his book, but didn’t read it. His mind was already on the next move. The next name. The next message. Her next breath.
2:42 PM—Smoke's House, West End, ATL
The closet light flicked on low—motion sensor.
Soft glow washed over neatly arranged black slacks, pressed tees, two rows of designer sneakers boxed like inventory, and the upper shelf with his locked case: cash, crypto, watches, weapons. That day’s mood dictated what went on the body. Today?
All black.
Smoke pulled a fitted thermal over his head. Fabric whispered against his skin. Muscles flexed, tensed, relaxed. He didn’t rush. He never rushed.
That was the secret to control. Don’t move fast. Move smart.
He fastened his dark wash jeans.
Gold chain, hung low against his chest. Faint scorpion ink peeked from his fade as he leaned in to lace up his sneakers—minimal, quiet. Like him.
But his mind was loud.
Malaya.
The name dropped in again like it always did—uninvited, unshaken loose. He gritted his teeth and reached for his watch.
Been a year since he last fucked. Drier than he’d ever been in his life. Not cause he couldn’t. Cause he didn’t want to waste the nut. Most women felt like noise now. Clingy. Clout-thirsty. Chaotic. They wanted the myth of him, not the man. Wanted the dick, not the damage. And he was too old, too sharp, too damn obsessed to let his body become someone else’s vanity project.
He didn’t chase women. He tracked purpose.
But her?
That damn girl with the soft voice and slow eyes. That postpartum belly she never tried to hide. That pussy he hadn’t even touched but knew—knew—would wreck him. That voice that made his breath hold.
LaceyBlaze69.
Malaya.
She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s what made it worse.
He’d watched. Too long. In the dark. Quiet. Hand gripped firm, jaw clenched, breath tight. Not even dirty strokes. Hungry ones. The kind where he imagined her thighs shaking against his chest. The kind where he whispered her username like a psalm against his wrist. Where he stayed hard after, breathing deep, like he’d been starved and fed too little.
He stared at himself in the mirror now. Cold. Focused.
But his mouth twitched.
He’d played out whole scenarios. How he might show up at her door after dropping that package. How he’d stand quiet, all black, eyes low, voice deeper than need.
“Let me in.”
Or maybe he’d wait. Make her come to him. Watch her from the car, memorize the way her hands moved with her kid, the way her tank tops didn’t hide a damn thing. Wait for the day she looked into the dark and felt him watching.
He had plans, he just hadn’t picked one.
Yet.
Smoke stepped back into the hallway. Sunlight crept past the edges of the velvet curtains—thick, gold-dusted things that barely let the world in. A single sliver of light caught the back of his neck. Warmed the skin between his shoulder blades.
That spot had been on his mind for weeks. Right between the blades. The only place he hadn’t inked yet.
Hidden. Centered. Weighted.
He didn’t know the design. Not yet. But he’d been feeling it. Like an itch beneath the skin. Like something needed saying that only pain and permanence could spell out.
Sol would know. She always did. She read bodies like prayers. Inked truths you didn’t say aloud.
Smoke rolled his neck, felt the tension there.
Yeah. It was time. He didn’t flinch easy. But for her? For that spot? He’d need to be still.
You didn’t stumble on The Parlor. You were led.
Down a tight brick alley behind a shuttered Black bookstore in West End, past rusted fire escapes and faded murals still bleeding protest. One door. No sign. Just peeling red paint, a black veil curtain behind cracked glass, and an old knocker shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail.
Smoke rapped three times.
Waited.
The door cracked open. Not wide. Just enough for the scent to curl out—vetiver, tobacco, isopropyl, melted wax. Then Shay pulled it wider and stepped aside.
“You late,” she said, like always.
Shay was Sol’s wife, tall and sarcastic, with golden-brown skin and arms covered in black ink roses. She had a tiny blade tattooed under one eye and wore cropped denim with a black bra top. A septum ring. Chrome stiletto nails. Every part of her said don’t ask dumb shit.
Smoke grunted, stepping inside, “I brought it,” he said, lifting the brown paper bag.
She took it without breaking stride—12-year Japanese whisky. No label. She sniffed it once and nodded.
“Always coming through. She’s ready if you wanna go back.”
The shop was dim, as always.
No overhead fluorescents. No harsh light. Just one stained-glass lamp over the back station and the flicker of candlelight tucked in corners. Walls were charcoal, but you could see hints of something older beneath—red wallpaper curled at the seams like shed skin. Wax bottles lined the shelves, each dripped like it bled. A massive alligator skull sat near the register, jaw parted just enough to hold crumpled bills.
The air was thick with quiet.
The only sound was The Internet’s “Get Away” playing low.
Sol was already in the back, barefoot.
Black linen jumpsuit. Hair wrapped in a dark cloth, but the thick black locs still trailed down her spine, bone beads swaying like wind chimes in a crypt. She stood with her back to him, laying out fresh needle packs with surgical calm.
Smoke’s jaw relaxed. He stepped close.
She turned—slowly, fluidly—and offered him a quiet look. Hazel-green eyes, ringed in darkness. Her gaze moved over his face. Down to his chest.
He didn’t speak.
Instead, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. She let him. This was their ritual. No words. Just silence and inking. He stepped past her to the chair. Unzipped his hoodie. Peeled off his thermal. Bare from the waist up.
“Where?” she finally asked. Her voice was low. Raspy. Like wind on burnt sugar.
“Back,” he said, pointing, “Center. Just below the neck. No bigger than your palm.”
Sol nodded once. No more questions.
She began to prep.
No music back here. Just the soft squeak of gloves and the buzzing flicker of her antique lamp. Her station was spotless—everything covered in silk cloth until needed. She wiped down the chair, then cleaned his skin with a chilled antiseptic. Smoke didn’t flinch, but his breath slowed. That was Sol’s magic.
She picked up the stencil l—her design. One she’d drawn without asking. A hollow triangle, clean and minimal. Beneath it, three thin stacked lines. Like a personal cipher. Sacred geometry meets encryption. Symbol of control, of unity. Of power kept hidden. She placed the stencil between his shoulder blades. Pressed firm. Peeled. He sat still, elbows on knees, spine bowed just enough.
Sol moved around him silently, checking angles. Then she dipped her machine in black ink. Adjusted her grip.
The needle began to buzz.
Smoke exhaled.
He didn’t speak. He never did during the first line. Sol’s hand was steady. She worked in slow, deliberate strokes—never rushed. Her own breath matched his. Her nose ring caught the overhead light once when she leaned in. Her foot tapped once against the creaking floor. Outside, the world didn’t exist but inside, there was just needle and nerve. Skin and scripture.
Smoke didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to see it. He knew what it meant. This tattoo was for no one’s eyes but his own. Hidden like the rest of him. Shielded behind silence and obsession and layered control. A triangle for sight, mind, and discipline. Three stacked lines for everything he never says out loud. A new mark, placed by the only person he trusted to ink him.
Sol wiped the fresh line and pressed down gently.
Smoke closed his eyes.
And the work continued.
4:12 PM – Saturday Afternoon, Marshalls
The sun had warmed the day just enough to feel like a soft kind of forgiveness. Not too hot, not too loud just quiet and easy. Malaya pulled the sleeves of her loose top down over her wrists and adjusted the strap of her purse across her chest as she pushed the cart inside. High-waisted jeans hugged her waist, hugging the stretch she used to hide with longer shirts. Her top hung off one shoulder like a shrug, breezy and effortless, while her twists were tucked into a tidy bun she’d thrown up before leaving the house. She didn’t have on much, just lip balm, a little brow pencil but she still felt good. Not because she looked like somebody, but because she didn’t have to rush. Messiah was perched in the child seat of the cart, legs kicking in his little velcro sneakers, pointing excitedly every few seconds.
“Dat!”
“Wassat, mommy?”
“More!”
She laughed, shaking her head as she wheeled the cart down the baby aisle first. He reached for a stuffed Sonic The Hedgehog. She let him hold it.
“You gon’ name him or naw?” she asked, He babbled something back and stuffed the Sonic teddy in his mouth.
They moved slowly. Malaya let herself enjoy it. She picked up a few more little toddler tops, some little sneakers, a book with flaps and mirrors. Messiah slapped the pages as she flipped through.
They lingered by the home goods section next. A throw blanket she didn’t need but couldn’t resist. A new shower caddy. Cinnamon-scented candles she’d never light but liked to sniff anyway. She let Messiah help pick out a new bath towel. He chose the one with blue sharks. She smiled and dropped it in the cart. By the time they reached the beauty section, he was slouched, thumb in his mouth, eyes drooping.
“Stay up,” she whispered with a grin, “We got two more aisles, then we hittin’ Chick-fil-A.”
He perked up at that, making a sleepy noise of agreement. Malaya scanned the shelves for new makeup sponges, a fresh brow pencil, a deep berry gloss that reminded her of a show she did months ago. She reached for a travel-sized lotion that smelled like clean cotton and added it to her basket. Then she spotted a small carry-on travel bag in muted olive. Sleek. Understated. Hers was raggedy. This one had gold zippers. She ran her fingers across it, then set it gently in the cart. It wasn’t for a trip. Not yet, but maybe one day. At checkout, the total didn’t make her flinch. She tapped her card without hesitation and grabbed Messiah’s little juice pouch from her purse while they bagged up the items. As they stepped into the parking lot, the wind picked up just a little. Messiah squinted against the sun, still clutching his new stuffed animal and other toys.
“Say bye-bye, Marshalls,” Malaya said playfully.
“Buh-byyyye,” Messiah echoed, waving his fat fingers at the automatic doors.
She loaded him into the back seat, buckled him in, then leaned into the trunk to fit the bags. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t calculating what had to be returned. She wasn’t worried if she’d have to dip into her backup fund, or hold off on groceries to make rent. For once, the world was still, just her and Messiah and a full backseat of things that didn’t have to be begged for.
She climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and smiled.
“Chick-fil-A,” she said out loud, tapping the wheel, “Then home.”
From the back seat, Messiah clapped his Sonic stuffed animal’s hands together.
The line inside Chick-fil-A was long enough to make her rethink the stop, but Messiah had spotted the cow through the window and lost his little mind with excitement. Malaya sighed, pushed open the glass door with her hip, and maneuvered the stroller inside, her purse tugging on one shoulder. Messiah kicked his light-up Buzz sneakers, a sticky straw wrapper clinging to his pants from the car ride. He was humming his little tune, clutching his tablet to his chest like it was a shield, though it had been dead for the last fifteen minutes.
She was tired but trying. That was the rhythm of her life. Every small joy scraped from the edge of exhaustion. She bounced a little on her feet, trying to keep Messiah occupied as they waited for their order. He was giggling now, asking for sauce he wouldn’t eat and poking his fingers into the cupholder on the stroller. The man behind the counter called her number, and she leaned over to grab the bags when a voice stopped her.
“Malaya?”
She turned. At first, her mind scrambled, searching for something familiar. Then it clicked.
“Jordan?” she blinked.
He laughed, stepping forward, and it hit her all at once same smile, same skin that always looked warm no matter the season, but grown now. Grown in a way that made her heart stutter for just a second. His face was broader, beard filled in, and he carried himself with a quiet, settled ease. Not flashy. Just…content. His hair styled in a tapered curly fro with a clean hairline. and his black hoodie pulled snug over strong shoulders. Still had that soft anime nerd sweetness in his light brown, expressive eyes, though.
“Damn,” he said, flashing a grin, “I wasn’t sure that was you.”
She laughed, shifting the tray onto the stroller and adjusting the strap of her purse, “Yeah. It’s been a minute.”
“At least ten years, right? Since high school?”
“Something like that,” she nodded, “You still in the city?”
“For now. Just came back from visiting my mama. She’s still in the same house, yelling at the same neighbors.”
Malaya chuckled, then motioned to the stroller, “This is Messiah.”
Jordan crouched slightly, offering the little boy a wave, “What’s up, young king?”
Messiah blinked up at him, shy, then leaned back with a small smile. Malaya reached down and tugged the napkin over his lap.
Jordan straightened again, looking her over in a way that was gentle, not greedy. “You look…good,” he said carefully, “I mean, I always knew you’d grow into something special, but—yeah. You look happy.”
“Do I?” she asked, not bitter, just amused.
He tilted his head, “You got that mom tired look, but otherwise…good.”
She smiled, soft and private, “Thanks. You got kids?”
“One. A boy. Shiloh. He’s four,” he said, pulling his phone out and flipping it around to show her a lockscreen photo. A little boy with big eyes and wild curls grinned up at the camera, popsicle in hand.
Malaya tilted her head, admiring the photo, “He’s adorable. Got those big ‘I get away with everything’ eyes.”
Jordan chuckled, “Yeah, he gets that from me. The trouble too.”
She laughed—warm, full. The kind that caught her off guard, that made her feel like herself again for just a breath.
Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, his grin softening. “It’s wild seeing you here. I mean… I’ve thought about you before. Like, damn…I wonder what Malaya’s up to these days.”
She didn’t jump to fill the silence, just smiled a little. Then said, “Working hard. Dealing with this little guy. It’s hard but…he’s my heart and soul.”
Jordan’s eyes dropped to Messiah, who was now trying to eat a fry and hum at the same time, “He got your smile.”
Malaya looked at her son and nodded, “Mm. That he does. His good-for-nothing daddy took over the rest. But at least he got my chocolate skin.”
Jordan chuckled, gaze lingering on her a second longer than necessary, “Sho’ nuff.”
She nodded, folding the straw wrapper in her hand. She hadn’t had a real conversation with a man in weeks that wasn’t wrapped in DMs or veiled requests for more. This was…different. Familiar in a way.
“Look,” he said, stepping a little closer, “I don’t wanna hold you up, but…if you ever feel like catching up—just talking or whatever—can I get your number?”
She hesitated.
Not because she didn’t want to. But because everything in her life required calculation now. Every new connection could cost her peace. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Jordan. The boy who used to doodle on his sneakers and wear Naruto shirts. He used to sit behind her in chem and pass her his extra pencils when she always forgot hers. He wasn’t flirting heavy. He wasn’t pressing. He just looked like somebody she used to trust.
So she pulled out her phone, handed it over.
He typed in his number and texted himself.
“Alright. I’ll let you go feed your boy,” he said, smiling again, “Don’t be a stranger.”
She nodded, then watched him leave—hoodie half-zipped, jeans cuffed, walking like he had nowhere to be but still meant to be there. Messiah tapped the stroller, impatient. She gave him a nugget. Her phone buzzed. She looked down.
[New Message from: Jordan — 404-xxx-xxxx]
For the record…your smile’s still the same.
She shook her head, half-grinning, then took a sip of her lemonade. Messiah crunched into his nugget, ketchup on his cheek.
5:41 PM – Saturday Evening Malaya’s Apartment, East Point
The front door clicked shut behind her, a soft thud of tired satisfaction. Malaya pressed her back to it for a second, exhaled slow through her nose, then hoisted the shopping bags up one more time and made her way inside. Messiah was still chattering about fries. “Fry fry fry fry fry,” he sang from the crook of her arm, legs kicking with toddler glee.
“You lucky you cute,” she muttered under her breath with a smirk, stepping around the scattered sneakers near the door, “Always get a toy and fries outta me.”
She set the bags down on the couch first, then carried Messiah to his high chair—an old hand-me-down from a cousin but still sturdy. She snapped him in, kissed the top of his head, and got him a plastic bowl filled with cut-up nuggets, apple slices, and half of her Chick-fil-A fries.
“Mickey?” she asked, already reaching for the remote.
“Mih-mouse,” he nodded, wide-eyed. “Mihhh-key!”
She flipped to the channel, and like clockwork, the intro music filled the apartment. Messiah’s eyes lit up. His feet swung back and forth in rhythm, hands sticky with juice from the apples. Malaya grabbed her bag and slipped into the small kitchen just off the living room. She poured herself a little sweet tea, popped the lid off her salad, and sat at the corner table, their “dining area” pressed into the far wall of the living room, right by the heater vent. The table was wobbly. She balanced her plate with one hand and grabbed her phone with the other.
Jordan had already texted.
Jordan: Made it home yet?
She smiled and bit into her salad.
Malaya: Just sat down to eat. Mickey Mouse on blast lol.
Jordan: Classic. That was Shiloh’s favorite too when he was little. It still is 😂 He acts like it’s brand new every time.
Malaya: That’s how you know he happy. Repeats are for the soul.
She paused, fork halfway to her mouth, thinking about how easy the messages felt. No pressure. Just back-and-forth. He didn’t flirt heavy. Just smooth, friendly…lowkey sweet. She glanced at Messiah, who now had fries in his lap, ketchup on his cheek, and was giggling at Goofy trying to hula hoop.
She took another bite and typed slowly.
Malaya: You ever come back to the old neighborhood?
Jordan: Sometimes. Moms moved though, so it’s rare. You still in East Point?
Malaya: Yeah. Been here a few years now.
Jordan: You ever go out?
She hesitated.
Her phone buzzed again before she could decide how to answer.
Jordan: I mean like for fresh air. Farmer’s market, music, whatever. Not tryna put you on the spot lol 😂.
That made her laugh, soft and soundless. She took a sip of tea, letting it cool the bite of vinaigrette on her tongue.
Malaya: I try. Depends on the day.
Messiah made a sound like “ta-da!” and flung his cup off the tray. It rolled under the table.
Malaya set her phone down and stood up, grabbing a baby wipe and scooping him out, “You a whole mess, man-man,” she whispered, holding him close as he wrapped his arms around her neck and leaned his head on her shoulder. She checked his pull-up, clean enough, and wiped his hands and face. Once he was wriggling again, she let him loose inside his playpen, a square of padded foam tiles and bright plastic toys. He crawled over to his musical drum set and started banging with glee.
Finally, finally, she could breathe.
She waited until Messiah was settled in his playpen, blocks scattered around him, Mickey Mouse still chattering softly in the background. Once she was sure he was content, Malaya stood and padded down the short hallway to her bedroom.
The door stayed cracked. Always.
The box sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, tucked against the foot of the bed like it belonged there. Plain brown. No branding. No drama. Just weight.
She sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled it into her lap. This time, she opened it slower. Inside, cushioned in smooth black tissue paper, was the Bluetooth toy. Still sealed in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Sleek. The kind of design that looked more like modern art than something meant to disappear inside a body. Her breath caught when she saw it. Beneath it were two plugs in soft pastel pink. One capped with a small gem that caught the light. The other shaped like a rosebud, delicate and intentional. She touched the edge of the packaging with the tip of her finger, then pulled her hand back like it might burn.
Below that sat a small glass bottle of perfume. Heavy for its size. She uncapped it and inhaled without thinking. Honey and sandalwood bloomed warm against her senses. Powdery. Deep. The kind of scent that lingered close to the skin instead of announcing itself. A new lip gloss followed. Nude brown. High shine. She rolled the tube between her palms, imagining how it would look under low light.
And then the lingerie.
Wine-colored lace. Sheer, with delicate embroidery that traced curves like it already knew her body. Her size. Exactly. She lifted it carefully, letting it drape between her hands, the fabric catching on her fingertips.
Malaya sat there for a long moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the apartment and the distant sound of her son laughing at something on the TV.
Her hands were shaking now.
She reached for her phone and opened the tracking app she used for her wishlist. Scrolled past the item list. Past the delivery confirmations.
There it was.
MoTh3rL0ad88.
Every item. Every purchase.
Grateful. Overwhelmed. A little afraid of how seen she felt.
She stared at the name, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs. She didn’t know who he was. Hadn't seen the name pop up in the chat before. Didn’t know why he’d done this. Didn’t know what he expected, if anything at all. She set the lingerie back in the box carefully, closed the lid, and rested her palm on top. But if she where being honest with herself, she knew what most men wanted. The ones who tipped big, who watched every night without blinking. A taste. A touch. A chance to fuck the girl behind the glass. Didn’t matter how soft their messages sounded, eventually, they all circled the same flame. But she didn’t do meet-ups. Never had. Never would. That line stayed thick and final, no matter how badly rent pressed against her spine.
From the living room, Messiah let out another happy shriek, banging two toys together like cymbals.
Malaya smiled despite herself.
She wiped her hands on her jeans, stood, and went back to him.
11:19 PM — Malaya’s Apartment
It was quiet in the way that only comes late at night. Not peaceful. Just suspended. Messiah is asleep, the baby monitor steady on the dresser, screen dimmed but close enough that she can glance and know he’s still breathing, still safe. That knowledge settles her shoulders before anything else does.
Malaya pours herself a small glass of wine and lets it warm her chest. Not enough to make her sloppy. Just enough to loosen the tight coil she carries through the day. She locks the bedroom door, pulls the blackout curtains closed, and pins the black satin sheet to the wall behind her. The fabric catches the low light and gleams faintly, like it’s already wet.
She switches on the purple LED. The room changes. Not brighter. Thicker. Intimate. Private in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. She steps out of her clothes slowly. Not for the camera yet. Just for herself. Oil goes on first, warmed between her palms. She works it into her thighs, over the soft swell of her hips, across her stomach where skin still bears the quiet evidence of carrying a life. The oil turns her dark skin luminous, highlights catching on the curves she used to try to hide. Tonight she does not hide a thing.
The lingerie comes next. The wine-colored lace from the box. She slides it up her legs, the fabric gliding easily, crotchless and unapologetic. It fits her like it was designed with her body in mind. The plug goes in after, pink and smooth, gem cool against her fingers before it disappears inside her. She exhales, slow, steady, grounding herself in the feeling. A quiet fullness. A reminder that she is still capable of wanting.
Clear strap heels click against the floor as she steps into them. She fastens the anklet, settles the velvet choker at her throat, and lets her twists hang loose down her back. Her lips get one pass of nude-brown gloss. Nothing else. Her face stays out of frame anyway.
She sets the camera low, angled up. Thighs first. Stomach. The curve of her ass when she turns. She presses the suction dildo into place, adjusts the riding pillow beneath her, and brings the wand close enough that she can feel its promise without turning it on yet.
Music hums low in the background. Kut Klose slipping into the room like a secret. SZA after that. Brent Faiyaz. A rhythm that makes her hips move even before she tells them to.
She goes live.
The chat fills slowly. Names she knows. Names she pretends not to know. Tokens start to trickle in, soft chimes that barely register compared to the pulse in her body.
Camera0ff appears without announcement. No greeting. No words. Just there.
Her breath stutters anyway.
She doesn’t look at the chat when he’s in the room. Never does. But her body reacts like it knows. Her thighs spread wider. Her hand goes back to the oil, slicking more over her skin, letting it drip between her legs, letting it catch the light as it slides.
Another thousand tokens drops. Exact. Clean.
She rolls her hips forward and sinks down onto the dildo, slow enough that it makes her gasp. Not loud. Just honest. The plug shifts inside her, presses where she needs it, and her head tips back out of frame. She rides like she has nowhere else to be. Like she has all the time in the world.
DIYDemon23 pops into the chat, tipping with a familiar rhythm. A request scrolls by about tightening bolts, about hands and effort and sweat. She smiles to herself and shifts her weight, pretending to brace against something invisible, thighs flexing, body moving like she’s working at a problem that requires concentration. The tips follow. Predictable. Comfortable.
JustForTheTaste sends a small tip and a message about oil, about how sticky she looks. She drags her palms over her breasts, slow squeeze, letting the lace darken as it absorbs the shine. She says nothing, just breathes into the mic, lets the sound do the work.
NothinButNecks asks for her mouth. She leans closer to the camera, just enough that her collarbone and throat fill the frame. Glossy lips part. She tilts her head, exposing the long line of her neck, fingers tracing where a mouth might go. The tip lands heavier this time. She hums softly, low in her chest.
BILLS4U arrives like a storm. Big numbers. Heavy drops. A message flashes asking her to ignore him, to use him, to let the money talk while she rides. She obliges without comment. Turns her back to the chat, focuses on the mirror angled just enough to show the arch of her spine, the way her ass moves as she picks up speed.
She straddled the clear dildo in reverse, knees spread wide on the plush throw she kept laid out for nights like this. The soft LED lights glowed low behind her, catching on the slick sheen across her thighs. She wasn’t in a talking mood. No teasing. No tip menu. Just riding. Just fucking. Just giving them a show.
She’d started slow—rocking her hips like she was warming up for something deeper. Her fat pussy wrapped the toy with a wet sound that filled the mic even without her saying a word. A pastel pink plug winked between her cheeks every time she lifted, then dropped again with a bounce. She was oiled up to the shine, body glowing like she’d been dipped in desire. Breasts jiggling with every roll, Her mouth parted. No words. Just little sounds. Soft, breathy gasps that got sharper when the toy hit the right spot inside.
And it did.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Her rhythm got filthier. Not rushed. But filthy. Like she was sinking into it. Like her body took over and she was nothing but hips and thighs and wetness now. The suction toy beneath her pulled at her clit in slow pulses—one hand anchored on the floor, the other sliding up to squeeze a breast, fingers slick with her own mess.
Tokens fell in steady. But then it hit.
+1,000
Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens
Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens
Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens
Somewhere out there, he was watching her just like this—still, quiet, obsessed. She fucked the dildo harder. She arched, bracing herself as she pushed down until the toy disappeared all the way into her soaked cunt. Cream spilled down the base, thick and glistening. Her cheeks bounced with every slap of her hips against the toy.
Her pussy sounded so wet the audio glitched.
Squish. Squish. Squish.
The suction toy buzzed louder now. She spread her knees more, back bowed, bouncing in tighter circles. The plug kept her open. Made her more sensitive. Kept her needy. Her thighs were shaking, ass jiggling with every stroke. It was the kind of show that made the chat explode.
But she didn’t give them anything back.
No name drops.
No thank yous.
No dirty talk.
Just fucking.
She grabbed the toy beneath her and held it in deeper, grinding down slow while her fingers found her clit and rubbed in tight, messy circles. Her breathing got ragged. Her back flexed. Her pussy spasmed around the toy, dripping so much now the mess had soaked into the pillow beneath her.
And still, she didn’t cum.
She paused. Caught herself. Stayed right on the edge and let her body throb with it. Her eyes fluttered closed, head falling forward as she rocked again. This time slow. Deep. Her plug shifted with every grind, making her hips stutter and her mouth fall open again in a silent moan.
She wanted to give it to them. She almost did.
Across town, Smoke sat still.
Shirtless. Durag pulled low. Joggers tented. One hand slow inside the waistband, the other gripping the glass of dark liquor he hadn’t sipped since she started.
He didn’t blink.
Not once.
Her pussy looked unreal—glistening and stretched around that dildo like it was made just for her. Cream laced the toy, the base, her thighs. Her ass looked tight and soft, plug shimmering pink between her cheeks. He adjusted in the chair but didn’t stroke. Just watched. Obsession thick in his chest. Jaw clenched.
The camera shook for a moment when she switched angles—reversed herself just enough to show her spread pussy from the back. Lips swollen. Messy. Pushed apart by the fat toy buried inside her.
He exhaled through his nose, finally taking a sip of his drink.
She was everything.
Everything.
She slowed her ride with a trembling gasp, thighs slick, cunt clenching around the last thrust before she lifted off the dildo with a wet pop. The sound was loud. Filthy. The mic picked up everything—drip, squish, her breath catching as she settled back onto her heels, hair stuck to the sides of her face. The clear toy was soaked. Glazed. Cream coating the shaft and pooling at the base. She brought it to her mouth without a word. Just a look.
Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted.
She sucked the mess off slow at first, letting the tip glide across her tongue like a treat. Her lips wrapped around it, mouth hollowing as she cleaned herself from base to head, then deeper—until her gag reflex hit and she choked just enough to make spit bubble at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers gripped tighter. She pushed again, tried to take more, gagging louder now. Saliva dripped down to her tits, joining the streaks of sweat and oil.
She laughed. Low. Nasty. Smirk curling on her lips as she pulled it free and licked up the side, tongue flat. He couldn’t see her eyes but he just knew she looked dead into the camera. Like she knew what it was doing to him. She tossed the dildo aside with a little flick of her wrist and leaned back, planting both palms behind her. Spreading her legs.
That pussy was still creamy. Still twitching. Lips fat, glistening, parted just enough to tease the view of her clit. She grabbed the dildo again, slapping it between her folds a few times—sharp, juicy smacks that echoed. Each one louder than the last. Her pussy drooled on contact. The chat went wild.
slap slap slap
Wet strings of arousal stretched from her to the toy with every tap. Then she reached for the hot pink wand. It buzzed to life in her hand.
And that was all it took.
She brought it to her clit like she was desperate now. No teasing. No buildup. Just need. The vibrator met her with a sharp jolt and her hips jumped, knees knocking together before she spread them again—wider this time. She let the camera see everything. Her pussy wide open. Cream still leaking. Her clit twitching under the wand.
She started to moan. Short, broken sounds that spilled out whether she meant to or not. Her head rolled back. One hand slipped to her tit, squeezing while the other held the wand steady. The closer she got, the sloppier her movements became. She bucked into the toy now. Back arching. Thighs trembling.
Smoke leaned forward in his chair, jaw clenched.
His dick was rock hard. Veins bulging. Head pushing up against the cotton of his joggers like it wanted to tear clean through. That thick, long piece of him lay heavy across his thigh, twitching once when she started moaning louder. His hand slid back beneath the waistband, slow. Grip tight. He didn’t stroke yet. Just palmed it. Felt how big he’d gotten.
He couldn’t look away.
The screen showed every slick detail. That pussy—fat and stretched, still pulsing from the toy, twitching under the wand. The sound of her moaning. The buzz of the vibrator. The sticky slap of her mess dripping onto the pillow.
God, he wanted her under him. Wanted to slide that plug back in, hold her hips down, and make her scream into the mattress. He tilted the glass of liquor without drinking it, annoyed now. Not at her.
At the wand. That wasn’t the one he sent.
She hadn’t used the Bluetooth vibe he gave her. The one he could control. The one that let him tease her from across the city with a tap on his phone. She chose her own tonight.
He took a breath. Shook it off. Let the irritation melt into obsession again. Because she was close. She was fucking close.
Her legs were shaking. Wide open. Toes curled. Ankles flexed hard as her thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright, staying present—but her body was gone now. Gone to pleasure. Gone to that buzzing wand pressed tight to her clit.
The wand was soaked. Her pussy was messier than ever. Every pass across her clit made her hips jolt, made her eyes roll, made her breath catch in ragged little sobs of sound. She was close—so close it was crawling up her spine, clamping around her like a fist.
And then she started talking.
“Y-you’re making my pussy cum…fuck…you’re making my pussy cum…”
Her voice broke on it. Again.
“You’re making my pussy cum—”
The chant left her lips in breathless repetition. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she needed to say it to get there.
“It’s right on my clit…fuck…it’s right on my clit… feels so good…”
Her head tilted, lips trembling, bottom one caught between her teeth like she was holding on to her last bit of control. But her eyes—those eyes looked gone.
“Keep tipping me,” she gasped, barely able to say it through the moans, “if you wanna see this phat pussy squirt.”
The chat exploded.
+1000
+500
+1000—Camera0ff
She moaned louder. Back arched. Hips rolled. Her pussy flexed hard around nothing. Just twitching in the open air, on full display. Her cream had already soaked the pillow. Her clit looked swollen, shiny, almost trembling under the wand.
Smoke’s jaw locked tight. His hand was finally moving now—gripping his dick through his joggers as it jumped in his palm. That big, fat length twitched every time she said pussy. Every time she moaned through another wave. Every time she begged for tips like the whole room wasn’t watching her come undone.
And then she came.
Hard.
Her whole body jerked. A strangled moan punched out of her chest. Her legs tried to close, but she held them open with sheer will, forcing them wide as her orgasm tore through her.
She squirted. Once. Then again. A messy gush soaked the wand and sprayed down her inner thighs, making her cry out louder. Her hips bucked into it, chasing more, chasing the tail end of it while her voice got high and tight and shaky—
“Fuckfuckfuckfuck—”
She nearly dropped the wand. Managed to hold it just long enough for one final pulse, one last desperate moan as her cunt clenched hard, leaking and twitching. And then she collapsed back, chest heaving. Body twitching in the aftershocks. Her pussy was a mess. Raw and creamy and wide open.
Smoke let out a sound between a groan and a growl.
He needed her.
Bad.
The kind of need that made his throat tight and his balls ache. His dick strained so hard against his joggers it hurt. He sat there, eyes burning into the screen like he could brand her with his stare alone.
She hadn’t said his name once.
But that pussy? That pussy was his.
She giggled.
Not shy. Not sweet. That giggle had drip to it.
She was still sprawled out, legs wide, pussy glistening and open, a fucking mess between her thighs. Her body trembled just slightly from the comedown, but she didn’t close. Didn’t hide. She spread herself wider. Fingers at the lips, pulling her pussy open for the camera—fat, raw, creamy pink, glistening under the studio lights. The chat exploded.
I’d tongue fuck that til you passed out.
Bet you taste like fruit. 👅
On my knees already, Queen 😍
Let me slide in raw. Cream for me just like that.
Why it look that juicy tho?!
I’d ruin it slow, you don’t even know 😮💨
Line after line. Filth pouring in from hard, horny men who couldn’t keep their hands off their dicks. They were ready to worship. Ready to pay. Ready to beg.
She lifted one leg high. Planted her foot flat. And started grinding slow—tiny rolls of her hips that made her still-leaking pussy glisten even more as DVSN came through the speakers soft in the background. A low, moaning R&B groove that matched the wet circles she rode on air. She licked her lips, tilted her head, smiled like she already knew how every single one of them would nut thinking about this later.
Then her voice came through, low and slick, “I’m about to log off now…but I’m accepting private chats from top tier members only.” She sucked her bottom lip. Let it pop back out, “If I’m feelin’ the vibes…might be down to talk dirty. Don’t be dry, though. Come correct.”
She blew a kiss.
Gave the camera one last spread. Pussy still twitching faintly, clit still swollen, thighs wet.
“Goodnight, freaks.”
And ended the stream.
The screen went black.
Across the city, Smoke sat in silence.
Still shirtless. Still hard.
That thick dick lay heavy in his hand, pulsing in his palm, fat at the tip and leaking. He hadn’t even finished. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not when his mind was stuck on her. That pussy. That fucking smirk.
He sat there for a beat.
Thinking.
He had never messaged her for dirty talk. Not directly. Not from Camera0ff. He kept that account quiet. Sterile. Eyes only.
But now?
He reached for his phone.
Opened a different profile. One he hadn’t used in weeks.
@YungCipher 🕶️
Verified. Still active. He cracked his neck. Wiped his hand on his thigh. Typed slow.
And started the private chat.
You said come correct. So let’s talk. I’ve been watchin’. You been fuckin’ up my sleep.
Now I want your attention. Just for me.
No music, no chat chimes. Just the soft whir of her mini fan and the sound of her own breath, still unsteady, still thick with the rhythm of what she just gave them. Her thighs were parted, one knee cocked up, the other draped low, toes touching the floor like an afterthought. Cream glistened on her inner thighs—slick, messy, the kind of mess that lingered when the show ended but the need didn’t.
Malaya shifted slow, lazy, her silk robe clinging wet to the curve of her hip where her body had gotten too warm, too sticky. The robe was barely tied, a soft sage green thing she always reached for post-show when she wanted to feel pretty. Luxurious. She liked how it looked against her skin, the way the sheen picked up the low light of her desk lamp and kissed her curves. Her nipples poked through the thin fabric—fat, round, still stiff, still aching. Her pussy? Still creamy. Still throbbing. Still open.
She kept the cam room up in the background just in case someone sent a late tip or left a filthy review, but her eyes were on her DMs. Waiting. Thirsty in more ways than one. That creamy POV she just did? Slurpy, moaning, talking dirty into the cam like she could feel every inch of the dick she was pretending to ride? She knew it went crazy. Knew it had ‘em gripping themselves, leaking, moaning back. She knew how they got. How they begged. How they paid.
She was just about to close the app when the message pinged.
💬 Yung Cipher: What’s good, mamas? Down to chat wit’ me? I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.
Malaya blinked at the name.
She knew that username.
YungCipher.
Didn’t show up often. Only during certain shows. The ones where her pussy was on full display—glossy, slow strokes, cream gliding down toys. That was when he’d appear. Never right away. Always late. He’d drop in, say something filthy in the chat—short, bold, blunt—and vanish just as quick, usually leaving behind a clean tip with no message.
She’d never paid him much mind. Until now.
Now he was DMing.
She sat up a little, adjusting her robe, tucking one leg underneath herself as she stared at the message again.
Something about it…felt different. Not desperate. Not thirsty. Just…smooth. Intentional.
She smiled slow, fingertips grazing her lips.
💬 Malaya: Well hey there, stranger. Sure, we can chat. We’ll see if it’s worth my time 😘”
She sent it and waited.
Curious. Tempted.
Still a little creamy.
Still thumping.
Just like he liked it.
Malaya sat up a little straighter, the tension in her belly returning like heat blooming under her skin. Her heart tapped quick against her ribs. She saw it—bottom right corner.
💬 Yung Cipher: You said come correct. So let’s talk. I’ve been watchin’. You been fuckin’ up my sleep. Now I want your attention. Just for me.
💬 Yung Cipher: You showed out tonight Miss Lacey like a good lil' slut for daddy. Pussy still creamy, huh?
Her lips parted. She bit the lower one. The robe slid open just enough for a sticky string to stretch between her lips, creamy and slow. She shivered. She clicked it with her thumb, pulse fluttering like a moth trapped behind her breastbone.
💬 Malaya: Mmm…figured you were watchin’. Took you long enough, nasty.
She hovered, waiting, still gently rocking in her chair like her body didn’t know the show was over yet. Her legs squeezed together without her permission. That text had her sitting up—robe sliding further off one shoulder, nipples dragging against silk, heat flashing behind her knees. Something about the way he said it. So casual. So knowing. Like he wasn’t guessing—he knew she was still creamy. Like he was still watching her now. She leaned her elbow on the desk, fingers brushing her lower lip as she stared at the screen. There was a new message.
💬 Yung Cipher: I seen how you creamed all on that toy. Shit was glossy. Fat, too.
Her breath caught. Her thighs twitched. Not even a full minute passed before another came in—
💬 Yung Cipher: You still dripping? Answer the question.
She didn’t type right away. She adjusted the camera even though the stream was off, instinctual. Turned the chair slightly so she could spread her legs again. The robe slipped open completely. She looked down. Cream still there. Puffy, parted lips glistening, folds sticky, twitching like they missed the toy already. It was obscene the way she was still open. Still needy. She sucked her fingers clean out of habit, then typed with her other hand.
💬 Malaya: Still dripping, baby. Wanna taste?
She giggled to herself, but it wasn’t sweet. It was thick with lust. With the type of hunger that curled up in the belly and wouldn’t let go.
The dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.
Her pussy throbbed again.
💬 Yung Cipher: Nah. I wanna see it. Real close. Name your price. How much for a picture of that fat, creamy pussy, girl?
Malaya’s mouth fell open just slightly. She sat there, robe wide, pussy glistening, heart thudding. This wasn’t just tipping tokens in the chat anymore. This was direct. Intentional. A transaction of desire so specific it made her whole body hum. Her breath left her slow—like steam—and she tilted her hips in the chair without thinking, letting the air touch her.
She stared at the screen. Thought about the angles. Thought about how it would feel to send it. Thought about how bad he wanted it. Her fingers danced across the keyboard.
💬 Malaya: Depends…you want just the pussy? Or you want my fingers in it too?
She bit her lip.
💬 Malaya: $100 for the pic. $150 if I dip two fingers and show you what creamy really look like.
And then she waited. Dripping. Throbbing. Waiting for his answer like she’d already spent the money. Like her body wanted to be sold tonight.
The silence was syrupy.
Then—ding.
💬 Yung Cipher: $150. With two fingers. Slow. Creamy like you said.
The cash came through seconds later.
Cha-ching.
That PayNote alert hit her like a slap to the ass.
💸 Payment received: $150 from Yung Cipher
Malaya blinked, then grinned slow, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. Her nipples tightened again, responding before her brain even caught up. Her pussy gave a greedy twitch like it knew it had been purchased. Like it was proud. She clicked off the desk lamp. Let the screen glow light her.
Phone in hand now. Knees wide. Camera angle just right. She clicked to video mode. Took a deep breath and looked down.
Fat. Creamy. Puffy. Still leaking.
The lips were thick and plush, a dark rose shade flushed with blood, the inner folds glossy with wetness. Her slit still pulsed slightly—sensitive from her earlier release but greedy for more. The cream had pooled, coating her folds in milky white gloss. Her clit peeked out, shiny and swollen, practically begging for breath. She slid her fingers down once. Just to prep.
They came up glistening. Her breath hitched.
“F-fuck,” she whispered to herself.
The filth of it had her smiling. Wicked and pretty. She leaned back further. Raised her phone. Started the slow glide of her middle and ring fingers between her folds—just like he asked.
Two fingers. Slow.
She let the tips part her. Cream stretched in globs. Wet noises loud even without the mic. Her pussy opened like it missed being filled. Her fingers sank in just a little, just enough for the shot. Cream eased out, coating her fingers, dripping back onto her palm. It was a mess.
She snapped the pic.
Previewed it.
Her thick, wet pussy glistening under the glow of the screen. Fingers dipped and shining. A perfect strand of cream gliding across her middle knuckle like icing.
She sent it.
📷 Attachment sent: “malaya_creamy2fingers.jpg”
Then followed with a message:
💬 Malaya: You sure you don’t wanna upgrade to video? I’m still warm, baby. Still wet.
She hit send.
Her heart beat fast. Her robe slipped further. Her free hand drifted to her thigh again.
Another ping.
She didn’t even flinch—just licked her lips and leaned in. Eyes glowing in the light of the screen, the air around her humid with heat and musk and money.
💬 Yung Cipher:
“Nah.”
“I want that video.”
“Show me what them fingers do. Slow. Messy. Talk to me while you stroke it.”
Another notification hit.
💸 Payment received: $400 from Yung Cipher
With note: “Make me cum, mama.”
Malaya moaned under her breath, just at the message.
There was something about this one.
Yung Cipher wasn’t like the others. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. His money came correct, his words came low and nasty, and his intent sliced through the screen like a hand at her throat. Malaya was slick just reading him.
She adjusted her camera.
Set her phone on the tripod, angled low—real low. The frame just showed the curve of her thighs, the dip of her hips, and the dripping heaven between. No face. Just raw, ruined, pussy.
She pressed record.
The first thing the camera caught? Her fingers spreading herself open.
Lips parted, folds swollen and glistening, clit hard and standing like it knew it was being watched. Her cream was thicker now—milky, wet, coating her entrance in glossy white where she’d clenched and released too many times tonight already.
She brought two fingers back to her opening. Eased in. A low moan slipped out her throat. Sticky. Sloppy. The sound of wet pussy filled the room. Her other hand lifted the bottom of the robe so her stomach and tits were visible too, jiggling slightly with every pump of her fingers.
Then came her voice. Sultry. Soft. Soaked in heat.
“You see that, baby? That mess right there? That’s your fault…”
She pulled her fingers out. Cream spilled. She pushed them back in, slower this time. Grinding in circles. Her hips rolled with the motion, her clit twitching from proximity alone.
“These fingers just fillin’ in for you. I been creamy all night. Drippin’ down my ass. You wanted messy, daddy? Mmmph…fuck…you got messy.”
She whimpered as her fingers curved inside. Hit the spot just right. Her stomach jumped. She kept stroking, kept talking, her voice lowering to a hush.
“This pussy loud, huh? Sloppy for you. You like watchin’ it stretch? Creamy little fuckhole just soakin’ for you…”
Her pace picked up. Her body rocked. She was close. Too close. And she didn’t care. Back arched, thighs trembling, her other hand lifted to pinch her own nipple through the robe. Her clit screamed for contact, but she kept edging, kept fucking herself for him. The sound of her fingers was obscene. Messy. Wet.
And through it all, her voice purred, “Gon’ let daddy watch me cum…gon’ let him see all this cream…you ready?”
She moaned long, sharp—hips locking as the orgasm finally hit. A wave of cream spilled past her fingers, dripping down her ass and onto the towel beneath. Her pussy pulsed around her hand, still creamy, still fluttering.
💬 Malaya: You cum yet, baby? Or you need me to watch you too?”
She leaned back. Grinning. Sticky. Spent. Soaked in money and wetness.
The message preview flashed before she could even catch her breath.
📹 New Video from Yung Cipher
No caption. No words. Just a timestamp and a fire emoji.
Malaya’s pussy clenched on nothing. Her body still pulsed from her own release, the creamy mess between her thighs sticking to the inside of her robe now, still hot, still fresh. Her nipple throbbed from how hard she’d pinched it. She was soaked. Boneless. Breathless.
But her thumb moved fast. She tapped the video open.
First frame? A thick, dark dick filling the screen—heavy, glistening, jumping. Her mouth dropped open. She almost choked on a gasp. The tip was swollen, flushed dark, glistening with a pearl of cum pushing from the slit. The shaft twitched like it had its own heartbeat. Veins thick. Base wet. The whole thing dripping. It wasn’t even moving, not yet. Just standing proud like it knew it had her attention.
Then, slow stroke. Just the fingers—gripping the base, gliding up with a fist full of cum coating the length.
“Mmmf—fuck…”
His voice was low. Raspy. Almost growled. He wasn’t talking to the phone. He was talking to her. The strokes got faster, wet sounds sticky and deep. Cum leaked in thick globs. His breathing got ragged. He grunted once. Then twice.
Then came the deep moan, “Unnnhhh—fuck. That’s all you, baby girl…”
Another thick pulse shot from the tip—cum oozing, gliding down in slow strings over his knuckles. The dick twitched violently once, then twice. And then he spoke—low, deliberate, like he needed her to feel it.
“This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.”
Video cut. Ended there. Like a slap.
Malaya just sat there—open, wet, unable to move. The cream between her legs warmed again like her body was responding. Like it wanted round two without permission.
Her thighs pressed together. She whined out loud—soft, helpless. She messaged back, trembling fingers on the keys.
💬 Malaya: I need to taste it next time. For real.
The cursor blinked. Her lips parted.
She added one more.
💬 Malaya: You always gonna call me that? Miss Pretty Pussy?
And she waited. Heart still pounding. Whole body humming like he touched her without even being here.
Then it came.
💬 Yung Cipher: Yeah. I’m always gon’ call you that. ‘Cause that pussy too pretty to go by anything else.
Her breath caught. She was already smirking, heart skipping, body tilting toward the screen like he was speaking in her ear.
The next message hit harder.
💬 Yung Cipher: Soon as I get you? I’m pullin’ those thighs open wide and buryin’ my whole face in it. I’ma suck that creamy clit till your knees give out. Talk all that nasty shit in my ear while I’m tongue deep.
Malaya’s lips parted. She inhaled sharp.
Fingers dipped. Just barely.
💬 Malaya: I’m gon’ cry. I already know I am. You eat pussy like you got a vendetta, huh?
The dots danced again.
💬 Yung Cipher: I eat pussy like I’m tryna survive it. Like the messier it get, the longer I live. I want it in my beard, on my tongue, runnin’ down my neck.
💬 Yung Cipher: You moanin’? I’ma keep suckin’. You twitchin’? I’ma keep lickin’. You creamin’? I’ma spit on it and fuckin’ slurp.
Malaya whimpered, rocking in her seat again.
💬 Malaya: Shiiit…I’m wet all over again. This chair got a stain now. And my thighs sticky, daddy. Sticky and shakin’.
He responded quick.
💬 Yung Cipher: Good. Keep that pussy sloppy for me. Next time? I ain’t talkin’. I’m spreadin’ you out like a meal. Tongue in your hole while I thumb your clit.”
💬 Yung Cipher: And after I eat? I’m liftin’ that pretty ass up and slidin’ in raw. No condom. No mercy. Just thick dick stretchin’ you slow…till I bottom out.”
Her pussy jumped.
💬 Malaya:I can’t even lie…I’m clenching. You got my whole body thumpin’. And I want it raw. Wanna feel every inch. Feel that nut fill me up when you cum.”
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ cum inside, Miss Pretty Pussy. Slow strokes. Moaning in it. You callin’ out my name. You gon’ squirt or cry or both?
💬 Yung Cipher: And when I pull out? I’ma rub that cream into your pussy lips like lotion. Then flip you over and do it again.
Malaya could barely sit still. Her fingers were back in her pussy, slow. Wet. Curling.
But she wanted more.
💬 Malaya: Say it again. Say what you gon’ do when you finally get this pussy.
And just like that—
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ fuck you like I paid for it. Like I own it. Like nobody else ever had it but me. Gon’ make you my nasty little throat and cumhole.
💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that, mama? Ready to get used like the nasty lil wet thing you are?
Her hand was moving faster now.
💬 Malaya: I been ready. You wanna own me? Claim me? Say it, daddy. Say that pussy yours.
The response was instant.
💬 Yung Cipher: It’s mine. That fat, creamy pussy? That mouth that moan my name? Them legs that shake soon as I talk nasty? All that—mine.
Malaya moaned. Low. Raw. Shameless. She came again with her phone in her hand, his words still glowing on the screen, her body soaked and owned in every way but physical. Her skin was damp with sweat, thighs spread again, the air slick with sex and steam. She couldn’t stop replaying that damn video—his dick, thick and twitching, that fat tip leaking just for her. That low grunt. That final line.
This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.
It haunted her in the best way. And now, was still typing.
The dots danced.
Her body responded like it belonged to those three dots. She sucked in a breath and waited.
Then—
💬 Yung Cipher: That lil creamy pussy keep talkin’ to me, huh? Beggin’ for my tongue like it missed me. Let me tell you what I’m really gon’ do.
Her pussy clenched. She rubbed herself slow, fingers sliding through her own cream like syrup. Legs trembling. Chest heaving.
💬 Yung Cipher: First? I’ma have you laid back, ankles damn near by your ears. Make you hold ‘em. That way I can see all of it—pussy lips spread, hole twitchin’, cream waitin’.
She whined.
💬 Yung Cipher: Then I’ma spit on it. Real thick. Let it drip right into your hole. Then I’m lickin’ it up. Long slow tongue from back to front.
💬 Yung Cipher: I ain’t rushin’. I’ma kiss every part of it. Left lip. Right lip. Suck on your folds like they my bottom lip.
Malaya’s toes curled. She had three fingers inside now. Eyes fluttering. Pussy soaked.
💬 Malaya: I’m leaking. Fuck, I’m leaking just reading this. I wanna feel that tongue in me so bad.
💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ feel it. I’ma tongue-fuck that creamy hole until your hips lift off the bed. Gon’ make you cream in my mouth. You ever scream through a nut, baby? Gon’ have you doin’ that.
Malaya gripped her phone, knuckles tight. She could barely type.
💬 Malaya: I’ma be cryin’. Shakin’. Legs gon’ give out. You eatin’ pussy like you tryna steal my soul.
He didn’t stop.
💬 Yung Cipher: Exactly. I’ma trap your soul in my throat. Then suck that lil clit like I own it. Two fingers inside you, tongue flickin’ your clit…until you cum all in my beard.
Malaya’s legs spasmed.
She was panting. Whining. Her other hand was pinching her nipple raw now.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma talk shit with your pussy in my mouth. Let the sound of me slurpin echo while you cry. Then I’ma look up at you, face soaked, and say…
He paused. Malaya’s whole body paused with him.
💬 Yung Cipher:…You taste like heaven, Miss Pretty Pussy.
Malaya snapped.
She cried out, back arching, pussy squirting in a sudden gush against her own palm. Her robe was soaked. Her desk chair dripping. She shook through the release, biting her lip hard to keep from screaming. She collapsed, trembling.
Phone buzzed again.
💬 Yung Cipher: You cummin’ right now, huh? Creamin’ off my words alone.
She barely managed to type.
💬 Malaya: Yes. Daddy. You own me now.
💬 Yung Cipher: Send me a voice note. Let me hear how wet you are. And moan for me while you do it.
Malaya bit her lip hard. She felt the throb again. That heavy ache in her pussy that never seemed to go away when he typed like this. That ache that whispered Obey him. That ache that had her already reaching for her phone before she even replied.
Her fingers were shaking. Not from nerves. From need. She slid two fingers back inside.
Schlllk.
The sound was loud—messy, wet, slick. She knew he’d want to hear that. She cranked the phone volume low, just to test, and the squelch echoed off her walls like sex in surround sound.
She hit record. Didn’t speak at first. Just moaned.bSoft at first. Breathless. Then deeper.
“Mmmm…fuck…you hear that?” Schlick-schlick—wet fingers plunging into cream again, “It’s so wet, daddy…so messy…so loud…You got my pussy screamin’. All this mess? Just from your voice…” moaning again, whimpering on the tail end of a gasp, “You got me creamin’ like you already here…wish your tongue was in it while I talk like this…wish I could ride your face ‘til you couldn’t breathe…”
She ended it with a sharp little cry—raw and soaked in lust.
📤 Voice Note Sent: 0:46
She didn’t even wait. Sent another message right after.
💬 Malaya: You hear how wet you got me? Tell me what that did to you…
She was trembling. Phone in one hand. Fingers in the other. Still not satisfied. Still craving.
He listened to it four times.
The voice note.
Every breath. Every wet sound. Every moan shaped like his name even if she didn’t say it.
She was soaked. Squelching. Fuckin’ creamy. Her pussy was singin’ for him. And it made his dick twitch so hard it jumped in his palm. He’d already pulled his sweats down, fist gripped around the base, head swollen and leaking just from the sound of her.
He sat back, legs wide, stroking slow. Deep. Face lit only by the glow of his phone screen, her moans still echoing in his head. Still hearing.
“All this mess? Just from your voice…”
He let out a low breath, thumb teasing his slit to collect the drop of precum gliding down. His jaw was locked. Eyes half-shut. That same picture of her messy pussy flashing behind his lids. That creamy, pulsing, needy little cunt.
He hit record. His voice came out low. Rough. Deep like smoke caught in his throat.
“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl,” he released a slight groan as his fist moves slow over his shaft—wet strokes, audible, “Listen to that…that’s you. That’s yo nasty lil voice got me strokin’ like this…” shhk, shhk, shhk—his rhythm steady, thick, wet, You want this nut, don’t you? Wanna feel it warm inside that pretty pussy…” he grunts—low, chesty, sharp, “Fuuuck… yo voice got me ready to explode. Soon as get you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop. Cream in my mouth while I talk shit between licks…” his fist speeds up—slap of skin now louder, “That moan? That lil cry you made at the end? That shit made me cum, Malaya…” He sucked in a final sharp breath, then a raw, heavy groan as his nut hits—long and thick, Unnnghh…fuck… look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”
📤 Voice Note Sent: 1:02
He exhaled. Chest still rising, hand slick with cum, dick twitching in the aftershocks.
And he waited.
Knowing she’d listen to that with her fingers already back inside her.
She pressed play with a trembling thumb. Held the phone to her ear like it was sacred. His voice—thick, husky, dripping with control—slid into her like a wet tongue. His words weren’t rushed. They were paced. Drawled out. Like every syllable was chosen to own her.
“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl…”
Her knees buckled.
She wasn’t even standing. Just curled up, naked in her desk chair, but her knees buckled. She whimpered before the rest of it even landed. That low breath. That stroke. That wet shhk, shhk, shhk of his grip on his cock? It had her cunt clenching like it missed something it never even had. His voice was everywhere. In her ear. In her chest. In her pussy.
And then—
“Soon as I see you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop.”
Her lips parted in a soundless moan, fingers already sliding through her folds again, hot and swollen and dripping from just hearing him grunt.
She closed her eyes. Listened harder.
“That moan? That lil cry you made at the end?”
She bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled. That moment? She’d been convulsing. Creaming. And he heard it. Claimed it. Owned it like he had a hand around her throat.
And then came the final blow—
“Look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”
Her whole soul short-circuited. No name. No pretense. Just that title. That possession. Miss Pretty Pussy.
She whispered it to herself, “Miss Pretty Pussy…” like it was a spell.
And the dam broke.
Her fingers plunged deep, palm grinding her clit, thighs shaking as she sobbed through her next orgasm—loud, uncontrollable, mouth open wide with no shame. She came so hard it made her dizzy. Body locking. Toes curling. Pussy gushing. She slumped back, dripping down her own thighs. A full mess now. Nails trembling, she finally lifted the phone again, vision blurry.
She typed.
💬 Malaya: I came so hard just now I saw fuckin’ stars. You talk to me like that again I might squirt all over my chair. You always this nasty, daddy?”
Then another.
💬 Malaya: Say more. Please. Miss Pretty Pussy want you in her ear again…
She didn’t even try to hide it anymore.
He had her.
Completely.
💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy been a good girl. You made that pussy cum just for me. Your biggest fan. You got the prettiest moans and the creamiest pussy. But that throat? We gon’ have to work on that, baby. You can’t take dick down your throat?
Malaya’s breath caught mid-exhale. Her fingers twitched where they rested. That switch in tone. From praise to challenge. From sweet to sharp. He wanted more. He wanted all of her. And her throat? That was next. She stared at the message, heart racing. Her pussy gave another slow throb, already reacting to the shift. Already pulsing at the idea of him gripping her jaw, nudging the tip of his dick against her tongue with that same voice in her ear. She could almost hear it now
“Open up, Miss Pretty Pussy. Show me what that throat can do.”
Her body ached at the thought. She typed, thumbs moving slower than usual, like her hands were shaking again.
💬 Malaya: Mmm…I can take it…just gotta hold my head and guide me. Show me how you want it…”
She added a second one.
💬 Malaya: You want me sloppy, daddy? Make this throat your toy?
The messages had been filth before. Obsession dressed up in dirty talk. Sweet ruin painted over hunger. But now? Now the words came in darker.
Tighter.
Like the leash had finally been pulled.
💬 Yung Cipher: Don’t send no voice notes. Don’t moan. Don’t beg. Just listen.
Malaya froze. The command dropped like weight in her lap—heavy, absolute. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t flirty. It was a shift. Her breath caught, fingers stilled, spine straightening like her body knew better than to move without his say-so. Her skin prickled. Her mouth parted. She could feel him in the room with her, even though he wasn’t.
And then the next message hit.
💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy don’t make no rules. You do what I say. And when I get my hands on you? You ain’t askin’ me what I want. You givin’ it.
Her thighs clenched. That deep ache returned.
💬 Yung Cipher: That throat gon’ learn today. You ain’t never had dick like mine. I ain’t fuckin’ your mouth to be gentle. I’m stretchin’ that throat ‘til you tear up. Until you got spit runnin’ down your chin and your lashes blinkin’ fast like you can’t breathe.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m holdin’ your head still. Lookin’ down while I slide in slow…feelin’ your gag all around me. Then I’ma fuck it. Deep. Fast. Dirty. With your hands tied so you don’t run.
Malaya moaned silently, her hips rolling into the empty air.
He kept going.
💬 Yung Cipher: When I nut? I’m not warnin’ you. I’m shootin’ it straight down your fuckin’ throat and holdin’ you there. And you gon’ swallow every drop.
Her whole body tensed. She was dizzy. She typed with shaking fingers, eyes glassy, cunt throbbing with no mercy.
💬 Malaya: Yes daddy. Please teach me. Please take it. I want your nut in my throat so bad I could cry.”
💬 Malaya: This mouth yours. This pussy yours. Do whatever you want to me.”
She hit send. Then collapsed back into the chair, overwhelmed, wrecked, completely owned.
And then he told her. Not asked. Not invited.
💬 Yung Cipher: Here’s how I’ma break you in.
She exhaled sharp.
💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ come to me dressed how I like. Not what you wanna wear. No panties. No bra. Just somethin’ soft and short enough for me to pull up quick. The second you walk through my door, I’m puttin’ you on your knees. Not speakin’. Not thinkin’. Just kneelin’.
She was already whimpering.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma walk slow ‘round you. Let you feel it. The weight of what’s about to happen. The way you already soaked just from bein’ near me. Then I’m liftin’ you up by your throat. Bend you over the first surface I see. Couch, table, fuckin’ floor. It won’t matter.”
💬 Yung Cipher: I’m spittin’ on that pussy. Smackin’ it. Watchin’ it jump. Spreadin’ you wide just to see how messy you got for me. Then I’m slidin’ in slow…deep… until you scream.
Malaya’s mouth was open. Her fingers clenched the sheets. Her robe had slipped completely off now—she was bare, breathless, and throbbing.
He wasn’t done.
💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ take it all. Every inch. Every nut. You gon’ leak down your thighs, legs shakin’, beggin’ me not to stop. And I won’t.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma fuck you stupid. Until you can’t remember what day it is. Until your eyes roll and your mouth can’t say nothin’ but ‘daddy.’ That’s how I break you.
💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that?
Her reply came broken, typed in bursts between breathless moans and soaked sheets.
💬 Malaya: I want it. I want all of it. Please break me, daddy. Make me forget my fuckin’ name.
Because that’s what he did. He didn’t flirt. He rewired.
Her screen lit up again.
💬 Yung Cipher: Soon. That’s if you ain’t scared to meet up.
And just like that—the air changed. She still felt soaked. Still ached between her legs. Still had cream sticky on her thighs and a flutter in her chest just from the way he said “soon.” But that sentence? That word—meet—it landed different. Malaya’s body leaned in, but her mind pulled back. She’d never done meetups. That was a rule she never broke. No matter how fine they looked. No matter how much they tipped. No matter how nasty the chat got. She sat there for a beat, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Still wanting. Still tempted. But…
She typed slowly. Honest. Firm, but soft.
💬 Malaya: Mmm…I don’t do meetups, baby. Sorry. Just not my thing. Hope that doesn’t disappoint you. ❤️
She hit send.
Her heart ticked fast behind her ribs—not out of fear, but from the tension. That line between control and consent. Between fantasy and reality.
He didn’t reply right away.
She sat in that silence, wondering if it had ruined the mood. Wondering if he’d vanish like most do when they can’t have her.
But then—
💬 Yung Cipher: It’s cool, baby. No pressure. I respect that.
Another ping.
💬 Yung Cipher: Just know I’m here whenever you change your mind. ‘Cause I’d love to show you. Real slow. Real deep. Real good.
💬 Yung Cipher: I’d take my time. Give you exactly what you need.
💬 Yung Cipher: I promise to be your favorite big dick.
Her whole body shivered.
Not from fear. But from the smoothness. The patience. The promise. He didn’t push. Didn’t pout. Just laid the offer out like a silk sheet and stepped back. And somehow…that made her want him more.
She replied without thinking—
💬 Malaya: You damn sure tryna make it hard to forget you. Favorite? That’s a big promise.
Summary: Erik doesn’t do holidays. Not the lights, not the music, and definitely not the gatherings. But when an old friend invites him to spend the holidays with his family in Oakland, something makes him say yes.
Warnings: Slow-burn erotic tension/ Age-gap dynamics (consensual, emotionally complex)/Explicit sexual content/Oral sex (m+f)/Face-sitting/Bratty sub behavior/Dominance & praise kink (includes “good girl,” being told what to do)/Hair pulling, face holding, choking (consensual, requested)/Public teasing / risk play (in shared spaces)/Spit play/Mirror sex/Sensory play (blindfolds, textures)/Mutual masturbation / voyeuristic elements/Possessive energy/guided submission/Adult language & graphic detail
Part One
The day before Christmas Eve — Oakland, California
The air outside still held that sharp winter bite, but as soon as Erik stepped onto the porch, he could smell it.
Cinnamon. Fried something. Brown sugar. Black home.
The door was wrapped in thick garland and gold ribbon. White lights lined the windows. Somewhere inside, people were laughing — warm and loose, the kind of joy he hadn’t been around in years.
He lifted a fist and knocked twice. A second later, the door swung open.
“Ayeeee! Nigga, you made it!” Deuce grinned wide, his gold tooth catching the light, “I was just tellin’ them you wasn’t gonna show.”
Erik smirked, dragging his duffle up the last step, “I said I would.”
Deuce clapped him in tight, a brother’s hug that ended with a half-slap to his back, “Still a ghost though. We gon’ work on that.”
Inside, the house was full of heat, voices, the clatter of pots in the kitchen, the smell of baked mac and yams. Somewhere, a Frankie Beverly vinyl was playing low under the noise. The walls were warm taupe, the lights soft and golden. Decorated to feel lived in, not staged.
A wreath hung above the mantle. There was a Christmas tree in the far corner, real pine. Full. Not a single bare spot. Gift-wrapped boxes already stacked beneath.
It was too much. Too cozy. Erik’s shoulders rolled slightly under his coat.
“C’mon, lemme show you the dungeon,” Deuce said with a grin.
He led him down a narrow staircase into a finished basement. It was clean, masculine, probably Marlon’s old man cave. There was a small couch, a mounted TV, a bar cart in the corner, and an air mattress made up neatly with navy sheets. A closed door led to a guest bathroom.
“Not the Ritz,” Deuce said, “but it’s got a shower, and it’s yours.”
Erik dropped his bag at the foot of the bed, “It’s solid.”
“You want a drink? Something to eat?”
“Nah. Lemme get settled first.”
Deuce gave a nod, already halfway back upstairs, “We upstairs if you need anything.”
And then he was alone.
Erik sat on the edge of the bed for a second, elbows on knees. The basement was quiet, dim, and cool, a nice change from the warmth upstairs pressing at him like a memory he didn’t ask for.
He took his time.
Stripped down. Stepped into the shower and let the heat pull tension from his muscles. Washed off the travel, the quiet of the flight, the months of grit behind his eyes. When he came out, he threw on a clean black tee and joggers. Rolled his neck once. Then made his way back upstairs.
That’s when he saw her.
She stood in the kitchen, angled sideways at the sink, pouring something into a glass Pyrex dish. The first thing Erik saw was curve—hips hugged in a soft plum-colored wrap dress. Bare shoulders. Gold hoop earrings swinging gently as she moved. Her curls were voluminous, thick, like a crown. And when she turned…
Hazel eyes.
Warm and unreadable, locked on him before she even said a word.
Deuce called from across the room, “Yo Ma, this my boy I was tellin’ you about. Erik.”
She didn’t smile. Not right away. She just gave him a long look. Up. Down. Took him in like he was something interesting she hadn’t expected.
Then, “So you’re the one my son been braggin’ about.”
Her voice was low and smooth. Smoky.
Erik nodded once, “Yes ma’am.”
That made her smirk. Just a little, “You don’t look like you do holidays.”
“I don’t.”
“Well,” she said, brushing her hands dry on a towel, “you in my house now. You gon’ eat, drink, and speak when spoken to. That clear?”
A pause.
Erik’s mouth twitched, “Yes ma’am.”
“Good.” She walked past him, close enough to brush his shoulder with hers, the scent of vanilla and wood clinging to the air behind her.
“Yo Zay!” Deuce shouted, “Come meet my boy!”
And then she appeared—Zaya, steps light, locs pulled half-up, half-down, with flyaways and a nose hoop that glittered when she smiled. She had on high-waisted sweats and a cropped tee that stopped just short of her waist beads. Her skin glowed.
She slid into the kitchen and leaned against the fridge, licking her lips, “Damn.” she said, looking Erik up and down, “You fine as hell.”
“Zaya—” Celeste warned from the other side of the room.
“What?” Zaya popped the spoon from her mouth, “I can look.”
Erik said nothing. Just looked at her, head slightly tilted, heat curling behind his eyes.
Deuce was already halfway into a story about their time overseas, oblivious.
And Erik…he just stood there in the middle of it all. This warm, chaotic, scented, glittering house feeling like he’d just walked into something he wasn’t gonna walk out of clean.
Deuce handed Erik a glass without asking. Neat. Dark. Strong. The kind of drink that kicked the back of your throat before it kissed it. Erik sipped and let the burn bloom, grateful for the silence between the two of them. In the corner, the tree blinked gold and green. The scent of baked ham and sweet potatoes curled through the air vents like a living thing, softening everything it touched.
They were seated in the den now, just off the kitchen, where the lights were lower and the conversation didn’t have to compete with laughter from upstairs. Deuce was reclined on the arm of a leather chair while Erik sat low and heavy on the sofa, legs stretched wide, glass balanced in one palm. He was beginning to settle, that thick restlessness in his chest quieting by inches. Deuce was catching him up on his cousin’s divorce drama when another man entered the room.
Stocky frame. Salt-and-pepper beard trimmed clean. Dark slacks, a collared shirt rolled to the elbows. His presence filled the doorway like he built the damn house. Marlon Hawkins.
“Y’all drinkin’ without me?” His voice was deeper than Deuce’s and rougher, like it had run through sandpaper.
Deuce stood and gave his stepfather a dap, “We ain’t startin’ nothin’ serious.”
Erik rose and nodded, “Erik.”
Marlon walked over and offered a hand. Firm grip. No nonsense, “Marlon. Appreciate you comin’ through, son. My boy don’t bring many people around. Especially not folks from the Teams.”
Erik gave a small smile, “He said y’all wouldn’t feed me if I didn’t show.”
Marlon laughed from the belly, “That sounds about right.”
The three of them talked for a while. Drinks in hand. The fire crackling low behind them. Marlon asked about the mission rotation, what it was like running ops in Bahrain, how the new administration was cutting defense contracts like butter. Deuce got a little looser with the bourbon, dropping wild stories from their second deployment. The kind that ended in bruises and stolen motorcycles.
Erik stayed quiet most of the time, not out of shyness but instinct. He preferred to listen. To absorb. But his eyes kept straying—again and again—toward the kitchen.
That’s where Celeste stood, hips leaned into the counter, one hand on a wine glass, the other gently stirring a sauce pot. Her back was to him, that plum dress still clinging to her like it had been sewn on wet. Her legs moved slow, casual, but he caught the moment her eyes flicked toward him in the reflection of the microwave door. She knew he was watching. She didn’t turn. Didn’t smile. But her movements slowed, like she was letting him look longer. Letting him ache.
Next to her, Zaya leaned over the counter with her bare arms folded under her chest, lip gloss catching the light. She was barefoot now, bangles jingling softly every time she moved, those high-waisted sweats riding higher on her hips and sinking between her cheeks. She licked chocolate icing from her thumb, smiling to herself like the joke was private and nasty.
Erik’s jaw flexed once. He brought his glass to his lips, slow.
“I’m glad you came, man,” Deuce said, still talking, “We really do it up around here. We start early. Christmas Eve gon’ be wild. Kwanzaa gon’ be real. And New Year’s… New Year’s gon’ be legendary.”
Marlon lifted his glass, “Ain’t no peace and quiet in this house, brother. Get ready.”
Erik nodded again. But he wasn’t really listening.
The kitchen light flickered slightly, just enough to make Celeste glance up. She stepped back from the stove and adjusted the strap of her dress with one finger, pulling it back into place along her shoulder. Her nails were a warm shade of burgundy, almond-shaped, glossy. When she reached for a dish towel, her dress slid slightly at the chest, revealing a hint of lace underneath. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t fix it. If anything, she paused for just a second longer than necessary.
Zaya said something. Celeste laughed. It was the kind of laugh that didn’t need to be loud to be heard. It hummed across the room like static on skin.
“Yo, Ma!” Deuce called out, “We gon’ play some cards after dinner?”
“Of course,” she called back, “As long as your boy knows how to lose with grace.”
Erik looked up, meeting her hazel gaze full on. Her smirk wasn’t sweet. It was slow. Knowing. She took a sip of her wine and didn’t break eye contact.
Behind her, Zaya bent forward, digging into a drawer too low for it to be accidental. The dip of her back, the way her ass rose perfectly with the stretch of her spine—it was deliberate. She glanced over her shoulder once, eyes sharp and shining, catching Erik looking just a second too long.
She grinned.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His dick throbbed behind the crotch of his joggers, thick and slow and hungry. He crossed one leg over the other just to keep it from showing, grinding his teeth gently before lifting his drink again.
Deuce kept talking. Marlon got up to grab more ice. Erik stayed seated, but his thoughts were already pulling him into dark places. The kitchen noise faded behind the thump of his pulse. He knew trouble when he saw it. He’d lived with trouble. Fucked trouble. Buried it in countries that didn’t exist on maps. But this? This was different. This trouble smiled back. Wore cinnamon and cocoa butter like perfume. Walked barefoot through the house and whispered temptation in the flick of a wrist.
Celeste returned to her prep, back turned. But Erik could still feel her watching.
And Zaya? She sat on the edge of the kitchen stool now, licking more icing from a spoon like it was an audition. She sucked it once, slow, then bit it with a soft pop, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
She didn’t look away.
And Erik didn’t either.
The kitchen smelled like Christmas. Not the kind in stores, but the one buried deep in memory. The scent of caramelized onions met slow-roasted meat. Clove and honey slid through the air, tangled with the earthiness of collards, the sweet sting of yams glazed in brown sugar, the faint trace of nutmeg hiding in something Celeste hadn’t even pulled from the oven yet. The oven light clicked off and on. Something bubbled. The warmth coated the walls, thickening the space until it felt less like a house and more like a womb of tradition.
Erik stood near the kitchen entryway, watching the women work.
Celeste had her cell pressed to her ear with one hand, the other drizzling sauce over a roast in slow, looping strokes. Her nails tapped lightly against the edge of the pan between pauses in her conversation. Her voice was low, casual, almost intimate, like whoever was on the other end knew not to interrupt her flow. She didn’t smile much when she spoke, but her mouth stayed soft. Her lashes were long. She listened more than she talked.
Zaya moved around her like a shadow dipped in gold. She’d changed again—nothing too loud. Just a fitted long-sleeve top that clung to her waist and made her breasts look like a problem no one was trying to solve. Her skirt hugged her like it had been painted on, the soft, stretchy fabric molding to the curve of her hips and the swell of her ass with every step. It sat high on her waist, cinched just enough to draw the eye downward, but moved like second skin every time she leaned or turned. Her locs were pinned up now, a few falling forward just to tease her face. She hummed to herself as she set the table, hips swaying lightly with the background music.
Erik could feel the heat rolling off both of them. Not from the oven. Not from the food. Something else. Something older.
Deuce walked up behind him and clapped his shoulder, “Come on, man. Time to eat. You sittin’ next to me. You gon’ need help defending your plate.”
They moved toward the dining room, where the lights had been dimmed just enough to make everything feel intimate. A garland centerpiece ran down the center of the table, dotted with candles and fake snow. The dishes were already set, heavy ceramic with gold trim. No paper plates here.
Zaya leaned over from behind him and placed the last fork, brushing his back lightly as she passed.
She caught his eye, lips parted just slightly, “Come sit,” she said, voice soft like a dare, “Before I change my mind and keep you all to myself.”
Deuce groaned, “Zaya. Chill.”
Celeste entered last, phone gone now, a pitcher of something ruby-red in her hand. Her dress clung tighter than before, like the steam from the oven had melted it further against her skin. She moved like a woman who didn’t rush for anyone. Her hazel eyes scanned the room once, then landed on Erik.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. But his jaw set tighter.
She poured the drink slowly, fruit and fresh herbs floating near the top.
“House hibiscus tea,” she said, “Infused with rum, orange peel, cinnamon stick, and a touch of lime. Made it this morning.”
Erik took the glass handed to him. It was cool in his palm, beaded with condensation. He sipped. Smooth. Sweet, with a sting just under the tongue.
“Yeah,” Deuce said with a grin, “Told you. Ma don’t play with the punch.”
Zaya slid into the seat beside Erik before he could move. Deuce dropped into the other side of him, already reaching for a roll. Marlon took the head of the table. Celeste sat at the foot, eyes flicking over the spread like a queen surveying her court.
They passed dishes in slow rotation. Platters of roasted chicken, glazed ham, baked macaroni thick with cheese and crisp on top. Bowls of greens, cornbread, stuffing that had to be made from scratch. Zaya leaned in close when she passed the bowl to Erik, brushing her hand against his, her thigh already warm against his under the table.
“Be careful,” she whispered, lips near his ear, “That mac might make you fall in love.”
Erik didn’t answer. Just looked at her, slow and deliberate, until she smiled like she’d won something.
Celeste sipped her drink, watching the exchange without a word.
“So Erik,” Marlon said, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin, “tell us somethin’ about you. Where’s home base these days?”
“Everywhere,” Erik said, “I move around a lot. Overseas. East Coast. Not much in one place.”
Celeste tilted her head, “No family nearby?”
He shook his head, “No one that’s still alive.”
Her gaze softened for a fraction of a second, “Well,” she said, “you got us now. For the holidays, anyway.”
Zaya leaned back in her chair, stretching slightly so her breast pressed into his arm before she adjusted again, “You can stay as long as you want,” she said sweetly, “Oakland’s better when it’s got something fine to look at.”
Deuce sighed, “This is why I don’t bring people home.”
Laughter rolled around the table, but Erik’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. He kept eating. The greens were sharp and seasoned perfectly. The cornbread melted on contact. The mac really might be dangerous. The flavors settled in his mouth like memory, grounding him in ways he hadn’t expected.
Zaya reached for the tea pitcher and poured him another glass before he could ask.
Celeste watched, her ringed fingers tapping slowly against her wine glass, “Zaya,” she said, voice calm but edged in steel, “don’t crowd the man.”
Zaya smirked, unbothered, “Just bein’ a good host.”
Celeste didn’t respond. Just sipped. Those hazel eyes never left Erik.
The music playing in the background shifted to Donny Hathaway’s “This Christmas.” The sound filled the room like smoke—slow, soulful, familiar. The candles flickered.
Zaya moved closer, her knee now pressing into Erik’s leg. Her perfume was warm, sweet, with the faintest note of vanilla musk. Her foot slid lightly along the floor, just close enough that if she wanted to, she could let it touch his.
And Erik didn’t move.
Erik chewed slow, letting the layers of flavor melt across his tongue while his body tried to ignore the two women seated across from each other like two sides of a flame. Zaya on his left, Celeste down the table at his diagonal. Both beautiful. Both watching. But not in the same way.
Zaya was the storm. She flirted loud, teased with her eyes, bumped her knee against his under the table every few bites. She was playful with it. Shameless. Young enough to play games but grown enough to mean every one.
Celeste was something else entirely. She didn’t do much. Didn’t need to. She touched her glass a certain way. Tilted her head when she spoke. Her voice slipped under the conversation and stayed there, like the last note of a song you didn’t want to end. When Erik looked at her, she didn’t look away.
“Aight,” Deuce said between bites, nodding toward his mother, “Go on. Tell my boy something about you. So he don’t think I was raised by a robot.”
Celeste dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin. Her smile was soft, but the gleam in her eyes said she wasn’t about to give anything she didn’t want to.
“Well,” she began, fingers resting delicately on her wine glass, “I’m from Los Angeles originally. Born in ’72. Moved up to the Bay in my early twenties. Used to dance professionally. Toured for a while. Did some choreography work, taught a little. Then had this one—” she motioned to Deuce—“and everything changed.”
Deuce chuckled, mouth full, “She means she tapped out of the spotlight and leveled up on the mom game.”
Celeste gave him a look that was half warning, half affection, “What I got was intentional.” Her gaze flicked back to Erik, “I run a wellness studio now. Yoga. Movement therapy. Feminine energy workshops. Candlework. All the things women don’t get enough of.”
Erik’s eyes moved slowly over her face as she spoke. That voice of hers pulled at the space between each word, dripped heat onto every syllable. She didn’t rush. She let him sit in it. Let him picture her on a hardwood floor, body curved and slow, breathing deep in a room full of incense and mirrors.
“I like anything that slows the body down,” she added, “Makes you feel where the tension lives.”
Zaya sucked her teeth softly and turned to Erik with a grin, “Don’t let her fool you. She be in there with her incense and her moans like she casting spells.”
Celeste didn’t react. Just sipped her wine and smiled, legs crossing slowly under the table.
“And what about you, Zaya?” Erik asked, voice low.
She perked up, “Oh, I’m the fun one.”
“That’s not a job,” Marlon said with a short laugh.
Zaya ignored him, “I do content and branding stuff. Photography. Style consulting. I help women feel good in their skin. Sexy. Present. Confident. I also host these private group sessions for Black women—kinda like…sensual development workshops. We talk body, energy, movement. Self-pleasure. How to ride better. How to talk dirty. You know, all the grown stuff schools should’ve taught us.”
Erik raised his brow slightly. Zaya winked. Deuce groaned and dropped his fork.
“Nah,” he muttered, “Why is this happening?”
“You asked,” Celeste said, lifting a shoulder, “We just answering.”
Deuce pushed back from the table slightly and stood, “I’m about to grab Tasha. She just pulled up out front.”
He disappeared toward the front door, the cold air drifting in from the hallway. Erik heard the jingle of keys, then the warm sound of Deuce’s voice outside as he greeted his girlfriend.
Zaya slid a little closer in his absence, “So,” she said, voice lower now. “You think you can handle this family?”
“I’ve been in warzones,” Erik replied calmly.
She laughed, that husky, spoiled little sound that settled right in his lap, “Mm. That’s real cute. But warzones don’t have women like me.”
Across the table, Celeste didn’t speak. But her gaze remained steady. She took another sip of wine and let her eyes linger on the way Erik leaned back in his chair, how his jaw clenched slightly as Zaya’s arm brushed his.
The front door shut. Footsteps padded down the hallway. Then a voice rang out, bright and honey-coated.
“I’m here!” Tasha called, sliding into view in a deep burgundy trench and matching lip gloss.
She was petite, stylish, with tight curls and a body that moved with casual elegance. She kissed Deuce on the cheek, then looked around the table with a polite smile.
“Hey y’all. I was over at my mama’s helping with her last-minute Christmas stuff. Had to sneak away before she started assigning wrapping paper by zodiac sign.”
Everyone laughed. Celeste motioned toward the sink.
“Go wash up, baby. Plate’s waiting.”
Tasha nodded and stepped into the kitchen, the sound of running water beginning behind her.
Zaya leaned in, whispering again, “Don’t worry. She’s sweet. Real locked in. But she not the one you gotta worry about.”
Erik glanced at her, “And who’s that?”
Zaya smiled wider, lifting her glass to sip, “That’s for you to figure out.”
The music shifted in the background, the bassline thickening, the croon of a soulful voice sliding over the clink of silverware and low talk. Erik reached for the pitcher and poured more of the red drink into his glass, slow and deliberate, letting the herbs and fruit swirl. The candle nearest to Zaya burned low, the flame flickering just enough to catch the shine along her collarbone.
Celeste watched it all. Said nothing. But the way her ring finger traced the rim of her glass told him everything he needed to know. She didn’t mind Zaya playing. Not at all. Because she already knew how this game ended.
The table had been cleared, plates stacked high by Zaya while Tasha wrapped the leftovers with foil and flicked away a few crumbs with a kitchen towel. The warmth of the meal still lingered in the walls. The air was thick with roasted spice and the last traces of melted butter, wine, and citrus peel. Erik leaned back in his chair for a moment before standing, the buzz from the rum-soaked hibiscus tea crawling through his blood like slow syrup.
In the next room, Marlon had kicked off his shoes and claimed the recliner, cigar tucked between his fingers, football humming low on the screen. The click of his lighter broke the quiet for a beat, followed by the faint crackle of tobacco. The scent drifted through the open floor plan, mixing with the fading remnants of dinner and setting the perfect mood for the lull that always came after a full table.
Deuce was leaning against the entryway near the tree, one arm draped around Tasha’s shoulders, the other gesturing lazily as he ran down some story about their second deployment. Tasha smiled with polite curiosity, but her eyes kept moving, sharp and watchful. She was the kind of woman who took notes with her expressions.
Eventually, she looked up at Erik.
“I’m Tasha, by the way,” she said, stepping away from Deuce’s grip and holding out her hand, “I don’t think we were officially introduced.”
Erik took it, grip firm but gentle, “Erik.”
She tilted her head slightly, “You the one been making my man look soft in the stories, huh?”
Deuce groaned, “Don’t gas him.”
Tasha smiled, wide and playful, “Too late.”
Before Erik could reply, Zaya appeared with a deck of cards in one hand and two shot glasses in the other.
“Spades time!” she said, sliding into the room like she’d been summoned by the music, “And y’all better come correct. I don’t carry no weak partners.”
She handed a shot to Tasha, who accepted it without hesitation. Deuce took the other from her hand and sipped. Zaya looked at Erik with expectant eyes, but he held up his tea glass instead, the fruit still bobbing near the bottom. He was warm already. No need to chase the buzz.
He stood, stretching slightly, then made his way into the kitchen. The lights in there had been dimmed just a touch, soft enough to relax the room without dulling it completely. The sink was empty now. The dishes washed and drying on a towel beside the sink. The oven door was cracked, cooling. And Celeste stood with her back to him, slowly wiping down a porcelain platter with a thick cloth.
Her dress had shifted slightly—one shoulder dropped lower than earlier, showing off the dip between her neck and collarbone. She was barefoot now, her silver anklet catching the light with every move she made. Her hips swayed gently with the rhythm of a Christmas song playing low from a speaker on the counter. Something soulful and old. The kind of song that touched your skin before it hit your ears.
He stepped into the room without saying a word.
Celeste didn’t turn around.
“You here to help?” she asked, without turning, “or to be nosy in my kitchen?”
Erik’s mouth curved slightly, “Could be both,” he said.
She chuckled under her breath. The sound was warm, like steam from a cup of strong tea, “Smart man,” she said, “You any good with fine china?”
“I can follow directions.”
She handed him a stack of plates—delicate, cream-colored, rimmed in gold, “Cabinet above the fridge,” she said. “Top shelf. Don’t chip nothing.”
He took the plates from her and moved slowly across the kitchen. Every movement was deliberate. He could feel her eyes on him now, though she hadn’t turned. As he reached up, he caught her reflection in the glass of the microwave door. She was wiping a second platter, slow, careful. Focused. Not flirty. Not obvious. But there was a calm in her posture that said she was very aware of every breath he took.
He slid the plates into place.
“You do this often?” he asked, returning to her side.
“Entertain? Around the holidays, yes.”
“No,” he said, reaching for the next platter she handed him, “Make men feel like they’re walking into a trap.”
She looked at him then. Just a glance. No smile. No twitch of her mouth.
“That’s not me,” she said, “Traps require effort. If you walk in, it’s because you want to.”
He nodded once, “Noted.”
She passed him another dish, this one smaller. A serving bowl. Her fingers brushed his—warm, dry, gentle.
“Truth is,” she said, “I like hosting. I like feeding people. It’s the only time I get to slow things down and watch people actually live in their bodies.”
“You teach that too?”
Celeste finally looked at him full on. Her hazel eyes held something steady, something that didn’t pull back or push forward. Just lingered.
“I don’t teach anything I don’t practice.”
He placed the last dish up in the cabinet and closed the door gently.
They stood there for a moment, the soft music curling through the kitchen like mist. Outside the room, Zaya laughed loud at something Deuce said. Marlon’s voice rumbled low from the recliner. The TV flickered with motion and color. The whole house vibrated with life.
But in that kitchen, it was just the two of them.
Celeste picked up her wine glass and took a slow sip, lips parting just enough to leave a faint smudge of gloss on the rim, “You good with cards?” she asked, her voice returning to something lighter.
“I don’t lose.”
She raised one brow, “That sounds like a challenge.”
He stepped back, not far, but enough to put space between them that still felt close, “I don’t challenge women I just met,” he said. “Not unless I know they’ll push back.”
Celeste smiled, finally, “You’ll learn quick,” she said, “There ain’t a woman in this house who won’t.”
Voices got louder. The music shifted to something with more bass—classics dipped in funk and soul. The heat kicked in again, hissing through the vents, and the living room swelled with warmth, laughter, and the smell of tobacco and citrus peel. Marlon sank deeper into the recliner with his cigar, his glass now filled with something darker than tea. The football game played quietly in the background, just enough to glance at during shuffle breaks. Deuce and Tasha sat side by side on the couch, her legs tucked under his thigh, sipping on a shared drink with a cherry at the bottom. Zaya, of course, was already at the card table, shuffling with one hand and licking a smudge of gloss off her thumb.
Erik stood with his arms crossed, observing. The haze of the hibiscus still clung to him—warm, slow, just enough to dull the sharpness in his mind. He didn’t mind it. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about anything outside these walls.
“Aight!,” Zaya said, slapping the deck on the table, “Who ready to get they ass beat?”
“Oh, we talkin’ spicy already?” Marlon called from the recliner, “Say less. Lemme go on and show y’all why they call me Big Slick.”
Celeste stepped in from the hallway, glass in hand, her curls wild and full around her face. She looked relaxed now, wrapped in a loose knit sweater that hung off one shoulder, exposing her golden brown skin and a long, elegant collarbone that made Erik’s mouth feel too dry. She didn’t look at him as she walked past—but he felt her anyway.
Marlon took the seat across from Zaya, “I want her on my team,” he said, nodding toward Celeste, “She talk the most shit, but she got the best strategy.”
Zaya rolled her eyes, “Of course you want Mama on your team. Y’all always teamin’ up.”
“’Cause we win,” Celeste said, sipping slow, “Simple math.”
Deuce stood and looked around the table, “Alright, we runnin’ two on two. Me and Tasha.”
Tasha shook her head, “Uh uh. I came to watch and drink. I ain’t tryna get yelled at for reneging.”
Zaya turned in her chair to face Erik fully.
“Well then. That means you’re up, soldier.”
Erik smirked slightly and stepped forward, “I’ll play.”
“You any good?” Marlon asked, cutting the cards clean.
Erik pulled out the chair beside Zaya and sat down without hesitation, “I don’t talk unless I got the cards to back it.”
Zaya grinned slow, eyes gleaming, “Mmm. That’s what I like to hear.”
Celeste moved to the kitchen island, standing just close enough to watch but far enough to stay out of the fray. She leaned her hip against the counter, sipping her drink, eyes half-lidded with something unreadable.
Marlon and Celeste on one side. Zaya and Erik on the other.
The cards hit the table with practiced ease. The first hand was all warm-up—Zaya grinning, Erik watching, letting his partner lead while he read the room. But by the second hand, the gloves were off.
“Don’t underbid, old man,” Zaya teased, “You know you too damn competitive!”
“Don’t overbid, little girl,” Marlon shot back, “You ain’t played me yet!”
Erik sat silent, steady, his eyes sweeping over his hand, then flicking briefly to Celeste. She was still standing at the edge of the room, sipping, saying nothing. Just watching. And every time he caught her gaze, she didn’t look away.
“You got that?” Zaya asked him softly.
He nodded once, “Run it.”
She threw a card down with a clap, “Cut that shit.”
Marlon groaned, “Aw, hell.”
The game rolled on. Cards flew. Shots were poured. Tasha laughed so hard at one point she dropped her drink, and Deuce rushed to grab a towel while teasing her. Celeste finally moved closer to refill drinks, her fingers grazing Erik’s shoulder as she leaned over to grab his glass. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t linger. But her scent—vanilla, spice, and something darker—coated the air like smoke.
Erik didn’t flinch. But he noticed.
Zaya leaned in and whispered, “You good, handsome?”
“I’m straight.”
“’Cause you keep starin’ like you about to fold.”
He glanced at her, “I don’t fold.”
“Mm,” she hummed, “We gon’ see.”
The final hand was loud—everybody on edge, drinks half-gone, cheeks flushed, cards slapping with more force. Marlon talked trash through a cloud of cigar smoke. Zaya stood halfway out of her chair at one point, chest bouncing under her shirt, laughing like a woman who knew she just pulled the right card at the right time.
When the game ended, Celeste raised her hand slightly. “Game.”
Marlon stood with his arms wide, “Told y’all. Big Slick don’t lose.”
Zaya groaned, tossing her cards across the table, “I hate y’all. Y’all be cheatin’ with eye contact.”
Celeste only smiled and gathered the cards.
Erik leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded, that smooth buzz still thrumming through his chest. He hadn’t won—but he’d learned everything he needed to.
About the way Zaya moved when she was excited. About how Marlon got louder the closer he was to losing. About how Celeste didn’t gloat, didn’t boast—she just played and let the win speak for itself.
He could feel her near again, hear the quiet scuff of her heel against the carpet as she passed behind his chair. She didn’t say anything. Just brushed close enough for her sweater to graze his arm, her body heat lingering in the air after she walked away.
Erik felt it. The hunger. The challenge. The quiet push-and-pull that had already begun. And he wasn’t backing down from any of it.
The house had dimmed to a hush. The laughter faded into low murmurs from upstairs, the TV turned off with a quiet click, and the scent of roasted meat and cinnamon had settled into the bones of the walls like memory. Even the music had cut out. Only the soft creaks of an old house settling remained, paired with the hum of the heating vent.
Erik made his way down the basement steps, feet heavy with the kind of tired that came after good food, strong drink, and too much attention. The guest room was cool but clean. A folded blanket lay at the foot of the bed. His duffle sat in the corner with a quiet yet heavy presence. He unzipped it, pulled out his things, and unpacked slowly. Not because he needed to—but because it gave him something to do. A way to ease the weight in his chest that had crept in the moment the last card hit the table and Celeste caught his eye across the room without smiling.
He peeled off his shirt and dropped it to the side.
His body was a map of a life few could imagine.
Hard, wide chest cut deep with muscle. Shoulders that flexed even when he wasn’t trying. The thick curve of his biceps told a story of war, discipline, and punishment that hadn’t yet caught up to him. His abdomen—carved. The kind of cut that couldn’t be faked or Photoshopped. A soft groove ran from the center of his chest down to his navel, where a trail of faint hair disappeared into the waistband of his sweats.
Scars ran across him like quiet history. One stretched just below his ribs. Another curled near his right shoulder. A thinner one marked the inside of his forearm, clean and purposeful like it came from a blade. Each one lived there without shame, just part of the frame.
And then there were his locs.
They were tight, deliberate locs, cut with precision, tapered clean along the sides where the fade sharpened the angles of his face. The top held just enough length to fall forward when he leaned or lowered his head, a few locs slipping loose across his forehead like punctuation marks, never messy, never accidental. They didn’t swing or sway freely, they shifted with him, responding to movement the way muscle did beneath skin. Each loc was thick at the root, coiled with purpose, some pressed close together, others separating slightly from heat and wear, creating texture instead of softness. When he exhaled, they barely moved. When he thought too long, his head would tilt, and they would follow, framing his eyes and emphasizing the sharp line of his cheekbones. It was a style that looked restrained until you paid attention, then you realized it was holding something back.
His skin—deep bronze, kissed by the kind of sunlight that left richness behind. Smooth across his chest, glowing faintly with the warm gleam of leftover lotion and clean heat from the upstairs air. It made the ink on his shoulder stand out sharper. Made his gold canines flash brighter when he breathed out a slow laugh to himself.
That’s when the knock came.
Soft.
He moved toward the door, dragging a hand over his face. His body was wide enough to fill the whole frame when he opened it.
And there she stood.
Celeste.
No sweater now. A deep wine-colored robe, silk or satin, cinched loose at the waist. The collar dipped low, framing the smooth glow of her chest. Her curls had been pulled into a loose, low bun, a few strands brushing her cheek and the curve of her throat. In her hands: a folded set of soft, pale gray blankets.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice quiet, “Didn’t mean to bother you. Just thought you might want extra covers. It gets colder down here at night.”
Erik said nothing at first.
Just looked at her.
Her eyes moved briefly over his chest—once, quick, before they lifted back to his face like it didn’t rattle her at all. But he saw the shift. The pause in her breath. The way her knuckles tensed just slightly around the edge of the blankets. He took them from her slowly, his fingers grazing hers, warm against warm.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice rough from quiet.
She nodded once. A little too fast.
He watched her start to turn, her shoulder beginning to pivot away.
But something in him wouldn’t let her leave just yet.
“Wait,” he said, hand still gripping the blankets.
She paused. Looked back over her shoulder.
“I appreciate you,” he said, “For real. For the meal. For letting me in your house. For making it feel like a house.”
Celeste looked at him. Not the way the others had looked. Not with hunger. Not with flirtation.
But with something deeper.
“You’re welcome,” she said, and her voice had lost its playfulness now. It was lower. Slower. She shifted her weight to one hip, hand still resting lightly on the doorframe, “Tomorrow’s a long day,” she added, “Shopping. Prep. Little traditions we don’t miss. Don’t be surprised if Zaya wakes you up with glitter and bullshit.”
Erik cracked a soft grin, “I’ll be ready.”
Celeste gave a small smile, the kind that didn’t stretch across her face but still hit like a warm wave. She stepped back, feet silent against the floor.
“Sleep well, Erik.”
And then she turned.
The robe swayed around her thighs as she turned, catching just enough of the soft hallway light to reveal the slow, hypnotic roll of her ass beneath the satin. Her walk wasn’t exaggerated—just natural. Feminine. Smooth. Every step deliberate and unhurried, like she had nothing to prove and already knew what she carried. She didn’t look back.
But he did.
He leaned against the doorframe, watching her disappear down the hall like she wasn’t leaving pieces of him behind.
He dragged a hand over his mouth.
Let out a breath through his nose.
Then shook his head once.
“…Gahdamn.”
The basement was still dark when the door creaked open.
Soft. No rush. No knocking.
The quiet drag of fuzzy socks whispered across the floor as Zaya crept down the steps, a slight sway in her hips and a phone in her hand glowing with the low light of her Christmas playlist. The bassline thumped gently at her side, barely loud enough to register.
Just enough to soundtrack her little mission.
But the second she reached the doorway, her thumb tapped the screen. The music stopped. Silence slipped in behind her like a partner in crime.
Then she stepped inside.
She eased in slow, hips swaying in a bodycon ribbed mini short that clung like second skin. Her tank top was snug, braless beneath it, the hem just barely brushing the top of her waistband. She smelled like fresh lotion, vanilla shea butter, and that perfume she only wore on days she wanted to be noticed. Something sweet with a twist—like sugarcane kissed with amber.
In her hand was a coffee mug—red, with big block letters that read:
Silent Night My Ass.
She set it down on the end table with care, then turned her attention to the lump in the bed.
Erik.
He was still asleep. One arm thrown over his face, chest bare, the blanket draped low enough to reveal the deep curve of his waist and that shadowed ridge of V-line muscle that made women second-guess their morals. The room was cool, but his skin glowed warm in the dim light from the hallway—brown, smooth, the tone of wet sand right before it bakes dry. His chest rose slow, steady. Broad. Every inch of him hard-earned and war-built.
And those locs—short, thick, tightly tapered on the sides, the top styled with control. A few of them had shifted in sleep, dangling forward across his brow, one brushing the edge of his cheek. They didn’t flop or hang. They framed. They commanded.
Zaya bit her lip. Just a little.
She whispered to herself, “Damn, you pretty.”
Then her eyes flicked to his bag.
The large black duffel sat by the foot of the bed. Wide open. Unzipped halfway like it had been tossed down and forgotten. She crept closer, curiosity overriding common sense, and pulled the flap back a few inches more. Inside, folded clothes. A pack of rolled socks. A pair of gloves. Cologne. A sleek black towel. But beneath all that—
A chrome pistol.
Sitting right there like it had a name.
Her heart skipped. She didn’t touch it. But the glint alone made her still.
And that’s when it happened.
His hand wrapped around her wrist.
Fast.
She gasped—a sharp little inhale that never left her mouth—because the next second he was up. Standing. Tall. Wide. Unbothered. Bare-chested. One arm flexed around her waist now, dragging her upright like she weighed nothing.
“Don’t know how to knock?” His voice was low. Not yelling. But sharp enough to bite.
Zaya froze, her back pressed against his bare chest now, his arm across her middle, firm and unshaking.
“I—” She tried, turning her head slightly.
He leaned in, face close, voice a little lower now. Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted. Gold catching the light in his canines, “And you goin’ through my shit?”
She swallowed. “I wasn’t—I just saw it open and—”
“You just what?” His voice didn’t change. Just coasted low, like heat behind a closed door.
Zaya stayed still, her breath shallow, her heart knocking hard against her ribs.
Erik glanced at the open door, then let her go. Quick. Controlled.
Zaya stumbled one step forward, brushing her top down as she turned to face him.
He was still shirtless. Sweatpants hanging low. Abs carved like marble. One hand dragging down his jawline as he stared at her like she’d set something off he hadn’t planned on dealing with this early.
“I came to wake you up,” she said finally, cheeks hot but her tone unbothered, “It’s Christmas Eve. We got shit to do. Everybody else is up.”
“You break into everybody’s room when they sleep?”
She smiled, “Just yours.”
He stared.
Her smile grew, “You’re not a morning person, huh?”
“I’m not a people-in-my-room person,” he replied, voice dry.
Zaya shrugged and backed toward the stairs, her fuzzy socks sliding a little as she moved.
“Well, you’re up now,” she said, eyes dragging over him one more time before she turned, “Coffee’s hot. Don’t waste it.”
And with that, she slipped up the steps.
Erik ran a hand down his face, dragging a sigh from the back of his throat. He looked down at the coffee mug still sitting on the table. The words stared back at him in bold red font.
Silent Night My Ass.
Erik dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. Shook his head once, like that might be enough to clear her scent, her voice, her shape, out of his head.
It wasn’t.
He looked down and there it was.
Hard. Thick. Pressed against the inside of his sweats.
He was still standing there with morning wood, half-lidded and wide as hell, shirtless, with his dick heavy from sleep and the kind of contact he hadn’t planned for. That girl had crept into his space, poked through his shit, and he’d yoked her up while fully bricked.
And she felt that. No question. The way he pulled her in? That wasn’t a brush. That was full contact. Waist to chest. His hand around her middle, her ass flush against him, soft and warm and right there. He could still feel the curve of her pressed into his palm. Could still smell the way her skin melted with her lotion—sweet, buttery, soft with some kind of warm perfume tucked beneath it. Not fruity. Not floral. Deep and feminine. It clung to his bare chest like she’d marked him with it.
But it was her smile. Her eyes.
That look she gave him when she turned to face him—eyes bright, skin glowing warm from the rush, lips parted like she was holding in more than she said.
Like she didn’t scare easy.
Like she liked it.
Like she came looking for danger.
took a long pull from the mug she’d left on the table. The red ceramic was still warm, the scent rising in thick, sweet steam that cut through the sleep hanging off him. Coffee strong, laced with something nutty. Maybe hazelnut. Maybe vanilla. He didn’t care. He drank it, slow at first, then deeper, letting the heat do its job.
He moved around the room in that quiet way he always had, never in a rush, always measuring time like he owned it. The house creaked softly above him. Voices in the distance. Nothing urgent. Nothing he had to respond to.
After finishing the coffee, he rinsed out the mug, set it back on the nightstand, and reached for his things, making his way back to the bathroom. He washed his face, letting the cold water snap the rest of the sleep from his eyes, then brushed his teeth, slow and methodical, the same way he did everything else. No rush. No wasted motion. Once he’d dried off, he stepped back into the room and reached for his things.
From the duffel, he pulled out a red hoodie—clean, rich in color, worn just enough to feel lived-in. It slid over his shoulders easy, the fabric clinging for a second before falling into place. He paired it with grey joggers, soft cotton with a heavy hang, cuffed at the ankle to sit right above his sneakers. He laced up a fresh pair of Jordan 1s, red and black with a white toe box, the kind of detail that mattered to a man who didn’t do flashy, but still showed up with intent.
He stood in front of the mirror, eyes low, jaw tight from sleep, then reached for the small spray bottle tucked in the side pocket of his bag. Lifted it to his scalp, parted his locs gently, and gave them a quick mist. The leave-in moisturizer coated each strand, rich with a subtle sheen. He shaped them with his hands, coaxing the thick tapered coils back into structure. Some laid forward. Some curved toward the crown. They didn’t need to be perfect—just precise. His look was always that: measured, clean, effortless only on the surface.
He took a final look around the room. Bag half-zipped. Blanket still half-folded. The air still smelled faintly of her perfume.
Then he headed upstairs, mug in hand. The second he stepped onto the main floor, the heat hit him first. Then the noise. The kitchen was alive and bright with overhead light, thick with the smell of butter, eggs, pepper, and grease. Celeste was already at the stove, robe tied tight, hair wrapped in a patterned scarf. Her back was to the room, one hand on a skillet of grits, the other reaching for a plate of crisp bacon on the counter behind her. She moved with purpose, like her body already knew where everything was without needing to look.
Tasha stood at the other end of the kitchen cracking eggs into a glass bowl, her curls tied up in a pineapple puff. She wore a silky pajama short set, pale gold with black piping, the top unbuttoned just enough to show a peek of cleavage when she leaned forward. The fabric clung softly to her hips as she danced in place, humming along to the music playing low from the speaker on the window sill—something jazzy, warm, and old-school. You could almost smell the vinyl through it.
In the living room, Marlon was kicked back in his recliner, coffee mug in one hand, remote in the other, watching a recent college football bowl game like it was a championship replay. He wasn’t saying much, just tracking plays and shaking his head every time the defense missed a tackle. His hoodie was zipped halfway, pajama pants tucked into low-top sneakers like he might step out later—but probably wouldn’t. Every now and then, he tipped his mug just a little longer than necessary. The faint scent of cognac floated up from the cup like steam, subtle enough to pass if you weren’t paying attention.
“Zaya gave me the wrong playlist,” Deuce mumbled as he shuffled through the hallway in pajama pants and a hoodie with no strings. His eyes were barely open, “who the hell blasts Sexxy Red at 8:30 in the morning?”
No one answered him.
Erik stepped fully into the kitchen now. No fanfare. No announcement. Just the quiet clink of his mug setting down on the counter and the soft press of his sneakers on the tile.
Celeste turned, just slightly, and handed him a plate.
No words. No extra look.
Just eggs, bacon, grits, and a biscuit, already arranged.
He took it without question.
There was a clink of mugs at the table as someone toasted something half-understood. The scent of maple syrup filled the room next, floating in from a tray someone had just pulled from the oven. The buzz of the morning settled into Erik’s chest like a hum. Nobody was still. Everyone moved. Voices overlapped. Bacon popped in the pan.
It felt like something old. Something solid.
Family.
And for now, at least, he was in it.
Late morning had drifted into early afternoon. The smell of breakfast still lingered in the air, mixing with candle wax and the faint tang of Pine-Sol. The dishwasher hummed. Someone’s playlist looped softly from a speaker in the corner, switching between Donny Hathaway and H.E.R. Upstairs, wrapping paper crinkled. Tape snapped. Voices moved in and out of rooms with no real urgency, just the rhythm of family during the holidays.
In the kitchen, Celeste stood near the counter with a notepad in one hand and a pen tapping lightly against her chin.
“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, “Forgot foil. We need more cream. Batteries. Pie crusts too.”
Deuce was on the floor near the back door, fiddling with a box of tangled string lights.
“Ma, you want me to run out?”
Before she could answer, Marlon looked up from where he was sipping coffee with his feet kicked up.
“Nah, I need you to help me get that patio set up for the fry later. Got some shit in the garage I can’t lift by myself.”
Celeste looked at Deuce, then turned to glance across the room.
Her eyes landed on Erik, who stood near the kitchen island refilling his water.
She didn’t ask him. Not directly.
Just, “You mind riding with me?”
Erik wiped his hand on a towel and nodded once, “Yeah. I got you.”
The ride started quiet.
Celeste drove a black SUV, clean, simple, and surprisingly fast. She didn’t ride slow. Didn’t hesitate at lights or drift between lanes. She drove like she did everything else—with confidence and calm control. One hand rested casually on the wheel, the other adjusting the air. Her hair was still wrapped from earlier, but she’d changed into black leggings, a soft tunic sweater, and slides. No makeup. Just skin, smooth and golden in the light filtering through the windshield.
Erik sat passenger, hoodie up, one hand on his thigh, watching the city move around them.
Oakland was alive. Sidewalks packed. Horns blaring. Aunties in fur-lined coats moving fast with bags in hand. Kids in matching pajamas trailing behind cousins. Parking lots overflowing. Street vendors hollering about handmade wreaths and spiced nuts.
The chaos hit full force when they pulled up to the local grocery store. Cars double parked. Lines curled past the door. Somebody was already arguing near the carts.
Celeste sighed through her nose, “Let’s make this quick.”
Inside, it was packed. Carts bumping into each other. Shelves half-empty. People talking loud, moving faster. Celeste moved through it like she’d done it a hundred times—which she had. Every few steps, someone greeted her.
“Hey Celeste, baby! Y’all frying fish again this year?”
“Mmhmm. Gotta keep tradition alive,” she replied without stopping.
“Your son still in the service?”
“Back home this week.”
“You look good, girl.”
“Always do.”
She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t perform. But people parted when she walked. Moved aside. Smiled wider.
Erik trailed behind her with the cart, bent forward, arms crossed over the handle, observing everything. He didn’t speak much. Just kept pace beside her.
When she reached for a can on the top shelf, he was already there, grabbing it with an easy stretch and handing it off without a word. When her hands were full, he pushed the cart. When her brow furrowed at a crowded endcap, he cleared the way with the calm presence of a man who didn’t need to raise his voice to make space.
He watched her move—not like a spectacle, but like a rhythm. Efficient. Fluid. She reached for what she needed without overthinking. Checked dates on labels with a quiet diligence. Wrote mental lists on the fly and didn’t miss a beat.
People nodded to her in passing—cashiers, elders, a young girl with a baby in the cart—none of them made a scene. They just acknowledged her like she mattered, like she’d always mattered. She didn’t command attention. She just carried it. With that same quiet authority Erik recognized in himself. No flash. Just weight.
He loaded the car while she double-checked the receipt. Didn’t wait to be asked. Just opened the trunk, packed the bags in a way that kept the eggs from cracking and the greens from getting crushed. It wasn’t for show. It was muscle memory. Consideration without performance.
She caught him watching her as she buckled her seatbelt, and for a second, her expression softened—just enough to say she noticed, too. She adjusted the music to a quiet instrumental station. Something with keys and low bass. He sat back, one hand now resting along the inside of the passenger door, the other rubbing a thumb along his knee.
“You must be Superwoman,” Erik said, “In and out that market like you said. Barely broke a sweat.”
Celeste smirked, eyes on the road as she drove, “You keep that up, I might start bringing you every year.”
“Long as I don’t have to cook,” he said—then paused, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Actually…I do like to cook. When I get the time.”
Celeste glanced at him, intrigued, “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s one of the few things that slows me down. Feels good to feed people.”
She nodded, a knowing smile forming as she turned back to the road, “Careful. Say something like that around here, you might end up in somebody’s kitchen with an apron on.”
Erik smirked, settling deeper into the passenger seat, “Ain’t a threat if I know what I’m doing.” Then, after a beat—eyes on the windshield, voice low but edged with dry humor, “Besides…long as the food’s good and the company don’t talk too much, I don’t mind pulling up my sleeves.”
Celeste let out a real laugh this time. Low and rich. The kind that warmed the air between them.
The vibe in the car shifted—lighter, looser, a quiet relief from the rush of holiday prep and to-do lists. Something easy passed between them in that silence that followed, wrapped in sunlight, R&B on low, and the scent of cinnamon gum she’d just popped in her mouth.
“My family talk a lot, Erik,” she warned, still smiling, “Wait until the others show up tonight.”
He gave her a look, “I’ll manage.”
“You say that now…”
Another laugh. This time they both did.
And for a few seconds, the world outside the car felt far away.
They made two more stops on the way back.
First: a Black-owned bakery tucked on the corner of a street with cracked pavement and painted bricks. Celeste went in while Erik waited outside with the bags, nodding to a few men on the corner who were talking over a box of warm patties and the latest neighborhood gossip.
When she came back out, her arms were full—sweet potato pie, a caramel cake, and a box of lemon bars stacked neatly in her grasp. The scent hit before she even reached the car, sugar and spice clinging to the bakery box lids.
Erik was already stepping out.
Didn’t hesitate. Just met her halfway on the sidewalk like a gentleman, hands out.
“Lemme get that,” he said, voice low as he took the pies from her—careful, steady, like he knew how to handle fragile things.
Celeste smiled, letting him. “You really trying to make me brag about you when we get back, huh?”
He only smirked, then opened her car door for her without saying a word.
She slid into the seat, and for a second, paused—watching him as he closed the door gently, walked around to his side, and loaded the desserts into the back like they were gold.
Not just helpful.
Attentive.
The kind that paid attention without making it a performance.
And when he got back in beside her, the car filled again with that light hush—R&B still playing, bakery boxes rustling softly in the backseat, and that feeling like the day had just turned a corner.
Then the liquor store.
It was tighter inside. Warm. Smelled like Black & Milds, pine cleaner, and old bills.
Celeste moved through with purpose, grabbing dark rum, whiskey, multiple bottles of wine, and a bottle of gin she didn’t bother to explain.
At the register, she reached into her purse.
Erik stopped her.
“I got it.”
She looked at him, one brow raised, “This is half the bar.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said, “Y’all let me in your house. Fed me. I ain’t showed up empty-handed in years.”
She studied him for a beat, then nodded once and stepped back.
He paid in cash. Crisp bills. Quick count. No hesitation.
They left the store and headed back to the SUV. Bags in hand. The sun was already beginning to drift a little lower in the sky, casting long gold streaks across the pavement. The air smelled like barbecue smoke and pine trees. Somewhere nearby, kids were yelling over a basketball game and Mariah Carey’s voice drifted from someone’s Bluetooth speaker.
Inside the SUV, Celeste buckled her seatbelt and started the engine.
“Appreciate you riding,” she said quietly.
“No problem.”
And that was it.
Back at the house, the living room had been taken over. Wrapping paper was everywhere—candy cane stripes, glittery snowflakes, rich velvet green. Zaya sat cross-legged on the floor like a woman on a mission, scissors between her teeth, tape nowhere to be found, humming along to a sexy R&B Christmas playlist bumping softly through the speakers.
“Who got tape?!” she hollered for the third time.
Tasha was curled on the nearby loveseat, helping with bows and handwritten tags, pausing every so often to sip from her cocoa and roll her eyes.
“You mean the same roll of tape you just had in your lap?” Tasha replied, tossing it at her.
Zaya caught it midair, grinning, “Y’all gon’ miss me when I’m gone!”
Footsteps sounded near the entryway—Erik walking in, grocery bags in both hands, the cold still clinging to his hoodie.
Zaya looked up and lit up like a tree, “Finally! Santa’s back!”
She scrambled up to peek inside one of the bags, “Ooooh y’all got the caramel cake! Bless you.”
Tasha laughed, “Girl, let him breathe.”
Before Erik could fully respond, a voice called from the back of the house.
“Yo E!” Deuce.
He appeared in the hallway, already holding a bag of charcoal and gesturing with his chin. “Come help me set up the patio. We gotta rinse out the cooler, set up the burners, and get the fish fry table ready before Uncle Nate show up with his loud ass.”
Erik sighed with mock dread, but handed off the liquor bag to Zaya and followed without a word.
As he passed through the living room, Zaya yelled, “Don’t forget! no apron, no plate!”
Tasha snorted, “That sound made-up as hell.”
The back patio had been winter-proofed weeks ago. It wasn’t fancy but it was done right.
Deuce had built the structure himself: clear vinyl tarp walls, strung with soft white lights and red-green bulb strands. Heat lamps stood in the corners, humming low like warm sentinels. Folding tables had been set up in a half-U-shape, covered in plaid runners and paper plates already stacked high. A Bluetooth speaker perched on a high shelf, cycling through a mix of Frankie Beverly, Guy, and Anthony Hamilton. The space could easily hold 15 to 20 people, intimate but spacious enough to move around.
Near the back fence, two large coolers sat ready to be filled. A deep fryer and two grills were stationed on the far end under a makeshift awning, along with Deuce’s black apron that read: “You Smell What I’m Cookin’?”
Erik pulled his hoodie tighter around him—it was only 50 degrees, but crisp enough to bite if you stood still too long. He adjusted one of the heat lamps and glanced around. The setup was solid. Felt like it had seen many Christmases before this one.
“Hand me that wrench,” Deuce muttered, crouched by the fryer.
Erik passed it over, no small talk needed between them. They worked easily, fluidly, the silence only broken by the sizzle of preheating oil and distant laughter from inside the house.
Then the front gate creaked open.
Deuce didn’t even look up, “Damn.”
A voice rang out before the man even turned the corner, “Y’all better have cleared me a chair ‘fore I get back there!”
Uncle Nate.
He stomped into the patio like he owned it, wearing a long trench coat that didn’t match his basketball sneakers, scarf crooked like it put up a fight. His booming voice filled the space, dragging behind him a crew: his wife and grown son trailing behind with a tray of deviled eggs.
Deuce stood up slow, already annoyed, “Look who the wind blew in.”
“Better than what you usually blow,” Nate shot back, laughing loud at his own joke.
His eyes landed on Erik immediately.
“Well damn,” he said, eyebrows raised, “Who’s this? Secret Service?”
Erik stepped forward calmly, wiping his hands on a towel. “Erik. Friend of the family.”
Uncle Nate didn’t extend his hand at first—just gave him a look, trying to size him up. The air tensed.
Then Nate reached out with a smirk, “You look like you could throw somebody.”
Erik shook his hand firm, respectful but steady, “Only if I have to.”
Nate let out a deep chuckle, “That grip strong. You a trainer or somethin’? Gym boy?”
“Used to do security,” Erik replied, voice easy.
“Ahhh, used to. That’s code for ‘I done whooped some ass in my time,’ huh?”
Before Erik could answer, the wife swooped in like perfume and smoke.
“Mm! Y’all got it warm back here,” she said, adjusting her ill-fitting wig. It tilted slightly to the left, and the curls were fighting for their lives. Her eyebrows were penciled two inches too high, and a faint mustache glittered on her top lip under the lights like a misguided halo.
She smiled big, “Hey sugar, I’m Naretha. Nate’s better half.”
“I’m Erik. Nice to meet you, ma’am,” he replied smoothly.
“Mmm. Got some manners. And them shoulders too. I like that.”
Nate rolled his eyes, “Naretha, don’t start.”
Behind them stood their son, awkward and thin with thick glasses and a navy coat zipped all the way to his chin. He didn’t speak—just nodded at everyone and stayed glued to his Nintendo Switch, thumbs flying.
“What up, Junior,” Deuce said, half-hearted.
“Hey,” the kid replied, eyes still on screen.
Naretha popped her gum. “He playin’ that Pokéman or whatever. Whole ride over, I said, ‘Boy, speak to people!’ He ain’t heard a word.”
Uncle Nate snorted, “Long as he don’t burn down the damn patio tryna catch Pikachu, we good.”
Erik stepped aside to help unload their food onto the table, ignoring Nate’s constant commentary. But he caught Celeste’s voice calling from inside.
“Erik! You still on pie duty or can I borrow you for something?”
He nodded at Deuce, who just smirked and said, “Go on. Before Uncle Nate asks you to arm wrestle.”
As Erik walked off, he caught the older man still watching him, but this time with a little less bark behind the eyes. Maybe even a flicker of…approval.
The house was in full prep mode now—one big Black holiday scramble.
Celeste had a checklist in her head and eyes everywhere.
“Bathrooms wiped, fresh towels out, and y’all better plug in them damn lights by five o’clock or I swear—”
She didn’t finish the threat. She didn’t need to. Everybody moved.
The air in the house started to shift. The chill faded, replaced with comforting layers of scent—warm cashmere vanilla, sharp cinnamon sticks, and fresh pine spray from the tree in the corner. Scented plug-ins clicked on in every hallway socket. A potpourri pot bubbled quietly on the stove behind the sweet potato pie.
Marlon was vacuuming in zigzags across the carpet, muttering to himself the whole time.
“Why we gotta do all this just for people to mess it up again…”
Still, he did it.
Zaya’s Jodeci Christmas album was way too loud in the background—distorted harmonies and sexy ad-libs bouncing off the walls as she danced around the living room, tossing ribbon and tape near Junior, who was still planted on the couch with his Nintendo Switch, unbothered, unmoved, and unblinking.
“WHO GOT THE TAPE?!” Zaya hollered for the third time.
Celeste shot her a look, “Turn that down before my ears start bleeding!”
Meanwhile, Erik had been roped into holiday grunt work.
He shifted a heavy box of light-up reindeer into the corner, then stood on a stepladder to swap out a dead bulb in the hallway fixture. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, arms flexing as he worked—quiet, efficient, blending in but always watching.
“Boy, you real handy,” Naretha called from the kitchen, sipping on something warm, “You build decks too?”
Erik gave a polite smile but didn’t engage. He was used to auntie flirt.
Tasha and Deuce had slipped away somewhere between the tree adjustments and gift-wrapping chaos. No one noticed. Or maybe no one cared.
Until Marlon yelled from the back porch, “Aye! Deuce! I need your ass for the fryer again!”
Celeste looked up from fluffing pillows, “Where is he?!”
“Gone ghost like always,” Zaya replied, adjusting the volume again, “Check the garage.”
Marlon rolled his eyes, “Man, Erik! Can you go find his big head? Upstairs prolly.”
Erik didn’t argue. He wiped his hands and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time, his body still slightly warm from lifting boxes.
Upstairs, the music was louder. Not Jodeci anymore—this sounded like UGK or some old Memphis bassline.
He walked down the hall, stopping at a cracked door.
Deuce’s room.
Erik knocked once, no answer.
The door creaked open half an inch.
What he saw first was the mirror.
Positioned on the closet door, it reflected everything—the tangled sheets, the dim light… and the sight of Tasha on her knees.
She wasn’t just giving head—she was eating it. No hands. Just throat. Her cheeks hollowed out, lips stretched wide, and she was working it like she had something to prove. Her shirt was pushed up, exposing heavy, spit-slicked breasts, areolas glistening under the soft light.
Deuce’s head was tilted back. Silent. Still.
Erik froze.
He didn’t mean to look—but the mirror wouldn’t let him look away.
Then Tasha’s eyes lifted—locked with his in the glass.
Pop!
She snapped her lips off Deuce’s dick, flustered as hell.
“Deuce, why you ain’t shut the damn door?!”
The door slammed instantly.
BAM!
Erik blinked.
Still paused.
Downstairs, Zaya’s voice floated up through the floorboards.
“TAPE! WHO GOT THE DAMN TAPE?!”
Erik finally turned away, descended the stairs without a word, hands in his pockets.
Nobody asked what took so long.
And he sure as hell didn’t tell them.
The evening crept in slow, but the house moved like it knew what time it was.
Christmas Eve meant one thing: fish fry and cookout.
No fancy tablecloths. No white people food. Just heat, grease, and home.
Tasha and Deuce showed back up downstairs like they hadn’t just been caught doing something filthy.
Tasha’s cheeks were still pink, but not from the cold. She avoided Erik’s eyes when she brushed past him to grab paper towels. Kept her head down. Kept busy.
Deuce was none the wiser. He gave Erik a head nod and a dap, completely unaware of what his boy had seen in the mirror, “What’s good, man. You drinkin’ dark or light?”
Erik didn’t flinch. Just said, “Either,” and kept it moving.
The kitchen became a quiet symphony.
Celeste stood at the center—Queen of the operation. She didn’t shout, didn’t raise a hand, but somehow everybody fell in line like clockwork.
Deuce and Uncle Nate were on frying duty, posted outside on the patio by the portable fish fryer. They wore aprons and attitude, oil already popping. Nate swore by catfish nuggets, Deuce argued for whiting.
“You burn my hushpuppies and I’mma throw this whole fryer in the damn pool,” Nate barked.
“You throw it, I’m throwing you in after it,” Deuce shot back, laughing.
Zaya had taken over the long counter with the sides—pans of baked mac covered in foil, a massive bowl of potato salad chilling, and grilled corn on standby. She had a bottle of wine open, one AirPod in, and was mouthing lyrics between stirring things.
Celeste didn’t need to ask what anyone was doing. She knew. She had her own rhythm, working that oven, checking on her cakes, rotating trays of honey cornbread, whispering to her greens like they had ears.
She didn’t have to look up to say:
“Zaya, don’t forget the paprika. Deuce, tell your uncle to back up off the fryer with that flask. Tasha, wipe that counter again. And Erik, put that wine in the big bucket with ice and make sure we got cups.”
They all moved.
No questions. Just flow.
Erik was on drink patrol, cooler filled with ice and brown bottles of ginger ale, wine chilling in a metal tub, and a massive glass punch bowl in the center of the island. He stirred the punch slow with a long wooden spoon—red, sweet, and fizzy. Cut oranges floated on top. He slid the ladle into place, stepped back, and kept glancing toward the kitchen sink where Tasha was washing out a mixing bowl. She still wouldn’t look at him. Still didn’t say a word. Erik didn’t either.
The music had softened—classic Christmas music giving way to some Jazmine Sullivan Christmas cover. The kitchen smelled like garlic butter, fried fish, smoked paprika, greens, and sweet glaze.
They moved around each other like they’d done this every year.
Shoulders brushed. Hands passed pans. Laughter sparked off old memories. Little Junior was back on the couch with his Switch and a plate of fries. Nate’s wife was dancing by herself in the corner to “Silent Night” like it was a full concert, dragging the fake fur collar of her coat back up every five minutes.
Marlon hollered from the back room, “Who hid the hot sauce?!”
Celeste didn’t even blink, “Check the third drawer, next to the mustard you never put back!”
This was how tradition moved—loud, warm, slightly messy, but full of love.
The house filled up fast.
By 6:00 PM, it was packed. Full.
Uncles, aunties, play cousins, folks from church, the family friend who always brought one of her loud-ass kids and a to-go plate already in her purse.
Coats piled on the guest bed. Shoes lined up by the door. Voices everywhere.
Somebody’s baby was crying. Somebody else was hollering over spades in the dining room. The playlist had switched from soul Christmas to full-on ‘90s Black family reunion—Frankie Beverly, Bobby Brown, back to Luther.
The heat from the oven and the bodies had the walls sweating.
Not real air. Just space.
He eased out of the kitchen, ducked past Marlon who was arguing about the game, and slipped down the narrow stairwell toward the basement. The cool air hit his skin like a relief.
That’s when he heard steps behind him. Light ones.
“Erik—wait.”
Tasha.
He paused. Turned around halfway down the stairs.
Tasha stood at the top of the steps, biting her lip and hugging her arms across her chest. Still wearing that soft cotton tee, still looking like something Erik hadn’t meant to witness—but couldn’t unsee now that he had.
Her voice was low. Embarrassed. She kept her eyes on the floor.
“I just…wanted to say I’m sorry. About earlier. I didn’t know. I thought the door was shut.”
Erik didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tease. Just nodded.
“It’s all good.” His voice was calm. Quiet. Like he meant it.
She stepped down one step. Hands twisting in front of her, “Still, I feel stupid. That was—hella awkward.”
Erik exhaled slowly through his nose, “You good. Just…keep y’all doors closed, alright?” A pause. Then a dry add-on, “Y’all being risky as hell.”
That made her laugh. A quick one. Soft. She covered her face, still mortified, “I know. You right. I told him to lock it.”
“But he didn’t,” Erik replied, voice even.
Tasha winced, “Damn–I know–yeah…”
Another pause.
She glanced up at him, finally.
Eyes full of apology but also curiosity. Not flirting. Just checking to see if he was really cool. If he was gonna hold this over her. If he was gonna tell. Erik held her gaze a second longer than needed.
But then he turned, “We straight,” he said over his shoulder, continuing down the steps.
Tasha nodded, “Alright. Thanks.”
And then she left.
Down in the basement, Erik turned on the tap, splashed cool water on his face.
But no matter how cold it was…
The image wouldn’t leave his mind.
Those wet, swinging breasts.
Her mouth stretched wide.
That glint of eye contact when she realized he saw.
—————-
Erik came up in a fitted cream sweater that hugged his broad chest and rolled slightly at the collar. Clean-lined trousers. Watch glinting beneath his sleeve. Celeste clocked it immediately and gave a little approving glance without saying much, though her own look was just as sharp: burgundy velvet that caught the light with every step, gold hoops, and heels that clicked when she moved through her house like she still owned the night.
Zaya had dressed up too—a curve-hugging sweater dress in a warm shade of rust, soft and ribbed with a mock neck. Her long locs were swept into a low bun at the nape of her neck, neat with a few curls left out at the edges. Gold hoops, glossed lips. had changed into a ruched black dress with gold jewelry and matching confidence. Deuce had on a clean polo and new jeans, haircut fresh, trying not to make a big deal out of how good he looked. Even Marlon came correct—pressed slacks, navy sweater vest, loafers. But he looked stiff. Jaw tight. And Celeste, for all her shine, was already on her second glass of wine before dinner started.
Erik noticed. The way her lipstick stayed perfect, but her hand kept drifting to the glass before her plate was even set. Something had gone down earlier. He didn’t ask but he clocked it.
The dining table overflowed. Paper plates stacked high. Serving pans spread out buffet style. Fried catfish and whiting, crispy and golden. Mac and cheese bubbling at the corners. Corn on the cob wrapped in foil, spiced with Cajun butter. Potato salad, deviled eggs, rolls, and Tasha’s lemon bars shining like treasure on the side
People were everywhere—older folks out back in jackets and shawls, crowded near the space heaters and portable speaker Deuce set up on the patio. Laughter carried through the screen door. Line dancing broke out between bites and refills, someone yelling “Ayyyyye!” every time the music dropped.
Kids zipped around the yard in coats and mittens, plastic swords and baby dolls in hand, dragging each other into hiding spots. The younger crowd stayed inside—posted near the kitchen, curled up in corners, leaning on door frames, phones in one hand, red cups in the other, talking over whatever music was playing from Zaya’s speaker dock.
Later in the night, another wave of people came.
A cousin of Deuce’s walked in. One of those smile-too-wide, dap-too-hard types. Handsome, tall, beard lined up, chain out. And right behind him: his girlfriend. Beautiful. Light beat on her face. Slick ponytail and an outfit meant to show skin, even in this cold. She knew she looked good. And she knew everyone else knew it too.
Deuce gave the cousin that tight-lipped nod. Respect, but distance. They didn’t mess with each other like that. Too much ego. Too much competition. The cousin glanced around, then landed on Erik.
Chin lifted, “Who this?”
“Friend of the fam,” Deuce muttered without looking up.
Erik didn’t bristle. Just turned, offered his hand.
“Erik.”
The cousin shook it. Tried to squeeze too hard.
Erik squeezed back harder—without breaking stride. No expression changed. No words needed. When the cousin pulled away, he shook his fingers out like a joke and said, “Alright now—grip like you lay bricks for a living.”
Zaya giggled. Tasha smiled behind her glass. Deuce just looked the other way. After dinner, someone dimmed the lights and turned down the music. The tree glowed like a centerpiece. Warm light, flickering tinsel, and shadows dancing on the ceiling.
Marlon gathered everyone with a raised glass—low, gravelly voice calling over the room, “Let’s get quiet for a minute.”
The chatter slowed.
Celeste stood beside him, lips already shining with a new pour of wine. She didn’t speak right away. Just looked around the room—at the family pressed in close, kids curled up on the floor with cookies, her nieces and nephews clinking glasses, her sisters laughing near the hall.
Then she said, “It’s been a year. Good, bad, everything in between. But we made it. And I’m glad we’re here together.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, “I love y’all. Even when y’all get on my nerves,” she added with a half-smile, “Even when I got to clean behind everybody. Even when folks drink up all the wine. I wouldn’t trade it.”
A soft round of “awws” and laughter circled the room. Erik, standing near the back, felt Zaya press lightly into his arm, her head tilting just enough to brush his shoulder. He didn’t move. Just stood still. Listening.
There was something tired in Celeste’s voice, beneath the velvet of it. Something that said I’m worn, but I’m still going. Erik recognized it. The quiet way women carry everything on holidays like this and still make it feel like magic.
Everyone raised a glass.
“To family,” Marlon said.
“To peace,” Celeste added.
“To this food,” Deuce shouted, and laughter broke the quiet.
Later, when folks were drifting, and music had crept back up, someone shouted from the stairs.
“AYO—JUNIOR!”
His daddy’s voice. Loud.
Murmurs followed. Then heavy footsteps.
“What the hell—boy, is that TITTIES on the screen?!”
People started howling. Marlon yelled, “Lord have mercy! Boy!” while Celeste groaned and covered her face. Junior tried to bolt up the stairs with his Nintendo Switch clutched to his chest, hoodie yanked up to hide. His ears were burning, whole neck and jaw glowing dark with shame. Laughter chased him like a mob.
“Not anime titties!”
“Boy was watching cartoons with nipples!”
“He down there tongue out and everything!”
Even Erik laughed, sipping his drink with a shake of his head.
“Leave that boy alone, Nate,” Celeste said, sipping her wine, “If he wanna watch his little anime titties, let him. He grown.”
They were posted around the dining table, cups sweating, Jenga tower stacked halfway to heaven. The room was loud—liquor talking, bodies leaned back in their chairs, laughter spilling between clinks and bass-heavy music coming from the other room.
Erik nursed his drink, buzz settling behind his eyes. Zaya was tucked close beside him, pretty in that sweater dress, hand sneaking under the table like it belonged there. Fingers slow on his thigh. Stroking light. Casual, like nobody’d notice. Like her touch wasn’t pulling heat low in his stomach.
Tasha caught it. She was across the table, nursing her own drink, eyes glittering with amusement. Gave Zaya a look. Laughed to herself. She didn’t say a word though. Just sipped slow, those glossy lips parting soft. Erik met her eyes for a half second before she looked away—too fast. Too aware.
Deuce was nowhere to be found. Neither was his cousin’s loudmouth girl.
Erik’s gaze moved, sweeping. That subtle recon habit. The kind he never turned off. And when he looked back, Tasha was peeking again. This time longer. Her lips parted like she might say something—but she didn’t. She just wet them. Looked down at her plate like it was the most interesting thing in the world.
Zaya’s hand was still moving.
“Go help your mama,” Erik said low, tapping the rim of his glass.
She sucked her teeth but stood up anyway, slow and sulky. Erik didn’t miss the way her ass moved walking away. That tight sway. But his eyes shifted just as quick—Tasha. Those tits sitting up high and soft in whatever stretchy fabric she had on. She wasn’t even doing anything and it still felt intentional.
He focused on his drink. Let the burn clear his head.
Deuce came back first, smirking like he had a secret. A few minutes later, so did the girl. She slid over to her man and leaned in, whispering something that made him stand up fast.
“I’m ready to go,” she said with a coy smile.
And just like that, they were gone.
Tasha stood with a sigh, gathering a few empty glasses as she made her way toward the kitchen to help Celeste. Erik watched her go, hips swaying, waist snug in that dress. Then his gaze shifted.
Deuce was slumped back in his chair, head tilted like the room might be spinning just a little too fast.
“You look fucked up,” Erik muttered with a crooked grin, taking another sip.
Deuce didn’t argue just chuckled, eyes half-lidded, swaying a little.
That’s when Uncle Nate stumbled in.
Drunker than everybody. Loud. Slurring. Face shiny with sweat and too much Hennessy. His button-up half-untucked, shoes scuffed from dancing outside in the yard.
He clocked Erik and grinned big, “Ay, boy!” he bellowed, pointing, “You look like you think you tough. Come on, then!”
He threw his fists up in slow motion—clumsy, wobbling jabs at the air.
Erik smirked, shook his head, “Come on, Unc. Not tonight,” he said, waving him off.
But Nate was already in his face.
Deuce pushed back from the table to intervene. “Unc, chill—”
Too late.
Nate shoved Deuce—hard. The whole table rocked, cups rattling, Jenga collapsing in a clatter of wood and curses.
Deuce’s expression snapped clean. He stood like he meant it—shoulders squared, jaw set, ready to throw hands.
Erik was up first.
One hand firm to Nate’s chest, stopping him mid-sway. “Aight, Unc,” he said, voice low but cutting through the noise, “You need a cut off.”
Nate blinked like he didn’t hear. Tried to push forward again, but Erik didn’t budge. His palm stayed planted. Calm. Controlled.
“You been on ten all night,” Erik added, “Go sit down before somebody get embarrassed.”
The room held its breath. The laughter died out, all eyes slowly turning toward the scene.
Then Celeste called out from the kitchen, voice sharp as a blade, “Nate, if you don’t get yo’ ass somewhere and sit down—!”
That did it.
Nate groaned, muttered something under his breath, then stumbled back toward the hallway, still cussing but retreating.
Deuce let out a long breath, “Drunk ass.”
Erik sat back down, jaw tight, but calm, “Family fun,” he muttered into his drink.
Tasha moved back toward Deuce, eyes scanning him carefully.
“You good?” she asked, voice lower now—soft, concerned. Girlfriend mode activated. She reached out, lightly touched his arm.
Deuce leaned away slightly, pulling his drink in tighter. “I’m straight,” he said. Quick. Flat. Didn’t even look at her.
Tasha’s brows knit, just for a second. Something flickered in her face—hurt, confusion, maybe both. But she swallowed it down. Didn’t push. Just nodded once, lips pressed into a tight line.
“Okay.”
She turned and walked off, heels clicking as she disappeared back toward the kitchen where Celeste was still fussing over dishes.
Meanwhile, Erik stepped away from the dining table, drifting into the living room where Junior was curled up in a corner of the couch, eyes locked on the TV screen, thumbs moving fast over his Switch controller.
“What you on?” Erik asked, settling beside him with a fresh drink in hand.
Junior didn’t look up, “Smash Bros.”
Erik nodded like that meant something, “I’ll whoop you in that.”
Junior paused, finally glancing over, “You play?”
“Used to.”
Junior smirked, “Pick up a controller then. Let’s see.”
They got into it. Competitive. Loud. Talking shit back and forth, the sounds of button mashing filling the air as the party energy carried on around them.
After a few matches, Junior chuckled and said, “Damn, you better than I thought.”
Erik grinned, sipping slow, “Told you.”
A beat passed—comfortable, easy. Then Erik said, casually, without even looking up from the screen:
“Aye…I watch Hentai too.”
Junior blinked, then broke into a wide, scandalized laugh, “Yo, chill!”
Erik cracked a smile, leaned back. “What? I ain’t judging. I seen some wild shit. Octopus arms and everything.”
Junior damn near dropped his controller, shaking his head, “You sick.”
“Nah, you the one got caught,” Erik said with a side-eye.
They both laughed harder. The tension from earlier had faded. The room felt lighter. Safer. A little bond formed in the middle of animated chaos, laughter, and digital ass-kickings.
From the kitchen, Celeste glanced over and saw them—Junior finally smiling again, Erik leaned back like a big cousin, fitting in easy.
She smiled to herself, just a little.
It was a little past one in the morning.
The house had finally gone quiet, save for the occasional creak from upstairs—footsteps, maybe the sound of someone closing a bedroom door, settling in.
But Erik couldn’t sleep.
He rolled over again in the guest bed, eyes wide open, then sighed and sat up. Slipped on a pair of Nike slides. Moved through the hallway, quiet and smooth, avoiding the floorboards he remembered squeaked earlier. The air still smelled like baked sugar and spice—leftover cake, pies cooling on the counter.
When he got to the kitchen, the light was already on.
Celeste was there in a soft cream robe, hair wrapped, pulling a tea bag from its pouch. She moved slow, deliberate, a woman at the edge of winding down. A black trash bag was by the back door, along with a bin full of recycling.
“I got it,” Erik said, nodding toward it as he stepped in.
Celeste glanced over her shoulder, startled just a little, then gave him a half-smile.
“You sure?”
He was already lifting the bag, “Yeah.”
She held the back door open for him.
When he returned a minute later, he washed his hands at the sink. The sound of the water was loud in the quiet.
He didn’t leave right away. Just leaned on the kitchen island, arms folded loosely, watching the steam rise from her tea mug.
Celeste stirred in honey. Didn’t speak at first.
Then finally—without turning to face him—she started talking.
“I ain’t really in the spirit this year either,” she said, “Used to love the holidays, but lately it just feel like work.”
Erik didn’t interrupt.
She kept going, “Everybody always talking ‘bout how good everything tastes, how nice the place look…but nobody offers to do shit. They just show up, eat, make a mess, then leave. I cook, I clean, I decorate. I do the most, and for what?”
Her voice wasn’t angry. Just tired. A little frayed around the edges.
“I’m sorry,” she added quickly, finally turning around with her mug in hand, “You ain’t gotta listen to all that.”
Erik shook his head, voice even, “It’s cool. I’m listening.”
She stared at him. Took a sip. Then gave a faint smile, something unreadable behind it.
“You got a real heavy presence, Erik,” she said quietly, “Been that way since you walked in my door.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just watched her over the island, his eyes darker than usual in the dim kitchen light.
Celeste blinked. Looked away. Tried to busy her hands again, putting the spoon in the sink, turning on the water. Reaching for the sponge.
But Erik stepped forward.
He didn’t say anything. Just reached and gently took the sponge from her hand, slow. Set it down beside the sink.
Celeste’s hand stayed frozen midair for a second. Then she looked up at him.
He didn’t say anything. Just reached and gently took the sponge from her hand, slow. Set it down beside the sink.
Celeste’s hand stayed frozen midair for a second. Then she looked up at him.
Erik was closer now. Not too close, but enough that she could feel the heat rolling off his body. The quiet steadiness in him.
“You don’t gotta apologize for venting,” he said, voice low and calm. “You do a lot, Celeste. Like… a lot.”
She opened her mouth, like she might deflect, but he kept going.
“I know the holidays ain’t been feeling the same. They don’t for me neither. Not in a long time. I been goin’ through the motions for years now—showin’ up places, eating, leaving. Never really felt like anything.”
He paused. His eyes held hers.
“But tonight? All this? It felt different. Real shit.”
Celeste blinked. Her throat bobbed slightly.
Erik gave a soft shake of his head, a half-smirk forming, “Even with Uncle Nate’s drunk ass tryna box me in the kitchen.”
Celeste burst out laughing, loud and sudden. A hand over her chest, her whole body tipping forward as she laughed harder than she had all night.
“Boy, please! You handled him better than I did, shoot. Damn fool almost knocked the mac and cheese off the table!”
Erik chuckled too, the corners of his mouth pulling wider now, “Deuce looked like he was ready to tackle him.”
“He was!” Celeste wiped her eye, “You just kept it so cool. That’s why I said you got that heavy presence. You ain’t even gotta raise your voice.”
Erik watched her settle. Her laughter faded into a quiet smile.
“And you,” he said, a little more serious now, “you make this house feel full. Might not seem like folks say it, but it’s felt. You the reason they keep showin’ up. Food, warmth, all that—it’s you.”
Celeste stared at him.
Her eyes welled just slightly. Nothing dramatic. Just a flash of something deep behind them. That ache only women like her knew—being the backbone, but feeling like the afterthought.
She tried to turn back to the sink. Tried to grab the sponge again.
But Erik was already there.
He caught her wrist gently. Took the sponge from her hand, slow. Set it aside.
The silence turned thick.
Her fingers curled around nothing.
She looked up at him again, slower this time. Less guarded.
He was just watching her.
Breathing even.
Then he leaned in.
And kissed her—once. Deep. Slow. His lips warm, deliberate. Like he meant it.
Celeste let him.
Then, almost as quickly, she stepped back.
Her gaze broke first.
She touched her lips, gave a small shake of her head, then turned, walking out of the kitchen without a word.
Robe swaying.
Mug still in hand.
He just stood there, jaw tight, pulse steady but loud in his ears. Staring down at the dish sponge like it had all the answers.
He stood there for a while. Still. Shoulders square, jaw flexing. That kiss—brief as it was—sat on his mouth like weight. Like memory. Not just of how she tasted, but how she trembled just slightly when his lips met hers. How her breath hitched. How she didn’t stop him.
Didn’t pull him closer either.
The low kitchen light cast a soft amber hue across the tile floor, the counters, the back of her robe as she disappeared up the stairs. But Erik didn’t move. Shoulders squared, arms at his sides, jaw tightening like it was holding the weight of what just happened.
That kiss.
It sat on his mouth like heat that hadn’t cooled. Not just the press of her lips, not just the taste of cinnamon and clove that still lingered faintly, but the way her breath had hitched when he leaned in. The way her mouth parted on instinct. The slight, near-imperceptible tremble that rolled through her—not fear, not shock, something else.
She didn’t stop him.
She didn’t pull him closer, either.
And that said more than anything else.
Eventually, Erik reached for the switch and let the light fade to dark. He made his way back down the hallway, footsteps soft, shoulders still tight with that restless energy. Something in his chest wouldn’t sit right. It didn’t matter how many deep breaths he tried to take. That kiss had cracked something open.
He laid down again, pulled the blanket up out of habit, but the bed felt too cold now. Too wide.
He stared at the ceiling.
The dark pressed in from all sides. No windows. Just the faint hum of the old HVAC system kicking on somewhere in the walls. The silence wasn’t peaceful—it crawled. Got under his skin. It filled the room too thick, like it was pressing against his chest.
He closed his eyes.
But all he could see was the shape of her.
The way her robe had opened just slightly at the collarbone. The delicate chain around her neck. The way her fingers twitched near her side, like maybe—just maybe—she almost reached for him. Her voice rang back through his mind, soft but heavy, like it was still stitched into the air.
“You got a real heavy presence, Erik.”
Damn right he did.
But she’d let him in. Even for just a second. That second was enough to pull him under, twist him up, drag something out of him that had been quiet for too long.
He didn’t sleep. Not really. Drifted in and out. Kept seeing her in flashes behind his eyes. Woke again before sunrise, jaw tight, arms folded behind his head. Restless. Still caught in the space between want and restraint.
Christmas Morning 7:00 AM
The scent got him first.
Warm, rich, and layered. Coffee and cinnamon. Sharp and sweet at once, hanging in the air like it’d been brewed just for him. Erik rubbed a hand down his face, sat up slow. Chest bare. A pair of dark sweats slung low on his hips. He skipped the tank top this time. Didn’t rush. Moved quiet through his routine—brushed his teeth, washed his face, splashed cold water across his skin. The chill sobered him a little, but that tension still clung to his body like static.
When he climbed the stairs from the basement guest room, he moved quiet, the way he always did. The house was still peaceful. No chatter. No footsteps above yet. Just that smell—coffee and cinnamon. Something sweet still cooling on the counter, maybe. Banana bread or some kind of coffee cake. He followed it, like scent could guide him through the weight of that memory.
Celeste was already in the kitchen.
Same soft robe. Same calm posture. But her hair was pinned back now, tight and neat, and there was a new stillness to her movements. She wiped the counter slow with a clean rag, eyes focused on the space in front of her like she hadn’t already felt him enter the room.
But she had. He knew it.
She just didn’t turn.
“Morning,” she said.
Her voice was smooth. Velvet and unreadable.
“Morning.”
His reply matched hers—calm, level. No heat. No pressure.
Silence stretched between them.
The hum of the fridge. The tick of the clock.
Something low warming in the oven—maybe cinnamon, maybe nothing.
Erik leaned against the doorframe, watching her move. She didn’t look at him. Not at first.
Then—slowly—Celeste glanced over her shoulder. Not smiling. Not scowling. Just present. Just measured. That same quiet control that made men question themselves.
“I let you kiss me,” she said.
No guilt. No regret. Just the facts.
He felt that—how clean the words landed. No softness to hold on to.
“I know,” he said. “You wanted to.”
Celeste turned now. Fully. One hand braced against the counter, her robe tied clean, her posture composed like she’d never been touched. Like that kiss hadn’t shook anything at all.
“That was a moment,” she said, “And it’s over.”
Erik stepped in. Not too close. Just enough, “But it happened.”
She didn’t answer.
He studied her—how her eyes flicked, not in avoidance, but in calculation. How her body stayed still, not defensive but guarded.
“You kissed me back,” he said quietly.
“I did.”
That fast. No hesitation. She owned it. But her tone didn’t invite more.
“And now?”
Celeste let the silence hold. She looked at him. Really looked. Then, with that same cool finality she used on men who got out of pocket:
“Now I make my coffee. You gonna stand there or pour a cup?”
Erik gave a slow nod. Stepped aside. Reached for a mug.
He poured it black. No sugar. No cream.
That silence? It wasn’t peace anymore.
It buzzed under the surface—thick, warm, laced with restraint and want. The kind of silence that didn’t end things.
The kind that marked the beginning.
The house is quiet. Dim light filters in through the dining room curtains, soft and gold, pooling at the edges of the hardwood floor. The scent of cinnamon still lingers in the air—warm, baked into the walls like memory.
Erik leans against the counter, bare chest rising slow with every breath. A clean mug rests in his hand, half-full with black coffee. The heat presses into his palm, grounding him. Across the room, the silence between him and Celeste hasn’t moved. It’s thick, like breath caught in the throat. Like everything they didn’t say still hanging between them.
He takes another sip. Lets it burn down the middle of his chest. A slow sting. Something to hold onto.
Then—
He hears it.
Footsteps. Light and careless. A laugh.
The distant thump of a playful knock against a hallway wall. Then that voice:
“Merry Christmas, Uncle Nate!”
“You still drunk?”
“Thought so.”
Zaya.
His shoulders react before his mind does. Not a full flinch—just a pull, a slow roll of tension through his back. He doesn’t turn right away. Doesn’t speak. Just listens to her steps glide across the floor behind him, low and smooth like a body that knows it’s being watched.
When he does turn, she’s already in motion.
Tight black leggings sculpted to every curve. A cropped gray hoodie rides just above her waist, the drawstring swinging with every step. Her locs are piled into a loose bun on top of her head, a few strands slipping free to frame her cheekbones. Bare feet. Lips glossed just enough to catch the light when she lifts her water bottle to take a sip.
She drinks slow. Casual.
Doesn’t glance his way at first. Just moves through the kitchen like she belongs to it. Like she’s always belonged to it. Her body cuts through the quiet like heat through fog.
“Merry Christmas,” she says.
But not to the room.
Just to him.
He watches her close the fridge. Watches her lean against the counter like she’s done it before. Her eyes find him now—bold, unbothered, curious. She lets them linger on his chest. His arms. The line of muscle at his stomach.
Then her mouth curves.
“You my Christmas present?” she asks, “Can I unwrap you?”
His grip tightens on the coffee mug. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t blink. Zaya steps closer. Only a few inches separate them now. She reaches for his mug, takes it from his hand without asking. Sips.
Immediately winces, “Yuck. Black coffee? You really drink it like this?”
Erik arches a brow but stays silent.
She grins.
“You need some sugar in this,” she says, voice light and teasing, “Some cream too. You don’t like sugar and cream?”
The way she says it—sweet, high, like it’s innocent—makes his jaw lock tight.
Still, he doesn’t fold.
From the front room, the soft rustle of wrapping paper carries in. Celeste’s voice—low, occupied. She’s sorting gifts under the tree, setting up for the morning before everyone else wakes.
In the kitchen, it’s just them.
Zaya’s hand lifts—fingers brushing the waistband of his black joggers. She tugs. Not hard. Just enough to shift the fabric. Just enough to make him react.
And he does.
Fast.
He grabs her by the wrist and pulls her in hard, chest to chest. Looks down at her, jaw clenched, breath slow and sharp through his nose.
“Why the fuck you keep testing me?”
Zaya stares up at him, lips parted, not an ounce of fear in her face. Her eyes hold his with that same boldness, that same challenge.
“Why you keep acting like you don’t want me to?” she says. “You ain’t got much longer here. Let’s make it count.”
And just like that, she slips free. Smooth. Smiling.
Grabs her yoga mat from the corner near the staircase, tucks it under one arm, and heads for the basement door. The air behind her is still warm with the shape of her. Erik doesn’t move. Just watches the door swing shut. Watches it settle. His coffee’s cold now. His body isn’t. And his jaw’s still tight.
Christmas Morning 9:00 AM
The scent of cinnamon rolls and brewing coffee hung thick in the air, curling through the warm house like a memory you wanted to stay inside forever. Outside the windows, light filtered in soft and hazy, brushing over frost-glazed panes and the trimmed porch wreath like a hush. The fireplace crackled low in the living room. White lights blinked along the branches of the tall fir tree dressed in gold and burgundy ornaments, and a vintage record played faintly in the background.
Old-school soul music floated through the house, warm as the morning light. The unmistakable crackle of vinyl underpinned every note, filling the room with rhythm and memory. The Temptations’ “Silent Night” rolled in first, deep. Then came Otis Redding’s “Merry Christmas Baby,” smooth and gritty with feeling. Later, Donny Hathaway’s “This Christmas” slipped in like a familiar promise, the kind of song that made the tree lights seem brighter and the hot cocoa taste richer.
It was a playlist stitched together from decades of Black holiday joy, voices that sounded like grandmothers humming over the stove, like uncles dancing with aunties after a little too much rum. It wrapped around them all, humming through the house like love lived in the walls.
Zaya claimed her spot first, dropping down onto the carpet directly in front of the tree with a red plaid blanket tossed across her legs. She wore her Christmas pajamas, red with white snowflakes, cropped just enough to show a teasing sliver of stomach and snug across the curve of her hips. Her locs were piled into a messy bun, edges laid clean. She looked bright and alive, joy humming through her like music. A cinnamon roll sat half-eaten in one hand while the other reached eagerly toward the pile of gifts.
Celeste moved between the kitchen and living room with quiet intention, long silk robe tied neatly at her waist, steam rising from her mug. Her presence anchored the space. Calm. Elegant. Watchful. She carried herself like a woman who knew how to hold a room together without raising her voice.
Marlon emerged from the hallway still yawning, slippers dragging beneath him. He kissed Celeste’s cheek, murmured something low that earned him a small smirk, then settled into his chair with his coffee, eyes already warming at the sight of the tree.
The front door opened and in came Deuce and Tasha in matching green pajama sets with white piping, clearly chosen by Tasha. She bounced in first, curls pulled into two playful puffs, candy cane earrings swinging as she passed out hugs.
“Merry Christmas, y’all,” she said brightly, hugging Zaya, then Celeste, then Marlon.
Deuce followed, scooping Zaya up off the floor in a tight hug before dropping down beside her. They fit together easy, laughter spilling between them like rhythm and bass.
Erik stayed slightly apart at first, leaning against the archway with a mug of coffee in hand, black thermal clinging to his broad shoulders. Quiet. Observant. His eyes moved from face to face, but he didn’t say much. Just watched.
Celeste clapped her hands once, gentle but decisive.
“Alright,” she said, “Let’s do this together.”
Everyone settled in. Wrapping paper crinkled. Tags were read out loud. Laughter rose and fell as boxes were passed around the circle.
Zaya tore into her gifts with delight, squealing over cozy socks and a silk bonnet from Tasha, throwing her arms around her in appreciation. Deuce opened his gifts next, his expression shifting when Celeste handed him a long rectangular box.
Inside sat a gold watch, heavy and elegant.
“Damn,” Deuce breathed, “You went crazy.”
“It’s time you wore something with some weight,” Celeste said simply.
Marlon laughed, nodding in approval.
Tasha unwrapped a perfume bottle shaped like a dark rose and immediately sprayed her wrist, holding it out for Deuce to smell. He leaned in, smiling wide.
Zaya handed her father a folded jersey, crisp and stitched with his favorite team and his old high school number.
“You wild!” Marlon said, holding it up, “Where you even find this?”
Zaya just grinned.
Then Celeste stepped forward with a neatly wrapped box —cream paper, gold ribbon, corners sharp like she’d ironed them into place. She held it out to him, steady.
“For you,” she said.
Erik blinked, genuinely caught off guard, “You ain’t have to do all that, Miss Celeste.”
She tilted her head slightly, a softness settling in her eyes, “I know,” she said, “But I wanted to.”
He accepted the gift slowly, unwrapping it with quiet fingers. Inside was a denim jacket—heavy-duty, sherpa-lined, dark indigo with clean lines. No logos. Just quality. Timeless. Exactly the kind of piece he would buy for himself. The fact that Celeste had chosen it without asking, without missing a beat, landed heavier than the gift itself. It meant she’d been paying attention. Clocked his taste. Knew what warmth looked like on him. And in only two days.
Marlon glanced over, grinning, “Damn, son,” he said with a chuckle, “Wifey hooked you up! Bet you glad you came anyway, right?”
The room broke into easy laughter. Erik cracked a quiet smile and nodded once, “Yeah…looks like I am.”
He tried the jacket on then and there—shrugged it over his broad shoulders, adjusted the collar.
Laughter rippled through the room.
Erik smiled, just slightly.
Then Zaya scooted forward on the carpet and held out a small black velvet pouch, “For you too,” she said, her tone casual but her eyes sharp.
Erik caught it easily, loosening the drawstring. Inside sat a pair of mirrored aviator shades, sleek and silver-rimmed. Tactical. Sexy. Exactly his style.
She tilted her head, “Put ’em on.”
Deuce chimed in immediately, “Yeah, yeah, let’s see ‘em, bro.”
Erik hesitated, then slid them on. When he lifted his chin, the lenses caught the glow of the tree lights, sharpening his jawline and deepening the quiet authority he carried.
“Okay, fineness,” Zaya said openly, biting her lip. “Looking swagged out.”
Tasha laughed, “They look good on you,” she said, sincere, though her eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary.
Deuce shook his head, grinning, “Careful, man. You keep this up, Zaya gon’ pull you under the mistletoe.”
More laughter followed.
“…Appreciate that,” Erik said, fingers brushing the frame of the glasses.
But it landed deeper than gratitude. He had not expected to feel seen.
Deuce slid a wooden box across the floor toward him next.
“For you,” he said, “Remember that trip to Haiti? You wouldn’t shut up about this rum. Took me a minute, but I tracked it down.”
Erik opened it and let out a low breath.
“Damn,” he said, “You really did that?”
Deuce leaned back, “Figured you could use a reason to relax.”
Erik nodded, touched.
Then he reached for a smaller velvet-lined box and handed it to Deuce.
“Open that.”
Deuce did, and his breath caught.
Inside lay a gold pendant, vintage and rare, a perfect match to the one his grandmother had given him as a kid and lost years ago.
“Where the hell did you find this?” Deuce asked quietly.
“New York,” Erik said, “Took some digging. Didn’t care about the price.”
Deuce stood and hugged him hard, clapping his back.
“Man. Thank you.”
Zaya watched the exchange closely, her gaze lingering on Erik now with something softer behind it.
“Photo time!” she announced suddenly, grabbing her phone.
She propped it on the mantel and set the timer.
Everyone shuffled into place. Deuce sat on the floor with Tasha curled against him, laughing. Zaya dropped down beside them, blanket pooled around her legs. Marlon stood behind them, one arm around Celeste’s waist. She rested a hand lightly on her husband’s back.
Erik stood at the edge, aviators still on, jacket folded over his arm, gift bag in hand. Zaya glanced back at him just as the shutter clicked, the smallest smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. No one said anything about the tension but it was there. Thick. Quiet. Alive.
Summary: He’s supposed to be laying low. A job overseas went bloody, and Erik Stevens—black ops mercenary, ghost of the U.S. government—needs time to go quiet. So he crashes at his little sister’s place near Howard. But when he arrives, there’s a surprise: she’s got a new roommate. Her best friend. She’s grown since he last saw her. Grown in all the ways that test a man’s discipline. But Erik? He’s never been good at following rules.
Warnings: Age Gap Romance/ Forbidden Attraction/ Explicit Sexual Content (strong smut, oral sex, size kink, erotic praise, power exchange)/Slow Burn to Filthy/Obsession & Possessiveness/Sexual Tension in Shared Spaces/Mutual Voyeurism/Sexting/Emotional Denial/Resistance/Breeding Talk/Male Dom / Female Sub Dynamic
Part Four
Doja Cat was blasting.
The speaker thumped against the cluttered dresser, vibrations humming through every inch of Aaliyah’s room. Loose clothes were everywhere. A carry-on half-zipped. Shoes tossed across the rug. Outfits draped over the desk chair and mirror. It was chaos—but a cute, girly chaos. Sanaa was behind her, hands working fast. Her nails clicked against the comb as she gathered Aaliyah’s curls into a soft, high updo. She left a few spirals loose to kiss the sides of her face and neck, swooping the edges into delicate baby hairs with her pinky and a bit of edge control.
Baby we tried to fight it…we all been there some days…thought i needed something else and acted like I was okay…we just had to work it out…and baby, I needed space…ain’t nobody ‘round here on your level you’re so far away…
Aaliyah hit the high notes like she meant ‘em, holding her phone like a mic, eyes closed. Sanaa laughed behind her, doing backup vocals while pinning the last piece into place.
“Girl, you not gon’ be able to sing once you out with Jordan tonight,” Sanaa teased, “He gon’ have you losing your breath.”
“Please.” Aaliyah smiled but tried to play it cool, “He better act like he got some sense tonight. Or I’ll just Uber home and call it a day.”
Sanaa raised her brows in the mirror, “And have Erik spazz out?”
“Exactly why I need to look good,” Aaliyah said, twirling a curl around her finger, “If I’m gonna have to fight for my date, I wanna at least be fine doin’ it.”
“You so STUPID!”
The girls laughed again as Sanaa fluffed the final piece into place. The style was soft, romantic, and full of volume—her curls pinned up just right, with a few framing tendrils that made her look ethereal.
“You cute as hell,” Sanaa said, stepping back to admire her work, “Like…damn near ethereal. Floatin’.”
“Okay, floatin’!” Aaliyah grinned, turning her head side to side in the mirror, “All I need is that lil’ lip tint—what’s the name of it? The peach one.”
Sanaa nodded, already walking toward the door, “Yeah, hold on. It’s in my room—I’ll grab it.”
The music kept playing. Aaliyah kept dancing in the mirror. Sanaa opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Her body still warm from the energy in the room, hair swaying across her upper back, jeans riding low on her waist. That shirt of hers still hugging her curves, still rising a little too high when she moved.
She was humming the lyrics under her breath—
Like you…like you…like you, ooh…
Not knowing that just a few steps down the hall…Erik was about to stop fighting it. And he was about to show her exactly what he meant when he said she was a problem.
Sanaa didn’t mean to take her time, but she did.
She bent over slow when she reached for that tiny-ass lip tint. Erik was nowhere in sight. She assumed he was still in his room, probably back on that game again or scrolling through something that didn’t include her. But it didn’t stop her from glancing toward his cracked door as she passed. Didn’t stop her from swinging her hips just a little harder, letting that tantalizing denim ride low. She grabbed the tint, popped the cap, and started to slick it on in the hall. Thought maybe she’d linger long enough to catch his shadow in the doorway. But nothing.
Not until her phone buzzed.
She glanced down.
A text from Erik.
Then the photo dropped in.
Her heart stuttered. Fingers froze. Lips parted mid-swipe. The pic loaded slow—not because of Wi-Fi, but because the universe knew what it was doing. Knew how to make her squirm. He was laid back on his bed. Dark sheets beneath him. His thick thighs stretched out, sweatpants loose but not loose enough. The fabric clung like it knew it had a job—to hug that dick and show out. And baby…it showed out.
Sanaa’s breath caught.
That print was loud. The outline of him long and thick, stretching down the left side, pushing heavy through the fabric like it was trying to make contact. You could see the whole thing, even the way the tip curved a little toward his hip. A thick, high rise of heat — full, unmistakably real. That kind of print that made your mouth water and your knees forget how to function.
And he knew what he was doing.
Because the waistband was tugged down just low enough to show the soft trail of hair leading there. That little line that had her thighs pressing together every damn time he walked around shirtless.
The next text slid in.
Erik: You sure you can handle this dick, slut?
No emoji. No cute follow-up. Just that.
Sanaa blinked. Felt heat crawl up her chest. Her thighs clenched and her pussy pulsed, fast and hot like it was answering for her before her brain could catch up.
Another text.
Erik: I know you think you grown…but you keep testing me. You want daddy to stretch that lil pussy out, huh?
She swallowed hard. Backed into the wall. Still staring at the screen like it was hypnotic. Like the print itself had a grip on her.
Then he sent another. This one a close-up. A zoomed crop of just the bulge. You could see the ridge of the head now. Thick and proud, fighting through the fabric like it needed air. She could imagine exactly what it would feel like, dragging over her lips. The weight of it. The warmth. The slight curve. The way his dick would hit her deep, then deeper, making her gasp before she even realized he was all the way in. She squeezed her thighs again. Pressed the gloss tube against her lips just to keep from letting out a sound.
Another text.
Erik: You gon’ let me fuck that attitude off your face? Or you still wanna play?
She didn’t type back. Didn’t trust herself. Her fingers hovered. She thought about sending a cute reply. A selfie. A smart-ass remark.
But she couldn’t stop staring.
Another ping.
Erik: Slide them jeans off. Right now. Take a pic of them panties you tryna keep dry.
Another beat.
Erik: Matter fact…pull em to the side. Let me see what I’m finna ruin.
Sanaa’s whole body prickled. The heat between her legs surged so fast it scared her. Her panties already damp, already clinging. And she knew if she took them off, that wetness would leave a trail down her thighs. Her hand shook as she reached for her waistband. Phone still in the other. Her reflection in the mirror looked flushed, guilty, wrecked. And all she’d done was read his texts. All she’d done was look at the print of that dick.
Erik sent one more.
Erik: You takin too long, Bri. Want me to come get it for you?
She hesitated. Not long. Just long enough to decide she was gonna be bad about it. Sanaa stood there in the hallway, one hip leaned against the wall, phone in her hand like it weighed too much. Her other hand dipped slow, smooth, hooking into the waist of her jeans and easing them down over her hips. Not all the way. Just enough. She let the denim bunch at the top of her thighs, soft curves spilling above the waistband, brown skin glowing under the hallway light. Her panties were black —thin, silky, clinging to her fat pussy like they knew how good she looked. The outline was obscene. The damp spot even worse. That pretty little pussy already soaked, lips full and pressed up tight behind the fabric, looking like it was begging for attention.
But she didn’t pull ‘em to the side. Didn’t spread shit. Didn’t give him what he wanted. She snapped the pic like that. Jeans mid-thigh. Panties stretched tight. A flash of her hand at her stomach, holding the phone down at an angle that showed everything but what he was asking for.
Still teasing. Still playing. And that was the point.
She hit send, pulled her jeans back up slow, let them hug her again like nothing happened, and walked her ass back into Aaliyah’s room. The door creaked open and Aaliyah was in the bathroom already, face close to the mirror, blending out her contour like she was late for a photo shoot. She had her robe tied loose, lashes half-on, and was already rambling like her best friend wasn’t spiraling inside.
“Ugh, I shoulda told Jordan ten minutes later,” she complained, “He always pullin up early like I don’t need a full beat.”
Sanaa gave a tight smile, “You look fine.”
Aaliyah scoffed, “Bitch, duh. But I wanna look good. Like, ‘can I suck your dick in the car before we get there’ good.”
Sanaa let out a short breath through her nose, pacing slowly toward the edge of the bed. She sat down, careful, like if she moved too fast, her body might give her away. Because she was nervous now. Heart tapping faster. Mouth dry. Stomach aching in that weird, fluttery way, like something was lowkey crawling behind her navel. Because Jordan pulling up meant Aaliyah would be leaving. And if Aaliyah left…she’d be alone in the apartment.
With him.
With Erik.
With that dick print still burned into her screen.
With that last text still hanging in the air.
Her phone buzzed again. She snatched it quick, face tilted away from the bathroom, thumb opening the thread before she could change her mind.
Erik: That lil’ drip don’t scare me, Bri.
Shit look perfect. Fat ass pussy lookin like it need to be ate through the fabric.
She felt her breath catch. Spine straightening. Another one came through right after.
Erik: You got all that pussy sittin up pretty and you still playin like I won’t put you on ya back and feed. I’ma lick it till you cry, slut. Then fuck you so deep you forget your name.
Her legs crossed tight. She folded over just a little, pretending to reach for something in her bag. In truth, she just needed to breathe. She could feel the heat rising again, thick between her thighs. Her panties clinging worse than before. Every word from him sending sparks through her chest, straight down her belly.
She whimpered under her breath.
Low. Soft.
Her thighs squeezed again.
Aaliyah’s voice floated from the bathroom, still talking shit about Jordan’s playlist and how he always played the same Gunna song on repeat. Sanaa barely heard her. She was staring at her screen like it had her under a spell. Her lips parted, breathing shaky, one hand pressed flat against her stomach like she could hold it all in. But she couldn’t. She wanted him bad. Bad enough her whole body was pulsing for it.
Sanaa felt her phone buzz again.
Another text.
She knew it was him before she even looked. Her hands were already shaking. The ache between her legs had gone from something soft to something deep. Her whole body felt wired, charged, too aware of the man just a few steps away behind that bedroom door. Erik wasn’t teasing anymore. He was taunting now. And she was the one who started it. She sat on the edge of the bed while Aaliyah kept rambling from the bathroom about lashes and lip combos. Sanaa barely heard a word. All she could focus on was that little arrow in the corner of her screen.
Incoming video from Erik. She tapped it. And baby…that shit opened like a floodgate.
Erik was in his room. Lights low. The TV in the background still glowing, 2K music humming faint under it, but all the attention was on him. He stood in front of his full-length mirror, one hand holding the phone low, filming himself from the perfect angle. His tank was lifted halfway up with his other hand, exposing his hard stomach, deep-cut abs flexed, muscles twitching every time he moved. Locs hanging in his face, jaw tight like he was trying not to say what he was really thinking.
Then he gripped it.
Right through the fabric of his grey joggers, his hand wrapped around that thick ass dick like it belonged on display. Slow. Purposeful. He tugged at the base, squeezing through the material, and it only made that dick print bolder. It rose up heavy. You could see the whole length, thick from the root, wide and mean, curving slightly as it swelled against the soft cotton. The shape of it clear as day. That type of dick that made you question if you were even built for it. The kind that pushed back. That moved when he touched it. It jumped once in his pants when he flexed, and she gasped. Couldn’t stop herself. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes low in the mirror. Then he looked into the camera, and that’s when it hit her in the chest.
That stare.
Dark. Calm. Possessive.
Like he could see right through her. He said nothing in the video. Didn’t have to. Because that look said it all. Look said: You wanna play, baby girl? Bet. He kept rubbing that dick through his pants, slow strokes that showed just how long and heavy he was. The camera dipped a little lower — not too much, just enough to catch the way the fabric stretched tight over the tip, swollen and pulsing, like it was trying to punch through.
And then the video ended. Just like that.
Sanaa was trembling.
A mess.
She felt like she couldn’t breathe, like the heat in her panties had become unbearable. Her pussy was slick, no, wet. That good wet. Sticky. Her thighs pressed together in a panic and it only made it worse. She wanted to squirm. To grind. To touch. But Aaliyah was still in the bathroom. Still talking. Still moments from walking out and leaving Sanaa completely alone.
With him.
Another message popped through.
Erik:Yeah you still playin’. Drippin for me already, huh? But you not ready. Not for this dick. Not for what I’ma do when I get my hands on that lil pussy.
She whimpered again. This time, too loud.
Aaliyah paused, “You good?”
“Yeah,” Sanaa choked out, clearing her throat, “Just… stomach cramp.”
“Mmm. Prolly hungry. You be forgetting to eat.”
Sanaa didn’t answer. Her head was down. Hair falling around her face as she clutched her phone to her chest, her other hand pressing down hard against her stomach, trying to soothe the ache that wasn’t from hunger. She needed to get it together. Fast. Because Erik wasn’t letting up.
Aaliyah spun once in front of her mirror, lips glossy, curls pinned up in a soft, coiled halo. Her shoulders were bare, dusted in cocoa shimmer, the neckline of her sweater dress dipping just enough to be flirty but still dinner-appropriate.
“Okay, okay,” she said, turning to Sanaa. “Be honest. Is it givin’?”
Sanaa looked her up and down from the bed, chin in her hand, “It’s givin’,” she nodded, “Soft serve caramel dream. You good.”
Aaliyah grinned, “Thank you, bitch.”
Then—
Knock knock.
They both froze.
“Oh God,” Aaliyah muttered, grabbing her compact, “That’s him.”
Another knock, this one firmer.
Then Erik’s deep voice called from down the hall: “I got it.”
Aaliyah’s eyes widened in alarm, “No, no. Sanaa—go with him! Make sure he don’t try nothin’. You know how he is!”
Sanaa stood, already feeling the heat crawl up the back of her neck, “Ain’t my job to babysit—”
“Sanaa,” Aaliyah whined, eyes pleading.
She rolled her eyes, but her feet were already moving. Each step down the hallway made her skin feel tighter, her chest heavier. And there he was, already unlocking the front door, joggers slung low on his hips, body radiating that heavy, hot quiet he always wore when he didn’t like something.
That door creaked open like a challenge. Then came him.
Jordan.
Tall. 6’1”, maybe 6’2”. Warm bronze skin, lined-up fade with neat braids tied back. Sharp cheekbones, a watch that said money but humble. Button-up and slacks. Smooth smile with a dimple just beneath his left cheek.
Sanaa clocked all of it in one sweep.
He stepped forward, “Hey,” he greeted, voice low, polite, Then he turned to Erik, “You must be Erik. Jordan Taylor.”
He extended a hand. Erik stared at it like it was a dare. Then took it. Not a shake. A squeeze. Sanaa saw the subtle flex of Erik’s forearm. How Jordan held it, calm, not backing down. The silence between them was louder than the knock had been.
Erik’s voice came like gravel, “You pick her up, you bring her back. Same way.”
Jordan gave a single nod, “Of course. Got her the whole night.”
Erik’s jaw ticked, “You better.”
Jordan looked at her, expression shifting softer, “You must be Sanaa?”
She tilted her head, smiling just enough, “Guilty.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said with ease.
And then Aaliyah appeared. The effect was instant. Jordan’s whole face softened. Eyes swept over her like he forgot how to blink.
“Damn,” he exhaled, “You look…”
Aaliyah laughed, touched his arm, “You too.”
They left out together, light on their feet. Jordan’s hand brushed Aaliyah’s lower back as she stepped ahead of him, laughing at something he said under his breath. She looked like she knew she was the main character. Like the city lights outside were hers to walk into.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Silence settled.
Sanaa stood near the arm of the couch, phone still in hand, pulse tickin’ too fast in her neck. The soft glow from the lamp cast long shadows on the floor, but Erik stood out like a damn silhouette. Still in that tank top. Still barefoot. Still brooding. He was by the window now. Arms crossed over that thick chest, jaw set. His locs hung just enough to shadow his eyes, but she didn’t need to see ’em to feel it. That look was already on her. Slowly, he turned. His stare dragged over her like it had weight. And Sanaa—she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just held it. Her lips parted. Barely. But nothing came out. The tension between them was sharp. Thick. Like it could be pulled apart and tied around her throat.
Erik’s eyes dropped once. To her mouth. Then lower. Then back up. Still not a word. And just when she thought he might speak—might finally say some slick shit to push her over—he turned.
Walked off without a glance.
Broad back disappearing down the hallway. Heavy steps. Calm like a storm moving in. Sanaa just stood there, breath shallow, thighs pressed tight, heart knocking.
Then her phone buzzed. And she knew—he wasn’t done
Erik: I’ma fuck my name into that pussy.
Erik’s door was shut.
That alone made her nerves scream.
Sanaa walked past it slow, barefoot on the hardwood, every step deliberate like the apartment might hear her thinking too loud. The living room felt different now. Too quiet. Too charged. Like the air itself was waiting on something to pop off. She didn’t look at his door when she passed it. Didn’t dare. But her body felt it anyway. The heat coming from behind that wood. The weight of him on the other side, knowing she was there. Knowing she was alone now.
She slipped into her room and shut the door softly behind her.
Click.
The sound landed heavy.
She leaned back against it for a second, eyes closed, chest rising and falling too fast. Her phone was in her hand, screen dark. No texts. No commands. No permission. And that almost made it worse. She peeled her clothes off slow. Jeans first, sliding them down her hips, stepping out of them like she had all the time in the world. Her panties were already damp, clinging in that needy way she hated and loved at the same time. She left them on. On purpose.
She pulled on an oversized tee. Old. Soft. A vintage rock band shirt that used to belong to somebody else, sleeves stretched, hem falling mid-thigh. It slipped off one shoulder when she moved, exposing smooth brown skin and the strap of her bra. The fabric brushed against her nipples every time she breathed and they were already tight, already sensitive, already betraying her. She sat on the edge of the bed and bounced her knee, restless. Hands fidgeting. Fingers digging into her thigh, then her stomach, then her chest like she didn’t know where to put them.
Her body felt loud. Her pussy felt louder.
A deep ache sat between her legs, low and constant, not sharp but heavy. Like something was pressing from the inside out. Like she was full of anticipation instead of anything solid. Her thighs pressed together without her telling them to, the slick heat between them making her suck in a breath through her teeth.
She’d been waiting for this. That truth settled in her chest and didn’t move.
Waiting since the first time she caught him watching her from across the room. Waiting since the first time his voice dropped when he said her name. Waiting through every almost-touch, every too-long stare, every moment she pretended she wasn’t thinking about how he’d feel on top of her. Inside her. Over her. Making her behave.
This was her moment. And she was scared as hell.
Not scared of him. Scared of herself. Of how bad she wanted to walk down that hall, open his door, and offer herself up just like he said. Knees soft. Head tilted. Mouth ready.
She stood up. Her heart thudded hard, heavy, like it was trying to talk her out of it and failing. She smoothed the shirt down, pushed her shoulders back, lifted her chin. Took a breath that didn’t steady her at all.
Then she walked to her bedroom door. Her hand wrapped around the knob. Warm. Slightly slick.
She opened it.
And he was right there.
Close.
Too close.
Sanaa gasped before she could stop herself. The sound caught in her throat, sharp and soft all at once. Her body reacted faster than her mind. Chest jumping. Thighs tightening. That ache flaring hot and needy. Erik stood in the hallway like he’d been waiting the whole time. Locs loose around his face. His presence filled the space between them instantly, heavy and undeniable. His eyes dropped to her shoulder, the way the shirt slipped, the bare skin offered up without her meaning to.
Then his gaze lifted. Locked on hers. Her breath shook. She didn’t step back.
The door behind her was still open. Her room exposed. Her bed visible over her shoulder. Everything about her right there for him to take in. And the silence between them was thick enough to choke on.
She swallowed.
He didn’t touch her. Not yet. But the way he moved toward her felt like contact all the same.
Erik stepped in close. One step. Another. Measured. Intentional. His shoulders filled the narrow space and the quiet hum of the hall seemed to fade under the weight of him. She backed up without thinking, breath catching low in her chest, until her spine met the cool wall.
He kept walking.
Not rushing. Not crowding her clumsily. Just closing in at a pace that said he already knew she wasn’t going anywhere. His eyes locked on hers the entire time, that low heat building the longer neither of them spoke.
Sanaa felt her pulse throb at the base of her throat. Erik lifted his arms, planted his palms flat against the wall on either side of her head, and that simple motion swallowed the rest of the hallway. The muscles in his forearms flexed. His scent curled into the tiny pocket of space between them. She could feel the warmth coming off his chest even though they weren’t touching.
A small, stunned breath slipped out of her.
He didn’t move closer. He didn’t lean all the way in. He didn’t even let his body graze hers. He just stood there, caging her in, staring down at her like he was deciding what to do with a temptation he had tried too long to ignore. The silence stretched tight. Heat wound through her ribs. Sanaa lifted her chin a little, eyes meeting his with the same guarded intensity he came in with, but it didn’t hold. Not against the way he looked at her. Not against the quiet storm rolling behind his eyes. Her composure began to soften. The edges of it loosened. Her lips parted. Her gaze slipped from his eyes to his mouth, then back up again.
Erik saw every shift. Every flicker.
His chest rose slow, fell slow, like he was working to keep himself steady. The lights overhead cast a warm glow over his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the tightness around his eyes where control sat heavy. His height boxed her in. His presence pressed against her without a single point of contact. Sanaa’s breath quickened. Not frantic. Just…aware. Aware of him. Aware of the heat rising low in her stomach. Aware of the subtle ache forming before he ever laid a finger on her. Her back stayed flat against the wall. Her thighs eased together for no reason except the way he looked at her.
His eyes dipped. Slow. Deliberate. Down her face, over her lips, then back to her gaze like he wanted to see if she’d break.
She did. Just a little.
Her lashes lowered in a slow blink. Her breathing deepened. Her lips stayed parted. Her heartbeat pulsed all through her, tightening, waiting, wanting something she wasn’t going to say first. Erik shifted his weight slightly forward, and the change in proximity alone sent a warm rush down her spine. He still didn’t touch her. But his presence filled her senses so completely that her body reacted as if he had. Her throat bobbed in a swallow. Her voice didn’t come. The air felt thick, too charged to cut through with anything foolish like a word.
He stayed like that, looking down at her while the tension built between their bodies. That subtle, slow pull that crept from silence to desire. Her fingers curled against the wall. Her breath brushed the front of his shirt. Her pulse fluttered wild beneath her skin. And Erik let the stare hold. So heavy. So intense. So slow that it pulled her deeper into it, inch by inch. Her face shifted again, the last bit of resistance slipping. Desire sat openly in her eyes now, warm and unguarded. Her gaze traced his lips again before settling back on him. Her chest lifted in a small inhale that pressed her body closer to the invisible line between them.
Erik’s jaw tensed. That was all he let himself show. But it was enough for her to feel it. The air tightened. Their breath mingled. A quiet, electric charge coiled in the center of that hallway like something ready to strike if one of them leaned even an inch closer. She didn’t touch him. He didn’t touch her. But the need sat thick in the space between their mouths, almost tangible. Almost warm enough to feel.
Erik didn’t push his body into hers. He didn’t lift a hand. He didn’t rush a single inch. But he dipped his head, lowering it until his locs brushed the side of her cheek like a dark curtain falling around them.
Sanaa’s breath stuttered.
He exhaled slow. Warm. Steady. The kind of breath that felt like it traveled straight through her skin. Her knees threatened to give just from the heat of it. Her pulse fluttered wildly against the wall behind her spine.
Then, right against her ear, low enough to curl her toes, he confessed.
“I want you.”
Not loud. Not soft. But certain, like gravity.
Sanaa shut her eyes because her body reacted before she could stop it. A shiver climbed her back, small and sharp, as if those three words reached places he hadn’t even touched.
He waited for that reaction. Savored it. Then his voice brushed her again, deeper now, “But you already knew that, huh?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her lips parted, but the sound didn’t come. Her chest rose in a trembling breath, the silence itself exposing everything she thought she was hiding.
Erik angled his head a little, eyes on her like he could see straight through her, “You ain’t even gotta say it,” he said, voice thick with heat, “Cuz you want me too. That’s why you teasing me so much, right?”
Sanaa’s teeth caught the corner of her lip. Slow. Soft. Almost like a plea disguised as hesitation. Her gaze lifted, locking with his, and the look she gave him was the closest thing to surrender without a single word spoken.
He leaned in until their faces were almost touching, breath mingling, both of them pulled tight into the moment, “Worked so hard to break me,” he spoke low, voice steady and low as his eyes dragged over her mouth, “And it worked.”
Her stomach tightened.
He dipped closer, bringing his lips to the point where she could feel the warmth of them without contact. Her breath caught with a soft, shaky sound as he continued, “Because now…” The words ghosted her mouth. His breath slid across her lips, light enough to set off sparks under her skin, “…now I’ma show you what happens when you provoke me, lil miss ‘I want my best friend’s older brother to fuck me.’”
Sanaa’s expression changed instantly. Desire pulled her features soft and dreamy. Lips parted. Eyes low, heavy-lidded, almost dazed. Like he’d taken her legs out from under her without even touching her.
She still didn’t speak. Her silence told on her.
Erik watched that look spread over her, studied it like he wanted to memorize every shift. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as if considering her, “Now…” he said quietly, “what to do about that…”
His gaze dropped down her body, slow enough to make her breathing quicken, then back up. He lifted his hand a fraction, not touching her, just bringing it close enough for her to feel the heat coming off his skin. His voice deepened, “These scars?” His free hand rose between them, palm turned slightly so she could see the patterns carved into his skin, “Each one for a kill.”
Her breath hitched hard, chest lifting in a trembling inhale.
“You sure you wanna go there with me?” he asked, tone steady as a pulse, “Cuz I don’t fuck like them lil niggas you prolly used to.” He bent a little closer. Close enough that her lips grazed his breath again, “That jackhammer shit?” His eyes lowered to her mouth, “Nah.” His voice dropped to something dark. Something dangerous. Something that wrapped around her spine and pulled her forward without touch, “I’ma leave my dick print in your guts for the rest of your fuckin life, girl.”
Her inhale broke. Quiet. Sharp. Her lips parted wider. Her knees pressed together. Her body trembled with a reaction she couldn’t hide. And she still didn’t speak. But she didn’t need to. He could feel her answer in the heat between them. Erik let a soft chuckle slip out of him, low in his chest, dangerous in that quiet way men sound when they know they have you trembling. It carved into the tight space between them and hit Sanaa right in her stomach. His single dimple dipped into his cheek, that little flash of softness wrapped around something entirely unsoft. He licked his lips once, a slow sweep of his tongue across the bottom one, gold slugs glinting under the hallway light.
Then he spoke, “You ever heard of a grind, baby girl?” His voice rolled over her skin like warm smoke, “Ever seen it? I’m sure you have…girl like you prolly got a whole bookmark saved on your Twitter…”
Her reaction was instant. Immediate. Almost physical in a way that made her embarrassed to breathe. A pulse throbbed between her thighs so sharp she nearly whimpered. Heat flooded her underwear so fast she felt it soak straight through the cotton, sticky and warm against her skin. Her nipples tightened under her tank, pushing hard against the fabric, so sensitive they tingled at the slightest shift in air between them. Goosebumps rose along her arms and belly, a shiver rolling up her spine like a slow electric climb.
And all he did was talk.
Erik watched the way she reacted, watched the tension in her throat, the small way she pulled in a breath she couldn’t hide. He leaned closer, his words dropping lower, “I fuck to make you feel me,” he said, that deep timbre sinking into her bones, “And I don’t rush it. I ain’t chasing a nut. I’m aiming to make you melt, baby.”
Her thighs pressed tight together.
“That’s what a grown man do.”
Sanaa’s lips parted again, barely a sound leaving her. Her breath shook. Her chest rose and fell in soft, uneven pulls like she couldn’t catch herself. Erik lifted his hand slowly, so slow she felt each inch of anticipation travel up her nerves. He didn’t grab her. He didn’t grip. He used a single knuckle and stroked her cheek with a touch so careful it sent a hot, aching wave straight through her middle.
He bit his bottom lip as he looked at her, “You so damn pretty, Nae Nae.”
The nickname hit deeper because of the way he said it. Low. Possessive. Like she had no idea what she was doing to him.
“Had a nigga shook when you walked out with them lil ass shorts on.” His eyes darkened, “I was like mmm…fuuuck. This Sanaa? Lil shy, quiet, hiding in the corner Sanaa?” His gaze swept down her body, slow enough to make her stomach clench again. He took in every curve, every shift in her breathing, the way her nipples pressed hard against her top, the way she couldn’t keep her thighs still anymore. His voice dropped to something that touched her like a hand, “Thoughts ran through my mind…” He took one breath. Let it sit, “Like damn. I know she taste real good.”
Her knees almost buckled.
“I’d slurp her up. Dip my tongue in that pretty pink puss…”
A soft sound escaped her throat, almost too faint to hear, but he caught it. Her eyes went dreamy, unfocused, pupils blown wide. Her lips stayed parted. Her chest trembled.
She was ruined.
Standing there with her back against the wall, sweating under the intensity of him, panties soaked through, nipples hard enough to ache, breath coming in shallow, shaky pulls because she had never been this turned on without a single touch.
And he knew it.
“You like the way I’m talkin’ to you, lil baby?” His voice was dark silk, slow and dragging, dipped in something slick that made her toes curl in her shoes. Sanaa nodded, slow and dazed, like her body answered before her brain could catch up. Erik tsk’d. A low sound of disappointment that made her shiver, “Uh-uh,” he said, tilting his head slightly, eyes burning into hers, “Open your mouth. Don’t act mute now.”
It took effort to speak. Her lips parted around a tiny whisper, “Yes.”
He smiled at that. Not a kind smile. Not a gentle one. The kind that showed he had her exactly where he wanted her. The kind that made her thighs clench harder and her panties feel wetter than she even thought possible. The fabric was sticking now, warm and soaked and clinging between her legs like she’d already been touched.
“Why you want me so bad?” he asked, licking his bottom lip slow, “Tired of the same old sorry ass dick?”
Her mouth fell open slightly, eyes heavy-lidded. He saw the answer before she gave it, but he wanted to hear it anyway.
“You wanna see what I can do to that pretty pussy?”
Sanaa shifted where she stood. Her hips rocked forward a little, like her body needed to move, needed to do something about the ache pooling in her core. She bit her lip, then nodded once—then again, slower, “Yes.”
Erik’s voice dipped lower, rougher now, dragging the words out like he wanted her to feel each one between her legs, “Want me to open you up?”
Sanaa’s breath hitched. Her back arched slightly, nipples hard as diamonds beneath her shirt, brushing against the fabric with every breath she took.
“You ain’t scared it’s gon’ be too much?”
She tilted her head the tiniest bit, tongue resting in the corner of her mouth, her expression hazy and thick with heat. Her lashes fluttered as her gaze dropped, then lifted back to his, “Mmm mmm.”
His eyebrow arched, “What’s mmm mmm?” he asked, smile deepening with a hint of threat, “I don’t know what that is. Words.”
Sanaa blinked slow, eyes low, lips wet, “No, daddy.”
The silence thickened around them.
Erik’s jaw twitched. He bit down on his bottom lip, those gold slugs gleaming just behind it, nostrils flaring slightly as he inhaled through his nose. Her calling him that—soft, sweet, no hesitation—sent a pulse straight to his dick. He hadn’t even touched her yet and she was dripping, trembling, mouth half-open like she’d been fucked already.
“Oh,” he said, voice rough and low, “Shit…so you ain’t scared then?”
The way she said it? Soft but certain. Sticky sweet like syrup down the back of his throat. Her pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-swollen, and the front of her panties now damn near ruined—wet enough she’d have to peel them off. Erik pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and bit down on his lip again, hard this time, fighting the urge to devour her right then and there. She was ready. He could see it in the glassy look in her eyes. He could smell it between them. Could feel it in the heat she was radiating off her skin like steam rising from a kettle.
And she still hadn’t even been touched. Not once.
All this?
Just from his voice.
Erik’s fingers hooked in the hem of her shirt. Slow. Intentional. He lifted it just high enough to expose the waistband of her panties—soft cotton, soaked straight through in the center. His eyes lingered. He didn’t touch her yet, not really. Just looked. Took his time like a man admiring something he already knew he was about to own.
“Look at you,” he said under his breath, “Got this lil’ pussy cryin’. She know who it belong to.”
Sanaa’s breath caught. Her thighs squeezed together, trying to ease the ache, but it only made it worse. She could feel how wet she was, the heat slick and obscene against her skin. Erik noticed—of course he did.
“Uh uh,” he said, nudging her thighs apart with just the press of his knee between hers, “Don’t hide that shit. Lemme see what I did.”
Her breath shuddered. She didn’t move away. Didn’t resist. She let him part her legs, just slightly, standing in front of him like a girl about to be unwrapped.
He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear, voice thick with dark promise, “I’m gon’ stretch you, Sanaa. Real slow. Real deep. Make sure this tight lil’ pussy remember me.”
She whimpered. Actually whimpered. It spilled out unplanned, soft and sweet, like her body responded before she could stop it.
Erik grinned against her jaw, grazing her skin with the tips of his teeth. “Yeah,” he drawled, “you gone learn tonight.”
Then he stepped back just a little—enough to look down her body, enough to see her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her shirt. He ran his thumb over one slowly, watching the way her lips parted like it shocked her, how her hips tilted like her pussy was clenching again.
“You this sensitive?” he asked, low and amused, “Wait til’ I taste this pussy. You gon’ melt when I do.”
Sanaa nodded, lips glossy, voice barely a whisper, “Please…”
He smirked, eyes still locked on her, “Please what?”
She swallowed, “T-Touch me…”
Erik’s head tilted, tongue dragging slow across his bottom lip, “Where you want me to touch you, baby?”
Sanaa’s lips quivered. Her body leaned into his like she couldn’t hold herself upright anymore.
“My pussy,” she whispered, followed by a soft whine.
“Mmm.” He let out a low hum, eyes never leaving hers, “Say it louder. I need to know you mean that shit.”
She hesitated, only for a second. Then she looked him dead in the eye and said it again—this time stronger. Hungrier.
“Touch my pussy, daddy.”
His hand was on her before she finished the word. One broad palm slid down the front of her panties, cupping her through the soaked fabric. Warm. Heavy. Possessive. His fingers pressed in—just enough to feel the heat, the pulse, the mess she’d made. He groaned low in his throat.
“Goddamn, girl…you wet like I already been in it.”
Sanaa’s eyes fluttered. Her knees weakened.
He slid a finger beneath the waistband, dipped in slow and deep until he touched her bare. Wet, slick, hot. His finger slid through the mess she’d made, knuckle deep, and her mouth dropped open in a silent cry.
“There it go,” Erik rasped, “Told you I was gon’ open you up.”
Sanaa whimpered again, thighs shaking, her body trying to close around his hand, but he held her still. His finger worked deeper, curved just right, and her back arched, hands gripping his forearms like she needed to hold onto something solid.
“You feel that?” he said, voice thick, “That stretch?”
She nodded fast, moaning through clenched teeth.
“Don’t run,” he warned, voice a deep growl, “I’m not even two fingers in yet. I’m just warmin’ you up.”
Sanaa was panting now. Sweating. Dripping, “Erik…”
He kissed her neck. Then sucked it. Let his teeth graze her skin as he slid another finger inside.
She gasped—loud this time.
He smiled, “There she go.”
Her body jerked. She was clenching around his fingers, wetness coating his palm now, and Erik just kept working them in slow, deep strokes. Not fast. Not rushed. Just pressure and rhythm and filth.
“You said teach you how to take it, right?”
She nodded, desperate, whimpering.
“Say it again,” he growled in her ear, thumb now circling her clit slow.
“Teach me, daddy,” she cried, voice shaking. “Please—show me how to take it.”
“Oh I’ma show your greedy ass. And you bet not forget a single stroke.” He pulled his fingers out, soaked and shining, then brought them to her lips, “Taste what I do to you.”
She didn’t even hesitate. Mouth opened. Tongue out. She sucked his fingers clean while moaning, eyes rolling back just a little from the taste. And Erik? Erik’s dick jumped hard in his sweats.
“Yeah,” he whispered, voice low as hell, “You mine now.”
Sanaa whimpered.
Erik’s dick brushed her belly through his joggers, thick and heavy, and her breath hitched on impact. She felt it—hot through the cotton, thick enough to make her blink slow and look down. The print was obscene. Long, fat, curving toward his hip with the kind of weight that made her thighs tense again. Her tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth like instinct, lips parting on a shaky breath. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Erik saw the way she looked. The way her gaze dropped and stayed there. His voice was all heat, low and pleased.
“Go ‘head, miss greedy. Rub me.”
Sanaa’s hand moved on its own. Slow. Careful. She brought it down between them and pressed her palm against the thick ridge stretching his joggers.
The heat met her first.
It was warm through the fabric—almost hot—and stiff as hell. Thick. Her fingers trembled when they brushed the full weight of it. Not just long but wide, heavy, meaty in a way she wasn’t used to. It curved slightly to the left, and she could feel the exact shape of it pressing into her palm even through the joggers. Her whole hand didn’t wrap around it at first. She had to adjust her grip, slide her palm across the length of it and back again.
“Shit…” she moaned.
She hadn’t meant to say it. But it slipped out anyway, whispered under her breath as her fingers stroked over the bulge again. She applied more pressure. Felt it throb in response. The whole thing jumped against her hand and she froze for a second, thighs clenching, her pussy clenching too. Sanaa stared, mesmerized. Watching the way her fingers moved over the thick ridge, seeing the way it swelled, how the head of it sat high and proud against the front of his joggers. That tip had a little dent where the fabric gave in, already damp from the precum leaking steady beneath. She gave a slow stroke up, then back down, palm flat. Then she did it again—this time wrapping her fingers just a little, rubbing it like she was warming it up. The way it twitched told her everything. That dick was alive. Pulsing in her grip. Hard as hell and still growing.
“This dick big as fuck…” she whispered, eyes wide, lips parted.
Erik grinned, head tilting just enough to let her see the glint of gold across his teeth, “Uh-huh,” he said, deep and smug, chest rising slow, “And that’s before I even pull it out.”
Sanaa didn’t say anything at first. She just kept rubbing. Her thumb traced the vein she could feel through the fabric. Her fingers closed tighter, sliding down toward the base. He was thick all the way through. No taper. No mercy. The feel of him in her hand was almost too much. Her panties, already soaked, felt wetter now. Sticky against her folds. Every slow drag of her hand across him made her clench tighter, made her want more. Her body reacted on instinct, hips shifting, breath catching.
She wanted to see it. Needed to.
She let her fingers linger low, pressing just under the head. The wet spot was bigger now. She felt it with her thumb and let out a soft breath.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
Her thighs were trembling.
Erik watched her, eyes dark with amusement, “That wetness yours or mine?”
She blinked. Looked up at him with that same dazed heat in her eyes.
“Both,” she said, almost too quiet.
That made him smile harder. He reached down and gripped the waistband of his joggers, “You wanna see what you been rubbing on?”
Sanaa nodded, hand still holding him.
“Say it,” he said, “Ask for it like a good girl.”
She hesitated only a second, then licked her lips, “Lemme see your dick, daddy.” She damn near begged, slightly tugging downward on his length.
He dragged his pants down slow. Not all the way—just low enough to free the monster she’d been teasing.
And there it was.
It dropped out, heavy and thick, no underwear in the way. The shaft curved up slightly, thick at the base, even thicker near the middle, and the head was fat and flushed dark with blood. A glistening bead sat right at the tip.
Sanaa’s breath caught in her throat.
It was the kind of dick that made you pause. Not just long—long and pretty, veins rising along the sides like a roadmap for the way he was about to rearrange her guts.
She stared. Couldn’t look away.
“You still greedy?” Erik asked, voice thick. Brow arched. Lips slightly parted and gold slugs peaking.
Sanaa nodded slowly. Her hand moved again, fingers wrapping around him bare this time. The difference was insane. She felt the skin glide under her palm. The heat of it. The throb. She gave one slow stroke down and felt the weight pull. Another stroke up. Her thumb swiped the leaking tip. His whole body flexed.
“You sure?” he asked again, eyes steady on hers, “Cuz once I put this dick in you, you not gon’ be the same.”
Sanaa moaned, low and desperate, “I don’t wanna be the same…”
Erik grinned, “Say less.”
She stood in front of him like she was made to fit there—head tilted slightly, lips parted just enough, chest rising slow like she was bracing for something that already had her trembling. Erik brought his hand up and wrapped it around the side of her neck. Not rough, not choking, but heavy. Possessive. His palm was warm against her throat, thumb resting right beneath her jaw, fingers spread behind her ear, holding her still. Sanaa’s breath caught when he leaned in close. His face inches from hers. So close she could feel the heat of his breath, the slow drag of it over her mouth. His nose brushed hers—once, then again—and she let her eyes flutter closed.
But he didn’t kiss her.
Not yet.
His lips hovered over hers, soft but never touching. The anticipation made her knees weak, “Breathe,” he whispered.
She did. Shaky and shallow.
Their mouths finally touched—barely. A soft graze. A tease. Sanaa’s lips parted with a soft gasp. Her body leaned into him more, but he still didn’t kiss her. He held her there, right on the edge, the tension sharp enough to snap. Then—slow as sin—he stuck his tongue out and dragged it across her lips. Just once. Just enough to make her moan. The sound came from her gut. A low, feminine ache slipping past her throat like her body couldn’t keep it in.
Erik chuckled low. The sound rumbled between them. His thumb lifted slightly, tilting her chin, “Open.”
That one word held weight. It rolled off his tongue like a command dressed in velvet.
And she obeyed.
Her lips parted, her mouth soft and waiting. She didn’t even blink. She just gave herself to it—whatever this was. The gravity between them. The way it pulled. Erik’s lips met hers in full this time. Hot and slow. Tongue first, pushing past the seam of her lips, tasting her, pulling her under.
Sanaa melted.
Her mouth opened wider to meet his. Their tongues met in the middle—slick and slow, sliding over each other like silk. He kissed her like he had all the time in the world, like he was determined to make her feel every second of it. Their lips smacked softly in the quiet room. No rush. No desperation. Just heat. Slow grind. Deep pulls of breath between them. Sanaa’s hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt. Her head tilted to the side, and Erik followed her movement, adjusting the angle like they were dancing.
Because that’s what it felt like.
A dance.
Their mouths moved like partners—tilting, swaying, deepening. Every time they came up for air, they went right back in. Lips brushing, then sealing. Tongues swiping, teasing, pressing. His hand never left her throat. His thumb stroked slow under her chin while his other hand slid down her waist and pulled her closer. Her body molded against him now. She kissed him like she’d been waiting years for it. Like it was already a memory and a prophecy at the same time. He tasted like warmth. Like power and salt and something a little dangerous. Sanaa moaned again, louder this time. Erik swallowed it. Kissed her harder. He deepened the kiss, sucked her bottom lip, then dragged his tongue along it again. Her knees buckled, and he caught her with a firm hand around her waist.
“Uh uh,” he whispered into her mouth, “I got you.”
He kissed her again before she could answer. Tongue diving, then pulling back, then diving again. He kissed her like he was mapping her, like her mouth had secrets only he could read.
And she let him.
Every soft moan, every tremble, every breath she took—she gave it to him. Their foreheads touched for a moment when they finally broke the kiss, breath mingling, lips still brushing.
Neither of them spoke. The kiss said it all. Sanaa couldn’t breathe right.
Her lips were still parted, swollen from the kiss. Her chest heaved in soft, shallow bursts. She tried to steady herself, tried to blink the haze away, but her body betrayed her. Her thighs clenched tight. Her hands trembled. Her knees? Useless. She was trying to keep it together, but the pressure between her legs was unbearable now. It throbbed—hot, slick, begging. He hadn’t even fucked her yet, and her pussy already felt like she’d been touched, like she’d been worked over and left wet and needy for more. She took a step back, hoping it would help her catch herself, but that only brought her closer to the wall—and Erik? He followed. Didn’t even give her space to speak. He saw her trying to breathe through it. Saw her lips twitching like she wanted to say something but couldn’t get the words out. His gaze dipped to her chest, watching the rise and fall. Then back to her lips. His jaw ticked.
That was all the warning she got.
Suddenly, Erik’s arms were around her, solid and sure. He picked her up like she weighed nothing—gripped her thick thighs and hoisted her clean off the ground.
All muscle. All power.
He handled her like his arms were made for it. Like he’d been waiting for the moment he could lift her, press her against something, and kiss her breath away again. Sanaa gasped, arms wrapping around his shoulders on instinct. Her legs spread and clung around his waist, locking behind him.
“Erik—”
She barely got the name out before his mouth crashed back into hers.
This kiss wasn’t gentle.
This one was hungry.
Messy.
Hot.
Lips sliding, tongues dancing, breath stealing. He kissed her like he was feeding off her. Like he needed the taste of her just to breathe. Her back slammed gently against the door to her bedroom. The sudden jolt made her moan against his mouth. He gripped her tighter. One hand under her thigh, the other sliding up her back to hold the back of her head as he kissed her deeper. Tongues tangled. Lips smacked. She was losing track of where her body ended and his began. Her pussy pulsed hard behind her panties, slick and ready, soaking through the fabric and no doubt pressing into the front of his joggers. She was riding that line between need and madness now, whimpering into his mouth, clinging to him like she couldn’t get close enough.
His voice broke through the kiss in pieces, heavy against her lips, “You tryna hold it together?” he asked, his mouth brushing hers, breath hot.
Sanaa nodded against him, then shook her head, then nodded again. She didn’t know. Her brain was gone. He kissed her again. A deep, slow drag of tongue that made her stomach flip and her toes curl behind his back.
“Nah,” he breathed, “Don’t fight it. Let that shit go.”
He grinded against her as he said it. Slow. Thick. Letting her feel every inch of that heavy dick pressed against the throb between her legs. She moaned into his mouth again—louder this time. And her legs tightened around him like a vice. She tried to hold back, tried to stay quiet, but it was impossible. He kissed her again and again and again, each time deeper, messier, wetter. Their mouths didn’t separate for more than a second. They kissed like they were possessed. Like they’d been starving and just found their first meal. The door behind her rattled. Her bedroom. She reached back blindly and fumbled for the handle. Erik chuckled against her lips, still kissing her, still grinding that dick against her soaked core through their clothes.
“Go ‘head,” he said, dragging his lips down her jaw, “Open that door and show me where I’m ‘bout to fuck your lil’ ass up.”
Sanaa’s fingers shook as they found the handle.
Click.
The door swung open behind her. And Erik walked them in. Still holding her. Still kissing her like he owned every breath in her lungs.
He didn’t slam it.
He cracked it. Left it open just enough. Like he wanted the night to hear what was about to happen. Like he needed the air to move around them, carry the scent of her arousal into the walls. Sanaa’s back hit the bed soft as he laid her down. His hands lingered, holding her there for a second, palms wide on her thighs like he wasn’t ready to let go yet. Her chest rose, lips still parted from all the kissing, her body twitching beneath him like it didn’t know what to do with itself.
She was breathless. Eyes glassy. Skin hot.
“Damn…” she whispered, blinking slow.
Erik stood over her, tall and dark in the shadows of her room, chest rising as he took in the sight of her laid out like that—hair fanned against the pillow, shirt tugged up just enough to show a strip of brown stomach, panties sticking to her soaked pussy like a second skin. He licked his bottom lip and shook his head once. Then he stepped between her legs.
She opened for him without thinking.
He reached down and grabbed her calves, both hands gripping firm, thumbs brushing over the curve of her legs. Then his hands slid lower—one to her ankle, the other to her foot. He lifted her legs gently. Set one foot on his chest. The other he held in his hand, thumbing the arch slow while watching her.
Then he kissed her ankle.
Once.
Then again.
And on the third kiss, he looked up at her and spoke.
“Why you play in your pussy and not ask for help?”
The question hit like a thud in her chest.
Sanaa’s breath caught. Her legs twitched in his hands. She gave a soft smile, trying to hide the way her thighs clenched.
“How would you have helped?” she asked, voice low, teasing.
Erik leaned forward, bending her legs back as he closed the space between them. His mouth hovered near hers, but he didn’t kiss her yet. Just spoke it, real slow, voice dragging like it was made to melt her.
“I would’ve instructed you on how to stroke it…what toy to use…how to make yourself cum.” His lips brushed hers on the last word, then trailed down to her jaw, “And when you were done?” he whispered, “I would’ve cleaned up the mess with my tongue.”
Sanaa whimpered, mouth falling open. Her hips lifted slightly, grinding up without her even meaning to. She was soaked now. Drenched. Her panties clung to her like a wet towel and Erik could feel it—smell it. It had him rock hard, that big fat dick of his pressing heavy against the damp cotton at her center. He leaned down between her legs, thick thighs spreading wide around his hips as he kissed her again. Deeper this time. Messier. His body settled against hers. That heavy dick dragging up against her slit, the pressure making her moan into his mouth.
Sanaa arched up into it.
She wrapped her arms around his back and pulled him in, her hands sliding everywhere. Over his arms—thick, veiny, strong. Over his chest—broad and warm beneath his fitted tee. Up the back of his neck—fingers slipping under his locs, rubbing slow at the base of his scalp.
“I love your body,” she said, soft and slow like a confession.
Erik pulled back just enough to look down at her.
That look he gave? Made her clit jump.
He cocked his head slightly, smiling like he knew he had her trembling and couldn’t wait to make it worse.
“What you love about it, baby girl?”
Sanaa sat up, chest pressed to his, legs still parted wide around his hips. Her hands traced the dip between his pecs, then slid across his chest—her nails soft against his shirt, then down to his waist. She reached beneath the fabric and slowly lifted it up, revealing the warm brown muscle beneath, the ridges of his abs, the sharp taper of his V-line. She pulled the tank over his head and dropped it on the floor.
Then she touched him again.
This time with both hands, tracing the scars that ran across his torso and arms. Her fingers moved gentle over them, no hesitation. She looked up at him the whole time—eyes low-lidded, mouth parted, her voice still that sexy hush that wrapped around him like velvet.
“I love the way you move,” she said, “How strong you are. How your arms feel when you carry me.” Her palm slid across his shoulder, then down his side, “I love your scars…they feel like stories.”
Erik swallowed, jaw flexing.
Then she leaned up and kissed one of the scars near his ribs. Her lips lingered, “And I like how dangerous you are.” Her eyes rose to meet his again. Slow. Steady. Full of something that made his dick twitch between her legs, “You don’t talk much. But I can feel it…all that heat underneath.”
Erik’s breath caught in his throat.
Sanaa tilted her head, voice even softer now. Sultry. Laced in that siren energy that made men forget who they were, “You’re the kind of man who ruins a woman right. That’s why I wanted you. Why I touched myself thinking about it. Why I waited for you to make the first move.” She leaned in close, lips brushing his, “You feel like danger,” she whispered, “And I wanna feel all of it.”
Erik’s hand wrapped around the side of her neck again. Gripped it firm, thumb brushing her jaw. He kissed her. Hard this time. Hungry again. Their bodies pressed close. That thick dick grinding right against her clit through the soaked barrier of her panties. Her back arched, moaning into his mouth.
Erik pulled back for just a second. His voice dropped, “You sure, princess?”
Sanaa smiled. And said the only word he needed to hear, “Fuck yes.”
Erik kissed her like he was claiming breath from her lungs, then finally pulled back just enough to look down at her. Sanaa lay beneath him on the bed, chest rising, lips wet, eyes heavy with that quiet hunger that made him lose focus. He placed one palm flat on her stomach. Warm. Firm. Commanding.
“Take this off,” he said quietly.
But he did it for her.
His fingers hooked into the hem of her shirt. He didn’t yank it. He didn’t rush. He lifted it slow, letting the fabric drag over her skin, letting the cool air kiss each inch that he revealed. Her stomach tensed. Her nipples hardened before he even reached them. The shirt rose up to her ribs. He leaned in and kissed the exposed skin there, soft at first, then deeper. His mouth trailed across her side, right beneath her breast. She gasped as he nipped lightly, then soothed the spot with his tongue.
He lifted the shirt higher. Her breasts spilled free.
Erik froze.
His eyes darkened, scanning every curve, every soft rise, every warm brown inch of her. He touched one breast with his fingertips, tracing the slope from the top down to her nipple. The touch was light but it woke something deep in her belly.
He brought his mouth down.
He sucked her nipple slow, drawing it between his lips. His tongue circled it. Pressure first, then a gentle pull. It made Sanaa arch, a tight breath escaping her throat. Her hands gripped his arms, fingers digging, nails dragging. Erik switched to the other nipple. He teased it with the tip of his tongue, then sucked harder. Sanaa whimpered, her thighs rubbing together, trying to calm the throb between them. He peeled the shirt off the rest of the way and tossed it aside. Then he looked at her body fully. Stretched on her bed. Glowing. Breathing fast. Ready for whatever he wanted. He slid down her body and kissed her collarbone. Then her shoulder. Then the soft spot where her neck met her shoulder. His lips lingered there, sucking gently until her breath hitched. His mouth lowered again, kissing down the center of her chest. He kissed under her breasts, along the edge of her ribs. Then he moved to her stomach. He kissed the top of it. Then the center. Then lower. His lips were warm and full against her skin. The glide of his mouth made her toes curl.
He dipped his tongue into her navel.
Slow. Deliberate.
Sanaa moaned. A soft little sound she couldn’t hold back. Her fingers slid into his locs, gripping the thick, twisted cords, rubbing his scalp as he continued moving downward. Erik kissed the soft flesh just above her panties. His breath brushed the damp cotton, and she shivered. He kissed the left hip. Then the right. Then the inside of her left thigh. He didn’t just kiss her thighs. He worshiped them with his mouth. He opened her legs wider and kissed slowly, all the way down to her knee, then back up, tracing the line of her inner thigh with the flat of his tongue. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably. He looked up at her, saw her chest rising sharp and quick, saw her lip caught between her teeth.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, “I see how bad you want it.”
He kissed the right thigh the same way. Long, wet, dragging kisses that made her hips jump. Her hands tightened in his locs. She tugged at the roots. Scraped his scalp lightly with her nails. He groaned into her skin. When he lifted his head, his mouth was inches from her center. He pressed his face there, right against her pussy through the fabric.
And inhaled.
Deep.
Slow.
Like he wanted her scent in his lungs. Sanaa let out a broken sound, her hips rising into his face, needing more contact.
“Smell so damn sweet,” he said against her. His warm breath spread through the soaked cotton, “you been wet long enough. Marinated long enough,” He chuckled softly.
She moaned again, fingers tightening in his hair.
Erik hooked his thumbs into the sides of her panties, “Lift your hips.”
She obeyed instantly.
He pulled the panties down slow. Painfully slow. The fabric peeled away from her pussy, sticking slightly from how wet she was, stretching, then snapping free.
He froze.
The panties stayed between his fingers, hanging useless, because he could not look away from what he saw. Her pussy glistened in the low light. Warm brown lips full and soft. Slightly parted from how swollen she was. Her inner lips peeked out, darker, slick with clear arousal. A drop fell as he watched. Another followed behind it, sliding down toward the curve of her ass.
He raised his brows, “Goddamn.”
His voice was low. Rough. Real.
Her pussy looked tender and inviting. Puffy with heat. Shiny and wet. Beautiful in a way that pulled his breath straight from him.
He looked up at her before he spoke, “You this wet for me?”
Sanaa nodded, eyes glossy. He let the panties fall to the floor. Erik slid his hands under the backs of her thighs and lifted them, opening her wider, exposing everything.
He stared.
Then he spoke it, “This the prettiest pussy I ever seen.” His voice dropped lower, almost like he was confessing something he couldn’t hold, “Plush. Warm. Look at how it’s glistenin.” He ran one finger along her outer lips, barely touching, watching the wetness coat his skin, “You stayin wet like this for me…” He shook his head. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ drip like this.”
He pressed two fingers to her entrance. Her pussy opened for him.
Slow.
Welcoming.
Sanaa gasped.
Erik licked his lips, “Yeah,” he whispered, “You perfect. A nigga could lose his mind between these legs.” He lowered his head until his mouth hovered right above her center, “Spread yourself for me, baby,” he said, “Lemme see you open.”
Sanaa’s hands trembled as she reached down and parted herself.
Erik inhaled again.
Then his tongue slowly descended.
Erik lowered his head and let the tip of his tongue barely touch her. One flick. Right over the top of her clit. Not a lick, not a suck. Just a flick. A warm, precise, taunting stroke that sent a sharp jolt through her hips. Sanaa gasped, thighs twitching. Her back arched off the bed just enough to chase more contact, but Erik pulled back.
Just like that.
He bit his lip and sat back on his heels, eyes glued to her pussy like it was his favorite thing he’d ever seen.
And honestly? It might’ve been.
That drip…
It slid from her again. Clear. Slow. A warm, sweet string of arousal that leaked from her swollen folds and shined in the low light like melted sugar. He reached up, scrubbed a hand down his beard, jaw tight, eyes heavy. His lips parted slightly, tongue peeking out to taste the last of her off his mouth.
Then he exhaled, real low, “Shit.”
His voice had that Oakland weight to it now—gritty, smooth, full of bass and control. He leaned in just enough to speak against her slick lips, breath hot and filthy.
“How you touch this pretty pussy?”
Sanaa didn’t speak at first. She didn’t need to.
Her hands moved down between her thighs, slow and deliberate. French-tipped nails—soft pink, perfectly shaped—grazed her inner thighs first. Then she reached lower and spread herself open again.
Her fingers were glossy within seconds.
She slid two over her clit in slow, small circles, eyes never leaving Erik’s. Her head tilted slightly to the side, mouth open just enough to breathe. She rested on her elbows, legs bent, toes curled. Her body moved with the rhythm of her own fingers. Gentle rolls of her hips, each one drawing a soft sound from her throat.
“You watching?” she whispered, voice sticky with heat.
Erik’s jaw clenched. His eyes stayed on her hand. The way her fingers moved, the way she pulled her folds apart, then spread the wetness down and circled again for a slicker glide. It was a performance, but not for applause.
It was for him. All for him.
“Mmm,” he growled low, “That’s it. Rub on that clit, greedy girl.”
Sanaa moaned.
She tilted her hips again, her fingers stroking tighter circles now, teasing the peak, pressing into it like she needed to cum from just that. Her thighs trembled slightly. Her breaths came quicker.
“There you go…” Erik said, voice full of grit, “Make that pussy feel good.”
Her brows pinched like she was already close. Her other hand came up to cup her breast, pinching the nipple, lips parting in a breathy moan.
“Look at you…” he said, licking his lips slow, “This what you do when you think about me?”
She nodded, eyes hazy, locked on his like she was drunk off lust. Her fingers never stopped moving.
“Yeah, you be playin in that pussy, huh?” Erik grinned, watching her squirm, “All quiet in the house, rubbin on that clit thinkin’ bout this dick?”
“Uh huh,” she moaned, rolling her hips again.
He leaned in slightly, close enough to feel the heat off her, “Show me more,” he said, “Spread that mess. Let me see how wet you stay.”
Sanaa’s fingers dipped down, slid through her folds, then up again. The shine on her hand was ridiculous.
His eyes dropped back down to her center, lips parted. He dragged a hand over his mouth again like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His tongue peeked out and ran across the edge of his lip.
“Goddamn.”
She was dripping. Actively. Wetness gliding over her fingers. Gliding over her folds. Thick, warm, glistening. Her pussy looked edible. Fat, warm brown lips parting just enough to reveal the deeper blush of her inner folds. Everything was glossy. Her clit was peeking, swollen, begging for more pressure. Her fingers spread her open again, and Erik let out a groan from deep in his chest.
“You got the prettiest fuckin pussy I ever seen.” He shook his head again, breathing heavy, “I’m talkin’…this shit got character.” He reached out and pressed two fingers gently against her thigh, steadying himself like he needed to ground his body before he lost it, “Pussy got memory. I can tell.”
Sanaa’s breathing turned shaky, her lips parting again as she kept rubbing soft and slow.
“You tryna make me eat it or what?” he asked, voice all gravel and temptation.
She nodded, biting her lip.
He smirked, “Nah,” he said, “You ain’t askin’ right. What I tell you ‘bout that?”
Sanaa locked eyes with him, still rubbing, voice barely there, “Eat it, Daddy.”
Erik’s face changed.
Sanaa’s fingers were still glistening when she pulled them from between her thighs. The scent of her arousal was thick in the air now—sweet and warm, dripping with heat, the kind of wet that left streaks on her inner thighs and sticky glimmers on her skin.
Erik didn’t even have to ask.
She raised her hand to his mouth, still leaned back on her elbows, hair falling over her shoulder in that silk-pressed curtain that framed her face just right. Her lips parted, teeth catching the corner of her bottom lip. That quiet freak energy wrapped around her like perfume. No theatrics. Just power.
She held her fingers out to him. Shiny. Wet. Deliberate.
“Come get it,” she whispered.
Erik leaned forward, gaze locked on hers. His mouth opened slow. He pulled two of her fingers between his lips and sucked.
Slow. Wet. Intentional.
His tongue glided between the pads of her fingers, tasting the mess she made for him. He moaned low—barely audible but heavy with need—and closed his eyes for a second like it was better than anything he’d ever had on his tongue.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath when her fingers slipped free.
Sanaa just smiled. Bit her lip again. Her legs spread wider. She lay back, still propped up on her elbows, legs bent at the knees. Her pussy glistened like a flower blooming in sunlight—folds soft and full, parted just enough to show off the glossy blush of her inner lips. It looked kissed already. Sticky and warm. Nectar pooling and dripping down.
Erik slid down the bed and settled between her legs.
He didn’t dive in. He had a routine. A rhythm. A way he did this that couldn’t be rushed. He didn’t eat pussy like a boy still trying to impress. He ate it like he knew the power of it—how to control it, how to command it, how to unlock the kind of orgasm that rewired a woman’s brain.
He started with kisses.
Not just kisses—ticklish kisses. Featherlight. Barely there. The first one landed just above her clit. Not on it. The next? Just to the side. Then another on her inner thigh. Then right at the curve of her folds. His lips moved like he was tracing the shape of her pussy with his mouth. Each kiss sent sharp little sparks dancing down her thighs, curling into her toes.
Sanaa gasped. Then whimpered. Her thighs jerked, “Baby…” she moaned.
Erik smirked against her skin. He kissed her clit next. Not a suck. Not even pressure. Just a warm, slow peck.
Then another.
Sanaa’s stomach clenched. Her elbows dug into the mattress, trying to keep her grounded.
Then came the licks.
His tongue flattened and dragged upward, slow and wide, collecting every drop of wetness from the bottom of her slit to the tip of her clit. He tasted her like he’d been waiting months. The sound of his tongue sliding through her folds was filthy.
And she was soaked. Dripping wet. It didn’t matter how much he licked—there was more. Every time his tongue made contact, a new stream coated her lips. It was like her pussy was responding to him directly. Like it knew he was worthy and wanted to give him everything. Her folds opened more under his tongue. Swollen. Shiny. Beautiful. Like butterfly wings slick with nectar.
He pulled back for a second just to look. Licked his lips slow, “Fuck…”
Then he leaned in again. He parted her with his thumbs, exposing the soft pink flesh beneath. Then he sucked.
Soft. Deliberate. Right on the clit.
Sanaa’s entire body twitched. Her hips tilted off the bed like she was trying to get more of it—trying to grind into his face.
“Unh…” she moaned, voice all air and ache.
Erik held her thighs steady. Gave another slow, wet suck.
“You like that?” he asked, voice low and gritty, “When I suck you like that?”
Sanaa’s lips curled into a half smile. She bit her bottom lip again, chest heaving, legs trembling, “Yes, daddy,” she said, soft and sexy, hips tilting toward his mouth.
He chuckled deep, “I could suck all this wet off you and it’ll just come right back, huh?”
Sanaa nodded. Licked her lips. Her voice was like silk, “Cuz you make my pussy so wet,” she whispered, “It’s crazy…”
Erik sucked again. Softer this time. Slower. The sound of it echoed in the room—wet, filthy, perfect.
“Ain’t gotta worry if this dick gon’ slide in,” he said against her clit, “You already know it is.”
“Mhm…” she breathed, hips rocking gentle now. Her hands gripped the sheets, fingers twitching.
He kissed her again. Licked again. Sucked again.
Real slow. Real patient.
He was edging her. Dragging her to the edge then pulling back. Letting her drip. Letting her cream. Letting her feel every bit of it until her thighs were shaking and her voice was catching in her throat.
He wasn’t in a rush. He was about to teach her what it really meant to be eaten.
Sanaa didn’t know how long he’d been eating her. It could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been forever. Time melted the second Erik laid his mouth on her pussy. And now she was shaking. Soft moans spilling from her lips like her breath couldn’t keep up. Her body was right there—right on the edge—but Erik refused to let her go over.
He kept switching it up.
One moment, he was sucking—slow, wet, focused right on the hood of her clit. Soft pulls that sent heat zipping down her thighs, into her spine. Then he’d pause. Lick along her folds like he was just tasting for fun, dragging his tongue flat from bottom to top, barely touching that swollen center. Then he’d pull back and let her feel that absence. That ache. That almost.
Sanaa was trembling.
Her thighs kept clenching. Her hips couldn’t stay still. Her clit was throbbing—tight and swollen and begging for pressure. But Erik wasn’t giving in.
She whimpered. Rolled her hips again. Tried to catch his mouth. He pulled back and looked up at her, lips glossy, beard wet. His locs brushed her thighs as he shook his head slightly, “Ain’t had it like this before,” he said, voice low, gravel thick in his throat, “Look at the way you feedin’ this pussy to me.”
Sanaa moaned again—long, high-pitched, helpless.
Erik’s voice dipped even deeper, teasing and demanding all at once, “Grab me by the hair and feed me then… since you wanna be so fuckin’ greedy.”
Sanaa’s hands dove into his hair like it was instinct. Both palms spread across his scalp, fingers gripping thick locs and pulling him into her pussy with a desperation she couldn’t hide. She tilted her hips just right, parting her thighs wider, shifting her center until her clit was perfectly seated against his mouth.
Erik groaned into her.
Then he licked. Not just a flick. Not a tease. He dragged his tongue up her slit in one long, firm stroke, then did it again—steady pressure, no breaks, no games. His hands grabbed her thighs and held them in place while he worked. Mouth open, tongue flattened, licking her from the inside out.
Sanaa gasped.
Then she started to ride.
Little movements at first. Hips lifting, rocking slow against the line of his tongue. Erik let her. He kept his mouth open, his tongue steady, letting her rub that clit wherever she needed.
And when she started grinding harder?
He slurped. Wet. Loud. Nasty. He wrapped his lips around her clit mid-grind and sucked—long and low and slow.
Sanaa cried out. Her back arched. Her thighs shook.
“Keep eating my pussy…” she whimpered, voice high and broken. Needy. Desperate.
Erik sucked again, messier this time. His beard was soaked. His jaw flexed with every pull of her slick folds into his mouth.
Sanaa whimpered again. Then whispered, “Couldn’t wait for you to put those lips on me…”
Her voice was soft. Shaky. Full of that quiet ache that only came when a woman was losing control. Erik groaned against her. The vibration made her hips jerk. Made her legs try to close around his head.
He held her open. Firm. Kept licking. Kept sucking.Kept pulling those breathy moans right out of her chest like he was making music from her body. Sanaa’s head fell back. Her moans didn’t stop now. They were continuous. Light and airy, one after the next, like she couldn’t catch her breath between the waves.
Her toes curled. Her fingers twisted in his locs.
And then she felt it.
That creaming feeling.
It didn’t crash into her like an orgasm. It crept.
A slow roll of warmth that started deep inside and spread outward. Her pussy started leaking thicker. Wetter. The glide against his lips turned slippery and heavy. Her clit swelled even more, and the pressure built like a drumbeat in her lower belly. Her pussy fluttered. She felt herself cream.
Slow. Steady. Warm and thick, coating his mouth, his tongue, her own thighs.
She was still being edged. Still held on the brink. But her body didn’t care. It started giving him everything anyway.
Erik pulled back just an inch. Just enough to let the mess drip down. Then he looked up at her again, eyes half-lidded, full of heat, “You feel that?” he asked, licking his lips slow, “You creamin’ for me, greedy girl?”
Sanaa moaned so loud it turned into a broken whimper. She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks from the intensity, “I need it…” she whispered. “Please.”
Erik’s lips curved into a slow, filthy smile. Then he lowered his mouth again, “Say less, lil’ mama.”
Sanaa’s body was trembling.
She had one fist tangled in Erik’s locs, the other gripping the sheet beside her like her life depended on it. Her thighs wouldn’t stay still—kept flexing, twitching, trying to close around his head. But he had her. One thick arm slung across her lower stomach, holding her down. The other? He slid his fingers in. Slow. Two of them. Her pussy swallowed him easy, wetness dragging down his knuckles before he even got halfway. That first push had her moaning—soft and high, like it caught her off guard.
But then he curled them.
Just right.
His fingertips pressed deep against her front wall, slow, measured strokes that dragged across her most sensitive spot like he knew exactly where to touch. The angle. The pressure. The rhythm.
Sanaa choked on a moan. Her back arched. Her breath stuttered. Her thighs started shaking harder. Erik smirked against her skin. He licked her clit once. Then again. Then again.
And then sucked.
All while his fingers pumped—slow, deep, curling every time he pulled back, like he wanted to draw her orgasm out by hand. The sound between her legs was filthy.
Wet. Sloppy. Creamy.
Every stroke made that mess louder. Slick fingers gliding in and out, dragging her cream with them, strings of it clinging between his knuckles and her folds. Her pussy pulsed around his fingers like it was begging to be filled.
“Yeah,” Erik rasped, licking her clit again, “You hear that shit?”
Sanaa moaned—long and cracked, like her breath gave out halfway through.
“You fuckin’ creamy, baby,” he whispered against her, “Drippin all on my hand.”
He sucked her clit again—slower this time. Then he curled his fingers harder.
Sanaa yelped.
The sound shot out of her throat, then dissolved into a breathy moan. Her eyes rolled, mouth falling open, lips slick with spit. She was losing it. She tried to speak. Tried to say his name. But all that came out were broken little whimpers and gasps. She bit her lip hard. Tried to focus. But she couldn’t. Not when his fingers were stroking that spot like a rhythm, a pattern, a pressure designed to ruin her. Not when his mouth was glued to her clit, tongue flicking in circles, then flattening, then sucking her swollen bud while his fingers fucked her. Not when her pussy was making a mess all over his hand, his mouth, the bed beneath her.
She whimpered.
Erik chuckled, tongue teasing again, “Aww,” he cooed, “My baby can’t talk?”
Sanaa shook her head, tears in the corners of her eyes. He kept going. Fingers pumping, curling. Tongue licking.
Then his voice dropped into something darker, “Say you want it.”
She tried. Her lips moved. No sound.
Erik kissed her clit, then pressed deep with his fingers, “Uh uh…say it with your pussy then.”
Her body responded.
Hard.
She clenched so tight around his fingers it made his breath catch. Cream poured out around them, sticky and wet, dripping down her crack, smearing across his palm.
Erik groaned into her, “Shit, baby…this pussy talk better than your mouth.”
She squealed. Eyes crossing. Legs jerking. She was gone. Sanaa was right there. Right there. Her clit pulsed under his tongue. Her pussy clenched around his fingers like it was starving for release. Her legs wouldn’t stop shaking, her stomach was tight, her moans were high and strained, leaking out one after the next like she was breaking apart breath by breath.
And Erik knew it.
He felt it in the grip of her body. He felt it in the thick cream sliding down his hand, in the way her pussy clutched and fluttered, trying to force the nut out without permission. He pulled his mouth from her clit, let his breath run hot over it instead. His fingers didn’t stop moving—but they slowed. Deep curls now. Pressure. Precision. Just enough to make her lose her damn mind without pushing her over the edge.
“Open your mouth,” Erik said, voice low and sharp, “Tell me what you want.”
Sanaa whimpered. Eyes glossy, face twisted in agony. Her mouth opened but nothing came out. She was shaking her head, trying to breathe, trying to speak—but her body was wrecked.
“You been wantin’ this, right?” he continued, fingers still stroking, “Been rubbin that pretty pussy thinkin’ about this tongue? This dick?”
Her lip trembled. Tears welled up and slipped down the sides of her face.
Erik kissed her clit again. Once. Real soft. Then he growled, “Open that mouth and say it.”
Sanaa’s breath hitched. Her hips jerked. She grabbed the sheets with one hand and covered her mouth with the other, trying to hold back the sob bubbling in her throat. But it was too much. Too much heat. Too much pressure. Too much edging. Erik saw her body start to seize, felt her cunt tighten hard around his fingers.
He stopped. Froze. And gave her a warning.
“You push that nut out,” he said, deep and deliberate, “I’ma spank that ass.”
Sanaa whimpered again. A high-pitched sound full of pain and need. She clenched everything—legs, pussy, jaw—trying to fight it.
But she was desperate. So fucking close. She dropped her hand from her mouth and finally begged.
“Please,” she cried, voice cracking. “Please let me cum—please, Erik—Daddy—I need it—oh my God—I need it so bad—please don’t stop—please, I’ll be good—I’ll say whatever you want—just please…”
It came out all at once. Pathetic. Broken. Slurred through moans and sobs. Tears rolled down her cheeks now. Her mouth stayed open, shaking with every breath. She didn’t care how she sounded. She didn’t care how she looked.
She was begging for real.
Erik exhaled through his nose and leaned over her, voice low, close, thick with control, “Damn, mamas…” His fingers started moving again. Deeper. Slower. Curling right into that soft, soaked spot that had her clenching all over again, “I’m diggin in this pussy good, huh?”
Sanaa cried out—high and breathy. He slid back between her legs, kissed her clit softly while his fingers stroked slow and deep.
“That’s a good girl,” he whispered, tongue flicking her clit just enough to make her back arch, “Keep your legs open. Let me give you what you want.”
Her legs parted wider. Her hips tilted up. Her breath caught. And then—
“Cum for me,” Erik said.
And her whole body snapped. Her back arched off the bed, mouth open in a silent cry. Pussy clenching so hard around his fingers it pushed cream out in waves. Her thighs trembled. Her clit pulsed beneath his tongue. Her moans were messy, unfiltered—one long stream of
“ohmygodohmygodohmygod—Daddy—yes—fuck—yes—”
She came like her body couldn’t hold it anymore.
Hard. Deep. Shaking. Her cream coated his fingers. Her pussy pulsed around them, wetness gushing, soaking his palm, the sheets, her thighs. And Erik just kept licking. Slow. Gentle. While she fell apart beneath him.
It was still happening. She was still cumming. Still shaking. Still losing herself in wave after wave of heat, pressure, release. Sanaa curled in on herself without meaning to—knees drawn in, arms folding across her chest like she was trying to hold herself together. But her body betrayed her. Her thighs trembled. Her feet flexed, pointed, curled again. Her back arched slightly, then trembled as it fell. Her hands opened and closed against the sheets. Her lip was quivering, bitten raw, and her eyes were squeezed shut like she was trying to survive something—or remember it forever. Her moans had quieted. But her body was still screaming.
Erik didn’t say a word. He just looked at her.
Looked at the way her legs twitched every time her pussy fluttered. Looked at the way her nipples stayed peaked, trembling with the rise and fall of her breath. Looked at the tears streaking down her temples, the wild scatter of her silk press, her thighs still glossy with cream, her lips parted but speechless. She looked ruined. Pretty. Small. Shaken. Like she had just been unlocked from the inside and didn’t know how to settle back into herself. Her pussy still clenched around nothing—fluttering open and closed, still messy with his saliva and her wetness, folds gleaming and tender.
Erik sat back on his heels. Silent. Watching. Breathing steady. His dick was still hard. Thick and dark and curved up in his joggers like it was ready to take what his mouth had primed. But he didn’t move. Didn’t even touch himself. He wanted to watch. He wanted to see what it looked like when his baby girl broke. When all that wet and all that want came to the surface and shattered her. And he loved the way she tried to hide her face in the crook of her elbow.
He reached forward and gently pulled her arm down, “Let me see you.”
She opened her eyes slowly. Glassy. Glowing.
“Breathe,” he said.
She did. Barely. And Erik just watched her come back to earth. One breath at a time. He picked her up like she weighed nothing. All that thick softness trembling in his hands, limp and light now that her body had been emptied out. Erik sat down at the edge of the bed and brought her with him, settling her in his lap, straddling him. Her legs draped over his thighs. Her bare, glossy pussy rested right against the thick ridge of his dick still straining inside his joggers. Sanaa’s arms hung loose around his shoulders. Her head leaned forward. She was still dazed. Still trying to breathe. Her heart fluttered against his chest.
He kissed her. Soft, slow pecks to her lips. One. Another. Then another, right at the corner of her mouth. Big hands glided up and down her sides, from her waist to her thighs to her ass, grounding her. Stroking her like she was still coming down from a high—and she was. Her skin was warm, flushed. Her mouth slightly parted. Her lashes fluttered low like she could barely keep her eyes open.
“Catch your breath,” he said low, Another kiss, “Good girl…”
She inhaled like her lungs just started working again. Her eyes blinked open. Her mouth twitched into a hazy, breathy smile. Erik’s hand came up to cup her jaw, thumb stroking softly under her cheek.
“Wasn’t prepared for that, huh?” he said with that slick, knowing tone, “I know it.”
Sanaa whimpered in response. A soft sound. Embarrassed. Wrecked. She shook her head just a little, but her body stayed slumped against his chest. Erik looked at her like he had every right to. Like she was his. Like he just unlocked something he knew nobody else had ever touched. He slid his thumb over her bottom lip and dragged it slow.
“What I tell you ‘bout all that tough talk?” he asked.
Sanaa didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her eyes were still low. Lips swollen. Chest rising and falling slow. Erik tilted her chin up just enough to make her look at him.
“Hmm?”
She blinked. Then finally, her lips curled, “…I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ else.”
He chuckled, low and deep, “Yeah, aight.”
Then he kissed her again. But this one lingered—open mouth, warm tongue, his hand on the back of her head, holding her close. And when she moaned into his mouth, it was soft. Grateful. Weak. Like she was thanking him without saying a word. He could feel her heat. The wet between her legs pressed right up against him. Bare pussy soft and creamy on the thick print of his dick through those joggers, still hard, still untouched.
But Erik didn’t move. Didn’t thrust. Didn’t grind. He just held her in his lap and let her feel it. Let her sit right on it. One big hand cupped the back of her neck, thumb sliding slow along her nape. The other stroked down her spine, all the way to the small of her back. He kissed her again. Not wild. Not greedy. Just lips brushing hers, lazy pecks, like he had nowhere to be but here.
Sanaa let out the quietest sigh.
Her body was still trembling a little. Her muscles tender. She was too soft, too sensitive. Her clit still tingled. She didn’t know if she could take more, but she wanted it—wanted him. She wanted to feel the weight of him inside her. But he didn’t move. And now the ache was growing again. She shifted in his lap. Just a little. Just enough to feel that pressure tease her slit. That thick ridge nudging her folds through the fabric. It made her pulse deep in her core. Her lashes fluttered. Her arms tightened faintly around his shoulders.
Erik smirked, “You tryna get it started again?” His voice was smooth, rich. Teasing.
Sanaa shook her head once—but it was a lie. The kind of soft, guilty lie that showed all over her face. She glanced down, like she couldn’t meet his eyes. Her lip was caught between her teeth again. Her thighs squeezed just slightly around him, embarrassed. Because she was dripping. Again. Wet all over his clothes. The mess between her legs was so obvious. Sticky, warm. And he hadn’t even fucked her yet.
He stroked her waist with both hands now. Then leaned in, nose brushing hers, “You just came, pretty girl,” he whispered, his lips hovering, “Body still shakin’…pussy still twitchin’…”
Sanaa let out the smallest whimper.
He kissed the corner of her mouth again. His hands slid down to her hips. Held her there. Right above his dick. But didn’t let her grind. He just held her still.
“You want more, huh?”
She stayed quiet.
He tilted her head with his thumb under her chin.
“I said…you want more?”
Her eyes met his.
They were so soft. Glazed. Her lips parted. Her voice was the quietest it had ever been.
“…yes.”
Erik grinned. That smug, deep grin like she just gave him the world. But he still didn’t move.
“You sure?” he asked, leaning in slow, lips brushing her cheek, “You was talkin’ all that big girl shit earlier. Got real quiet now.”
Sanaa let her head fall forward to hide against his neck. She nodded against him, lips pressed to his skin.
“Say it then,” he said, voice dropping. “Say what you want.”
She shook her head again, giggling soft in that breathless, bashful way. Too embarrassed to say it out loud.
He gripped her ass tighter.
“Open that pretty mouth and ask for it, baby.”
She lifted her face. Looked him dead in the eye, still shy, “I want it,” she whispered, “I want you.”
Erik leaned in closer, lips grazing hers. His hands slid up her back, fingertips teasing her skin, “You want this dick, huh?” he rasped.
Sanaa nodded. But that wasn’t enough.
He pulled back just enough to see her mouth move, “I wanna hear you say it. Say it like a good girl.”
She swallowed. Her voice was like syrup now. Sweet, needy, “Please, Erik…I want your dick.”
He kissed her once. Deep. Then pulled back and whispered against her lips.
“Good girl.”
By the time Erik pushed her back onto the bed, Sanaa was already shaking.
Not from fear. From need.
From the way his hands handled her like he’d been starving and she was the first real meal he’d seen in years. He slid her down the mattress until her ass was right at the edge, thighs spread wide. Her pussy was open and slick, lips swollen and shining, already overstimulated from what he’d done to her minutes before.
She had already came once. Twice. Lost count.
Hard.
Her body still buzzing from it. Legs weak. Core trembling. That aftershock warmth still rolling through her like heat trapped under skin.
And Erik wasn’t satisfied.
He dropped to his knees slow, deliberate, big body lowering between her legs like it belonged there. His hands grabbed her thighs, thick fingers digging in, scars catching the light as he spread her wider. He leaned in close, breath hot against her pussy, close enough that she could feel him smile without seeing it.
“Aww, this lil pussy still jumpin? You that fuckin needy, huh?” Voice low, lips wet, tongue already sliding again like he ain’t give a fuck about her being overstimulated, “I just made you nut, and you still twitchin like you ain’t had enough.”
His tongue flattened out and dragged up her slit, slow and heavy, from bottom to top, collecting everything she had to give. Sanaa cried out, hips jumping forward on instinct.
He caught her.
Strong hands pinned her thighs back, folding her open even more, holding her exactly where he wanted her. His mouth went right back to work, tongue circling her clit, slow at first, then tighter, firmer, like he was drawing patterns just to see how loud he could make her.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, fingers tangling in his locs.
He groaned into her pussy, the sound vibrating through her, making her thighs shake harder. He sucked her clit into his mouth, lips closing around it, tongue flicking fast now, mean and precise. Like he was mad at it. Like he was taking something out on her.
“You thought I was gon’ let shit slide?” he said against her, voice muffled, nasty, “After you had me hard like that? After you teased me? Like I wasn’t gon’ get you?”
She tried to pull away, the sensation too much, her body begging for mercy even while her pussy clenched around nothing.
He followed her. Stayed right there.
Kept his mouth locked on her, tongue deep, lips slick, sucking and slurping like he was trying to drain her. His hands slid under her ass, lifting her just enough to keep her right where he wanted her, sliding her closer to the edge when she tried to scoot back.
“Nope,” he said, calm as hell, “Where you goin?”
She sobbed, back arching, legs trembling in his grip. Her pussy throbbed, oversensitive, aching, begging for another release even though her body was still humming from the last one.
“I’m tryin’—I’m tryna take it, I swear I am…” she cried.
“That’s fear talkin’. Pussy know better.” He tongued her like she owed him rent, “You started this. Now take what’s comin’.”
His tongue moved lower, dipping into her, licking her wet, greedy pussy like he was tasting her for the first time and the last time all at once. He ate her like he hadn’t had pussy in years, like he was trying to make up for lost time, mouth messy, sounds obscene, saliva mixing with her slick until everything was wet and loud.
Sanaa screamed.
Her hands fisted in his hair, pulling hard, but he didn’t budge. Didn’t flinch. Just tightened his grip on her thighs and kept going, scarred arms flexing as he held her open and helpless beneath his mouth.
“Still fuckin cryin. Still needy. That lil pussy talkin like she want another one. So I’ma give it to her.” he said, voice low and filthy.
Her pussy clenched hard, body betraying her again, another wave building too fast, too strong.
“Please,” she whimpered, barely a word. “Please…”
He smiled against her.
“That’s it,” he said, “Say it like that.”
Then he went back in, tongue ruthless, mouth full of her, sucking, licking, slurping like he was trying to pull her soul through her pussy. Her legs locked around his shoulders as she came again, harder this time, body going tight then loose, a broken sound tearing out of her chest.
He dragged it once through her slick, deliberate, tasting her again like he wanted to remind her whose mouth this was. Sanaa gasped, a sharp sound tearing out of her chest as her hips lifted off the bed without permission.
Then he found her clit.
And that’s when she damn near lost her mind.
His tongue flicked over it precise. Not sloppy. Not rushed. Strong. Controlled. Each stroke intentional, like he knew exactly how much pressure to use to make her unravel. He hit it again. Same spot. Same rhythm. Then switched it up just enough to keep her from getting used to it.
“Ooh, fuuuuck,” she cried, voice cracking, eyes squeezing shut.
He groaned low, mouth never leaving her. His tongue moved with gusto now, fast flicks followed by slow, heavy presses. He circled her clit tight, then flattened his tongue over it and dragged it back and forth with purpose, like he was trying to rub the sound out of her. Her legs shook hard in his grip, muscles trembling like they were about to give out.
“Ain’t even fuckin yet and you breakin. You sure you built for this?”
He sucked her clit into his mouth for half a second, just enough to make her yelp, then went right back to flicking it, tongue snapping over that little bundle of nerves with strength that made her whole body jolt. Sanaa sobbed, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, chest heaving. “I can’t take it,” she whined, hips rocking desperately into his mouth.
He didn’t let her move. His scarred arms locked her in place, palms pressing her thighs back, holding her open like this was exactly where she belonged. Every time she tried to squirm away, he followed her without missing a beat, tongue staying right on her clit like it was magnetized.
“Nowhere to go,” he told her calmly, “You stay right here and feel this.”
His tongue worked her relentlessly. Flick. Flick. Slow press. Flick again. He switched the rhythm just when she thought she was about to explode, teasing her on purpose, keeping her right on the edge. The sensation was sharp and overwhelming, her clit pulsing under his mouth, begging for release even while it burned from how sensitive she was.
She cried openly now, soft broken sounds spilling out of her as her body shook beneath him. “Please,” she gasped. “Please, Erik.”
He groaned deep in his chest and went in harder, tongue moving faster, stronger, flicking her clit with deliberate strokes that made her vision blur. He licked her like he was angry at the time he’d gone without, like he was reclaiming something he’d already decided was his.
Her pussy clenched hard. Her back arched. Her cry turned loud as another orgasm ripped through her, body locking up, thighs shaking uncontrollably in his grip. Erik stayed right there, tongue still working her through it, not letting up until she was completely undone, sobbing and shaking at the edge of the bed.
She was still breathless.
Her whole body vibrating from the way he tore her up with that mouth. Sanaa had never been ate like that. Like he meant it. Like he was on a mission to take her apart and leave nothing behind but trembles and whimpers.
But it was what she saw next that really fucked her up.
Erik stood tall at the edge of the bed, his body carved like sin. Muscles tight. Scarred. Every inch of him looked like something designed to be feared and fucked. Deep ridges of healed wounds cut across his chest and abs, trailing down in chaotic beauty. His skin was rich—dark, smooth, gold-toned in places where the light caught him, that brown so pure it made her mouth water.
And then he slid those damn sweats down.
Sanaa sat up fast, breath catching in her throat.
That dick…It was stupid.
Thick and long, heavy, the kind of dick that made you stop and blink just to make sure your eyes weren’t lying. The base was wide, sitting on a smooth trim of dark curls—low cut, clean, just enough left to make it masculine. A faint scent of his skin, sweat, and that deep musk from his body hit her nose and made her clench all over again. The shaft was darker than the rest of him, with veins running up the sides, thick and raised, pulsing. He was hard. Rock hard. And the tip?
Sanaa damn near whimpered.
The head was plush, flushed deep burgundy, almost swollen from how hard he was. A thick drop of precum sat right at the tip, glistening, heavy, already threatening to spill down. That shit looked edible. Glossy. Beautiful. It curved just a little to the left, mean and perfect, the kind of dick you dreamed about but didn’t believe existed in real life. She was at eye level now. Kneeling on the bed, lips parted, dizzy from everything. Dizzy from the taste of herself still on her tongue. Dizzy from the fact that this dick—that dick—was hers now.
Erik grinned down at her, lazy and cocky, his voice low, “Yeah?” he said, eyes locked on her, “You like this dick?”
Sanaa nodded, couldn’t even lie. Her mouth was already watering. He gripped the base with one hand and slapped the tip against his abs once, then let it drop—heavy—like the weight of it alone made the air shift.
“Bigger in person, huh?” he smirked.
Her thighs squeezed together involuntarily.
“You want it?” he asked, “Come talk to it. Put it where it belong.”
She crawled closer, hands shaking, one rising to touch the thick base of him, fingers wrapping around but not quite meeting. She looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted.
He tilted his head, “Open that pretty mouth.”
She obeyed. Tongue out. He tapped the tip against her tongue once. Precum smeared on her lips, salty and warm, and her eyes fluttered.
“Good girl,” he said low, “You ready to learn?”
She nodded again, whimpering now.
“I’ma teach you how I like it sucked,” he said. “Take your time on my shit, girl. Slow.”
She wrapped her lips around the head, careful. The warmth of him filled her mouth, the size of it pushing her jaw wide already. Her tongue circled the crown, teasing the slit where he was still leaking. She moaned, loved how he tasted—clean, masculine, deep. She sucked slow, hollowing her cheeks, eyes fluttering shut as she took more in.
He groaned above her. A deep, rumbling sound from his chest, “Yeah… just like that,” he whispered, “There you go, baby. Suck it slow. Feel all of it.”
She eased down further, struggling a little with the stretch, but her hand stroked the base where her mouth couldn’t reach. Her spit dripped down the shaft already. She pulled off, let the head pop free with a wet sound, then licked up the underside, tongue tracing that vein like she was memorizing it.
Erik’s hand came down, gripped her head firm, “You want me to fuck your throat?” he asked, breath ragged, “Slow?”
She whimpered, nodding fast.
“You take this whole dick, I’ma lose my mind, Bri. I swear.”
She opened wide again, let him guide her back down, slower this time. Her lips stretched, jaw aching in the best way. He let her take control for a moment, let her find her rhythm—messy, wet, devoted—before he rocked his hips once, just a little, and her moan vibrated around him.
“Damn,” he hissed, “You tryna make me nut already?”
She looked up at him, eyes glassy, spit dripping from her chin. His dick slid out, covered in it.
He slapped it against her tongue again, “Keep goin’,” he growled, “I’m not done teachin’ you yet.”
She was takin’ her time with it.
Lips wrapped slow around the thick head of his dick, tongue moving like she was scared to miss a spot. Sanaa’s eyes fluttered open, big and glossy, locked right on his. She blinked up at him soft, all that pretty need showing in her face like she was trying to be good for him. Real good. Erik groaned low, hand resting heavy on her head, letting her work.
Her lips popped off with a soft wet sound, a string of spit following before she wiped it away with her fingertips. She was breathing hard now. Mouth shiny. Face flushed. Then, like she was remembering something—something nasty—she whispered.
“Wait…”
He raised a brow, watching her crawl back toward the edge of the bed where her phone sat. The movement alone had his dick twitching again. She was down on her knees, just smooth brown skin, thighs glistening, and that pretty little pussy still wet and shining from how he ate her. Tits swaying softly with every breath, nipples tight. Hair hanging over one shoulder. That body? That body looked criminal. Like he should be arrested for the way he was about to fuck her face. She grabbed the phone and crawled back, slow and deliberate, hips swaying just enough to drive him out his mind. When she reached him, she sat on her knees again, looking up at him like he was the only thing that mattered.
Her lip caught between her teeth. Her voice was sugar, “Can you record me?”
His head tilted, smile curling slow, eyes darker now, “You want me to put you on camera?” he asked, biting his bottom lip.
Sanaa gave a breathy little laugh, nervous and nasty at the same time. Her tongue slid across her top lip, catching the taste of him still there. She looked like a dream in heat. Like a dirty little angel.
“I like it,” she said, eyes still on his, “More so when I don’t notice but…yeah.” Her lashes fluttered. “Please?”
Erik chuckled low, thick fingers reaching for her phone, “You somethin else,” he muttered, unlocking the camera, switching it to video. His dick stood tall and heavy between them, wet with her spit, “Aight then, freak.”
She smiled. Bit her lip again. He hit record. And she sank right back down.
“Yeah…” Erik said, voice low behind the camera, steady. “That’s it. Go slow. Take your time on daddy’s dick.”
Sanaa did exactly that. Mouth open, tongue out, she let the head of his dick slide back in like it was routine. She moaned soft, slurping up the precum leaking heavy from the tip like it was honey made just for her.
“That’s my girl,” Erik praised, his voice rich, close, like velvet on the speakers. “There you go. Keep suckin just like that. Pretty lips stretched all over me.”
She bobbed her head, spit coating the shaft. Her hand stroked what she couldn’t swallow yet. She was tryin. Workin her jaw, cheeks hollowed, tongue swirling. The wet sounds filled the room, obscene and addictive.
“You look so damn good like this,” he said, angling the camera low to catch her face and the way she handled him, “Got my whole shit in your mouth like you ain’t just cry all over my tongue five minutes ago.”
She moaned around him. He caught it on film.
“Yeah, let ‘em hear how messy you get. That’s right. Let that spit fall. Don’t clean shit up.”
She pulled off slow, letting the head pop out with another loud, nasty sound. Her chin was wet, lips puffy. She looked straight at the camera and licked the tip once—soft, seductive. Then whispered, “This mine now, huh?”
Erik’s voice dropped, “Yours to suck, mine to own.”
“Keep goin’, Bri,” he growled, bringing the phone closer. “Show me how nasty you really are.”
And she did. Eyes up, lips wide, throat relaxing. She slid deeper this time, slow and skilled, sucking him like she wanted to stay there all night. Steady. Watching. Capturing every drip, every moan, every choke of spit sliding down her chin while she sucked him like her life depended on it. Erik had the phone angled just right. One hand holding the camera low, catching the sloppy view of her full lips wrapped around that fat dick, the other dragging slow through her silk press. Fingers gliding through the sleek strands like he owned every inch of her—because right now, he did. She was on her knees between his thighs, head bobbing, spit dripping from her mouth, tears clinging to her lashes, that back arched, lifting that ass high off the bed. Sanaa was deep in it. Gagging sweet, eyes watery but focused, trying to take him slow like he asked. Hair swaying with the motion of her head bobbing. Gold hoops swinging pretty. Her hand stroked what her throat couldn’t swallow yet, and she moaned real soft around him when his thumb grazed her jaw.
“Yeah…” Erik said low, voice thick with that gritty Oakland bass. “That’s how you fuckin’ eat it, nasty girl.”
She whimpered around the shaft, tongue flexing as she sucked deeper, the stretch of it making her jaw ache. And he felt all of it.
“That pressure good, huh?” he asked, tilting the camera down more, “You like suckin this big-ass dick.”
She pulled back, gasping, chin glossy. Then went right back down on it without hesitation, slower this time, more focused.
His voice dropped another octave, “Don’t run, baby. Take all that shit. I want it nice and wet—make that shit glisten for me.” His thumb swiped her cheek, then tapped her jaw, “Look in the camera,” he said calmly, “Show everybody how you behave when this dick come out.”
She peeked up with those big, glossy doe eyes, lashes wet, pupils blown. And he grinned—that slow, evil grin that meant trouble.
“Good girl,” he said, breath thick, “That’s what the fuck I’m talkin about. Pretty lil’ slut just made for head.”
She moaned again and he caught it all. The sound, the suck, the spit. His hand stayed in her hair, palm warm against her scalp, holding her in place. He wasn’t forcing shit. He didn’t need to. She wanted this. Needed it. She was putting in real work, tongue swirling, throat flexing, mouth loud and messy.
“Keep suckin, baby. You doin good. Real good.”
He licked his lips. “Make love to that dick. I want it slow.”
She pulled off with a pop, lips red and glistening, panting through her nose.
And that’s when he hit her with it.
“Who dick you suckin’ on, slut?”
Sanaa blinked slow, pupils glassy, spit still clinging to her lips. She bit her bottom one, smiling like she wasn’t two seconds from choking on him.
Then whispered, “Killmonger’s big dick.”
Erik groaned low. Damn near laughed through it, “Aww, shit. That’s right.” He palmed the back of her head, guiding her back toward the tip, his voice deep and filthy, “Now shut up and show that camera how you love daddy’s dick.”
Erik’s palm slid to the back of her head, heavy and sure.
Not rough. Not rushed.
Commanding.
“Keep still,” he said, voice low, calm, that Oakland grit threaded through every syllable, “Let me do the work.”
Sanaa whimpered around him, lips already stretched, jaw aching sweet as he guided her down slow. His dick filled her mouth inch by inch, thick and warm, veins pressing against her tongue. She gagged softly when he pushed a little deeper, breath catching, eyes squeezing shut.
“Nah,” he said quietly, watching her, “Eyes open.”
She forced them open, tears clinging to her lashes, staring up at him while he eased his hips forward again. Slow thrust. Controlled. Deliberate. He wasn’t chasing nothing. He was taking. Her hands lifted on instinct, fingers twitching toward his thighs.
He caught it immediately, “Hands in your lap,” he ordered. “Don’t touch shit.”
Her hands dropped, trembling, palms pressing into her thighs like she was trying to ground herself. That made his chest tighten. Made his jaw clench.
“Good,” he said. “That’s better.”
He rocked his hips again, shallow thrusts at first, letting her mouth adjust, letting her tongue learn the shape of him while he stayed right at the back of her throat. She gagged again, wet and broken, spit spilling down the corners of her mouth and onto her chin.
“That’s it,” he said, eyes dark, watching her struggle in the prettiest way, “Take it. Don’t fight it.” His breathing changed. Deepened. Chest rising slower but heavier now. He rolled his hips back and then forward again, just enough to make her choke, just enough to make her moan around him, “Look at that,” he said, tone slick, satisfied. “On your knees like this. Mouth full. Can’t even grab on for help.”
He pulled out slowly, the length of him sliding past her lips inch by inch until the head popped free with a wet sound. He didn’t give her a second to recover.
He slapped his dick against her lips once.
Twice.
The head smacked wet and loud against her mouth, leaving her lips glossy, swollen, stained with spit and precum.
“Open,” he said.
She did.
He tapped it against her tongue, smearing that slick heat across her mouth while she breathed hard through her nose.
“Yeah,” he continued, voice thick now, “This what you wanted. Got you on your knees suckin daddy dick?” His eyes dropped to where his scars cut across his chest and stomach, down to the way his dick rested heavy between them. He watched the contrast like it did something to him. Taut muscle. Old wounds. Thick, leaking dick. Her mouth waiting, “Pretty as hell like this,” he said, jaw flexing, “All quiet. All obedient.”
He slid back in, deeper this time. Slower. His palm stayed firm on her head, fingers spreading through her hair, keeping her right where he wanted her while he fucked her mouth with controlled strokes. Each thrust was measured. Each pullback intentional. He wasn’t losing control. He was enjoying it. She gagged hard this time, throat flexing around him, eyes watering bad. A broken sound came out of her chest and he felt it wrap around him.
“Shh,” he said softly. “Breathe through it. You doin good.” His hips kept moving, shallow to deep, slow to slower, the kind of pace that made her body melt even while it overwhelmed her. Spit ran freely now, coating him, dripping down onto her shirt, “Damn,” he breathed, biting his lip, “You feel that? That’s your mouth workin exactly how I like.” He pulled out again, slapped his dick against her lips once more, then let it rest there, heavy and slick, “Stay right there,” he said, thumb brushing her bottom lip. “You ain’t done yet.”
Erik pulled back just enough to look at her.
Really look.
Her mouth was wrecked. Lips swollen and shiny. Chin slick. Eyes glassy and obedient, breathing heavy through her nose like she’d been holding herself together on willpower alone. He liked that look on her. Liked that he put it there.
“Stick your tongue out,” he said.
Not loud. Not rushed. Calm like he knew she’d listen.
Sanaa did it immediately. Tongue extended, trembling just a little, glossy with spit. Pretty. Pink. Waiting.
He slapped his dick against it.
Once.
The weight of it made her gasp. The head pressed flat against her tongue, warm and leaking, precum smearing across it. He did it again. Slower this time. Let it rest there for a second so she could feel how heavy he was. How real.
“Yeah,” he said low. “Just like that.” He slapped it again, firmer, the sound wet and obscene, watching her tongue flatten under the weight of him, “Open wider.”
She did. Jaw dropping, tongue still out, eyes flicking up to his face like she wanted approval. His hand slid to the back of her neck. Fingers spread. Grip solid.
“Now show me,” he said, “Show me you want my nut.”
He guided her forward and she took him back in, lips closing around the head, tongue working immediately, slow and focused just like he told her. She sucked like she had something to prove. Drew him in inch by inch, throat relaxing, mouth warm and slick, spit coating him thick.
Erik groaned. Not a word. A sound. Low. From his chest. Like he wasn’t trying to hide it anymore.
“That’s it,” he said, breath heavier now. “Yeah. Fuck. Just like that.”
He started moving his hips. Slow at first. Shallow thrusts, letting her mouth adjust to the rhythm. His hand stayed firm on her neck, guiding, controlling the pace. She moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight through his body.
“Mm,” he sounded, eyes narrowing, “You feel how you pullin it outta me?”
She did. She knew.
Her mouth got sloppier. Wetter. She pulled back just enough to drag her tongue along the underside, then swallowed him again, deeper this time. Her throat flexed around him and he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he said, hips stuttering for half a second before he steadied himself, “You doin that on purpose.”
She was. She bobbed slow, steady, eyes locked on him, hands still obedient in her lap. She let him thrust now, matching his movement, letting him slide in and out of her mouth while she kept her tongue working the head every time he pushed back in. His breathing got rougher. Chest rising faster. His free hand clenched at his side, fingers flexing like he was holding himself back from grabbing her hair harder.
“Yeah…that’s it,” he said, voice thick, strained now. “You draggin that shit outta me.”
She moaned again, tears slipping free now, not from pain but from how full her mouth felt. How deep he was. How badly she wanted to finish him.
“Keep suckin, slut. You look real cute when you don’t think—just choke.” He grinned down at her, “That’s all you good for right now.” He thrust a little deeper, a little slower, savoring it. The sounds she made were obscene. Wet. Desperate. Perfect, “That’s my nut you workin for,” he said quietly, “Don’t rush. I wanna feel every second.”
And the way his hips kept moving, the way his voice shook just a little now, told her she was doing exactly what he wanted. The kind that made his thighs tighten and his voice start slipping into that ragged, desperate edge even he couldn’t hide. His grip stayed locked at the back of her neck, not pushing, just holding—anchoring himself in the wet heat of her mouth while she kept sucking like she needed it. Slow strokes. Controlled thrusts. But his body was rolling now. Sanaa had her tongue working that underside with purpose, lips locked tight, cheeks hollowed every time he pulled back. And when he slid back in, deeper, letting her throat hug the head, her moan vibrated so deep around him it made his stomach jump. Erik’s eyes fluttered. He bit down on his bottom lip hard. Head tipped back. Shoulders flexing. His whole body rippled, abs twitching under the tight strain of control he was seconds from losing.
“Fuck…stay right there. Don’t move. Don’t fuckin play wit’ me now.” His voice hit her like weight, low and feral.
She didn’t. Wouldn’t.
Her pace stayed nasty and obedient. Sloppy and sweet. And when his knees started to tremble, she knew it. Felt it. That thick dick was swelling even more in her mouth, leaking like crazy now—salty and heavy on her tongue.
“Fuckin’ mouth feel too damn good…” he choked out, hips stuttering, voice low and wrecked.
He looked down at her, head still back, eyes wild. Sweat beading at his temples. Veins thick in his arms.
Then he groaned.
Loud. Raw.
“Shit—Bri…” And with a slow thrust, balls snug to her chin, he lost it. “Empty my fuckin balls…” he gritted through clenched teeth, breath snatching, “Empty my balls, slut…suck it outta me.” His hips rocked into her mouth, slow but deep, dick jerking on her tongue with each pulse of release. Cum spilled thick, hot, flooding the back of her throat. She moaned around him, not pulling back, not flinching—swallowed every drop, “Take it,” Erik groaned, voice shaking. “Take all that shit…yeah…”
His hand held her there, not to force her but to feel it—feel her throat working while she drained him. She stayed there while he spilled. Stayed there while his thighs flexed, chest heaved, abs clenched with every twitch of pleasure rolling through him. Only when he finally pulled out, slow and spent, did he look down fully and let his eyes take her in.
Face wet. Mouth open. Breathing hard. She licked her lips. And he grinned. Still high off the nut. Still watching her like she was a dream with a mouth built for destruction.
“Damn,” he panted, voice rough, “You really mine now.”
The room smelled like sweat, skin, and lust. Warm light poured in from the hallway but didn’t dare interrupt what was happening here. Erik was already on top of her. Big. Heavy. Muscles bulging. Veins flexed in his arms as he pinned his fists to the mattress and hovered above her. Locs hanging down, shadowing his sharp-ass jaw, that gold in his mouth catching a glint when he licked across his bottom lip.
Sanaa was already open before he ever put it in her.
That was the part that shook her the most.
She lay back on the bed, silk-pressed hair spread smooth beneath her head, gold hoops warm against her neck, chest rising fast. Her skin glowed. Brown. Soft. That deep, rich tone that caught the light like polished wood. Her pussy was slick enough to feel the air hit it when her thighs parted. Wet enough to shine. Tight enough to throb. Erik kneeled between her legs, towering, solid, body made to fold bitches up. Scars ridged over his chest and arms, catching the light as he flexed. His locs brushed his shoulders. Gold canines flashed when he smirked, slow and dangerous. That big, thick dick sat heavy in his hand, already hard, already leaking just a little. Veins thick along the shaft. Heavy head. Fat. He dragged the head of it through her slick, slow. Let it slide between her lips without pushing in. Just enough to make her breath hitch.
“Mm,” he said low, “That pussy talkin’.”
Sanaa whimpered, hips lifting without permission. She reached down, fingers finding her clit, rubbing slow like she needed something to hold onto. Her toes curled, thighs trembling.
“Hold your ankles,” Erik told her.
She did it instantly. Hands slid down her legs. Ankles in her grip. Wide open. Exposed. Vulnerable and ready. Her mouth fell open as she breathed, chest heaving.
They locked eyes.
Erik leaned forward just a little, dick still rubbing through her slick. He tapped her pussy with it once. Twice. A wet, teasing slap that made her gasp. Kissed her lips sloppy like he was sucking the breath out of her.
“You ready to get fucked?” he asked, voice calm but heavy with promise.
Her fingers circled her clit faster, “Yeah,” she breathed, “Yeah.”
“I’m ready to fuck you, I know that,” he said, rubbing the head of his dick right at her entrance, letting it press there without going in, “Tired of playin’. ‘Bout to dig you out, girl. Give you what you always wanted.”
Her whole body buzzed. Like static. Like she was plugged into something too strong. Her pussy clenched around nothing, slick dripping down, soaking the sheets beneath her. Erik angled his hips, lined himself up, and pushed the head in just a little.
Just enough.
Sanaa’s eyes rolled. A broken sound fell from her lips. Her toes curled so hard they damn near cramped.
“Shh,” he said, watching her face closely, “Breathe. Let that pussy relax. You want it. I feel you.”
He pushed again. Slow. Inch by inch. That fat head stretching her open, slow and deep, her tight walls gripping him like. She was holdin’ that dick like it owed her somethin She gasped, mouth hanging open, eyes wide, staring straight at him.
“Oh my—” Her voice cracked into a moan.
“That’s it,” Erik said, jaw tight, teeth flashing as he watched her swallow him, “That’s how you take a big dick. Slow. Let it open you.”
Her fingers rubbed her clit harder now, breath shaky, little sounds slipping out of her with every inch he sank in. Her pussy was tight. Tight as hell. Hot. Wet. Pulling him in like it needed him.
“Damn,” he groaned, “You tight as fuck. Grippin’ me like you been waitin’ your whole life.”
He paused halfway in. Just sat there. Let her feel it. Let her body adjust around him. Let her pussy throb and flutter and leak. Sanaa was shaking. Legs still wide. Ankles in the air. Eyes locked on his like she didn’t wanna miss a second of this. Her lips parted. Chest heaving. Sweat starting to gather at her temples.
“Move,” she breathed, barely louder than air.
Erik tilted his head, smirk deepening, “Nah. Sit wit’ it. Feel that stretch. Feel what you been askin’ for.”
He rolled his hips just a little. Enough to make her gasp again. Enough to make her pussy clamp down.
“Fuck,” she whimpered, toes curling again. “It’s so big.”
“Yeah,” he said, finally pushing deeper. Slow. Controlled. Taking his time sinking all the way in until his hips met her thighs. Until she was full. Stuffed. Opened up around him, “That’s daddy dick,” he said quietly, “Ain’t rushin’. Ain’t slippin’ out. Just sittin’ where it belong.”
She cried out then. A real sound. Raw. Her body arched, fingers still working her clit as her pussy clenched hard around him, creamy and dripping.
Erik stayed still, buried deep, watching her face twist with pleasure and shock and need, “Now,” he said, voice low and steady, “Now I’ma fuck you.”
The first stroke took her breath. Not fast. Not rough. Just deep. Erik dragged out of her slow, dick thick and heavy, every ridge of his shaft pulling against her walls like he was scraping the memory of anybody else out. Her pussy clung to him, creamy and tight, pulsing around that slow exit like it. That pussy kept catchin’ his dick on the way out, holdin’ him right at the base.Sanaa’s mouth fell open, lips parted in shock. Her hips tried to lift with him, like her body was chasing what was leaving. He stopped right at the tip. Let it rest there. Slick and twitching.
Then he slid it back in.
One long, smooth push. Deep. Full. Her pussy stretched again, swallowed him whole. That grip got tighter every time he pulled out, like her pussy was beggin’ to stay full.
A messy whimper slipped from her throat, back arching, legs trembling as she held her ankles just like he told her to.
“Right there?” he said, voice deep and calm like a threat, “Here?” He pulled back again. Slow. Let her feel the drag. That stretch. That pressure. All that thickness working her from the inside out. Then pushed back in. Another slow grind. Deep. Deep, “How you like it?”
Sanaa’s answer was a cry—broken and high, her voice cracked open from the inside. Her hands barely held onto her legs now. Ankles shaking in her grip. Titties bouncing soft under the rhythm he set.
“You feel all that?” he said, lips barely moving, eyes locked on her face, “Feel how I’m fuckin’ this lil’ pussy?” He moved again. Same speed. Same power. That controlled thrust that kissed her spot and punched a gasp out her lungs at the same time. Her eyes rolled. Sweat broke out across her chest. Her thighs quivered, “Say it,” he growled, hips rocking, “Say what you need. Talk to me.”
Sanaa was breathless, voice caught in her throat, fingers slipping from her thighs just long enough for Erik to grip the backs of her knees and press them toward her chest, folding her even deeper. Pussy opened up wider. Gripped tighter.
“Push it in,” she whispered, eyes glossy, “Please—”
Erik laughed. Low. Nasty.
He pulled back again. Dick dragging slow, thick veins rubbing all along her walls. Cream shining on him when he looked down. Then he rocked back in deep, pelvis kissing hers, thighs clapping soft.
“That what you want? Want this dick pushin’ up in you? Stretchin’ this tight lil’ thing out?”
She nodded fast, mouth open, whining now. Body shaking under him.
“Want this dick slidin’ up in you? Stuffin’ this tight lil’ pussy full?”
Sanaa’s back arched, head tipped back, mouth open. “Nnngh—f-fuck…”
She moaned loud, fingers clawing at his back, trying to grind, but he pinned her with his weight.
“Stop movin’. That’s mine now. You feel that pulse in your stomach? That’s your pussy holdin’ me in. I can feel it… beatin’ on this dick.”
She bit her lip, head rolling, helpless.
He bent down just enough for his chest to brush her tits, still rolling his hips, smooth and deep, “Yeah, you like that,” he said into her ear, “You been actin’ like you ain’t ready, like I’m too much…but this pussy takin’ it. All of it. She know who she belong to.”
He straightened up again, gold shining in his mouth as he licked his lips. He was breathing harder now, sweat sliding down the middle of his chest, scars flexing across his arms. Still in control. Still feeding her slow, powerful strokes that rocked her whole body, that made the bed creak and her hands claw at the sheets.
“You makin’ a mess,” he grunted, “Drippin’ all on me. Fuckin’ cream just pourin’.”
Sanaa could barely speak. Her face said everything. Eyes low, mouth open, a whimper riding each stroke. Her body was begging. Pussy wetter, messier. Squeezing tighter every time he pulled back.
“You gon’ cum like this?” Erik said, voice dark, “I can feel it. She twitchin’. That creamy lil’ explosion waitin’ for me.” Another thrust. Then another. Each one dragging her closer, “You ready?” he whispered, “Ready to let that pretty pussy bust all over me?”
And the way her body shook said yes before she could even speak it.
Sanaa let out a broken sound, halfway between a whine and a moan, fingers twitching uselessly in the air. Her clit throbbed. Her pussy fluttered hard around him like it was begging to be let loose.
Erik reached down and took her ankles again, firm hands wrapping around them. He lifted her legs and rested them on his shoulders, one smooth motion. Her small feet dangled against his broad back, toes curling as he leaned forward and tilted her hips just right.
That angle hit different.
So deep it made her gasp sharp, eyes flying open.
“Fuck,” she breathed, staring down between their bodies, watching his dick disappear into her. Watching her own slick stretch around him. Cream shining. Messy. Open.
Erik started moving again.
Not wild. Not sloppy. Just a quicker pace. Steady. Relentless. Each thrust deep and sure, dragging through her slow on the pull back, then pressing right back in where she needed it most.
“There,” he said, voice low and steady. “Right there. You feel that shit?”
Her answer was a soft cry, lip caught between her teeth as she nodded, eyes locked on where he was fucking her. She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t believe how full she looked. How much of him was inside her. How her body took it.
“I know you feel it,” he went on, breath heavier now, “This dick sittin’ all up in you. Spread open. Got you laid out lookin’ real fuckin’ good.”
The bed creaked under the rhythm of his hips. The wet sound between them got louder. Slicker. Every thrust pushing air out her lungs. Her titties bounced with the motion, nipples tight and aching. Sweat rolled down her chest and between them. Sanaa’s hands fisted in the sheets. Her stomach tightened. Her toes curled again, feet flexing against his shoulders.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, voice shaking. “Oh my—”
“That pressure hittin’ you right?” Erik asked, thrusting again, a little harder now, “Got you starin’ down at it like you can’t believe what it doin’ to you.” He leaned in closer, chest hovering over her legs, dick still sliding deep and slow-fast, that perfect in-between pace that made her whole body buzz, “Pussy just openin’ up for me,” he said, “Squeezin’ when I pull back. Clutchin’ when I push in. You feel how deep that shit go?”
She whimpered, eyes glossy, jaw slack. Her body rocked with every stroke, ass lifting just a little off the bed when he sank all the way in.
“I see you,” he said, “I see that look on your face. That ‘I ain’t never felt no shit like this’ look.”
Her lip trembled as she bit it again, trying not to make too much noise, failing every time he hit that spot that made her pussy jump.
“You not cumming yet,” Erik told her, voice like gravel soaked in heat. “I’m holdin’ you right here. Letting this dick sit. Letting you feel what it mean to get fucked for real.”
He kept that pace. Deep. Measured. Consistent. Filling her over and over until her thoughts blurred and all she could focus on was the way he felt inside her. Sanaa stared down at their bodies moving together, chest rising fast, eyes wide with disbelief.
She had never imagined it would feel like this.
And Erik could tell.
He smiled slow as he fucked her, knowing exactly what he was doing to her.
He felt it change in her.
That moment when her body stopped fighting the feeling and started chasing it. Erik pulled out slow just enough to make her gasp, then hooked an arm under her thighs and dragged her closer to the edge of the bed. The mattress creaked as he stood tall between her legs, feet planted wide. One big hand came up to cradle the back of her neck, fingers spread, firm but steady, keeping her bent just right.
Her head tipped forward. Chin slightly tucked. Chest lifted. Legs wide open and shaking.
“Stay right here,” he told her quietly.
Then he pushed back in. Harder this time. All hips. All intention.
He fucked her standing up, deep strokes snapping into her with purpose. Every thrust dug into her pussy like he was carving his name in it. The sound changed immediately. Wet. Heavy. Nasty. Her ass slid just a little on the sheets with every drive of his hips. The bed thumped softly against the wall. Her breath came out in sharp, broken moans she didn’t even try to hold back. Erik leaned forward, hand still at her neck, thumb pressing just enough to keep her right where he wanted her. His other hand grabbed her thigh, spreading her wider, giving himself more room to work her.
“This how you get fucked,” he said low, voice tight now, “Ain’t none of that playin’ shit no more.”
Her body responded instantly. Pussy gripping him harder. Cream slicking up his shaft, making each thrust glide smoother, deeper. He could feel how tight she still was even after taking him. How every stroke made her clench. Sanaa dragged a hand down his chest, fingers splayed over raised scars, nails dragging slow across his abs like she needed something solid to hold onto. Her brows furrowed, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open as sound after sound spilled out of her. No words now. Just moans. Real ones. Loud and shameless.
Her toes curled. Thighs shook. Her head pressed back into his hand as her whole body rocked with his rhythm.
Erik watched her fall apart.
Watched the way her lips parted. The way her chest rose and fell fast. The way her pussy sucked him in every time he pulled back and begged him back when he pushed in.
“I know,” he said, eyes locked on hers, pace picking up, “I know what this dick doin’. I know I’m stretchin’ you deep. Breakin’ you in right. I know baby girl.”
She moaned louder, hand sliding down his stomach, gripping his hips now, nails biting into his skin as her body tried to meet every thrust.
“Yeah?” he groaned, “I know. I feel you squeezin’ me. Tryna pull me deeper.”
He fucked her good. No rush. No wasted movement. Just deep, clean strokes that made her body jolt and her pussy throb around him. Sweat dripped down his chest, spotted her skin. His breathing got heavier, chest flexing with every thrust.
Sanaa couldn’t think.
Couldn’t compare this to anything she’d ever had because nothing came close. This wasn’t just sex. This was control. Weight. Pressure. The kind of dick that made your legs weak and your mind go quiet. Her moans filled the room now. Pretty and broken. Her body answering him before her thoughts ever could.
“You ain’t used to this,” he said, “That’s why you actin’ out. Why you so fuckin’ loud right now. This dick hittin’ different, huh?”
Her mouth trembled beneath his grip. She tried to moan but it came out shaky, broken—just a mess of sound, face twisting as her pussy pulsed again, creamy and loud between them. Wet. So wet. Erik pulled back just an inch, then slid right back in slow—deep. Her body jolted. She clawed at his abs, nails dragging across scarred skin, searching for something to hold on to.
“I said look at me,” he growled, giving her jaw a squeeze, “You takin’ it so good. But you gon’ remember this stroke.” He rolled his hips again. Slow grind. All of him inside. Her moans hitched. “Yeah,” he whispered, kissing the side of her mouth, still fucking her slow and deep, “That’s it. Let me see what a good girl sound like when she get ruined.”
And she did. All moans now. Loud, messy, undone. Pussy soaked. Face caught somewhere between disbelief and addiction. She didn’t even know how to ask him to stop—because she didn’t want him to.
“Uh uh,” he said low, hips rolling again, pulling out slow just to sink back in, “Ain’t no escape in this room. Just me givin’ you some shit you don’t know how to handle yet.”
Sanaa’s head was tipped back, mouth open, eyes unfocused. She couldn’t even make words—just breathy gasps, little “uhh—uhh—ohh” sounds, tears caught in the corners of her eyes. That dick was fat. And it felt like it reached every inch inside her. Like he was claiming shit. Bruising pleasure into her walls. He dropped one fist and palmed her throat, not squeezing, just holdin’ it while he fucked her slower, deeper. His thumb under her chin to make her look at him.
“Damn,” he said, shaking his head like she was pathetic for what she’d become under him, “Pretty lil’ thing. Can’t even talk. Can’t even move. All that mouth you had… now I’m in it, huh? In that sweet, warm, squeezin’ ass pussy?” He leaned in, lips brushing her cheek as he fucked her slow, but hard. Real strokes. Deep dips. His abs flexed. That sweat from his chest dripped onto her titties, slid down between them, “Gon’ make a mess all over me,” he whispered against her ear, “I feel that pussy twitchin’. You ‘bout to squirt? Cream? Gimme that shit then. Let it go. Gimme all that sweet lil’ mess.”
Sanaa tried to hold it, tried to breathe, but her body had other plans. Her pussy clenched up on him, hard. That creamy wet exploded like a rush. Her whole body shook. Back arched. Toes curled. She screamed loud. A long, dragged out moan that had her damn near crying, “Daaaaddy—”
“That’s it,” he groaned, biting his bottom lip hard as her cream gushed around him. “There she go. So fuckin’ messy. That’s mine. All that shit belong to me.”
He didn’t stop. Kept stroking. Controlled. Deep. Purposeful. Watching the way her body seized up with every thrust. The way her face crumbled, lips parted, eyes crossed just a little. She was spent. Fucked dumb. But he wasn’t done.
She had been asking for it. The teasing. The walking past him in them little ass shorts with no bra. The smart-ass grin, the way she bent over slow like she ain’t know he was behind her. Like he wasn’t built to catch that shit. Built to correct it.
Now she was where she needed to be.
Bent at the edge of the bed, back dipped low in a deep arch, slim thick body laid out perfect. Espresso brown skin already kissed up with sweat, glowing under the low lamp light. Long silk press damp and clinging to her spine, gold hoops swinging every time she breathed too hard. Her hands gripped the sheets in front of her like she was bracing for impact, thighs twitching already from anticipation. She wasn’t saying much now. Just soft little whimpers, little gasps, trying to hold still while Erik stood behind her, letting that heavy dick drag over her soaked lips like a warning.
He was tall, solid, strong in a way that made everything feel smaller around him. That skin of his golden brown, gleamed with sweat across scarred shoulders and cut arms, every muscle flexing in slow control. His locs hung wild, swaying with each breath he took, some brushing against his cheek as he rolled his hips forward just enough to tease her slit. His jaw was locked. Dimples barely showing under the shadow of his beard, lips full and parted, watching her with heat in his eyes. That look he got when he was done playing.
The room was thick with it. That wet, nasty tension. The kind that made you sweat before the fuck even started. The sound of her breathing came in soft stutters, then caught sharp when he eased the tip of his dick in, slow, just enough to make her feel the width. That first little push pulled a moan straight out her chest—high-pitched, pretty, needy.
“Nnnnnhhh—”
Her thighs shook. Her hips twitched. He gripped them firm and kept her still.
His dick slid in deeper, inch by inch, slow and controlled. Thick, veined, heavy with heat. Her pussy welcomed it, parted soft and creamy, sucking him in greedy. The sound was nasty—wet, slick, obscene. Skin to skin contact filled the room in low slaps as he sank into that tightness. She gasped loud when he bottomed out, pussy clenching, juice spilling out and down his dick, running slick down to his balls.
“Ahhh—fuck—”
Her back dipped harder, ass bouncing from the force, body trembling as he held still, buried deep. Letting her feel the weight. Letting her feel how deep it went. The pressure in her belly was immediate, hot and thick like she’d been split open from the inside. She whined again, softer this time, body trying to pull back but his grip stayed firm. Erik leaned over her, chest hovering over her back, heat rolling off his body. Sweat dripped from his skin to hers, mixing where their bodies touched. His lips brushed her shoulder as he sucked a slow breath through his nose. His locs swayed forward, brushing her neck. She could hear his breath now—heavy, steady, that deep male grunt rising in his chest as he pulled back halfway and pushed in again, slow but harder. Purposeful.
“Unhhh—”
Her moan cracked open in her throat as he started moving. Deep strokes. Slow drag out, then all the way back in, hips snapping against her ass with a sharp clap. The bounce of her cheeks echoed through the room, flesh meeting flesh, wetness coating everything. Her pussy clenched again—tight, messy, too responsive—and that just made him go harder.
She cried out again, hands bunching the sheets, gasping loud as her body rocked forward with every thrust.
“Ahhh—ahh—nnnnn—”
Erik’s hand slid from her hip to the front of her throat. Not choking. Just holding. Making her feel how deep he was, how controlled he was, how owned she was. He bent his head, kissed her jaw, bit it slow, sucked on her skin until she shivered and clenched even tighter around him. His other hand slid up, grabbed a handful of titty, squeezing her soft brown flesh, palm wet with sweat and cream.
Then he popped her ass—sharp, loud.
She squealed, whole body jumping as he slammed into her deeper. The pressure started building before she even realized he was changing pace. His thrusts stayed deep, thick strokes dragging through all that creamy wet, but there was something in the way he paused—right there, buried inside her. Like he was deciding how bad he was about to break her down.
Then his voice cut through the slick sound of skin and sex, “Sit up.”
Just like that. Blunt. Firm. No softness in it. That deep, calm tone that left no room for hesitation. Sanaa’s breath caught in her throat, and she pushed up slow on shaky arms, her back still arched, ass still high. Her long hair stuck to her shoulder and chest now, damp from sweat, sticking to the curve of her breasts. She tried to breathe, but that dick was still buried so deep, all she could do was pant.
“Sit…up,” he repeated, voice tighter now, hand gripping her hip, “Arch that back. Stay just like that.”
She obeyed, gasping when he rolled his hips again, slow at first, the weight of him grinding right into her from behind. She whimpered when his hand slid up her back, gripped the nape of her neck.
Then came the next command, low and rough behind her, “Look back at me.”
She turned her head, eyes fluttering open through the haze, lips trembling as she looked over her shoulder. And there he was. Erik. Sweaty, scarred-up motherfucker with that big dick sitting inside her.. His locs swung loose around his face, clinging to the thick muscle of his shoulders. Sweat ran in slow trails down his chest, catching the shine in the light. His lips were parted, that sharp jaw clenched tight. And his eyes—locked on hers, low and dangerous. Sanaa whimpered, her face twisting as another slow, hard stroke made her body jolt forward. That dick dragged against her walls so deep and thick it felt like it was curving inside her, making her pussy clench down again, hard. She couldn’t hold it.
“Mmmf—ahh—fuck… Erik…”
He smirked, then popped her ass again—sharper this time. The clap echoed through the room, “Don’t run now, lil’ slut. You wanted this, right?”
And then he started fucking her for real.
Hips snapping forward with purpose, Erik drove into her with hard, grinding thrusts, dick drilling through wet, creamy heat like it owned her insides. The sound was filthy—wet slaps, heavy balls smacking against her clit, the sharp clap of flesh to flesh every time her cheeks bounced back on him. Her pussy gushed around him, creamy and hot, dripping down to the bed, mess soaking everything under them.
“Ahh—ahh—uhhh—f-fuck—”
She was breaking, voice stuttering, face twisted up, brows tight, lips trembling as she tried to keep her eyes on him. He grabbed her jaw from behind, fingers strong and possessive on her face, turning her chin even more so she had no choice but to stare at him while he kept pounding.
“Keep them eyes on me,” he growled, voice deep and close, his lips at her cheek now, “You feel this dick? That’s what you get for playin’ in my face. Now you gon’ learn.”
She cried out again, soft and desperate. Her body trembled with every stroke, thighs shaking, nails digging into the mattress. Her tits bounced with every hit, back dimples flexing. Erik’s hips moved fast now, but still controlled—like he knew exactly how deep to go to make her lose her mind. His thrusts hit that swollen spot inside her over and over, his thick dick pushing against her walls so deep her whole pussy fluttered in response.
“Unghhh…Daddy—please—”
He grunted low, rough, grinding in deeper.
“Nasty lil’ thing,” he said right in her ear, voice ragged now, his breath hot on her neck, “All that attitude. All that mouth. Now you over here whimperin’, creamin’ all over me like a good lil’ slut.”
She gasped, crying out again, that pleasure bubbling high and fast inside her. Erik didn’t let up. He kept her head turned, kept his body crashing into hers, all muscle, all grit, sweat dripping onto her back with every stroke. Both of them breathing heavy, biting their lips, eyes locked.
Sanaa stayed right where he put her—back arched, hands down, head still turned, mouth parted on a whimper. That dick had her wide open. Her whole body felt like it was on fire now, tingling from the inside out. She could feel every part of him—every thick inch, every slow drag, every deep slam that pushed up into places she ain’t even know could feel that good. Her thighs were shaking, hips twitching with every thrust. But Erik wasn’t letting her go nowhere.
He had her by the shoulders now, those strong-ass hands gripping tight, thumbs pressed into the back of her traps, arms flexed as he used his whole body to pull her back into each stroke. Feet planted. Muscles locked in. That perfect stroke rhythm starting to build again—steady, brutal, unrelenting.
No words now.
Just dick.
Just that thick, wet clap of his hips smacking against her ass over and over, the sound getting nastier, wetter, louder with every bounce of her cheeks. Just his grunts—low, throaty, deep in his chest. And that smug-ass “mhmm,” that came out when he bottomed out so hard she let out a full cry.
“Auhhh—uhh—daddy—fuck—”
Her voice broke every time he hit it. Her pussy clamped down again, tight and fluttering around him, slick coating his dick in warm cream that spilled with every deep thrust. The pressure inside her was swelling fast, like her body was trying to catch up to what he was doing to it—like her nerves were sparking all over. That dick was heavy. Thick as hell. Every push sent heat rolling through her belly, made her gasp, made her grab the sheets like she could anchor herself against it. He gripped her harder. Pulled her back harder. Snapped his hips forward and made that ass bounce harder.
Her titties swung with every stroke, sweat rolling down her chest, her back, between her thighs. Her whole body was shaking now, nerves on fire, pussy so wet it sounded like he was fucking straight into a bowl of honey. The slick was everywhere—coating him, dripping to the bed, making a mess of her thighs and the back of her knees.
And Erik was loving it.
Didn’t say a word. Just kept watching her. Kept them eyes on her like he was memorizing how she looked with his dick buried in her. Lips slightly parted. Jaw clenched. Locs stuck to his shoulders and jaw, swaying with every hard stroke.
“Unnnh…mmmh…uh-huh…”
Those cocky-ass grunts and hums kept falling out of his mouth, like her pussy was answering a question he ain’t even ask. That deep, wet squeeze her body gave every time he drove in. The flutter when he slowed up. The shiver in her legs when he picked the pace back up and pounded harder. Sanaa tried to reach back, tried to brace herself on his thigh, but he wasn’t having that. He let go of one shoulder, grabbed her wrist and planted her hand back down. Grabbed her hip again and took her right back into that stroke. Deep. Fast. Wet.
“Auhh—uhhh—uhhhhnnnn…”
She was gasping now, moaning with every single thrust. Her pussy started convulsing again, leaking more, pulling at him like it didn’t want him out. That heat between her legs turned molten, had her legs trembling under him, had her thighs slick and trembling.
Still pounding. Still controlling. Still dickin’ her down like she was built to take all of him and only him.
“D-don’t stop… I need it like that…" "Right there, oh my god…keep fuckin’ me, just like that…” “You feel how deep you in? I’m so full… I can’t take it—no, wait—I want it…” “Talk to me while you fuck me like this…tell me it’s yours…” “This dick feel so good, daddy…you tryna make me lose my mind?” “You fuckin’ me dumb…I swear I’m finna—oh my god—Erik…” “Look what you do to me…look at how I’m shaking…you proud of that?” “Don’t slow down—uh-uh, no—keep goin’, fuck me open…” “I want all of it…don’t hold back…tear it up.” “Mmmf…I’ll take all that dick, just keep giving it to me…make me remember.”
Sanaa was begging. Nonstop.
Voice all breathy and broken, words spilling out between moans like she couldn’t help it. Like she needed to be fucked. Needed to be filled. Saying anything, everything—just to keep him deep inside her.
“I’ll be g-good…I swear…” “I won’t run no more…you can do whatever you want…” “I’m listening, I’m listening…I promise I’m listening…” “Please, I’m tryna be good for you…ain’t I being good?” “You got me, daddy…you got all of me, I swear…” “I won’t move, I’ll stay right here…just keep fuckin’ me…”
She started begging while throwing it back, Erik talking her through it.
“I’ll be good…I swear…I just—I need it—”
“Then take it. Show me how bad you want it.”
“I’m tryna be good…tryna take it all—”
“You doin’ good. Now stay right there and keep archin’ that pretty back.”
“You fuckin’ me so good, I can’t think straight—”
“Good. That’s the goal. I don’t want no thoughts in that head. Just me.”
Her back dipped low, arms trembling where she gripped the edge of the bed, face buried in the pillow. Erik had her locked in — one hand braced heavy on her lower back, the other gripping her hip, pulling her into each stroke. He wasn’t slamming into her. Nah. He was drilling her. Real slow. Real deep. Like he was laying pipe in her soul. She was throwin’ it back in broken stutters, thighs shaking, sweat sliding down her spine. Cream slicked his dick, thick and wet, strings of it gluing to the base. He could hear it every time he sank back in. That nasty, obscene squelch that made his jaw clench.
“You close?” he asked, voice low and dark behind her.
She nodded fast, whining. Couldn’t get words out. Just gasps and soft cries.
Erik leaned in, hips still grinding, still pushing all the way in. Then he slid two fingers into her mouth. Right between her lips. Like a pacifier, “Suck,” he said, “Be my good girl.”
And she did. Moaning around his fingers. Eyes rolling. Drool sliding down her chin as her body locked up. Her orgasm hit like a fucking car crash. Sanaa’s eyes crossed, jaw slackening around his fingers. Her legs gave out beneath her, back bowing as her body seized—pussy gripping and milking his dick. She screamed around his hand, whimpering and twitching, hips caught in the middle of the thrust.
“There you go,” Erik grunted, “That’s it. Cum on this dick just like that.”
Her cream spilled down his shaft in a thick, hot wave, soaking her thighs and the sheets beneath her. Erik didn’t slow. He fucked her through it, holding her mouth open with his fingers, thumb stroking her bottom lip. She sucked like she needed it to breathe. Eyes wet. Breath hitched. Body quivering.
“You feel that?” he growled, stroking deep again. “You still cumming, baby. Let it out.”
Her moans were high and muffled, body twitching as he stayed buried inside her. Still fucking her. Still making her feel everything. No breaks. No mercy.
“You want daddy to stop?” he asked again, pulling her head back by the hair, “Or you want more?”
She tried to answer, but all that came out was a choked moan around his fingers.
“Mmhm. Thought so.”
He pulled his fingers from her mouth slow, strings of spit still clinging to them, and dragged the wet trail across her ass. Sanaa was trembling, cheeks flushed, pussy still leaking from the last orgasm. But Erik gripped her waist again, pulled her back against him, and slid all the way in.
“Mmm…this lil’ pussy still wet for me?” he growled low behind her.
She whimpered, back arching. She tried to move — he pinned her down.
“Nah, keep still. I’m bout to fill you up.” His voice dropped, heavy and slow like a threat, “You feel that?” This me. All this dick. Stuffin’ this tight lil’ pussy.”
He started stroking again, deeper now, slow and punishing, his balls slapping against her soaked folds. Sanaa was crying into the sheets — moaning, choking, cumming all over again. And Erik was chasing his nut now.
“I’m gon’ breed this pussy.Drop this nut so fuckin’ deep, you’ll feel it in your stomach.” His hand slid up her back, gripped the nape of her neck, pushed her face down into the bed, “You hear me, baby? I’m the only one who get to fuck you like this.” He thrust harder now, hips slamming, the sound filthy. The sound of skin, of heat, of him claiming her. Possessive. Focused. Mean with it, “This slutty lil’ pussy… so good. Good pussy. My pussy. So fuckin’ tight I can barely breathe.”
Sanaa was gone. Babbling. Creaming again. Arching back into him even as her legs shook. And Erik—he was right at the edge. He grabbed both her hips, held her in place, and pushed all the way in — balls deep — and held it.
“Fuck…fuuuck—there it go—”
He groaned hard through clenched teeth as he nutted. Thick, hot, flooding her. Long spurts. Over and over. His dick twitched inside her as he emptied himself so deep, so full, he knew she’d be leakin’ when he pulled out.
“Mmm…there you go. Take all this nut, just like I taught you.” He leaned down, pressed his chest to her back, lips brushing her ear, This the only dick you know, baby. The best dick you ever had. And the last dick you gon’ ever get.”
Erik finally pulled out, slow and heavy, his dick slick with her cream and his nut. Sanaa whimpered at the emptiness, her thighs twitching. A thick stream of cum dripped from her used pussy, pooling between her legs—then more spilled when she arched slightly and pushed it out, her body still fluttering.
He watched it, eyes dark.
Then he leaned over her back, one hand spreading her ass, the other braced beside her head. His lips brushed her ear.
Summary: He’s supposed to be laying low. A job overseas went bloody, and Erik Stevens—black ops mercenary, ghost of the U.S. government—needs time to go quiet. So he crashes at his little sister’s place near Howard. But when he arrives, there’s a surprise: she’s got a new roommate. Her best friend. She’s grown since he last saw her. Grown in all the ways that test a man’s discipline. But Erik? He’s never been good at following rules.
Warnings: Age Gap Romance/ Forbidden Attraction/ Explicit Sexual Content (strong smut, oral sex, size kink, erotic praise, power exchange)/Slow Burn to Filthy/Obsession & Possessiveness/Sexual Tension in Shared Spaces/Mutual Voyeurism/Sexting/Emotional Denial/Resistance/Breeding Talk/Male Dom / Female Sub Dynamic
Part Three
He stepped through the door and closed it behind him, a strange stillness wrapped around him. One he didn’t recognize.
It was her fault.
Sanaa.
That quiet little thing with the sharp eyes and soft mouth, who wrapped her arms around his neck and put her feet in his lap like she didn’t know what her scent did to him. Like she didn’t feel his stare heating the back of her thighs every time she walked off. Erik exhaled, knuckles rolling against the tension in his neck. He was standing near the edge of the bed when he paused. Head tilting. Something…caught his ear.
Faint. Rhythmic. Soft. A breath. A moan. A sound not meant for him to hear.
He froze. Straightened.
Turned toward the wall that sat between his room and hers. The sound came again. A whimper. Wet. The kind that came from a girl with her thighs open and her fingers deep. Then he heard it. His fucking name. Moaned. His name.
“Erik…”
Low and sticky, right in the middle of a breath. Like it’d slipped out of her. Like she couldn’t help it. He went completely still. Dangerous still. Body locked, shoulders tight, one hand pressed flat to the wall like he needed to feel the vibration of that sound to believe it was real. His other hand dropped loose at his side, but his fingers were curling slow. Jaw tight. His teeth clenched. And his dick…
That shit jumped so hard it made him grunt. Out of nowhere.
A heat rolled through him so fast he nearly doubled over from it. His dick stiffened under his sweats, heavy and thick, already pulsing like it knew what time it was. That slow stretch. The way it rose in his briefs, dragging fabric with it, pushing up like it wanted to tear through. Head swollen. Shaft thickening fast. His stomach fluttered. Tight with pressure. That deep arousal that sat low, below the navel, almost painful from how quick it built. He dropped his head. Breathed through his nose. But that only made it worse. He could still smell her. Sweet. Warm. The scent of her had been living in his lungs. Her perfume. Her oils. Her hair. She’d sat on that damn couch with her legs thrown over and now the whole place smelled like her thighs. Erik pressed his forehead to the wall, breathing slow, but his chest was rising too fast. His abs clenched. His balls ached. And that dick kept growing. He glanced down and hissed through his teeth. Veins thick. Tip already leaking.
He was rock fucking hard.
Hard in a way that had nothing to do with the last woman he touched. Some bad one from St. Lucia. Pretty little thing, all skin and waist, but that had been over a two years ago. He barely remembered what her voice sounded like, let alone what the pussy felt like. He didn’t care. Not when he could hear Sanaa on the other side of that wall right now.
He tilted his head. Listened.
Wet sounds. Louder now.
She was getting reckless with it. Sounded like she had one leg open, toes pointed, other leg bent so her hips could grind against her own hand. Fingering herself greedy, probably using two. She ain’t even care how loud she was being. Had no damn clue who she was moaning for.
Erik swallowed hard. He knew how it would go if he stepped over that line. If he walked his ass out this room and into hers. She wouldn’t even be able to breathe right after. Wouldn’t be able to sit the same. He would open her up slow. Push that tongue in first. Get her wet from the inside out. Lick every inch of her. Suck her clit between his lips until her pussy shook. Until her pretty little hole clenched on nothing. He’d eat her until her legs kicked, until she begged him to stop, but he wouldn’t. Not until her voice cracked. Not until her eyes rolled. Not until them pussy lips went numb and her thighs trembled from overstimulation. He’d have her ass laid out, legs shaking, pillow soaked, crying from how good it felt. He’d tear her open with his dick after that. Let her feel every inch. No pulling out. No breaks. Because if she was in there moaning his name like that? Saying “Erik” with that sweet voice, all fucked-out and soft? Then she already knew what she wanted.
And it was him.
It was him.
He dragged his hand down the wall, curled it into a tight fist at his side. His dick twitched again. Leaked again. Tip soaked. He stared at the floor, not seeing it. All he could see was her. Legs open, back arched, one hand between those thighs, the other probably gripping a pillow. Lips parted. Eyes closed. Body jerking. Saying his name like she missed him.
Erik…Erik…Erik…
His dick throbbed so hard it pulsed at the base.
Fuck.
This wasn’t no crush. Wasn’t just tension. This was straight inferno. Lust. Hunger. Possession. She was younger, yeah. Probably didn’t know what to do with what he was packing. Had no idea the kind of man she was playing with. He wasn’t like these boys she flirted with at school. Wasn’t like that nigga that took her on a little dinner date. He wasn’t gon’ stroke it cute and kiss her forehead and ask her how it felt.
He was gonna make her feel it. Over and over.
Give her every inch until her pussy learned how to take it. Until she started creaming just from the stretch. He’d fuck her slow the first time, not outta mercy, but because he wanted her to remember it. She wanted to moan his name? Then she was gonna say it when she came too.
Again. And again. And again.
He leaned back from the wall and sat on the edge of the bed, sweat sticking to his skin, dick hard enough to hurt.
His jaw flexed.
She didn’t even know what she just started. Didn’t know how close he was to snapping. All he had to do was open the door. All he had to do…was go get what already belonged to him. And she wouldn’t stop him. Not tonight. Not with the way she said his name. Not when that pussy was already calling for him.
He started pacing. Slow at first. Just a step. Then another. Chest rising. Shoulders tight. That pressure behind his eyes pulsing harder every time he circled back near the wall. Sanaa was quiet now. Or maybe she was still going. Still playing with that pussy. Just quieter about it.
Didn’t matter.
That sound was already stamped on his brain. That little moan with his name in it. The way it curled at the end like she was pulling the pleasure out of herself and letting it melt right into his damn name.
Erik…
He gritted his teeth and kept walking. Long strides. Feet bare. Sweats hanging too low. Every muscle in his arms and back locked. His biceps were flexed just from the strain of trying to calm the fuck down. Veins jumping in his forearms. His dick was hard. Still. The kind of hard that felt like punishment. Buzzing. Hot. Like every nerve ending in it was alive. Flaring. Fattened with blood and need and pure lust. It had been hard too long now and his patience was slipping. He paused at the mirror. That full-length one near his closet. The one he tried not to look in too long.
But he needed to see. Needed to see what the fuck this girl just did to him. Erik stepped forward, wide chest rising slow, and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. Pulled them down low. Real low. The elastic caught on the base, stretched tight over the thick girth and then—
Bop.
His dick sprang out. Heavy. Thick. Hanging low, the weight of it swaying slightly before rising with blood and desire. Head flushed deep, dark, glossy with arousal. That mushroom tip swollen and wet at the slit, a slow drip glistening. The shaft…long, veiny, vicious. A thick root at the base, hair neatly trimmed. His dick curved down slightly and sat fat in his hand as he caught it mid-throb.
“Fucccckkk,” he hissed, low, jaw clenching as he looked at it.
Brows pinched. Lips parted. His golds catching the light as he sucked in air and stared. This girl had his shit swole. And she wasn’t even in the room. This lil’ slut done fucked around and got his dick stiff off a damn moan. Said his name once and had him walking the floor like a fucking maniac. This wasn’t just want. This was need. Real need. Haven’t-been-touched-in-two-years-and-need-some-pussy type need.
He stroked it once. Lazy. Felt like heat in his hand. Too hot. Heavy. That throb damn near made him shudder. She didn’t even know what she was asking for. Didn’t know what she’d be taking. What it meant to get dick like his. How deep he’d go. What kind of pressure this was. She’d fold. He knew she would. She’d fold the second he had her on her back. Legs pushed up. Hands locked above her head. That pussy stretched wide and fluttering, her mouth all open, her eyes glassy. Looking at him like she ain’t know where she was anymore.
Like she’d never been fucked for real.
Erik hissed and looked away from the mirror. Put his hand on his hip. Tried to get his breathing under control. Tried to think of something else. Anything. But all he could see was her mouth.
The shape of it. The softness.
How it would look stretched wide open. Moaning his name when he fed her dick slow and deep, then pulled out just to slap it on her tongue. How she’d blink up at him like a good girl. Keep her lips parted, ready, willing. He dragged his hand back up his length, hissed again, then wiped his palm on his thigh. Had to stop. Had to get his shit together. This is what she wanted. That’s what he kept telling himself.
Don’t play her game, Erik. Don’t give her that satisfaction.
She was younger. Too much of a damn tease pulling this shit. Walking around in those little sleep shorts. Tshirts with no bra. Those glasses. Hair in a messy bun. Lips always glossy. Voice soft and calm like she didn’t know how fast it worked on him. And now she’s moaning his name like a little freak with her fingers in her pussy? He yanked his sweats back up, trying to cover himself, but his dick wasn’t going for that. The outline pushed forward, stiff and obvious, a fat print stretching the front like he was trying to hide a weapon.
He ran a hand down his beard. Closed his eyes again. And what he saw earlier made it worse.
That damn vibrator. The purple one he saw in the shower last when she left it sitting on the ledge like it was normal. Like she didn’t care if anybody saw it.
He pictured it.
Sanaa naked, one leg propped up, head tilted back under the water. That toy buzzing against her clit. Her mouth open. One hand holding the wand, the other pinching her own nipple. He pictured her sliding it between her legs, wet from water and want. Rocking against it. Thighs shaking. Shoulders curling in. He pictured her moaning into her hand, maybe trying to keep it quiet, but failing when the orgasm hit. The sound she made when she came. That’s what he wanted to hear.
That’s what he needed.
Erik turned toward the door. Reached for the knob. Opened it. Took one step out. Then froze.
His jaw ticked.
He was this close. Right there. He could walk over, knock once, or not at all. Push that door open. Grab her by the hips and make her spread for him. Let her feel what it really meant to say his name like that. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Because if he gave in now, he wouldn’t stop. She’d be in his bed every night. That soft moan of his name would become a habit. She’d be addicted to the way he touched her, fucked her, owned her.
And he wasn’t ready to lose that control.
Not yet.
So he clenched his fists. Shut the door. Leaned his head against it and stood there breathing deep, dick still hard as steel.
She was gonna pay for this.
Just not tonight.
Not yet.
The apartment was still quiet when Aaliyah’s alarm buzzed softly from her phone docked by the window. A slow yawn escaped her lips as she stretched, sheets tangled around her legs, the scent of her coconut leave-in still lingering in the air from last night’s twist-out.
She shuffled into her morning with muscle memory—bonnet off, slippers on. Bathroom, skincare, brushing her teeth with a playlist humming low from her phone. One of those easy, feel-good mornings. No chaos. No rush. Macha was already calling her name, but first, she veered down the hall, knocking gently against the cracked door of Sanaa’s room.
“Sis?” she called, nudging the door open with her knuckles, “You up?”
“Mhm.”
Aaliyah stepped in and smiled at the sight.
Sanaa was curled at her desk, glasses sliding down her nose. Her curly hair was in a messy bun, big tendrils falling around her face, and she had on one of her oversized college T-shirts—faded from too many washes, sleeves falling over her wrists. Her legs were folded beneath her in the chair, Ugg slippers placed beneath her feet for easy access. Of course she looked cozy and cute.
“Studying already?” Aaliyah grinned, flopping face-first onto Sanaa’s bed, “It’s not even nine.”
“Gotta get ahead before my midterms start clownin’,” Sanaa said, glancing over her laptop with a sleepy smile, “You making macha?”
“Later. Right now, I want the tea.”
Sanaa blinked over her glasses, “Tea?”
“Yes, bitch, the date. Nathan. Hello?” Aaliyah rolled onto her back dramatically, arms stretched over her head, “How was it? Did he smell good? Did he open your door? Was it giving potential husband or meal ticket and vibes?”
Sanaa laughed, sitting back in her chair and pulling the throw blanket off the back of it to wrap around her legs.
“It was nice,” she said, almost shyly, “He’s sweet.”
“Sweet?” Aaliyah lifted a brow, “You blushing. Not too much, now.”
Sanaa bit her lip, head tilting.
“No, like…genuinely sweet. He asked real questions. Talked about his interests, his future plans, the kind of work he does in tech. He paid attention. Didn’t just talk to talk.”
“Mmm.” Aaliyah gave her a look, “So…is there gonna be a second date?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged with that coy little smile Aaliyah knew too well, “I’d go.”
Aaliyah grinned, “I like this for you.”
“Thank you.” Sanaa pushed her glasses up and nudged her laptop closed, “So what about you? Jordan still blocked or…?”
Aaliyah groaned and dragged a pillow over her face.
Sanaa grinned, “Ahh. So that’s a no.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Aaliyah sat up just enough to toss the pillow at her.
“Okay,” she sighed. “So…I might be giving him another chance.”
Sanaa blinked, “Might?”
“Fine. I am. Don’t look at me like that.”
Sanaa held up her hands, all fake innocence, “Lookin’ like what?”
“Like you knew this was coming.”
“Because I did,” Sanaa said, grinning, “Girl, you was never leaving that man. He got you hooked.”
“Shut up. It’s the other way around actually.” Aaliyah corrected.
“No, no. Let’s talk about it.” Sanaa pulled her legs up in her chair and pointed at her, “You over here giving me dating advice when you the one who be texting that man paragraphs then deleting them.”
Aaliyah rolled her eyes.
Sanaa laughed, head back, curls bouncing, “Girl, you under his spell.”
“He’s not that bad.”
“He’s a wannabe rapper.”
“I like that he has aspirations. Leave me alone.”
Sanaa narrowed her eyes, “Don’t let Erik find out.”
Aaliyah paused.
Sanaa smirked, “Mhm. You know he gon’ beat Jordan’s ass if he catches wind.”
“Please.” Aaliyah waved it off, “I’m grown. I’m not little Li-Li with the braces anymore.”
“You sure about that?” Sanaa teased.
“I’m positive,” Aaliyah said, but her voice had a little whine to it.
Sanaa gave her a look and wiggled her eyebrows, “Alright, big grown. Keep playing, though. Let Erik see Jordan dropping you off with that engine rattling and them loud ass rims.”
“That boy do not have loud rims.”
“He do,” Sanaa grinned, “And they ugly.”
“Whatever, bitch.”
Sanaa’s smile softened as she curled the blanket tighter around her.
For a moment, the teasing faded, and it was just them. The kind of moment only besties and sisters could have—messy, honest, sweet.
Sanaa looked out the window, then back at her screen, “Just be careful,” she said, “With Jordan. I don’t wanna have to kill him myself.”
Aaliyah nodded, serious now, “I will.”
A beat.
Then Sanaa added, “And if Erik do catch him slipping… I ain’t snitching.”
They both laughed.
They heard the door open at the same time. Both heads turned toward the hallway. Sanaa paused, eyebrows raised. Aaliyah squinted like she expected trouble. Then came the sound of grocery bags rustling.
“Erik?” Aaliyah called, already rising to her feet.
Sanaa stood slower, tugging her oversized T-shirt down over her shorts as they made their way out of the bedroom. By the time they reached the kitchen, Erik had already dropped three brown paper bags on the counter. Another two sat by his feet, the tops folded but not sealed. He was wearing a fitted black tee, sleeves hugging his arms, dark jeans slung low. A black beanie pulled low over his locs, golds were in, catching the light when he licked his lips with a quick swipe of his tongue. He removed his beanie and shook out his locs.
“Morning,” he said, voice low and smooth.
Aaliyah blinked, “You went grocery shopping?”
“Somebody had to,” Erik said, pulling out a bundle of herbs, “I’m making breakfast.”
Sanaa looked over at Aaliyah, who was already frowning.
“What?” she asked.
“Like the old days,” Erik added, setting aside three cartons of organic eggs, “Before y’all forgot what a stove was.”
Aaliyah scoffed, “Erik, we cook.”
“Ramen don’t count.”
“Wow.”
Erik smirked, reaching for the other bag, “Brought stuff to last at least a couple weeks. You two need to eat better. Especially if you gon’ keep living off takeout and stress.”
Sanaa leaned over the counter and peeked into one of the bags. Bright fruits. Fresh greens. Kale, not lettuce. Real spinach, not frozen. Sweet potatoes, avocados, garlic bulbs. Everything labeled organic.
Erik moved around the kitchen like he still lived there.
Aaliyah gave him a look, “You bought…lean turkey?”
“Yup.”
“Quinoa?”
“High protein. Cooks quick.”
“Greek yogurt?” She held it up like it was a crime.
“With raw honey. You’re welcome.”
Sanaa smiled behind her hand, slipping to the other side of the counter to help unpack.
Every time she moved, she felt his eyes.
Tracking her.
Following.
He didn’t touch her. Not even a brush. But she could feel it. That thick tension hanging between them like a charged wire. His gaze kept dropping. To the line of her neck. The slope of her hips. The slow way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
Her skin was warm. She hadn’t even looked at him full yet.
When she did, it hit like a jolt.
Their eyes met.
Erik’s expression didn’t change, but something dark stirred behind his gaze. His jaw ticked once. Lips parted just barely.
And Sanaa’s heart kicked.
She looked away quickly, cheeks heating, and focused on unpacking the last bag. Almond butter. Whole grain bread. Spices. Real cinnamon sticks. Fresh ginger. Lemons. Limes. Olive oil. A small pack of steel-cut oats and more.
Aaliyah shook her head, overwhelmed, “You want us to meal prep or something?”
“I want y’all to eat balanced meals. And that lazy shit is all mental. Gotta put in the work.”
Aaliyah huffed, “I don’t have time for this shit. I’m in clinic, lectures, research, plus that dissertation.”
“You got time to order UberEats at midnight though. Yeah, I caught you buying Shake Shack at damn near 1 AM.”
Sanaa hid her smile again, lips pressed tight.
Aaliyah pointed, “Okay. Sanaa can cook.”
Sanaa blinked, “Excuse me?”
“You can.”
“I’m also in school. In case you forgot?”
“You don’t leave the house like I do,” Aaliyah teased, bumping her shoulder.
Sanaa rolled her eyes, still avoiding Erik’s stare, “I’m not cooking every day.”
“You ain’t gotta,” Erik said, voice low.
Sanaa turned. He was watching her again.
“Just a couple meals a week. You know…real food.” He stepped closer, barely a foot between them now as he set down a bundle of asparagus, “Something warm. With flavor.”
Their eyes locked again. Heat rolled between them.
Slow.
Heavy.
Aaliyah clapped her hands together, “Who wants matcha?!”
Sanaa blinked and stepped back just slightly, “I’ll have some,” she said, clearing her throat.
Erik didn’t answer.
Aaliyah raised an eyebrow at him, “You want any?”
“I’m good.”
“I figured.” She started toward the hallway, “Y’all get started on that food. I’m about to do some emails before class.”
Her steps faded behind them.
Then the kitchen went quiet.
Sanaa opened the fridge, bending slightly to make space for the yogurt. She could feel him behind her. That tension from last night flooding right back in. Her thighs pressed together without thinking. She grabbed an egg carton, placed it gently on the top shelf.
When she stood again, Erik was still there.
Close.
His eyes flicked from her lips to her neck, to the curve of her ass under that T-shirt, then back up again.
Neither of them said a word.
Not yet.
But it was coming.
The sound of running water and the rhythmic chop of a knife was the only thing filling the kitchen now. Aaliyah had disappeared down the hall, and with her went the casual buffer that had been keeping everything in this room breathable. Now it was just Sanaa and Erik, and that tension—so thick and close it almost pressed on her chest. She stood near the sink, glass of water held lightly in both hands, trying to keep her gaze off the man across the counter. But it was useless. Her eyes kept drifting.
Erik was prepping like he had something to prove. Like he wasn’t just making breakfast, but building a memory. Everything laid out was fresh and hand-picked, no corners cut. He was moving with intention, slow and clean, dicing onion with a precise rhythm, sliding it into the preheated skillet where it hissed the second it hit the oil.
The air filled with the smell of garlic and onion, the faint pop of fresh thyme crackling as he rubbed it between his fingers and dropped it in. Thick forearms flexing with each movement. Veins prominent. Skin smooth and rich. That quiet strength in his posture made the kitchen feel smaller, like it belonged to him now.
Sanaa shifted her weight to one hip and sipped her water again, eyes trailing down his back, then to the way his broad hands moved through the ingredients like he’d done it a thousand times. Everything he did was calm. Measured. Masculine in a way that made her pulse jump a little. She could hear the low scrape of the spatula on cast iron, smell the butter blooming into the aromatics. It smelled like home. Like something heavy and warm was about to hit the plate.
Erik turned then, glanced over his shoulder, and caught her staring.
Their eyes locked.
Sanaa didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
She just kept sipping her water, lips slightly parted, and the soft sheen of gloss caught the light from the window. One loose curl had fallen across her cheekbone, another rested just above her brow. Her glasses sat low on her nose, framing her eyes in a way that only made them more expressive. Curious. Shy. But not scared.
Erik held her gaze.
His jaw flexed once, slow. His eyes scanned her face with a kind of deliberate stillness. She felt it pass over her lips, her throat, then lower, lingering on the way her shirt dipped at the collar. Her skin warmed under his eyes.
Then his voice came, low and smooth, like it had dropped just for her.
“You wanna help?”
She blinked once.
He waited.
“You don’t have to,” he added, turning his attention back to the cutting board, “Only if you want.”
Sanaa set the glass down on the counter with a soft clink and took a slow breath. She stepped forward, bare legs brushing against the edge of the cabinets.
“I can help,” she said, her voice soft, steady, “What do you need me to do, Erik?”
Something in the way she said his name made him pause.
He glanced at her again, one brow lifted.
“Wash your hands,” he said, voice still low, “Then come here.”
She obeyed without question. Turned to the sink, rinsed her hands slowly, then dried them on the cloth draped over the oven handle. Her heart was thudding harder than she wanted it to, but her face didn’t show it. When she stepped closer, Erik had already moved to the side, gesturing toward the pile of potatoes on the counter.
“Peel those,” he said, “Then cut ’em like this.”
He stepped behind her, not beside her, and reached around with his hand to guide hers. His palm slid across the back of her hand, fingers curling around hers gently as he guided the angle of the blade. His other hand rested on the counter, trapping her in the space between him and the cutting board.
Sanaa’s breath caught.
The heat of him behind her was magnetic. He wasn’t even pressed against her, but she could feel it. The closeness. The suggestion. She nodded slowly, following his lead, fingers steady as she peeled the first potato.
He didn’t move away.
“Thinner than that,” Erik said, voice brushing the shell of her ear, “Even slices.”
Her lashes fluttered.
He reached again, adjusting her grip, the pad of his thumb grazing along the inside of her wrist. A touch so light, it was more suggestion than contact.
“You got it,” he said, “Keep goin’.”
Sanaa swallowed, trying to keep her focus. Her lips parted slightly. She could feel his breath when he leaned in just a little closer to reach for the bowl beside her.
His voice came again, low and smooth, like he was speaking just to the spot behind her ear.
“What you been runnin’ off lately? Coffee and stress?”
She gave a soft laugh, “Basically.”
He shook his head once, “Nah. Not while I’m around. We gon’ fix that.”
She didn’t say anything.
Didn’t need to.
The silence between them stretched. Full. Warm. Loaded. She dropped the slices into the bowl and reached for the next potato. Erik moved back just slightly, letting her work, but his presence stayed close. Every time she glanced up, his gaze was there. Watching. Studying. Not in a way that made her feel self-conscious. But seen.
Completely.
And she kept catching herself staring at his mouth. The way his lips parted when he tasted the seasoning in the pan. The way they shaped her name when he said it. The slow drag of his tongue across the corner of his mouth when he leaned over to stir the skillet.
It was quiet. But charged.
She peeled.
He cooked.
And neither of them said what they were really thinking. But it was thick in the air. The question. The temptation. The promise. Still unspoken. Still waiting. Still simmering.
The kitchen was warmer now.
Not from the stove, though the heat rising off the cast iron was no joke. It was Erik. The way he moved through the space with a quiet kind of power. Calm but commanding. The kind of energy that made the air heavy and slow, like every moment carried weight. Sanaa was still at the counter, focused on peeling and slicing, but every part of her was aware of him.
The soft scrape of his knife against the board. The low clatter of a metal whisk against glass. The scent of browned butter and cinnamon curling into the air. The rich sweetness of the brioche he was prepping for Aaliyah, dipped in that thick custard like it deserved luxury. Everything about his cooking was precise. Slow. Confident.
And she kept catching herself looking.
At his shoulders. His back. The way his shirt clung to his waist. The way his jeans sat low on his hips. How tall he was, how he made the kitchen look smaller just by being in it. Sanaa reached for the towel to wipe her hands, standing straighter, but Erik moved beside her, brushing just close enough that her side grazed the solid heat of his body. Her breath caught for half a second. He didn’t even touch her with his hands. Just his presence. That closeness. That size. She wasn’t short by most standards, but next to him? She felt small. Especially now, with her bare legs, oversized tee, glasses still slipping down her nose.
“You straight?” he asked, voice low.
Sanaa looked up, “Yeah.”
He gave a slight nod, tossing the whisk in the sink, “Cool.” Then, while he was cracking eggs into a separate bowl for the scrambled mix, he said it, “You sleep alright last night?”
Sanaa blinked. Her hand paused over the potatoes.
“Yeah,” she said slowly, “I did.”
Erik nodded once. Kept stirring, “I didn’t.”
Her stomach dipped.
He spoke like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t carefully dropping that line into the room.
“Usually takes me a minute,” he added, voice casual but that deep tone was there. Thick and smooth, like it belonged in the air with everything else he was cooking, “Been that way for a while. Trained myself to stay aware. Just in case something happens.”
Sanaa stayed quiet. Watched his hands as he stirred the eggs. The way his forearms flexed.
“Also,” he continued, turning toward the stove, “the walls in this place are thin.”
The whisk hit the bowl a little harder on that last stir.
Sanaa went still.
Completely still.
She didn’t even breathe for a second. Her hand tightened around the towel, heart thumping against her ribs. Her thighs clenched on reflex. She glanced up at him slowly.
He wasn’t looking at her.
Not yet.
He was pouring the egg mix into a nonstick pan, swirling it gently, his back half-turned.
Then he added, “Heard some noise. Kept me up.”
Her cheeks flushed warm, but her throat went dry. She stood straighter, adjusting the towel in her hand, trying to stay calm. Trying to keep her voice even.
“I’m…” she started, then cleared her throat, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to keep you up.”
Erik still wasn’t looking at her. But his body was still. Attentive.
“I had to take care of something,” she said, her voice soft but steady now, “Something important.”
Erik turned his head slightly. His eyes slid to hers.
“The only way I could sleep.”
The words hung in the air like steam off the skillet. Sanaa’s face was calm, but her pulse skipped. Her stomach fluttered. Every inch of her felt tight and loose at the same time. Her hand was still holding the towel, now clutched tighter than before. She was rooted in place, but her legs wanted to press together.
Erik finally looked at her full.
And the stare that followed was thick.
Dragging.
Heavy.
His eyes didn’t move quickly. They coasted over her—slow with a tilt of his head. From her bun, curls falling soft around her cheeks, to her glasses, down to her lips, glossy and parted just slightly. His eyes dropped lower. Her neck. The slope of her chest beneath the shirt. The way the fabric barely brushed the top of her thighs.
Then his gaze came back up.
They stared at each other. Hard.
No smiles. No teasing.
It was full silence, nothing light about it.
Sanaa’s breath moved in slow and tight. Her chest rose, then fell. Her grip on the towel loosened, then tightened again.
Erik’s jaw shifted. His lips parted just slightly.
Still no words.
She could see the thoughts behind his eyes. The question. The threat. The pull. Her body reacted before her mind could. A soft sway forward. Almost unnoticeable. But he noticed. He straightened just a touch. Hands braced on the counter. Like he was holding himself in place.
Like if he moved, it would be over.
They stared.
And kept staring.
Her stomach twisted again. Heat pulsed low.
Erik didn’t blink.
Didn’t look away.
And neither did she.
The timer on the oven went off, sharp and sudden. They both moved at once. Nothing said. Nothing touched.
But everything had already been felt.
The oven timer had barely stopped ringing before Aaliyah’s voice came floating in from the hall.
“Okay, y’all better not be eating without me.”
Sanaa stepped back from the counter fast, heart still beating way too loud. Her hands went to the towel, wiping her fingers for the third time, though they weren’t wet. She kept her eyes down. Pretended to re-focus on the potatoes. She could still feel it. The lingering effect of Erik’s stare. That deep look, slow and deliberate, like his eyes had hands. Like he’d already touched her without ever laying a finger. And now, her pussy was actively quivering. It made her stomach dip, thighs press close, chest feel too tight under the worn cotton of her T-shirt. She swallowed and reached for the bowl, trying to look busy.
But it was no use.
The flood of arousal was quick. Immediate. Deep and low like a wave breaking inside her. She could feel it coat her. Warm, soft, shamefully slick between her thighs. Every movement she made now—walking, standing, even breathing—had her more aware of it.
Aaliyah came bouncing into the kitchen, hoodie on over shorts, messy curls tucked behind one ear. She stopped and blinked, then raised an eyebrow.
“Oh wow. Sanaa in the kitchen. Doing things. Should I grab my camera?”
Sanaa turned slowly, lifting her eyes just enough to throw her sister a dry glare.
“Funny.”
“I’m serious. This is rare,” Aaliyah said, tying her hoodie tighter, “We’re looking at history in real time.”
Behind her, Erik didn’t miss a beat.
“She been stuck on them potatoes for like twenty minutes now.”
Sanaa shot him a sharp look over her shoulder, “I’m gonna throw one of these potatoes at your head.”
Erik gave her a look.
That smirk. Slow. Dimpled. Slick.
It wasn’t the cocky kind. It was worse. The knowing kind. The you ain’t slick kind. The one that reached all the way to his eyes and lingered there. Sanaa turned back to the counter, jaw tight, trying to hide her own grin, but her face felt hot. Her hands picked up the bowl again, though she didn’t need to.
“I was helping,” she muttered.
“You were lookin’,” Erik said, voice low enough that Aaliyah didn’t catch the real weight behind it.
Sanaa’s stomach fluttered again.
Aaliyah rolled her eyes and headed toward the kettle, opening the cabinet above it, “Sanaa in the kitchen and using her hands. Should I alert the press?”
Sanaa made a sound in her throat, flat and unimpressed, “You act like I don’t cook at all.”
“I mean…” Aaliyah reached for her favorite matcha tin, “I just think it’s cute that you suddenly know where the knives are.”
Behind her, Erik didn’t say much. Just let the skillet speak—potatoes sizzling as he turned them slow, the scent of garlic blooming in the butter. He tossed a glance at Sanaa, and she caught it. Another one of those loaded, quiet stares.
Her grip on the towel slipped a little.
Aaliyah, still fully unaware, turned with a spoon in her hand, “Anyway, I’ll stay out y’all way while you two chef it up. I’m just here to make my little matcha and mind my business.”
She smiled, casual and sweet, then turned back to her drink. Sanaa exhaled, her lips barely parting. Erik leaned down to check the heat, dimples flashing as he caught her stare again.
She looked away.
Fast.
But not before her breath caught again, low in her throat.
But her thoughts…her thoughts wouldn’t let her go.
Thin walls.
Heard some noise.
Kept me up.
Her heart fluttered all over again.
He heard her.
She’d moaned his name. She remembered it vividly. Body spread on the sheets, thighs spread wide, fingers gripping the pillow, and that last slick sound that slipped out of her lips like a secret. “Erik…” It had been breathless. Needy. She hadn’t meant to say it so loud.
But she did.
And he heard it.
And now he was here, calm and cool, flipping potatoes with garlic and scallion like he hadn’t been just inches from pinning her to the counter minutes ago with nothing but a look.
She felt herself pulse again.
Why didn’t he come over? If he heard…if he knew…
Why didn’t he come into her room? Why didn’t he press that big body of his between her thighs and put his mouth on her until she cried? Why didn’t he take what she was so clearly asking for?
Her thighs clenched tighter. She shifted in place, trying to ease the ache.
Maybe he wanted her to beg.
Or maybe he wanted her to know he could’ve—but didn’t. Because that kind of control? That restraint? That was a different kind of power. One that made her wetter than she wanted to admit.
“Yo, sit down,” Erik said, lifting a hand as Aaliyah reached for the plates, “I got it.”
“You sure?” she asked, half-teasing, already hovering near the counter.
“Yes. Go sit with your little best friend.” Erik pointed toward the dining table, “Both of y’all. Chill. I’ll make the plates.”
Sanaa glanced at Aaliyah, who gave a shrug and mouthed damn okay, then headed toward the table with her mug of matcha. The dining space was small but cozy. Two chairs on either side of the wooden table, one at the end. A fake succulent centerpiece sat in a tray with a half-burnt candle. Erik’s presence made the room feel warmer—more settled, like the apartment remembered what it was like to have him there. Even the sound of him in the kitchen, heavy footsteps and drawers sliding open, felt…familiar
“So what’s your week looking like?” Sanaa asked, tucking a curl behind her ear as she settled into the chair.
Aaliyah exhaled, loud, like the question alone wore her out. She pulled her legs up into the seat, criss-crossed, and rested her elbow on the table dramatically.
“Pure hell,” she said, “Clinic hours Monday and Wednesday, that reproductive justice roundtable Tuesday, and I still gotta finish my final proposal before the weekend or they’ll drop me from the SisterSong fellowship.”
Sanaa blinked, “That’s this week?”
“Yes,” Aaliyah groaned, “It’s literally the last thing I have to turn in before they ship me off to Atlanta for three months.”
“Girl…”
“I know,” she said, stirring her matcha with a little too much energy, “It’s exciting, and I’m proud, but also—high-key—I’m ready for spring break. Like, I need to lie down for a week and not advocate for a single soul.”
Sanaa laughed, “You are so dramatic.”
“I’m serious. I’m over here tryna prevent infant mortality and fight health disparities.”
Sanaa grinned, resting her chin on her hand, “you’re the one who chose to major in this, Aaliyah.”
“Because somebody has to!” Aaliyah said, pointing a finger, “And it ain’t you with your six half-read theory articles open and your self care Sunday energy.”
“That’s wild,” Sanaa deadpanned, smiling.
“I’m just saying,” Aaliyah said, “we both stressed. But I’m on the front lines and you’re on Pinterest looking up inspo for your hair appointment.”
“You need to eat your French toast and calm down.”
Aaliyah huffed, but a smile tugged at her lips, “I really am geeked for this toast though. He made that whipped brown sugar butter, huh?”
“Yep,” Sanaa nodded, “now you’re making me want some.”
Aaliyah picked up her fork like it was a weapon, “I’m ’bout to risk it all.”
They laughed together, the kitchen filled with warm smells and that easy kind of joy that came from years of being in each other’s orbit. Oakland-born, D.C.-bruised, still surviving. Sanaa reached for her water again, but her eyes flicked over to Erik, who was at the counter finishing the last of the turkey sausage. He moved with that same quiet precision, jaw tight, focus sharp—but not once had he stopped glancing back at her.
Not that Aaliyah noticed.
She was too busy hyping herself up to finish her fellowship paperwork, fall back in love with her favorite French toast, and maybe text Jordan when no one was looking. Erik returned from the kitchen holding two plates—steam curling off the food, every item arranged like he gave a damn about presentation. The potatoes were golden and crisp, eggs folded fluffy with herbs, turkey sausage stacked perfectly, and a side of bright avocado and pan-seared tomatoes. Aaliyah’s plate had the brioche French toast, dusted with powdered sugar and topped with a scoop of that warm brown sugar vanilla butter melting down the sides.
“Damn,” Aaliyah whispered, eyes wide as he set it in front of her. “Okay, Chef Boyardee.”
“Chef who?” Erik gave her a look.
“Boyardee! You heard me!” she said quickly, grabbing her fork.
Sanaa just smiled to herself as he placed her plate down next, close enough that she could smell the heat off his skin. He didn’t say anything, but his fingers grazed the edge of the napkin she’d set out. Just a second too long. Then he turned, made his own plate, and returned with that same steady, quiet energy—shoulders squared, attention focused, but his gaze kept landing on her.
She didn’t return it. Not at first.
She focused on her food. Potatoes were crispy on the outside, soft inside. Just the right amount of herb. The turkey sausage had a kick to it. Everything tasted like time. Like care.
But she felt his eyes.
Low and steady. From across the table, she could feel the heat of his stare drag up her arm, down her neck, across her face. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t entertain it. She stayed cool, played her role.
“I’ve got a hair appointment later,” she said casually, slicing into her eggs.
Aaliyah perked up, “Ooo, what you getting?”
“Silk press.”
“Period,” Aaliyah grinned, mouth full of toast, “You already know you gon’ look good. That shit about to swing.”
“I know,” Sanaa said, her voice soft and teasing, “It’s time.”
Aaliyah was halfway through her French toast when she slowed down, fork hovering over her plate, and looked across the table at Erik.
“So…are you thinking about going back to Oakland for a few days?” she asked casually, like she hadn’t been sitting on the question, “Sanaa and I are gonna go. I got a week break before I have to be back in Atlanta for the fellowship.”
Sanaa glanced up at that, her chewing slowing as she listened. Erik didn’t look up from his plate. He was cutting into his turkey sausage with slow precision, the scrape of his knife deliberate.
“Don’t know, Liyah,” he said, “Might got a job lined up.”
Aaliyah let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes, “Can’t you hold off on killing people for money for one second?”
Sanaa blinked. Her fork paused in the air. She looked between the two of them. Erik didn’t take the bait. He lifted his fork, took a bite, chewed slow, jaw ticking once before he said—flat, clipped—
“I ain’t got time for no nosy questions about what I’m doing, who I’m talking to, or why I don’t come around.”
That hung in the air.
Aaliyah leaned back in her seat and picked up her matcha, sipping it like she needed the warmth to swallow her pride. Her lips pressed tight around the rim, eyes darting everywhere but toward Erik.
Sanaa looked at her. Then at him.
The shift in the air was sharp. Quiet, but sharp. That kind of sibling tension that came layered with years of history, silence, and unresolved bruises. Not explosive. But always there. Pressed beneath the surface.
Sanaa didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.
But she could feel the tightness in Erik’s shoulders. The way his attention flickered once to Aaliyah, then back to his food. Whatever was going on between them.
The silence lingered just a second too long.
Then Erik set down his fork and leaned back in his chair slightly, eyes shifting toward Aaliyah with that familiar slant of brotherly teasing.
“You know what I ain’t missing though?” he said, tone smoother, a hint lighter.
Aaliyah looked up, a little wary, “What?”
“That graduation.”
Her expression cracked.
A small smile crept across her lips before she could catch it.
Erik nodded once, slow and sure, “Nah, I’m dead serious. I’m pullin’ up. Front row. Loud as hell. Don’t care what school security talkin’ about.”
Aaliyah rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed, “Please don’t start no drama at Howard, Erik.”
“You gon’ see me with a poster and a bullhorn,” he added, “Yellin’ your whole government name. Aaliyah Nicole Stevens, B.S. Public Health, Minor in Mindin’ Other People’s Business. AHHHHHH.”
That pulled a real laugh from her.
Sanaa smiled behind her glass.
Then Erik leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, his voice dipping into something quieter. Something that carried more weight, “For real, though. I’m proud of you.”
Aaliyah blinked, caught off guard.
Erik’s gaze stayed steady, “You been grinding. No shortcuts. You really out here tryna make things better for people. Mama would’ve been proud too.”
A beat passed. Aaliyah looked down, smile trembling on her lips. Erik’s expression softened even more. Not just in his eyes, but in his whole face. The hard lines of his jaw loosened. His brow smoothed. That dimpled smirk tugged at one corner of his mouth, gentle and real. It was a face Sanaa hadn’t seen in a long time.
Not the sharp, calculating Erik. But this version, the one who looked like peace might be possible. She stared for a second too long. Then Erik leaned across the table and kissed Aaliyah’s forehead, rough hand cupping the back of her head just for a second.
“Stop it,” she grumbled, shoving at his shoulder, “You too affectionate now.”
“Gotta balance all the murder,” he said with a straight face.
Aaliyah snorted into her matcha. And just like that, the tension cracked. The room felt lighter again. But Sanaa was still watching him and wondering what it would take to make that softness his new default.
As they chatted, her legs shifted beneath the table, absentminded. She slipped one foot out of her Ugg slipper and stretched, letting her toes wiggle free. The motion was unconscious—habit. A way to cool off. But then—
Her foot touched something solid.
Warm.
Hard.
His leg.
She froze.
It wasn’t just a brush. It was a slow drag, the ball of her foot against the side of his calf. She moved to pull back quick but before she could—
Erik’s hand caught her ankle.
Her body went still.
Her breath caught behind a soft gasp.
She looked up, slow, careful.
Erik didn’t speak.
Didn’t smirk.
But his eyes held hers, low and unreadable, thick with that same pressure from earlier. One hand still on his fork, the other wrapped beneath the table, fingers around her ankle like he had all the time in the world.
He gave it a gentle squeeze.
Her pussy clenched.
Sanaa blinked at him, heart beating way too loud.
Then Aaliyah stood, “Be right back, I forgot my matcha in the kitchen.”
Sanaa tensed.
Erik didn’t let go.
She looked at him sharp, trying to shoot him a warning, but he just leaned back slightly, completely relaxed, thumb brushing the arch of her foot now.
He was teasing her.
Her leg jerked slightly. She leaned forward over the table.
“Stop,” she whispered, lips barely moving, voice light and whiny in a way she didn’t mean for it to be.
Erik’s lips curled—dimples again, full smirk now. She tried to pull her leg back. He held it. Her toes flexed in his hand. His grip tightened just a little.
“Erik,” she hissed, under her breath.
“Hmm?”
“Stoppp.”
He chuckled low.
It was the sound that undid her. Rich and knowing and deep in his chest. That man knew exactly what he was doing.
Aaliyah returned with her mug, oblivious, dropping back into her seat.
“Yo, y’all killed this,” she said. “Like I might need you to make breakfast for now on. Just like back home, right, E?”
Sanaa’s face was warm. She tucked her foot under the other, finally free. She pushed her plate forward slightly, suddenly full.
Erik just kept eating.
Calm. Easy.
Aaliyah pushed her plate forward and let out a soft groan, slouching back in her seat.
“Yeah…I’m full. That was everything.” She stood and scooped up her plate, balancing her matcha mug on top, “I’m about to shower and study for a couple hours. Gotta get ahead before this week starts kicking my ass.”
Sanaa smiled into her glass, “Go do your little flashcards.”
“Girl, don’t hate.” Aaliyah leaned in to nudge her on the shoulder before heading to the kitchen, “I’ll leave y’all to finish cleaning. Love you, mean it.”
She disappeared down the hall, humming to herself. The moment the water started running in the bathroom, Sanaa let out a soft giggle.
Erik glanced over, slow and unbothered, brow raised, “Why you gigglin’?”
Sanaa shrugged, eyes low, trying to suppress her grin, “Don’t worry about it, Killmonger.”
His jaw ticked, “What I tell you about callin’ me that?”
Sanaa’s smile widened, her voice syrupy and slick, “Why can’t I call you that? It’s a nickname, right?”
Erik didn’t answer. Just gave her a look. Dark eyes narrowing, tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek.
Sanaa leaned back in her chair, legs crossed beneath the table, her bare foot swinging lazily back and forth—just brushing his shin every few seconds.
Then she kicked him.
Not hard. A playful little tap.
But it was enough.
Erik moved without warning.
He caught her foot again. Both hands this time. Big, rough palms wrapping around her ankle and arch. He pulled her in under the table slow, dragging her chair forward inch by inch. Wood scraping the floor. Her body inching closer to the edge.
Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched.
She tried to yank her foot back but he wasn’t letting go.
“Erikkkk,” she whined, voice low, damn near begging.
He didn’t flinch. Still calm. Still still. But his eyes, they burned. That same dangerous flicker from earlier. The kind that made her chest flutter and her belly clench tight.
He tightened his grip, “Say my name.” A pause, “Say it again.”
Her breath hitched, “Let my foot go.”
His voice dropped, “You always givin’ orders?”
She shook her head slowly, “That wasn’t an order. That was a request.”
“You sure?” he whispered, dark amusement curling at the edges.
Sanaa narrowed her eyes.
He rubbed his thumb slow across the top of her foot, right at the softest part near her toes. Her stomach flipped. The touch was lazy. Familiar. Possessive.
Her pulse jumped so hard she felt it in her throat.He leaned back just slightly, that same calm stillness in his chest. But his voice?
Low. Firm. Dangerous.
“Say my name. Like I said.”
It wasn’t a request. She tugged again, foot still in his hand.
She huffed, “Why you actin’ like this?”
That slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, “You ain’t said it right yet.”
She twisted again, “Erik—”
“Nah,” he cut her off, voice thick with warning now, “You know how I want it.”
Her eyes flared. Heat crawled up her throat.
Still, she held her ground—barely.
“You gon’ hold my foot hostage?”
His thumb stroked across her ankle, slow. Possessive.
“You want it back?” he asked, head tilted, “Say it. Sweet.”
She exhaled sharply, biting the inside of her cheek.
He was enjoying this. Too much.
“You a damn menace,” she argued.
That smirk deepened, “And you still ain’t said my name.”
His grip loosened. But he didn’t let go.
“Let it go,” she whispered.
He looked at her, head tilted, voice low and deliberate.
“That ain’t how you ask for shit now is it?”
Her eyes held his.
It was heat. Tension. And something thick resting beneath the words. Something neither of them wanted to name yet. But it was there.
Lurking.
Pressing against the edges of the moment.
She stared at him. Then softer—lips barely parting, breath catching:
“…Erik.” Her foot twitched in his grip, “Please,” she said, soft and slow, “Can I have my foot back.”
Erik smiled. Not cocky. Not teasing. Just…knowing. His thumb slid up her arch again, then he let go. Sanaa pulled her leg back fast, tucking it beneath her other thigh, heart racing.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
“I ain’t even start yet,” he said, voice dragging low across the syllables.
Sanaa looked away quick.
But her thighs squeezed tighter.
And her foot still tingled where he touched it.
Sanaa didn’t say anything when she stood.
She just pushed her chair in slow and quiet, slipped down the hallway like her legs weren’t hers. Like her body was drifting a step ahead of her mind. That man had touched her foot like he owned the rest of her. Her foot was still warm where his hands had been. Her thighs wouldn’t stop pressing together. And her panties…soaked. Sticky in the worst way. The best way. That dangerous kind of wet that made her sensitive to everything—the air on her skin, the hem of her shorts, her own damn heartbeat.
She slipped into her bedroom without looking back.
Closed the door.
Then leaned on it with her back, eyes shut. Breathed through her nose like that was supposed to help.
It didn’t.
She could still feel the shape of him in the air.
That look he gave her across the table, heavy and dark like he wanted to see what she looked like fucked. The way his jaw ticked when she laughed at something too soft. That voice. Low. Deep. Sliding through her body like heat and hunger at once. And the way he’d gripped her foot? Like a man who’d already imagined how far her knees could bend. Her chest rose with a shaky breath. She moved. Shower cap. Clean towel. Fresh underwear. Grabbed them without thinking, routine muscle memory taking over while the rest of her burned. She stepped back into the hallway, barefoot and quiet. She could hear him. In the kitchen. Plates clinking. Water running. Forks knocking. The kind of domestic noise that sounded so regular, so casual, it made the mess inside her feel even louder.
Her pussy was aching.
She locked the bathroom door. Turned on the light. And started peeling clothes off slow.
The oversized tee slipped up and over her head, brushing her skin as it dropped to the tile. Her breasts felt heavy, nipples already hard, aching like they knew she was about to get nasty. Shorts next—wet, sticky, clinging to her folds before they slid down her thighs and dropped. She caught her reflection in the mirror. Body gleaming. Brown skin glowing like syrup under the bright light. The kind of soft-thick shape that couldn’t hide desire even if she tried. Her thighs were a little too pressed together. Her chest rose too fast. Her lips looked kiss-swollen. And between her legs…she didn’t even have to look to know she was dripping. She turned on the shower and let it heat, steam climbing the mirror like fog. She pulled her cap over her hair, secured it, and stepped in. The first hit of hot water against her back made her gasp. She started with the basics—unscented Dove sliding over her skin, chest to arms to stomach, then down her thighs. But her hands moved slower than normal. Gliding. Curving. Lingering at her waist, slipping lower.
She tried not to think about him. Tried.
But then his voice came back. That gritty whisper when he said her name. The way he looked at her like he could read her mind. That tight flex of his jaw when she shifted in her seat, like he knew she wasn’t wearing a bra. She reached for her sugar scrub, fingers already trembling. The oil and granules melted over her skin, scented warm and decadent. She rubbed it in. Thighs. Hips. Under her breasts. Her belly. She kept her motions smooth. Slow. But it was too much. Too slick. Her nipples brushed her forearm and tightened like they wanted to be in someone’s mouth. Her mouth parted on instinct.
She didn’t mean to touch herself.
At first.
Her hand just slid lower. A little slower. Her legs shifted. A brush here. A graze there. And then her fingers paused. Found heat. Found need.
Last night crashed into her like a wave. The thin walls. The quiet. And him hearing her. Hearing the way she moaned his name when she came with her own hand pressed between her thighs.
She swallowed hard.
Then squeezed her legs together under the water, but it didn’t help. Her clit was already pulsing. Her pussy clenching, slicker now, the heat blooming wider. She leaned a hand on the wall. Bowed her head. Bit her bottom lip just to stay quiet.The water trickled between her breasts, over her stomach, down her thighs. She lathered with her scented body wash, but the way the bubbles moved over her nipples and hips made her back arch. Made her eyes flutter. Made her press her thighs tighter until she couldn’t take it.
She needed more.
She reached for the toiletry bag hanging on the back of the door. Her hand moved fast. Zipper open. Purple toy in hand. Lube. Twist cap. Apply. All with movements she didn’t even fully think through. She leaned back against the wall, one foot up, heel pressed to the ledge, water pounding her collarbone. One hand gripped the edge of the tile. The other guided the toy between her thighs.
The first buzz made her jump.
She gasped. A soft sound caught in her throat, half-whimper, half-curse. She dragged it over her clit again, slower this time. The tremor went straight to her gut, pulling her open. Her hips bucked forward. Her pussy clenched around nothing, greedy, dripping. She moved it in slow circles. Just on the outside. Teasing. Drawing out the ache. Her thighs shook. Her head dropped back. Her mouth stayed open, lips parted like she was trying to catch air she couldn’t pull in. All she could see was Erik. Big hands. Full lips. That back. The way he sat wide in a chair like it was built for him. The sound of his voice when he said her name. The thought alone made her moan.
Her body answered fast.
Pleasure surged through her, spine arching, stomach tensing. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, trying to stay quiet, trying not to say his name out loud again but failing.
The orgasm took her quick. Sharp. Messy.
Her legs went soft, buckling slightly. Her knees knocked. Her back slid along the tile. She pressed her shoulder to the wall and let it wash over her. Then she came again. Smaller. Deeper. With her mouth half-open, thighs clenched around the toy, breath broken into little gasps as her body rolled through it. She didn’t know how long she stayed like that. Eventually she reached up. Turned the water off. Let the silence fall. She pressed her forehead to the slick tile, breathing deep. Chest rising, falling.
Her clit still twitched. Her thighs were still slick. She reached down, slid her fingers between her folds, just once, just to feel how soaked she still was. Then she whispered his name under her breath. Real soft.
Erik…
Just once. But it carried. Even in the quiet. And it made her ache all over again.
Steam still clung to every tile, thick in the air, curling around Sanaa’s body like a second skin. Her breath came slower now, but the throb between her legs hadn’t eased. She was soft all over. Glowing. Muscles loose. Curls damp under her shower cap. Nipples still tight and aching. She opened her eyes. Reached for the towel. Pulled it off the hook and dragged it across her chest slow, every pass a tease, her own skin too sensitive now. She was flushed and flushed out. Breasts full. Pussy still throbbing. She’d came already, but it wasn’t enough.
Not even close. Not when she kept thinking about him.
Big ass hands. That mouth. The weight of his stare. That wide frame barely contained in the doorway when he leaned there like he had all day. Like he knew damn well she was dripping on the other side of the wall, needing something thick, deep, and nasty to shut the ache down. She wrapped the towel around her, slow and tight. Cinched it at her waist. One thigh peeking out where the slit opened. She pulled off her shower cap and shook her curls loose, steam kissing her skin as they bounced around her face, soft and damp. She looked at herself in the mirror. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t shy away.
She looked good.
Dewy. Licked in gold light. That fresh-out-the-shower glow that made everything look edible. She leaned closer, tilting her chin slightly. Lips plump and kiss-wet. Neck still beaded with water. She pressed her thighs together again. It didn’t help. She was still wet. Not just from the shower. She let out a slow exhale through her nose, but it turned into a quiet, hot sigh.
Her body was damn near vibrating. It wasn’t a crush anymore. This wasn’t some girlish curiosity. She needed him. Needed Erik like a fever needed breaking. She wanted that man to fuck her. Flat out. No pretending. No teasing. No more innocent looks across the table or heat-thick moments in the hallway where he walked past too close, lips parted like he was thinking about it but wouldn’t say it. She wanted to ruin that man. Fuck his retwist up. Wipe that cool, quiet look off his face until he was gripping her hips and talking nasty in her ear with that deep Oakland drawl. She wanted him on top of her. Behind her. Under her. Wherever he needed to be to fill the ache that refused to go away.
She licked her lips. Tilted her head. Rolled one shoulder slow, easing the towel down just a little.
Fuck playing fair. She knew what he’d heard last night.
Thin-ass walls and her pussy loud as hell. She’d moaned his name while her fingers worked her clit in slow circles, legs wide, body shaking—and she knew he heard it. Knew he was on the other side of that wall listening, silent, probably with his dick in his hand. Letting her ride the edge alone, knowing damn well he could’ve stepped in and ended her suffering right then and there.
And now she was done pretending.
He wanted her? Come get her.
She adjusted the towel, slow and deliberate, letting the corner dip just a little lower over the swell of her ass as she turned to gather her things. Every move she made was charged now. Intentional. Her body felt too alive to hide it. She wasn’t leaving that bathroom the same girl who walked in.
Nope.
Sanaa Brielle Carter was ready to get fucked. Not just touched. Not just teased.
Pinned. Stretched. Split open on a real man’s dick. One that matched the size of his damn ego. One she knew he carried like a weapon. She wanted those thick fingers gripping her thighs while his mouth worked her over slow. Wanted his body stretched over hers, sweat dripping from his chest, golds flashing in the low light while he hit it, those scars creating sensations all over her body. Wanted to hear that man groan her name in that ruined, low, can’t-hold-it-back voice. She wanted to lose herself on his dick, to be the reason he forgot everything else. To be the last woman he ever thought he could play it cool with.
If she didn’t get him soon she was gon’ lose her damn mind. She wasn’t just hungry. She was starving. And he was the only thing on the menu. She gripped the doorknob, looked back at herself once more. Then opened the door slow. Steam rolling out behind her. Dripping. Glowing. That confident air clinging to her skin like her towel did. She stepped out, not caring if he saw. In fact, she hoped he did. She was ready now. Let him come try and act unfazed. Let him try and walk past with that same cool stride. She was about to break that man’s whole routine. And when she was done he’d never be the same. The hallway was dimmer than the bathroom, steam still rolling out behind Sanaa like a secret she wasn’t trying to keep.
Erik’s door was cracked just enough.
She clocked it immediately. The angle. The sliver of light spilling out. The quiet thump of bass from a game soundtrack layered under the sharp sounds of sneakers squeaking on hardwood. NBA 2K. Of course. She stepped out anyway. Towel wrapped snug around her chest and hips, skin still dewy, curls loose and springy from the cap she’d just pulled off. Water traced slow paths down her collarbone, between her breasts, disappearing beneath the towel. Her thighs brushed with each step. Soft. Slick. Still buzzing. She didn’t look at his room. She walked past like she didn’t feel him there. Like she couldn’t feel his attention snap tight the second she crossed his line of sight.
Erik was on the floor of his bedroom, back against the side of the bed, legs bent. A PS5 controller sat heavy in his hands, thumbs moving with sharp precision. Fitted tee stretched over his chest, the fabric clinging to muscle. His arms flexed every time he shifted, veins faint but visible. He replaced his jeans with joggers now that hung low on his hips, waistband dipping just enough to show the band of his briefs. Locs framed his face, shadowing his cheekbones. Brows drawn together in concentration. He was locked in. Until he wasn’t. The second she passed, his thumbs slowed. Then stopped. The game kept going. Players running. Crowd noise roaring. His eyes dragged over her in one long, unbroken pull. From the damp curls clinging to her shoulders. To the swell of her breasts straining the towel. Down her waist. Her hips. Her thighs. His gaze lingered there, heavy, like he was thinking about how they’d feel wrapped around his head. Around his waist.
Sanaa felt it. That stare hit her low and hot.
She stepped into her room, set her toiletry bag down slow, deliberate. Grabbed her body butter. Cocoa rich and warm, the scent already thick on her fingers. She turned back toward the bathroom, towel still on, posture loose and confident like she didn’t have a damn thing to hide. She stopped in front of the bathroom mirror.
Fogged. Cloudy. Her reflection hazy and soft.
Perfect.
She scooped some butter into her palms and rubbed them together, slow. Lifted one leg, propping her foot on the counter. The towel shifted. Not much. Just enough. She worked the butter into her thigh with long, unhurried strokes. Hands gliding over skin that caught the light, glossy and golden.She leaned closer to the mirror. Tilted her head. Fluffed her curls, fingers combing through them, lifting them at the roots. The towel slipped a little lower with the movement. One hip peeked out. Smooth. Bare. She knew he was watching. She didn’t rush. Didn’t cover herself. She rolled her shoulder, switched legs, lotioning the other thigh now. Her breathing stayed even, but her body was loud with intention. The kind of quiet tease that wasn’t really quiet at all. From the corner of the mirror, she saw him shift. Controller lowering slightly. Game forgotten. His eyes were on her like he was afraid to look away. Sanaa finally turned her head. Met his stare. Held it. Her mouth curved just a little.
“You got a problem with your eyes?” she asked, voice smooth, casual, like she wasn’t standing there half naked and glowing.
Erik didn’t look away. Didn’t scramble. Didn’t pretend.
His lips parted. Jaw flexed.
“Nah,” he said, low and even, “They work just fine.”
She raised a brow, “Then why you staring?”
He leaned his head back against the bed, eyes still locked on her. Slow. Heavy. Like he was dragging every detail into his memory.
“Because you standing in my line of vision,” he said, calm but sharp, “looking like you know exactly what you doin’ too.”
Her pulse kicked. She stepped closer to the bathroom doorway, towel still wrapped, fingers slick with butter. She didn’t bother wiping her hands.
“Maybe I don’t care,” she said.
His mouth twitched. Not a smile. Something darker.
“Careful,” he replied, “You keep moving like that, somebody might think you tryna get their attention.”
She laughed soft. Shook her head once, “Funny,” she said, “Because you been paying attention all damn day.”
Silence stretched. Thick. Charged.
Erik finally set the controller down beside him. Slow. Intentional. His hands rested on his thighs now. Big. Steady.
“You gon’ finish what you doing,” he said, eyes never leaving her, “or you just gon’ stand there teasing me for sport?”
Her breath hitched. Just a little. She stepped back into the bathroom, palm sliding over the mirror as she turned.
“Guess you’ll see,” she said over her shoulder.
The towel slipped another inch. Not an accident. And Erik stayed right where he was. Watching. Still.
She moved out of the bathroom when she was finished as if she were floating, her eyes lingering on his as she disappeared past his door and into her bedroom.
Sanaa stood in front of the mirror in her room, her oversized cardigan slipping just off one shoulder as she leaned in to swipe another coat of gloss across her lips. Brown liner sharp. Nude gloss slick and soft. Her baby tee hugged her just right, ribbed cotton pressing against the curve of her waist and the soft swell of her chest. She smoothed it down once, then stepped back. The jeans sat low on her hips, dark denim with just a little stretch. Her gold charm bracelet jingled softly as she reached for her earrings—classic hoops, light enough to swing when she turned her head. The necklace was simple, a small teardrop charm with her birthstone glinting at the base of her throat. Uggs on. Kayali Candy Rock Sugar kissed over her pulse points—sweet, feminine, a little warm. She didn’t overdo the makeup. Light beat. Lashes curled. Brows brushed and filled. That soft shimmer at the high point of her cheekbones made her glow like she had good secrets.
She slung her Telfar over one shoulder and grabbed her phone off the charger.
A notification pinged.
Lyft Driver arriving in 4 minutes.
She stopped by Aaliyah’s room before heading out.
Aaliyah was laid across her bed, laptop open and half her attention on an article while her AirPods dangled loose in her hoodie pocket.
“I’m heading out,” Sanaa said, leaning against the doorframe, “Lyft is almost here.”
Aaliyah looked up, “Wait. Why didn’t you just ask Erik to take you?”
Sanaa paused for a half-second too long, then blinked like the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.
“He’s busy,” she said, adjusting her cardigan sleeve, “And I’m not tryna wait on him to spend twenty minutes doing…whatever he does before leaving the house. My ride already outside.”
Aaliyah shrugged, “Fair. But you should hit him up after. See if he can pick you up. I might not be around.”
Sanaa tilted her head, “You got plans?”
“Maybe.” Aaliyah stretched, smiling a little, “Jordan mentioned something about taking me out for dinner later. Don’t roll your eyes.”
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“You was thinking it.” Aaliyah gave her a playful glare, “But actually, if you and Nathan go out again…y’all should double with us. Keep it cute. Brunch or something.”
Sanaa smirked, “You and Jordan at brunch is not cute.”
“You right—it’s chaotic. But still. Think about it.”
Sanaa nodded, just enough to acknowledge, “I’ll let you know.”
“Oh! and while I’m thinking about it—” Aaliyah closed her laptop halfway and sat up, “If anything goes wrong while I’m gone—plumbing, fuse box, packages, creepy neighbor downstairs—just hit Erik. He’s around. You got his number, right?”
Sanaa froze.
Then shook her head, casual.
“Nah.”
Aaliyah narrowed her eyes, “How you plan to survive here without me for the rest of the semester and don’t have his number?”
“I just never needed it,” Sanaa said, voice soft.
“Well now you do.” Aaliyah reached for her phone, thumbs tapping, “Girl. Here.”
A soft chime buzzed from Sanaa’s phone. She glanced down at the screen.
Contact Received: ERIK.
It took her a second.
Her thumb hovered over the message screen. A breath caught in her throat before she finally tapped out the words.
Sanaa: Hey, it’s me. Aaliyah gave me your number — said to hit you just in case anything goes left while she’s gone.
The reply came quick, like he’d been waiting on it.
Erik: You expectin’ shit to go left?
She smirked, biting back the warmth spreading across her face.
Sanaa: With my luck? Absolutely.
She locked her phone, slid it into her bag, and gave Aaliyah one last look before heading out.
Sanaa sat back in the plush seat, letting the city pass by as D.C.’s late morning light crept through the windows. Her phone buzzed once in her lap, but she didn’t look. She just stared out, earbuds in, light music playing, her fingers lightly brushing against the zipper of her Telfar. She was trying not to think too hard.
But Erik kept coming back anyway.
The way he looked at her. The way he moved. The way he grabbed her foot like he owned it. Like her body was his business.
She sighed and shifted in the seat.
The driver pulled into the plaza quietly, a row of boutique suites lined in clean black awnings and soft gold signage. Sanaa thanked him, stepped out, adjusted her cardigan, and walked to the glass door labeled “The Rooted Room” in sleek, hand-painted script. Below it, in smaller letters:
As soon as she stepped inside, warmth wrapped around her.
The suite smelled like eucalyptus water, soft incense, and deep conditioner. Hints of mango butter, rosemary oil, and something sweet and creamy in the air—probably that custard curl cream the stylist always used on her clients’ twist-outs. The light was low and golden, soft lamps instead of overhead fluorescents. A plush waiting chair sat in the corner next to a tiny marble-topped table with neatly stacked beauty mags and a chilled carafe of cucumber water. The walls were a warm clay tone, earthy and grounding. Gold-framed prints of Black women with all kinds of hair adorned the space—fros, locs, coils, cornrows, pressed straight. A long mirror ran across the wall behind the single styling chair, and a clean, white washbowl waited in the back near shelves lined with labeled product jars and oils.
“Look who it is!”
Sanaa smiled as her stylist stepped out from behind the divider, wiping her hands on a black towel.
“Hey, Mya.”
Mya was all warmth. Full-bodied and fine, her energy came through in the smile first—slow, soft, real—and then again in the waist beads peeking above the tie of her wide-leg lounge pants. Her curls were up in a puff today, earrings long, skin glowing.
“Come on in, baby. Go ahead and take your earrings and necklace off for me.”
Sanaa nodded, pulling off her hoops and sliding her necklace into her bag. She slipped into the chair while Mya set up her tools and dimmed the room a little more.
“Same as last time?” Mya asked, reaching for a cape.
“Yep. Washed, steamed, silk pressed. Just a little trim if it needs it.”
“Cool. Your hair’s been thriving,” she said, separating the curls gently at the root, “Still moisturizing?”
“Trying to.”
“You’re doing better than most,” Mya smiled, clipping sections loosely, “Let’s get you back for the wash.”
The water was warm. Not hot. Not rushed. Sanaa leaned back and exhaled, letting her head rest fully in Mya’s palms as she started the first cleanse. The shampoo was gentle, minty, and soft on the scalp, stripping product but not moisture. The second wash came thicker, more lather. Then the steam. Mya slid the dome into place and added the moisture treatment, working it in with her fingertips.
“Let that sit for a second,” she said, stepping back.
Sanaa sat under the steamer, curls drenched in hydrating balm, eyes closed.
And that’s when it started.
“You Don’t Know My Name” by Alicia Keys began to play through the hidden speakers. Low and sweet, that piano rolling like it had a secret.
It took a second for it to hit her. But when it did—she blushed.
Hard.
She tried not to, but her body betrayed her. Her skin flushed warm under the steamer hood. Her mouth parted just slightly. The lyrics folded in around her.
Baby, baby, baby…from the day I saw you…I really, really wanna catch your eye…there’s something special ‘bout you…and I must really like you…‘cause not a lotta guys are worth not time, oh…oooh, baby, baby, baby…it’s getting kind of crazy…‘cause you are takin’ over my mind…
She thought of Erik. That calm way he looked at her when no one else was watching. The way his voice dropped when he said her name like it tasted better in his mouth. The way his grip felt under the table—steady, unbothered, like he had all the time in the world to pull things from her without asking.
“You blushing.”
Sanaa opened her eyes. Mya stood beside her, brow cocked, towel slung over her shoulder.
“No I’m not,” Sanaa said quickly.
Mya smirked and tapped her temple, “I do hair, baby. I see everything. That was a blush.”
Sanaa sat up straighter as the steamer shut off.
“It’s some boy, ain’t it?”
Sanaa swallowed. And then it hit her—his voice from yesterday. Low, quiet, right in her ear.
“I ain’t no boy.”
She pressed her thighs together instinctively. Then shook her head, lips curving into a private smile.
“Definitely not a boy.”
Mya laughed. “Mmmhmm. That’s the kind of energy I like to hear.”
Sanaa let herself laugh too, softer this time, cheeks still warm. The steam treatment left Sanaa’s curls soft, warm, and supple under Mya’s touch.
“Alright,” Mya said, parting her hair into sections and grabbing the blow dryer attachment, “Let’s get this mane stretched.”
The tension method was familiar, comforting in its repetition. Warm air pulled through her roots as Mya worked section by section, holding her hair taut and running the dryer close without frying the strands. Sanaa sat quiet, her fingers resting in her lap, the weight of the day easing under the sound of the dryer and the scent of heat protectant mist.
“You ever seen a grown woman throw a shoe at a client?” Mya asked casually, parting another section.
Sanaa blinked, “Wait, what?”
“Mmhm,” Mya said, combing through the ends, “I’m talkin’ she was mid-retwist and that woman tried to argue her down about prices she’d already agreed to online.”
“No she didn’t!”
“Oh she did,” Mya said, eyes wide in the mirror, “Claimed she ain’t know the final price included styling, said she could’ve done it herself. I said, ‘Then why didn’t you?’”
Sanaa burst out laughing, nearly doubling in the chair. Mya grinned.
“Don’t mess with no Black woman’s time or her coins,” she said, “They think we just twisting hair we out here doing therapy, chemistry, precision, hospitality, and divine healing in one session.”
Sanaa nodded, “You need a whole degree to do this job.”
“Say that!!!”
They laughed, the room filling with that light, easy kind of warmth that only came from Black women sharing space and stories. Mya kept going, blowing out each section carefully, until Sanaa’s hair was full and fluffy, a crown of stretched softness resting around her face.
“You ready for the magic?” Mya said, turning on the flat iron.
Sanaa nodded, letting herself relax again.
The first pass was slow, controlled. Mya moved like she was painting something. The comb chased each stroke of the iron, roots to ends, and that familiar little sizzle-pop filled the room as moisture smoothed into silk. The mirror reflected every shift—hair falling straight, shiny, weightless. She worked in silence for a bit, only breaking it to gossip about a girl she knew from hair school who was now making wigs for celebs but ghosting all her old clients.
“Soon as she did one reality star lacefront, she started charging a thousand dollars a unit and forgot we used to split vending machine snacks,” Mya muttered.
Sanaa laughed again, head tilted as the iron glided down another section. Once all the passes were done, Mya stood behind her and fluffed the ends lightly with her fingers.
“You see that length?” she said, holding the mirror up. “Don’t play with her!”
Sanaa smiled, surprised by how far down it reached, “Okay inches.”
“Let me clean up the ends a bit.”
Mya snipped lightly, just the bare minimum. No dramatics. Just a soft dusting of the ends before she flat ironed the perimeter again and began wrapping her hair in a smooth circle, section by section. Sanaa tilted her head obediently as Mya worked, letting her spin the silk press into a wrap before securing it with Saran Wrap. The plastic gleamed as it clung to her head.
“Alright, dryer time,” Mya said, motioning her toward the chair beneath the hooded dome.
Sanaa made her way over, curling up in the warm seat as Mya tucked her in and lowered the dryer down with a soft hum.
“You want water?” Mya asked.
“Yes, please.”
She returned with a chilled glass of cucumber water, fresh slices floating at the top. Sanaa sipped it slow, eyes soft, skin still tingling from the heat of the flat iron and the vibe of the whole room. Mya had just welcomed a new client, a girl with a thick curly afro coming in for a shape-up. The suite shifted again—still warm, still soft, but buzzing now with new presence and low conversation.
Sanaa glanced at her phone, lifting it out of her bag.
One new message.
Erik: You need me to come pick you up?
Her stomach flipped.
She stared at the message for a second, then thumbed her reply.
Sanaa: Only if you’re not busy.
A few seconds passed.
Erik: When you gon’ be ready?
She glanced at the dryer timer.
Sanaa: About fifteen minutes.
Another short pause.
Erik: On my way.
She locked the screen slowly, set her phone down, and stared forward. The dome hummed softly around her, plastic wrap tight against her crown, cucumber water cool against her lips.
Late afternoon light sat low and honeyed over U Street, the kind that made everything glow just a little too pretty. Erik was parked outside the strip of salon suites, blacked‑out truck idling, hoodie pulled up, locs loose and brushing his shoulders. Music played low through the speakers, bass barely there. He scrolled through his phone with one hand, jaw set, posture relaxed in that way that never really meant relaxed.
Erik looked up and forgot how to breathe for half a second.
Sanaa stood there like she had nowhere to rush to. Hair freshly silk‑pressed, long and glossy, catching the light when she moved. It fell straight down her back, soft and expensive looking, framing her face just right. Her skin looked warm in the sun, brown and smooth, gloss shining on her lips like she meant for somebody to look. Erik hopped out and went around to open the door for her. She slid into the seat smooth, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, low‑rise jeans hugging her just right. Nothing flashy. Nothing extra.
Still dangerous.
“Thank you,” she said, buckling in.
Erik shut the door and leaned against the truck for a moment before getting in, eyes dragging over her slow, like he was committing details to memory.
“…This why you needed a ride?” he asked once he was behind the wheel.
She smiled, small and knowing, “Mmhmm. You like it?”
He swallowed, “Do. You tryna impress somebody?”
“Maybe I am.”
A beat passed.
“I’m hungry,” she added, like it was an afterthought.
What you want?”
“I don’t know.”
He shook his head, lips twitching, “You can never decide on nothing.”
“That’s not true.”
“Name one time.”
She laughed, turning toward him, “Don’t start.”
He pulled off, easing into traffic, “You want something quick or you wanna sit down?”
“I don’t know,” she said immediately.
“Exactly.”
She nudged his arm, “Okay, okay. What you got?”
“There’s a spot I been meaning to hit again,” he said, “You good with that?”
“Yeah. What place?”
He glanced at her, a half‑smile forming, “You’ll see.”
He didn’t take her to fast food.
Instead, he pulled into a quiet block off U Street and parked outside a small Black‑owned café tucked between a record shop and a nail salon. The sign was simple. Inside, jazz hummed low, plates clinked, and hot sauce was already waiting on the table like it belonged there. They slid into a booth across from each other. Sanaa crossed one leg over the other, denim pulling just enough to make Erik’s eyes linger. Her hair swayed when she moved, smooth and straight, brushing her shoulder. Her lips caught the light every time she spoke.
“So,” she said, settling in, “What do you do when you’re not saving your sister from annoying boyfriend drama or pickin’ me up from salons?”
He smirked, “Can’t tell you all that.”
“Why not?”
He leaned forward just a little, forearms on the table, “’Cause then I’d have to keep you close.”
She stared at him a second too long.
Then she laughed, shaking her head, “Please. I know you kill people for money. I ain’t scared of that part of you if that’s what you think.”
His eyes narrowed, not angry. Assessing. Like he was looking past what she said and straight into why she said it.
“Hmm,” he said quietly.
The food came out hot.
Fried catfish, collard greens glossy with pot liquor, cornbread steaming. Sanaa took one bite and closed her eyes without thinking, a soft sound slipping from her lips as she licked her fingers.
Erik looked away. Failed. Looked back.
“You eat like you just got outta prison,” she teased, smiling.
He chewed slow, “It’s been a minute since I sat down like this. Ain’t been home long.”
“Feels good, huh?”
“Real good.”
She watched him while he ate, chin resting on her hand.
“You smile more than I thought you would.”
His brows lifted, “That a compliment?”
“Mmhmm. You got a nice smile. Should let it out more.”
She paused, then added lightly, “But don’t get soft on me. I know you still scary.”
He laughed.
Not a quiet one. Not controlled. A real laugh that came from his chest, head tipping back, dimples deepening, face opening up in a way that made Sanaa stare before she could stop herself.
He caught her looking.
She didn’t look away fast enough.
They talked while they ate. About her psychology track. Pre‑med. Research labs and long nights. Her dream of clinical therapy. Opening a practice. Helping kids who fell through cracks nobody wanted to fix. Then she asked him about MIT. Engineering. An MBA. How his mind worked. He hesitated, then started talking. About systems. About how things connected. About solving problems by breaking them apart. He got carried away, hands moving, voice warming, until he stopped and laughed when he saw her face.
“I lost you.”
She smiled, “A little. But I like hearing you talk.”
He went quiet after that.
They talked about music. About Oakland. About D.C. Feeling temporary and permanent at the same time. The tension never left. It just sat there, patient. After lunch, they drove in comfortable silence for a while.
Music low. City lights sliding past.
Sanaa rested her hand near the gear shift, fingers relaxed. Erik kept glancing over, trying not to make it obvious.
She caught him once.
“I got something on my face?”
He shook his head, “Nah. You just pretty as hell.”
Her smile was slow. Quiet.
She shifted closer, fingers drifting to his free arm, tracing the faint lines of old scars while he drove one‑handed. She turned toward him, studying him openly now.
“You make me sick,” she said.
He chuckled, “Why?”
“Because you so damn fine.”
He laughed under his breath, tongue dragging across his lips before he could stop himself. His free hand settled on her thigh, warm and steady.
Her stomach flipped.
She stayed still. Played it cool. Failed internally.
They pulled up to the apartment.
Engine idled.
Neither of them moved.
“Thanks for lunch,” she said finally, “I ain’t gon’ call it a date.”
“Wasn’t one,” he said, smirking.
“Good. ’Cause if it was, that’d mean you tryna fuck your sister’s best friend.”
A pause.
He leaned back, eyes never leaving her, “And if I was?”
She opened the door, stepped out, then leaned back in just enough to let her hair brush the doorframe.
“Then you’d be playin’ with fire.”
The door shut.
Erik stayed there, watching her walk away, eyes glued to the sway of her hips all the way to the building.
And he knew.
Fire had already started.
Erik stayed in the truck for a long second after that. Engine still running. Hands on the wheel. Eyes fixed on the front of the building where Sanaa had disappeared.
Good. ’Cause if it was, that’d mean you tryna fuck your sister’s best friend.
The words replayed, slow and deliberate.
Not shocked. Not embarrassed.
Bold.
Too bold for somebody who didn’t already know the answer. Because the truth sat heavy and undeniable in his body right now. He did want to fuck her. Wanted it bad. Wanted it real good. The kind of want that had been building for days in glances, silences, touches that lasted one second too long. And the fact that she said it out loud like that did something to him. Did more than tease. It told him she was done dancing around it. She wasn’t scared. Wasn’t pretending. Wasn’t playing coy. She wanted to see if he’d flinch.
He hadn’t.
Erik finally cut the engine and stepped out of the truck, body tight with restless energy. His dick was already hard, thick and heavy in his joggers, the kind of erection that came on slow and stayed. A deep ache at the base. Pressure pulling low in his gut. Heat that didn’t fade no matter how steady his breathing got. That wasn’t just attraction. That was hunger.
He walked inside the building, jaw set, sneakers hitting the floor with purpose. Every step felt deliberate. Controlled. He wasn’t rushing. He didn’t need to. His body already knew where this was headed.
She knew too.
That little look she gave him before closing the door. The way she leaned in just enough to leave him wanting more. She wasn’t backing away from the fire she named.
She was daring him to step closer.
Erik pushed open the apartment door and stepped inside. The place was quiet now. The living room smelled faintly like food and citrus cleaner.
Normal.
Domestic.
The contrast made his pulse jump again.
He closed the door behind him and stood there for a second, letting the quiet settle. His joggers felt too tight now. Fabric stretched. His dick pressed thick against the seam, heavy and insistent, blood humming through it like it had a mind of its own.
He ran a hand over his face and exhaled slow.
You tired of teasing, he thought. And I’m tired of pretending.
Sister’s best friend or not.
He wasn’t confused about what he wanted.
He walked down the hall and pushed into his room, shutting the door behind him with a firm click. The space was dark and familiar. Clean lines. Order. Control. He dropped his hoodie on the chair and rolled his shoulders, muscles flexing under the tension. The crotch of his joggers strained when he shifted his stance, and he hissed quietly through his teeth at the ache building low and steady. This wasn’t some quick spark. This was something that had been simmering. She wanted to know who she was dealing with.
Erik was done fighting the answer.
He sat on the edge of the bed, forearms resting on his thighs, head bowed slightly as he breathed through it. His dick stayed hard. Throbbing. Patient. Like it already knew it would get its turn.
Soon.
Sanaa wasn’t wrong.
Fire was exactly what this was. And he had never been the type to walk away from heat.
The first thing Sanaa heard when she stepped into Aaliyah’s room was—
“Bitchhh, let me see that hair!”
Sanaa grinned and did a slow spin, flipping her thick hair with a little dramatic flair.
Aaliyah squealed.
“Oh my goddd, look at you. You a baddie. A BADDIE.”
The room looked like a storm had blown through. Half-packed suitcases were open on the floor. Zip-up toiletry bags. Travel-size bottles everywhere. Clothes draped over the back of her chair, a couple heels on the desk. Aaliyah’s scholarship fellowship was taking her away in just a few days, and it showed in the chaos.
Sanaa stepped around a tote bag and adjusted her cardigan, “I do look good, huh?”
“You look fine as hell,” Aaliyah said, pulling her phone out to take a few pics, “Turn to the side. Wait—whip it back and forth first. That press is pressing. Mya did her thing.”
Sanaa rolled her eyes but smiled, posing for a few silly pics before flopping down on the edge of the bed.
“You packin’ like you movin’ across the world,” she teased, eyeing the explosion of clothes on the floor.
“I basically am,” Aaliyah said, digging through a drawer, “Now help me find something cute to wear. Jordan’s takin’ me to dinner tonight, and I want something warm but still sexy. It’s supposed to get cold.”
She held up a knit midi dress—long sleeve, form-fitting, with a small open back, “This one?”
“Yup. That’s the one,” Sanaa said immediately, “Throw it on with them heeled boots and that little leather jacket. Done.”
Aaliyah nodded, satisfied, and set it aside, “Okay, bet. I just didn’t wanna freeze my ass off tryin’ to be fine.”
“You could wear a damn snowsuit and he’d still be pressed.”
“Shut up,” Aaliyah grinned. Then after a beat, “You think Erik gon’ get all protective again when Jordan pulls up?”
Sanaa leaned back on her hands, legs crossed, “I’ll keep him in check. Make sure he don’t embarrass you.”
“Please. Good luck with that.” Aaliyah smirked as she rifled through her jewelry pouch, “He been chillin’ lately, though. Ever since he got back.”
Sanaa said nothing. Just toyed with the little gold charm bracelet on her wrist.
Then Aaliyah glanced up and her tone softened, “I hope he finds somebody one day. For real. Not just messin’ around.”
Sanaa looked up.
“Erik’s always been the type to hold stuff in. Act like he don’t care. But I know him. He do. He just don’t trust people like that. Never has. Never let himself be open to anybody… even when it’s right there.”
Sanaa swallowed and gave a small nod, letting the weight of that truth settle.
Aaliyah checked the time on her phone, “Lemme hop in the shower. He’ll be here soon.”
“Okay,” Sanaa said, standing and brushing invisible lint off her jeans, “Let me get out your way.”
Aaliyah disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind her.
Sanaa walked back down the hall, quiet now. Her own heart a little too loud.
The hallway was quiet.
Sanaa padded softly down the stretch of wood floor, the pads of her feet soundless as she passed Aaliyah’s door—closed now, with the faint hum of water running behind it. She paused for a second just past it, glancing down the hall where Erik’s door sat slightly ajar.
Cracked.
Like a window someone forgot to close all the way.
She crept closer, slow, her pulse kicking up just a little as she reached the doorway and peeked inside.
There he was.
On the floor again.
Back leaned against the edge of the bed, legs stretched out in front of him. Controller in hand. A tank top hugging that broad chest, thick arms on full display. Scars meticulously placed and beautiful. Locs loose, beard trimmed, jaw tight. The glow from the TV danced across his face, highlighting the furrow of his brow as he stared at the screen, fully locked in. Trying to distract himself. Trying not to think about what she said in the truck.
Sanaa watched for a beat longer before knocking lightly on the frame. Once.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t look up.
So she stepped in.
“You lost?” he asked finally, voice low and dry.
Still not looking her way.
Sanaa smirked, “Nah. Just bored.”
Then she did it—flopped onto his bed like it was hers. Like she’d done it a hundred times. Rolled onto her side, head propped up in her hand, watching him play.
Erik’s eyes finally cut toward her, slow.
He didn’t say a word.
But something shifted in the room. Something tight and thick and humming under the surface.
Sanaa kicked her feet up, toes wiggling in the air, and stretched her arms behind her head like she had every right to be there. The mattress dipped under her weight, the slight creak traveling through Erik’s spine with every shift she made. His jaw tensed. He didn’t pause the game. Didn’t speak.
But he felt her.
The way she moved, settled in, got comfortable like it was her bed. Like she was used to that space. Like she knew what she was doing. His fingers tightened around the controller. A missed combo got his character clipped in the corner, but he didn’t react. Didn’t curse. Just kept playing, eyes locked forward.
Sanaa’s eyes, meanwhile, scanned the room.
It was neat, but lived-in. Clean lines. The bed beneath her was plush and firm, sheets smooth and cool, and there was a faint scent that clung to the fabric—fresh laundry mixed with warm sandalwood and dark amber. Something masculine, deep, and rich. No candles or plugins, just him. It suited him. No-frills. Calm but present. A large matte-black trunk sat at the foot of the bed, secured with a serious-looking padlock. Heavy-duty. Not for show. His wardrobe was cracked open on one side. Inside, perfectly aligned hangers held neutral-toned hoodies, thermals, and fitted T-shirts, some folded military-style on the lower shelves next to a row of combat boots and sneakers. A duffel bag leaned against the wall, slightly unzipped, revealing a peek of cords, black gloves, and what looked like the butt of a flashlight. Or maybe something more. On the dresser, a small collection of colognes stood like soldiers—nothing flashy, just the good stuff. One bottle missing a cap.
She smiled to herself.
Then her gaze landed on the necklace draped across the corner of the nightstand. A thick gold Cuban link with a single pendant hanging from it. Not a cross. Not a dog tag.
A ring.
Made of silver with a lacquered black band split by a seam of matte dark gray. There was a faint shimmer in the metal—something rare. Something almost otherworldly.
She picked it up, testing the weight in her hand, “This real? Heavy as hell.”
His eyes flicked over, “Stop touchin’ shit.”
Sanaa snorted, rolling her eyes, still holding the chain, “Damn, okay.”
She let it clink back onto the table. Then looked over at him, eyes playful, “What you gonna do if I don’t?”
He didn’t answer.
But the way his shoulders squared and his grip tightened. She knew that was an answer all its own. Sanaa giggled and flopped over onto her stomach, arms bent, chin propped in her hands as she watched the screen. Her legs bent at the knees, heels lightly kicking in the air behind her. The movement shifted the bed again just enough to send another thrum of tension through Erik’s spine.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t have to.
She was close. Close enough for him to smell that faint trace of her hair products, sweet with hints of coconut and floral oil. Close enough to feel her laughter in the mattress when she chuckled again, shaking the whole damn bed like it wasn’t his and she didn’t need permission.
“Wait, what’s happening?” she asked, tilting her head, “So they just run back and forth and shoot?”
Erik sighed through his nose, “It’s 2K. Basketball. You watched a game before, right?”
“Yeah, but this part looks fake. He just shot from like, the damn parking lot. How the fuck is that possible?”
He tried to ignore the way her hips shifted with every bounce. The way the hem of her shirt rose ever so slightly when she moved. The way her thighs looked in those jeans.
Focus. Don’t break her back in. Aaliyah is still here.
He kept his eyes forward, “The point of the game is to play to win, lil’ girl.”
Sanaa laughed, soft and bold, “Shut up. You actin’ real serious over fake hoops.”
“I’m ranked,” he said dryly, still focused.
“Ohhh, ranked,” she teased, dragging the word out. “’Scuse me.”
He didn’t respond. Just shifted slightly, trying to find a better angle to both keep playing and not completely lose his focus. Then—
A tug.
One of her hands reached forward and gently pulled on a loc near his shoulder.
Erik sucked his teeth, low and sharp, “You tryna get popped in here?”
Sanaa laughed harder, “You too easy. Look at you.”
She tugged again, softer this time, then let go and flopped back into place. He shook his head, biting back the grin.
“Aaliyah’s going on a date tonight.”
That got him. He paused the game. Turned his head slightly, just enough to see her smirking like she knew he was gonna react.
“She just told you that?” he asked, voice calm but alert.
Sanaa shrugged, “Yup. Jordan’s pickin’ her up. She’s been stressin’ about what to wear.”
Erik gave a dry chuckle, picking the controller back up, “He show up actin’ weird, I’ma jack the lil’ nigga up.”
Sanaa rolled her eyes, “You so doin’ too much.”
“Nah. Don’t think I don’t hear the shit she say about him when she think I’m not listenin’. Got one more time to show his hand wrong and I’ma break it.”
“She got it handled,” Sanaa said, stretching a little, her body curving with the movement, “And honestly, she’s the one in charge. You seen the way she be talkin’ to him?”
Erik grunted, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Yeah. I believe it.”
She leaned in closer, her body still stretched across his bed like she belonged there. Her voice dipped lower—sly, smooth, like she was about to confess something just for him.
“What you thinkin’ bout doing when Aaliyah leaves?”
That question wrapped around him slow. He didn’t answer right away. His thumb lifted off the joystick. The screen froze mid-dribble. He turned slightly, eyes on her now. That same look he’d had earlier when she stepped out the salon—but darker. Steady. Unblinking.
Heat spread through his chest. Down.
“What I’m doin’?” he said, voice low. “Why. You tryna find out what I’m on?”
Sanaa didn’t back up. Didn’t blink. Just held his gaze, smiling like she wasn’t the one playing with fire.
“Maybe.”
He looked at her a beat longer. Took in the way she was laid out like a dare—chin in her hands, lips too glossy, shirt hugging her back just right. Then he leaned back against the bed again, chuckling to himself like he didn’t need to let that tension crawl through his bloodstream.
“You bold as hell today,” he muttered, shaking his head.
Sanaa’s legs swayed behind her, “And?”
He cut his eyes at her, “Keep pushin’, I’ma show you what that get you.”
She grinned, “Is that a threat, Killmonger?”
“Nah.” His voice dropped deeper, “That’s a promise, baby girl.”
Sanaa licked her lips, barely noticeable. But he caught it.
“You actin’ like you really gon’ do somethin’,” she teased.
He set the controller down.
“You think I won’t?”
Silence fell for a second too long. Her lashes fluttered. Her smirk flickered. He leaned forward just slightly, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now—but with that same pull that always sat heavy between them.
“You been testin’ me since you got in my truck.”
Another beat.
“Since you flipped that hair, gave me that look like you knew what you was doin’. Walkin’ ‘round here like you don’t know how damn pretty you are.”
Sanaa shifted. Her thighs pressed tighter together.
Erik noticed.
“Just say the word,” he said, eyes locking on hers again, “And I’ll show you what the fuck I’ve been thinkin’ about.”
She looked at him, breath held somewhere in her chest, unsure whether to smile or stay still.
But he could see it.
She wanted it too.
He exhaled slow. Reached for the controller again, but didn’t press play. Instead, he said it real soft—so soft she had to lean closer to catch it.
“Keep actin’ like you wanna be mine and see what happen.”
She’d made herself comfortable. Real comfortable.
Now she was laying sideways across his bed, one leg bent, the other stretched out, her phone held above her face while she scrolled. Every so often, her foot would brush against his side. Bare skin, soft and warm, grazing the outside of his thigh just enough to light his nerves up.
Erik tried to ignore it.
Tried to focus on the game again—shoulders hunched forward, elbows on his knees, both thumbs tapping away like he actually cared about the outcome. But the more he tried not to notice her, the more his senses betrayed him. The scent hit first. Candied pear. Rock sugar. That same vanilla cream sweetness she always carried. It wasn’t loud. It was soft, layered—lingering on the air, on his sheets, his pillows, his shirt where she’d leaned too close.
It was fucking with his head.
Every time he scored, she clapped once, all fake praise and teasing smirks.
“Oop, look at you,” she giggled, “MVP.”
He side-eyed her hard, “You a damn distraction.”
She glanced up from her phone with the most innocent face he’d seen yet, “Me? I’m just watchin’ you play.”
“You doin’ a lot more than watchin’.”
“I’m bein’ good.”
“You ain’t never been good. Not since I got back.”
She let out a little fake gasp and sat up slightly, that glossed mouth curving into something too smug.
“You tryna say I’m bad?” she asked, voice sweet.
“I’m sayin’ you trouble,” he muttered, eyes glued to the screen, jaw flexing.
Sanaa stretched like a cat. One arm lifted above her head, her shirt rising just enough to show a peek of waist. That damn waist. Then she flopped back down, this time a little closer, the curve of her hip brushing his arm. He didn’t move.
“You always so serious when you play?” she asked, chin tilted up, lashes fanned.
“’Cause I play to win.”
“Well damn,” she smirked, “Remind me not to challenge you in anything.”
He paused the game again.
“Anything?” he asked, voice low.
Sanaa’s eyes flicked over to him, “Mmhm.”
He gave a slow nod, tongue pressed to his cheek, “Bet.”
The tension sat thick in the air now. Her fingers tapped the screen like nothing was going on, like she couldn’t feel the way he was watching her out the corner of his eye. Like she didn’t know her scent was buried in his mattress, in his skin. He turned back to the screen. Pressed play. But this time, he couldn’t focus for shit. Not with her laying there, soft and sweet and testing every ounce of discipline he had left. She yawned. Stretched. Arms over her head, back arched, her shirt lifting just enough to flash a sliver of brown skin and the faint dip of her waist. The fabric clung when it settled—nipples puckered beneath the cotton, mouth parting in a soft exhale like she meant to nap right there in his damn bed. Erik looked over. And stayed looking. His hands twitched. Teeth clenched. The flick of her stomach. The press of her chest. The way that shirt rose like it was begging to be peeled off. It was all too much. He cleared his throat. Then hit the power button on the controller with too much force.
Click.
The screen went black. The room darkened. Minus the early evening light filtering in from the hall.
“Aight,” he muttered, voice low, “Game over.”
Sanaa rolled onto her side, lifting her head, “You kickin’ me out?”
His eyes cut to her, jaw tight, “Before I do something I ain’t supposed to.”
She stilled. Looked at him. Long. Slow. Then stood like she had all the time in the world.
“You already did,” she said softly, “You let me in.”
The words lingered like heat in the air. Erik’s stare held. Burned.
Sanaa tilted her head, “That stare supposed to scare me?”
He stepped forward, voice dark, “Supposed to shut you up. Remind you who you talkin’ to.”
Her mouth curved, “Try harder.”
His nostrils flared, “You need to sit your ass down somewhere.”
She didn’t flinch. Just shifted her weight and said, “Make room then.”
That smug ass smirk was still teasing the corner of her lips when she added, soft, like a question she already knew the answer to—
“Why you lookin’ at me like that?”
He stared harder. Voice low, “You need to chill. You gettin’ bold.”
Sanaa shrugged, “Maybe bold just looks different when it’s just me and you.”
His eyes dropped to her lips.
“Yeah, don’t get quiet now,” she whispered.
“Ain’t shit to say,” he muttered.
She leaned in, lashes low, “That ever stop you before?”
His hand flexed. Once. Twice.
“Whatever’s in your head,” Erik warned, “don’t say it.”
Sanaa blinked up at him, voice honey-soft, “What? How bad I want you?”
“Sanaa…”
One word. Weighted. Dangerous.
She smiled like it ain’t faze her, “You act like I bother you.”
“You do.”
“Then stop lettin’ me in.” A beat. “If you don’t want me in here, say so.”
Erik didn’t move. Didn’t blink, “I’m thinkin’ about it.”
Sanaa rolled her eyes, “You slow.”
“Why you still standin’ there?” he asked, voice lower.
“Why you still lookin’ at me like that?” Her head tilted, lips parted, “Like you wanna do something to me.” She said with a whiny voice.
He stepped forward, slow. Deliberate. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Eyes dragging over her like he’d already touched every inch.
“…That sound like you tryna break the rules,” he murmured.
Sanaa smirked, “I don’t like closed doors.”
“You tryna be funny?”
“Are you laughin’?”
She sat back on the edge of the bed, thighs spreading just slightly, back arched, looking up at him with that wide-eyed, innocent face she wore like armor.
“What?” she said, “I’m just sittin’ here.”
Erik’s voice dipped into something quiet. Tight.
“That’s the problem.”
They didn’t speak. Just looked. Breath shallow. Energy thick. They were eye-fucking each other in silence, the heat between them damn near visible. Then—he chuckled. Exhaled sharp. Looked away. Turned his head to the side like he was about to let her go. Then looked back. Voice rough.
“You lucky I ain’t show up in your room last night.”
Sanaa blinked. Didn’t speak.
His eyes raked down her body. Then climbed back up, “Playin’ in your pussy? Sayin’ my name?” he whispered, “Disrespectful.”
Sanaa’s lips parted. The breath left her in a slow stutter. Her thighs pressed together tight, mouth slightly open. That heat bloomed everywhere—her neck, her chest, between her legs. She looked at him, dragged her eyes down—over his shoulders, his chest, the way his muscles sat beneath that tank. And then she saw it. The weight of him. Thick and heavy in those joggers. Her breath hitched. Heart stuttered. She couldn’t stop staring. Then—
“Ayo, Sanaa!”
Aaliyah’s voice rang out from down the hall.
Sanaa jumped. Snatched her eyes away, “C-Coming!”
She turned quick. Damn near stumbled. Then rushed out the room like the walls were closing in behind her. Erik didn’t move. Just stood there in the silence, heart pounding, dick hard, jaw clenched. She lucky. Real lucky.
SYNOPSIS: After a brutal twelve-hour shift, Smoke finally drags himself home, tie loose, shoulders wrecked, just needing his wife’s arms to make the day disappear. The house is dark, and she’s already out cold, curled up in that nightie he can never resist. One tired smile later, exhaustion takes a back seat—he’s waking her up, because some nights the only thing that fixes everything is her.
Requested by @dashhoney25
—————————————————————
The house was quiet when Smoke stepped inside, the late hour pressing down on him like the weight of his suit jacket. He loosened his tie with one hand, the other dragging his briefcase across the floor. The clock on the wall glowed 10:30, reminding him how long the day had stretched.
But the moment he pushed open the bedroom door, the heaviness shifted.
She was sprawled across the bed, tangled in the sheets, wearing one of his favorite nighties—the short one that always made his chest tighten just a little. The soft fabric clung to her in all the right places, her hair spilling across the pillow like she’d been waiting for him until sleep finally won.
His eyes softened, his lips curved into a smile that was equal parts admiration and relief.
“Damn,” he whispered to himself. “My pretty baby… knocked out waiting up for me all night.”
He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, not wanting to wake her just yet. For a long moment, he simply admired her—the way her chest rose and fell with each breath, the faint crease between her brows that always appeared when she was dreaming. He reached out, brushing his fingers gently through her hair, letting the strands slip between his knuckles. Then he leaned down, pressing a tender kiss against her temple.
Reluctantly, he stood, peeling off his suit piece by piece until it lay in a neat pile on the chair. The hot shower washed away the stress of the day, steam curling around him as he thought about her waiting for him, even in sleep.
When he returned, the room was dim, the only light spilling from the hallway. A towel hung low around his waist, droplets of water still clinging to his skin. He paused at the doorway, watching her again, before a mischievous grin spread across his face.
“Alright,” he said softly, his voice carrying a playful edge now. “I let you sleep long enough.”
He climbed onto the bed carefully, the mattress dipping under his weight. Leaning close, he let his lips hover near her ear.
“Baby…” he whispered, his voice deep and teasing.
She stirred, shifting slightly, but didn’t open her eyes. He grinned, pressing a trail of kisses down the curve of her neck slowly.
She fussed, half-asleep, her voice muffled against the pillow. “Mmm… it’s late… quit bothering me.”
But he only chuckled, brushing his lips against her skin again, savoring the way she wriggled in protest.
“You know I can’t help it,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “Been gone all day… missed you too much.”
She groaned softly, pulling the blanket higher, still refusing to look at the clock. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, though the faint smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.
The last time he leaned in, his kisses lingered—peppering her neck, her shoulder, until she finally turned toward him with sleepy eyes.
“Elijah…” she sighed, half-annoyed, half-amused.
Smoke grinned, sliding his hand gently through her hair. “I know, baby. Long day. But I’m here now… and I’m not letting you sleep through me being home.”
He caught her hand with tenderness, guiding it to his mouth. His lips brushed her palm in a lingering kiss, eyes glued to her. Then, that wicked half-smile flickered across his face as he drew her fingers lower, slipping them beneath the loosely knotted towel at his hips. The heat of his skin met her first, then the rigid length of his dick, thick and pulsing against her touch, already straining for her.
Her sleepy eyes fluttered open, confusion mixing with amusement as she glanced down, then back up at him.
He leaned in, his voice playful, almost a whisper. “See? He missed you too.”
She pulled her hand back quickly, fussing at him with a groan. “Elijah… you’re impossible. It’s late.”
But the faint curve of her lips betrayed her. She liked it—she just wouldn’t admit it.
Smoke caught the look, his grin widening as he leaned closer, peppering kisses along her neck. “Mmm, I see that smile,” he teased. “You can fuss all you want, baby, but I know you missed me too.”
He continued, “C’mere.”
In one swift motion, Smoke caught her and turned her gently onto her back, the sheets rustling beneath them.
“Elijah, bab-”
The word fractured against his mouth as he kissed her, swallowing the rest of her protest. Heat flooded her in a single, dizzying rush. A helpless moan slipped free before she could cage it, and her arms moved on instinct, curling around his neck, fingers caressing his head as she dragged him closer. She melted into him, every thought of resistance dissolving in the slow, hungry press of his lips and the solid weight of his body against hers.
He rolled his hips forward, pinning her to the bed so she could feel every thick, rigid inch of him straining against her through the thin barrier of fabric. A low sound caught in her throat as his mouth drifted from hers, lips grazing the frantic pulse at her neck, teeth scraping just hard enough to make her shiver.
She didn’t think; her thighs parted and rose on their own, ankles locking at the small of his back, heels digging in as she dragged him down harder, closer, until his dick settled heavy and perfect right where she ached most.
Smoke pulled back just enough to give a small smirk. “You want me to stop?”
Her fingers tightened around his arms, pulling him closer as her voice came out in a hushed, breathless whisper. “No… keep going.”
Smoke kissed her slow and filthy, tongue sliding against hers like he had all night and intended to use every second. Each time their mouths parted, just enough for a ragged breath, he let the words fall against her swollen lips, one by one:
“You.” Kiss. “Don’t.” Deeper kiss. “Want.” A soft bite to her lower lip. “To go.” His teeth grazed her jaw. “Back.” Another slow, claiming press of his mouth. “To sleep?”
The question mark was barely there, more growl than inquiry, as if he already knew the answer and was only waiting for her body to admit it.
Her voice was a whisper, half‑fussing, half‑surrendering. “Not anymore… I need you.”
His voice dropped into a husky whisper as he teased between kisses, “How bad do you need it?”
Her voice trembled with urgency as she clung to him. “I need you so bad… please.”
The words made his dick twitch as he leaned closer, eyes dark with desire. “Say that shit again,” he murmured, each word dripping with challenge.
She met his gaze, breathless, and whispered once more, softer but even more certain. “I need you.”
“Mmm, lift your arms up for me, baby.”
She obeyed, raising her arms slowly, her breath catching as his hands slid upward. With care, Smoke lifted her shirt, revealing her inch by inch, his eyes never leaving hers.
His gaze carried an intensity that made her shiver. He pressed a kiss just below her collarbone, lingering there before whispering against her skin, “Beautiful.”
He kissed his way down, lips skimming the line of her collarbone, then lower, until his mouth settled in the warm space just above her left breast. He paused there, breathing slow against her skin.
His eyes stayed on hers, steady and half-lidded, as he lowered his mouth to her breast. The moment his warm lips closed around her nipple, a small, startled “ah” slipped out of her. Her back arched just enough for her shoulders to lift off the bed as the wetness of his tongue sent a sharp jolt through her chest.
She felt it everywhere at once, the softness of his mouth, the faint scrape of stubble against sensitive skin, the way her breath hitched and trembled when he sucked a little harder. Her fingers tightened around his arms without thinking, holding him there, a quiet, shaky exhale telling him exactly how good it felt.
“Eyes on me, baby,” he commanded softly, as he moved to the other breast.
She obeyed, her eyes wide and shimmering as his lips moved, teasing her with every touch.
Her breath caught, and she whispered softly, almost pleading, “Mm‑mm, don’t you stop… I need more, baby.”
Instead of answering, Smoke just let his lips wander lower, trailing down her stomach in slow kisses. Each one made her squirm a little, her breath catching like she couldn’t help it. The way he moved had her whole body buzzing, the anticipation building with every touch.
“No panties, huh? You really are my good girl… aren’t you, baby?”
She whispered, voice trembling as she held his gaze. “Yes… I’m your good girl. Always.”
He eased her thighs apart spreading her open until she was completely exposed to him. Her pussy was already slick and swollen, glistening under the low light, pretty pink folds parted and dripping with want. The sight of her so wet, so ready, just for him, pulled a low groan from his chest as he drank her in.
He let out a slow breath, eyes darkening as he stared, transfixed.
“Jesus, baby… look at you,” he rasped, voice laced with hunger. His thumbs traced the crease where her thighs met her hips, holding her open wider, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Soaked already. Fuckin’ drippin’ down your pretty little pussy just for me.”
He dragged one slow finger through her slick folds, gathering her wetness and spreading it up to circle her clit, watching her hips jerk at the contact.
He didn’t wait for another plea. He spread her open wider with his thumbs, holding her steady, and dragged his tongue up the length of her in one long, filthy lick, slow enough that she felt every ridge of it. When he reached her clit he sealed his mouth over it and sucked, gentle at first, then harder, flicking the tip of his tongue in quick circles.
Her back arched off the bed with a broken cry.
He pulled off just long enough to growl against her, voice muffled, “Taste so fucking good when you’re this desperate, baby… been dying to get my mouth on this pretty pussy.”
Then he dove back in tongue plunging inside her, curling, fucking her with it while his thumb took over on her clit, rubbing circles. He groaned into her like he was the one getting eaten alive, the vibration making her thighs clamp around his head.
Every time she tried to squirm away from how intense it was, he just pinned her hips down and doubled his efforts, licking and sucking until her moans turned into breathless, babbling sobs of his name.
He pulled off with a wet sound, breathing hard, eyes locked on hers.
“Keep looking at me,” he said. “Don’t you dare close your eyes.”
She nodded, shaky, staring down at him.
He dragged his thumb up once more, peeling the hood all the way back until her clit was completely exposed. She sucked in a breath at how intense it already felt.
“Now you hold it,” he stated. “Take your fingers, yeah, like that, and keep this little hood pulled up for me. Don’t let it slide back down. I want it bare the whole time I’m licking you.”
Her face burned, but her hand moved on autopilot, two fingers pinching the thin skin and holding it firmly in place, keeping herself wide open and raw for him.
He groaned, like the sight alone almost undid him. Then he dropped his head and sealed his mouth over her exposed clit again, tongue flicking hard and steady right on the naked tip, no barrier, no mercy, while she trembled and held herself open exactly like he’d told her to.
Her back arched hard, a sharp, “oh—” tore out of her throat, climbing into a trembling “oh god, oh god—” every time his tongue flicked the oversensitive head.
She couldn’t keep quiet. Every slow circle dragged a new sound from her. Soft, stunned little gasps, then louder, desperate moans that cracked in the middle when he sucked harder. Her thighs shook on either side of his ears, her free hand fisted the sheets while the other stayed obediently in place, holding herself open for him.
He groaned against her the vibration ripping another helpless “please—” from her lips as he doubled down, tongue lashing the exposed clit.
His mouth was relentless, tongue flicking and circling that swollen, aching bud until her thighs shook around his head. She was so close, teetering right on the edge, every muscle pulled tight. Another broken moan tore out of her when he sucked her clit between his lips, hard, the wetness of his mouth sending sparks exploding behind her eyes.
He pulled back just enough to speak, breath ghosting hot over her slick, sensitive flesh.
“Do you want to cum?” His voice was edged with dark satisfaction as he watched her. Two thick fingers pushed deep inside her without warning, curling hard against that spot that made her back arch clean off the bed. “Tell me, baby. Beg for it.”
She couldn’t even form words at first, just a whine as her hips bucked against his hand. He slowed the thrust of his fingers to a maddening tease, thumb brushing feather-light over her clit, keeping her dangling right there.
“Please—” she finally gasped, voice cracking, “please, let me cum. I need it. I need you—”
A dark growl rumbled from his chest. “That’s it. Good girl.”
Then his mouth crashed back down, tongue lashing her clit while his fingers fucked into her hard and fast, the wet sounds filling the quiet room. Her whole body seized, a sharp cry ripping from her throat as the orgasm slammed into her like a wave, crashing over and over, drowning her in white while he kept devouring her through every pulsing aftershock until she was shaking and begging him in broken whispers to stop.
He didn’t give her time to come down.
Her body was still twitching, thighs trembling from the force of the first orgasm, when he locked his arms around her hips and dragged her back to his mouth like he was starving for her. The flat of his tongue dragged slow and heavy up her soaked center, lapping up every drop of her release, and she jolted with a broken cry, oversensitive and overwhelmed.
“No—no, wait, I can’t—” she sobbed, fingers scrabbling at the sheets, at his hair, not sure if she was trying to pull him closer or push him away.
“You can,” he growled against her, the words vibrating straight through her clit. “You will.”
Then he buried his face again, no mercy this time. His tongue speared inside her, fucking in and out alongside the two fingers he shoved back in, stretching her open while his lips sealed around her clit and sucked, hard.
She shattered almost instantly.
A loud scream tore from her throat as the second orgasm ripped through her even stronger than the first, her back bowing so violently she nearly levitated off the bed. Her walls clamped down around his fingers in brutal pulses, flooding his tongue again and again while he kept licking, sucking, devouring every shudder and cry like he was trying to wring her soul out through her pussy.
When it finally ended, she collapsed, limp and gasping, tears streaking her temples into her hair. He didn’t stop until the very last aftershock faded, gentling his tongue only to soothe, lapping lazily at her swollen folds until she whimpered from the overstimulation.
Only then did he lift his head, lips shiny and red, eyes black with hunger.
He pressed a filthy kiss to her throbbing clit, then looked up at her trembling body, lips swollen, eyes feral.
“Good fucking girl,” he rasped. “Told you I’d drag another one out of you.”
Smoke stood up, the towel still knotted loosely around his hips, damp from the shower and now clinging to the hard line of his erection. He hooked his thumbs under the edge, yanked the knot free in one smooth tug, and let the towel drop to the floor.
The sudden cool air hit his skin, but he barely felt it. All his heat was already throbbing between his legs aching for her. He palmed himself once, slow, giving her a second to look and see exactly what she does to him. His dick was thick, flushed, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.
He rolled her gently onto her side, her body still trembling from the orgasms he just pulled out of her with his tongue. Smoke slid in behind her, chest pressed to her back, one arm hooking under her knee to lift her leg just enough. The head of his dick found her slick entrance without needing to look, she was soaked, open, ready. He pushed in slow, letting her feel every inch as he sunk deep, a low groan rumbling against the nape of her neck.
He kept her leg hooked high over his forearm, opening her completely, sliding in slow and so deep she can feel him in her throat. The room was thick with the wet sound of him filling her again and again, the steady creak of the bed, her own ragged breathing.
“Easy, baby… just breathe,” he whispered against her ear. “Feel how deep I am? That’s all for you. Every inch. You take it so good.”
She lets out a broken little “ah—Elijah—” when he rolls his hips in a slow circle, grinding right against that spot.
“Mmm, right there, huh?” his lips brushed the shell of her ear, smiling into her neck as she nodded frantically. He pulled almost all the way out, just the tip stretching her, and then sunk back in, one long, possessive stroke that punched the air from her lungs and dragged a high, trembling “ohhh—” from her throat.
“Fuck, listen to you…” he growled. “Those pretty sounds you make when I’m buried all the way inside this tight pussy.”
He set a constant rhythm which consisted of long, slow drags out until she whimpered at the emptiness, then hard thrusts back in that made her whole body jolt. Every single stroke ripped another moan from her throat.
“Nnh—oh god—Elijah”
“Yeah, say my name just like that,” he praised, hand sliding down the curve of her belly, fingers finding her swollen clit and circling fast. “Let me hear you, baby. Don’t you dare hold those moans back. I wanna hear every one.”
She can’t. They tumble out of her, needy and broken.
“Ah—ah—please—right there—don’t stop—fuck—”
“Never stoppin’,” he promised, voice cracking with restraint. He drove in harder, the slap of skin loud now, her moans climbing higher with every thrust. “Love knowin’ I’m the one makin’ you sound this good.”
Her whole body starts shaking, thighs quivering against his arm. The sounds she’s making are wild now, high-pitched little “eee—!”s that melt into guttural “unh—unh—unh—” every time he bottoms out.
“Elijah—baby—I’m—”
“I know, sweetheart, I feel it,” he soothes, lips brushing her ear even as his hips snap forward relentlessly. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight I can barely move. Come on, let it go. Moan my name while you cum all over me.”
A desperate,“ Elijah—fuck!” tears out of her as the first wave hit, her walls clenched hard around him.
“That’s my girl,” he groaned, riding her through it, fingers still working her clit in tight circles. “Keep moanin’ for me—just like that—fuck!.”
She was still crying out, high and helpless—“ah—ah—oh god—yes—!” her voice cracked on every thrust that kept her climax rolling. Her back arched hard, toes curled, fingers clawed at the sheets while broken little sobs and whimpers spilled from her lips.
He didn’t let up. Kept that same rhythm, drawing it out until she was trembling.
Smoke buried his face in her neck, breath ragged against her skin, cursing under his breath as her body kept clenching around him. His hips stuttered once, twice, but he locked his jaw and forced himself to hold on.
“Not yet,” he stated. “Not done with you. Wanna hear you beg for another one before I let go.”
Smoke eased out slow, letting her feel the drag. She was still catching her breath when he leaned back on his heels, watching her sink into the mattress like she was ready to tap out.
He let out an amused laugh. “Oh, you thought we were done because you were ‘sleepy’ earlier?” He grabs her hips and flips her onto her stomach, dragging her up to her knees in one smooth pull. “Nah, baby. You tried to close these legs on me like this pussy ain’t on call 24/7. That’s cute.”
She whimpered, already arching, but he didn’t give her time to think. He lined up and slammed in one hard thrust, burying himself so deep her breath caught on a sharp, startled “Elijah!”
“Yeah, that’s the sound I wanted,” he growled, setting a fast, punishing rhythm right from the start. “All that ‘I’m tired’ shit went out the window real quick, didn’t it?”
He leaned over her back, one hand sliding up to grip her throat lightly, the other pinning her hip exactly where he wanted it.
“Look at you. Actin’ all shy and sleepy a minute ago, now you’re drippin’ down my balls. Greedy little thing can’t even pretend she doesn’t want this dick.”
Every thrust knocked another moan out of her.
First one was a shocked little “ohh fuck—”
Then they rolled out of her in a broken stream, “unh… unh… Elijah… please…”
He drove in deeper and she gasped, voice cracking into a breathy “ahh god, baby—”
Another hard snap of his hips and she was moaning louder, needy, “yes… yes… right there—”
He didn’t let up, just fucked her.
“Thought you could hold out on me?” He nipped her shoulder, and smirked when she shuddered. “This pretty pussy doesn’t get to make decisions. It gets fucked when I say, how I say. Remember that.”
His fingers slipped down to her clit, rubbing fast circles that made her whole body jerk.
Her moans turned frantic, “Elijah … oh shit… I can’t… fuck…”
He circled harder and she choked out, “baby please… I’m gonna—”
“Come on, brat,” he stated. “Show me how sorry you are for even trying to keep this from me.”
She breaks almost instantly back bowing, walls fluttering hard around him, a broken cry of his name spilling out as she came. “Elijah … fuck… yes… oh god—”
He kept moving, riding her through it, hips never slowing, breath hot against her neck.
“Good girl,” he praised. “That’s one. We’re just getting started on that apology.”
He was still buried deep, hips rolling slow through the aftershocks of her orgasm, when he decides he’s done with her hiding her face in the pillow.
“Nah, I need to see you.”
One strong arm slid under her waist, the other gripped her thigh. In one smooth move he flipped her onto her back, never pulling out. Her legs fell open around his hips, knees hooked over his forearms as he spread her wide and sinks back in.
Her breath hitched on a shaky “ohhh—” when he filled her again, the new angle letting him hit deeper, straighter, right against that spot that makes her eyes roll.
Smoke braced himself above her, forearms caging her head, eyes locked on hers. “There she is,” he growled, pulling out slow just to watch her lips part on a needy whimper, then slid back in deep. “Look at me, baby.”
He started moving again, slower now, deeper, every stroke measured so she feels all of him. Their mouths brushed, then the soft kisses turned hungry. He kissed her like he’s been starving for it, tongue sliding against hers, swallowing every little sound she makes.
“Tell me you missed me,” he whispered between kisses, forehead pressed to hers, hips never stopping their steady grind.
“I missed you,” she breathed. “Missed you so bad, Elijah.
A broken sound left his throat. He kissed her harder, one hand cupping her face, thumb stroking her cheek while the other kept her leg hooked high. “I love you,” he rasped against her lip. “Love you so fuckin’ much.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him down until their chests are flush. “I love you too… don’t stop… please—”
He couldn’t if he tried.
The pace built gradually, deep rolls turning into long thrusts that dragged a moan from her with every stroke. He kissed her through it, lips on her mouth, her jaw, the corner of her eye, tasting the salt of her tears and sweat.
“Love you,” he said again, voice cracking as he buried his face in her neck, kissing the pulse there, the area beneath her ear. “Love you, love you—”
She clung tighter, heels digging into his back, breath hitching on every thrust. “Elijah… baby… I’m close again—”
“Cum with me,” he groaned, hips losing rhythm, driving deeper, faster now.
He kissed her one last time, swallowing her cry as his climax hit. He buried himself and came with a long, shuddering groan against her lips, pulsing hot inside her in thick waves, hips jerking with every spurt.
She followed right behind, walls clenching hard around him, a soft, broken “I love you—” spilling from her as she shakes apart beneath him.
He stayed inside her, riding the aftershocks with slow, gentle rolls, kissing her softly now, lips brushing her cheeks, her eyelids, the tip of her nose.
When they finally still, he didn’t move away. Just lowered himself carefully, keeping his weight on his forearms, face tucked into her neck, pressing kisses to her skin while their breathing slowed together.
They stay wrapped up like that, tangled and breathless, hearts hammering in sync, his lips never far from hers.
———————————————————-
He was still inside her, breathing hard against her neck, lips brushing lazy kisses over the damp skin there. The room smelled like sex and them, and the sheets were a lost cause.
After a long minute he lifted his head, pressed one soft kiss to her mouth, then rested his forehead against hers.
“Been thinkin’ about comin’ home to you the whole damn twelve hours I was gone,” he stated. “One quick trip, and all I could picture was you waitin’ in this bed, ready to wreck me the second I walked through the door.”
She made a small, sleepy sound and tightened her arms around his neck. He felt her shiver.
He eased out gently, both of them hissing at the loss, then rolled to the side so he can look at her properly. His thumb stroked her cheek, wiping away a stray tear of overstimulation.
“Hold on, baby,” he says softly. “Lemme take care of you.”
Before she could answer, he slid out of bed, scooped her up, and cradled her against his chest. She curled into him automatically, legs dangling, face tucked under his jaw.
“Smoke…” she mumbled drowsy.
“Shh. I got you.”
He carried her through the suite and out onto the private balcony where the hot tub’s been running since he turned it on earlier that morning.
Steam rose into the cool night air, city lights glittering far below. The jets were already bubbling, the water glowing soft blue.
He stepped down into it without letting her go, sinking slowly until the heat envelops them both. She sighed the second the water hits her sore muscles. He settled onto the molded seat and arranged her so she’s straddling his lap, chest to chest, her head resting on his shoulder.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he groaned, rolling his neck. “Been countin’ down the minutes since I left this morning.”
She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “Missed you,” she whispered against his skin. “Twelve hours was too long.”
He tightened his arms around her, one big hand stroking up and down her spine under the water. “I’m here now, baby. Not leavin’ this bed, or this tub, for the rest of the night.”
The jets pulsed against their bodies, the only sounds were the low hum of the motor, the soft splash of water, and their breathing finally slowing into the same rhythm.
He tipped her chin up, kissed her slow, tasting both of them on her tongue. When he pulled back, his eyes are soft.
“Love you,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever known.
She smiled, sleepy and wrecked and utterly his. “Love you more.”
He chuckled and reached for the waterproof remote on the ledge. The jets kicked up a notch, massaging every ache they both earned tonight.
The water was warm around them, her body completely melted against his chest, eyes half-closed, breath slow. She was floating in that soft, fucked-out haze when Smoke shifted behind her, sliding one arm low across her belly, the other guiding her hips until she’s sitting reverse in his lap.
His lips found the shell of her ear.
“One more, baby,” he whispered. “Let the jet finish you off.”
She let out a weak laugh and tries to burrow deeper into his shoulder.
“Elijah… no. I’m dead. You already murdered me three separate times. My soul left my body twenty minutes ago.”
He chuckled, but doesn’t let her sink back down. His hands slide to her ass, spreading her gently, thumbs tracing slow, soothing circles on the inside of each cheek.
“I know I wrecked you,” he said, kissing the spot behind her ear that always makes her shiver. “That’s why you don’t gotta do a thing. Just stand right here and let the water do it.”
She shook her head, a tiny, stubborn movement.
“Baby… I’m serious. I’m too sensitive. One touch and I’ll actually cry.”
He hummed, patient, lips brushing her neck.
“You’re not gonna cry. You’re gonna cum so hard you forget your own name. I’ll hold you the whole time.”
She whined, long and exhausted, hips already trembling just from the suggestion.
“Elijah… please… I can’t take any more.”
He kissed her shoulder.
“You can. You’re my good girl, aren’t you?”
Another kiss, lower.
“Been thinkin’ about watchin’ you fall apart on that jet since I turned it on this morning. Just picturin’ how pretty you’d look shakin’ in my arms…”
She made a broken little sound, half protest, half surrender.
He guided her forward an inch, until the low hum of the strongest jet vibrates against her thighs. She jolted, thighs clamping instinctively.
“No—no—no, wait—” she gasped, fingers digging into his forearms. “It’s too strong, I swear it’s gonna hurt—”
“Shh.” He locked one arm around her waist like steel, the other still spreading her open. “Breathe for me. Step up on my feet… there you go.”
She rose on wobbling legs, toes curling over his for balance, whole body already trembling.
“Elijah, I’m scared it’s too much—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised, lips against her ear. “If it’s too much I’ll pull you off, swear to God. But I know my baby. I know you’ve got one more in you.”
She was breathing fast now, shaky little inhales, eyes squeezed shut.
“I can’t… I really can’t…”
He kissed the side of her neck.
“Just part yourself for me. One finger. That’s all. Let me see how pretty you look takin’ it.”
A long, trembling pause.
She whimpered… then, with a broken, defeated sound, her shaky fingers slide down and spread her swollen lips.
The jet hits her clit like a gunshot.
Her entire body seized, a sharp, desperate cry ripping out of her before she can stop it.
“Fuck—Elijah—oh god—”
He held her tight, mouth hot on her ear.
“There it is. Fuck, feel that? Just let it take you, baby. I’ve got you.”
She was already sobbing, hips jerking, trying to escape and chase it at the same time.
“It’s too much—it’s too much—please—”
“No it’s not,” he growls softly, licking up her neck, gripping her ass harder to keep her open to the stream. “You’re takin’ it so fuckin’ good. Look at you shakin’. Come on, sweetheart. Let it wreck you.”
The orgasm crashed into her like a tidal wave, no warning, no build, just instant, violent release. Her knees buckle completely, a broken scream tearing from her throat as she cums harder than she has all night, whole body convulsing in his arms.
He holds her through every brutal pulse, murmuring filth and praise directly into her ear.
“That’s my girl… fuck yes… keep comin’… don’t fight it, just let it take you… I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you…”
When it finally released her, she collapsed, limp and gasping, tears on her cheeks. He turned to her gently and pulled her trembling body back down into his lap, cradling her close while the water swirls softly around them.
She buried her face in his neck, voice wrecked and laughing through the aftershocks.
“I hate you.”
He kissed her temple, arms locked tight, smug and tender all at once.
“Yeah… but you came so hard you saw stars, so I’ll take it.”
———————————————————
He carried her upstairs like she was made of glass, her limp body draped over his arms, head lolling against his chest. The hot tub did its job too well. She was still twitching every few seconds with tiny aftershocks that make her breath hitch.
In the bathroom he sat her gently on the thick bathmat, grabbed the fluffiest towel, and wrapped her up like a burrito.
“Stay right here, baby. Don’t move. I’m drawin’ us a real bath.”
She just hummed, eyes already half-closed, and curled onto her side on the heated floor while the tub fills. The sound of running water and the faint scent of that lavender-eucalyptus oil he knows she loves lulls her into a daze.
Ten minutes later he’s back.
“C’mon, pretty girl.”
He scooped her up and stepped into the deep soaking tub. The water was perfect, hot, scented, topped with a thin layer of bubbles. He settled back against the sloped side and arranged her so she was lying on top of him, chest to chest, her head tucked under his chin. One big arm stretched across her back, the other hand slid under the water to cradle her ass and hips, literally holding her lower half up so she doesn’t have to use a single muscle.
She melts instantly.
“Oh my god,” she sighs. “I feel like I’m floating… like I don’t even have legs anymore.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into hers.
“That’s ‘cause I’m holdin’ you up, baby. You’re still havin’ those little aftershocks, huh?”
She nodded against his neck, thighs twitching again. “Every time the water moves it hits me again. I’m so sensitive it’s stupid.”
He pressed a kiss to her damp hair, fingers gently kneading her lower back. “You’re good, though? Satisfied? My girl got enough D for one day?”
She laughed nuzzling closer. “I’m beyond satisfied. You treated me to a whole dick-filled welcome-home special. I’m set until next week.”
He snorted, splashing a little water over her shoulder. “That’s cute you think I’m done. Twelve hours without you and I still got a whole list, baby.”
She groaned dramatically, but there’s a smile in it. “You’re actually insane.”
“Insanely in love with you,” he corrects, kissing her temple. “But yeah, I’ll let you breathe… for now.”
They soaked like that for a long while—quiet, soft kisses, murmured nonsense, his hands never stopping their soothing strokes.
Eventually the water started to cool. He stands with her still in his arms, stepped out, and sat her on her feet long enough to flip the shower on. Hot water rained down as he pulled her under it with him, washing her gently—hair, body, between her legs with the softest touch because she was still so sensitive that she kept shivering and giggling into his chest.
They stepped out of the shower in a cloud of steam, skin warm.
He wrapped her in one of the big, fluffy towels first, rubbing her arms dry, then quickly towels himself off and slings his low around his hips. She was still giggling at something he whispered when he scooped her up bridal-style, carrying her straight from the bathroom into the bedroom like she weighed nothing.
The lights were low, the bed already turned down from earlier.
He sat her gently on the edge of the mattress, kissed her forehead, and whispered , “Hold on, baby.”
She watches him cross the room, pull open her drawer, and come back with the soft pink silk nightie she loves. He kneels in front of her, gathers the fabric, and helps her slip it over her head, smoothing it down her body. When it’s settled against her skin, he crawled onto the bed, pulled her down beside him, and tucked her into his side, her head on his chest, his arms locked around her like he’ll never let go.
The room was quiet except for their breathing and the faint hum of the city far below.
He lifted her left hand, kissed the spot right above her wedding band, and kept her fingers pressed to his lips.
“I love you, Simone,” he said.
She tried to smile, but he was not done.
“I’d die for you, baby. You know that, right?”
His voice dropped. “There’s nobody on this planet that matters more than you. If anything ever happened to me, you’re taken care of forever. And I’d kill for you. Anybody ever even thought about hurting you, they wouldn’t make it to sunrise.”
She started to protest but he just kissed her palm and kept going.
“You want a bigger house? Five kids tearing up the backyard? I’ll work every single day until my hands bleed to give you that life. Your needs don’t go unmet—never at night, never in life. I never want you looking at another man, never want you feeling like you’re missing one damn thing. You’re my rib, Simone. The piece God took out of me and made perfect.”
He guided her hand to the left side of his ribs, smooth skin except for one spot. Fresh ink, still slightly raised, done in secret two weeks ago. In elegant, flowing script: Simone, right over his heart, the only tattoo he’ll ever have.
She gasps, fingertips tracing the letters like she’s reading braille.
“You… you got my name tattooed?” Her voice cracks. “Elijah, you swore you’d never—”
“Never needed ink,” he stated, eyes locked on hers. “Then I married you. Only thing worth putting on me forever.”
She leaned down, and pressed soft kisses over her name, then looked up at him with that playful fire he loves.
“Listen,” she said, poking his chest. “I’ll beat up every female on earth for you, no hesitation. And if you ever did time? I’m not touching another man. I’d get a custom mold of this—” she slides her hand down and squeezes him through the sheet, “—and one of that criminal tongue. I’d be sending you contraband nudes you gotta hide under the mattress. I’m riding for you ‘til they bury me, baby. I’m yours for life. Only yours.”
He groaned and flipped her gently onto her back, hovering over her, eyes shining.
“That’s my wife,” he whispered, “My missing rib. My whole damn world.”
He kissed her slow like they’re saying vows all over again and then pulled her tight against his chest. She tucked her face into his neck, fingers still tracing her name on his skin.
They fall asleep just like that. Tangled, promised, and claimed forever.
