🦋Bù🦋 @nayys-world - Tumblr Blog

Say My Name

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 Five

The first thing she noticed was the absence.

Not just the way her body felt stretched and sore, not even the dull ache in her belly or the thick drip of wetness cooling between her thighs—but the quiet. The stillness. The kind that only settles after everything’s been taken from a room. Her chest rose, then fell, slow. It hurt to breathe deep. Hurt good.

She was still on her stomach. One leg bent, the other stretched down toward the foot of the bed, her toes sliding against the sheets that were twisted, damp, and stuck to the sweat along her thigh. Her arms lay limply beside her, fingers twitching with aftershocks she hadn’t invited. Her mouth stayed parted. Her lip was stinging. Bitten. She didn’t remember when.

The air smelled like him.

Like skin. Like effort. Like something thick and alive that still lingered around her. The room was warmer than it should’ve been. Her back felt too hot, like it had soaked up everything he pressed into it. But she didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to cool down.

Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again. The light in the room was dim—only a sliver of streetlamp bled in through the edge of the curtain. Enough to trace the shape of the room, the soft edges of shadows on the wall. She could make out her dresser. The corner of her TV. A pile of clothes that hadn’t been there before.

And him.

She felt him before she saw him. Still in the room. Still close.

The weight of his eyes landed first. The sharpness of his breath next. He was standing behind her somewhere. Watching. Maybe deciding something. Maybe feeling nothing at all. She didn’t know. She didn’t bother to look. She kept her cheek pressed to the pillow, lashes low, letting him see her like this. Raw. Used. Quiet.

Her thighs were slick. She felt the slow drag of it—his cum sliding out, warm at first, then cooler as it slipped down the curve beneath her. Her body fluttered once. Then again. Her pussy still pulsing around the emptiness he left behind.

She didn’t clench. Didn’t squeeze it back in. She let it leak. Let it stain the sheets. Let it remind her that he’d been there.

And then he moved.

The shift of his weight on the floor was soft. A faint rustle of cotton as he pulled on his sweats. Not his voice. Just the drag of fabric and muscle, the click of his jaw when he clenched it, the silence he wore like armor. She didn’t lift her head. She didn’t need to. She could picture him.

Shoulder-length locs falling against his cheekbones. Shoulders wide, back cut deep with muscle and those raised scars she used to wonder about until he told her each one is for a kill. Brown skin slick with sweat. Caramel-colored under the dimness. His chest rising slower now. Still heavy. Still full of her.

Her eyes opened enough to watch his shadow drift to the edge of the door.

He paused.

And in that pause, she felt everything crawl up her throat. Not words. Not regret. Something else. Something sharp and quiet and slow to show its face. She didn’t say his name. Didn’t ask him to stay. She didn’t know if he would’ve. Didn’t know what she would’ve done if he had.

She just breathed.

The door didn’t shut all the way. Just enough. Enough to tell her he was gone, but not far. And for a moment, the quiet wrapped itself around her again.

Then she heard it. The water. Soft at first, then stronger. A burst of sound from the bathroom down the hall. The shower coming on.

That was it.

She blinked again. Let her body sink deeper into the mattress. One of her fingers curled, brushing lightly between her thighs, not to touch herself, not to start anything again—just to feel. Just to check. He was still there. Inside her. Fading with every minute, but still there. Her hips shifted. A small arch. More of him slipped out. She flinched. Not from pain. From the reminder.

She could feel the way her skin ached in the places he held her. Her wrists. The back of her neck. The dip of her waist. Her stomach felt sore where his abs had pressed down into her. Her chest burned, nipples oversensitive, grazed raw against the sheets. She remembered how he gripped her thighs, how he used his strength like it wasn’t up for debate. She still hadn’t touched her own face. And she didn’t want to. Didn’t want to know if she looked as ruined as she felt. Or worse—if she didn’t.

Minutes passed. She didn’t move. Eventually, her eyes fell closed again, and she let herself melt into what was left. She let the mess cool between her thighs. Let the sound of the water pull her toward sleep. She didn’t know what it meant. What he meant. If he even thought about her at all once he walked out. If he felt her the same way she still felt him.

But she knew this…

He didn’t kiss her goodnight. He didn’t clean her up. He didn’t stay. He gave her everything she asked for. And left her to sit in it.

The last thing she heard before sleep took her was the water running. And she hated how much she wished it would stop.

The Hallway

Light cut through the dark like a line he’s not supposed to cross. Door shuts behind him. Quiet. His jaw’s tight. Hands flexing like they wanna grab something, hurt something, hold her again.

He can still smell her on his skin.

That slick, fucked-out scent sitting right in the crease of his fingers, across his pelvis, under his nose like she marked him without even trying. Her voice stuck in his head too. That pretty little whine, how she begged without words, just open thighs and glazed eyes. He didn’t even look back. Can’t. Won’t. Fucking refused. Not ‘cause he don’t want to. Damn he wanted to so damn bad. It’s because if he does, he might go back in there and do some shit he really ain’t supposed to. Like hold her. Like kiss her slow. Like say some dumb shit that sounds too close to feelings.

That girl got no business tasting that good. Feeling that warm and tight. Looking that pretty when she cry out for him, hands grabbing for his wrist like he the only thing keeping her from floating away.

He walked out that room, but he left every part of his mind still tangled up in her. He told himself it was just a one-time thing. Said that when he pulled her close the first time. Said it again when he slid his fingers between her thighs in the hallway, just to see if she was still thinking about it too. Said it again when he whispered all that nasty shit in her ear and she ain’t flinch once.

But he knows better.

And that’s the fucking problem.

She got his ass shook and she don’t even know it. She out here teasing, talkin’ slick, laying there with her pussy wide open for him, taking all that big dick like it’s her goddamn birthright. She don’t even know how deep she got him. That’s the part that fucks with him. That’s the part that scares him straight.

She think she just being grown. Just being bad. Think she got it handled. But Sanaa done walked her fine lil’ ass into the crosshairs of a man who been trying to stay on the straight and narrow. Who already got too much blood on his hands. Who ain’t got no room for softness. No space for distractions. Not like this. And now? Now he can’t stop seeing her laid out in that bed, legs twitching, lips wet, skin glowing like she was made just to be ruined by him and him only.

He don’t do feelings. Not no more. Not since Oakland. Not since everything. That night he lost it all. But she got him feelin’ again, and he hates it. Not exactly love. But something worse. Something messier. Something hungry. She got him wantin’. And wanting ain’t safe. Not for her. Not for him. Because wanting can turn into something more and that more can become—

He gotta stay away from her before he fuck around and start needin’ her. Before he forgets why he ain’t supposed to. Before he slips and starts thinking she might be the only thing that ever made him feel like he could stay.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, but he don’t feel no peace. Just sweat. Stickiness. Her scent still crawling on his skin like it belonged there. He pulls his joggers down slow. And there it is.

His dick still covered in her.

Still wet with that messy mix—thick, sticky, creamy—all hers, all over him. It glistens in the low bathroom light like he ain’t just wrecked her minutes ago. His trimmed hair’s matted with her slick. Her squirt dried light against the grooves of his abs. Her taste clings to the corners of his mouth, his upper lip. His fingers are sticky. Smellin’ like she sat on his hand and rode it.

He don’t even stroke it. Just stands there, breathing hard. Jaw locked.

She’s everywhere.

He steps into the shower. Water hits his back hot, and he hisses through his teeth. The sting makes him lean his head forward, press one hand against the tile.

His muscles ache.

His biceps tight as hell from how he held her legs up. Lower back burning from how long he stood hunched over her. He can feel where she clawed his shoulders, dug her nails in deep when he started fucking her slow just to punish her. Scratches still raised. Every rinse down his chest just brings more of her back.

That scent. That slick.

He wipes across his mouth and it’s like her pussy still sittin’ there, throbbing on his tongue. Water don’t clean that memory.

His eyes shut. And behind them, he sees it all in flashes.

Her back arched so deep it looked unreal. That lil lip bite she do when she know he ‘bout to fuck the air out her lungs. Her mouth on him, her hand gripped at the base, the sound of her slurping, the spit dripping down. Her eyes locked on his while he held her phone and filmed it like she proud of it.

He growls low. Curses to himself. She not supposed to be his. She not supposed to be any part of him.

That’s Aaliyah’s friend.

Some twenty-two year old girl still in school. Still tryna figure shit out. Still figuring shit out, still doing too much and not enough…but she got him acting like her name the only one he wanna say. She got no business fuckin’ a man like him. Not with everything he done. Not with the life he leads. He ain’t built for no relationship. No situationship or whatever the fuck that means. He got too many ghosts. Too much blood. And too many enemies. He ain’t got the luxury to feel soft. But she don’t make him feel soft. That’s the problem. She make him feel crazy. She make him feel needed. She make him feel possessive. She got no idea how dangerous that shit is.

He presses both palms to the tile now, lets the water run down his back, over his head. Tries to breathe through it.

But all he sees is her.

Greedy ass Sanaa. Face turned toward the pillow. Mouth open. Legs trembling. Pussy leaking. Whispering his name like she ain’t ever gonna forget who had her. And that’s why he gotta stay the fuck away. Because one more night like that? And he won’t leave next time.

Steam still clings to his skin when he steps out. Water dripping from his hair. From his shoulders. From the scars carved into his chest and arms like a map of everything he survived. He grabs a towel, drags it slow over himself. Down his neck. Across his back. Over his abs where her scent still lingers no matter how much soap he used.

He dries his dick last.

It’s still heavy. Half-hard like it ain’t got the memo yet that he’s supposed to be done.

He looks up.

Fogged mirror. Blurry reflection. Just a tall, dangerous-looking man with tired eyes and too much weight on his soul. He wipes a clear patch with his palm.

Stares at himself.

Jaw clenched. Lips tight. Brows low.

You trippin’, he thinks.

Then his eyes drift.

Bathroom shelf. Her shit. All over it. Edge control. Leave-in. Curl cream. Silk bonnet folded neat. A pink razor. Hair clips. Scrunchies. Little bottles with glitter labels and fruity names. Signs of a young woman still learning herself.

Then he sees it.

Her perfume.

Small bottle. Almost empty.

He hesitates, then reaches. Unscrews it. Brings it to his nose.

Big mistake.

It’s her.

Sweet. Warm. Soft. A little wild underneath. Like her skin after he been on it too long. Like her neck when she tilts her head back for him without even thinking.

His chest tightens. He exhales slow. Closes it. Sets it back like he didn’t just fuck himself up. Wraps the towel around his waist. Tosses his joggers in the hamper. He steps into the hallway quiet. Apartment asleep. Aaliyah’s still out.

He walks, then stops.

Her door. Closed. Slight light underneath.

He stands there longer than he should. Hand hovering. Heart beating harder than any mission ever made it beat. He cracks it slow. Careful. Like he breaking into something sacred.

Room dim. Only her lamp on low. Soft yellow glow. Bed a mess. Sheets twisted. Pillow crooked.

And her.

Knocked out.

Flat on her stomach. One leg bent. Blanket halfway off her ass. Hair damp and wild from sweat. Face relaxed. Lips parted just a little. She look peaceful, even with his cum leaking out. Like he ain’t just ruined her hours ago. Like she ain’t got his cum inside her. Like she ain’t got his name etched into her nerves now.

He steps in, door shuts quiet behind him. Half of him wants to walk over there, spread her again, wake her up with his dick and remind her exactly who she belong to when she sleep.

Other half screaming at him to get the fuck out.

She off limits.

She deserve better than this.

She deserve better than him.

He stands there, torn. Looking at her. Thinking about how good she was for him. How she took everything. How she didn’t complain. Didn’t flinch with his dick sitting heavy on her tongue. Didn’t pull away when he arched her back. Just opened up and gave it to him like she trusted him with her body. With her softness. With her wanting.

She deserved praise. Deserved him telling her how good she did. How proud he was. How she took daddy’s dick like a champ. How pretty she was when she came.

But he don’t say nothing.

He walks over instead. Pulls the blanket up. Covers her shoulders. Tucks it under her chin. She don’t even stir. Out cold.

He stands there after. Just looking. Taking her in.

Her lashes. Her nose. The curve of her lips.

Even sleep got her looking fine as hell. And his dick responds immediately.

Annoying as fuck.

He chuckles low. Shakes his head.

“She got me fucked up,” he whispers to himself.

Her hair is still damp and sweaty. Clinging to her forehead. He brushes it back gently with two fingers. Erik leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead. Barely there. Nothing sexual. Nothing greedy. Something quiet. Something real. Something dangerous.

Then he straightens. Turns. Walks out. Closes the door. And disappears down the hallway like he was never there at all.

The Next Morning

The water was starting to cool, but she hadn’t moved.

Bubbles clung to her thighs, floating soft against the curve of her hips, her breasts, the fine slope of her belly. One foot rested on the edge of the tub, toes pointed up, still slick with the last bit of warm suds and steam. The air was thick and heavy, clinging to her skin like a second layer. Her silk press, once bone-straight and bone-laid, had started to swell at the roots from the heat in the room, curling just slightly around her hairline where sweat had gathered and dried hours ago. She had it clipped up, lazy and messy, with a hot pink claw clip holding it in place like an afterthought.

She didn’t care.

Kehlani’s voice floated from the Bluetooth speaker on the shelf—low, pulsing, soft with a throb beneath it. “Can I” wrapped around the space like a whisper from her own mind. Everything felt slow. Too slow. The kind of morning that felt like it happened to somebody else. Except her body knew better. She let her fingers glide between her thighs, not to play, not to stroke—just to feel. Just to check.

Still tender and open.

The water moved with her. Her legs eased wider without thinking, knees drifting apart. She was sore deep. That deep kind of sore you don’t talk about. That deep kind of sore that meant you’d been handled, really handled, by someone who didn’t just fuck you, but took his time doing it. Her pussy ached. Not sharp. Just dull. Pulsing. Like it had its own heartbeat. She traced the inside of her thigh with the backs of her knuckles. Felt the sticky-slick residue that hadn’t washed away yet. His nut. Maybe hers too. She didn’t remember how many times she came. That was the part that fucked her up the most.

Her skin still had that glow. That fucked good dewiness. Her chocolate complexion warm, flushed, a little still across her chest and shoulders, even as the steam thinned and cooled. The ache in her lower belly was real. The kind of ache you wake up feeling and know right away it ain’t from sleep. She inhaled slow. Let her head fall back against the tub wall. Closed her eyes.

Erik.

His face appeared in flashes. Not even memories—just sense memories. Brown eyes gone darker than she’d ever seen. Full lips parted, but not speaking. Those golds catching the light when he looked down at her. When he watched his dick disappear inside her again and again, like he was never gonna get tired of the view. His dreads brushing her collarbone when he leaned in. That quiet sound he made when she squirted on his stomach. When she soaked the sheets.

She could feel his tongue again—right now—just thinking about it. The weight of it. The swirl. The pointed flicks. The way he flattened it, slow and mean, like he had all night. And those fingers. Thick, skilled, curling just right while he whispered nastiness in her ear. The way he owned her moans. Pulled them from her like strings.

Her thighs clenched under the water.

She arched, just slightly. The smallest shift of her hips upward, almost unnoticeable, but it was there. Her body remembering. Her body craving. One hand slid beneath the surface, resting on her lower belly like she was trying to hold the memory in place. She wasn’t touching herself. Because this? This wasn’t about chasing another orgasm. This was about understanding what had happened to her. What he did to her. And what she let him do.

She opened her eyes, staring up at the ceiling like it could give her answers. It couldn’t. Her stomach tensed once, involuntary. Her lips parted. She could still feel the stretch from him. The depth. The way he pulled her into position like she didn’t have a say, then watched her body fold for him like it’d been waiting. And that was the part that had her breath catching in her throat. Because she had been waiting. Not just last night. Not just last week.

She’d been dreaming about this since middle school.

Since the first time she’d written his name in the margins of a notebook like it meant something. Since she used to sneak looks at him when he came by to pick up Aaliyah from school. Watching him in basketball shorts. Watching him talk with that deep voice that made her stomach flip. Since she first figured out what it meant to want someone—not just like some silly crush, but the kind of wanting that twisted her up in private. The kind she used to pray wouldn’t show on her face when he asked how school was going.

She used to wonder what his mouth would feel like. What his fingers could do. How he’d sound when he moaned. She made up stories in her head about him taking her to the backseat of his car, or pulling her into his room while Aaliyah was in the shower, or grabbing her waist while pretending to move past her in the hallway.

And now? Now she knew. Now she had real memories to match every single fantasy. But that’s where the split happened. That’s where the softness ended. Because one side of her wanted to go find him right now. Climb in his lap. Rub against him like a spoiled thing. Nuzzle into his neck and ask for more. Whimper. Beg. Say Daddy, please, I need it again. I can take it this time, I swear…

But the other side of her? The side that felt the way he pulled out and walked away without saying shit?

That side sat up.

Nah.

You don’t beg him, bitch. You remind him.

You remind him that your pussy had him quiet. That your moans made him pause. That your body—this body—had him gripping your hips like he was tryna memorize the way you curved.

That you soaked the sheets and he still wasn’t ready to stop.

You don’t chase that. You lean into it.

You walk past him without flinching. You stretch slow when he’s watching. You bend over in silence and let the wetness glisten on your thighs.

Make him remember.

Sanaa smiled. It was small. Subtle. But it came from somewhere real.

The water whispered as she shifted. A soft slosh against porcelain. A faint ripple rolling across her thighs. The bubbles that had once sat high and fluffy were thinning now, popping slowly, leaving her skin exposed inch by inch. The warmth was fading, but she still hadn’t moved. Didn’t want to. She reached over and twisted the silver knob.

The drain opened.

A low, steady gurgle filled the tub as the water began to slip away, pulling suds and warmth with it. She watched it spiral down, foam thinning, skin rising into the air. Goosebumps followed immediately. Her toes curled. Her calves tightened. The ache between her legs sharpened for half a second as the cooler air hit her.

Her body still wasn’t done with him. Even now. Especially now. When the tub was empty, she stood slowly.

Careful.

Her legs protested. Not painfully. Just enough to remind her. Her thighs trembled faintly as she stepped onto the plush charcoal bath mat. Water streamed down her spine, along the curve of her waist, between her breasts, over her hips. Droplets clung to her skin like jewels.

She moved slow as she stood, water slipping down her back in rivulets. She didn’t grab the towel. Just stepped out—dripping, glistening, diamond studs still in her ears, legs shaking a little as she moved. But her back was straight. Her chin up.

She was sore. She was stretched. But she’d never felt more powerful. And the next time Erik looked at her? He wasn’t just gonna remember how she sounded when she came. He was gonna feel it.

Everywhere.

Kehlani’s voice faded out, the last note stretching thin before disappearing. For a second, there was nothing but the quiet hum of the bathroom fan and her own breathing. Then the next song slid in. Ari’s voice. Soft. Familiar. Dreamy. New Apartment. Sanaa let out a slow breath through her nose.

Of course.

Her life always did that. Soundtracked her feelings like it knew before she did.

She walked straight to the mirror. The overhead light caught her reflection and stopped her in her tracks.

There she was.

Bare. Dewy. Glowing.

Her chocolate, toasty brown skin looked deeper in this light, kissed with gold where moisture still clung. Her shoulders were relaxed. Her back straight. Her posture different than it had been yesterday. More grounded. More aware. Her silk press, once pristine, had softened into something lived-in. Roots puffed slightly. Flyaways curling at her temples. A few strands escaped the hot pink claw clip, brushing her cheek. It made her look… real. Touched. Desired. Her diamond studs sparkled softly. Her heart-shaped face was flushed just enough. Lips full and slightly swollen. Eyes heavy-lidded but alert, almond-shaped and sharp, holding secrets. Thick lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. Brows still sculpted even after sleep and sweat.

She leaned closer to the mirror. Turned her head. Watched how the light traced her cheekbone.

Her body…God.

Slim-thick. Hips full. Thighs toned and still faintly marked from his grip. Breasts sitting round and lifted, nipples darker from stimulation. Waist dipping in just right. Everything about her read grown. Read confident. Read dangerous in the softest way.

She placed both hands on the sink. Looked at herself. Not critically or nervously. Like she was meeting a new version.

So this is who I am now. A woman who knows what it feels like to be taken apart. And put back together wrong.

A small smile curved her lips.

She reached for the bottle of Cocoa Radiant. Popped the cap. The familiar scent rose immediately. Warm. Comforting. Rich. Like childhood and womanhood meeting in the middle. She poured a generous amount into her palm, rubbed her hands together, then began.

Slow.

Intentional.

Over her shoulders. Down her arms. Across her collarbones. Over her breasts, circling gently, feeling how sensitive she still was. Down her stomach. Around her waist. Over her hips. Between her thighs, careful but thorough. Her skin drank it in. Shined. Glistened. She closed her eyes briefly as her hands slid over her legs, remembering how his had done it last night. Firmer. Rougher. Possessive. The memory made her inhale sharply.

Not now.

She wasn’t giving him this moment. This was hers. She finished oiling herself, then moved into her skincare routine. Cleanser. Warm water. Massaging in slow circles. Toner on a cotton pad, swiped gently. Serum tapped into her skin with soft fingers. Moisturizer smoothed across her face and neck. Lip balm. Everything neat. Precise. Practiced. Like she was resetting herself. Reclaiming herself.

When she was done, she padded down the hall toward her room, still naked and glowing, not bothered in the slightest.

Her bedroom greeted her like a lover.

Warm amber underglow slipped from beneath her low black bed frame. Satin sheets caught the light, dark and smooth like spilled ink. The blush velvet headboard stood soft and plush, dotted with subtle gold studs. Pillows layered in cream and mocha and mauve. A dusty rose throw draped lazily across the foot of the bed.

The air smelled like vanilla and soft musk and brown sugar.

Comfort. Seduction. Safety.

Her oversized velvet bean bag waited in the corner like it always did, faux fur blanket tossed over it. Floating shelves above held her silk bags and locked box. Her desk glowed faintly with soft LED light. Polaroids pinned above it watched her quietly. One blurry picture with Erik in the background made her pause for half a second. She grabbed her robe from the back of her desk chair.

She looked away, moved to her vanity. Sat. Looked at herself again in the lit mirror. And this time, she didn’t just see a girl who’d been fucked good. She saw a woman who knew exactly what that meant. She rose from the vanity and eased herself into the corner bean bag, the plush seat hugging her like a lover’s lap. The robe shifted high over her thighs as she leaned back, spreading her legs slowly. Wide. Lazily. Like she had all night.

Like she’d been touched proper. Fingers grazing her own inner thigh, eyes sliding over to her reflection in the full length mirror. Eyes dropping down to her center.

Still puffy and glistening.

The lips of her pussy sat fuller than usual, swollen from last night. Open like she’d been cracked wide and left that way. Her slick had dried into a faint sheen, but the warmth was already returning. She could see the slight parting of her folds, the visible dip of her entrance—stretched just a little, looser than before.

She tilted her hips to look closer. A soft smile curled her mouth.

Yeah. He’d touched the bottom.

He’d reached so deep, her body still hadn’t fully closed up.

She bit her lip.

Watched a shimmer of arousal begin to gather again. Her pussy didn’t know how to behave. Already wet. Already remembering. And she didn’t flinch from it or press her thighs together or rush to cover herself. She studied her own sex like it was a painting. Warm brown. Plush. Velvet lips parted like an invitation. A glossy peek of pink at the center. Her clit still slightly hooded, but peeking out just enough to catch light. She could smell herself faintly—sweet, creamy, still kissed by Erik’s mouth and dick.

She reached down with two fingers and spread herself wider.

Her folds glistened.

That same blush glow, wet and ready again.

“You really tryna show out again, huh, girl…” she whispered to her own pussy, amused at how eager her body was.

She sank back deeper into the beanbag. One hand still resting between her legs. The other sliding behind her head. She wasn’t touching herself for pleasure. Just admiring. Appreciating the way she looked after taking a man like Erik. The way her pussy wore the memory of it. Still shaped by him. Still parted.

She could feel it. That soft ache. That damp heat. That fullness.

She was marked. Opened.

And she liked it.

Loved the way it felt to be filled and emptied. Gripped and fucked. Used and kissed. She wasn’t some delicate little thing Erik broke in. She met him stroke for stroke. Now, she sat there glistening, robe riding up, thighs still parted, pulse steady.

Knowing she got him addicted. Because he definitely was. That silent aura and unbothered energy wouldn’t work for her. Knowing her pussy—this pretty, greedy, unforgettable pussy—was gonna live in his mind like a trap house.

She smiled again.

Let him pretend he got the upper hand. Let him act like he got it under control.

She knew what she carried between her legs.

And she knew…

He wasn’t ready. Not for the next time. Not for the way she’d ride him with that same quiet power. Not for the way she’d stare right in his eyes while he tried not to fall in love.

She gave her pussy one last appreciative look before letting the robe close. She stood again—slow, hips still moving with that same weightless roll. She wasn’t hiding anything.

Sanaa Brielle Carter didn’t need to beg.

She didn’t need to chase. Didn’t need to explain herself. She had presence. Stillness. Intention. And now? She had experience. She rose from the beanbag, keeping her robe loose, letting it fall open just enough. No panties. No bra. Her hips rolled naturally as she walked. Not exaggerated or forced. Just…confident. Sure of her power. Her pussy reigning power. And somewhere deep inside her, both voices finally agreed on one thing: Whatever happened next with Erik? He was not ready.

———

He was pacing.

The sliding glass door to the balcony was cracked just enough for her to hear him. Low voice. Focused. Measured. Serious in a way that said whatever he was handling had nothing to do with her—and everything to do with how he moved when he wasn’t in her space. Shirtless. Skin glowing against the late morning light. Those locs of his brushed the tops of his shoulders when he turned, hanging thick and clean. His tattoos flexed and curved across his chest and arms with every stride, keloid lines raised and unapologetic. His joggers sat low on his waist, loose and slouched, like they hadn’t been pulled tight after getting out of bed. There was tension in the way his hand moved while he talked. Calm, but ready. The kind of readiness that came from living with your jaw tight and your fists half-curled.

She paused in the hallway, just out of his direct line of sight, eyes on the stretch of his back through the open glass.

His voice reached her anyway.

“Nah. I’ll handle that…”

A pause. A slow turn.

“Just send it to the burner. I’ll ping when it’s done.”

His tone had changed. Not annoyed. Not stressed. Just final.

That’s when she saw it. The faint crease of a dimple at the corner of his mouth. It peeked out, barely there, a ghost under that hard look on his face. She watched him tuck it away just as fast.

Sanaa stepped into the kitchen like it was nothing. Like she hadn’t been listening. Like she wasn’t still sticky and sore and feeling his fingers between her thighs. She moved quiet. Slow. The tile cooled her bare feet as she crossed to the fridge. Opened it with one hand, letting the other lazily tug her robe just enough to keep it on her shoulders—but not enough to keep it closed. The cool air hit her bare legs, lifting goosebumps, but she didn’t rush.

She bent low. Too low.

Just enough to give a full view if he happened to glance in. The robe gapped open at the side, soft fabric hanging loose as she reached in and grabbed a tall glass bottle of spring water. Her thighs shifted. Tensed. She stood slowly, one leg stretching before the other, like she needed to work the stiffness out of her hips. Like she’d been fucked into a different walk and was still adjusting to it. Her body knew. Her hips rolled as she turned, placing the water on the counter beside her.

Then she reached up.

One smooth movement. Both arms extended. Back arched. That robe slipped again at the neckline, exposing the soft swell of her chest. She stretched high—not for a cup, not for a plate—but for a small glass jar of organic sea moss gummies Aaliyah left above the cabinet shelf. She didn’t even like them. But they were perfect for this. She let herself rise onto the balls of her feet. Let the muscles in her legs pull tight. Her ass curved just right in that pose, robe barely covering the under cuff of her ass. She held the stretch, then lowered. Slow. Controlled. With that soft, audible exhale that wasn’t quite a sigh. She grabbed a chilled container of sliced mango next and used her fingers to peel it open. Picked up a slice and slipped it between her lips.

Sweet. Cold. Sticky.

She dragged it slowly through her mouth, tongue flicking against the fruit before she bit. The taste was bright. Juicy. But her eyes were on him. Through the glass door, she could see it.

He had stopped pacing. No more movement. Phone still in his hand, but he wasn’t speaking. Not anymore.

He was watching. His eyes dark. Expression unreadable. Locs brushing his face. Shoulders still rising and falling from the controlled breath he was trying to calm.

Sanaa didn’t look away. She took another bite. Licked her fingers this time. Let the juice glisten on her lower lip.

the silence said everything.

He finally entered, the sliding door hissing closed behind him slow. Erik’s chest still rose heavy as he stepped inside, breath cooled by the outside air but mind hot and coiled. He didn’t say a word. Just moved through the apartment like the floor belonged to him. Like nothing about that girl licking mango off her fingers had him throbbing inside those loose-ass joggers.

His body carried it anyway.

That walk. The tightness in his jaw. The curve of his spine flexing under gold-brown skin, still damp with the sweat from his workout.

He passed her. Didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. He could feel her. Smell her. That low, slow perfume mixed with the faint trace of oil that made her skin look like it was melting. Sanaa sat at the island like she ain’t just been fucked dumb twelve hours ago. Robe tied low at the waist, legs crossed, one thigh peeking through the split like an invitation she knew he shouldn’t take. And her face? Smug. Soft. Gorgeous.

She had her hair pinned up in a cheap hot pink claw clip that didn’t match a damn thing, strands falling loose around her ears studded with diamonds. The kind of undone that money can’t buy—fresh fucked glow. Pretty brown skin lit bronze under the kitchen lights, lips shining with fruit juice, and a mouth that tasted better than anything he could cook.

He wasn’t looking at her. But she didn’t need him to. Her mouth had gone dry minutes ago, not from thirst—but from wanting to taste him again.

“Did you tuck me in last night?”

He didn’t move. Didn’t answer.

“I don’t remember pulling my sheets up. Especially not after being fucked numb like that.”

Still nothing. His fingers twitched on the fridge.

She let it sit. Then—

“Erik.”

That got him. He eased the fridge shut. Turned toward her slow.

“So you just gon’ act like last night ain’t happen?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then say something.”

He stepped away from the kitchen. Eyes unreadable. The kind of look that made her straighten up without thinking.

“Act like you know what you asked for.”

She tilted her chin. Didn’t back away.

He came in close. Close enough that his scent hit her hard—lotion and skin, his natural musk rising warm off his body. That Erik smell she remembers from last night. The one still clinging to her sheets.

His voice dropped, “Next time you beg for me, you better be ready to deal with me.”

Sanaa’s lips parted. The air in the room changed.

Then she laughed. Soft. Sweet. Dangerous, “Deal with what? A killer?”

His jaw flexed.

She pushed, her voice silk and sting, “I already knew what I signed up for. Big bad Killmonger?”

That name landed heavy.

“Don’t call me that.”

She giggled again. Just a little.

“That why you left me laid out? Because I called you Killmonger when you asked me to say your name? Ain’t that who you are?”

Erik stepped in so close their chests almost touched. His voice didn’t raise. But it was sharp now. Sharp like a blade you don’t see coming till it’s pressed under your chin.

“You don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout, lil’ girl.”

Sanaa’s smile tilted, slow, “Maybe not. But I know what I felt.”

His hand rose, like he was about to touch her jaw, her neck—something. But it stalled midair. Hung there.

Then dropped.

He turned away. Walked back to the fridge. Opened it like she wasn’t still burning a hole in his back. His jaw tight, eyes low. Grabbed the carton of eggs. Spinach. Tomato. Turkey bacon.

Then the pantry.

Bagels. Avocados. He moved slow. Intentional. Like cooking might fix the war going on in his chest. Like toast and protein could erase the feel of her nails dragging down his back. But the tension stayed thick between them. Her chair creaked softly. He heard the shift.

He looked up and Sanaa was watching him. Not coy. Not sweet. Bold as fuck. Lips around another mango slice, tongue curling under the fruit before she sucked it down slow. Her legs shifted again. The robe slipped slightly higher. She leaned forward, elbows on the island, tits pressing together under soft fabric, one hand between her thighs like she was adjusting herself.

Her voice came soft.

“Still sore,” she said. Almost casual.

He froze mid-slice.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be sittin’ like that then,” Erik muttered, not looking up.

Sanaa smiled around the mango, “I like it. Makes me remember how good it was.”

He inhaled through his nose, slow. Controlled.

“And how wrecked I was after.”

His grip tightened on the knife.

“That what we doin’ this morning?” he asked, voice low, rough like gravel, “Tryna provoke me?”

“Not tryin’,” she said, “I already did.”

He turned. Finally looked at her. That stare made her whole belly flutter. Jaw tight. That low faded temple taper showing. Locs frizzy from all that tugging and yanking she was doing when he was sucking on her pussy. Full lips glistening under the light. Dimples peeked while he frowned he but it just made him cuter. The outline of his dick not even hiding. And that expression?

Dangerous.

“You don’t know what you playin’ with,” he said.

“I do,” she said softly, leaning forward with her chin in her palm, “I’m playin’ with you, Killmonger.”

He stepped closer. Only a few feet between them now. Sanaa shifted in her chair again with a soft whimper, not dramatic, just enough to let him know her pussy was still sore. Still full. Still remembering the way he fucked her through that mattress.

“Keep pushin’,” he said, voice tighter, “You gon’ make me do somethin’ we both know I shouldn’t.”

She tilted her head. Eyes slow, locked on his, “Then do it.” Her voice dropped. Deeper. Darker, “Come remind me why I couldn’t walk straight this morning.”

He laughed once. No humor, “You really tryna pull him out this early? You want me to show up?”

She smiled with that mouth that had been all over his dick hours ago, “I want Killmonger to come out and play.”

The silence stretched. His dick twitched.

Sanaa dragged one nail down the inside of her thigh.

“You think you got control,” he said, stepping around the island, slow like a hunt, “You think just ‘cause I filled you up and tucked you in, you can talk reckless?”

She looked up at him through those long lashes. Bit her lip. Soft, “I don’t think, Erik. I know.”

He grabbed the edge of the counter with both hands, arms flexed, forearms tight, “You need to watch that mouth.”

“You liked it last night.”

He stepped in close, “I like a lotta shit that ain’t good for me,” he said, voice low.

Then he leaned in. Inhaled right near her neck. Didn’t touch her. Just let the scent roll through him like torture. Her skin was warm. Her thighs were soft. Her robe was hanging on by attitude alone.

And he was so close to losing the little bit of control he had left.

But he didn’t kiss her. He leaned back, eyes still locked on hers. And said the thing she wasn’t expecting.

“You think this a game. You think this just dick.” He shook his head, “You got no idea what you inviting.”

She held his gaze. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Then she smiled, lips soft and slow, “I invited it the second I opened my legs. Don’t act like you didn’t RSVP.”

That broke something in him. And the look he gave her next? That wasn’t Erik. That was the man he tried to keep buried. The one who took what he wanted and dealt with the mess after. And she saw it. She wanted it. And he knew right then he wasn’t gonna be able to stay away. Not now. Not ever.

The skillet was already warming on the stove. Erik reached for the olive oil, poured a slow swirl in the pan, and rolled his shoulders like he could stretch the tension out of them. His body still felt too tight. Too on edge. His joggers had no business clinging the way they did, especially not with her sitting behind him licking juice off her fingers like his nut wasn’t deep inside her.

He cracked one egg, then another. Set them off to the side. His movements were slow, deliberate, but his body told on him. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way his jaw kept flexing like he needed to bite something just to focus. He was trying to stay present. Trying not to let his mind wander back to how soft she’d felt last night underneath him. How her thighs had trembled around his face. How she tasted.

He reached for the tomato, started slicing.

Then he felt it. Not a word. No warning.

Just her body slipping between his and the counter like she’d been doing it her whole life. Bare feet, bare thighs, and that damn robe tied so loose it might as well not have been on. She didn’t say shit. Didn’t even look at him. She just slid in and took over. One of her hips brushed against him, that soft little bump right against the thick rise of his dick still hard behind the fabric of his joggers. She cracked an egg in one hand, flicked the shell into the trash like she knew the kitchen better than he did.

Erik froze behind her.

His eyes dropped. Watched her fingers move with no hesitation, clean and quiet. She was fully inside his space now, body pressed close, warm and casual like it was her spot to begin with. She reached up into the cabinet, pulled down the salt, pinched it with one hand while tilting the bowl with the other. Like he wasn’t even standing there. Like she didn’t just back her ass up into him. Dragging the bubble curve of it slow across the front of his joggers, just enough to make him twitch.

He didn’t move and he couldn’t breathe right. Just stared down at her from above, that low hum of restraint turning into a full-body grip on the counter. Her ass rolled once more. Just a subtle tilt. A soft grind. Tight little circles that made the air around them feel thick and wrong and good as fuck all at once.

Then she kept going.

Started chopping the tomato he left. Took over his space like it was hers. Her fingers moved quick, practiced, and while she worked, she didn’t stop moving that body. She didn’t need to say anything. Her body did the talking. That soft, steady grind. The way her thighs pressed back against him. The way her hips rolled with slow, precise tension like she knew what he liked. Knew how to make him fight every goddamn impulse rising up in him.

And behind her, Erik just stood there.

Fighting for his fucking life.

She kept chopping like nothing was out of place. Knife moving soft over the tomato, blade tapping rhythmically against the cutting board. Her ass never stopped. She rocked it back in tight little motions, circling slow, dragging the plush curve right over the front of his joggers, like she was testing him. Like she already knew the answer. Erik didn’t move. Just gripped the counter harder, jaw locked, trying not to let that groan catch in his throat.

And then, like it was nothing—like she wasn’t working him up just to watch him lose it—Sanaa tilted her head, glanced at him over her shoulder with that pretty little smirk barely visible under her lashes, and said, low and casual…

“Daddy…why you eat my pussy like that last night?”

His breath hitched.

She turned back around, like she didn’t just drop a grenade in the middle of the kitchen. Like she didn’t just wreck his whole focus with one filthy question asked in the softest, sweetest tone he’d ever heard. She moved like she wasn’t doing anything wrong. Like her ass wasn’t grinding slow and deliberate right over the thick print of his dick, like her voice wasn’t about to destroy the last thread of his control. Her fingers stayed busy—chopping clean, precise strokes—but her mouth? That was the problem.

“I must taste good…” she said lightly, her voice dipping low, sweet like it wasn’t filth spilling out, “You couldn’t stop suckin’. Couldn’t stop lickin’ my clit, daddy.”

Erik shut his eyes for half a second, let his head fall slightly forward.

“Had me creamin’ all over your face. Drippin’. I couldn’t even stop it.”

She kept going. Like she didn’t just say that. Like she didn’t know how wet his dick was getting from the memory. Like she wasn’t trying to see what happened when she pushed a man like him too far. But she knew exactly what she was doing. That was the danger.

She scraped the chopped tomato into the pan, hips still rolling slow, back arched just enough to keep his dick pressed flush to her ass. Her voice stayed calm, casual, like she wasn’t already making him sweat.

“I got out the bath this morning…spread my legs in the mirror, lookin’ at my pussy real slow.” Her tone dripped with something smug. Soft, but nasty, “Tryna see if you stretched me with that big dick good.” She paused to stir the pan, and Erik’s breath came tighter behind her. “I couldn’t tell for sure,” she went on, twisting her wrist as she sautéed, that ass still grinding on him with each movement, “So now I wanna know if you can. You think you left a mark, daddy?”

Her voice curled around that last word like it was made to ruin him. And from the way Erik’s hands gripped the edge of the counter behind her—tight, flexed, veins raised—he was seconds from showing her just how permanent he could make it. She sat the spatula down on the counter and bent forward just a little. Giggling soft.

He couldn’t remember the last time he gripped a countertop like this.

Not in warzones. Not in bar fights. Not in hotel bathrooms with blood running down his side. But right now? With this girl bent in front of him slow twerkin’ her ass against his dick like she ain’t got a care in the world?

This was the hardest thing he’d ever had to survive.

She kept her rhythm tight. Focused. Not fast. Not bouncy. Just slow, filthy little pulses, rolling that ass over the thick print of him like she knew exactly how to make a grown man lose his grip. She bent at the waist. Elbows pressed to the counter. Ass tilted just right. Up on her tip toes because of how much taller he is. That loose robe barely clinging to her hips, threatening to slide off completely. And still, she moved. A soft grind back. Then a slow lift. Then a tiny pop, just enough to send a ripple through both cheeks before they settled heavy on his lap again. Tight. Warm. Controlled.

She wasn’t dancing. She was working him. And he felt every bit of it. The curve of her ass spread right over the ridge of his dick. His joggers did nothing to cushion the way she rubbed herself into him, soft cotton soaked where he pressed hardest. He could feel the slick building between them, that friction low and dirty. Every time her ass dropped, she dragged it with just enough weight to make him pulse harder, like she wanted to grind the nut right out of him without ever taking his pants off.

Erik’s hands flattened over the counter. He bent slightly forward, eyes low, face close to the back of her head.

“You keep movin’ like that,” he said under his breath, “I’m not gon’ be responsible for what happen next.”

She didn’t answer. Just dipped lower. Rolled her hips in a slow figure-eight. Slid one hand down her thigh like she was puttin’ on a show, dragging her fingers toward the soft dip between her legs. Her ass caught the full length of him again and he twitched behind her, teeth grit, chest rising hard.

“You forget Aaliyah live here too?” His voice was deeper now. Hot at the edge, “She come back early and see me bent over your ass, what you gon’ say?”

Still nothing from her. Just more motion.

Another roll. Another pulse. Her back arched deeper, that robe starting to slip off one shoulder. She looked over her shoulder, not speaking—just smirking. Watching him like she wanted to get caught. Like her pussy had a plan and her mouth didn’t need to help it.

“Yo little ass think this funny?” Erik growled low, breath rushing hot across her shoulder blade, “She walk in right now and see you creamin’ on my dick with your face in the stove, what then?”

That ass dropped again. Slower this time. And he felt it—slick, hot pressure grinding right over the head of his dick through his pants, her rhythm steady like she was testing his ability to not grab her. His fingers were twitching. His thighs tight. He could feel his own pulse in his dick now, so damn hard he thought he’d bust untouched.

“You keep playin’…” He trailed off, voice thick with warning but cracking with surrender.

But truth was—he didn’t even know what he was threatening no more. Because she already had him. Every time she backed it up like that, every time her hips rolled in a new, dirtier pattern, he slipped further out of logic. Out of discipline. Out of whatever weak-ass reason he had for keeping his hands to himself.

She wasn’t just twerkin’. She was fuckin’ him without fuckin’ him. Slow. Messy. Intimate. Like her body already knew him, already learned how to pull his restraint apart one tight, wet grind at a time. He was breathing through his nose like a man trying not to bite. Trying not to take. The only thing stopping him was the lock on the front door. And even that might not hold if she didn’t stop.

Erik reached back to grip the counter top behind him like he needed the support, the other hand dragging over his mouth. His eyes stayed on her, dark and low, sliding from her ass, up her spine, and then her face. Then he licked his lips slow, like the taste of her was still fresh, like it haunted him, and his voice dropped to that tone that made her belly twist.

“I laid yo lil ass out last time,” he said, voice rough like gravel, “And that’s the only time you gettin’ this dick.”

Sanaa blinked slow. One brow arched. That mouth of hers curled into a smirk so calm it had to be disrespectful. She turned. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t flustered. Just standing there in that soft little robe like she ain’t just soaked the memory of him into her body last night.

“See,” she said, voice low like a secret, “that’s the thing… you keep lyin’ to yourself.”

Erik snorted under his breath, shook his head like she was playin’ too much. But that smile? That slight one pulling at the corner of his mouth? That gave him away. She saw it. She knew what it meant.

“You think you special?” he asked.

She didn’t flinch. Just stepped in closer. Slower now. Her robe brushing against his leg. Her head tilted as her voice softened, turning intimate and wicked in the same breath.

“I know I’m special,” she whispered, eyes steady on his, “You still dreamin’ ‘bout how it sounded when I squirted all over that dick, huh?”

His jaw flexed. Nostrils flared. His eyes dropped before he could stop himself. Fell straight to her thighs like he needed to see the proof. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek. His silence was louder than anything he could say.

She didn’t stop.

“Nah,” she said, stepping even closer, “You keep lyin’. If it was just once…why your hands still shake when I walk in the room?”

He stepped forward before she could finish the sentence. Stepped straight into her space, big body shadowing hers until they were almost nose-to-nose. His breath hit her lips. His chest brushed her robe. One more inch and she’d feel exactly what she was doing to him.

“Keep temptin’ me like that,” he said, voice so low it barely made it past his throat, “I’m not gon’ give you what you want, lil’ girl.”

Her eyes lit. Slow. Filthy. That little smirk deepened as she tilted her chin up, licking her bottom lip like she wanted to taste whatever control he had left.

“That sound like a challenge…”

Sanaa slipped away from him like smoke in the air.

One second she was standing close enough for him to feel her breath. The next, she was gliding back toward the counter like she hadn’t just had his pulse racing. She picked up her container of mango slices, moved with that quiet confidence that always made him watch even when he tried not to. She climbed back onto the high stool slow. Deliberate.

This time, she didn’t sit pretty.

She spread her legs.

One foot came up on the counter, knee bent, thigh open. The robe fell apart like it had been waiting for permission. Soft fabric sliding to the sides. No resistance. No modesty. Just bare skin. Warm. Smooth. Open to him.

Erik forgot how to breathe.

His chest stalled mid-rise. His throat went dry. His eyes locked in and refused to look away.

Her pussy was right there. Tender. Plush. Faintly swollen from the way he handled her. A soft shine to it that told him she was already wet again, already reacting to nothing but his stare.

She picked up a mango slice. Held it between her fingers. And rubbed it slow over her clit.

Back and forth.

Gentle at first. Then firmer. Letting the cold, sticky fruit drag across that sensitive spot. Juice trickling down her fingers. Down her thigh. Onto the edge of the counter.

Erik didn’t move. He just watched. Every nerve in his body lit up like somebody struck a match inside him. Sanaa kept her eyes on his the whole time. Never broke contact. Never looked down. Never hid. She bit her lip softly as her hips rolled just a little, reacting to her own touch. A quiet little breath slipped from her mouth before she could stop it.

Then she got needy. Her voice changed. Softened. Lost that teasing edge.

“Come here…” she whispered. Her fingers slowed, pressing the mango slice more deliberately now, “Please…”

Her lower lip trembled between her teeth. Not fake. Not dramatic. Just real want spilling out of her. Her eyes were glossy now. Dark. Heavy. Focused only on him.

Ain’t no woman ever had him like this. Not like this. Not with her body open and her voice soft and her pride still intact.

Erik clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. His hands curled at his sides. Veins popping in his arms from the restraint.

“I ain’t supposed to be fuckin’ you, Sanaa,” he said quietly, “And I ain’t the type of nigga to get caught up with.”

She didn’t argue or clap back. She just looked at him like she heard him and didn’t care. Like his words were weak compared to what his body was saying.

He turned away. Walked to the stove. Shut it off.

The click sounded too loud in the quiet kitchen.

He leaned forward, palms flat on the counter, head dropping between his shoulders. His back rose and fell as he exhaled through his nose. Long. Controlled. Like he was trying to breathe himself back into sanity.

It didn’t work.

He lifted his head slowly. Looked back at her. She was still open and touching herself. Watching him like he was the only man left on earth.

He licked his lips. Once.

Then he started walking. Slow. Heavy steps. Each one dragging him closer to something he swore he wasn’t gonna do.

He stopped in front of her, reached out. Took the mango slice from her fingers.

Their hands brushed.

She shivered.

He brought it to his mouth. Sucked on it slow. Letting the juice coat his tongue. Letting her taste linger on it. Letting her watch him take something she’d just had between her legs and make it his.

Then he bit down. Chewed. Deliberate. Eyes never leaving hers. Every movement said what his mouth refused to admit.

He wasn’t going nowhere.

The juice of the mango lingered on his lips, thick and sweet, soaked in the heat of her. It coated his tongue with the unmistakable taste of her pussy—ripe, needy, messy—and Erik chewed like he was trying to punish himself for liking it. For wanting more. For letting her pull him this deep without ever lifting a finger. His jaw was tight as hell. Muscles locked. Brows drawn. But his eyes never left her.

Sanaa sat with her legs still open, robe fallen from her shoulders now, bunched behind her waist like it knew it had lost the battle. She looked so damn soft, thighs glistening, mouth parted just enough to show that low, constant panting that gave her away. But even like that, with her foot propped up and her slick still wet between her thighs, she had the nerve to look powerful. In control. Chin tilted like she already knew he was past the point of no return. Like the mango was just the first stroke and now he’d be the one left begging.

Erik stepped in. Not slow this time. Not cautious. He got between her knees, big hands sliding up the insides of her thighs, and then higher, one gripping the back of her neck, the other pressing flat against the front. Not rough but firm enough that she felt it. His fingers curled at her throat, holding her still. Reminding her.

His face was inches from hers, voice low and gravel-thick. “You ‘bout to get tore the fuck up for these games you keep playin’.” His breath hit her lips as he spoke, hot, uneven, laced with a kind of tension that made her thighs twitch around his hips.

She didn’t flinch, blink, or apologize. Her mouth parted slightly, tongue wetting her bottom lip like she was inviting it.

That was it.

Erik crashed into her mouth without another word, lips smashing against hers, tongue slipping past like he owned her breath, her taste, her noise. His mouth was hot and wet and greedy, tongue sliding over hers, deep and messy, his jaw moving like he wanted to consume her from the mouth down. Lips dragged. Teeth scraped. Their breathing tangled. He didn’t let her lead. He controlled it. Held her still with both hands around her neck, body crowding her until she couldn’t do anything but open her mouth wider and take what he gave her.

The kiss didn’t slow. It got nastier.

Slicker.

Spit laced between them when he finally pulled back, their mouths swollen and glistening from the exchange. He rested his forehead against hers for just a second. Breathing through his nose. Trying to find air in a room thick with her scent.

His hands stayed tight at her neck.

“Fuck…” he growled, voice broken now, “You got me actin’ crazy over you, girl. How fuckin’ dare you…”

He looked down at her like he didn’t know if he wanted to drag her off that stool and bend her in half or drop to his knees and taste every drop she left behind.

She smiled, soft and fucked-up pretty.

Erik was about to show her what crazy really looked like.

She was breathing slower now, lips wet, mouth still parted from that kiss. Her thighs stayed open, loose from the way he held her, the warmth of his body still hovering at the edge of hers. Erik’s hand remained cupped behind her neck, thumb resting at the base of her jaw like he needed to keep her tethered there. Her gaze didn’t waver when she spoke, voice barely above a whisper, soaked in that soft, bratty need that had him spiraling.

“Can you look at my pussy?” she asked, words syrup-slow and coated in innocence that didn’t fool a damn soul, “Did you stretch it good?”

He went still. No smart-ass remark. No breathless denial. Just the crackle of silence between them and the weight of her question hitting him right in the chest.

His jaw worked once.

Then again.

His fingers tightened slightly against her skin, not squeezing, just pressing like he needed something to hold while he slid straight into the trap she set.

Erik dropped his gaze. Dragged it down her throat. Past her collarbones. Down the center of her chest where her robe lay open, soft brown skin exposed beneath. He let his eyes linger there for a moment, mouth twitching slightly at the memory of how she tasted. Then he kept going. Down her soft stomach. Past the slope of her hips.

And there it was.

That beautiful, wet, fucked-out pussy she had the audacity to sit on display for him. Glowing under the soft kitchen light. Faintly puffy from what he’d done to it. Glossed with slick and faint streaks of leftover juice from the mango. Her lips were slightly parted, still fluttering like she hadn’t come down fully, like her body was still remembering how he’d kissed it, sucked it, stroked it deep and slow while she trembled.

Erik tilted his head to the side just a little, brow drawn low, studying like a man inspecting a wound he caused and couldn’t stop thinking about. His eyes narrowed slightly, focused, dragging over every part of her pussy like it was a map and he was tracing the route back in his head. His tongue slid across his bottom lip. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

He leaned in, just a little. Bent at the waist, eyes trained right between her legs like he was reading something there. His nostrils flared as he caught the scent again, that raw, aroma that had clung to his upper lip since last night. He looked closer, inspecting every glisten, every twitch. Not just arousal—curiosity. The need to see what he’d done. If he’d changed her. If he left his mark the way she said. The way she wanted.

He tilted his head the other way. Sat in the silence. Let it stretch. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge and her soft breathing. His hand slid from her neck down her thigh, his fingers spreading lightly against her skin, but he didn’t touch between. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded deeper, heavier, like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

“…Yeah,” he said under it, “I stretched you good.” His fingers hovered near her folds now. Not touching. Just close enough that she could feel the warmth of him again, “But I can still do better.”

Her lips curled slow, eyes half-lidded, voice like she was purring with satisfaction when she responded.

“Oh, I know you can,” she said, soft as silk and just as dangerous.

Then, without lifting more than a finger, Sanaa slid her foot up his torso. Her toes brushed his abs, warm and gentle, dragging over the firm ridges of muscle like she was getting reacquainted with the body that had wrecked hers the night before. She moved slow, just the pad of her foot pressing against him, dragging down the centerline of his stomach until it dipped into the waistband of his joggers. She didn’t push, dig, just hovered there, right above where his dick sat heavy, thick, impossible to ignore.

Erik stood still, but his shoulders rose with the effort it took to stay there. At full height now, chest bare and gleaming under the low kitchen lights, his joggers hung low on his hips. Too low. The elastic had lost the fight some time ago, stretched from her grinding and his own heat. The print of his dick was unmistakable.

It sat high on his thigh, slanting left, long and unforgiving beneath the thin fabric. The weight of it pulled the material forward, tenting it just enough to show the thick outline of the head pushing against the seam. His length was pressed hard to his leg, full and unrelenting, a swollen line from base to tip that screamed of tension—of denial—of pressure that hadn’t been touched since she left him last night with a mess on his tongue and a war in his chest.

Sanaa dropped her eyes to it. Lingered there. Her gaze dragged like a palm stroke. No shame. No hesitation. Just watching the way he throbbed beneath his clothes, how the fabric pulsed every time he breathed too hard. Her eyes narrowed with hunger and curiosity, and she bit her lip softly—just once—before looking back up at him.

Her voice came low, airy, dipped in need, “Can I have it?”

That question slid across the room and pressed right against the base of his spine. His nostrils flared again. His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek like he needed something to bite. He didn’t answer right away, just stared down at her with so much conflict in his eyes it made the air go still between them. Like he was calculating what it would cost him if he gave in again, and already knowing it didn’t matter.

Because she was looking at his dick like it belonged to her.

Erik hadn’t moved since she asked for it. Still stood there with that pulse pounding in his jaw, dick hard enough to ache, mind trying to split itself between self-control and the ache clawing through his gut. But she knew what she was doing. Knew how to wait him out. How to stay soft, relaxed, pretty while his body went tight with the pressure of not touching her.

She laid back slowly in the high stool, adjusting like she needed to get more comfortable. Legs falling open again. That damn robe still hanging open around her waist. She didn’t have to put on a show. Her body already knew how to make him watch. One finger slid down between her folds. She dragged it slow, glistening, then brought it to her lips and sucked the tip clean.

Her eyes stayed on his the whole time.

Then her voice came low, soft, like she was just thinking out loud.

“Kiss it for me, daddy…just once. You miss the way I taste?”

Erik’s eyes dropped before he meant them to. Jaw tightening again.

“You gon’ leave me drippin’ like this and not even clean it up?” she asked, all sugar, “That’s rude as hell.”

He still hadn’t moved. But the twitch in his jaw. The way his hand flexed at his side. That told her he was close.

Sanaa lifted her heel, pressed it behind his thigh, and gently pulled him forward, “You already down there…why don’t you open your mouth and say somethin’ nice to her.” Her voice made his dick throb. But she kept going. Knew exactly where to press, “She tight, huh?” she whispered, softer now, “Still wet from last night. You really gon’ act like you don’t wanna taste your dick on my pussy?”

Erik stepped closer. Couldn’t help it. And when he reached her knees—when her legs opened just a little more and her scent hit him again, warm and sweet and slick—he dropped his eyes.

Sanaa leaned her weight on her palms and tilted her hips forward, “C’mon…” she said, slow and dirty, “you was suckin’ on it like it was your last meal. Don’t be shy now.”

He stared. His knees bent slightly.

“You said you stretched me…” she continued, her voice now teasing, light, smug, “Prove it. Look in her face and tell her you didn’t fuck her open.”

Erik exhaled hard. His knees hit the floor.

No words. Just surrender. His hands gripped her thighs and he leaned in, face a breath away from that glistening, perfect pussy. She was soaked. Faintly pulsing. Her lips were swollen, glossy, sweet with the scent of her own need. His nose caught the mango, but underneath that—her. Warm and wet and waiting for him.

“You talk big,” she said, one hand resting in his locs now, sliding through the thick strands, “but this lil’ pussy had you moanin’ into it like a grown man beggin’.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t deny it. Didn’t even blink.

Just leaned in closer.

“Ain’t nobody ever ate it like you, Erik,” she whispered, her voice dropping, shaking just a little from how soft it turned, “I still feel your tongue when I close my legs.” She guided him forward gently, two fingers sliding along the side of his face, “You gon’ fix that,” she said, breath hitched, “or just keep frontin’?”

He kissed her inner thigh. Then again. A little higher. He was breathing through his nose like a man being pulled underwater.

Then her last whisper sealed it.

“Put that mouth back where it belong. She miss you.”

Erik didn’t even hesitate now. He pulled her hips forward to the edge of the stool and opened her with his thumbs. Then he buried his mouth between her legs like it was the only place he’d ever belonged.

———

Erik didn’t come to play.

That was the first thing she felt.

Before his mouth ever touched her, before his lips parted or his hands explored, she felt the change in his presence. The way he lowered himself, spine straight, shoulders settled, gaze locked between her thighs like his purpose lived there. His whole body shifted into something focused and quiet, like he’d already decided this was how the day would go. No hesitation. No talking. Just action.

His hands smoothed along the backs of her thighs first, firm and slow, thumbs easing along her inner skin until her legs parted on instinct. His grip stayed warm, steady, holding her just open enough to see all of her. And when he looked, he didn’t rush that either. His eyes sat heavy on her pussy, watching every glisten, every twitch, every rise and fall of her breath as it got faster. He didn’t touch her right away. He waited. Let the air stretch, let the ache build. Her body answered before her voice did.

Sanaa’s hand moved into his hair. Fingertips brushing his scalp, then curling in tight as his mouth dropped toward her thigh. She wasn’t pulling. She was grounding herself.

He kissed the inside of her thigh first. Mouth warm. Intentions filthy. One kiss turned into two. Then three. Each one closer to the place she needed him most. Then he turned and kissed her hip. Then the crease of her thigh. Then right beside her lips, close enough that she held her breath. He didn’t rush. He just breathed her in. Let the scent, the shine, the pressure of her body rising meet his mouth on its own time.

When he finally licked her, it wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy. He flattened his tongue wide and dragged it slow, all the way up from the bottom, collecting everything she had to give. One single stroke. Unbroken. And it made her flinch. Gasp. Her hips lifted, but he followed, staying connected, matching the pace of her rising need with steady pressure.

Her eyes opened wide. Her mouth parted. The sound she let out was soft and wet around the edges, like she couldn’t stop it even if she tried.

He just went right back in.

That same thick, dragging motion of his tongue made her toes curl. Then he changed it. Lips sealing around her pussy, tongue flicking now—faster, tighter, more deliberate. He alternated between sucking gently and teasing with light circles that made her hips roll. She started grinding against his mouth in slow, uneven pulses, body chasing every stroke.

When he zeroed in on her clit, he didn’t test. He applied pressure. First with the flat of his tongue, moving side to side, then with the tip, tracing small movements so precise they made her moan his name.

Sanaa’s voice came soft and low, wrapped in a tremble that betrayed how close she already was, “Ohhh…this your favorite, huh? This little pussy right here?”

She looked down at him when she said it. Met his eyes. Her hips never stopped moving. He growled into her. A deep rumble that vibrated through her clit and made her jerk.

He sucked once. Just once.

And it made her cry out, thighs locking around his head. She pulled him tighter, grinding, breathless.

“Oohh, you tryna break me?” she said through a twisted smirk, legs shaking already. “Mmm…you tryna make me cry?”

That’s when he slid his arm beneath her leg. Locked her in. No wiggle room. His other hand spread her wider, fingers pressing just enough to keep her stretched open while his tongue got messier, wetter, more focused.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere,” he said, voice low and final.

Then he found the rhythm. That devastating rhythm.

Same lick. Same pressure. Right on the clit. He stayed there, mouth working in tandem with the grip of her body, dragging her closer to the edge with every pass.

Her face twisted. Her chest rose faster. Her thighs trembled. And when she clenched around nothing, just trying to survive the drag of his tongue he gave her something else.

He slipped a finger in. Then two. Curling them just enough to reach that spot he already knew by heart. He stayed on her clit while his fingers fucked her soft, rhythmic, deep. Sanaa’s hand was back in his locs now, tighter. Rocking her hips into his face, moaning out as her stomach started to fold inward.

“Ohhh, you like that, daddy? You like when I squeeze like that?”

She pulsed on his fingers. Did it again on purpose. Her whole body flinched. He moaned into her, the sound soaked and raw against her pussy, and it made her eyes shut tight.

Then he spoke again, “Keep archin’ like that. Let me see it jump.”

And it did. Her clit jumped under his tongue, her body reacting on instinct, hips lifting, voice rising.

She tried to hold on. But Erik didn’t let her. He stayed there. Deep in her. Groaning through his teeth while his mouth and hands ruined her in rhythm.

Her hips bucked. Her head dropped. She blinked fast like she couldn’t see straight anymore.

She knew she was close.

She needed to look.

“Look at me,” he said.

She forced her eyes open. That’s what broke her. His face was soaked. His mouth still full. His eyes fixed on hers while his tongue kept working like he could do this for hours. Her pussy answered every move. Wet. Open. Loud. The sounds filled the room. Slurps. Sucks. Soft, greedy kisses. The slick smack of his lips sealing and releasing. Her breath turned ragged. Low moans slipped out without permission.

“Mmm…fuck…”

Her voice cracked on it.

She grabbed his locs harder, fingers curling tight at his scalp, using them to guide him. Pulling him closer. Pushing his head where she wanted. Tilting him when she needed more pressure.

“Yeah…right there,” she whispered, breathy and thick. “Stay right there.”

Erik groaned into her. Deep. Low. Vibrating. The sound rolled straight through her clit and made her gasp. His tongue plunged deeper now. Curling. Pressing. Sliding inside her slow, rhythmic, deliberate. He tongue-fucked her hole like he meant to replace his dick with his mouth. Her legs shook. Her stomach clenched.

“Ohhh…you nasty,” she breathed, eyes heavy, lips parted, “You love this pussy, huh?”

He lifted his head just enough to speak. Mouth shining. Beard damp. Eyes dark.

“Shit addictive,” he said quietly, “Got me fucked up.”

Then he went back in. Harder. Messier. He sucked her clit deep into his mouth and held it there, tongue flicking underneath while his lips stayed sealed. The suction made her cry out sharp, toes curling hard against his shoulders.

“Ayy…ayy…slow down,” she gasped, even while pulling him closer. “You tryna kill me.”

He answered by slurping her louder. Dragging his tongue slow again.

Schluuuck. Schluuuck. Schluuuck.

Each stroke heavier than the last. Each one wetter. His hand slid off her thigh and dipped into his joggers, fingers wrapping around his thick shaft. He groaned when he touched himself, hips rocking just a little as he stroked slow, steady, desperate.

Sanaa noticed. Her eyes dropped. Caught the movement.

Her smile turned wicked, “You strokin’ while you eat me?” she whispered, “That’s how bad you need it?”

He nodded against her. Just sucked harder. She tugged his locs again, guiding him up, then down, grinding her pussy on his mouth.

“Yeah…take it,” she whispered, “Use that long tongue. Don’t be scared.”

He growled. Then added his fingers again. Two at first. Thick. Sliding inside her while his mouth stayed locked on her clit. Curling upward. Finding that spot. Pressing. Holding.

Her whole body snapped. Her back arched off the stool. Her head fell back. A broken sound tore out of her throat.

“Fuck…Erik…that shit right there…” Her voice turned shaky. Needy. Soft and filthy, “Don’t stop,” she breathed, “Please…don’t stop.”

He pumped his fingers deeper. Tongue moving faster now.

Figure eights.

Tight circles.

Deep sucks.

Messy kisses.

Her pussy sounded obscene. Wet. Open. Greedy.

Every stroke echoed. Every slurp rang. Her breathing turned frantic. Her nipples stayed pinched between her fingers. Her thighs trembled in his hands. She leaned forward, looking down at him again. Watching. Needing to see.

His mouth buried. His jaw flexing. His eyes half-lidded. His dimples flashing when he moaned. Caramel skin slick with sweat. Gold slugs catching the light when he opened his mouth wider.

“You so fine when you eat me,” she whispered, “Got me feelin’ spoiled.”

He looked up. Did not stop, “You taste too good,” he said rough, “Got me weak.”

Her grip tightened. She rocked harder. Controlled him. Used him.

“Yeah,” she whispered, “That’s it. Let me ride that mouth.”

Her orgasm built fast. Hot. Sharp. Overwhelming.

Her stomach pulled inward. Her legs started shaking. Her breath fractured.

“Ohhh…uhhh…unhhh…I’m close… I’m so close…”

He groaned again. Fingers curling. Tongue pressing. Suction tightening.

“Let that shit go,” he said low.

That was all.

Her body seized. Her thighs clamped around his head. Her toes curled hard. Her voice broke. She cried out his name loud, shaking, coming so hard her vision blurred.

He stayed on that pussy. Licked her through it. Sucked her slow. Caught every pulse. Every tremor. Every aftershock. When she finally slumped forward, breathless and weak, he pulled back slowly.

His mouth was soaked. Eyes heavy. Hand still gripping himself. He stood and leaned close. Kissed her thigh. Then her stomach. Then her lips.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

She smiled lazy. Dangerous.

“Do I look good?”

Her robe clung to one shoulder, slipping further with each shallow breath she took, while the other side had fallen completely off, bunched at her elbow. The hot pink claw clip in her hair hung crooked and loose, half her curls puffed out, the rest damp and sticking to her temples. Her body glistened—neck, chest, the soft line between her breasts—all slick with sweat and shine, like she’d been kissed too long and licked too good.

Erik stood between her legs with his joggers low, dick heavy and glistening at the tip where it hung over the waistband. He didn’t speak at first. Just leaned in and kissed her. Slow. Deep. Letting his tongue drag across hers with weight, letting her taste the mix of herself and the mango slices they’d barely touched earlier. His hands stayed locked beneath her knees, palms pressing into the backs of her thighs, pulling them wider as he kissed her deeper.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were glossy too. He licked them once and squinted at her like he was trying to decide something. His voice came low, deep, still thick with what they just did.

“Wait. You talk to Aaliyah? When she say she comin’ back?”

Sanaa blinked slow, lashes damp at the tips. Her voice was softer now, worn down from moaning and grinding on his tongue, “She didn’t say an exact time. Just she’ll be back today.”

Erik looked down at her again, dick still in his hand, still slick. He gave it two strokes slow, dragging the tip against her inner thigh just to watch her twitch.

“You got me down bad,” he said, voice lazy, jaw flexing once, “Strokin’ my dick and eatin’ your pussy right here on this stool. You proud of that?”

Sanaa let her tongue touch the corner of her mouth before answering, “Real proud.”

“You so wet I felt it drip down my chin,” he spoke, “Thought you was tryin’ drown me.”

“You ain’t stop.”

“Cause you kept rollin’ that pussy on my face like you was tryna break my jaw.”

“You like that shit.”

He leaned in close again, mouth barely brushing hers, hand still wrapped around his dick, “I like how you taste. That’s what kept me there.”

Sanaa’s lips brushed his, breath sweet from the mango she’d bitten into earlier, “You kissed me so I wouldn’t forget.”

He smiled at that. One of them deep, sharp ones that didn’t reach his eyes, “Nah. I kissed you so you’d remember what you got me doin’. I’m supposed to be chillin’, layin’ low, and now I’m in this kitchen damn near ready to fuck you on this stool.”

“You the one that got on your knees. I was gonna sit and eat my mangos.” Sanaa tilted her hips forward a little, catching the drag of his dick against her folds. Her voice came quieter, more teasing, “Felt like your tongue was tryin’ to reach my throat.”

“That pussy got a grip on me,” he said low, “I was in here mindin’ my business, tryna eat. Soon as you walked out like that, sittin’ pretty on that stool, I knew it was over.”

“You the one who walked up on me,” she whispered.

He groaned through his teeth, grip tightening behind her knees, “That pussy got a grip on me. Soon as I walked in and saw that robe hangin’ off you, it was over.”

“You said you wasn’t gone do nothin’. You said you was chillin’.”

“I was lyin’.”

She smiled, but it didn’t last. He’d pulled her closer to the edge, hooking her knees higher on his forearms now, nudging the head of his dick against her again. She was throbbing, legs already loose, pussy slick from his tongue and her own need.

Erik stared between them like he was thinkin’ hard about a decision he already made, “Say you want it.”

Sanaa looked at him, lips parted, breath shaky, “You see me beggin’?”

“I hear you breathin’ like you need somethin’ back in you.”

“Then put it in.”

“You gone take it like that? No hands?”

“I’ll take it how you give it.”

Erik pulled her off the stool by her thighs. She gasped as her back hit the cold counter behind her and her legs stayed wrapped around his waist. He leaned in and kissed her again, messy this time. Teeth and tongue and soft grunts as his dick slid between her folds, slick and hard, pressing for entrance.

“If I fuck you right here,” he said against her lips, “you gone keep quiet?”

“Only if you make me.”

She hadn’t heard the lock. All she heard was the jingle—then the click.

The front door creaked open.

Erik’s his fingers were pressing low, almost under the curve of her ass. Her robe had slipped down one shoulder again. She’d been mid-laugh, soft and breathy, from whatever nasty thing he had just whispered in her ear after And then—

The door.

They jumped.

She spun away from him so fast she nearly knocked the water bottle off the counter. He moved in the opposite direction, stepping back like he hadn’t just had his palm cupped over the same pussy he’d been inside hours ago. Erik ran a hand down his face, the other tugging his joggers up, and disappeared into the hallway. She heard the quiet creak of his bedroom door shutting.

Sanaa straightened her robe, lips still wet with mango juice and something else, heart pounding—not from guilt, but the sheer adrenaline of being caught almost.

The front door eased all the way open. Keys clinked as they hit the entry table. Boots tapped over the threshold.

She turned and saw Aaliyah.

Her girl looked bomb—but tired. Curls pinned up, a few wisps slipping loose around her face in that soft, effortless way that always made her look ethereal. She was still in her going-out dress—long-sleeved, form-fitting, with an open back that dipped low. Her leather jacket hung off one shoulder like it’d been carried, not worn. And those heeled boots? Clicking across the floor like punctuation marks to a night she clearly wanted to end hours ago.

Sanaa didn’t miss the puffy eyes. The way Aaliyah didn’t speak right away. Just dropped her bag harder than necessary and kicked the door closed with the edge of her boot.

“Hey, boo,” Sanaa called out gently, voice lifting like she hadn’t just been plotting how to get fingered again by her best friend’s brother five seconds ago, “How was your date?”

Aaliyah didn’t answer. Just walked past the kitchen like she didn’t see her.

But Sanaa saw everything.

The clenched jaw. The tight grip she had on her own phone. The silence.

“Hey.” Sanaa moved around the island, robe fluttering around her thighs, “Liyah, what happened?”

Still no answer.

But Aaliyah headed down the hallway, fast, head low, jacket sliding off her shoulder completely now. Her body language screamed don’t ask me anything, which of course meant Sanaa followed. By the time they reached Aaliyah’s bedroom door, Erik’s door swung open.

He was in a white tee now. Barefoot, tattoos still peeking beneath his sleeves. His locs hung around his face, and his expression was no longer just focused. It was sharp. Protective. His eyes cut straight to his little sister.

“You straight?” His voice came low, direct.

Aaliyah didn’t even pause, “Mhm.”

Didn’t look at him. Didn’t clarify.

Just kept walking.

Erik stepped forward. His jaw ticked once.

“Yo. What happened—?”

Sanaa reached out, touched his forearm lightly.

“Let me talk to her,” she said, quiet but firm.

His eyes flicked down to where her fingers rested against his skin. He didn’t move right away. Then he exhaled through his nose, pulled back, and ran his hand over his face again. Walked off without another word, disappearing back into his room with the kind of tension that made it clear he wasn’t done, just paused.

Sanaa turned back to Aaliyah.

The bedroom door was open. She stepped inside and closed it gently behind her, leaving the heat of Erik’s eyes behind—but carrying the weight of both of them into the room with her.

She slid into the desk chair, the leather cool beneath her thighs. She shifted once, crossing her legs, then uncrossing them just as fast. Her body still remembered the way Erik had dropped to his knees in the kitchen—how he tasted her like a hunger he didn’t trust with words. She was still wet and pulsing in the center. And now she had to act like none of that happened. Like she hadn’t been up against the counter moaning while her best friend’s brother tongued her through an orgasm she was still mentally recovering from.

Focus.

Sanaa sat up straighter.

Aaliyah peeled off her dress in silence. Slid the sleeves down. Let the fabric pool around her ankles before she stepped out and grabbed a folded pair of gray sweats and an oversized Howard tee. No bra. No jewelry. Just bare and irritated. She didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled her hair loose from its pin, let her curls fall where they wanted, then crawled onto the bed and flopped onto her stomach like the night had physically bruised her ego.

Sanaa waited. She knew that flop. Knew when her girl needed space. And when the rant was coming.

Aaliyah turned her face into the comforter.

Then groaned.

“I’m so fucking annoyed.”

Sanaa smirked, “I clocked that the second you walked in.”

Aaliyah rolled over onto her back, one arm tossed over her forehead, “It’s not even like he did anything wild wild. It’s just…ugh. I shouldn’t have even gone.”

Sanaa leaned her cheek against her fist, “Wanna talk about it or should I just pass judgment blindly?”

Aaliyah sighed loud, “Girl. Okay.” And then it all poured out, “I sat through a whole date listening to this man talk about his podcast. Not like, mention it once. No. He gave a fucking episode breakdown. Talked about his ‘branding,’ his ‘audience growth,’ and how he’s tryna build a studio in his crib. I swear I asked him how his day was, and got a TED talk.”

Sanaa snorted.

“He ain’t ask me a single question. Not one. I’m sitting there asking him about his projects, acting engaged, being supportive, carrying the conversation like a mule, and the most I got back was, ‘That’s dope, you hella smart.’ Like—sir. What does that even mean?!”

Sanaa leaned back in the chair, “Lazy-ass compliment.”

“Exactly.” Aaliyah sat up now, animated, “And then—then—I finally bring up my fellowship. You know, the one I’m starting next fucking week, and this man looks me dead in the face and says, ‘Damn, that sound like a lot. You sure you ain’t doing too much?’”

Sanaa blinked, “Oh.”

“Oh.”

Sanaa squinted, “Like…he really said that?”

“Deadass.” Aaliyah’s voice pitched up, “‘You doing a lot.’ Like I’m supposed to dim myself so he can feel big. Like my whole ass life is just background music for his weak-ass ambitions.”

“That’s so—” Sanaa couldn’t even finish it. “That’s wild. He’s such a lame ass nigga.”

“And the worst part?” Aaliyah laid back again, eyes on the ceiling. Voice flat now, “I still fucked him.”

Sanaa’s mouth twitched. “Wait—”

“Because I was already there. Because I was hoping maybe the dick would balance it out. Maybe he wasn’t deep, but he’d be good for something. Girl.”

Sanaa just waited.

Aaliyah groaned into her hands, “It was trash. Like—trash. Lazy strokes. No rhythm. No attention to detail. He came in like four minutes, didn’t even try to get me off, and then had the nerve to say, ‘Damn, you tight. I missed this.’ I’m sitting there like, nigga, did you? Because the dick said otherwise.”

Sanaa cracked up. Covered her mouth but couldn’t help it.

“I wasted a dress. I wasted coochie. I shaved, Sanaa. I shaved for that man.”

“Girl…”

“I should’ve stayed my ass home and finished my reading for SisterSong. At least that would’ve fed my mind.”

Sanaa nodded, legs uncrossing again. She was trying not to squirm in the chair.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “You didn’t deserve that. Too good for this shit.”

“I know I didn’t.” Aaliyah exhaled, “And now I’m irritated, I’m sore, I got nothing to show for it but a weak-ass orgasm that I gave myself when he rolled over.”

Sanaa grimaced, “Oooh. That’s dark.”

“It’s real.” Aaliyah turned to face her now, “You ever have those moments where you just be like, I should’ve chosen myself tonight? Like, truly. Fully. Just stayed home, lit your incense, ordered good food, and protected your energy?”

Sanaa swallowed, “Yeah,” she said, “I know that feeling.”

And she did.

She just wasn’t about to tell Aaliyah that choosing herself had looked like letting her brother lift her onto the counter and eat her like a last meal twenty minutes before she walked in.

She leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees, “You blocked him?”

“Oh, immediately,” Aaliyah said, “He texted ‘you home safe?’ and I deleted the whole thread. I need energy right now. I need passion, not podcasts. Not failing rap careers. I’m tryna build, not babysit.”

Sanaa smiled, “That’s a bar.”

“I’m for real.”

“I know you are. And you’re right.”

They sat in silence for a beat. Aaliyah curled deeper into her comforter, rubbing her temple.

“I think I’m just tired of giving people the benefit of the doubt,” she spoke, “Like…I’ve worked too hard for this. I want a partner, not a fucking follower.”

Sanaa nodded again, slower this time. Voice softer.

“You will have that. For real. You got too much vision not to attract somebody with their own.”

Aaliyah didn’t respond at first. Then she smiled, eyes still closed.

“Thanks, Bri.”

Sanaa stood and stretched, arms rising high, fingers lacing above her head. Her robe shifted again, brushing open along her thigh. She adjusted it lazily, not really caring whether it stayed closed or not.

“Alright,” she said through a soft yawn, mostly to shift the energy, “Lemme go drink my water before I turn into a raisin. Go wash that nigga off and get you some rest, bitch.”

Aaliyah smirked, still wrapped in her comforter burrito, one foot sticking out at the edge, “Bring me a ginger ale if you feel generous.”

Sanaa leaned down and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a soft squeeze. Aaliyah melted into it.

“Love you,” Sanaa mumbled into her hair.

“Love you back, Bri.”

Sanaa kissed the side of her temple and turned toward the door. She slipped out, quiet again, closing it gently behind her. The hallway air hit different. Cooler. Still. But heavy—like it had been waiting on her. She paused to adjust her robe again.

That’s when she heard Aaliyah’s voice behind the door.

“Bri?”

Sanaa turned, still walking slow down the hall, “Huh?”

The bedroom door cracked open just a little. Aaliyah’s face peeked out, lips pursed like she already knew what she was about to say was petty.

“You alright?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe, “You walking like somebody rearranged your spine.”

Sanaa laughed, trying to wave her off, “Shut up.”

“I’m serious.” Aaliyah tilted her head, “Why you walking like that? And hold up…” She squinted, eyes zeroing in on Sanaa’s head like a laser, “Girl, is your hair…?”

Sanaa paused mid-step.

Aaliyah stepped out just a little more, arms folded, “Nah. Don’t try to tuck it behind your ear now. I know that ain’t the same silk press you had yesterday.”

Sanaa smoothed her hair quickly, but it was no use. The roots were thick with humidity, edges no longer laid, ends curling in that telltale way that only meant one thing. Sweat. Lots of it.

“Your shit puffed up like you ran track in the rain.”

Sanaa blinked, lips parted in protest, but she had nothing. Just laughter bubbling up from her throat.

“I knew it,” Aaliyah said, hands on her hips now, grinning hard, “Somebody been in your guts. Nathan snuck up in here, huh?”

Sanaa doubled over laughing, “Girl, shut the hell up. Ain’t nobody been in my nothing.”

“Mmhmm. You walked outta here with your hair laid like a fresh press. Now look at you. You got kitchen curls and a crook in your back.”

“I do not have a crook in my back.”

“Okay. So you just woke up swollen, sore, and sweating through your roots?”

Sanaa backed up, still laughing, trying to end it, “Bye.”

“You nasty,” Aaliyah said behind her, voice teasing, “You ain’t even slick. Talking ‘bout Nathan ain’t come over…”

“He didn’t!” Sanaa called over her shoulder.

“That’s the story you sticking to?” Aaliyah shouted from the doorway, “Cause your walk saying different.”

“Let me live!”

Sanaa was still laughing when she disappeared around the corner, tugging her robe tighter and wiping under her eyes.

The hallway stretched quiet again.

Then Erik stepped out of his room.

White tee on. Shoulders broad and tight. Gold catching the light when he licked his bottom lip.

He didn’t say a word. Just looked down the hallway into Aaliyah’s room.

Aaliyah met his stare with a squint.

“You been standing there the whole time?” she asked.

He didn’t answer that. Instead, he said, “I know where that nigga Jordan stay.”

Aaliyah groaned, “Oh my God—”

“I’m not gon’ pull up or nothing,” Erik said, voice calm like he wasn’t already halfway planning it, “But if you give me the word, I’ll rearrange his teeth.”

Aaliyah folded her arms and leaned in her doorway, a lazy smirk creeping across her face.

“I don’t need a hitman,” she said, “I need a ginger ale and my peace back.”

Erik gave a single nod, “He say something reckless to you?”

“He said a lot of things. None of it worth the gas it took to get there.”

Erik stared at her a beat longer.

Then, “I ain’t like him anyway.”

“You don’t like anybody, N’Jadaka!”

“That’s because most of ‘em ain’t good enough.”

She shook her head, finally cracking a real smile.

“You gon’ be real annoying when I do find somebody, huh?”

“I’m already annoying.”

They both laughed.

Then Aaliyah nodded once, gently, “I’m good, big head. For real.”

Erik gave her one more long, silent look. Then turned back down the hall. Aaliyah watched him walk off, then shut her door softly.

———

The air in the apartment shifted. Not loud. Not sudden. Just…different. Like the silence between notes in a song when the next beat’s already hanging in the air.

She saw him again the next morning. Just a few feet away, in the kitchen this time. The same one where she damn near lost consciousness on his tongue. Erik stood in front of the open fridge in a sleeveless tee, forearm flexed as he reached for the oat milk, sweatpants hanging low, waistband slung under that sharp line of his stomach.

Sanaa stood frozen by the sink with her glass half full, trying to act normal.

She couldn’t sit too long on the couch without adjusting. Couldn’t fold her legs without feeling the way he bent her in half. Her thighs remembered. Her clit? Still twitchy from the memory of how he zeroed in on it like it was his favorite thing in the world. Every time he passed by her, she felt it again. That pressure in her core, that fullness that wasn’t quite there but still pulsing.

She dressed different now. Just a little. Tops with a lower scoop, soft and snug enough to frame her cleavage just right—round, high, and barely restrained. No bra. Nipples pressing faint outlines against cotton like they had something to say. The shorts? Cheeky, literally. Cut so that the under-curve of her ass peeked out when she walked or leaned forward just a little. When Aaliyah was around, Sanaa threw on an oversized cardigan, pretending it was just comfort. But the moment her best friend left the room? That cardigan came off like it was shedding permission. And Erik would see everything—cleavage soft and glowing under the light, her thighs gleaming, the bottom of her ass catching his eye like it knew it was being watched. Lip gloss stayed on. Even when she wasn’t going nowhere. She told herself it was for her, but deep down? It was for him. She wanted to break his concentration. Wanted him to feel what she felt: that pull, that ache, that slow, tight twist of wanting someone you weren’t supposed to touch but already had.

At night, she slept in the hoodie she stole from his room. The soft, worn cotton smelled like him. Like skin and weed and whatever cologne he always used. She’d turn her face into the collar, breathing it in, rubbing her thighs together slow, letting her fingers tease but not finish. Not yet. She didn’t want to come unless it was for him.

He watched her different too. Thought she didn’t notice, but she did. Always quiet and stealthy. Still. Like he was calculating something. Watching her move from the couch, the counter, the hallway, her bedroom, the bathroom wrapped in a towel. She felt his eyes on her even when her back was turned. Especially then. He lingered in doorways longer. Took his time lighting his blunt out on the balcony when she was in the kitchen. Let the smoke curl while he listened to her on the phone with one of her girls, laughing low and raspy. That laugh made him clench his jaw. Every time.

She wasn’t being obvious, but she wasn’t hiding either. When he walked in after her, the bathroom still full of steam, and that post-shower scent was hanging in the air—coconut and something soft underneath—he stood there for a beat too long. Inhaling. Letting his eyes drop to the towel hanging behind the door. Wondering if it had touched her thighs.

Sanaa felt him before she saw him. Could feel his eyes on her ass when she bent down for something in the fridge. Could feel the weight of his stare tracing the back of her thighs when she walked through the living room in those tiny shorts. She gripped her glass tighter whenever he spoke. And Erik? He noticed. Not just that. He noticed everything. The lip gloss. The way she rolled her eyes when she was pretending not to be nervous. The way she’d sway her hips as she walked. The faint bruise on her neck he remembered putting there when he sucked on her neck.

At night, he laid in bed hard as hell. One arm behind his head, the other wrapped around his dick, stroking it slow, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He’d picture her riding him—eyes low, mouth parted, her voice high and needy. He’d stroke to the image of her gripping his forearm, her back arched, that little whimper she made when she got too full.

But he always stopped before he came.

It didn’t feel right if it wasn’t her. Didn’t feel good enough unless her fingers were the ones doing it. Unless her mouth was wrapped around him. Unless it was her hips grinding down, her nails clawing into his chest.

He wanted her again. Bad. But he had to act normal. Because his sister was home. Because it was wrong. Because he was supposed to be the one in control.

And she kept looking at him like she wanted to be ruined all over again. That look? That look was gonna fuck around and get her pinned to the wall.

Act normal.

He said it to himself every time she walked in the room. But his eyes always followed her. His hands always twitched. His dick never stayed soft for long. She didn’t even have to say a word.

He already knew.

She was thinking about it too.

The sun had dipped just past the horizon when Erik unlocked the door and stepped back into the apartment, the scent of grilled food and spice trailing behind him. He needed the fresh air. Needed to get out of that cramped, sexually-charged space where his sister moved freely and Sanaa floated around like temptation in skin.

He wore it casual—black graphic tee hanging, cargo pants slouched just right over his Jordan 4s. His locs were pulled back low, neat and thick, a few strands left loose to frame his face. The gold Cuban link chain sat heavy around his neck. His watch caught the light from the kitchen as he moved, onyx studs glinting in both ears. Even relaxed, he looked like a threat. Not the kind you run from. The kind you run toward even when you know better.

The bag of leftovers swung from his wrist as he kicked the door closed behind him, making a beeline for the kitchen. He set the bag down, pulled it apart, started pulling the boxes out one by one. The seafood jambalaya, the sweet potato cornbread, the smoked cabbage. But tucked between the napkins and sauce packets was something folded. Small. A slip of paper.

He paused. Picked it up.

Unfolded.

A phone number. A name with a heart drawn next to it.

Kim.

He shook his head. Tongue clicked low in his mouth. Cute girl. Pretty smile. But she wasn’t what he wanted.

Erik crushed the paper in his palm and dropped it into the trash. Didn’t even think twice.

He grabbed a water from the fridge, cracked the cap, and made his way down the hall—shoulders wide, step slow. His body was tired, worked up from walking through DC air and that tight coil of tension he couldn’t shake. Tension that started and ended with her.

And then he saw it.

Her.

Door cracked.

She was curled up in bed, propped against a pillow, glasses sliding low on her nose as she bit the end of her pen, bare legs pulled up. His hoodie hanging off one shoulder, draped over her frame like it belonged there. Like she’d been wearing it all her life.

He slowed his pace.

Stared.

Her hair was slicked into a low bun, edges soft and perfect, glinting under the lamplight. Silver hoops caught the glow, framing her face. Her toes—painted white—rested atop the covers, gold anklets catching the light as she shifted just a little. Her fingers—French tipped and delicate—flipped the page of a textbook slow. Real slow. Like she felt him watching.

She did.

Sanaa looked up.

And froze.

The tension hit like a silent alarm. Her breath stalled. She didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just drank him in. From the fresh line-up hugging his jaw to the thickness of his arms under that shirt. The way the cargo pants sat on his hips. The way his chain moved when he sipped from the bottle. The way he looked at her like he didn’t give a fuck about what was right or wrong.

She licked her lips. Forgot to look away.

His eyes flicked from her glasses to her thighs to that damn hoodie she was swimming in.

His hoodie.

He didn’t say shit.

Just took a step closer.

The air between them? Electric. Full of everything they couldn’t say. The memory of her knees on the counter. His face buried in her. Her hands pulling his hair while she cried his name through clenched teeth.

He knew what her skin tasted like. She knew how his hands felt gripping the back of her thighs. But now? They had to act normal. And normal looked like silence stretching between a cracked door and a hallway shadow. Normal looked like his dick pressing against the inside of his cargos and her legs rubbing together under the blanket she suddenly felt too exposed under.

“Hey,” she said finally, voice low, a little breathless.

“Hey,” he replied, jaw clenched, still staring.

And then he kept walking, like it didn’t kill him to do it. Like he didn’t want to turn back, push that door open wider, and climb into that bed she was laying in. She watched his shadow disappear down the hall. Her chest rose, heart thumping, pulse thick between her thighs.

By the time Erik stepped out of his room again, he’d changed into something looser. A soft white tank, grey jersey shorts slung low on his hips, chain still resting against his chest, his locs half-up now, the rest hanging down over his shoulders. The tension in his shoulders was still there, so he grabbed the small wooden box from the top drawer of his dresser—the one Miss Marva gifted him—and took it out to the balcony.

Lamb’s Bread.

Bright. Sticky. The kind that smelled like sunshine and soil. No crossbred, overprocessed American strain. This was the real ting. Pure from yard. Rasta-grade. Miss Marva had handed it to him with a little smile last time she oiled his scalp and tightened his roots. “Just somethin’ to center your spirit, baby boy,” she’d said in that thick Trinidadian lilt, her hands fast but gentle. “You been tense lately. I can feel it in the way your hair growin’.”

He smiled at the memory, settled down on the lounge chair, and cracked open the box. The bud glistened under the string lights wrapped around the balcony railing. Bright green and dense, singing with citrus and something sweeter underneath. He plucked off a nug, broke it down with his grinder like it was a meditation. A moment to realign.

The blunt lit easy. Smooth pull. Hit his chest like clarity. He leaned back, lips wrapped around the tip, eyes half-lidded as smoke pushed from his nostrils and curled up into the late-night air. The city below hummed low. Not too loud. Just enough to remind you it was alive. He didn’t even flinch when the balcony door slid open behind him.

She stepped out like a dream in soft motion—Sanaa. Still in his hoodie. Still in her glasses. Now with fuzzy cheetah-print slippers on her feet. She didn’t ask to join. Just sank into the opposite lounge chair with a little sigh, pulled her legs up beneath her, and settled in like this was routine. Like they hadn’t been avoiding each other. Like he hadn’t eaten her pussy in the kitchen with a hunger that still made her twitch.

She didn’t look at him right away. Just scrolled her phone. Light tapping sounds from her acrylics on the screen.

Then, “Where you went off to lookin’ all fine like that?”

Her tone was light. Casual. But the way her eyes cut over to him from behind those lenses said different. Erik chuckled low in his throat, didn’t even turn his head. Just pulled another hit and exhaled slow.

“Solo date,” he said, flicking ash into the tray beside him, “Needed some air.”

“Oh yeah?” she teased, biting the corner of her bottom lip. “No lil D.C. chick out there waiting to feed you and rub on your chest a little?”

He finally looked over at her. Eyes dark. Steady, “Nah.” Then, slower—so low it almost slipped past the breeze, “You know why.”

The words hung between them, hot and dangerous. He held her gaze just long enough to make her press her thighs together under the hoodie. Then he glanced back inside the apartment, through the slightly cracked curtain, eyes checking for any sign of movement.

No footsteps. No Aaliyah.

Safe.

“You good with school?” he asked. Voice smoother now. A little gentler, “You ready for graduation?”

Sanaa swallowed, the switch in tone making her pulse skip. He always did that—moved from heat to softness so quick it left her dizzy.

“I’m good,” she said, tucking her feet tighter beneath her, “Almost done. Just gotta get through finals.”

“You will.” His voice was firm. Certain.

She nodded but kept her eyes on him, lips pressed into a smirk, “You sound like somebody’s big brother.”

“I am somebody’s big brother.”

“Right,” she said, dragging the word out slow, “That’s the problem.”

He looked back at her. Smoke curled between them again. Eyes low. Body relaxed but not soft. His thigh bounced once, slowly. Like restraint took effort. Sanaa licked her lips. Erik watched her do it.

Neither of them moved.

The city buzzed. The blunt burned slow. The hoodie hung too big on her frame, but her nipples pressed against it all the same. His eyes dropped to her thighs once—quick, but not quick enough. She caught it.

She smiled.

He leaned back again.

Erik’s head was tipped back, exhaling toward the sky like it held answers. That low hum of the city stretched under them, broken only by the soft scroll-click of Sanaa’s phone.

Then came her voice.

“Who were you talking to on the phone the other day?”

Her tone wasn’t accusing. Just curious. Light. But he could feel the weight beneath it. She didn’t miss shit. Erik’s jaw ticked. He didn’t look at her right away. Just tapped ash into the tray and took another hit.

“Work shit.”

That was all he gave her. Short. Controlled.

Sanaa shifted on the lounge chair, pulling her legs in tighter, “Work shit where you gotta leave again soon?”

This time, he did look. Eyes sharp. Smoke dancing around his lips.

“Yeah.”

She rolled her eyes and turned her head, lips twisted like she was already annoyed.

That made him grin.

“Why you rollin’ your eyes, Bri?” he asked, low and teasing, “You don’t want me to leave?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

He watched her through the smoke, smirk deepening, “I gotta handle business, baby girl,” he said, voice dropped a register lower, “Get in Killmonger mode.”

That did something to her.

She didn’t speak, but her body reacted all the same. Her thighs pressed together under the hoodie. Her breathing shifted, barely. Her eyes stayed locked on his like she was seeing something more than a man with a blunt and a chain—like she was seeing the danger. The power. The one behind the name. And it stirred something in her. Something deep. Something wet. That look she gave him—glass still on, lips parted just a touch, head tilted in that slow burn way—was louder than any words. A quiet hunger. A pulse-quickening dare.

Erik sat forward, elbows on his knees, blunt between his fingers. Caught it. Felt it. Didn’t speak on it. Just held her stare until the silence started to crackle with heat.Then he blew the smoke to the side and leaned back again, like he hadn’t just clocked the exact second she got wet for him. Like he hadn’t just filed that reaction away for later.

She looked away first. Pretended to check her phone.

But her fingers were trembling.

Sanaa leaned back deeper into the lounge chair, phone resting against her thigh, pretending she was scrolling through nothing in particular. Her face stayed neutral. Calm. Unbothered. But her thumb slid into her hidden folder. And there it was. The video.

Her breath caught just a little when it loaded.

It was her. On her knees. Hair messy. Lips glossy. Eyes soft and needy. His hand in her hair, guiding her mouth. His voice low and approving somewhere off camera. The way she took him deep, slow, hollowing her cheeks, looking up at him like he was the only thing in the world that mattered. She watched it on silent. Her thighs pressed together automatically. Her pussy reacted before her mind did, warmth blooming, pulse fluttering. She shifted in her seat, pretending it was nothing, while inside her body was lighting up like it remembered everything. She studied herself. The way her lips stretched. The way her tongue moved. The way she looked up at the camera, eyes dark and trusting and filthy all at once. The way he fed her his dick like he owned her mouth. Her breathing changed. Subtle. But different.

She replayed it. Once. Twice.

Her fingers tightened around her phone.

Then she made a decision.

Slowly, casually, like she wasn’t about to set something on fire, she tapped “send.”

Erik’s phone buzzed.

Once.

He barely reacted at first. Just reached for it out of habit, still half-lounged, smoke drifting from his lips.

Then he saw the preview. And froze.

His body went still like somebody had pressed pause. The blunt burned down between his fingers, forgotten. On his screen: her mouth wrapped around him. Her eyes locked on his. His hand in her hair.

Them.

His jaw tightened. His chest lifted on a sharp inhale. He stared at it like it might disappear if he blinked.

It didn’t.

Across from him, Sanaa was still scrolling. Still relaxed. Still pretending she was reading a group chat or checking Instagram. Like she hadn’t just dropped a sexual grenade in his lap.

Erik locked his phone. Then he looked at her.

Hard.

She felt it before she saw it. That heat. That pressure. That silent what the fuck are you doing to me look.

She finally glanced up.

Blink. Blink.

“Including me in your smoke session now?” she asked lightly.

Innocent. Too innocent.

He stared at her for a long second, then leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the armrest, eyes dark and dangerous.

“You play too much,” he said quietly.

She shrugged, “Do I?”

Her legs shifted again under the hoodie. Slow. On purpose.

The blunt burned low in the ashtray now, forgotten. The air on the balcony had changed. Thicker. Stickier. The silence between them was too loud—charged by the video she’d sent and the look Erik was giving her now. He sat up, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loose between his thighs, eyes locked on her like she was the problem and the solution all at once.

“How the fuck you get my hoodie?”

Sanaa didn’t miss a beat, “Went in your room and took it.”

His eyebrows rose, “You just goin’ through my shit now?”

She smirked and leaned back, pulling the hoodie tighter around herself like it was her birthright, “You got a fleshlight in there I wasn’t supposed to see?”

“Fuck outta here,” Erik snapped, shaking his head with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “I don’t use no fuckin’ fleshlight.” Then he looked dead at her, “Not when my personal fleshlight sittin’ right there.”

That shut her up. Quick.

Her throat moved when she swallowed. Legs stilled. That cocky little smile faded—just a little—but not from embarrassment. Not from shame. From heat. That low, throbbing rush that hit her in the center of her body like a punch.

She didn’t look away.

Erik leaned back slow, eyes trailing over her thighs, her lips, her smug quiet, “You a bratty little girl,” he whispered, “You like pissing me off. You like it when I check you.”

Sanaa tilted her head, “Thought I was off limits?” she said, voice quiet but sharp, “Thought I wasn’t ready for you?”

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees now, that same look she gave him in the video crawling back into her eyes.

“You don’t sound like you ready to be done with me.”

Erik stared at her. She could see his jaw tense, the way his tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, the shift in his chest as his breathing changed. His phone buzzed again. Another text. Erik glanced down, expecting more of the same—but what hit his screen made his breath catch low in his chest. It was a picture. Of her.

Sanaa.

Laid out on the bed, phone angled from her chest, camera facing down her body. Legs spread wide. Pussy glistening. Lips stretched open, two fingers spreading herself wide, creamy and wet like she’d been playing with it for a while. Her other hand held the phone, but her eyes were locked on the camera—on him—tongue poked out, spit dripping from the tip like she knew exactly what that look did to him.

Like a nasty little slut.

Erik’s grip tightened on the phone.

He blinked. Once. Twice. His jaw set hard as his dick twitched, painfully stiff now, throbbing under his shorts. His stomach clenched. His chest rose slow like he was trying to control something that was seconds from snapping.

He looked up at her.

She was already watching him. Already waiting. And just like that, Sanaa lifted her legs up onto the lounge chair and spread her knees.

The hoodie shifted. The hem hiked.

No panties.

Bare.

Erik groaned under his breath, low and guttural, a quiet growl scraping his throat as his whole mouth filled with saliva. She had him starving. That little pussy glistened under the moonlight like it was sending him a message. He didn’t know what the fuck it was about her. This little freak. This bratty, bold-mouthed girl who walked around in barely anything and sending him videos on her knees and sucking fat dick, now showing him how wet she stayed without even being touched. His fists clenched. He was about five seconds from grabbing her by the back of the neck, carrying her inside, and dropping her right on his dick.

His eyes dropped to her thighs again. Up to her eyes. Down to her spit-slick tongue. He was about to move. Then they spotted her.

Aaliyah.

Walking out into the living room, lit by the blue glow of the TV. Pajama shorts, bonnet, a bowl of cereal in her hand. She headed straight for the kitchen, then paused—her eyes flicked toward the balcony. Sanaa moved fast. Legs dropped. Thighs snapped shut. Hoodie tugged down just enough to cover the evidence. She picked up her phone like nothing had happened, like she hadn’t just been showing her best friend’s brother the wettest pussy he’d ever seen.

The sliding door eased open.

“Bitch, you out here smoking weed?” Aaliyah squinted as she stepped onto the balcony, “Last time you did that shit you was paranoid, talkin’ bout somebody laced it.”

“Nah. I just needed some air,” she said, voice even, casual, as if she hadn’t just been showing her pussy to her best friend’s brother seconds before.

She stood slow, hoodie falling back down over her thighs. Gave a soft stretch like she was bored. Slid her phone into her pocket.

Then, before walking back inside, she cast one last look at Erik.

Up and down.

Real slow.

Like she could still taste him.

———

The apartment was quiet except for the low flicker of the TV. Sanaa was curled up on the couch in a pair of tiny sleep shorts and a tank top with no bra, her legs crossed at the ankles, one foot swinging lazily in the air. Glasses still on. Phone resting face up beside her on the cushion, speaker on. Nathan’s voice drifted through, casual and familiar.

She giggled at something he said, fingers tracing lazy circles on her thigh, “You stupid,” she whispered into a smile, biting her bottom lip.

The microwave clock flashed 2:11 a.m.

Erik came out of the hallway shirtless, wearing loose black sweats and nothing else. He looked half-asleep, half-annoyed, rubbing a hand over his chest as he walked to the kitchen with a takeout container in hand. As he opened the trash, the sound of Sanaa’s voice made him pause. He glanced over his shoulder.

That’s when she looked up. Right at him. Still on the phone. Smiling.

And when her eyes found his, they didn’t move. She just held that look like a dare, lips parted, lazy and slow. Then she waved him over, two fingers flicking in a “come here” motion, subtle and slick.

Erik stared for a second. He looked down at the trash, then back at her.

Then he came.

Didn’t say a word. Just walked over and dropped onto the other end of the couch. The cushions shifted. He leaned back, arms folded over his chest, eyes glued to the screen like he was watching something that mattered.

But inside? Inside he was burning.

Why was she still talking to that nigga?

Nathan was mid-story, something about his job, some girl he dated before. Erik wasn’t listening, not really. But Sanaa laughed again. That same soft, teasing laugh she gave Erik like she wanted to sneak into his bed and tug on his shorts under the sheets.

She shifted closer. Not much. Just enough that her thigh brushed his. Erik didn’t move but he cut his eyes down at her, then flicked them toward the hall. She leaned into him, body soft and warm, and whispered a “shh” like he was the one causing problems.

Then her hand dropped. Low. Over his crotch. She dragged her fingers slow over the front of his sweats. Light at first. Teasing. Then firmer. Stroking his print like it was hers to touch. Erik’s arms stayed folded, but his chest rose. Once. Twice. Then she rubbed harder, the heel of her palm dragging along his shaft. Erik turned his head and stared down at her hand. Then up at her face.

What the fuck was she doing?

She was on the damn phone. Still talking.

Nathan’s voice came through the speaker: “So when can I take you out again, Sanaa?”

Erik’s jaw flexed.

Sanaa blinked slow. She didn’t answer right away. Her hand was already inside Erik’s waistband, her fingers curling around the length of him. Stroking. Sliding. Her thumb grazed the underside of the head, watching the way his body tightened beneath her touch.

“Um…” she said lightly, pretending to think, “I’m not sure. I been kinda busy lately. But I’ll let you know.”

Nathan said something back, but Erik didn’t hear it. All he could focus on was how warm and soft her palm felt. How good it felt to have her fingers moving over his shaft like that. She was stroking him slow. Intentional. Like she was painting a picture for herself. Like she was trying to see how hard she could make him while another man’s voice filled the room.

Then she picked the phone up and placed it on the end table. Still on speaker. Nathan was talking about reservations now, something about a place downtown. Sanaa slid down off the couch. Settled right between Erik’s legs on her knees, her tank riding up in the back. The glow of the television flickered across her skin. Erik leaned his head back, nostrils flared, his abs flexing as she pulled his dick out fully, thick and hard and heavy in her grip. She didn’t speak. Just started stroking him again.

Long, slow pulls.

Her eyes locked on his.

Erik looked down at her, his arms now stretched over the back of the couch, trying to breathe quiet through his nose. He should’ve pushed her off. Should’ve told her to stop. But all he could do was sit there and watch that pretty little hand work him like she ain’t give a fuck who was on the other end of the line.

Nathan was still talking. But Sanaa? She had his whole dick in both hands now, twisting, stroking, tongue peeking out against her lip like she was considering taking it in her mouth just to see how far she could go before Erik lost it.

His stomach tightened. He hissed low under his breath.

Sanaa smiled up at him, soft and nasty. And went back to stroking.

Erik’s body was tense, but he didn’t move, not when she slid both hands up his thighs, not when she leaned in closer, not when her mouth hovered over his dick like she was about to say grace. Sanaa’s lashes lowered as her lips pressed a soft kiss to his tip. Just one. Then another. Erik’s jaw ticked, and he let out a quiet breath through his nose, eyes flicking toward the hallway.

She kissed the head again, slower this time, a little wetter, tongue peeking out to taste the bead of precum collecting at the tip. Erik’s lips parted, his hand balled into a fist and came up to his mouth as he stifled a laugh, because what the fuck was she doing? She was really doing this right now. Right here. While her little phone date was still talking into the air like he mattered.

Nathan’s voice came through again, soft and curious: “What you doing now?”

Sanaa didn’t look up right away. She kissed Erik’s tip again, then dragged her tongue gently around the crown, slow and lazy like she was savoring it. Then she glanced at the phone, smiled faintly, and answered like it was nothing.

“I’m eating.”

Erik gave her a sharp look, one brow lifting like she was out of her damn mind. She grinned at his expression, lips shiny, and then she wrapped them fully around the tip and started sucking.

Her mouth made a soft suction sound as she eased down just enough to let the head press against her tongue, then pulled back with a gentle pop. Erik’s hips jerked once. His eyes slammed shut for a second. When they opened, he looked back down the hall again, half-expecting to see Aaliyah standing there, but the hallway was still empty. Still dark. Just them. Sanaa’s lips closed tighter this time as she started working the tip with smooth, wet strokes of her mouth, each pass sending a chill crawling up Erik’s spine. He leaned back further against the couch, hands gripping the cushions, teeth buried in his bottom lip. She was barely taking him in, just teasing that thick head, but the way she did it made his toes curl in his socks. The pressure of her lips. The way her tongue flattened and dragged each time she came up. It was like she wanted to see just how much she could make him feel with the least amount of effort.

He looked down at her, eyes dark, chest rising slow but deep. She glanced up mid-suck, eyes glossy and wicked. And Nathan? Still talking. Still clueless. Erik didn’t know whether to laugh again or pull her off and take her right there. But he didn’t do either. He let her keep going. Let her use her mouth however she wanted. Let that pretty little lie she told—“I’m eating”—hang in the air like it was true. Because right now? She was. And he was letting her.

Her mouth settled into a steady rhythm, lips sealed tight around Erik’s tip, tongue pressing and dragging underneath with just enough pressure to make his thighs tense. She worked him slow and deep at first, easing down a little farther with every pass, letting more of his thick length slide into her mouth before pulling back up again. Each time she came up, she kissed the head softly like she was apologizing for how good she was about to make it feel.

Erik’s face told the whole story.

His brows stayed furrowed, jaw clenched like he was fighting himself, but his lips kept parting without permission. Every time her mouth tightened, his nostrils flared. Every time her tongue flicked against the sensitive spot underneath, his eyes fluttered shut for half a second before he forced them back open. He stared down the hallway like he was guarding a crime scene, neck stretched, shoulders tense, body locked in place except for the subtle roll of his hips when she hit him just right.

His hand slid from the couch cushion to his thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks.

Sanaa popped her lips off him suddenly, a quiet wet sound filling the room. Erik sucked in a sharp breath, chest heaving, eyes snapping down to her in protest. Before he could say anything, she reached over and unmuted the phone.

“Mmm, yeah, that sound nice,” she said casually, voice sweet and normal, “We’ll see.”

Then she muted it again. And went right back to work.

Her mouth closed around him deeper this time, taking more of his length, cheeks hollowing as she sucked with real intention. Her hands joined in, one at the base, twisting slow, the other sliding up and down in sync with her lips. She was focused now. Locked in. Like she had decided she wasn’t stopping until she made him lose control.

Erik dropped his head back against the couch. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. A low sound rumbled out of his chest before he could stop it, somewhere between a groan and a curse. He pressed his lips together, then licked them slowly, trying to stay quiet, trying to stay aware of his surroundings, trying not to embarrass himself by losing it while another man was still talking in the background. He glanced down the hall again.

Sanaa’s pace picked up just a little, enough to make his stomach tighten. She alternated between slow, deep pulls and fast, shallow sucks on the head, her tongue tracing circles that made his knees weak. Every time she pulled back, she let spit string between her lips and his dick before sealing her mouth around him again.

Erik’s eyes rolled back for a second. He clenched his jaw.

“Fuck,” he mouthed silently, shoulders lifting with a sharp breath.

She popped off him again, unmuted, “Mm-hmm, I know,” she said softly into the phone, “That sound good.”

Muted it.

Then took him back in immediately, deeper than before, her nose brushing his skin, her throat relaxing just enough to make him gasp. His hands flew up to grip the back of the couch. His head fell back. His eyes closed. Then opened again just to check the hall one more time. His body was starting to betray him now. His hips rocked forward without permission. His thighs were tight. His abs were flexed so hard they hurt. His breathing was uneven, shallow, broken up by quiet hisses every time her mouth tightened.

Sanaa felt it. She felt him getting close. The way his stomach jumped. The way his dick twitched in her mouth. The way his breath stuttered every time she went deep. She slowed just enough to torture him. Worked the head slow. Dragged her tongue under. Sucked harder. Erik’s head fell back again, neck exposed, lips parted, eyes half-lidded as he stared down the hallway through heavy lashes.

He whispered under his breath, barely audible, “Ma… don’t…”

But his hands never moved to stop her. And she didn’t listen anyway. Because she was determined to make him cum.

Right there.

With Nathan still talking.

His grip on the couch tightened until his knuckles flexed. His jaw locked. His lips pressed together so hard they almost disappeared.

She knew that look. That was the look he got right before he lost it. So she didn’t ease up. She doubled down. Her mouth slid down him slowly, taking him as deep as she could, relaxing her throat, letting him fill it. Her hands stayed steady at his base, twisting gently, keeping the rhythm perfect. Her tongue flattened underneath him, stroking that sensitive spot over and over, dragging slow and firm like she was coaxing it out of him on purpose.

Erik’s head dropped back. His eyes squeezed shut. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. A sound tried to escape his mouth. He trapped it. Bit down on his bottom lip. Brought his fist back to his mouth and pressed it there, breathing through his nose, shoulders trembling as he fought himself with everything he had. He glanced down the hallway one last time through half-lidded eyes, checking, praying, making sure nobody was there to see him come apart like this.

Sanaa took him deep again. Held him there. Sucked hard.

And that was it.

His whole body locked up. His back arched slightly off the couch. His abs clenched. His thighs went rigid. And he came.

Hard.

Thick warmth flooded her mouth and throat as he spilled, pulsing against her tongue, wave after wave after wave. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t hesitate. She kept her mouth sealed around him, swallowing everything he gave her, staying right there until he was completely spent.

Erik’s breath hitched sharply in his chest. His head fell back against the cushion. His eyes rolled closed. His fist stayed pressed to his mouth as his body shook with the aftershocks, silent and restrained and barely contained. A low, broken exhale slipped through his nose, the closest he allowed himself to come to making a sound.

He stayed frozen for a moment. Like he was afraid if he moved, he would give himself away.

Sanaa slowly pulled back. Her lips were shiny. Her eyes were soft and satisfied. She swallowed once more, deliberately, then looked up at him with a quiet little smile that said she knew exactly what she had just done to him.

The phone was still on the table. Nathan was still talking. Completely unaware.

Erik finally lowered his hand from his mouth, chest still rising and falling too fast. He looked down at her, eyes dark, stunned, half wrecked, half impressed, like he couldn’t believe she really just did that to him. Without making a sound.

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