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Masterlist below the cut !
NEON LIGHTS
Novella - Chapters
In the glitzy world of Hollywood, it can be easy to crash and burn under the California sun. Few are more self-sabotaging than R&B singer/songwriter, Jameson Lucas. The only thing the charming playboy is known for more than his long list of lovers is his Grammy wins.
Imani St. Cirie, an emotive singer/songwriter herself, is the latest in a long line of women he's wronged but she's determined to different. Imani refuses to let Jameson make or break her. The two A-listers are consistently drawn together by an electric chemistry that neither can deny or easily manage.
As common sense pulls them in opposite directions -- friendships are tested, old flames resurface, and new opportunities threaten to tear them apart for good. They must decide if their love is strong enough to withstand the weight of the mistakes in their past. In this industry, dreams can make or break you -- but what happens when love becomes the gamble of a lifetime?
Chapters:
Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III
Chapter IV | Chapter V | Chapter VI
Chapter VII | Chapter VIII | Chapter IX
Chapter X | Chapter XI | Chapter XII
Chapter XIII | Chapter XIV | Chapter XV
Chapter XVI | Chapter XVII | Chapter XVIII
Epilogue
Extra, Extra:
Gossip Patrol | RHYTHM Interview | Gossip Patrol Pt. 2The Crashout | PAPER Interview | Gossip Patrol Pt. 3
Gossip Patrol Pt. 4 | Therapy, Baby
Music Releases:
Imani:
Diary | EP
Jameson:
Midnight & Dawn | Album
Main Cast:
Aaron Pierre as Jameson Lucas
Megan Pete as Imani St. Cirie
Jayme Lawson as Genie Adesanya
Kelvin Harrison Jr. as Ellington Dupree
Supporting Cast:
Lori Harvey as Sloane Lennox
Kofi Siriboe as Christian McKay
Kysre Gondrezick as Camille Leferve
Skepta as Isaiah Ellis
Guest Appearances:
Halle Berry as Anaïs Lucas, Jameson's mother
Beyoncé Knowles-Carter as Toni St. Cirie, Imani's aunt
Sterling K. Brown as Kendrick Adesanya, Genie's father
Nia Long as Nina Dupree, EJ's mother
Marsai Martin as Ella Dupree, EJ's sister
Michael Ealy as Julian Gautreau, Jameson's father
Marcus Scribner as Lucian Gautreau, Julian & Toni's son
LOVE LANGUAGE
Novella - Chapters
Overcoming emotional obstacles and family dysfunction, Genie and EJ prepare for their lavish Parisian wedding. The couple and their loved ones arrive in Paris the week before the big day. Beneath the glamorous façade of wedding plans simmers a deep-seated tension and a little calculated sabotage goes a long way to shatter the joyful occasion.
As Genie navigates the turmoil of her fractured family unit, Camille Leferve stands on the precipice of a life-altering revelation. The truth about the father of her unborn child emerges and she has to pick up the pieces of her life as Kendrick’s guilt threatens to swallow him whole.
After a fateful encounter, Jameson stumbles upon a shocking family secret when he meets his younger brother, Lucian. The revelation of Lucian’s origins – a concealed affair between Imani’s aunt and Jameson’s father – sends shockwaves through their lives, challenging their perceptions of loyalty and family connections.
As the wedding day draws near, the city becomes a stage for a crescendo of secrets and revelations, each poised to collide with explosive force at any moment.
Chapters:
Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III
Chapter IV | Chapter V | Chapter VI
Chapter VII | Chapter VIII | Chapter IX
Chapter X | Chapter XI | Chapter XII
Epilogue
Main Cast:
Aaron Pierre as Jameson Lucas
Megan Pete as Imani St. Cirie
Jayme Lawson as Genie Adesanya
Kelvin Harrison Jr. as Ellington Dupree
Supporting Cast:
Lori Harvey as Sloane Lennox
Kofi Siriboe as Christian McKay
Kysre Gondrezick as Camille Leferve
Marcus Scribner as Lucian Gautreau
Guest Appearances:
Halle Berry as Anaïs Lucas, Jameson's mother
Beyoncé Knowles-Carter as Toni St. Cirie, Imani's aunt
Sterling K. Brown as Kendrick Adesanya, Genie's father
Nia Long as Nina Dupree, EJ's mother
Marsai Martin as Ella Dupree, EJ's sister
Michael Ealy as Julian Gautreau, Jameson's father
PAPER SAINTS
Novella - Chapters
Miles Allam is a man living in the ruins of his own failure. He's spent two years rebuilding his high profile marriage that should have ended after his affair -- a marriage now held together by glossy magazine spreads, silent resentment, and the desperate hope that adopting a child might glue the pieces back together. Instead, Miles feels like a ghost in his own life, performing a role
But then the letters come.
Art lover and enthusiast of his work, Drew Santos, comes out of nowhere. Their letters were never meant to mean anything. They were never meant to feel like temptation. But when Drew opens the door to a face to face meeting, Miles is helpless but to fall headlong into another affair.
But Drew Santos isn't what she seems. A love built through letters and deception is just as fragile as a damaged marriage. Miles finds out the hard way what the grass isn't always greener on the other side.
Chapters:
Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III
Chapter IV | Chapter V | Chapter VI
Chapter VII | Chapter VIII | Chapter IX
Chapter X | Chapter XI | Chapter XII | Chapter XIII
Epilogue
Main Cast:
Aaron Pierre as Miles Allam
Ange Jose as Drew Santos/Luciana Carter
Olandria Carthen as Naima Carter
Tyriq Withers as Maxwell St. John
Supporting Cast:
Marion Cotillard as Celine Dumont
ONE-SHOTS
Short Stories
A collection of standalone moments from the lives of various characters. These snapshots delve into untold encounters and fleeting drama.
Make Her Mine
Model-turned-actress-turned-hotshot publicist, Toni St. Cirie, puts her career first over any man. But what happens when actor, Nasir Holmes, enters her life hoping to become her next beau?
Cast:
Beyoncé Knowles-Carter as Toni St. Cirie
Lucky Daye as Nasir Holmes
In honor of the Tyriq-centered community Tyriq Withers’ Simps reaching over 1,000 members, I have created this writing challenge for any and all to participate. See below for details.
INSTRUCTIONS
➞ Write a minimum of 1,000 words of fanfiction (i.e. oneshots, drabbles, headcanons) featuring one of Tyriq’s characters or him as himself.
➞ Tag your works with #TWS 1k Challenge (as well as other applicable tags) and repost it into the Tyriq Withers’ Simps community.
➞ You do not have to be a writer to participate. Get your creative juices flowing and try something new!
➞ There’s no limit on the number of entries you can write for this challenge.
➞ All genres (ex. smut, angst, fluff) are encouraged. Add warnings where appropriate when writing explicit fiction.
➞ OCs, AUs and Crossovers allowed. Imagine: Alex Cross and Jackson Brooks on the same mission? Dreamy.
On the cusp of a new year, the world of former marine Terrance James Richmond is turned upside down - confronting a ghost of his past that is haunting more than his psyche; what was a coveted secret of his past in the corp, now a threat to the deteriorating wellbeing of not only himself, but of the entire world as he knows it.
this is a concept I shared and promised @nahimjustfeelingitwrites many many moons ago, I hope I’m not too late for Spooktober forgive my tiny brain. also was deeply inspired by @avoidthings and @grlsbstshot continuous creativity and whackings for my tendency to avoid Word LMAO - Star
In the desolate winding backroads of Redwick only a few homes, spread dozens of miles apart, were still lit. The clock was inching closer to one in the morning and out of everyone still awake, Terrance was the most disturbed by far. It’d been an awfully unnerving day for him, as today was the anniversary of the mass casualty event that ended his time in the corp merely two years prior.
Until this waking hour, the former Marine hadn’t thought about its significance (by forcible, personal choice). He’d sworn it off from his peripheral to the best of his ability, actually listening to his therapist and taking his prescribed medications - even if it meant overmedicating with things that weren’t. Yet, here he was in his over worn kitchen whiteknuckling his gun, heart beating through his ears as he came face to face with three figures at his front door.
One of them he was more than familiar with.
General Darlene Cross.
It was more or less the same feeling he held in his first close call in combat, a 7.62 round clipping his exposed ear beneath his helmet and sending him to what he thought for certain was the afterlife. Shock, regret, and the most potent emotion of all - fear. Not fear that life was over, but of what was going to become of it once he came to. Coincidentally, it was the exact same feeling he had the last time he saw General Cross - a day he promised he’d never return to again as long as he lived.
Too bad she didn’t believe in promises, and damn sure not ones from her most proficient jarheads. And besides, this matter was beyond him, it was beyond everyone he knew in this microscopic town.
Worst of all, it was teetering beyond the entire state of America.
That’s why instead of quick drawing and putting them down like dogs through the flimsy door like they all were aware he was capable of, Terrance stood militant, doing nothing as the general and her security detail let themselves in - courtesy of the spare he’d hidden in a flower pot on the windowsill. Just like he’d done many times in his barracks he avoided eye contact until it was given to him, those searing deep brown eyes holding absolutely nothing in them as they greeted his own.
“Richmond,” General Cross began, “my apologies for barging in at such an inconvenient time. Forgive me?”
He said nothing, forcing himself to breathe and slowly drop his firearm to his side holster.
“Good. Take a seat Mr. Richmond. There’s something we need to discuss.”
Terrance simply nodded. Following instruction as he was taught, he took a seat at the rickety wood table before them. For a second he couldn’t help but to gaze at the hardware her security was toting, matching M16’s in corp standard finish. Still he averted his attention to the matter at hand with the most self restraint he could’ve mustered being half sober.
“I won't be long. As of 1500 hours ago, the state of affairs in the new southern border have crumbled beyond repair. We are - without being hyperbolic - in dire need of internal intervention-“
“And how the fuck do I fit into that?” Terrance interjected. It came out of his mouth faster than his brain could register for him to clamp it
She was quick to spit back at him, “Let me finish, Richmond…remember the time we spoke. In the hospital”
The headache forming behind his eyes began to pound with a fury. Of course he did, he thought about it every single night before he drowned himself in Percocets and cheap brown liquor to forget it.
“I passed you a message from my superiors. Do you recall that Richmond?”
“…yeah. Yes ma’am I do.”
“Right. And I also told you that if this were to touch US soil in any capacity, you would either be a leader or a state owned lab rat - you picking up my drift here?”
Again a nod, this one more somber, yet more alert.
“Right now, I’m giving you a chance to do more with your life. As far as I could see from just a few months' close observation, you are entirely adamant on killing yourself before you face up to the boogeyman that was your last mission. Your noncompliance to cooperating in this upcoming operation hinges on whether you can continue wasting away in what you call a life…or my superiors snuffing you out to keep this quiet like we both know they’ll do.”
Now it all made sense - the unshakeable feeling he was being watched for the last few weeks. That the things he routinely obsessed over being in place were moved. No matter how hard he tried to sleep at night, Terrance still could feel the sinking feeling of not truly being alone.
“Now, let’s rip this bandaid off shall we? There was no ‘homegrown environmental’ incident that shut down the borders to the southern states in October. It seems that the virus that you and your team were exposed to in Baghdad was found on a compound rural in Alabama. One family of seven was infected while three neighbors were able to escape the carnage unharmed. They are what we now know are asymptomatic carriers, and in their attempts to flee into a more populated society for help - they created ground zero. In the span of four months, every state from the Texas to Tennessee border has gone dark. All we know now is that there is a high probability this will jump the militarized border that all sectors of the armed forces have set in place, and the only people that can help us are the survivors in the red zone that have succeeded in keeping it back…and you. Only one of two documented survivors of the VK-virus that are, by all intents and purposes, immune after physical exposure. There’s a plane leaving in two hours to the outskirts of our war room, there you’ll be moving into our state monitored living quarters and will be attending your first debriefing of the current situation."
For once, Terrance had nothing to say. No quips back. No attempts to harm the people in front of him. The only thing he could do was nod, force back saliva that so badly wanted to spew out of him, and submit. His bloodshot eyes followed her slacks as she headed back out the front door. Prompt as she promised.
Before being escorted out of his home she spoke to him in a more looser, personal tone, “Don’t fuck this up Terry. I’m going out on a limb for you. Sober the fuck up for the next hour, pack your shit, and I’ll find a way to get you enough dope to keep you afloat during your time with us.” she then scoffed lightly, “you go cold turkey you just might fuck this for us both. Let’s not rehash the past, alright?”
With that and the slow stampede of boots she and her entourage were gone into the country night.
The clock began its grueling tick now. Terrance Richmond was back in the corp, and both his traumatic exposure and immunity to VK would be the one thing that kept him alive.
if you bitches ain't posting a picture or a fic, relax on coming in here being funny. bc i can be hilarious. you nowhere to be found when bitches was turning this tag inside out and calling aaron the worst shit in the world but you in here to giggle? yeah okay.
like daaaaamn i never knew sexy people doing sexy things turned you hoes feral
if you bitches ain't posting a picture or a fic, relax on coming in here being funny. bc i can be hilarious. you nowhere to be found when bitches was turning this tag inside out and calling aaron the worst shit in the world but you in here to giggle? yeah okay.
like daaaaamn i never knew sexy people doing sexy things turned you hoes feral
Warnings: Explicit Language. 18+ Readers Only. Mentions of alcohol and recreational drugs. Protected PIV (wrap your willies!), Cocky!Cameron Cade, Semi-public sex, Edging.
About: Cameron Cade rediscovers passion and respect for agency parties upon meeting introvert, Myra Sanders on New Year's Eve. (Word Count: 3.9k)
Setting: Alternate Ending to Him (2025) Zay’s Nightmare Universe
If there were superlatives assigned to the 2025 NFL Rookie Class, “Life of the Party,” would read paradoxical to football’s newest golden boy, Cameron Cade. Since that faithful signing day to the Saviors in April, each sunrise bore even more entries in his calendar than the last. Cocktail parties from liquor brands with a taste for fresh meat, luncheons held by boutique skincare brands, and grandiose displays of wealth at industry-headquartered events.
A simple ‘pull up’ from his older brother was a signal that he and his crew of social loafers needed to garner a more feminine presence to the function. Cameron would do his walkthrough, face hidden beneath his Denim Tears cloak and like bees, young women would still congregate. Add in his freshly single relationship status, new money falling out of his ears, interactions were always kept brief for his own sanity.
The essence of tonight’s soiree was thick with anticipation that Cameron had yet to become fully adjusted to. There was a booziness in the air that could only be excused by the celebration of New Year’s Eve. Attendees threw their hopes in glittery sunglasses and hats as midnight was fast approaching. Tonight was not quite like any other industry event, but a celebration of new beginnings. Nothing but smiles hit the dance floor and people moved without inhibition, leaving the past in the past.
Tonight, may be Cameron’s first New Year’s Eve single, and while he wouldn’t admit it to his inner circle just yet, but he preferred belonging to one woman. Especially on a night like this, with the live band echoing faintly, he craved the feeling of soft curves and amber perfume in his orbit, to people watch with and laugh at inside jokes. Of course, he made eyes at others, but it has gotten difficult to glean good intentions.
The only person he could tolerate such extravagance from was his new agent, Harold, who insists on being called Hal. He would never miss an opportunity to show off the prize pony at his indie management company, Accelerate Sports. Cameron’s goals shifted after his grueling time on Isaiah’s compound. That survival of mental and physical torment adjusted how he saw his future. He wanted the value of family to be the epicenter of his image, and that included building a team that felt like a second home. Some viewed his decision as risky, while others saw it as an opportunity for smaller agencies and athletes through his support of a lesser-known agency.
Hal was in the center of the room, a man of nonintimidating stature, hand on his middle, belly laughing after holding his umpteenth toast tonight—a tradition that felt more meaningful as the clock marched toward midnight. Servers whirred about ready to provide hors d'oeuvres or take an open bar order, the champagne flutes stacked for the final countdown. Cameron clamored his way through a sea of cigar smoke, lustful eyes and even some filled with envy. He learned the countenance all too well working with Isaiah Wade.
“How many of these events are you going to hold in my name, Hal?”
“I dunno,” Harold’s New England accent creeped out, his stare adjusting from the cigar in his hand to Cameron.
“How often do you get to play the fuckin’ Super Bowl during your first season?” Cameron couldn’t fight the grin that spread across his features nor the sudden heat on the back of his neck.
“A lot of players do—”
“From the bench. You’ve thrown over 4,000 yards, 32 touchdowns, and are in Rookie of the Year discussions.”
“Alright, alright, you got it.” The stem of his champagne flute disappeared in Cameron’s hands as he smiled for the small school of blazers and ties staring back at him.
“This is not a party, think of it like a cocktail hour…on New Year’s!” Hal’s loosening tie gave himself away.
”You've been to one of those, right?” If only he knew Cameron’s idea of a cocktail hour was sneaking sparkling apple cider and wine coolers on Thanksgiving in his preteens. There was admittedly a wealth and experience gap that kept them sharp, constantly learning about the other.
“Yeah, I think we had one of those after my father’s wake.” Cameron took a sip of the decades old, fermented wine, this time catching eyes with his tone-deaf manager. He tracks them as beads of nervous sweat begin to float above Hal’s brow. The Dead Dad Card always works.
“I’m going to go for a walk, ‘kay?” This time Cameron’s cool blues met a pair of shifty brown irises. He didn’t have to think too hard about which substance led to that.
“These doors are open to you whenever you need them. You’re the,” he hiccups, “future, Cade!”
He watched as the man could no longer resist the champagne tower or miniature ceviche cups, falling into a cigar-hazed stupor. Cameron forefingers committed the salute as his farewell to the zealous agency head.
Wide strides taken by athletic legs pass by each archway until the clatter of the not-a-party softened behind him. A grand pair of sliding doors and floor to ceiling windows marked the arrival to his temporary respite.
The room was nothing short of an Architectural Digest subscriber’s fantasy. Hanging tea lights glimmered high alongside the view of the city from where Harold’s home was perched in the mountainous of Texas Hills. Vines and leaves of greenery coiled along each corner, some botanicals held in planters, enticing the room as a hub for relaxation. One sofa, conversation-pit style and a few hanging chairs made it hard to not seek connection, especially as Cameron’s line of sight was also pleasantly disrupted by the beauty of whom he’d craved all night.
“Looks like I have never had an original idea, ever.” He joked. The woman startled, turning to follow the baritone that hung in the room.
Her body was fit to a black slip dress that hugged her figure like a second skin. A singular strap falling beyond her shoulder was met by thick locks of hair that were teased and blown out just for the occasion. Red stained her heart-shaped lips, and if Cameron had it his way they would paint a crimson trail from his neck to the waistband of his briefs.
“Oh! I’m sorry, didn’t think…I-” A heady combination of awe and prosecco were the wedge between her ability to form another syllable. Immediately Cameron wishes he’d said something, anything different as her appearance set off every alarm in his body.
Of course she’s heard of the man of the hour, but pictures or videos gave her no idea of how it felt to be in his presence. He’s endearingly large, dwarfing her 5’7 in heels over half a foot. She lets her eyes take in the drink in front of her just once before he resumes speaking.
“My bad, if I was interrupting your zen,” a hand ejects from the pocket of his leather jacket. The piece was simple enough and his stylists’ way to prevent him from showing up in just a tank top. When Cameron wanted to party, standing on furniture in just a wifebeater was his go-to.
“I’m Cameron.” He says as if his face wasn’t plastered in the foyer and half of the grocery store magazines in the Greater San Antonio area.
“Myra, personal assistant to Randall Montgomery," She delivers a strong handshake despite the undercurrent of neurons firing off between them.
Her eyes were the color of black coffee accentuated by a thin liner and curled lashes, skin nearly poreless. If Randall was anything like half of the players he knew, she was much more than a merit hire. Randall was starting with him this upcoming season and now, he’s committed to keeping a steady eye on him.
“That’s what's up,” he nods, pretending not to mentally crunch the numbers needed to steal her from his new teammate.
Instead, Cameron just kept enthusing about the surroundings, surprising them both with his knowledge and she’d giggle or sip more of the Cosmopolitan in her hand. He also told her about his philanthropic dreams, his plans to support sustainability. A word Myra wouldn’t bet to hear out of a new quarterback’s mouth.
“The sunroom is my favorite part of the house. It’s a cool place to clear your head…or hide from a crowd.”
“That obvious, huh?” His eyebrows raised at her assumption. “That I’m a bit out of place here.”
The words left Myra’s mouth sooner than her brain could filter and now she’s apologizing for her deprecating admission. Up on her feet, back and forth in crystal embossed heels that glinted under light. Cameron’s eyes followed Rene Caovilla caging her toes to the shine on her lipstick.
Myra was to the affair a Warhol piece to a garage sale in his eyes, contrasting the muted and tattered washes of Hal’s house with vivid color. He simply stood up and it was enough to bring the anxiety train to a stop.
“Hey-hey-hey, let’s not do that,” his tone hushed, “you’re here for a reason.”
She blinked up at him, a line of tears threatening to leave her lower lids. To avoid their fall, she had to look anywhere else, realizing Cameron painted each sector of the room with his nature, and his humor she couldn’t stay sad for long.
Myra’s stare remained steady on the outside, the lights of the skyline, anything but back at the handsome first round draft pick. It would only remind her of the hour steadfast approaching. The energy of New Year’s demanded change.
“Do you believe in resolutions?” her voice cracked when she asked.
“I believe in goals. They need discipline, that most people here don’t have.”
“Well damn.”
“I mean, I’m just sayin’, half of the people in here come by just to satisfy their vices.” Cameron glides to the seat beside where she was before, his long legs spread for comfort.
Myra was drawn closer to him. A careful hand just caressing the back of her knee had her fighting a shiver. He’s probably familiar with women just falling over themselves to sit on his lap. So, Myra refused, choosing to stand right between his legs.
He continues after taking in the sight before him, “It is rare to find someone at one of these things that isn’t snorting or popping something.”
She rolled her eyes in jest. “I bet, I’ve seen enough people coming off of a bender. I keep Narcan on me for whoever might need it.”
“Definitely, not my poison though.”
“Then what is?”
He looks at the designer shoes and can make an educated guess on at least one. She looks down at her hands adorned with simple gold rings--the ring finger empty to Cameron’s surprise.
“Work. I’m supposed to be here to celebrate meaning I’m off the clock. My mind won’t stop thinking about the next report I have due, or Randall’s agenda."
“I’ve had the Savior’s plays memorized since I was 11. I knew them all before they handed me the official handbook. They don’t leave my head.”
“How exactly does that work?” Myra is sitting now and they’re knee-to-knee, a call for personal space nowhere to be found.
“While other kids were being grilled on their times tables, my father made me watch footage until I could damn near feel the tackles by muscle memory.” Cameron looked up as he recalled the memory, something that was meant to hinder his educational past now a plus.
He rakes a palm over his head with a hiss. “I usually don’t get this deep with strangers. I promise I’m not the trauma dumping type.”
“It’s all good, nothing wrong with being vulnerable.” A content smile is fought by Cameron’s lips.
“Just returning a favor,” Myra elbows him.
“Next time? Would I be able to get you out of here before you change your mind?” Terracotta tinted cheekbones and gleaming teeth are on full display to him, newly aglow with the revelation of a new connection.
“You’re the man of the hour and the clock strikes in forty-five minutes. Wouldn’t it be impolite to leave?” Myra questions.
“According to my agent this ain’t a party. Besides, looking at you, the last thing I’m thinking about right now is being polite.”
Myra was swept up by him within seconds, a large hand on her waist leading her further away from the crowd. Where they were in the house provided Cameron just enough time to think about where to take her.
In a blink, her back was against the door of a room with signage and no lock.
Coat Room.
“W-wait, I don't want to leave my coat.” Her voice full of faux worries was cute to him. Curly, lush eyelashes could bat an entire herd of men her way, yet somehow Cameron was lucky enough to be only one spellbound.
“Yes ma’am. I’m sure you can’t handle tonight’s wind in just silk.” Myra snorted at his try of a concierge's voice. With her bottom lip taut between both rows of teeth, she pulled him in to the room by her grip on his jacket.
One more step backwards and they were in a volley of furs, leather and designer trenchcoats. A trifold divider caught Cameron’s attention. A vanity without a chair. The room looked purposefully unfinished sans the thousands of dollars in outerwear.
Before Myra could speak, his calloused hand was holding her face with a tenderness she had yet to see from him. Her eyes mirrored his as he mapped her face to his memory, and sealing his findings with their lips.
She isn’t even surprised that he’s gamified the art of kissing. Cameron knew when to pull back, especially when he wanted to hear her whine for more. Her bottom lip pulled away from his capture and Myra dove back in, lips locking and frantic breaths filling the small space around them.
“I want you,” says Myra, eyelids clenched closed. “I want to see you lose control.” Her hands are on her own body, opening the slit to reveal a black garter, and when she pushed the curtain of silk back--red panties already ruined with arousal.
He shrugged off the designer jacket styling pulled on him, giving Myra a show of his biceps. He also reached in the inner pocket for a condom before shooing it back to the floor.
“A little overconfident?”
“Never unprepared.”
She presented herself to him like a gazelle to a lion, and they were both too far gone to care if anyone walked in.
“Who made you this wet, baby?” He nudged her hand away to feel her wetness, then he fingered her slowly, earning himself pants and the cute squirms of frustration on her face.
“You, Cameron. My body only wants you.” Myra didn’t have ‘confess her crush’ on the to-do list for today, and now she is mere seconds away from yanking her boss’s teammate impossibly closer.
He grabbed the hand that held her dress open and placed it over his clothed member, “This,” Cameron cursed once Myra began to rub him through his pants, delighting in his flinching when she spent time on the tip. “...is what you do to me, Pretty.”
They were a flurry of fabrics as their lips connected again, full of fervor and bite. Myra held in a squeal as she was momentarily in the air, her bottom connecting to the small dressing table in the room within seconds.
She leant back on her palms, and was claimed by his lips once more, now focusing their attention on the underside of her jaw and neck. Marks of desire began to bloom hot as he continued his venture down her body, encouraging gasps when he was at a spot that particularly melted her reserve. The bottom of her heel took purchase at his lower back, urging him closer.
“The dress stays on. It’s rented. Try not to make too much of a mess.” Myra managing to order him between bated breath.
Cameron replied with a grunt, pulling the thin straps down to reveal her breasts. Nipples the shade of blackberries called to his mouth and hands. His hands grabbed and nipped over her bare chest, inhaling more of the intoxicating scent she wore tonight. Myra gave him breathy moans, especially when he paid attention to her nipples. The pebbled flesh was rubbed by his index and thumb, while he delighted in taking the other in his mouth.
He felt her fingers thread through the loops of his slacks and the bottom of his white tank. The undershirt was discarded, unveiling more cut, tawny skin. Myra’s nails raked along his body, making a pit stop at his abdomen before yanking on his belt this time. That loosened quickly and Cameron’s slacks and briefs dropped to his ankles.
Myra’s underwear was next, the flimsy lace dropping to the floor with a kick of her foot.
Her dress’s fabric folded like layers of molten chocolate at her hips--her bottom half now completely at his mercy.
Lazed up and downward movements came after he aligned his penis with her folds, his head bumping against her clit like small teasing kisses, then back down to her entrance, coating himself in her arousal. Myra never thought she’d have to beg, and frankly never had to until now.
“Just fuck me, Cameron. Stop playing.”
“I’m not playing with you,” Cameron pushes in, cupping the back of Myra’s head before it could touch the cold of the mirror. His lips were on hers as he stretched her out for the first time. A shattered breath left her mouth agape, Cameron taking the opportunity to nip at her bottom lip.
Short, shallow thrusts let him work deeper into her. Myra’s moans were melodic, escalating in scale while she unraveled, but he had to remind her they aren’t actually in private. One businessperson looking for his peacoat can lead to them getting caught and his bare ass on TMZ.
But the sex was too good for them to quit nor harp on that reality. His hand splayed at the mirror as he fucked into her deeper, longer, harder. Myra’s head lolled back, still cradled by his hand.
“This is what you wanted, Myra. Look at me.”
Beneath dampened lash extensions her eyes nearly crossed looking at him. Nothing would’ve prepared her for his arrogance in every physical arena. The gratification he got from pleasuring Myra, finding her spot, felt no different to him than a game-winning catch.
“You’re so fucking---” her raspy voice carried off with another groan. Her hands gripped the edge of the desk so hard her knuckles went white. “‘Gonna make me cum, Cameron, please.”
“You want me to make this pussy cum, huh?”
“Yes!”
“You trust me?” Enough to have sex within hours of meeting you. “Turn around. Show me.”
Myra felt like Bambi following his command but was steadied by the dressing table once again. Cameron’s lithe forearm crossed over her chest and his hand covered her neck and jawline with ease. He pulled up the back of her gown and entered her.
“Fuckin’ gorgeous, you know that?” His grip on her neck gave her no choice but to stare at the reflection in front of her. It was lewd, unbelievable and yet turning her on more. The motivation behind his stormy blue eyes, the sheen that coated their skin and the pure shock to her nervous system that was Cameron Cade, captured all at once.
Myra started rocking back against his thrusts, her walls squeezing upon every release. Their pleasured moans and the smatter of skin-on-skin soon became the only sounds the coatroom held. With her neck in Cameron’s grip, he’d pull her in for an impassioned, open-mouthed kiss.
“That’s right, damn. Keep throwing that shit. Use me.”
His hands moved from her torso to her hips, guiding her while he met her thrust for thrust. Knees weakened and a string of profanities left Cameron’s mouth. Use me. He’d repeat in her ear.
Myra’s fingertips daring to make more marks on the mirror as they brought themselves to their peaks. Her orgasm came without a warning, body arching while he was still rutting inside of her.
“Oh you're cumming, My...that’s all for me. Give it to me."
She shook and spilled all over his lower abdomen after chasing her release greedily. Myra caught one last glance of her face before he flipped them over again. Her roots were puffy, tears streaking her face and her lippie was smudged.
What shocked her most was that Cameron was still hard and hadn’t finished yet. His stamina will drive her crazy. Myra hissed from overstimulation, her legs just moments from giving out. He hooks them both over his arms and focuses on hitting that spot that turned her into jello.
“Eleven fifty-two.” Cameron gave her a sweet peck while she adjusted. “Eight more minutes to go.”
“That’s not how that works at all,” Myra let out an airy laugh. He captured her lips much longer then, fucking into her at a dizzying pace.
“Three...Four,” kisses to each side of her chest. Her hands held on to his shoulders for stability, while his arms still held her legs. Cameron tried to keep his grunts low but feeling her was a taste of something new.
The noise outside of the coatroom began to pick up, “Eleven fifty-seven," she gasped.
Myra noticed the analog clock above the entrance. You could hear some whispers from attendees and party horns. Kisses five and six were on her legs, they jolted when met by their softness.
“I can’t, Cameron, it’s-too much,” Myra squeezed harder around him impending her second release. She bit her lips to manage her noises. They could hear the muffled chants and shrills of the party.
“Yes, you can, hold it for me for a minute. Eleven fifty-eight, baby,” Cameron pace didn’t waver, and the evidence of her arousal coating his dick only made him want to edge her more. Her lips kiss-swollen and pouting, eyebrows furrowed and sweat glossing all parts of skin he could touch.
“I don’t listen to pouts,” he declared.
Myra tried her only trick and failed. She received forehead kisses instead of penance. The clock became harder to focus on the closer she approached orgasm.
Cameron’s hips stuttered, dropping his head into Myra’s neck. He lost track of the count when her velveteen walls gripped her harder. His eyes rolled back as he thrusted into her, relinquishing it all to the waves of pleasure that crashed into him.
“5….4….3…2…”
They both broke apart one after the other, Myra first, Cameron started thumbing her clit and continued until she came again. He filled the condom inside of her with the feeling of her walls holding on to him. Once he imagined that barrier wasn’t present between them, he’d had one of the hardest orgasms he’s ever had.
“Happy…fucking….New Year.” Cameron rasped, taking one look at his Rolex to confirm the time. They clung to each other, unsure what to do with their limbs but prayed a soul wouldn’t enter this room for at least another hour.
…and that dream was cut short with three knocks. “Hey uhh…it’s me Hal. Let me know when you two are done in there….”
Myra hid her face in Cameron’s neck as they burst into laughter. As they settled, they untangled limbs and allowed themselves to just be reckless twenty-somethings on New Year’s. Their hearts calmed at a similar pace, easing the tension from salacious to something more lighthearted and warm. There wasn’t another way either would want to ring in midnight.
• • •
Author's Note: If you made it this far thank you! I appreciate you taking the time to read my work. I hope everyone has their vision board, cornbread and black eyed peas ready for this NYE. I know I'll be, haha.
so i know i said everybody who went to tyriq can stay on that side. not you. you? come back over here bc you ate this shit up! matter fact, gimme part two right now!
i apologize to you and your tyriq loving sistren! run it back!
i can't see what that ruffian over there talking about but yall make sure you remind this bird and her friend that we cannot giggle together. yall done ran too much people out of this fandom. goofy bitches.
i hope yall stop doing readings on aaron now. yall be pulling cards on that nigga, draining his energy for stupid ass questions like "does he like snickerdoodle?" and "he hate teyana, don't he?"
Miles Allam is a wealthy, respected man who feels nothing. His marriage to the elegant, calculating Celine is a performance polished over years -- a partnership hollowed out by distance, routine, and a past affair they never fully recovered from. When the first anonymous letter arrives, they become the only honest conversations in his life. For six months, Miles and the mysterious Drew exchange letters -- intimate but never explicit. But when Drew finally asks to meet, Miles is aware that everything is about to change and the stakes are even higher.
Chapter Synopsis:
Miles finally meets the woman who has lived in the back of his mind for months. Drew Santos is a dream come true and although she's captivating...things aren't exactly what they seem.
Warnings: mentions of infidelity, broken marriage, lies (the LIES!!!)
!!! IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, YOU SHOULD NOT BE READING THIS !!!
!!! SPOILERS FOR S4 OF THE MORNING SHOW !!!
Word Count: 3.6k
The champagne tasted like metal. The bitterness made Miles grimace after a single sip. Just as quickly as he’d picked the glass up by its spine, he set it back on a passing waiter’s tray.
Maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe it was the fact that his wife stood three inches to his right, speaking to a CFO neither of them could stand, pretending she wasn’t the leper of the room. Either way, he was bored. He’d been bored for so fucking long—almost two years now. The aftermath of his affair with Stella hadn’t been pretty, but it was a hell of a lot better than watching Celine get kicked out of UBN and her name practically whitewashed from the Dumont family tree.
Instead of leaving him, she clung to him. And foolishly, he had clung back. Out of guilt? Out of loyalty? He didn’t know. Whatever the reason, he had stayed. They had done their best to move forward—therapy, public displays, glossy magazine spreads, adopting a child who needed a family. But trust had been shattered. Destroyed. All that lay between them now were lies and tattered reputations.
Two years of pretending. Pretending she was still the woman who once ran a conglomerate and not a bored housewife. Pretending he was upright and devoted instead of wondering why he was playing a part when all he wanted was to be himself. The man he used to be.
His thoughts flickered to Drew then. A woman he had never met. Somehow she knew him better than his wife did. The beginning threads of guilt tugged at his chest, but he stamped them out ruthlessly and let himself think about the letters instead—six months of writing about everything and nothing at all. He wondered if she would be just as easy to talk to in person. If her presence would match the warmth in her handwriting. If she was even here tonight.
An hour had passed, and he hadn’t seen a hint of the face that appeared when he’d searched her name. Was it the wrong girl?
Miles scanned the ballroom for the fifteenth time. And then he saw her. She stood at the far end of the bar -- a gorgeous forest green dress that split at her thigh and trailed down the rest of her long legs. She wore black, lacy gloves that stretched up to her biceps. That curly hair was smoothed and placed in a bun at the back of her head. As much as he had scanned the room, she seemed to be doing the same. The bartender was saying something to her and it made a soft smile curve her mouth but her gaze remained looking around the room. Finally, her eyes landed on him. Slowly, her smile widened. Not too brightly but just enough for him to say he hadn't been wrong. She was Drew.
Just like that, the lights felt slightly less offensive. His shoulders loosened. He drew a breath that he hoped Celine wouldn’t notice and quietly made his excuses. Before he could move away, Celine's slim fingertips wrapped around his wrist. She touched him lovingly, stroking at his pulse point but he saw the strain in her eyes as she stopped him. Miles leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered -- his tone agitated and impatient. "I have to piss, Lina. Surely, I can do that much alone?"
Celine slowly released him and smiled. "Hurry back." It was spoken sweetly, longingly, but he heard the demand underneath. Instead of arguing, Miles nodded and kissed the palm of her hand before practically fleeing from the conversation. With the practiced ease of a liar, he did head toward the bathroom -- his stride unhurried and relaxed. But he quickly redirected and moved to grab another glass of champagne. It tasted as bad as the one before. Carefully, he circled the room -- moving counterclockwise to his wife's position -- until he ended up at the other end of the bar.
Drew hadn't moved an inch since their eyes met and she followed every move he made. His hand lifting for the bartender's attention, the cash he laid on the bar as a tip, the small sips he took of the good bourbon. "Mr. Allam?" she asked gently.
"Miles." he corrected, tilting his head as he kept her gaze. "You must be Drew."
Immediately, she moved down the bar. Her steps were languid and smooth. When she extended her hand to him, he almost laughed. It felt so formal when they knew each other on another level. He shook her hand politely.
"I'm glad we could meet." she said so softly that it charmed him. "I wasn’t sure you’d come. Busy man."
"I wanted to meet the friend I made through letters." he admitted.
"You're much taller than I thought you would be."
"I've heard that before."
"Have you?"
"All my life. Have you met many short artists?"
"Too many to count." she laughed.
He felt his gut churn. She was delightful and he liked it. Sudden regrets echoed in his head but it was too late to walk away. He was here with her and he suddenly wasn't bored anymore. He took another sip of his drink to steady himself. It didn’t help.
"Well, you’re not what I thought you’d be either."
"What did you think I’d be?" she asked curiously.
"Older. You write like it." he said, meaning it. "Wiser, maybe."
"Wiser?" She wrinkled her nose and he felt his gut clench. "Please. You’re the one who writes like a philosopher."
Miles smiled at the compliment, his gaze dropping to the bar and then redirecting. "I only wrote truths."
"You talk about art like poetry," she corrected him. "You made my sister think I had a secret admirer."
Miles filed the information about her sister away and leaned forward to murmur softly. "Did you pretend I was?"
"For a moment," she admitted. "Before I remembered…your wife."
Her gaze flicked across his face, studying him openly as he stood there – speechless. He could feel her eyes like fingertips on skin.
"I…am married." He replied lamely, knowing it was an idiotic thing to say. She already knew that.
"Mhm."
"But…"
"There’s always a but with a married man."
Despite how firm her words were, there was a smile on her face. He shook his head, more at himself than at her. "It’s not what it sounds like."
The hum of the gala surrounded them but he heard none of it. Only her.
"I wasn’t looking for --" He stopped, because even he didn’t believe the sentence. "I didn’t mean this to become --"
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"Mhm. You were looking for something you didn’t have."
Miles hesitated before responding. "And…what were you looking for?"
"I was curious," she answered. "I was looking for answers about the man who wrote like he was lonely."
Her words cut deep. They weren’t cruel but they were true. Miles felt the ground shift under him, a quiet shift that he couldn’t deny.
"And now that you’ve met the man?" he asked.
"Now I understand why you wrote such beautiful things. You don’t say them out loud. Not to the person you should."
He waited for more, breath caught in his chest. Drew looked down, that same smile returning and he watched her shoulders rise and fall with grace. He noticed everything about her.
"If you can’t say them to her…" she whispered, "I’ll let you keep saying them to me."
The chemistry that sparked between them turned into a flame. Small but damn near undeniable. He told himself not to engage with this. Shut it down. Don’t let history repeat itself. But as she moved from the bar, he found himself following. It was only a few steps to the right but it was as if they had shifted locations entirely.
She asked thoughtful questions but never crossed a line. Never leaning too close. She was careful – god, so careful. And yet the air between them carried change. A charge that was going to turn into several reckless mistakes. He knew that much.
It was only when her gaze strayed over his shoulder did he shake himself from the fantasy. He followed her gaze and met his wife’s gaze. She wasn’t angry. Not suspicious. But curious. Somehow that’s worse. It means she’s paying attention.
"I should let you return to your evening," she says and he can tell by the look on her face that she’d rather do anything but let him go. "Thank you, Miles. For the conversation."
He knows he shouldn’t say it but the words fall out of his mouth like they’ve been waiting behind my teeth. "Tomorrow. Have lunch with me. If you’re free." Her eyes soften. Something like triumph sparks there and it makes him smile to know he wasn’t the only one who wanted it. Or triumph.
"I'd like that," she says. "Where?"
"Here?" He proposes and she shakes her head.
"Let me take you to the best pizza joint in New York." she says with a smile.
"Lombardi’s?"
"God no." Drew wrinkles her nose and it’s like she turns into a different woman. Not poised, not so elevated. It makes her even more appealing. "Ace's. In Brooklyn. Around two?"
He has no idea where it is but he nods, agreeing.
"Goodnight, Miles."
"Goodnight, Drew."
He was far more charming than she expected. Then again -- a serial adulterer had to be charming, didn't he? She let the thought settle with a slow, amused smile as she slips her leather trench over her shoulders. Miles Allam had walked right up to her like a dream from a classic film. When their eyes had met, she was surprised to feel a jolt to her system but chalked it up to -- pretty man staring. She watched him kiss his wife's cheek and walk away but she knew that he was on his way to her. His eyes were tired but bright. His body language open but wary. Vulnerable in that expensive suit of his. He wanted her and he didn't bother to hide it very well.
God, he was going to be so easy.
She stepped into the marble hallway of the Ritz, heels tapping in a soft, unhurried rhythm. Thoughts of Miles Allam hadn't left her mind. In record time, he had damn near pissed on her to mark his territory. A lunch date. Tomorrow. She knew just how to turn that into dinner, breakfast, and then dinner again. Just as she reached the revolving door, her phone buzzed.
The name on the screen was simply a letter: N. A grin graced her lips as she slid the bar aside and answered. "I'm just leaving."
"Well?" The voice came across the line. Impatient and expectant. Her cousin, Naima, had the patience of a damn gnat. "Is he bite-sized or do we need a bigger net?"
"Damn. You don't have any faith in me."
"You know I do. I just want to know if we should shift gears."
"Naima."
"Lucky."
The name her cousin utters is another jolt -- a reminder that she wasn't the sticky sweet and blushing Drew Santos that she'd been pretending to be. Luciana "Lucky" Carter was the name she'd been born with and only people who'd been there the last time she scraped her damn knee could call her that.
"He invited me to lunch tomorrow." she says into the phone and Naima cheers, bringing a smile to Lucky's mouth.
"I know that's right, cuz!"
"I know we can't exactly take this slow but he's cautious." Lucky warns her, moving toward the curb where the uber waits for her. "I know what angle to play. He likes the idea of me. Won't be hard to get him where we want him but we have to finesse it."
"Good." She hears Naima sigh before continuing to speak. "This one should be simple. My contact says Celine’s desperate. She wants her spot back at UBA, and she’ll do anything to get it. Including paying us to fuck off after her husband gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar...again."
She slides into the backseat, closing the door behind her. "You decide how much we'll ask for?"
"We can't be too greedy. A million dollars should do it."
"Way to not be greedy."
Naima laughs. "Please. She's got it so spare. I still think we should ask for more."
"You saw what Celine Dumont did to the last bitch that pissed her off. You not about to get me sent to lockup in another country or find me at the bottom of a damn ravine in my car."
"I'd never let anything happen to you. Carter girls stick together."
Lucky leans her head back, letting the city blur past the window. A long line of family history sits behind her eyes -- scams on the side of Washington Heights streets, running from the cops, slipping little trinkets from stores into her pocket to the claps and pride of her parents. A family full of pickpockets, charmers, thieves. A dynasty of ghosts who made their living off other people’s negligence. She didn't want to live small like her parents did. That's where she and her cousin were most alike. They wanted everything. Not just a piece of the pie.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll keep him close," she says. "But we're sticking to a milli."
"Fine. But not too close," Naima warns. "He's temporary."
"I know exactly what he is. I've been running cons longer than you. I'll be there in a minute."
Miles and Celine arrived home to a silence that felt tense. He had felt it when he returned to her side after Drew took. All night, he kept imagining the brown eyed girl who had shyly agreed to meet him tomorrow. She contrasted with his wife in every single way and it was difficult to put Drew back into that secret little box of his mind. She had been a temptation on paper only until tonight. Celine slipped out of her heels and as they clattered to the floor, Miles forced himself to put Drew out of his mind until Celine wasn't around.
He loosened his bowtie, already feeling the night dragging. He draped his jacket over a chair, hoping they could move past the evening without dissecting it. But Celine turned to him, her voice a touch too casual. "Who was she?"
Miles stiffened. "I don't know. A woman who likes art? We were talking about that and…how boring the party was." The lie came to him so easily that it made him feel guilty. With Stella, he didn't have to lie. Celine had been far too busy to even ask. She suspected, she snooped, she discovered the truth. But she had never asked him about her. Not until the end. He could feel her staring at his face, scanning for a lie.
"Miles, don't do that."
"Do what?" he asked evenly, tugging the tie the rest of the way free.
"Lie." Her voice dipped. "We are on the precipice of our lives being destroyed. We should be a united front, not talking to strangers in public like we have nothing to lose."
He didn’t have a reply -- at least not one that would make anything better. Annoyance pricked at him, hot and immediate. He had cheated with Stella but she'd done the same with that bastard Cory. The same Cory who had not only stabbed her in the back but was the very reason she had to scrape and claw her way back to at least a normal social standing. The conversation felt like quicksand: one wrong step and he’d sink straight into another argument neither of them had the strength for.
He simply exhaled, turned toward the staircase, and said, "I'm not doing this with you again. I'm going to check on the baby."
She opened her mouth to retort but it was as if the exhaustion of pretending all night had wiped her out. She huffed and shook her head before leaving -- heading toward the kitchen. He knew a bottle of wine awaited her and he'd either have to carry her to bed or smell it on her tongue when she kissed him goodnight. Just like every other night.
His footsteps softened the higher he climbed up the stairs. The world softened there. Their daughter slept curled around her stuffed rabbit, cheek pressed to the pillow, small breaths steady and untroubled. It had been Celine's idea to adopt a child. Miles refused because he knew this child was a walking, talking publicity stunt but eventually he relented. His wife wanted her for selfish reasons and so did he -- He didn't want to live in this damn house alone. She was only four and had been with them two years but Angelina Allam had been a godsend. Miles stood in the doorway for longer than necessary, letting the warmth of the moment settle into him. Here, at least, it didn't feel like he was walking through a minefield.
He left her shortly after, heading to the bedroom. Celine was still downstairs. The hot water of the shower erased the tension in his shoulders. He forgot the tension in the car, the look on Celine’s face when she’d spotted him talking to Drew, and the way he felt when Drew walked away. When he finally exited, Celine was in bed. Her eyes were closed but he knew she wasn't asleep. She was already turned onto her side, facing the large window of their penthouse. He settled onto his pillow and tried to sleep but his mind drifted.
It drifted toward Drew Santos -- that soft smile, her bright eyes, the way she’d seemed to understand him too quickly, too easily. There had to be a catch with this woman. A man like him didn't deserve an angel and he didn't think God was going to send him one anytime soon.
The diner sat at the corner of a quiet street, its neon sign flickering like a tired eyelid. Lucky slipped into a vinyl booth in the back. The seat hissed beneath her, the old cushioning not holding up the way it should have. It was decades old though so she knew not to expect luxury. She and Naima had been coming there since they were kids. The old man who owned it was damn near a grandfather to them. She scanned the joint, looking for him, when the bell over the door chimed.
It was Nai -- pushing through the door with a breeze of confidence. Her cousin was strikingly gorgeous, wild and free in a way that Lucky envied. She had cheekbones for days, full lips that she also envied, and gorgeous almond shaped eyes. They were technically stepcousins, her mother had moved from Alabama and married Lucky's uncle, but the girls damn near felt like siblings.
"How the hell did I beat you here?" Lucky asked as Naima slid into the booth.
"I was with my contact." Naima shot back. "Getting every bit of info from him that I could. So...you're welcome." She stuck her tongue out and Lucky couldn't help but laugh. They ordered sundaes, like the ten year olds they used to be, before the night shifted from casual to strategic.
Naima leaned in, chin on her hand. "Tell me everything about tonight. What’s the marriage like? Is he really sexy? You think he'll go for you?"
"Yes." Lucky replied, licking her spoon. She spoke confidently, so assured that Miles Allam was already gone for her. "They're together but it's fragile. They taped that shit back up but they used the cheap shit. You can see it's already peeling. There's strain."
Naima nodded, unsurprised. "Max said as much."
Lucky’s mouth twisted at the name. Maxwell St. John. Illegitimate son of Celine Dumont's father. He was in line for a baron’s title thanks to his mother’s aristocratic lineage but he would get nothing from the Dumonts. He was bitter, entitled, and eager for chaos. For what reason, Lucky didn't know. But she didn't trust his ass at all.
"You need to be careful with him." Lucky murmured. "He's unstable and opportunistic. Just like his damn sister."
"That's perfect for us. The man would sell his own shadow if it got him closer to his inheritance."
"Yeah but for every action, there's a reason and a reaction. What does selling his half-sister out get him? He isn't getting the inheritance. He's not even on her radar. So how does this benefit him?"
"I don't know. Maybe he's feeling petty? Jealous that she and her brother get the attention and he's got nothing but a rinky dink ass baron title?"
Lucky frowned. She didn't like that Maxwell St. John was a question mark but she trusted Naima to deal with him.
"Alright. You deal with him. Your part sounds easy. Mine…not so much. Celine’s paranoid."
"She should be. Her husband's a whore."
"Yeah but we don't want to get on her radar too soon."
"True. If she even suspects you’re circling Miles before you’ve got him hooked, she could shut this shit down."
"I'm working on it. Miles Allam is already halfway there."
Naima’s eyes sparkled with interest. "That fast?"
"You talking to a pro, baby girl." She dropped her voice, mimicking her own father and Naima laughed, identifying the joke easily. "He’s lonely. He wants connection. I’ll have him wrapped around my finger in a week, contemplating leaving his wife after a month, and willing to give me anything in two months."
Naima smiled. "Well, cuz. To your success."
"To our success." Lucky answered.
Hot fudge slid down the sides of the glass bowls as they toasted. Sweet. Warm. Messy. Exactly how their cons always started.
