“Ain’t nobody ever fucked you like this…made you cream like this…” he kissed along her jaw, voice low and filthy. “Nah…they was playin’ wit’ it, wasn’t they baby? Huh? Daddy got you…”
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 to go quiet. He crashes at his little sister's place near Howard University in Chocolate City. But when he arrives, there's a surprise: she's got a roommate. Her Best Friend. She's grown since he last saw her. Grown in all the ways that test a man's self control. But Erik? He's never been good at following the 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 Seven
Erik sucked his teeth, sat up a little more, thighs tensing beneath her hands. He looked down at her with her messy hair, and need all over her face and reached out to grab her jaw with one hand, thumb sliding across her lips.
“You wanna ride me?”
Sanaa nodded, lips parting around his thumb. She sucked it slow with her eyes locked on his.
Erik let out a low breath, nostrils flaring. His dick twitched hard in her hand. “Aight then,” he said. “Get up here.”
The way he said it wasn’t a request. Sanaa didn’t hesitate. She threw her leg over and straddled him, hands planted on his chest for balance. Erik leaned back on his elbows, watching her like a man possessed, eyes dragging from the sway of her hips to the heavy breath in her chest. He reached down, wrapped that big hand around his dick, and held it steady, thick and gleaming, the tip pulsing.
“Come get it.” He said with a low rasp.
Sanaa lifted just right, body knowing what to do like this wasn’t her first time begging for it. She lined herself up with the head, hips hovering, teasing his tip with slick little circles. Just working it in slowly, letting that first stretch send a shiver through both of them. Sanaa moaned airy and breathless, rolling her hips while Erik was only halfway inside. Erik’s head tipped back, jaw tight, watching her get herself ready for the full thing.
Then, she sank.
Her breath caught as she sank down, thighs trembling while his dick pushed up through that tight, sloppy grip. Sanaa couldn’t help the way her mouth fell open, tongue peeking out against her top lip, eyes half-closed like she was somewhere between begging and backing out. She lifted, rolled her hips again, and slipped out with a slick sound that made her flinch.
“Come on, ma,” Erik whispered, voice low and gritty, his hips flexing up. “Put that shit back in. Don’t play.”
Sanaa reached behind her, fingers wet as she guided him back. His tip slipped past her folds, thick and glistening, dragging slick through her creamy pussy before sliding home again. Her back bowed, belly tensed, she took it inch by inch, breathing sharp through her nose like she was bracing for a stretch that hit deep every single time. Sanaa’s body paused like it was stunned by the depth, a little tremble shaking through her frame. But then, she started moving.
“There you go,” Erik said, voice like gravel on velvet. “Keep that arch for me. Just like that. Let me open this lil’ pussy up.”
She rode him like she was made for it.
Slow motion. Rolling her hips, arching her back, catching that stroke right where it made her eyes flutter and her breath skip. Her ass popped on the up stroke, then clapped softly when she dropped back down, thick and perfect against his thighs. Every grind pulled a sound out of Erik, deep in his throat. Low curses. Grunts. Praise.
Sanaa leaned forward, hands planted on his chest, his keloid scars slick beneath her palms. His pecs flexed under her touch like he was holding back from grabbing her and flipping the whole thing.
Sanaa whimpered sweet and buried like she was tryna swallow it down. Her knees dug into the mattress, feet braced over his thighs, ass lifting just enough to let him drive up harder. Erik didn’t even need to thrust far. He had her right where he wanted her. Just enough space for that big dick to pull back, then stroke up slow, deep, and firm. No air between them. Just desire. A vice grip. The sound of his dick stirring through slick like a slow churn.
Sanaa rocked and rode and lost herself in it, pausing only to lean down and kiss him slow and nasty, tongue sliding deep, lips parted like she needed his mouth to survive the high she was chasing. Then, she sat back up, arching again, going back to the motion. Deeper.
The way she stared down at him? It was like she owned him. Sanaa bit down on her bottom lip harder, breathing ragged. Her body twitched when he spread her ass wider, one hand gripping a cheek, thumb resting where her back curved into the dip of her spine. The other hand slid between her thighs and tugged her folds open on one side, just enough to feel how fucking tight of a squeeze it is to fit his dick in her. Just enough to feel the way she swallowed him each time he came back in. The flesh of her tight hole gliding smooth over veins and a thick pole.
Erik…loved it. That thick dick throbbed inside her. The hand on her back slid up and down, gripping her waist, helping her pace.
“Good girllll,” Erik praised, his voice deep and ragged. “Just like that pretty girl. This why you been actin’ up?” Erik whispered. “This what you needed? You needed daddy to fuck you quiet like this?”
Sanaa’s head dropped, her breath catching in her throat. She nodded, still rocking soft but getting fucked harder than she meant to. Each time Erik asked her ‘this what you needed?’ The tempo increased. That dick curved up right into her, hitting that spot that made her legs shake and her face twist up. She didn’t mean to roll her hips like that or let the creamy mess between them get louder. It was as if her body didn’t belong to her anymore. An object to be fucked by Killmonger like it asked for.
And this wasn’t even his final form.
Erik’s palms slid over her ass and held her open while he kept stroking. Sanaa’s body jolted every time his tip kissed the back of her pussy. It felt like pressure and a tickle all at once. Slipping out, sliding back in. Circling on the up stroke, sliding out slowly on the down stroke. Cream clinging to him. Her walls tightening to keep him in. But Erik’s dick is so thick. Long. And her pussy couldn’t help but give him room.
It shocked her. Sanaa was a brilliant girl but it never crossed her mind that a dick that’s equal parts thick and long could open her pussy up like this. Penetrate her and make her pussy cream and flutter like it had its own heartbeat.
“I should keep you up all night doin’ this shit. Fuckin’ you ‘til that walk change.”
“Daddy—”
“Shhh. Shut the fuck up. The only talkin’ I wanna hear is this pussy.”
Erik pressed his lips to her temple. His hands made its way to her waist, holding her still. Steady. On that dick. His hips drove up with a slow torture, punishing strokes and heavy weight like he was tryna leave the shape of his dick in her forever.
“You tryna wake her up?” Erik warned with a threatening whisper. “You tryna let her know how nasty you been behind her back?”
“No—no, I’m not—”
“Then Shut that shit up and ride this dick like you supposed to.” Erik spoke rough in her ear. So low it sent shivers down her spine.
And she gave it to him. All of it.
Sanaa bit the corner of her lip again, trembling, eyes almost rolling up. His dick stroked through the grip of her pussy with steady weight, gliding smooth and tight, dragging against her walls. The sound was slick and wet, sticky and clinging, layered with the subtle knock of his heavy balls brushing her ass when he dropped her down just right. Sanaa’s toes curled against his thighs. Her belly fluttered. She could feel him in her gut. Sanaa dragged her nails down his pecs and tried to lift her hips a little but Erik is stronger.
“Feel all that up in you, huh?” Erik said. “That’s what you was fiendin’ for, baby? Fat dick pressin’ your stomach? Stretchin’ your shit out. Don’t you move, now.” His tone was taunting; teasing.
Erik’s hands slid down her waist, wide palms smoothing over the curve of her hips before gripping the underside of her ass. He let her work. Let her grind slow like she had all day. But he couldn’t stop himself from giving her something extra. After all, he’s extra.
Pop.
A gentle slap to her right cheek made her gasp and bounce a little harder. Then, he rubbed it, smoothed his hand over the sting.
“Yeah,” Erik said low, looking up at her like she was art. “That’s it, baby. Ride that shit.”
Sanaa was in another dimension. Dick drunk. Eyes low. Mouth slick and almost drooling, whispering nonsense that didn’t make full sense but still sounded sexy as hell. Sanaa’s hands went to fist the sheets. Her thighs spread over him. The stroke was making her dizzy. Erik slid both hands around her waist and pulled her flush against him, holding her in place while he started fucking up into her with slow, mean precision. Each thrust was full. The bed barely moved but the air between them thickened with sweat and secret moans and groans swallowing into the backs of throats.
Erik bent his knees, driving up from the base, hips angled just right so his whole length stroked through the grip of her pussy like he was molding her insides with every pass. Sanaa’s breath stuttered. Her mouth hung open. She tried to hold it in. Tried to be good. But that shit felt so fucking good.
“I—mmh—this dick feel so good,” she breathed, grinding with slow, wet rolls. “Might start crying on it…I’m not even playin’…”
Erik laughed but dropped off into a groan when she clenched on him mid-roll. Erik gave her left cheek a light slap, then grabbed it, pulling her down harder.
“Don’t play then.” Erik warned. “Go head and cry.”
Sanaa was in the zone. One hand drifted up his chest again, Palm gliding over his scars, fingertips teasing his nipple just to make him twitch. The other hand braced on his thigh behind her for balance.
“I could live on this dick.” She whispered with a shaky laugh, voice floaty.
“You already do.” Erik shot back.
But Sanaa didn’t hear him. Or maybe she did and ignored it. Sanaa’s eyes fluttered shut. Her hips paused at the base of his stroke. Then…
She started bucking.
No warning. No ease into it. She just popped her hips and that bubbly ass back and up, then dropped down on him with force. That wet clap echoed between them.
“Shhhit—” Erik grunted, jaw locked. He sat up fast, his hand flying to her waist to ground her, but she was already in the zone.
“Uh uh,” Sanaa panted, riding that dick like she had a point to prove. “Don’t stop me now, I’m on a mission, daddy.”
Erik’s hands tried to slow her, but every time he gripped her waist, Sanaa twisted and bounced harder. Her ass smacked against his thighs, wild and filthy, her head thrown back as she whimpered with a bite of her lip softly and moaned out his name with an airy breath like it was her favorite song.
“Sanaa—”
She reached up, palmed the back of his neck, and pulled his forehead to hers. “Loose control, daddy.” She breathed, voice wrecked but still taunting. “Come on. I want it.”
That was her plan the whole time. To ride him until he couldn’t think straight. To fuck him until his voice broke and he forgot every rule he made about control. And judging by the way his fingers dug into her flesh and those muscles flexed…
It was working.
Sanaa leaned her weight forward, kept that nasty dance, and added something new to it. Her hand—small, delicate, manicured fingers with her name on her gold necklace glinting between her tits—wrapped right around Erik’s throat. Just enough pressure to make his head tilt back and his eyes lock onto hers like she had him pinned in place. Like he belonged to her now.
And then she rode him.
From tip to base. Working every inch of that thick ass dick like it was hers to break in. Her body rolled in perfect time, ass popping up, then dropping back down to the back with a wet clap again and again. Sanaa stayed eye to eye with him the whole time.
Erik’s mouth fell open. A low, guttural sound came from his chest, his hands gripping her thighs like he was hanging on for dear life. His nostrils flared, his gold canines flashed as his top lip curled to fight the urge to groan so loud he wakes the whole building up. His whole body tensed underneath her like he was fighting the urge to flip her over and wreck her. But he didn’t. He let her have it. Let her take that power.
His expression was war. Tight jaw. Eyes dark and ablaze. Clenched abs. Fists flexing on her skin. Eyes damn near desperate. Breathing hard.
“Sanaa…” Erik grunted, voice all gravel and restraint. “Fuck, baby.”
Sanaa smiled. A slow, wicked, bratty smile. She rolled her hips in a circle while still sitting in him full. She was gon’ milk him good. Then, she leaned in close, mouth at his ear, whispering low, breathy, slick.
“What’s wrong, Killmonger?”
Erik twitched. His grip on her thighs got tighter. That name hit different coming from her mouth. Especially with her sitting on his fucking dick like that. Dripping and talking her shit.
“You supped to be the big bad soldier, huh?” She panted, riding again, faster now, breath hitching between words. “Don’t tell me I got you foldin’…”
Erik growled low in his throat. His eyes snapped to hers, wide, wild, hungry. “You wanna play like that?” He said, voice hoarse.
Sanaa kept bouncing. Let her hand tighten just a little more on his throat, thumb pressing under his jaw while her pussy clamped down and stroked him from base to tip like a goddamn vice. Like he was her personal toy. Her toy soldier.
“Mmhm,” she whispered. “Killmonger can’t take it…”
And that was it.
Erik’s hand shot up, yanked her wrist off his neck, and pinned it to the bed beside him. His other arm wrapped around her back, locking her down.
But Sanaa was still grinding. Still riding that big thing. Erik’s arms caged her in—thick, strong, immovable. Erik shifted under her, sitting up in one powerful motion, his chest pressed to hers, their breaths tangled. Sanaa barely had time to blink before his hands slid beneath her thighs, hooking her knees over his forearms, palming the underside of her ass with a grip that meant business.
Then he stood up. Taking back his power. Ain’t no way some lil’ girl was gonna grab him by the neck and ride his dick and talk shit in his ear like she in charge. Fuck that.
That big dick never slipped out once. Erik rose with her still fully seated on him, buried to the base, his muscles flexing all down his back and arms. Sanaa gasped, arm’s flailing for his shoulders before clutching tight. He made that shit look so effortless. Erik adjusted his hold, tightening his grip on her thighs, locking her in against his chest.
And then, he bounced her.
Not wild. Not frantic. But deep. Firm.
Erik dropped her down on that dick, letting the full weight of his body take him. His grip under her ass controlled every motion like she was a workout, a blessing, and a punishment all rolled into one. Her pussy opened for him every time, swallowing that big dick whole, her walls fluttering with every single drop like that pussy was talking to him, begging Killmonger to murder her shit.
Sanaa couldn’t catch a breath. Her body tensed and softened all at once—overwhelmed, overstimulated, taken. He was using her like she belonged in his arms getting fucked like this. She was made to be lifted and held and fucked. Her pretty head dropped back, those glossy lips parted, that tiny breath hitching. She had never been handled like this before. Ever. Then here comes this big, strong, soldier with scars and a lethal dick to rewrite everything the thought she knew about getting fucked.
“Erik—”
Sanaa moaned his name once, sweet and quiet. But it turned to something else. Something filthier. More desperate. Like her body knew what she needed before her mind caught up.
It spilled out of her in waves, soft, breathy, cracked around the edges. Her thighs trembled against his arms, her nails clawing at his back, and her pussy was dripping. Soaked and sucking him back in with every controlled thrust. When Sanaa caught their reflection, her eyes went round. Her small frame folded in the air around his big, muscled, scarred, tall body. She looked helpless, caged, locked.
She just raised his number to 2,208.
Pick yourself up Bri—oh, wait—you’re stuck in the air bitch how you gonna flip it on him again?
Damn, he all up in this pussy.
Why he fucking me like this?
Erik looked up at her face, lips swollen, hair clinging to her cheek, eyes fluttering with every drop. “You wanted it,” he said, low and steady, sweat beading on his neck. “Now take it.”
Then, he bounced her again, slow and punishing, that big thing pushing her to the brink.
All Sanaa could do was hang on. Fall apart. Moan his name. Her toes curled right in the air, ankles flexing with every drop. She was about to tap out. But that would make her look like a weak bitch. Her whole body tensed like a struck cord, arms wrapped tighter around Erik’s shoulders as she dropped her head to his neck. She pressed her nose into his skin, right where the warmth gathered, where his clean scent lived. Masculine mix of sweat, lotion, and something earthy that was just him. It made her dizzy.
Erik was in it. He was bouncing her just right on that thick dick. He switched it up. Started feeding her. Rolling his hips upward as she came down. Rocking into her slow and deep, hitting that spot every single time. The control he had over his body was insane. Like he had power running through his veins. Inhuman. He adjusted mid-thrust, tilting her hips, locking her tighter against him so her clit dragged across his pelvis just right.
She was unraveling from the inside out.
“…Killmonger…yes…baby…”
The name barely left her lips before Erik’s jaw clenched. He adjusted his stance, braced one foot back to keep his balance, then slammed her down deeper, held her there, let her feel all of it.
“You wanted Killmonger?” he breathed against her ear, voice low and gritty, laced with dark amusement, “Huh?” He bounced her again, the sound of her moaning his name fed something carnal in him, “Say it again, Princess.”
Sanaa shook her head, biting her lip, but her pussy clenched hard around him, giving her away.
“Nah,” Erik growled. “You been talkin’ all that shit now you gettin’ it.” Another thrust. Deep. He rocked up into her and held, “Say. That. Shit.”
Her breath caught, “…Killmonger…” Sanaa’s voice barely made it past her lips. “Don’t stop fucking your pussy, Killmonger…”
That was all Erik needed.
His arms flexed tighter beneath her knees, locking Sanaa in. Her back was flat against the wall now but her hips were tipped—cocked up perfect and wide. That pussy sat right on his dick like it was made to fit him and only him. Swallowing all that thick pressure with every pump of his hips. Erik didn’t slam into her, he stroked. Sanaa looked down and her breath hitched with surprise at how her hips jerked involuntarily every time he pushed in and how her hips chased the sensation again when he slides back out.
“Mmm. There she go,” Erikk growled low against her throat, breathing in her scent, teeth grazing her skin, “You feel that? That stretch right there?”
Sanaa nodded fast, lower lip trembling but the only sound she could make was a tight little gasp. Her acrylics dug onto his shoulders and her thighs quaked over his arms.
Erik held her there and made her feel it.
“Yeah.” he said, that voice low and deep, “That’s what I thought. Pussy talkin’ now.”
And it was.
Every time he rolled his hips forward, that slick, soaking grip of hers let out a wet little squelch. A pop as air got trapped and pushed back out. That tight little pussy started queefing loud and messy between them. Sanaa’s whole body tensed in embarrassment. She’d NEVER done that before. She shut her eyes and tilted her face away, trying to stop herself from doing it again but nope. It kept happening.
What the fuck?
But Erik loved it.
“Nah, don’t hide,” he grunted, dragging his dick out slow until just the tip sat at her entrance, then pushed right back in with a deep, thick stroke that made her head knock against the wall with a soft thud, “Let it talk. Let me hear how tight that shit is.”
“E—”
Sanaa was trying to hold it in, but Erik didn’t give her the chance. Erik snatched it from her chest with the next thrust. Smooth and deep again. Long strokes. Pussy gripped him so snug it felt like it was sucking him back in. Her arousal was dripping down his ball now. Every time he pulled out, his dick glistened with it, creamy at the base. Wet and shiny all the way up to the head.
Then it happened. That change. That little flutter deep inside her.
Sanaa’s walls started twitching like they were confused. Like her pussy didn’t know if it wanted to clench him or release. It pulsed around him, and she gasped again, harder this time.
“Fuck—”
“Yeah…” Erik grunted, “she feelin’ it now.”
Erik adjusted his stance. He took one small step forward so her back pressed tighter to the wall, and then he angled his hips downwards. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was chasing her spot now. And when he found it? Sanaa had to bite down on her bottom lip to stifle a loud moan. Her whole body jerked in his arms. Her mouth dropped open, closed in a pout, eyes crossing, breath catching. Her pussy squeezed so hard around his dick it made his knees buckle.
“Damn, there she go. That’s what I wanted from that pussy.”
Sanaa didn’t even know if she could ever speak again after that. But a sound came out of her. A mix of a cry and a moan and a choked little please. All the things he watched from her, every thrust hit that spot. She started having the most intense orgasm she’d ever had and she couldn’t run. She could feel it. A warm, milky wave gushing out of her, coating his dick, her thighs, dripping to the floor of. It made everything wetter. Nastier. Louder. Pussy slipping and gripping around him. Erik licked his lips as he watched her face twist up.
“Creamin’ on this dick, baby?” Erik spoke soft, biting her earlobe, “That’s what happen when you fuck wit’ a grown ass man.”
Sanaa whimpered. Bit her lip.
His dick dragged through her like he was reminding her who owned that pussy. Like he knew it better than she did. Rubbing her walls raw in the best way. Grinding into that tender, aching spot inside her that had her leaking again.
Do that again, Daddy that feels so good, she thought.
His voice was a low growl now, filthy, dark, right in her ear.
“You gon’ take this dick. Just like that. That’s what you wanted, ain’t it? That what you beggin’ for?”
Erik snapped his hips into her so deep her eyes rolled.
She was cumming again. Not from clit play. Not from fingers.
From dick.
Thick, deep, grown man dick.
Sanaa moaned—low-pitched, pretty, almost sobbing—and Erik smiled against her neck.
“Uh huh…that’s right,” he said, “Let me hear it.”
He rolled his hips again, just right. And again. Stroking deep and smooth. Not stopping. Her walls squeezed so tight around him he could barely move.
“Damn, baby…this pussy tryna keep me in…” His voice dropped even lower. “You want me to cum in it, don’t you?”
Her body jumped.
Sanaa shook her head weakly, but he saw the way her pussy clenched again. She couldn’t even lie.
Erik laughed under his breath, “You came beggin’ for this dick again I don’t know, Bri. Might not get this nut tonight.”
Then he did something that wrecked her.
He leaned back just enough to look at her.
Held her up, eyes locked to hers, and gave her one… slow…deep grind.
His dick dragged against every inch of her walls. Pressed to her spot. Stretched her from the inside until her whole body arched and her face twisted in pure pleasure.
“Ain’t nobody ever fucked you like this…made you cream like this…” He kissed her jaw, “Nah…they was playin’ wit’ it, wasn’t they baby? Huh? Daddy got you…”
Another thrust. Another cry. Sanaa’s head hit the wall again. Her nails scratched down his back. She was shaking so bad he had to grip her tighter.
He groaned through gritted teeth, “Keep moaning like that and I’ma fuck around and nut in this tight little pussy…just might give you your present.”
She just nodded, moaned, and melted around him—completely fucked. Her walls fluttered again, and he knew…
She was about to cum AGAIN.
Erik rolled his hips again, one long, smooth stroke that had her gasping into his neck. Her body arched. Her pussy clenched. Her thighs twitched where they were locked over his arms. Erik could feel how open she was now. How she’d molded to him. Wrapped around him so tight and juicy and so fucking wet, it sounded like syrup every time he sank back in.
Slrp…squelch…slrp…
“Shhhhit,” he groaned, dragging his lips across her cheek, breath hot. “That sound makin’ me crazy…”
He shifted just slightly, angled deeper. Lower. Found that spot again.
Sanaa opened her mouth but no sound came out. Then, her head dropped back and her face…
So damn pretty.
Lips parted. Brows pinched. Skin flushed and glistening. She looked like she didn’t know whether to moan or cry.
Erik watched her, mesmerized, “Look at you…” he muttered, eyes dropping to her mouth. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum.”
She bit her lip, hard. Her fingers clawed into his back. Erik pulled her away from the wall. He grunted, bounced her again, then rolled his hips so perfect her eyes damn near crossed. Sanaa pressed her lips to the curve of his neck, panting softly, her nose buried in his scent. Her body was wrung out, pussy soaked and fluttering around him, but she gave him what he wanted.
His grip on her thighs tightened, “Yeah,” he said, rocking up into her again, slow and deliberate, “you wanted Killmonger…”
Erik fed it to her just like that. Deep strokes that made her press her forehead to his jaw, made her toes curl again in the air. Erik backed towards the bed, still holding her while deep inside, until the backs of his legs hit the edge. Then, he eased down, his arms guiding her down with him like she was something precious. He settled back against the pillows, legs spread wide, hands gripping beneath her thighs while she adjusted.
Sanaa didn’t waste time.
She rose up into a squat, planted her feet firm on either side of his thighs, and lifted herself until just the tip of that thick dick stayed inside. Then, she dropped. The sound it made—the wetness, the weight of her ass clapping down, the deep breath Erik took through his nose—fills the room.
Sanaa did it again and again. Her curls fell into her face, sticking to her cheeks and neck, sweat rolling down her chest as her body took over. She was on a mission now. Squatting low, bouncing on him with that juicy grip, swallowing every inch. Her thighs flexed, that ass jiggled with each drop, and her moans came out like breathy spells.
“Mm…fuck, it’s too deep…I can’t even breathe right…you feel that? You feel that, daddy?”
Erik didn’t answer. He leaned in, mouth hungry, and caught her nipple between his lips, sucked it, tongue circling the tip before letting it pop free. Then, he moved to the other, licking and teasing until her back arched and her pussy pulsed hard around him.
Sanaa’s hand went to the back of his neck, pulling him in closer, grounding herself against the flood of pleasure. She didn’t wanna stop riding. She didn’t wanna stop grinding. She started rolling her hips, slow figure eights while still deep in that squat, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted around a soft moan, chest heaving.
It was a sight.
Her curls framed her face wild and damp. Nipples hard and pointed. Mouth glossy with spit. That slim-thick body was glistening everywhere—down her neck, across her stomach, where Erik’s hands slid to grab her waist. Every bounce, every grind, made her gasp. Made her sigh. Made her shine.
Erik breathed heavy, eyes locked on the way she moved, “Fuckin’ beautiful…”
His thighs were tight, muscles straining as he held himself back, eyes locked on the sight above him. Sanaa’s hips were working overtime, slow then fast, smooth then nasty. She was riding him like it meant something. Like she needed that dick to breathe. Her palms braced against his chest as she worked her body over his big dick, up and down, clenching him so tight he could barely think. Erik’s hands had nowhere to go but up—one locked around her waist, the other scrubbed up her stomach, over the curve of her breast, and finally up to her face. His thumb traced along her jaw before sliding to her cheek. He was stuck. Couldn’t stop looking at her. That lil’ face twisted in ecstasy, mouth open, eyes fluttering every time she sank down on him and took it all like a good girl.
“Give it to me…” she begged, voice sugar-slick and whimpering, “Give it to me, please.”
Erik grunted low, chest heaving, lips parted like the air got caught in his throat. He could feel it rising, the rush, the heat in his spine, the clench in his gut. Her pussy was too tight. Too wet. She gripped him and made a mess on him every time she bounced.
“I’m bein’ good,” she said through breathy moans, her ass slapping against his thighs. “I’m riding daddy’s dick good.”
He could barely hold on. His head dropped back against the pillow, jaw tight, sweat slicking the cut of his collarbones. “Fuck, lil’ mama…”
Her lips curled into a wicked little smile. She wanted all of him. And she was gonna get it. Sanaa dropped her hips faster, harder, like she knew he was right on the edge.
“Fill me up.”
Erik looked up at her like she was unreal. A fantasy he accidentally pulled out of his dreams. Her titties bouncing with every move. The roll of her hips was deadly. The wet sounds between them only made it filthier. She arched her back, leaned forward, and started grinding instead of bouncing. That roll she did with her hips? That shit broke him.
“Unh…yes,” she panted, nails digging into his chest. “Give me that Killmonger dick.”
Erik growled, deep and guttural, reaching ip and grabbing the back of her neck, dragging her face close to his. His eyes were heavy, bloodshot, lost in her, “You gon’ make me bust up in this pussy, girl…”
“That’s what I want,” she said, breath all over his lips. “I want it. I want you to nut in this pussy. I been so good. Look how I take it. Look at me…”
Erik looked. Couldn’t not look. Her pussy was swallowing him. Gripping every inch like it was molded for him.
Taking every inch of his daddy dick like her little pussy was made to do it. The way her body arched, the curve of her back, the wet slap of her ass meeting his lap—it was obscene, nasty, and perfect. And every time she rode down, her breasts bounced like they were cheering her on.
She put her hands on his chest, leaned forward just enough to whisper in his ear, “Look how I ride it, Daddy,” she panted, voice low and slick, “Look how I take it in my little pussy like a big girl supposed to.”
Erik’s eyes snapped open. That shit hit him like a shot to the chest. His nostrils flared. It was the kind of reaction a man had when he was trying not to bust too soon. Erik frowned hard at her, like her words had personally disrespected him.
Sanaa smirked, proud of herself. She swiveled her hips slow, teasing him with it, making sure he could feel every slick roll of her walls dragging over him.
“Oh yeah…mmm…” she moaned, drawing out the sound like it was syrup on her tongue. Her hands slid up his shoulders, “Such a big dick. You handsome and your thing big. So disrespectful.”
Erik’s hands flew to her ass, palms spread wide as he cupped her cheeks and started bouncing her harder. Sanaa gasped, lost her groove for a second as he took over. Her hands gripped his shoulders tight, nails pressing into his skin. Sanaa looked down at him and the way he stared up at her—eyes dark, lips parted, sweat on his temples—she knew.
He was about to lose it.
That’s right Bri. Bury that nigga.
“Shit,” Erik growled low, his voice breaking apart from how deep it hit. His hands dragged her down and lifted her up, over and over, using her body like it was his personal addiction. His grip got tighter, more demanding, like he needed her to keep going, to stay right there.
Their eyes locked. Sanaa’s mouth parted. She could see it in his face, all over it. That look. That edge. He was right there. Right on the fucking edge of letting go.
His chest rose quick, muscles flexing. His brows pulled in tight and his gold slugs flashed beneath clenched teeth. His hips stuttered, bucking up into her, and he let out this low, primal sound like he was trying to hold back a flood.
Sanaa was taking that dick like she owned it—slow and deep, then fast and filthy, grinding into Erik’s lap with that little arch in her back that always made him twitch. His hands were locked on her ass, pulling her down, forcing her to take all of him. His mouth hung open as he breathed through it, face twisted up like he was trying not to explode.
But Sanaa wasn’t done.
“Say my name,” she whispered.
Erik grunted, trying to hold himself back, but his body was betraying him. Thighs flexing. Chest rising. That big dick of his twitching so deep inside her, begging for release.
“Whose big dick is this?” she asked, breath sweet and soft but commanding as hell, “Who’s big dick this belong to?”
He almost choked on his own spit. His grip on her ass tightened, fingers digging into the flesh like he was trying to keep her there. “It’s yours,” he rasped. “Fuck, it’s yours—”
She tilted her head.
“It’s mine? Huh, Killmonger?”
His whole body jerked. He stilled. He was about to fill her up. He wanted to. Needed to. He was locked in, ready to drown in her.
“Shit—” he breathed, jaw locked, legs tense as hell, “Take this nut, daddy’s girl—”
And that’s when she did it.
Sanaa hopped off. Quick and clean.
Erik let out a deep, wrecked growl as his big dick bounced up, angry and wet, pulsing without a home. His eyes went wide, stunned, and before he could get his bearings, it was already happening. That first thick spurt shot up and landed hot on his lower abs. Another followed, streaking his thighs. His hips bucked helplessly as more of his nut spilled out, messy and hot, painting his skin. He looked down at himself, then back up at her, brows drawn in deep like did you really just hop off my dick?
Sanaa stood at the edge of the bed like a goddess fresh off her throne. Her body glistened in the dim light, skin warm, inner thighs shiny with her own climax. She took her time picking up her T-shirt from the floor, slipping it back over her head like nothing happened. Just tits swaying soft beneath cotton. Then she stepped in front of his full-length mirror and fluffed her curls, satisfied.
Erik watched, still leaking, dick twitching on his stomach, mind blank.
Sanaa giggled to herself, caught his reflection behind her in the mirror, then turned and faced him.
“Now lay in it.”
She blew him a kiss, walked to the door, and slipped out without another word.
And Erik—naked, breathless, covered in his own nut—could only lay there. Speechless. Destroyed. Worshipping her with his eyes while she took all the power with her.
______
Erik stayed frozen. His chest heaved and his lungs burned as he fought for air. The silence that followed Sanaa’s exit was deafening, leaving him stranded in the wreckage of a ruined orgasm. He was vibrating, every muscle in his large, scarred frame coiled tight, trapped in that agonizing limbo between peak pleasure and a sudden, jarring stop.
He looked down at himself, his gaze heavy and dark. His abs were slick, coated in a sheen of chaotic mess that consisted of her juices and the cum he’d leaked while she’d been grinding her pussy on his dick. It was a smeared, translucent map of her greed and her cruelty. Erik reached down, his thick fingers dragging through the wetness on his stomach, swirling her cream into his skin. Erik didn’t wipe it away. He smeared it, feeling the tacky mess against his keloid scars, the scent of her pussy filling his nostrils and fueling the fire in his gut.
Erik’s mind was a loop of the last twenty minutes. He could still feel the exact pressure of her thighs gripping his waist, the way her soft curves collided with his hard muscle. He replayed every bratty, teasing thing she’d whispered in his ear, the way she’d looked down at him with that confident, challenging smirk while she rode him. Like he didn’t fold her little ass in half against the wall. She had known exactly what she was doing. Pushing him to the very edge, making him ache, making him crave the release that only she could trigger, and then simply sliding off right before the explosion.
Erik looked at his dick. It was half-hard, a thick, vein-riven, pole that refused to fully go soft. It was twitching. Pulsing with a frustrated dance. A thick, pearly bead of cum leaked from the tip, dripping onto his thigh. It was the seed that should have been buried deep inside her. The load he had been ready to pump into her until she was overflowing. Right up against the posterior fornix. Seeing it waste away on his own skin made his jaw clench so hard his teeth groaned.
The frustration wasn’t a clean anger. It was a dark, suffocating obsession. He felt a possessive hunger clawing at his insides, a need to reclaim the control she’d snatched away. He stared at the door she’d walked through, his eyes narrowing. The fact that she could leave him like this—wrecked, leaking—didn’t make him want to pull away. It made him want to hunt her down, pin her to the nearest surface, and fuck the bratty attitude right out of her.
Erik touched the leaking tip of his dick, smearing the wasted cum across his thigh, breath hitching. He wasn’t just horny. He was consumed. He wanted to feel her clench around him again. To feel her shake as he finally took what was his. Leave her just as ruined as he was right now.
His mind was a storm. Racing with a volatility that usually only surface in the heat of a kill zone. He was Erik N’Jadaka Stevens. He was a mercenary nicknamed Killmonger. He was a ghost. A weapon. A man who had navigated the darkest corners of the globe as a Navy SEAL and a Black Operative. HALO jumped from war planes. Witnessed the unthinkable. Looked death in the eye and didn’t blink. He had a tally of 2,207 lives extinguished by his own hand. Each one a testament to his precision, his ruthlessness, and his absolute control over every environment he entered.
Erik almost dismantled an entire empire, fought his way through his bloodline and walked away from it all because he was the only one strong enough to do so. He was a man who commanded respect through fear and dominance. He wasn’t someone to be played with, let alone fucked with.
And yet, here he was.
He stared at the ceiling, jaw locked, feeling the phantom weight of Sanaa pressing into him. The sheer audacity of it burned in his chest. This little brat—this slim-thick, espresso brown, teasing woman—had just flipped the script on him. She had ridden him with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, pushing him to the absolute precipice of his sanity, and then she simply vanished. She had left him stranded in the wreckage of his own desire, lying in the ruins of a ruined orgasm.
How? The question echoed in his head, fueling a dark possessive fire. How was it possible that Sanaa held this much power over him? He was the one with the muscle, the experience, the sheer physical presence that could crush her. He was the one who should be dictating the terms of their surrender. But in her absence, he felt the weight of her influence like a collar around his neck. She didn’t need a weapon to disarm him. She just needed to know exactly where his breaking point was and then step away from it.
Her thighs. Thick, soft, warm…grown-woman thighs. That’s the part that hits him in the chest. She sits on the sofa with them pressed together and he can’t stop looking. She walks around the apartment in those tiny shorts and his mouth goes dry. She crosses her legs slow and he feels that twitch in his sweats every damn time.
Her taste. Erik knew she’d be sweet. He knew it. But he didn’t expect that. That flavor. That warmth. That addictive, met-on-his-tongue sweetness that ruins men. She tastes like warm skin, slick heat, something naturally sweet, something that coats his tongue and stays there. Something he wants more of every second. He became obsessed with it. So much so that it started haunting him. He’ll be sitting in the kitchen with a glass of water, thinking about the taste between her thighs. He’ll be trying to sleep but he keeps remembering the way his mouth got messy on her. He’ll be in the shower, jaw clenched, palm on the tile, replaying the sound she made when he spread her open with his thumbs and dragged his tongue across all that wetness. Her taste is the reason he stops pretending she don’t got a hold on him. Because once he found out what that pussy tasted like…
He can’t not want it again. And again. And again. He’s calling her greedy but ain’t no way her greed matches his. Erik is hungry for that pussy. Possessive over that pussy.
Sweetest pussy I ever had. You know I’m comin’ back for that. Don’t give that flavor to nobody else….
How tight her pussy is. When he slid in the first time? Erik damn near forgot his own name. She’s so goddamn right he gotta breathe through it. Gotta hold still. Gotta grip her hips and talk her through opening up because if he move too fast, too soon, he gon’ bust right there. That warm clench around him…the way she hugs every inch…how her pussy tries to pull him deeper…how her walls flutter when she moans…how she get tighter when she says his name. That’s why he gotta fuck her lil’ ass slow sometimes.
The breathy moans. Oh my god. The softness…the shaky ‘mmm’ when he moves just right. The whisper of ‘Erik” when she’s tryna hold on but can’t. Erik could write whole chapters about that sound. Soft. Breathy. Pretty. Innocent but filthy underneath. The sound of a good girl losing her mind for a grown man. That’s what makes him nuts. That innocence melting. And every time she let out one of those little whimpers? He feels it in his spine. In his chest. In his dick. Her moans are what make him emotional about the sex. The thing he didn’t plan on. The part that binds him to her. That’s why he keeps coming back. Why he can’t leave it alone. Because her body talks to him. Her thighs…her taste…her tightness…her voice. And every part says the same thing.
It’s yours.
Erik’s gaze dropped back down to his lap. His dick was a thick, pulsing column again. Just the thought of her got him standing at attention again. He reached down, his massive, calloused hand wrapping around the girth. He could feel a pulse against the pad of his fingers as he pumped the veiny, rock-hard muscle. He watched the way the skin stretched over the thick veins. With every squeeze, more of that wasted seed spilled out. Thick, pearly ropes of cum leaking from the tip, coating his fingers and smearing across his palm. It was a lot of cum. A heavy load that had been built up through minutes of agonizing torture.
Erik gripped himself tighter, a low growl vibrating in his throat. This shit should have been buried inside her. He should have pinned her legs back and sat this dick right against the bottom of her pussy, pumping every single drop of this wasted nut with a pulse of his groin until she was overflowing. Hear those pretty little whimpers as he stuffed her full.
Instead, he was cleaning himself up.
Erik didn’t just want her back. He wanted to reclaim the dominance she had stolen. He pumped his dick one last time, smearing the excess cum over his tip in. Rough, frustrated motion. He wasn’t just horny. He was hunting.
The soldier in him had taken over, and Sanaa had just become the most high-priority target of his life.
5:18 A.M.
The gym lived in a different world before sunrise. No conversations. No crowds. Just steel, rubber flooring, and the steady percussion of plates crashing against barbells. Fluorescent lights reflected off rows of mirrors while the smell of chalk and disinfectant lingered beneath the sharper bite of sweat.
Erik preferred it this way.
Nobody asked questions. Nobody recognized him. Nobody expecting anything except another man putting in work.
He stood at the squat rack rolling his shoulders beneath a fitted black compression shirt that clung to every line across his chest and arms. Dark charcoal shorts stopped just above his knees, revealing powerful quadriceps crisscrossed with veins before the workout had even begun. Black crew socks disappeared into worn training shoes that had seen enough miles to mold themselves around his feet. His locs were pulled back into a low ponytail, thick ropes hanging between his shoulder blades with a few shorter pieces escaping near his temples. Sweat had begun to gather along his hairline despite the hour.
Erik’s headphones sealed the world away.
Mona Lisa.
Lil Wayne’s voice filled his ears.
Erik ducked beneath the loaded barbell and settled it across his back. Four plates. The weight felt familiar. Comfortable. He stepped back, braced, then dropped. The squat was deep enough that his hips disappeared below parallel before he exploded upward again. One. Again. Two. Again. Three. Every rep clean. Every rep angry. Every rep supposed to empty his head. Instead…
Sanaa.
The first time she says his name. Her scent after a shower. Her laugh. Her eyes rolling whenever he said something she ain’t like. The way she’d glance at him before pretending she hadn’t. Those glasses. The bow-legged walk she does with the little switch in her hips.This the same girl that used to sleep over in Aaliyah’s room? The one that would eat cereal cross-legged in the living room? The shy girl that could barely look at him?
“Damn.”
Erik racked the weight harder than necessary.
She had Jim tripping. Actually tripping.
Erik pulled one side of his headphones back long enough to catch his own breathing before shoving it into place again. His thumb pressed the volume buttons.
Louder. Wayne. Kendrick.
The bass vibrated against his skull.
It didn’t matter. She was still there.
Erik walked toward the leg press, loading plate after plate until most people would’ve needed help moving the sled. But Erik was a different breed. His knees folded toward his chest.
Push.
The sled climbed.
Lower. Push. Again. Again. Again.
His thighs burned.
Good.
Maybe pain would do what music couldn’t. Maybe exhaustion would finally knock her loose.
Nope.
Because there she was again. In her oversized t-shirts she’d somehow managed to make look better than anything designed by a fashion house. With those glossy lips looking at him because she knew the effect she had. Staring at him like she wasn’t scared of him. That sas the dangerous part. Most people kept a healthy distance, but Sanaa kept getting closer.
Erik finished the set until his legs trembled, then sat forward with his forearms resting on his thighs, breathing through his nose.
You gotta get it together, he thought.
Erik stood before he could think too hard about the words.
Walking lunges came next. Heavy dumbbells. Eighty pounds in each hand.
Step. Lower. Drive through the heel. Step. Lower. Drive.
His forearms tightened around the knurled handles while every muscle below his waist demanded mercy. Erik welcomed it. The mirror caught him halfway across the turf. Broad shoulders. Compression shift darkened by sweat, revealing the raised scars along his torso and arms. Gold chain tucked beneath the collar. Locs swinging lightly with every stride. A man who looked completely in control.
Only he knew better. Because everytime his mind cleared…there she was. Her voice. Her smile. The little crease beside her nose whenever she tried not to laugh.
This don’t make no damn sense.
Romanian deadlifts. Hamstring curls. Bulgarian split squats. Calf raises until his calves cramped beneath his own bodyweight. An hour became an hour and a half. Then two hours. His legs felt like concrete. His shirt clung to him like a second layer of skin. Sweat traced the tattooed landscape of his arms before disappearing beneath the compression fabric.
His phone vibrated inside his gym bag as he reached for his towel.
One notification.
Aaliyah: Can you be our designated driver tomorrow night big bro? The girlies wanna hit these D.C streets and drinks will be in rotation so I’m tryna be responsible. Please and thank youuuuuuu ☺️
His heartbeat had betrayed him before he looked and realized it was his little sister. For one ridiculous second, he hoped it was her.
Erik shook his head at himself, grabbed the phone. And laughed under his breath.
Damn, lil’ mama. What you doin’ to me?
Erik slung the bag over his shoulder and headed for the locker room.
Erik: Aight 🙄
______
Sanaa stirred in her bed, sheets twisted around her legs, body aching deep, thighs trembling as she moved. A whimper slipped out before she could catch it. She blinked awake, the soreness hitting her all at once. Her hips. Her ass. The tender spots between her legs that pulsed from the night before. She lifted the hem of her oversized tee with shaky fingers, marks blooming across the curve of her waist, dark little reminders pressed into her skin. She traced one with her thumb, biting her lip when the pressure made her thighs twitch again.
Killmonger had her going stupid on the dick last night.
Flashes of memory shown behind her closed lids.
Her bouncing. Him picking her up in the air to drop her down in his dick. The slow grind-thrust he did that made her dizzy. How she came more than three times and still had the drive to ride him. Not once. Twice. The look of defeat in his eyes. The way he said her name all weak and pussy-drunk. How his big, strong hands gripped, pinned, caressed, and stilled her body. It was addictive fucking Erik.
Sanaa rolled over until her feet dangled over the side of her bed. She braced herself before pushing off, knees weak. She needed to stretch. There was no was she would be going out tonight in heels and twerking if she couldn’t even stand on two feet. She walked over to her walk-in closet and grabbed her yoga mat. She got into her first position. Her elbows pressed gently against the insides of her knees, easing them apart while she rocked from side to side, loosening joints that still carried last night’s workout.
She flowed into a ninety-ninety hip stretch next, one leg folded in front of her, the other tucked behind. Her fingertips rested lightly on the mat as she leaned forward until she felt the stretch bloom through her glutes and hips. She lingered there, breathing evenly before switching sides. Cat-cows followed, her spine rolling one vertebra at a time, then slow world’s greatest stretches that opened her hip flexors, hamstrings, and thoracic spine all at once.
By the time she finished with a few kneeling ankle rocks and controlled knee-over-toe lunges, warmth had replaced stiffness. Her hips felt lighter. Her knees tracked smoothly. She rose from the mat with an easy smile, bouncing once on the balls of her feet feeling stronger than she had fifteen minutes before.
Sanaa could almost see him. The massive, scarred warrior reduced to a shaking mess. The memory of it sent a fresh throb between her thighs. She had ridden him. Every inch of that thick, veiny dick stretching her open, pushing her to the brink. She had felt his control slipping, heard the way his breath hitched and his voice grew ragged. Begging to fill her pussy up. And then, at the absolute peak, when he was practically sobbing for it, she had simply slid off him.
Sanaa remembered the look of sheer, stunned betrayal on his face as she stood up, leaving him stranded. He had cum so hard just from the sudden loss of her gushy pussy, his nut erupting in thick, wasted ropes that coated his own stomach and thighs. He had been left to drown in his own cum, a ruined man, while Sanaa fluffed her hair and walked away without a backward glance. And she was glad she didn’t. Because she may have caved.
In that moment, Sanaa had felt an intoxicating surge of power. It wasn’t just about the sex. It was the psychological victory. She was a petite woman. A slim-thick frame that he could practically snap in half if he wanted to, yet she had brought him to his knees without lifting a finger—well she did lift that pussy up and down his dick. She had made a man of his stature, a ruthless killer and a dominant force of nature crumble. It made her feel like a goddess. A true woman who knew exactly how to wield her sexuality as a weapon. The contrast—his raw, masculine aggression versus her soft, bratty rigor—had been the ultimate aphrodisiac.
The triumph began to morph into a delectable, trembling anticipation.
Sanaa knew Erik. She knew that a man like him didn’t just take a loss. He planned a counter-attack. By leaving him like that, she hadn’t just won a round. She had issued a challenge. She could almost feel his possessive rage simmering. The dark, hungry fire that would be waiting for her the next time they were in the same room.
Her thoughts went from ‘that dick is the reason I keep playing with myself’ to ‘that dick is the reason I’m scared to let him fuck me’ to ‘that dick is the reason I keep letting him fuck me.’
A shiver ran down her spine, her pussy quivering instinctively. Sanaa was practically craving the moment he would decide he’d had enough of her games. She imagined his massive hand wrapping around her throat, pinning her down with a full weight of his muscular body, his voice a low, dangerous growl in her ear telling her exactly how he was going to punish her for her audacity. She wanted him to tame her. She wanted to feel that dominance return with a vengeance. To be stuffed full of his cum. To be gagged by his dick. A physical reminder that while she could play with fire, he was the one who owned the flame. The thought of being completely overwhelmed by him, of having her bratty confidence crushed under all that muscle, those scars, those tattoos, made her ache.
She was just about to go and take a shower when a knock hit the door. Before she could answer, Aaliyah pushed it open and stepped inside.
“Gurl. You still sleep? It’s almost twelve in the afternoon, sis.”
“I could have been in here flicking my bean.” Sanaa throws back, rolling her eyes.
Aaliyah flopped down at the foot of the bed, phone in her hand.
“Jordan been blowing me up all morning talkin’ ‘bout he sorry. I got his ass blocked so fast he prolly still typing. I ain’t got time for that nigga and his weak-ass bars or that dusty podcast he keep pushin’. He can keep that energy over there.”
“For how long before you end up taking him back, Liyah?” Sanaa replied with amusement.
“I swear I’m not this time. Plus, I’m leaving for my fellowship in three days. I wanna turn up and forget his ass. Maybe I’ll run into a new man and have a little fun. Who knows.”
Aliyah poked her tongue out. Sanaa laughed.
“Naima coming over to stay the night. The other girlies will be here tomorrow. And I texted Erik to ask if he can be our bodyguard for the night. He said aight.”
Sanaa had a visceral reaction to the sound of his name. She played it off with a chuckle and a shoulder shrug.
“That was sweet of him. Maybe he can have some fun instead of staying cooped up in here.”
“Gurl, I can say the same for you.”
“What?” Sanaa looked over at Aaliyah.
“Nothing.”
Aaliyah stretched out, back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Sanaa pretended to scroll through her planner on her iPad, but every slight movement of her weight sent a fresh ache rolling through her pussy. She pressed her knees together under the desk, trying to breath steady.
Aaliyah’s silence made Sanaa glance over to her best friend. She had this look on her face. Her usual chattiness halted.
“You good, Liyah?”
“Yeah,” Aaliyah said, but her voice dragged a little. She looked like she had more sitting on her tongue, something heavy, but she just sat up instead. “I gotta get ready anyway.”
She stood, crossing the room, and reached out to squeeze Sanaa’s shoulder—hard. The way she always did when she was feeling playful. Sanaa shoved her in return.
“Don’t be all day in here, bitch. I ordered us breakfast from that corner bakery we like. And some macha!”
11:08 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
Maple syrup. Butter. And fresh matcha.
Aaliyah had ordered breakfast from the little bakery around the corner that everyone on campus swore by. Empty brown paper bags sat folded on the kitchen island beside two half-finished iced matches, their cups beaded with condensation. Flaky crumbs from croissant breakfast sandwiches littered white napkins, evidence that neither woman had been particularly concerned with eating neatly. Sanaa leaned against the island, one hip resting against the quartz countertop while she absently stirred the last bit of ice in her drink.
Fresh out of the shower, she looked nothing like the woman she’d become once makeup and a dress entered the equation. Her dark curls were piled into a messy bun high on her head, loose ringlets escaping around her temples and the back of her neck. Gold hoops decorated her ears. A pair of turquoise tortoise shell glasses rested low on her nose while she scrolled through her phone. She wore charcoal yoga leggings that hugged her hips down to her calves, igniting her curves, a matching sports bra, and soft cream house slippers. Her lips glistened with caramel gloss and her skin still carried that fresh-out-the-shower glow because of the shower oil she’d used. Saltwater Vanilla. Comfort looked dangerously good on her.
Across from her, Aaliyah looked equally at home. She’d pulled on an oversized Howard University T-shirt that swallowed her frame and. Pair of black biker shorts. White crew socks disappeared into fuzzy tan slippers, and her hair had been gathered into a sleek puff. Her face was completely bare except for mascara and lip balm, making her look younger than twenty-two. She took another sip of her macha and sighed dramatically.
“I don’t even wanna get dressed.”
Sanaa laughed without looking up. “You literally planned this.”
“I know.” Aaliyah frowned into her cup. “Planning it and participating are two different things.”
“You got a whole fellowship to celebrate, sis. Then, you graduate. Be happy.”
“I know.” Aaliyah said.
“You begged us to come.”
“I know, bitch.” Aaliyah said.
“So…”
“I still don’t wanna put on lashes.”
Sanaa shook her head. “You don’t wanna sit and get your lashes done. And you don’t wanna put on the strip. Lazy.”
“I’m preserving my energy.”
Sanaa scuffed. “You sound eighty.”
“I feel eighty.”
A knock sounded through the apartment. Three quick raps. Before either woman could move, Erik stepped into the hallway.
He’d already showered too, but it seems he forgot to put on a shirt. And why are his athletic shorts dangerously low on his waist like that? The locs gathered up into a messy bun? A silver cross sitting between his pecs?
What the fuck?
“I got it.” He said.
He started toward the front door. Then, he looked up.
His eyes landed on Sanaa.
Everything inside him stalled for half a heartbeat. She wasn’t dressed up. She wasn’t even trying. She was standing there with messy hair, glasses, slippers, and gloss, lazily drinking matcha while sunlight poured across her skin.
Cute. Comfy. Entirely too familiar.
His gaze lingered just long enough for her to notice. She looked up over the rim of her glasses. Their eyes met. The corner of her mouth threatened to lift. Just a little.
He recovered first.
“I’ll get the door.”
His voice sounded perfectly normal.
Erik turned the handle. A delivery driver stood outside holding an oversized edible arrangement.
“Delivery for…Sanaa Carter?”
“Yeah. Thanks homie.”
The driver handed it over, offered a quick you’re welcome, and disappeared down the hallway. Erik nudged the door shut with his foot while balancing the arrangement in one hand. Chocolate covered strawberries. Pineapple flowers. Melon. Grapes. The whole thing sat in a decorative brown container wrapped with a bright green bow. As he walked toward the dining table, he spotted the small white envelope tucked between the fruit.
He pulled it free. Read it. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Hm.”
He set the arrangement down.
Both women immediately wandered over.
“Oooo,” Aaliyah sang. “Who got an Edible Arrangement?!”
Sanaa laughed. “Jordan with his sympathy gift.”
Erik looked at her. Then at the card. Then back at her. He held the card out. A slight curl of his plush top lip.
“It’s for you, Bri.”
Sanaa accepted it. Her brow lifted as she read it allowed.
“A sweet bouquet for a sweet girl. I hope this brightens your day, beautiful. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Signed…Nathan.”
She smiled. Just a little. “Oh.”
Aaliyah gasped so dramatically she nearly dropped her drink. “Oooooooooooh!!!”
Sanaa rolled her eyes. “Girl.”
“No.” Aaliyah pointed at the arrangement. “Not him sending you and Edible Arrangement, bitch!”
Sanaa laughed. “He’s thoughtful.”
“He tryna say you edible, sis.”
Sanaa burst into laughter, nudging Aaliyah out of the way with her hip. “Aaliyah!”
“I’m serious! What he tryna say you taste like pineapples?”
She leaned closer to inspect one of the chocolate-covered strawberries. “Mhmmmm. You left your mark on him, Bri.”
Wanna shook her head, unable to stop smiling. “It is kinda sweet.”
“It is sweet. Thoughtful.” Aaliyah said.
She carefully lifted one of the pineapple flowers by the stem, admiring how it had been carved. “This is actually really pretty.”
Across the table, Erik stared at the arrangement like it had personally offended him. There was silence. Long silence. Then…
“…Fruit look old.”
The women turned toward him. Sanaa blinked. Aaliyah fought back a laugh.
“What?” Sanaa said.
Erik pointed. “That grape wrinkled.”
“It is not.”
“It definitely is. You got glasses in you can’t see that?”
Aaliyah squinted. “It kinda…”
Sanaa immediately defended the fruit. “It is not wrinkled.”
“It look tired.” Erik said.
Aaliyah giggled, staring between them.
Sanaa had to laugh herself. “Fruit get tired, E?”
Erik put his hands up, biceps flexing in a way that almost broke Sanaa’s composure.
“I’m just tellin’ you what I’m seein’.” He leaned slightly closer. “And then flowers…”
“What flowers?”
“The pineapple.”
Sanaa looked. “They’re cute.”
“They look like they wiltin’.”
Aaliyah turned away laughing quietly to herself.
“It’s carved fruit.”
“Mm.” Erik nodded once. “Cheap-ass edible plant.”
Sanaa folded her arms. “You a haterrr.”
“I ain’t hatin’.”
“You absolutely hatin’. On fruit though? If you wanted some all you had to do was ask, E.”
Aaliyah laughed so hard she grabbed the counter. “Oh my God.” She dabbed her eyes. “Whew! Ya’ll funny!”
Erik continued studying it with the same expression someone might reserve for a suspicious car engine.
“I’ve seen better strawberries.”
“You are ridiculous.”
“I’m honest.”
Sanaa picked up a chocolate-covered strawberry and held it toward him. “You want one, meany?”
“Nah.”
“You sure?”
“I’m positive, B–” he caught himself. “Bri.”
“You don’t even know if it’s good and you judging.”
“I know enough.”
Sanaa took a bite instead. The chocolate cracked softly. Her eyes widened.
“Mmmm.”
Aaliyah immediately reached for one too. She took a bite, eyes widening. “Oh, that’s good! Fruit taste fresh to me.”
Erik watched both of them eating. Still unimpressed.
“…chocolate doin’ all the work—”
Sanaa laughed so hard she nearly choked. “You are a professional hater.”
“I call shit like I see it.” Erik fired back.
“You jealous of fruit, big bro?” Aaliyah teased.
“I ain’t jealous of shit. Give me a reason to be.”
“You sound jealous, E.” Sanaa said.
Erik looked at the arrangement one last time before shaking his head. “Hope the nigga kept the receipt.”
With that, he turned and walked into the living room as if the conversation had exhausted him. Behind him, the girls dissolved into another fit of laughter. From the sofa, Erik could see Sanaa on her phone. She brought it to her ear, and the minute she spoke Nathan’s name Erik’s jaw ticked.
He leaned back, picked up the TV remote, and stared at the blank screen without turning it on.
An Edible Arrangement? Out of everything that man could’ve sent…fruit.
Erik rubbed a hand over his beard.
Ain’t even send her flowers.
His eyes drifted toward the dining room where Sanaa was still smiling with the phone pressed to her ear while Aaliyah teased her.
His mouth flattened.
Cheap-ass fruit.
Another knock echoed through the apartment. Aaliyah looked up from the edible arrangement and grinned.
“That gotta be Naima.”
She hurried to the front door and pulled it open. Naima stepped inside with an overnight bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in an oversized white linen button-down over black slim-fit jeans and clean white sneakers. Her twist-out framed her face perfectly, her large almond eyes immediately finding the people gathered around the dining table.
“There she is,” Aaliyah said, wrapping her in a quick hug.
“Congratulations again, Fellowship Girl.”
“You gon’ make me cry.”
Naima smiled before making her rounds. She hugged Sanaa tightly.
“Hey, pretty.”
“Hey, Nai.”
She lifted a hand toward Erik. “Hey, Erik.”
He nodded once. “Naima.”
Her attention drifted to the centerpiece on the table.
“…Hold on.” She leaned in. “Who sent that?”
Aaliyah didn’t even give Sanaa a chance to answer. “Nathan.”
Naima’s eyebrows climbed. “Oh, he trying.”
Sanaa laughed, turning the little card over in her fingers. “I told you he’s sweet.”
“Mmm.” Naima examined one of the chocolate-covered strawberries. “He definitely scored some points.”
Aaliyah sighed dramatically, the smile slipping from her face.
“Meanwhile…” She folded her arms. “I’m officially done with Jordan.”
Naima’s expression softened immediately. Without saying a word, she rubbed slow circles across Aaliyah’s back.
“I know.”
Aaliyah let out a long breath. “I’m over it.”
“You keep saying that.”
“This time I mean it.”
Naima studied her for a second before hooking an arm through hers. “C’mon.”
“Where we going?”
“I need details.”
Aaliyah groaned. “I knew you was gon’ interrogate me.”
“Damn right.”
The two disappeared down the hallway toward Aaliyah’s bedroom, their voices fading behind a closing door. Sanaa watched them go with an amused smile before reaching for another chocolate-covered strawberry. From the living room, Erik glanced toward the edible arrangement again.
He still looked unconvinced.
______
Sanaa was sitting at the dining table, talking to Nathan on the phone. She had it on speaker, completely aware of Erik sitting in the living room. This felt like déjà vu. The last time she was talking on the phone with Nathan, she had a mouth full of Erik’s dick.
“Mhm. I wanted to tell you thank you. It was really sweet.”
“I’m glad it made it.”
“It definitely did.” Sanaa walked over and plucked a chocolate-covered strawberry from the arrangement. “Aaliyah and I have already been picking at it.”
“So it passed inspection?”
“It passed with flying colors.”
She bit into the chocolate strawberry, eyes flicking over to Erik. He sat back, legs wide and swinging, eyeing her with an unblinking stare that did the opposite of what he intended it to do. It only made her pussy wet. When will he realize that those looks don’t get the reaction he’s looking for?
“I was hoping you’d like it.”
“I do. I really do.” Her voice softened. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know. But I can’t stop thinking about you. Ya’ll going out tomorrow night right? For Aaliyah?”
Erik isn’t saying a word to her, but his eyes are locked on her, dark and tracking the way she smiles. The way she makes her voice all sweet. He grabs his phone beside him quick.
Her phone buzzes in her hand.
Erik: Come here Miss Carter.
Sanaa glances at him, a bratty smirk playing on her lips. She doesn’t move an inch, keeping her gaze fixed forward as she responds to Nathan. Sanaa smiled to herself before taking a bite of the strawberry.
“That’s dangerous.”
“What?”
“You getting thoughtful this early.”
Nathan laughed. “I didn’t realize kindness came with a waiting period.”
“I’m just saying…now you’re setting expectations.”
“I can live with that.”
She shook her head, smiling wider.
Buzz.
Erik: I ain’t gon ask you again. Get over here.
Sanaa bites her lip, feeling the heat radiating off him. She types back quickly, her thumb flying across the screen while Nathan continues to ramble.
Sanaa: Sorry daddy. Aaliyah and Naima. We can’t do nothing 😔
Erik’s expression doesn’t change, but his jaw tightens. He don’t give a fuck who in the apartment. The only thought running through his mind is her disobeying him.
Erik: I don’t give a fuck about that, Bri. If you don’t move that ass over here right now, I’m a come get you. And I won’t be gentle about it.
Sanaa shivers, her pussy giving a sudden, wet throb. She can feel the weight of his gaze on her chest, imagining those huge, calloused hands gripping her waist and tossing her over his shoulder.
Sanaa: You so damn dramatic lol. All because he sent me fruit 😂. Mad you got competition?
Erik lets out a low, silent huff of a laugh. He shifts his weight, the fabric of his shorts straining against the thick, heavy length of his dick. He remembers last night clearly. The way she’d taken him, the raw, desperate energy of it. The bounce of that ass. The creamy mess. Nathan ain’t got shit on him.
Erik: Since you wanna play...tell me something. Why you ride my dick like that last night? Huh?
Sanaa’s breath hitches. She almost forgets to answer Nathan.
“You know,” he continued, “I remembered you saying you liked fruit more than candy, so it seemed like an easy decision.”
“You remembered that?”
“Course I did.”
“See…” she teased. “Now you showing off.”
“Nah. I just pay attention.”
Sanaa: I don’t know what you’re talking about 😇 I’m innocent.
Erik: Stop fucking playing. You was shaking. Taking every inch of this dick like you was starving for it. You rode me until I was seeing stars, then you just...left.
Sanaa: I didn't leave. I just finished.
Erik: Finished? You left me leaking all over myself. My chest, my stomach...just a fucking mess of cum cuz you decided you was done.
Sanaa feels a surge of power, remembering the look on his face—the ruthless soldier reduced to a shaking, overstimulated mess because of her. She types back, her voice sounding breathy as she tells Nathan, “Well…thank you. Seriously. It made my day.”
Sanaa: You liked it. you loved how much of a mess I made of you. Let’s not play pretend Killmonger.
Erik:Thing is I ain’t gotta pretend. I loved it. Now I wanna do it back. I wanna see you dripping.
He watches her, his eyes dropping to her legs. He knows exactly what she’s wearing—or rather, what she isn’t. Them yoga pants and got no panties underneath.
Erik: Stand up.
Sanaa: what? Nathan is still talking 😒
Erik: Fuck that nigga. Stand up and put some shorts on.
Sanaa looked back at Erik. The risk of Aaliyah walking in is high, but the look in Erik’s eyes tells her that if she don’t obey, he’s going to stop texting and start taking.
Sanaa: you a menace. 😩
Erik: And that pussy wet. Now move.
Sanaa slipped into her room, her heart hammering against her ribs. She took off her yoga pants and grabbed a pair of thin, grey cotton shorts. Exactly what Erik wanted. Way too small, the fabric stretched tight over her curves and designed to ride up the second she moved. She slid them on, completely bottomless underneath. Waxed pussy lips against the crotch of the shorts. They clung to her hips and barely covered the swell of her bubble booty.
On her way out of the room, she could have sworn she’d heard a sharp intake of breath coming from Aaliyah’s room.
Sanaa brushed it off as she walked back out into the living area, her walk nothing but bow legs and cheeks swaying, knowing exactly how the fabric was hiking up. Erik was waiting, his massive frame lounging back, but his eyes were like lasers, tracking the way her cheeks peeked out from under the hem.
On the speakerphone, Nathan’s voice was smooth, oblivious.
“So,” he asked, “does this mean I earned another date?”
She laughed. “You asking or assuming?”
“I’m asking. Confidently.”
“You coming out tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
The moment the words “see you tonight” left Nathan’s mouth, Erik’s expression darkened. A flicker of pure, possessive rage crossed his face. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck cording. He didn’t like the idea of Nathan touching what belonged to him, especially not when he had her dripping and desperate right here. Wearing the shorts he told her to put on. Looking down at him like she knew who lap she was sitting in.
Without a word, Erik reached out and gripped her hip, yanking her forward with a strength that left no room for argument. He guided her to straddle his right thigh. He was wearing loose athletic shorts, the fabric thin enough that she could feel the radiating heat of his skin and the rock-hard density of the muscle beneath. As she settled onto him, Erik ain’t waste a second. He brought both of his massive hands up, cupping the cheeks of her ass and squeezing the flesh with a bruising grip. He started to rub, his palms kneading her curves, pushing the thin fabric of her shorts deep into her crack. He was marking her, claiming every inch of her skin while another man’s voice filled the room.
"Sanaa? You still with me?" Nathan asked.
Sanaa gasped, her voice hitching. “Yeah...yeah, I–I’m here, Nathan.”
Erik leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of her ear, then his tongue darted out to flick her earlobe, his voice a low, dangerous vibration that only she could feel. “Don’t let him hear you shake, you just might hurt his feelings, baby,” he whispered, the command cutting through her.
He shifted his grip. He took one large hand and pressed it firmly against the small of her lower back, pinning her against him. With the other hand, he kept a tight, controlling grip on her hip. He didn’t just want her to move, he wanted her to work for it.
“Roll your spine,” he breathed into her ear, his voice thick with authority. “Grind it. I wanna feel every bit of that wet pussy rubbing against me. Right fuckin’ now. Before I let your little nigga know his crush gettin’ slutted out by her best friend brother.”
Chills.
Sanaa obeyed, her body trembling. She began to arch her back, rolling her hips in a slow, circular motion. Because he was wearing shorts, there was almost no barrier. The hard, ridged muscle of his quad pressed directly into her clit and the opening of her pussy. It felt like rubbing herself against a warm, living pillar of granite. Every time she rolled her hips, the friction sent a jolt of electricity straight to her core, making her internal muscles clench violently.
Erik watched her face with a sly smirk. The one with the single dimple peeking. The one that drove Sanaa crazy. He loved the way her eyes fluttered, the way she bit her lip to keep from moaning. But even in the height of the grind, the soldier in him remained vigilant. His eyes flicked toward the hallway, scanning for any sign of Aaliyah or Naima, his instincts honed for stealth and surveillance. The risk of being caught only added to the filth of it.
“Sanaa, you sound...distracted. Everything aight?” Nathan asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.
“I’m—I’m good. What were you saying?”
“Nothing important, just saying shit. Hahaha…so uh…what you doin’?”
Mm—uh, reading. Reading—uhhh, sorry the words are like bluring together right now I think I might need a nap.”
Erik quietly laughed, then whispered. “Nasty ass Edible Arrangement.”
Sanaa’s giggle was muffled against Erik’s neck.
“I don’t want you falling asleep on the phone, Sanaa. Get your beauty rest, baby girl.”
Erik presses his lips to her ear. “Listen to him...talkin’ all that sweet shit. Does he know you shakin’ for me right now? Does he know how wet you are for a real man?” Erik kissed along her jaw. “Answer him, Sanaa. Tell him you’re ‘just relaxin’ While you grindin’ on my thigh...tell him how relaxed you are.”
“I’m just really relaxed right now.” Sanaa watched Erik’s hands smooth up her thighs to cup her breasts, his thumbs circling her nipples through her sports bra. “Really…I…mmm.”
“Mmm? What type of relaxin’ you doin’, girl?” Nathan chuckled.
Erik’s hand on her back pressed harder, forcing her to grind deeper, more aggressively. He flexed his thigh muscle, the hard mass pulsing upward, driving directly into her sensitive spot. But right there. Beside his thigh. His dick that’s equal parts long and thick, pulsed and jumped. This lil’ freaky bitch get him so fired up. He flared his nostrils, eyes fixed on her with that low, hazy look, high off her body working his thigh.
Sanaa looked down at his dick. Her breath hitched.
“Woah…Sanaa?”
“Mhm.” Sanaa buried her face in Erik’s neck.
“Are you…I don’t wanna assume shit but uh…are you…touching yourself?”
“Go ‘head, baby. Tell him you’re thinkin’ about him. Tell him while you feel my dick twitch against your leg...tell him he’s the only thing on your mind.”
He was really playing right now. Sanaa wasn’t about to back down. She licked her lips, her gaze locked with Erik’s while she spoke.
Sanaa bites her bottom lip. “You’re the only thing on my mind, Nathan…” her fingers crept down until they settled on the stiff pole sitting between his legs. He was hot to the touch. “I’m thinking about you…”
“Damn…really? And what are you doin’ that got you thinkin’ about me?”
“You shakin’, lil’ mama. Is that for him? Or is it ‘cause you know I’m about to make you leak all over these floors the second you hang up?”
“Sanaa?”
“Ride it for real,” Erik whispered, his breath hot against her neck. "Put your weight into it. Show me how much you want this. Who you think you is teasing me? Huh? Nah…you teasing him. Got him thinkin’ you touching yourself to thoughts of him…ttsk…such a bad girl, Sanaa…”
Sanaa let out a muffled whimper, her hips jumping in a desperate effort. She was riding his thigh like it was the only thing keeping her grounded, her pussy soaking the thin fabric of her shorts and moistening his thigh. The feeling was overwhelming. The combination of his commanding presence, the rough texture of the shorts, and the sheer power of his leg beneath her. She felt small, fragile, and completely dominated.
Sanaa tried to lean away for a second, her bratty instinct wanting to tease him, but Erik’s grip tightened, snapping her back against him. He placed both hands on her waist and repositioned her on his thigh.
“I ain’t tell you to stop,” Erik growled softly, his voice a warning. “Keep grindin’. Every time he speaks, you move faster. You my little toy right now, and you gon’ do exactly what the fuck I say.”
“I’m thinkin’ about what I’d let you do to m–me when I see you.” Sanaa managed to stammer out to Nathan, her voice trembling.
As soon as the words left her mouth, Erik accelerated the pace, his thigh flexing upward in a punishing motion that forced her to bounce. She was jumping on his thigh now, her pussy slamming against the hard muscle with every movement. The friction was intense, bordering on too much pressure, but it was the kind of ache that made her crave him more.
She was right on the edge, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. She looked into Erik’s eyes and saw the absolute control he held over her. He wasn’t just fucking her with his leg. He was breaking her will, reminding her that no matter who she talked to or where she went, she belonged to the soldier.
Sanaa’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, bratty spark. She didn’t just want to be dominated. She wanted to push Erik until he snapped, to see that disciplined soldier persona crumble into raw, possessive rage. With a sudden, fluid movement, Sanaa lifted off his thigh and straddled his lap completely. She sat down heavy on him, her pussy pressing directly against the massive, rock-hard bulge stretching the fabric of his shorts. She leaned back slightly, her chest heaving, the phone pressed to her ear. Her voice changed. It became honeyed, dripping with a fake, innocent sweetness that was designed to drive Erik insane.
“I can’t wait to get you back to my room. I really want to see what you’re working with…see if you can handle me.”
As the words left her lips, Sanaa began to move. She didn’t just move, she started pressing her weight down, rotating her hips so that her clit rubbed directly against the thick, veined lengths of his dick through the cloth. She was grinding her pussy over his fat bulge, seeking every inch of that hard pipe, her eyes locked onto Erik’s.
Erik went completely still. His body became a statue of coiled muscle, his hands gripping the edges of the seat so hard his knuckles bulged like they were trying to break skin. He didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes—dark, hooded, and burning—were fixed on her face. He watched her lips move, heard her offer herself to another man, all while she used his own dick as a rubbing post. The mixture of rage and arousal in Erik’s gaze was suffocating. He looked like he wanted to rip her clothes off and fuck her into a fucked-out coma right there.
On the other end of the line, Nathan’s voice came through, sounding warm, eager, and completely oblivious to the filth happening on the other side.
“You killin’ me, Sanaa,” Nathan chuckled, his tone respectful but clearly aroused. “Trust me, I can handle you. I’m gonna take my time with you…make sure you’re completely taken care of. I wanna make you feel everything.”
Sanaa let out a soft, shaky moan, one that sounded like it was for Nathan, but was actually a reaction to the way Erik’s dick twitched beneath her. She increased the pace, grinding harder, her hips snapping forward to rock her pussy against the tip of his dick. She was practically begging for him to break, her eyes challenging him, daring him to drop her or take her.
“Mmm, you sound so confident,” Sanaa whispered into the phone, her voice breaking as she felt Erik’s hardness pulse against her. “I hope you can keep that same energy when I’m under you. I’m a lot to handle, Nathan…I don’t know if you’re ready for me.”
Nathan let out a low, breathy laugh. “Try me. I’ll show you exactly what I’m capable of. I’m counting down the hours until I can get my hands on you.”
Erik’s jaw clenched so tight a vein popped in his temple. He could smell that wet ass pussy leaking through her thin shorts and soaking into his own. The fact that she was using his dick to get herself off while promising herself to that little nigga was a level of disrespect that made his blood boil.
She was selling him a false story because ain’t no fucking way Nathan getting his hands on Sanaa.
Erik’s hand suddenly shot up, his thick fingers wrapping firmly around the back of her neck. His grip was a silent command. He pulled her head back slightly, forcing her to look down at him while she continued to grind on his bulge. His eyes told her everything: you think this a game? You think you’re in control? Just wait until I get this phone out of your hand.
“I’m gon’ fuck the memory of that nigga right out your head. You won’t even remember how to spell his name by the time I’m done wit’ you.” Erik whispered.
On the other end of the line, Nathan was completely caught in her web, his voice thick with a hunger he didn’t realize was being fueled by another man’s dick.
“Sanaa…damn, I can practically feel you, baby,” Nathan groaned, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m literally counting down the seconds. I’m gonna make you scream my name tomorrow night.”
Sanaa let out a shaky, breathy laugh, her hips rolling in a slow, agonizing circle over Erik’s bulge. The sheer size of him stretching the material of his shorts. She looked Erik dead in the eyes, her expression a mix of bratty defiance and raw lust.
“Mmm, I wish I could stay on the phone, Nathan,” she whispered, her voice dripping with a fake regret that made Erik’s grip on her neck tighten. “But I gotta hang up now. I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Already?” Nathan sounded genuinely bummed, his disappointment palpable. He was clearly hard as a rock on the other end, left hanging by the very woman who was currently using a soldier’s dick as a rubbing post for her kitty. “You’re killing me, Sanaa. Seriously.” He paused, his tone transitioning to something more possessive. “You owe me for this. Big time.”
“I know I do,” Sanaa cooed, and then she clicked the phone off.
Sanaa tossed her phone quick fast and with a renewed hunger she crushed her pussy against the thick ridge of his dick, tilting her pelvis so that her clit could get most of the friction.
Erik’s voice came out as a low, dangerous growl, vibrating against her chest. “You a little liar, ain’t you?” He hissed. “Lying to that lil’ nigga, telling him you gin’ give him some pussy…knowing damn well you ain’t giving him a fucking drop of what belongs to me.”
“Oh, so this pussy belongs to you now? Since when?”
Erik brought his hand around to the front of her neck now. Sanaa gasped, her back arching as she rolled her hips, feeling the head of his dick press firmly against her clit each time she drew her hips back. The sensation was electric.
“Tell me the truth, you fuckin’ brat,” Erik commanded, his other hand gripping her waist with a bruising force. He dug his fingers into her hip, anchoring her. “Who…” Erik rolled his hips up. “Pussy…” he did it again, his dick sliding between her pussy lips through her shorts. “Is…” when he did it again, Sanaa’s breath caught. “This…”
Sanaa bit her lip, eyes fluttering as she ground down harder, pussy clenching in a desperate need to be filled. “Yours,” she whimpered, the word barely a whisper. “It’s yours, Killmonger…”
His nervous system shifted to DEFCON without asking his permission. The sensation hit him the way a snapped tripwire hits a man who’s survived enough war to know the explosion always comes a heartbeat later.
“That’s right,” he grunted, his voice getting nastier. “Grinding that lil’ pussy on this dick so good like that. Fuck…you ridin’ my lap like you need me to nut just like this…”
“You tryna stop me or you tryna fuck me, Mr. Killmonger?”
His dick was so hard. So hard. Erik couldn’t even remember being dry humped. But the way she was doing it…
“You talk tough but this pussy got you holdin’ your breath.” She leans in, tongue darting out to lick the side of his face, “This the part where you grip me, bend me, and fuck the brat outta me, right? You don’t gotta pull it out yet…let me tease it a little first…”
“You know what you doin’. That’s the part that fuck me up.” Erik whispered.
Sanaa didn’t answer with words, she answered with a deep roll of her pelvis, sliding her wetness across the length of him. She could feel the way his dick jumped against her clit.
Erik stared at her, his eyes a dark mixture of lust and genuine disbelief. “I don’t even know how the fuck you this fine.” He muttered, his voice raw. “It don’t make no fucking sense how you look this good while being this nasty.”
Sanaa leaned in closer to his face, her lips almost brushing his, tilting her head with a slow blink and a bite of her lip.
“I know I’m special…you remember how it sounded the first time I creamed on your dick, daddy?”
Erik’s jaw flexed and his nostrils flared. “I laid your little ass out. That was supposed to be the only time you get this dick…”
“If it was only supposed to be one time…why your dick tryna talk to me again?”
Inside his own body, the pressure was building to a breaking point. Erik could feel the blood gorging his dick, making it feel oversized and tight, the skin stretched to its absolute limit. Every time she dipped her hips, pressing her weight down on him, he felt the blunt force of her pelvic bone hitting his pubic bone, a heavy thud that vibrated through his entire body. The stiffness was an ache, a demanding, throbbing need to burst through the barrier and bury himself deep in her little pussy. He felt pre-cum leaking from his tip, lubricating the friction, making the slide of her pussy against him feel smoother, filthier, and more urgent.
Erik watched her face—the bratty, confident look she wore—and it only made his dick twitch harder. He could feel the pulsing of his own heartbeat in his dick, a heavy, thumping cadence that matched the pace of her grinding. The sensation of her radiating through the cloth, the way she seemed to mold herself perfectly to the curve of his dick, made him feel like he was being consumed.
“You feel that, daddy?” Sanaa whispered, her lips grazing his earlobe. “You feel how fucking wet I am for you? I want you to stretch me out again…say the word and I’ll slide this pussy on, daddy…real slow. Or you scared of it now?”
Erik’s eyes flicked toward the hall when he heard faint laughter coming from Aaliyah’s room.
“Sanaa…you don’t want this smoke. Say one more thing, I swear to God—”
Sanaa spread her legs wider to get a deeper, more direct friction, her pussy gripping the bulge of his dick through the barrier of her shorts and his. She let out a soft, shaky moan, her eyes locking onto his with a bratty glint.
“Nathan thinks he’s getting this pussy tomorrow night,” she breathed, a cruel, sexy little smile playing on her lips. “He’s probably sitting there right now, thinking about my pussy… not knowing that it’s been stretched out by your dick. Not knowing that I’m grinding on you so hard I can feel your heart beating in your balls…” She rolled her hips in a tight circle, making sure he felt every inch of her soaking heat. She leaned back, her spine curving, her glossy lips parted as she looked down at him, her voice becoming a provocative command. “Tell me you love it. Tell me you love knowing that I’m lying to that nigga just so I can feel you inside me. You like knowing that I’d rather have this big, mean dick than anything he could ever give me, don’t you?”
Erik’s grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her skin, but Sanaa didn’t flinch. She leaned back in, her voice dropping even lower, becoming a seductive poison.
“I can feel you shaking, Killmonger. You’re so fucking hard for me. Does it drive you crazy? Knowing that I’m your little slut, but right now…right now I’m the one ruining you? I’m the one making you lose your fucking mind while I just… slide…right…here.”
Erik grunts deep in his throat. She whispered against his skin, her voice thick with lust.
“You scared of gettin’ caught or you scared you’ll nut in your shorts? Don’t front, daddy. You need this more than I do.” She nipped at his earlobe, her breath erratic. “I’m such a little slut for you, aren’t I? Just a little wet, needy slut who needs her Daddy to take control and fuck the lie right out of her. Do it, Erik. Tell me how much you hate that I’m this fine. Tell me how much you want to punish me for teasing you. How much you wanna break this young pussy open—”
He couldn’t bring himself to lift her ass off his lap. He could have her on her back in seconds. Folded. Pinned. But he couldn’t move. Erik couldn’t.
“Aw…Killmonger don’t talk now? This all that death name come with?”
Erik’s eyes were like missiles aimed at her. Dark pools of primal energy. But the way his brows pinched. The way his lips poked out. The shaky exhale. He was close.
He stopped letting her do all the work. Erik moved, his powerful thighs flexing as he began to thrust upward, meeting her downward grinds with a punishing force. Now they were humping each other, a frantic collision of cloth and flesh. The friction was intense, the desire between them building into a fever pitch.
Sanaa leaned in, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath hot and erratic. She let out a muffled moan, trying to stay quiet but failing as the pressure on her clit became unbearable.
“Oh god, daddy…that big dick feel so fucking good against me,” she whimpered into his ear, her voice a seductive poison designed to ruin him. “I’m so happy…I finally have the dick I’ve always dreamed of. I don’t want that other shit. I want this…I want your big, thick dick stretching me out until I can’t walk.”
Erik let out a guttural grunt, burying his face in the crook of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin. He was shaking, his muscles coiled like a spring, the sheer audacity of her words pushing him to the absolute edge. He gripped her waist even tighter, lifting her slightly so he could slam his bulge upward into her pussy with a heavy, calculated impact that made her vision blur. His face contorted into a mask of pure, unfiltered need. A look Sanaa began to crave ever since she rode his dick. Those lips parted. His eyes tracking every flicker of pleasure on her face. His locs framing his jaw, giving him a rugged look. Then he sank his teeth into his lower lip.
The friction between them is pushed them both to the edge. Their mouths locked in a filthy, wet collision, tongues tangling and fighting for dominance as they kiss like freaks, swapping saliva and breath in a frantic battle. Every slide of their bodies, every press of cloth against cloth, only heightens the agony of the barrier between them.
Sanaa breaks the kiss just a fraction, her lips still brushing against his, her breath hitching. “Please...Killmonger," she whispers, her voice a broken, needy wreck. “Make me cum. Please make my pussy cum.”
Erik answers with force. His large, calloused hands snap shut around her hips, fingers digging into her skin to still her frantic movements. He takes total control, repositioning his weight to align his thick, stiff dick perfectly against her clit. He gives one heavy, punishing grind, the sheer size of his dick pressing through the fabric and crushing into her sensitive nub. The way his biceps flexed and his thick forearms corded with veins maneuvered and controlled Sanaa’s little frame over his dick made her feel small and fragile. She had no choice but to give in, bracing herself on his shoulders.
Sanaa lets out a muffled cry, her face buried against his neck while he palms her ass cheeks, squeezing the flesh tight and forcing her to grind down hard against him. He’s not letting her just ride the wave, he’s driving her into it. He forces her hips to rotate, ensuring every inch of his length rubs against her, the friction creating a searing heat that makes her vision blur.
“That's it, lil’ freak bitch.” Erik groans, the sound vibrating deep in his chest as she buries her face in the crook of his neck, whimpering. “I’m a drag this pussy all on my dick…give you what you need…spread your legs…nah…spread ‘em…”
As he continues to grind her into him, Erik feels the pressure building in his gut, that familiar, lethal tension that signals the end. He’s too far gone, his own pleasure spiking into something aggressive and overwhelming. He leans in, his voice a low, gravelly rasp against her ear, telling her exactly what's happening.
“I’m ‘bout to bust, Sanaa. I’m right there,” he pants, his breath hot and ragged. “You makin’ me lose it. I’m ‘bout to nut all in these shorts...soak through everything just for you.”
The verbal confirmation is the final trigger. Sanaa’s walls tighten, her pussy clenching violently as a massive, shaking orgasm rips through her. She collapses against him, her body vibrating in his lap, her moans turning into breathless whimpers as she peaks.
“Damn, girl—fuuck—”
The sight and feel of her cumming sends Erik over the cliff. He erupts. The orgasm is a violent, pulsing explosion that rocks his entire frame. As the first thick jet of cum slams into the fabric of his shorts, the intensity is so sharp, so overwhelming, that he instinctively snaps his jaw shut, biting down on the meat of her shoulder to stifle the guttural roar that threatens to tear from his throat.
He holds her there, pinned and shaking, his dick twitching against her as he pumps load after load of hot, sticky cum into his shorts, the fabric becoming heavy and soaked between them. He stays buried in her neck, teeth still grazing her skin, breathing like a wounded animal while the aftershocks of the nut leave them both completely wrecked.
The friction had been relentless, a grinding war of hips and heat that left them both breathless. For a few seconds, they just breathed, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. Then, with a playful, feline smirk, Sanaa slid off him. She didn’t longer, she simply stepped back, the wetness between her legs clinging to her shorts, and started walking away down the hallway.
Erik blinked, his chest heaving and his eyes tracking the sway of her hips. The sudden lack of her warm, wet pussy left him wired and agitated.
“Where the fu k you going?” He called out, his voice commanding and laced with a hint of disbelief.
Sanaa stopped and looked back over her shoulder, her eyes hooded and teasing, a bratty glint in her gaze. “To my room, Erik.” She answered simply, her voice a soft, provocative slur.
Erik stood and walked up on her in that hall. The tension snapped back into place instantly.
“You got me doing risky shit. I don’t move like this.” Erik whispered, looming over her like the JSOC Ghost he is.
“I’m a rare soul, Erik. You don’t just enter my life the same. That’s the kinda effect I have.” Sanaa cooed.
Sanaa leaned against the wall, her gaze dropping to the front of his shorts.
“Let me see,” she whispered, her voice dripping with curiosity.
Erik reached down, grabbing the waistband of his shorts and pulling them forward. The athletic fabric was drenched, a heavy stain of cum spreading across the inside crotch and clinging to the shape of his dick and the buzz cut of his pubic hair. Despite having just finished, he was still brick hard. A thick, veiny pipe straining against the wet fabric, twitching with a life of its own.
Sanaa’s breath hitched. The sight of his masculine power, even in the aftermath, sent a fresh jolt of arousal straight to her pussy.
“You do things to my body I can’t even shake,” Sanaa whispered with a soft sigh.
Erik stepped into her space, his large frame looming over her, erasing the distance. He reached down, his hand sliding firmly down the front of her loose shorts. He didn’t tease, he pressed his palm flat against her pussy, rubbing her soaked folds and teasing her clit. He withdrew his hand, fingers glistening and dripping with her cream. Without breaking eye contact, Erik brought his fingers to his lips, slowly sucking the mess off them, his tongue swirling around his fingers so filthy.
Sanaa whimpered, her legs turning to jelly.
Erik leaned in, crashing his lips onto hers in a kiss that tasted like her pussy. His tongue invaded her mouth with the same aggression he used in every other part of their dynamic.
Suddenly, the sound of loud laughter at the door to Aaliyah’s room broke them apart instantly, the spell shattered by the threat of discovery. Erik’s eyes darkened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, but his instincts kicked in. He stepped back, glancing toward the bathroom.
Go in your room.” He commanded in a low, urgent whisper.
Sanaa slipped into her room, shutting the door behind her. Erik vanished into the bathroom, leaving the hallway empty just as the door to Aaliyah’s room swung open.
______
Aaliyah’s room was a scene of girly chaos. They’d set up a makeshift hairdresser. Hair serum, edge control, moose, brushes, and Bobby pins. It also gave the cluttered energy of a college dorm. Aaliyah was draped in an oversized Howard University sweatshirt that swallows her frame, paired with tiny sleep shorts and thick, fuzzy socks that keep her toes warm. She’s sitting on the floor between Naima’s legs, watching Dream Girls on her iPad while played in the background. Naima was focused and meticulous, wearing a pair of loose pajama pants and a tight baby tee. Her fingers are nimble, weaving and Styling Aaliyah’s hair into a sleek low bun for their night out tomorrow.
The door creaks open and Sanaa slips in, radiating a fresh, clean scent. She needed another shower after cumming all in her shorts. Her skin is glowy and damp. She’s swallowed up by an oversized Mindless Behavior T-shirt that hits mid-thigh, her wilds curls gathered and held in place by a bright, hot pink claw clip. Her turquoise tortoise shell glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and her bare feet pad softly across the floor. She drops in the center of the room, crossing her arms and tilting her head with a look of playful suspicion.
“What ya’ll plotting in here?” She asks, her voice teasing as if she knows there’s some secret being kept.
Aaliyah laughs, glancing back at her in the mirror. “Girl, please. Naima is just trying to make sure I don’t look like a mess tomorrow. Come sit your ass down.”
Sanaa chuckles and drops onto the edge of the bed, kicking her feet back. The three of them settle into comfortable conversation, drifting through the usual chaos of campus drama—who was seen with who at the library, which professor is failing half the class, and the latest tea from the sorority row. The vibe is relaxed. That only comes with close friends.
Suddenly, the playlist on the speaker goes from soulful to ratchet. The heavy, distorted bass of “WAP” by Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion kicks in, filling the room with its aggressive, explicit energy. Aaliyah doesn’t miss a beat. She starts rapping along, her voice getting louder and more confident as the lyrics get filthier. She’s leaning into it, using her hands to emphasize the lines about wet ass pussy and doing kegels while it’s inside, her energy matching the song’s unapologetic sexuality. Then a dance breaks out. And it’s nothing but ass shaking. Aaliyah on her knees popping booty while Naima stands with a brush in her hand and her tongue poked out, bending over to shake her little cheeks.
Sanaa, seeing the opportunity for future blackmail, quietly pulls out her phone. She keeps it low, angled just right to capture Aaliyah’s passionate performance, a smirk playing on her lips as she records the whole thing.
As the song fades out, Naima looks over, noticing the phone in Sanaa's hand. “Wait, did you get that? Let me see!”
Sanaa, still riding the high of the song and not thinking twice, hands it over to Naima. Naima starts scrolling through the camera roll to find the video, but her thumb freezes. Her eyes widen, and she stops dead in her tracks. She ain’t looking at a video of Aaliyah rapping.
On the screen is a crystal-clear, explicit video of Sanaa on her knees, her eyes staring up into the camera as she greedily sucks a thick, hard dick, her cheeks hollowing as she takes as much of the shaft as she can handle. Then there’s the voice of the man that carries all that dick coaching her in the back.
Naima’s jaw drops, and she snaps her head up to look at Sanaa, her voice exploding in a mix of shock and hilarity.
“BITCH!” Naima screams, holding the phone up like a piece of evidence. “You got a video of you sucking dick in your phone?! You nasty bitch!”
“WAP” suddenly didn’t matter anymore.
Naima is frozen, her eyes glued to the screen of Sanaa’s phone. On the display, the image is raw and unmistakable. Sanaa, her head tilted back, her eyes blinking in a trance of pure pleasure, her mouth stretched wide as she greedily takes a massive, vein-riven dick into her throat. The video captures the wet, sucking sound of her lips gliding over a spit-covered dick and the way her cheeks hollow out as she sucks the thick beast.
Sanaa’s heart hammers against her ribs like a trapped bird. A cold spike of adrenaline shoots through her veins, turning her blood to ice. For a split second, she forgets where she is, her mind flashing back to the way Erik stretched her mouth for the first time. The panic hits her instantly—a visceral, choking wave. If Aaliyah sees this, it’s not just about the act; it’s about who it is.
Sanaa lunges. It’s a blur of motion, the oversized Mindless Behavior shirt fluttering around her thighs as she dives across the bed. Her fingers scramble, clawing at Naima’s grip, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps.
“Give it back! Naima, give me my damn phone!” Sanaa hisses, her voice strained and bordering on a plea. She isn’t playing anymore; the playful suspicion from earlier is replaced by a genuine, wide-eyed terror. She can’t let Aaliyah see.
Naima, caught up in the shock and the thrill of the find, holds the phone just out of reach, gawking at the screen one last time. She’s mesmerized by the filth of it, the raw sexuality of her friend being completely undone by a man’s dick.
But Sanaa is faster. With a desperate swipe, she manages to snatch the device from Naima’s hand, clutching it to her chest as if it were a lifeline. She pulls back, her chest heaving, her turquoise glasses sliding slightly down her nose.
Aaliyah is sitting still on the floor, her expression unreadable. She didn’t seen the video, but she saw the reaction. She saw the panic in Sanaa’s eyes. A look that didn’t match the confidence Sanaa usually wore like armor. Aaliyah slowly turns her head, her gaze locking onto Sanaa.
“So…” Aaliyah starts, her voice low and calculating. “Nathan was over here then?”
There is a suspicion in Aaliyah’s eyes, a silent realization that there is a side to Sanaa’s life that is far more secretive and intense than a fintech worker from Bowie could ever provide. Sanaa doesn’t respond. She can’t. Her throat feels tight, her mind racing. She just stands there, the phone still pressed against her heart, the secret of Erik Killmonger burning a hole through the screen.
Naima, sensing the tension shifting from hilarity to something more serious, rolls her eyes and waves a hand dismissively. She leans back, trying to break the spell.
“Girl, please,”Naima says, glancing at Aaliyah. “It’s just a little dick sucking. Since when did we become the morality police? How many times have we exchanged photos asking if our nudes were sexy enough to send? We all get it in. Sanaa just happened to record the evidence.”
Naima laughs, trying to bring the vibe back to the casual, sisterly bond they shared minutes ago. Sanaa slowly exhales, but she doesn’t let go of the phone.
Aaliyah giggles, the tension from a moment ago dissolving back into the easy, chaotic energy. She shakes her head, a playful smirk dancing on her lips as she watches Sanaa clutch the device. “You hanging on to that phone for dear life, girl,” Aaliyah jokes, her voice light but still carrying a hint of curiosity. “Is Nathan’s dick that big, sis?”
Naima bursts out laughing, the sound loud and unfiltered, and Aaliyah joins in, the two of them sharing a moment of sisterly mockery.
Sanaa feels the adrenaline finally begin to recede, though her heart is still drumming a frantic beat against her ribs. She knows she’s walked a razor's edge, but she’s a master of the pivot. She lets out a forced but convincing laugh, leaning back and finally loosening her grip on the phone, though she keeps it firmly tucked away.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” Sanaa quips, her voice regaining that bratty, confident edge.
Aaliyah’s eyes widen, her jaw nearly dropping. “SINCE WHEN?” she exclaims, leaning forward. “Since when did you become the vault? Give us the tea!”
Naima, ever the instigator and still buzzing from the visual she just witnessed on the screen, clears her throat loudly. She looks at Aaliyah with a look of pure revelation. “Well, if you must know, Liyah...the dick Sanaa was sucking is fucking HUGE—”
“Girl, hush!” Sanaa cuts her off sharply, her voice a mix of a laugh and a command. She can’t let Naima describe the sheer, vein-riven scale of Erik’s dick to his sister! No. No, no, no, no way. Quick as a flash, Sanaa scans the room for a distraction, her eyes landing on the nightstand. A mischievous glint enters her eyes as she spots a familiar shape and the crisp, fresh look of the bedding.
“Can we change the subject?” Sanaa asks, her tone shifting to one of playful accusation. “Like, why is your rose vibrator just sitting out in the open? And why the hell do I see brand new bed sheets?”
The room goes dead silent. The laughter vanishes instantly, replaced by a heavy, awkward stillness. Naima and Aaliyah freeze, exchanging a wide-eyed, look that speaks volumes. They don’t say a word, their silence acting as a loud, vibrating confession.
Sanaa looks between the two of them, a triumphant grin spreading across her face. She lets out a loud, knowing laugh, leaning in with a smirk. “It’s no secret y’all been bumping coochies—”
“SHUT UP, BRI!” Naima and Aaliyah scream in perfect unison, their faces flushing a deep shade of red.
The absurdity of the moment breaks the dam, and all three girls collapse into a fit of hysterical laughter, the secret of the video momentarily buried under the weight of the new, scandalous revelation. Sanaa laughs the hardest, feeling the thrill of the diversion, though in the back of her mind, she can still feel the ghost of Erik’s dominance, knowing that while she’s laughing with her friends, she belongs to a man who would ruin her for even thinking about sharing him.
The thoughts that ran through her mind…
“Just let him hit it once…just once…” “I bet he’d talk me through it…say all that nasty shit while I cum on him…” “He probably strokes slow, deep…makes you say thank you when he nut…” “That dick would make me cry…and I’d say thank you for it.” “Please, Erik…please fuck me…”
To actually live in that reality now was an understatement.
The only thing missing…is “I wonder if he can make me squirt?”
The sound of footsteps through the hallway immediately made Sanaa’s pulse spike.
Erik stepped into the doorway, filling the frame with his massive presence. He looked effortless but lethal, dressed in a matching grey hoodie and sweats that left the hard, expansive lines of his muscles to your imagination. His locs were tucked neatly beneath the hood, framing a face that looked tired but remained intensely focused. A black duffle bag was slung carelessly over one shoulder, his weight shifted onto one leg, sporting a fresh pair of Jordans.
“Ya’ll eat yet?” he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate in Sanaa's chest. “Cuz I was thinkin’ ‘bout orderin’ in.”
“Yes! We got food already. Some pizza.” Aaliyah said.
“I just ate that leftover chicken and rice we made earlier in the week.” Sanaa replied.
“Bet,” Erik’s eyes scanned the room. “You don’t clean up in here at all, do you?”
Sanaa was frozen, her turquoise glasses sliding slightly down her nose as her eyes dragged over him with hunger. She traced the breadth of his shoulders, the way the grey fabric stretched across his chest, and the sheer size of him compared to the room. She felt a familiar, hot ache bloom between her thighs, her pussy clenching just at the sight of him.
Naima, always the curious one, leaned forward, her eyes scanning the glimpses of rugged skin peeking from his collar. “Erik, what do those scars actually mean? Like, where’d they come from?”
Aaliyah let out a short, knowing laugh, leaning back against her pillows. “Don't bother, Nai. He won’t tell you. He’s too mysterious for his own good.”
Erik’s lips quirked into a sharp, knowing smirk. He didn’t even look at Naima, his gaze was locked onto Sanaa, pinning her in place. “What she said,” he spoke, his voice dripping with a playful, dangerous confidence.
He turned to leave, but he didn’t just walk away. He began backing down the hall, keeping his eyes locked on Sanaa’s. The moment he was far enough that the other girls weren’t focused on him, the energy changed from familial to filthy.
Erik slowed his pace, his expression darkening. He slowly flicked his tongue over his top lip, a wet motion that told Sanaa exactly what he wanted to do to her. Then, with a slow, calculated movement, he reached down and gripped the hem of his grey hoodie.
He lifted the fabric, pulling it up high enough to reveal the sculpted, rock-hard terrain of his stomach and the deep, V-taper of his hips. The sight of his scarred skin and the power of his core made Sanaa gasp silently. Tucked firmly into the waistband of his sweats was the matte black grip of a pistol, the weapon adding a raw, dangerous edge to his sexuality that sent a shiver of pure arousal straight to her clit.
He held the pose for a heartbeat, letting her soak in the image of his strength and his lethality, before letting the hoodie drop. As he reached the corner of the hall, he didn't say a word. He simply mouthed two words, his eyes burning into hers:
“C’mere.”
Sanaa felt her heart hammering against her ribs. She wanted to bolt from the room, to throw herself onto him and feel that heavy weight pinning her down, but she was trapped between Naima and Aaliyah.
Trembling, she grabbed her phone and shot him a quick text.
Sanaa: why you always doing this to me 😩
A second later, she saw him stop. Erik looked at his phone, then looked back at her. He let out a sharp “tsk,” kissing his teeth in a gesture of pure, exaggerated annoyance. He gave her a look—one part disappointed daddy, one part ruthless conqueror—that was so intensely focused on her defiance that it almost made her laugh out loud.
Her phone buzzes.
Erik: Don’t think I ain’t see you come out that shower earlier without a bra. You do that shit on purpose, huh?
She bites her lip.
Sanaa: I’m cold. Maybe you should come warm me up.
Erik: I’d fuck the warmth back into you right now. Two fingers in while I suck on that pretty mouth. You’d try to keep quiet, wouldn’t you?
She exhales slow, adjusts her position.
Sanaa: Wouldn’t last a minute. I get loud for you. You know that.
Erik: That pussy get loud too. Keep talking and I’m a take my phone to the bathroom and beat this dick thinking about how you creamed on me earlier.
Her thighs press together. Her phone buzzes again.
Erik: You dripping right now? Tell me the truth.
Sanaa: Ruined my panties twenty minutes ago. Wanna see?
He shifts in the hallway. Back against the wall. Adjusts his joggers. Keeps a straight face. He didn’t argue. He just gave her one last, lingering look that promised a very heavy price for her disobedience before he disappeared into her room, leaving Sanaa drenched and anxious for the retaliation she knew was coming.
Sanaa lingered in Aaliyah’s room for a while longer. Every time she glanced down the hall, she could still feel the ghost of Erik’s gaze on her, the mental image of that matte black pistol against his skin and the way he’d flicked his tongue over his lip burned into her mind. Her pussy was throbbing, a heavy, insistent ache that made it hard to focus on whatever Naima was saying.
Eventually, the heat became too much to ignore. With a playful excuse about needing to wind down, Sanaa finally slid out of the room. As she walked down the hall, she passed the spot where Erik had stood, imagining the scent of him still clinging to the walls. Oud, clove, and something woodsy. Expensive and dark. He doesn’t spray it heavy but it lingers. On pillows. On shirts.
Once inside her own room, she shut the door and leaned against it for a second, letting out a shaky breath. She stripped off her T-shirt with hurried movements, her skin tingling. She slid into her bed, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the feverish warmth of her body. She pulled on her silk bonnet, tucking her curls away, and sprawled out across the mattress.
She lay there in the silence, staring up at the ceiling, her mind racing. She could still feel the phantom pressure of his dominance, the way he’d mouthed “C’mere” with that look of absolute ownership. She rolled her hips, rubbing her thighs together, the friction sending a jolt of electricity straight to her clit. She was trapped in a state of agonizing anticipation, knowing that Erik was just a few walls away, likely thinking about exactly how he was going to punish her for saying I can’t.
There was a distinct click of a door closing. It was Aaliyah’s door.
Sanaa froze, her breath hitching in her throat. The sound signaled that the coast was clear. The barrier between her and Erik had just vanished, and the sudden silence of the apartment felt like a countdown.
Buzz buzz
Erik: You in your room?
She didn’t reply. Just smirked. Another buzz.
Erik: I’ma slide over
Then a soft knock. Real soft.
Sanaa tiptoed to the door and cracked it, whispering, “Aaliyah still awake.”
“I know,” Erik said, already stepping in.
He didn’t push the door open hard, just eased through it like a shadow, shutting it with barely a click. The room was dark, save for the TV glow across her bed.
“Why you lookin’ like that?” he asked, eyes dragging over her titties and the peaks of her nipples. Then lower, to those cheeky, red panties that didn’t even pretend to cover her ass.
Sanaa curled her lip. “Like what?”
“Like you wanted me to see all that.”
She walked backward to the bed, slow. “Where you been at with a gun?” she teased.
He followed. “Out.”
“Why you can’t tell me?” Sanaa said with a pout.
Erik exhaled, “Gun range. This…hidden spot I go to when I’m in town to get a few rounds in.”
Sanaa smirks. “Can you take me next time?”
Erik gives her a stern look. “No.”
Sanaa rolls her eyes. “I been here thinking about how you made me cum in my shorts earlier.”
“I see that,” he whispered, eyes dropping to her thighs. “You take that big ass T-shirt off ‘cause you knew I was coming over.”
She smirked, pulled one leg onto the bed. “So?”
Erik just stared at her for a long moment. Then he crossed the room and leaned over her, both palms pressing into the mattress, caging her in. That scent hit her—cologne, leather, and a little sweat. His lips brushed hers. Then deeper. Tongue and spit. His kiss stole the air right out her lungs. A kiss that tasted like he missed her even if he just saw her minutes ago.
Erik pulled back just enough to whisper, “I came to taste somethin’ sweeter than attitude.”
Sanaa bit her lip, thighs squeezing together out of reflex.
“Get up,” he said low.
She blinked. “Huh?”
“Sit on the edge. Bring them knees up.”
The tone in his voice? Left no room for play.
Sanaa did what he said, backing up and sitting on the edge of her bed. She brought her feet up beside her, knees wide open. Those panties pulled tight, then gave way, pussy peeking through and sitting fat.
Erik sucked in a breath. “Damn, mama…”
He dropped to his knees like it was second nature. Big hands gripping her thighs, thumbs spreading her open like he’d done it a hundred times. He curled his fingers into the side of her panties and pulled them to the side. Her pussy lips slipped out with a jiggle. The amount of wet slick that clung to her fat lips and the crotch of her panties?
Erik didn’t waste a fucking second.
Sanaa gasped the second his mouth met her. Tongue warm. Wet. Slipping between those folds like he knew exactly where she needed it. Those lips?!
Oh my Goddddddddddddd
“Oh—shit. Erik…” she whispered, hands gripping her sheets.
He groaned against her, licking deep, slow. Then fast. Then back slow again. That slurp and the smack of his lips filled the room, nasty beneath the TV noise. His hands hooked behind her thighs, holding them wide as he buried his mouth in her. Sucked on her clit until her whole body bucked.
“You hear me?” he growled against her pussy, lips wet with her. “Don’t make a fuckin’ sound.”
Her hand flew up, covering her mouth. She was shaking. Moaning behind her palm. Eyes rolling. Erik was sucking on her pussy like a hungry fucking beast. Sanaa didn’t know what felt so different this time around. But the sucking and licking had her feeling like she was gonna burst. Her stomach fluttered.
But then it hit.
A tightness that started at the base of her spine. Crawled through her belly. Her thighs trembled.
“Erik—baby—wait—wait.”
“Nope,” he grunted, licking harder, faster. Sucking.
She tried to close her legs. He shoved them back open.
“Don’t fight it,” he said, voice deep and ragged. “Let it go.”
Her stomach seized. Eyes squeezed shut. Her mouth opened in a silent cry behind her fingers as it happened.
A rush. Warm and wet. A sudden gush that poured out of her, all over his mouth. Her thighs. The edge of the bed.
“Oh my God—” she gasped, embarrassed, stunned.
Erik didn’t stop. He licked her through it, eyes locked on her, tongue curling and dragging and sucking up everything she gave him. He loved that shit. Loved how she fell apart.
Loved how she tried to hold it in.
Sanaa was shaking when he finally slowed down, licking her clean with long, slow strokes. Her panties were ruined. Her bonnet was crooked. Her chest was heaving.
He kissed up the inside of her thigh and looked up, smirking. “Next time, don’t wait up for me,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Just lay here and get ready.”
Her eyes were glassy. Her legs still open.
“And Sanaa?”
“Yeah…?”
“You taste even better when you squirt.”
Erik left her sitting on the edge of the bed stunned.
1:35 A.M.
She couldn’t sleep.
The sheets were still damp at the edge. Her thighs sticky. Her pussy pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. Every time she moved, she felt the aftershock of its that warm gush, that thick wet mess Erik pulled out of her like it was nothing. Like her body had always been capable of that, but nobody ever took the time to find it. Nobody ever made her feel that good. That open. Now? She wanted it again. Her pussy ached for it. Throbbed hot and twitching like it remembered his tongue and missed it bad. She pressed her hand between her legs, trying to soothe it, but it wasn’t the same. Her fingers weren’t wide enough, strong enough, dirty enough. Her mouth went dry thinking about how Erik looked after. Wet beard, greedy tongue, hands keeping her wide like she belonged to him.
Sanaa bit her lip and grabbed her phone.
Sanaa: You up?
She barely had time to blink before her door eased open.
Erik stepped in shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. Heavy-shouldered. Locs loose and swinging with the motion of his body.
“You text me like that,” he said, voice low and scratchy. “You already know what I’m comin’ in here for.”
She pulled the covers back, heart in her throat. Fresh pair of panties on but still no T-shirt.
“I been thinkin’ about it,” she admitted, cheeks warm. “What you did to me.”
His eyes dropped between her legs. “You want it again.”
She nodded.
He stepped close, leaned down, lips grazing hers without kissing. “You gon’ stop runnin’ from it this time?”
“I ain’t run.”
He smirked, dimple peeking. “You tried.”
And before she could sass him again, he was pulling her new panties off—slick with fresh arousal—and crawling onto the bed like a man starved. She didn’t even have time to get nervous. To prepare for that feeling as if a pipe was set to burst behind her navel. He laid her flat, bent her knees, and pulled her thighs apart like pages in a book he already knew how to read. Then he started like he never stopped.
Again.
Tongue warm. Mouth wide. Slurping. Sucking. Spelling his damn name in cursive across her pussy. Sanaa gasped, back arching, fingers smoothing down his keloid-laden arms, eyes focused on the top of his head. His cross chain was cold and tickling her ass from how low he was between her legs.
Her pussy was soaked. Dripping. He loved that. Erik fucking loved it.
“Yeah,” he groaned, lapping her up. “You already close, huh?”
She whined. “Erik, please—”
“You don’t need to beg,” he said, voice thick and sweet between licks. “Just don’t run from it this time.”
She tried to breathe. She tried to brace. But the pressure built faster now. Her body recognized it. Started chasing it before she even meant to.
“Ohmygod—Erik—I’m—wait—wait—”
He didn’t wait.
He locked his arms under her thighs, anchored her to his face and ate her like a goddamn meal. His mouth sealed around her clit and sucked. The way he sucked, it felt like he was drawing the liquid from her through a straw.
H-H-How is he d-d-doing that?
That was it.
Her stomach tightened. Her toes curled. And then—
Splash.
Another rush.
Thicker this time. Wetter. Her thighs shook hard as the gush poured out of her, soaking his face, the sheets, everything. She gasped, stunned. Whimpering. But Erik didn’t come up for air. He licked through it, drank it, then started again. And when he started again, he sank two thick fingers in her pussy and curled his finger tips upward.
Squelchsquelchsquelchsquelch—
Sanaa tried to squirm.
“Stay still.”
“Erik—it’s too much—”
“You gon’ take it ‘til your body stop bein’ scared of how good this feel.”
And he kept going.
She whimpered—biting her pillow this time—pussy throbbing like it was addicted now. That orgasm came quicker, stronger. Another messy release that made her whimper and twitch.
He made her do it.
Again.
And again.
By the time he finally pulled back, Sanaa was breathless. Legs trembling. Sheets drenched. Her mouth open but no words coming out.
Erik kissed her thigh. Smirked. “You mine,” he said, voice hoarse, chin hair and mustache soaked. “Ain’t nobody ever gonna eat this pussy like I do. Especially not that lil’ nigga.”
She nodded slow, dazed.
And in the back of her mind, she already knew. She’d be texting him tomorrow night.
DUFF - Designated Ugly Fat Friend, English Slang (UK)
Summary : College years are not easy for everyone, especially not for a scholarship awarded international student. Diatah chose to swallow everything — discrimination, bullying,pain, fake friendships, awful jobs. She was ready for all, except him. That cocky man from Louisiana.
Pairing : Stack x Diatah (OC)
Genre : College AU
Music : People help people, Birdy, Wanna be, Megan Thee Stallion, Kissin on my tattoos, August Alsina
University of East London. Three years ago Diatah had been awarded a scholarship to study in this prestigious institution. For a young woman like her, who’d spent her teenage years in a country where everyone praised the occidental lifestyle, she had been more than thrilled to experience it. Until she landed.
The africanophobia was not the worst of it, racism she’d cruelly learned to swallow, however their mistreatment was something Diatah didn’t prepare herself for.
They were also black. Weren’t they? Certainly not the same features as her, more occidentalized — still, what about those who came from the same land as her? They accommodated and it was now legitimate to treat her like a nuisance?
Diatah. The one resembling a lioness
Her father sure gave her quite a name !
Misfortune she’d thought came to an end when she’d encountered Nimue and Shantal during her sophomore year — both women came mid-semester from an international exchange program.
Texas, Nimue had proudly clarified.
They were different.
Never did they shamed Diatah for her complexion. Neither for her African origins.
Those petty bullying were not their cup of tea.
Nimue and Shantal aimed higher.
They accepted Diatah in their group, loved and appreciated her. Then started sending her to some ridiculous errands.
A coffee to fetch.
Homework to do additionally to her own.
Conversations she wasn’t invited to participate in.
Bags to carry because Nimue just did her manicure and couldn’t hold her own purse.
Money lent and never returned, because friends always got the back of each others.
Little innocent remarks on her body, because they want her to be a baddie too.
Diatah was sure. It was all good. They were simply looking after her.
Well, that Saturday, after the Junior Ball game, she started doubting of their good intentions.
“Every group needs a duff. And I’m so happy to have Diatah with us.” Nimue had expressed, glossing her lips.
“Don’t get her wrong Tah. We love how strong you are. Thanks God you here to put these lame ass away.” Shantal had added.
Diatah had laughed bitterly, realizing that finally no friendship came without a price.
Yet, wasn’t it better to be a Designated Ugly Fat Friend than the poor African immigrant who doesn’t know how to fit?
The first semester end gracefully for Diatah, despite everything she scored higher than average and kept the scholarship.
Summer arrived merciless, she spent it plainly between part-time jobs, moving out into a new apartment, taking time to send money home in Ghana. In short, the joy of being an international African student abroad.
Laying down in her bed, she scrolled through Nimue and Shantal Snapchat stories — the girls were constantly out : parties, picnic at places Diatah had shown them, beach activities…
They didn’t invite her to none of it.
“It’s alright. I rather stay home anyway. It would have been awkward if I was there…” Diatah mumbled to herself, zapping the TV.
Later that day, her phone buzzed — while she was busy preparing for her part-time job.
Nimue: hey girl, wyd? My hg make a party tonight I was wondering if you in?
Diatah widened her eyes, reading the text over and over again to find the trick.
Perhaps did she meant to send it to Shantal?
Nimue:???
Back to earth, she hurried to reply.
Diatah: yes, tell me the hour and adress
Nimue: 9PM. Can me and Shantal come to your place to get ready? Our dorm room too small and yk how the supervisors are…
Ha. Here was the trick after all.
She already gave her word. It would be troublesome to say no now.
Diatah : alright.
After hitting sent, Diatah hurried to catch the next bus. Being late to noon shift at Burger King was criminal.
Anyway — she arrived five minutes late. Be assured that her manager will make sure to cut it off her salary.
She left the restaurant at seven and arrived home at seven and forty. Fifteen minutes later Shantal and Nimue were calling her apartment’s number.
Towel wrapped around her water-dripping body, Diatah answered the call and heard their footsteps climbing the stairs already.
“Hey girl.” Shantal voice interrupted behind the screen door.
Diatah inhaled sharply and opened her entry, a convenient smile plastered on her face.
They made themselves at home, a bit too much to be exact — monopolizing the bathroom that even the rightful tenant had to use a small mirror sitting in the living room to put her makeup on.
Shantal and Nimue left the bathroom gorgeous, bold and beautiful. One had a tank top and jeans with red heels on, the other a micro laced dress with platform shoes.
“Di…Diatah?” Nimue stuttered, grazing her friend up and down.
She heard Shantal swallowing by her side.
The woman before their eyes was different from the gloomy nerd they used to see wandering around the faculty’s hallways.
“Ah excuse me. Is that too much?” Diatah asked genuinely, taking in her micro-skirt and low-cleavage flared blouse — with care she’d oil up her deep brown skin, glistening every strikes mapped on her hips, stomach, high-thighs and top breasts.
It was her first girl’s night out, so she might have overdone the glam? Her face was sculpted, baked and glossed with a brown-cream combo — Hair slicked with bold aesthetic edges. Cherry on top, she wore her nipples heart-shaped piercings — outlined under the white blouse —, bohemian wooden bracelets, rose gold bellybutton’s jewelry that glint slightly when she swayed her hips.
And, at the bottom of her outfit sat a pair of mid-length open-heels, pretty match for her white painted toes.
“You’re so pretty Tah, that’s—” Shantal began, truly mesmerized.
“That’s too much…yeah.” Nimue cut, frowning and dusting invisible dust off her lace dress. “I mean— you gorg’ babe, but it’s just a small party no need for allat. And…” She burnt a hole on Diatah’s plushy stomach. “I think a mid-length dress can suit you better. I love when you put dresses on!”
Hesitant, Diatah sighed silently and turned on her heels, searching through her closet. She was not an idiot — but refused to admit that Nimue of all women, the same Nimue prettiest of prettiest, could possibly see her as a threat. And to be fair, she’d said small party. Maybe Diatah had just overdone it.
She got a hold on a cheetah dress, mid-thighs, then grimaced.
“This one a bit…” she murmured to herself, biting her lower lip.
No judgment. Diatah had been shopping clothes for years now, swearing each time to start investing in her nightlife.
It was cricket until today, of course.
“We down, hurry up a bit” threw Shantal, shutting the door behind them, purse in hand.
“Oh yes. Give me just five minutes.”
Diatah pressed her lips together and stepped into the dress, tugging the fabric up over her generous hips, adjusting the thin spaghetti straps on her shoulders. The cheetah print stretched across her voluptuous chest, nipped at her waist, stopped mid-thigh. She smoothed a hand down her round stomach once and behind, on her backside.
As time was running against her, she picked the first mule — a pair made of the same cheetah print and Marabout feather fanning across the toe strap.
She crossed to the small living room mirror — the same one she’d done her full face in while Nimue and Shantal had monopolized the bathroom to themselves —
“Wipe a bit here…” she smooched her lips and remove a bit of gloss that was spoiling her brown combo. “Yeah more like it…”
Music was blazing from the two stories house when Shantal parked her BMW across the street.
Diatah had a knot in her stomach, she never been comfortable around a crowd.
She breath in and out, wearing her same poker face, laying flat her edges staring at the small mirror she brought.
“Nimue !” A group of guys came over as soon Nimue stepped out the engine. She was followed by Shantal who slightly turned around to lock the car and Diatah who was now finding the hem of her dress too high on her curves.
A tall, mahogany complexion and goat trimmed-bear guy leaned down to kiss the two girls on the cheeks, “sup’ girls?”.
Shantal whimpered amused with all teeth out. The guy arrived at Diatah’s stance — poor girl didn’t know how to act. Whether to lean in to receive a smooch or stay put — and tapped on her shoulder, “it’s cool seeing ya’ll there.”
Diatah clocked the attitude. She didn’t mention it though. It wasn’t unusual. She stood behind the two girls, clutching her purse under her arm, fingers tight on her hem, ankles jewelry clicking to the rhythm of her heartbeat.
The group moved toward the entrance talking over each other — she fell in step behind them, pulling her phone out, feigning to scroll on Instagram.
This party will be long.
“Hey Tah ! Come on, don’t stay behind like that girl.” Nimue said over her shoulder laughing, the same guy holding her waist. “We having fun tonight, don’t be weird honey.”
“I brought a book for her in case” Shantal added, walking backwards to Diatah. “Come on you all better pour a strong shot for my girl.”
Who read a fucking book at party?
What was her problem?
Diatah put on a convenient smile, struggling to hide her annoyance.
They get it. I’m your pushover, let it rest now. She thought, walking inside the booming house.
The group of boys steered them through the packed group of people toward a sofa near the staircase — fluff, animal printed pillows, already warm from whoever had been sitting there before. Nimue dropped into it first, crossing her legs, her phone out before she even settled. Shantal squeezed in beside her, angling her body, chin down, and they fell into it naturally — snapping pictures, checking, reshooting, laughing at notifications on the screen between them.
Diatah sat at the edge of the cushion, eyes moving across the room. She wasn’t told to join, so she stayed still, already imagining how to get out of this mess.
The guy who tapped on her shoulder earlier offered a playfully restrained grin, looking at her up and down.
She was fine. And she knew it — from head to toes. Still, his gaze made her uncomfortable. It was full of something, a flicker of attraction maybe, she wasn’t sure…until he lowkey named it.
“Y’all three from East London Uni?” He asked dampening his lower lip.
“Yeah and no. We from Texas just there only for the two semesters hopefully.” Shantal responded, making herself comfortable in the sofa.
“And Diatah is a Ghanaian immigrant here so, prolly getting back soon?” Nimue added, turning head to her direction.
Diatah bit her tongue. “Hopefully so.” She answered.
“Oh. You African?” The guy mentioned with a lower, more plain tone.
“Yes.” She shot back, — invisible brow lifted — with more irritation she should have.
“That’s cool. My mom Sierra Leone and my dad from Brazil. We settled here years ago.” He said cheerily.
For a moment, Diatah’s guards fell down. She smiled back at him — in corner.
The tension didn’t escaped Nimue radars.
“Come on nigga, we thirsty.” She interrupted. standing up.
“Oh— right, what you girls wanna drink? I’m goin to make it. Tell me”
“Henny and coke, no ice.” Nimue uttered, scanning the space over his shoulder.
“Make it two.” Shantal added, singing some verses of Ciara’s song that was bleeding through.
He turned to Diatah last, smirking and waiting.
Before she got a word out, Nimue’s hand landed briefly on his arm — “Tah not picky, something sweet will do.”
Diatah rolled her eyes. She wasn’t having it this time. “Actually I’ll have some rum and lemon please.” She crossed her calves, making her jewelries sing. “Ton of ices too.” She laughed.
Shantal clocked the whole exchange — Diatah’s eye roll,Nimue’s dumbfounded face after — and bit the inside of her cheek, swinging her gaze deliberately toward the dancefloor.
“Yo Jay, Smoke not coming, I prolly—”
Halfway to the bar, Jay turned his attention to the stairs.
“What? Stack you leaving?”
The whole party went silent. Or at least that’s how Stack felt it when his eyes fell on Diatah — taking in her rich deep brown oiled complexion, her white painted toes brushed by the fanning Marabout feathers’ shoes. He slowed up, looking at the luxurious gold ankles contrasting her skintone, the way her cheetah dress molded her curves — glancing at her stomach, he peeped a bellybutton jewel’s shape.
Mesmerized, he — unwillingly — rushed his eyes all up her face.
She bad. Like real bad.
He couldn’t read much into it. She was keeping him captive.
“Huh-huh. Just tellin’ you Smoke won’t be there tonight.”
Diatah held his gaze a moment then traveled her eyes all over him — a tall, lean figure man with pecan colored skin. His almond shaped eyes lighted with deep brown irises ; he wore a goatee beard cleanly trimmed on his flexed jaws.
Diatah squinted her eyes, grazing across his features — a sharp fade tapered clean to his temples, hairline crisp against his smooth golden skin. His nose was long and flat at the bridge, lips full and resting easy. He wasn’t smiling, not quiet, instead he was throwing at her an interesting grin.
Her heart pounded hard in her chest, though she let nothing appeared on her face.
It was the first time a man of his caliber stared at her with such intensity.
Well, she couldn’t have possibly experienced it since she never let any men come close to her. She had her share of cruel, painful heartbreak — weaving between unrequited love, being hide and dumped.
Stack’s brows sat low over his eyes that hadn’t shifted off her once since he’d stopped walking.
His outfit was casual : two earrings on ear ear. A chain against his collarbone, short enough to sit flat on his chest. Black tee that matched black jeans, silver bracelet on his wrist.
Diatah pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and turned her eyes somewhere else.
He was hot. A damn fine mess.
Handsome was an understatement and she wouldn’t sit there and let him catch her agreeing with it.
“Hey.” He finally broke the ice, addressing the group of girls.
Nimue and Shantal didn’t hide their spark of interest. Though Shantal laid low, playing hard to get, Nimue — who was already up —, padded few feet toward his direction.
“Hey, I’m Nimue. We’ve never met, right? You seem familiar.”
Catchy. Could’ve do better.
Diatah hated.
“Stack.” He drank from his cup. “I don’t know where we probably met, I would have remembered.” He sneered, glint in his eyes.
“Hmm. For sure you would.” She replied, honeying the edges of her voice. “This is Shantal.” Nimue pointed to her bestfriend’s spot.
“Evening.” Shantal replied simply.
Stack nodded then backed his attention to Diatah, whose face was turned ahead to the party booming around them. “And you are—?”
He didn’t bother misplacing his interest. Through the way he was drinking in her body, her attitude, her strict pretty face.
She was the one he wanted to find about — her name, where she from, her favorite color, her hobbies, what she doing there, is she a good kisser? — with scrumptious lips like hers, the answer was evident — how she moved in bed?
“You’re staring.” Diatah finally spoke, swaying her hips on the cushions — her gaze shooting fire.
“Oh. Do I ?”
Nimue cleared her throat. Not oblivious to the bubbling, electric tension.
“Aww Tah come on don’t be weird.” she walked back to the sofa, settled in middle of Diatah and Shantal then grabbed Diatah’s thigh, tapping atop of it. “She’s shy, excuse her. Tah don’t really do parties but we dragged her out tonight, she not used to this kind of vibe. She’s more of a stay home type.”
“You better not be calculating how fast you can get back home right now, Tah” Shantal laughed cozily playful. “better be here than KFC, don’t you think.”
Stack didn’t laugh. Didn’t react the way Shantal’s tone was fishing for. He didn’t understand the KFC line. And it wasn’t that important.
Diatah flicked her eyes to Shantal who was brushing Nimue’s forearm, laughing genuinely.
Mentioning KFC because she was fat. Of course nobody would try digging if she was a regular customer or simply worked there. First option always fit best their perception of fat bodies, anyway.
All that circus for a man. What a waste.
Shantal was right on something though : she was definitely calculating how she could get the fuck out of this party.
“Here you go girls.” Jay’s voice cut across the room. “Two Henny and coke and a lemon rum.”
“Thank you Jay.” Shantal cheered, picking the two henny drinks.
Diatah leaned over and took hers. “Diatah, by the way.” She said, glancing at Stack. “My name.”
“Nice to me meet you Diatah.” He smiled.
After trying too many times to hit on Stack, Nimue seemingly gave up and dragged Shantal somewhere else in the house to dance, leaving Stack and Diatah alone.
“You keep staring, you’ll lose your sight.” She said, putting her cup down on the coffee table.
“Don’t show up delicious next time and I won’t.”
Diatah frowned for seconds, grazing him up and down.
There would never be another party.
He chuckled, showing off his dimples. “And clearly you could use a friend right now.” He laughed. “Yours kinda shit.”
A man like him always came up with a price and truthfully she was too broke to afford it. Or at least she thought so.
“Answer by yes or no.” Diatah uncrossed her glazed thighs. “You got a fetish?”
Stack widened his eyes, blown away by her question and the seriousness on her tone when she asked it.
“I love pretty women, that’s it.” He bite inside of his mouth. “And right now… there’s nothing about you that doesn't turn me on.”
Stack caught her off guard.
Suddenly drown by waves of nervousness, Diatah’s fingers twitched on the hem of her cheetah dress.
In films, books and even the pieces she read online on blogs — men wasn’t usually bold at first meeting.
She rubbed her thighs shyly yet still suck her tongue. “That wasn’t a yes or no.”
“Let me get you out of there and I’ll tell you.”
Diatah pushed herself up from the cushion, her curves jigging with the motion — hips swaying out, tits bouncing and filling out her cleavage, the dress riding a half inch higher on her thighs before she tugged it down once and reached for her purse.
She walked toward the exit without a word, mules clicking a path through the crowd and out the front door.
Stack’s jaw tightened.
He fell in behind her, eyes dropping the second she turned her back — locked on the roll of her voluptuous curves under the dress, the way they wiggled with each step, her deep brown oiled skin catching every light she passed under.
Her aphrodisiac perfume threaded back and wrapped around him before he could breathe around it : myrrh with undertones of cinnamon and orange.
He liked it.
Outside, the night’s cold wind hit them both. “I’m parked over there.” He lifted his chin toward the direction.
She crossed the street behind him, arms folded against the cold biting at her bare shoulders. Of course Diatah was reluctant to get in a stranger’s car. Still, it seemed better than the alternative of being Shantal and Nimue’s punching ball for the rest of the night.
His car was a cherry red ford, crouched low at the kerb. He swung his side open and gave her a look over the roof.
She let herself in, sat straight, and arranged the hem across her lap with two fingers.
As soon as Stack got inside,he turned the engine over with a low rumble and pulled from the kerb without rush, one hand resting at the bottom of the wheel.
“And where are we going?” He asked.
“Just drive me somewhere.” She replied, short.
She cut him a look without elaborating. The streets outside were still lit — off-licences glowing orange, a night bus pulling heavily from its stop ahead of them. He signaled right and let a cab pass before easing through.
“Why are you even hanging with these girls?”
Diatah pressed her lips together and sucked her teeth, clearly embarrassed. “They’re not that annoying. Just…they just got a certain type of humor that’s all.”
“The type of making fun you ‘cause you’re prettier than them?”
She chortled. “You think I’m pretty ?” She arched a brow.
“I do.”
She shook her head, amused and unconvinced then drifted her eyes to a chicken shop pass on her side, yellow sign buzzing, two guys leaned against the wall outside in puffer jackets with their hands buried in their pockets.
They reached a traffic light at red and Stack stopped the car, fingers tapping once on the wheel then going still.
Diatah studied his profile from the corner of her eye. The jaw, the clean line of his fade catching the red glow, earring glinting at his ears.
This man had an attitude — unbothered, calm, playful? All at once?
Her heart started drumming. Inaudibly at first then loudly. So loud she feared he would hear it.
“You definitely got a fetish.” She mumbled, deflecting.
Stack scoffed. “That what you want to believe?”
Diatah didn’t answer. She folded her arms on her chest and exhaled : “London is beautiful at night.”
Stack sighed, returning his gaze on the road ahead. “Yeah.”
Four blocks away, he turned off the main road without signaling, parking in front of a convenience store — who apparently was going to close. Diatah grabbed the door handle on instinct, ready to step out, thinking he decided to drop her off here.
“Wait. Give me a minute.” He brushed the top of her hand a second before walking into the store.
She watched him through the lit glass — the store nearly empty at this hour, one bored attendant at the till, Stack moving down an aisle with a rushing expression on his face, hands in his pockets.
Diatah exhaled through her nose and sank back against the seat. “What am I doing here…?”
She didn’t know this man. Didn’t know where he lived, what he did or if Stack was even his real name.
She doubted it.
He reappeared at the till, set a few things on the counter. The attendant bagged , he tapped his card and was back outside.
He sat into the driver’s seat and tucked the bag behind her headrest without a word.
“What did you buy.”
“Curious, ain’t we?” He cocked a smirk, squinting his almond brown eyes.
“Do what you want.” She turned her head, skimming the rain drops that wee now weeping from the sky.
Stack drove back and merged into the thin late traffic, rain pouring hard and relentless, fogging the road, thickening against the windshield. He flicked the wipers up a notch without looking away from ahead.
“You gon’ tell me where we’re headed or I gotta guess.” Diatah crossed her thick leg over the other, angling herself toward the window, though her eyes kept cutting back to him every few seconds.
He glanced at her quickly, then back on the cars in front of him. “You always this impatient or is it just me?”
“It’s you.” She retorted flat, fighting a grin.
He laughed, grumbling in his chest and took left after a roundabout, the tires hissing against wet tarmac as the shopfronts and their lights gave way to hedgerows dripping under the weather, gates set back off the road with intercoms rusted at the posts.
Diatah sat up a little straighter, unfolded her arms, taking in the change of landscape.
“Is this where you kill all your victims?” She kept her tone light, teasing, but her fingers pressed tightly the seam of her dress against her thigh.
“Only the cute ones.” He picked the grocery bag on backseats without breaking his line on the road.
“You’re an ass.” She giggled nervously.
“So I’ve been told.” He eased off the accelerator.
Diatah leaned toward her window, staring at a streaming water that pulled into view — a lake, maybe a reservoir, she couldn’t tell with this little light, but it stretched far enough that the far bank sat swallowed in mist and shadow.
Rain dimpled the surface in a thousand places at once, each ripple swallowing the last before it had time to spread.
Stack slowed the car to a crawl along a gravel track running parallel to the bank and parked beneath a tree wide enough to keep most of the rain off the windscreen.
He cut the engine off and looked at her. “How you feel?” He lowered the window of his side.
“Cold.” Diatah rubbed her palms down her bare arms, the heater ticking as it cooled with the engine off. “If I knew it would rain, I would’ve thought twice before running off with you.”
“Running off?” Stack repeated it amused and turned his gaze toward her direction. “You walked out first, if I’m remembering right.” He opened the bags in his lap.
“Details.” She waved it off, watching him pull out two chicken cheese sandwiches and pass it over. “You picked a chilly park. Coulda taken me anywhere and you chose here.” She kept complaining, rubbing her thighs together, the breeze caressing her skin.
“You said somewhere.” He shrugged, tearing his own wrapper open. “This is somewhere.”
“That’s a cop-out answer.”
“It’s an honest one.” He took a bite, chewing as his eyes traveled to the water, rain still needling the surface in restless little circles.
Diatah unwrapped hers slower, taking in his sudden distant tone. “Still…I’m surprised.”
“Hm?”
“You don’t strike me as a romantic type. One that drives girls out to a lake.” She bite her sandwich.
“Maybe you don’t know what type I am.”
Diatah chuckled, uncrossing her legs. “Maybe.” She gave up on the idea of scrolling the hem of her dress down. “Or maybe you just didn’t want to take me home.”
She internally cursed at her own stupidity as soon as the words spilled from her lips.
Diatah already came to accept the fact that she would never be the kind of girls guys hook up with or publicly flirt with or sort of any social interaction in the genre.
She was fine having a medium sexual life with average looking men — she was not even attract too — that hid her like cholera. And moreover, this one, Stack was just being nice and friendly. And it was okay.
“I’m sorry I didn’t mean—”
“Not yet.” He licked the cheese off the tips of his fingers and grazed his eyes over Diatah’s voluptuous body from her face — clinging to her lush breasts, skimming her glossy thighs — to her painted toes, on which his irises dilated hungrily. “I thought after this terrible party you might want to chill. Sorry I didn’t expect the rain. We could’ve sat closer to the lake.”
Diatah’s breath hitched. She cleared her throat and busied her hands with the sandwich, folding the wrapper back over the half she hadn’t touched.
“Rain’s not so bad.” She mumbled shyly. “I don’t melt.”
“Didn’t expect you to.” Stack laughed pleasurably entertained. He cracked the seal of his bottle of water. “You always this hard on yourself?”
“I’m not hard on myself.” She frowned, totally defensive.
“You apologized for a sentence you ain’t even finish saying.” He tipped the bottle back, drank, staring at her over the rim of it.
Diatah opened her mouth, closed it twice in row, and backed down, focusing her attention on the bucolic landscape instead, watching a duck she hadn’t noticed before paddle out from the reeds along the near bank, cutting a slow path through the rain-pocked water.
“Guess I’m used to people finishing my sentences for me.” She explained it to the window glass rather than to him. “Usually not kindly.”
“I’m not people.” Stack set the bottle back in the cupholder. “And even if I was fixing to finish it for you, wasn’t gon’ be cruel about it.”
She glanced at him sideways, gauging whether he was lying or saying the truth, but found nothing except that same playful, easy expression.
“My mother would hate this.” He chuckled.
“What?”
“Sitting in a car,feeding a girl junk food from a corner shop instead of taking her to eat a proper meal.”
“Running a strict program?” Diatah asked, finally relaxing.
“And do.” He held her gaze for a moment before releasing it. “She’s a doctor. She worked in humanitarian field to be exact.”
“Ah.” Diatah breathed, slightly annoyed.
Humanitarian huh. The ones that help the poor African get access to health?
She clacked her tongue inaudibly, rolling her eyes.
“I’m stopping you there ma’am, fix your face. She’s not doing white people fetish porn about saving the poor African babies. That’s some white people shit. Fuck them and their hero syndrome” He raised his finger clearly offended and Diatah cupped her face, bursting in laugh.
“Moreover she had more mission in East Europe, Orient and in the US.” His eyes turned sad. “I spent half my childhood watching her patch people up in places most folks wouldn’t send a postcard from.”
Instinctively Diatah rest his palm atop of his, warm and reassuring.
“She would have had something to say about wasting a night at park instead of doing something useful with my hands.”
“Useful like what.”
“Studying. Volunteering. Anything that wasn’t sitting still.” He rubbed his thumb along hers. “We moved around a lot chasing her work. I stopped counting the schools after the fourth one.”
“Sounds exhausting.” She retrieved her hand in her lap.
“It was. I missed Louisiana sometimes.”
“Louisiana?”
“Yes ma’am. That’s where I’m from. My mom is from Nola and my dad is a northerner, Chicago.”
Poor Diatah, she aggressively struggled to tell him how bad she was at geography.
“You can’t place them right?” He laughed mockingly.
“Shut up.” She murmured, flustered.
Stack lit his phone and tapped on iPhone map.
He leaned over, crowding her body with his — almost cheeks to cheeks, breathing hot against her lips.
“Here.” He first showed his home address, then New Orleans and a random place in Chicago. “My bad for showing a coffee shop in Chicago. I don’t know the exact place where my dad from.”
He returned to his seat, leaving Diatah’s heart beating abnormally.
“Well. It doesn’t matter now. With my parents and brother we settled in London. Mama reconvert into a simple doctor. Should’ve done that when we were young but anyway.” He spoke lightly but Diatah caught on the sad undertone.
“Accra.” She said. “That’s where I’m from. Well my grandma’s place at least, and I mostly grew up at her house, so…” She beamed reminiscing. “My parents’ place had very authoritative rules. So I loved to run away from it.”
She flattened her head against the window. “My mémé had a goat that ate my school shoes once and nobody even got mad about it. I remember my mother came and with her mom they just laughed at my expense.”
Diatah turned her head and caught Stack pressing his lips, eyes laughing. “Don’t. Stack don’t you dare—”
“HAHAHAHAHA— eurgh”
“…laughing.”
“A goat ate your shoes?”
“Brand new ones. Stop laughing it was traumatic.”
“Alright…okay…PFFT HAHAHA.” He caught his breath. “Did he chew even?”
“Go fuck yourself.” She exhaled.
“Do it for me.” He slurred.
Diatah’s mouth fell open scandalized and she shoved his shoulder, laughing despite herself. “You’re vile.”
“You started it.” Stack caught her wrist before she could pull it back, holding it there loose against his chest, thumb tracing slow along the inside of it. “You told me to fuck myself. I’m just offering better options.”
“Let go of my hand.” She whispered uncertain, her heart skipping a beat, betraying.
“You want me to?” He didn’t let go, drinking in her face, his smirk fading the longer she remained silent.
Diatah’s breath went shallow, the rain poured wildly against the roof, windows fogged thick, hiding the lake behind grey glass — leaving just the two of them and the small space between their seats.
“If I give in to my desires, I'll have to deal with the consequences of their actions.” She hushed, chest warm and heart kicking out its cage.
“Then, let me own those desires for you tonight.”
Stack’s thumb stilled against her pulse point. He glided his eyes to her lusciously glossed lips then leaned in slow, giving her every chance to pull back if she wanted to, his breath lukewarm against her cheek before capturing her lips.
He held her chin, fluttering, grazing long up to her jaw carefully, like she might change her mind if he rushed the moment.
Diatah’s fingers curled into the front of his shirt, steadying herself onto him.
He kissed her feverishly, caressing her lips patiently, softly and she melted into it despite her nerves and each cell of her body telling her to stop. That he would go back to his life after undoing her, this late night in front seat of that cherry red Ford.
Despite all, she whimpered, abandoning herself to his loving caresses, consuming years of loneliness on his lips.
When Stack pulled back, his forehead came to rest against hers, both of them panting in the small fogged-up space.
“Yeah.” He grunted softly. “Figured you’d taste like that.”
“What—what are you saying now...” Diatah’s fingers stayed knotted in his shirt, her chest rising fast against his, — nipples jewelries chafing against the fabric of her cheetah dress — and before she continued deflecting, Stack dipped back into it again, crashing his lips against her, passionately biting her bottom lip between his own.
His grunts muffled with Diatah’s whines as she slightly arched her spine off the seat, one knee lifting to press against the console as his palm slid from her jaw down the column of her throat, thumb dragging along her collarbone where the cheetah print had slipped a half inch.
He groaned low against her mouth, losing his hand in the curve of her waist, gripping her softness like he meant to pull her fully across the console into his lap.
Then out of blue his phone rang, the vibration rattling the cup holder’s plastic loud enough to cut straight through the haze they’d built between them.
“Course now.” He retreated back from her, and snatched the phone up with a scowl.
He unlocked it. “Yeah.” His jaw ticked, eyes cutting to the roof of the car. “Yeah I know…I’ll explain when I’m home. I’m out right now…yeah.” He suck his teeth and hung up. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling through his fingers. “It was my brother.”
Diatah scooted back into her own seat, tugging the hem of her dress straight over her thighs. She dragged her eyes everywhere except on his face. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine. Don’t worry.” He scratched the back of his head. “I’m sorry I’ll have to drive you home, my brother is—”
“Don’t worry. You can drop me the nearest bus station. It’s emergency I understand.”
“There’s no way I’m dropping you alone at this time. What’s your address.” He brought the engine to life, rounded the tree and made his way back on road.
“I really don’t want to bother, I got a peeper spray on me, I can—”
“Diatah look at me when I’m speaking to you.” He rasped. “Please.”
She sighed and turned her head.
“Good.” He clenched his fingers tight on the wheel. “You’re funny. Stunning. Smart.”
“You don’t know me enough to say all of that.”
“Touché. I do know enough to say that you kiss like a Goddess though.”
“What are you—” she began, embarrassed.
“What I mean is. Don’t be your own enemy, don’t let your own mind screw up your self-esteem. And dump those mean girls. They don’t deserve your friendship and you know it.”
“Just a kiss and you turned into a philosopher?” She teased, smirking. “I’m wondering what the kitty can do.”
“Wanna find out?” He stopped the car midway, unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned closer, studying every feature of her face. He could hear her heart pounding, drumming one beat after the other. “You trying to get a man in trouble talking like that?”
“Never told you to behave.”
She shifted in her seat, angling her body toward him, cleavage sagging down and loose over her swaying breasts. Her nipples jewelries scraped off the fabric with each inhales and her perfume flew over Stack nose, overwhelming the confined space.
She shuffled — the hem of her dress hiking high up her thigh — and stared at him through half-lidded eyes, her glossy lips parting slightly.
“You seem uncomfortable down there. Is everything cool?”
Stack shut his eyes and cleared his throat before backing away.
He lost at his own game.
“So. Your address?”
Diatah laughed, honest and free.
“Thank you for the advice.” She drew circles on the window’s glass. “I know, they’re not good friends. It’s just…at least they’re there.”
A heavy silence fell in the car.
She tapped her address on the GPS and they drove quietly to her neighborhood.
She climbed off the car and he caught her wrist. “My name is Elias. Friends call me Stack so you can keep doing it if you want.”
“Alright. Stack.”
“Can I have your number?”
“Why are you asking for something that’s already in your phone?” She winked at him and set her wrist free, disappearing inside her building.
Smoke knew which window was hers without looking at the house number.
He’d parked three houses down tonight, far enough that nobody would remember his charger if they happened to glance outside, close enough that he could catch movement behind the second-floor curtains. The position wasn’t accidental. Nothing about these nights was.
His gaze stayed fixed on the duplex.
He wasn’t focused on the building or the street.
It was her.
The television flashed blue against the curtains. A shadow crossed the room and disappeared again.
LaceyBlaze69
Malaya.
By now, smoke could recognize her silhouette faster than he recognized most faces. A tilt of her head. The swing of her hair. The way she crossed a room carrying a cup or a phone or a basket of laundry.
The curtains concealed most of her, but they didn’t need to show much. Smoke’s mind supplied the rest.
He watched the second-floor window and waited for her to pass again.
Smoke should’ve left forty minutes ago.
He knew it.
The job waiting on his laptop knew it.
The burner phone sitting untouched in the center console knew it.
But he remained exactly where he was, one hand resting against the steering wheel as his attention drifted back to the same upstairs windows for the hundredth time that night.
She had been back for over an hour. Alone. At least, as far as he could tell.
Smoke’s gazes lingered on the window. The surveillance feed mounted beside the dash displayed nothing useful now, only the quiet exterior of the building and a timestamp counting steadily forward. Smoke barely looked at it. He didn’t need technology to watch her anymore.
That realization should have bothered him. Instead, it settled somewhere deep inside him with a deep seeded satisfaction.
Smoke was close. He was so close. Closer than he’d ever been. The distance between them no longer felt measured in blocks or city streets. It felt measured in moments. One decision. One knock at the door. One conversation that would make him real to her inside of invisible.
His jaw tightened.
Then, the second phone lit up. Smoke’s eyes cut to the device.
Stack.
Smoke stared at the screen for a moment as it vibrated against the center console. Once. Twice. A third time.
Only then did he answer.
“Yeah.”
“You held up?”
In the background, the bass of some slow, thumping trap track rumbled through the phone. A song made for strip clubs. There was laughter in the background. Glass clinks. A woman’s voice sweet and blurred called someone “baby” before fading out.
Smoke’s eyes remained on the upstairs window. “What you want?”
“I need a favor.”
The request immediately irritated him. It wasn’t because his brother was asking for his help. It was when.
Smoke watched Malaya cross the window again before she disappeared out of view.
“It’s important,” Stack said.
“Ain’t say it wasn’t.” Smoke replied.
For a moment, only music filled the line. Then, Stack sighed, abandoning whatever charm he usually wrapped around these conversations.
“One of my clients is gettin’ cold feet. That one skincare influencer from the LA contract.”
Smoke already knew which one.
“What she do?”
“Started stashing files. Extra backups. Personal cloud storage I ain’t authorize.”
That got Smoke’s attention. His fingers drifted toward the burner phone resting beside him.
“Who she talking to?”
“Cybersecurity blogger outta Chicago. Small-time, but connected enough to be annoying. Might have federal contacts. Might not. I don’t plan on finding out.”
Smoke’s expression darkened. “You think she gon’ leak?”
“I think she already scheduled it.”
The answer settled heavy in Smoke’s blacked out charger. He hated leaving but business was business. And he refused to let some lame ass influencer hoe fuck up his operation.
“She got backups?” Smoke asked.
“Probably. Cloud storage. Maybe more.”
Smoke nodded once. “Send me everything.”
“It’s already there”
“Where?”
“Your RED folder.”
A humorless smile touched Smoke’s mouth. “What’s it labeled?”
“RATTED.”
The charger started beneath him. Headlights swept briefly across the curb as he pulled away from the spot.
“So, I’m cleaning your mess?” Smoke said with a dry chuckle.
“Technically ours.”
“How the fuck this my mess? You let this bitch get slick.”
The city rolled past outside the windows in an array of colors. From the outside looking in, Smoke had tints on his windows. Like a two-way mirror.
“Aight. I’m heading over now. I’ll let you know how it go.”
“No need. I know you got it.” Stack said.
Smoke hung up.
By the time Smoke reached the bypass, Malaya’s neighborhood had disappeared behind him. The only light inside the charger came from the glow of the encrypted software spreading across his console.
Data streams began populating the screen.
Passwords. Access points. Recovery keys. A file opened automatically.
RATTED.zip
DECRYPTING…
Smoke settled deeper into his seat, one hand on the steering wheel. The disappointment of leaving her lingered beneath his ribs, sharp and unwelcome. But work had always been easier than desire. Cleaner. Simpler. Systems made sense.
People didn’t.
Especially not women like Malaya.
For now, Ghost mode is engaged.
No fingerprints. No trail. No mercy.
01:47 AM
Buckhead high-rise. Top floor.
Concierge waved her in with a smile hours ago. The girl had champagne taste and too many secrets tucked inside her rose-gold phone. Smoke didn’t go through the lobby. He was already inside. The building’s maintenance access was laughably unsecured, just a four-digit pin Smoke could decode in his sleep. Smoke took the elevator to the service hall. Wore gloves. Footsteps inaudible. By the time he reached her door, he’d already looped the hallway feed and disabled the motion sensor near her unit.
She was home. Asleep.
Smoke pulled a small matte device from his hoodie. A USB merged with a scalpel. He presssd it against the bottom of the keypad lock. Held it there. Then…
Click.
The door slid open and he stepped inside stealthily. From a quick sweep of his dark eyes. Glass table. Dried fruit tray. Rolled yoga mat. Everything curated for a minimalist Instagram aesthetic.
But her tech? Messy.
She left her iPad on the couch and a pink MacBook on the table, lid cracked, camera covered with a sticker that read GIRLS RULE AND BOYS DROOL.
Smoke moved like he’d been there before. He sat on the couch, pulled out his own gear. He wasn’t interested in stealing her data. He was here to rewrite it.
Booting: SpoofStack_Protocol_V2
Within seconds, her MacBook mirrored on his screen. Password broken. The cloud decrypted.
And there it was.
A folder labeled: CLIENT ARCHIVE (PRIVATE)
Inside: Screenshots of bank transfers. Server access logs. Snippets of phone calls. Metadata from custom scripts that Smoke himself had built.
She hadn’t just collected proof. She’d built a timeline.
“Cute,” Smoke muttered.
He selected the folder. Duplicated the entire contents. Then deleted the original.
But that wasn’t enough.
Now feeding: FALSE_Archive_v1.3
He uploaded an altered copy. The fake archive had the same names. Same structure. But every file told a new story:
Stack was just a consultant.
Smoke’s code was purchased legally.
All server logs showed compliance with DMCA and data privacy.
Her “receipts” now made her look like a willing accomplice to digital blackmail and influencer manipulation.
He encrypted the fake archive to match the original hash key. No one could tell the difference.
Not even her.
But if she leaked it now? She’d bury herself.
Smoke stood. He wiped the couch armrest and tucked the cloned drive into a pocket. On his way out, he paused by her bedroom door was cracked. He didn’t bother opening it further. He could hear her breathing in her sleep. Then, he was gone. Hallway feed reactivated. Fingerprint spray already dissipating. By the time she woke up, only thing that would feel different was her own guilt.
Outside, Smoke shut the car door with a soft thunk, slid into the driver’s seat, and let the rumble of the Charger settle around him like armor. The inside was pitch-black. No dome light. Just the red glow from the dashboard and the faint buzz of encrypted sync across the Bluetooth rig.
He sat there a second. Gloved hands resting on the wheel. The digital drive in his inner jacket pocket, warm with all the shit he’d just buried.
Job done.
He tapped the hands-free.
“Call Stack.”
Three rings. Then bass. Deep, strip-club bass. Slow trap low like lust wrapped in a haze.
“Talk to me.” Stack said.
“It’s handled.”
“She won’t double back?”
If she try to, she leakin’ her own stains.” Smoke replied.
“Beautiful. Like poetry, bruh.”
Smoke reached for the gearshift. “I’m out.”
“Nah, hold up. Slide through.”
Smoke paused. “Where you at?”
“The rotation spot. Underground. Off Decatur. You remember the one. Black light entrance, heat sensor door, only take crypto at the bar?”
Smoke exhaled. Already annoyed.
“Ain’t this your pussy-and-patron circuit?”
“Tonight it’s business, bruh. Private room. Need to talk clientele. Tighten things.”
“At a strip club?” Smoke quirked a brow.
“At my strip club,” Stack corrected. “I trust the walls.”
Smoke didn’t answer right away. His fingers flexed once on the wheel. His mind had already started drifting. To home.
To his command center.
To Malaya’s face half-lit by LED strips…
To the way she bit her lip when she thought no one noticed…
“Mmm, fuck…I’m rubbing this clit just for you…can you see it? I’m sliding my fingers deep inside my pussy…imagining it’s your dick filling me up instead. I want you so bad, Daddy…I want you to watch me cum for you…”
“I’m such a slut for you, ain’t I? Look at me…look at how I’m opening myself up. I’m soaking wet, Daddy…I’m just a little toy for you to watch and play with…does it make you hard seeing me fuck myself like this?”
Smoke…yes…unh…Smoke…
Smoke…Smoke…
“Smoke?” Stack called through the phone.
“…I’m listening.”
“Slide through. I’ll pour somethin’ strong. You can smoke somethin’. Then we talk.”
Smoke exhaled through his nose. “Security tight?”
“Locked like your vault. Don’t worry ‘bout whispering the code at the entrance. The floor girl ‘ol walk you in.”
There was another pause. Then, Smoke shifted into drive.
“Be there in thirty.”
“Atta boy.”
The line went dead.
Smoke pulled onto the road, tires smooth, engine low and sleek like a predator in motion. The city lights blinked across his windshield—blues, reds, golds—but his focus stayed cold.
When he got there, Smoke pulled up slow. The charger came to a stop at the edge of an unmarked building with blacked-out windows and no signage. Just a single narrow door inset into the concrete, painted deep charcoal, smooth and flat. No velvet rope. No line. No noise from outside. It wasn’t a place you found, you were brought there.
Smoke stepped out into the thick night air, the heat of Atlanta still pressing close even after midnight. His matte black leather biker boots touched down on the curb. Every corner of the block appeared to have no motion but watched. You could feel it. Eyes behind tinted glass. A red security light blinked from somewhere above the doorframe, invisible until it caught the metal button of his sleeve. As he approached, the door cracked open just wide enough to let the glow spill out.
Blue. Blacklight.
Inside, the world looked dipped in ultraviolet. Silhouettes moved in slow motion. Melanin Skin glowed in neon, oil-slicked and glistening under the lights. Purple thongs. Fluorescent green heels. The gleam of diamond chains across collarbones and ankle bones and down spines. The bass hit in a deep, sexual crawl. A low trap track chopped with moans and heavy kicks. A sound you could fuck to, kill to, drown in.
The girl standing just inside the door was fine enough to alter a man’s path. Maybe five-foot-six. Rich brown skin slicked to perfection, waist snatched in a sheer one-piece with nothing underneath. Her lips were glossy, her eyelashes long and cruel. She looked him up and down once.
She smiled slow. “Hey Twin? This way.”
Her voice was warm but lined with danger. Like if he turned the wrong way, she’d cut him with it. She turned, hips rolling high and slow in front of him as she led him deeper into the space. The walls curved inward, black-lit murals dancing with movement as bodies passed. Women kissed women on leather couches. Men sat back with cigars while girls bent over laps, bare and grinning, high off liquor and deeper things.
The layout was designed for maximum intimacy and voyeurism. A wide, circular perimeter of plush, midnight-black velvet booths surrounded a central stage area where polished chrome poles rise like silver pillars toward the dark ceiling. The floor is a polished obsidian that mirrors the flashing neon, making it feel as though the dancers are floating on a sea of dark glass.
No phones. No cameras. Only shadows and memory.
One room opened to his left, curtains drawn but not closed. Inside, a woman was tied to a black rope swing, heels still on, one man kissing her thighs while another licked her breast. She was moaning loud, head thrown back. Her body glowed in the light like something caught between reality and pleasure. No one in the hallway stared. This was normal here. Routine.
On the poles, the women are masterpieces of motion and melanin. They represent a breathtaking spectrum of Black beauty, from deep, midnight and rich mahogany to warm honey and golden bronze. Their attire is minimal, designed to leave nothing to the imagination. Some wear sheer, neon-trimmed lace thongs that disappear into the crease of their cheeks. Others are in strappy, high-cut leather sets that push up their breasts and cinch their waists, leaving their midriffs bare and glistening with body oil.
One dancer, a woman with skin the color of dark umber and a towering afro grips the pole with practiced strength. She slides down the chrome in a slow, controlled descent, her thighs gripping the metal tightly before she snaps into a perfect, flat split on the stage. As she holds the position, she arches her back, thrusting her chest forward and grinding her hips in a tantalizing, circular motion that makes the thin fabric of her G-string vanish between her plump, shaking cheeks.
Another performer, a golden-brown beauty with long, flowing braids is a whirlwind of erotic energy. She spins rapidly, her body a blur of glowing skin before suddenly stopping to drop into a deep squat. She turns her back to the crowd, bending over until her chest nearly touches the floor, and begins to shake her ass with a thunderous motion. The muscles in her glutes worked to make that ass ripple and bounce under the black lights, a hypnotic vibration that keeps the patrons mesmerized.
Money flowed like a river. Crisp bills were tucked into the waistbands of thongs, slapped against oiled thighs and rained down from the booths in a constant, fluttering descent. The tactile experience is one of luxury and an erotica. The patrons—all black folks—lean back in the shadows, their eyes locked on the stage. The vibe is heavy with desire and explicit intent. It’s a space of unapologetic Black eroticism, where the scent of money and lust rains down like the bandz that littered the stage and floor.
Women noticed. They always did.
Smoke kept his face unreadable as they moved through. His gait stayed measured, heavy boots on obsidian tile. Charcoal henley pulled tight over his chest. Silver chain resting low, cool against his collarbone. One ringed hand hung loose at his side while the other stayed near his hip. He wasn’t here for indulgence. But eyes followed him anyway.
One dancer paused mid-pour, licking foam from the rim of a glass as she watched him. Another girl leaned against a wall in mesh, nipples pierced and glowing, her mouth parting just slightly as he passed.
He didn’t return the looks. He moved like everything around him was already beneath his notice. Like he could take any one of them home, or none of them, and it would all mean the same.
The floor girl finally stopped at a black velvet curtain that looked like it led nowhere. She turned, looked at him again, then reached out and slid her fingers across his chest.
“Stack’s waiting in the back. Said don’t keep him too long. He got a mood on tonight.”
Then, she stepped aside.
Smoke slipped through the curtain.
The back room hit different.
The music lowered but stayed thick with bass. The lighting shifted to a red-blue gradient that danced over leather booths and mirrored walls. A private bar lined with obsidian shelves glinted with high-shelf bottles and decanters carved like diamonds.
Stack was seated in the center booth like a man who owned everything. Suit jacket off. Cigar in hand. Shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the rise of his chest and the sliver of a tattoo that disappeared beneath it. A woman was sitting next to him, pretty and thick, wearing nothing but chains and red panties. But she wasn’t talking. Just pressing close like she knew her position.
Stack looked up and grinned when he saw his brother.
“Bout time.”
Smoke slid into the booth across from him, not saying shit at first. He leaned back, eyes tracing slow as they scanned the room. Then he pulled out the drive and slid it across the table.
“It’s done.”
Stack tapped ash off the end of his cigar and took a sip of something gold from a crystal glass.
“You rewrite her whole digital memory?”
Smoke nodded once. “She leaks now, she burns herself.”
Stack let out a low, satisfied sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite approval. More like pleasure at watching the chessboard bend.
“See, that’s why I keep you in the cut. All these pretty tech boys with degrees out here movin’ loud. You? You just fuck around and disappear a bitch.”
Smoke didn’t react. He just sat there with a stony expression.
The woman next to Stack traced the rim of his glass and leaned in to whisper something, but Stack waved her off without looking. His attention was locked.
“You didn’t have to come out tonight,” Stack said after a beat. “But I appreciate it. Had to talk to you about tightening the loop.”
Smoke raised a brow. “Clientele?”
Stack nodded. “Some of these influencer types? They playin’ messy. Takin’ our tools and runnin’ off at the mouth. I need cleaner boundaries. Higher vetting.”
Another girl danced across the far room, naked except for heels and a diamond chain around her throat. She locked eyes with Smoke for a moment. Bold.
“This empire we buildin’?” Stack said. “It don’t grow if the wrong bitch flips. That one tonight? Could’ve got real ugly.”
Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “It almost did.”
Stack took that in. Sat back. “We tighten up now,” he said, voice lower. “Or we lose what we got.”
“I’ll send a new vetting protocol. You run names past me first. You don’t, we both lose.”
Stack smirked. “Look at you. Big boss energy.”
Stack leaned back in the booth, one arm thrown over the leather like it belonged to him. Alizé was at the private bar, hips rolling slow as she poured herself a drink. She licked stray cognac from her fingers like she tasted herself in it. Across the room, Nova stood near the edge of a low platform, dancing in a slow whine to the music bleeding through the walls. Her hands trailed her own thighs, eyes locked on Smoke the second he stepped through the curtain. She didn’t wave, she just smiled and kept moving like she wanted him to watch.
Smoke pulled out his phone. He tapped the encrypted drive. Brought up a blacked-out screen with layers of local and foreign pings.
“Any word about the three that came lookin’ for me?”
Stack took a puff of his cigar resting between two fingers, eyes narrowed in thought.
“Nah. And if I had, you know I would’ve said.”
Smoke nodded once. No accusation, just calculation. His fingers moved quick, swiping through location data, blurred screenshots from party feeds, AI-enhanced license plate reads.
“They ain’t from here.”
“Obviously.”
“Cheap suits. Bad diamonds. But they knew the lingo.” Smoke paused, looking down at the screen. “Knew enough to know about me. The real me.”
Stack’s jaw tightened. “You pull names?”
Smoke tapped again.
The table glowed blue with the light from his screen.
“Yeah. Pulled prints from the glass that lanky one touched. Traced a rental car from the valet logs. Hacked the damn building’s guest Wi-Fi and cross-checked MAC addresses. Got two of their burner IDs off bounce-back signals.”
Stack chuckled low. “My brother.”
Smoke’s eyes were locked on the screen.
“Names are Harold Kray, Zino Atakni, and the older one? Conrad Fielding. Fielding’s got history in Marseille. Organized pipeline moves through West Africa, black-market acquisition networks. Used to work under de Costa before that shit collapsed. He’s the head.”
“And the others?”
“Soldiers. Hired muscle with decent resumes. One of them, Zino, used to run messages for a Libyan collector who’s since disappeared.”
Stack’s lips pressed together. “You think they freelance?”
Smoke shook his head. “Not with how Conrad was talkin’. That wasn’t freelance energy. That was sanctioned. He was too damn calm. Too rehearsed.”
Stack poured more bourbon.
“They wanted access,” Smoke said. “They didn’t come for art. They came for me. For the Ghost.”
Stack’s grin faded completely. “Somebody sent ‘em.”
“I know.”
“Who?”
Smoke’s silence deepened.
“Don’t know yet,” he said, but his voice had changed. Lower. Sharper. “But whoever it is…they want me out the game.”
“Dead?”
“Dead or cracked open.”
Stack blew out smoke through his nose. “That’s bigger than art theft.”
“That’s bigger than us.”
There was a faint moan of the bassline from the next room, a synth-heavy R&B loop wrapped in drum kicks and whispered filth.
Stack’s voice dropped, the way it always did when he shifted from business to indulgence. That smile of his curved slow across his lips, just enough to show the gold cap when he spoke.
“You remember Alizé, right?”
The thick, honey-toned woman next to him looked up. Her lips were glossy. Her eyes were misty with a need to be fucked and whatever liquor she drank. She was fine in that round, sultry way. Thick thighs, soft belly, ass too big for most dresses, face too sweet to say no. She blinked up at him and licked her lips once before turning toward his lap.
Stack didn’t stop her. He leaned back in the booth, legs spread, cigar held loose between two fingers while she unbuckled his slacks with practiced care. She looked up once, then dipped down.
Smoke sat still across from him, watching.
The second girl—Nova, the one who had been watching Smoke earlier from the far corner—stepped forward now. Her body was carved like temptation, all sharp cheekbones and waist-length curls. Her skin shimmered under the light. Her nipples were pierced, rings glinting. She lowered herself to her knees next to Alizé. Alizé giggled, gave Stack’s dick one final lick before passing it off to Nova. She reached out, took Stack’s dick in her hand, and started sucking it.
Two mouths.
One thick, wet dick.
They took turns. One sucking slow, the other licking along the shaft. Then both at once, lips brushing as they slurped and moaned around him, messy and devoted. Alizé cradled his balls like they were holy. Nova spat and stroked, her eyes rolling when he twitched against her tongue.
Stack exhaled, his head tilted back slightly. He shut his eyes.
Smoke turned away, unfazed. But the sound of slurping and licking remained.
“You sure you don’t want one?” Stack asked, voice lazy. “Alizé got that throat, but Nova? She know how to make a man forget he got enemies.”
Smoke picked up a blunt, lighting it, his other hand rested on his thigh. His rings caught the low light. His expression still unreadable. But his eyes slid from the women back to Stack, cold and steady.
“I’m good.”
Stack smirked. “You always say that.”
Smoke leaned forward just slightly. “It’s been a minute,” he admitted, voice rough with quiet restraint.
Stack raised an eyebrow, surprised at the honesty.
Smoke’s gaze didn’t move. “But the only mouth I want on me like that?” His jaw tightened. “She don’t even know yet.”
Stack grinned wider. “Damn. She got you pressed like that?”
Smoke ignored him, blowing smoke ahead of him.
The wet sounds between them grew. Alizé moaned deep in her throat, face glossy, nose running. Nova licked him like she was tasting secrets. They didn’t even look up. Just switched angles. Spit dripping. Hands cradling. Tongues sharing.
Stack groaned low, his head falling back against the booth cushion.
Smoke stood. “You done?”
Stack looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. His voice was a quiet dare.
“I ain’t never done.”
Smoke gave a slow nod. “Handle yours.”
He turned and walked out, his boots heavy on the tile with impatient steps.
And behind him, the club kept spinning. Lights pulsing. Girls moaning. Music thumping under blacklight like a heartbeat you weren’t supposed to hear.
———
11:45 PM—His Den
Smoke sat back in his leather chair, the pungent aroma of the blunt between his fingers circulating his head like a menacing fog. He was stripped down, shirtless, skin gleaming under the recess lights of his command center. A black durag was tied tight across his head and his shorts hung dangerously low on his hips, exposing the sharp lines of his V-taper.
Four curved monitors dominated his vision, but only one mattered. He watched the screen, his eyes locked on Malaya. She had logged on late. No fancy lighting, no ring light to wash out the imperfections. Just a dim, yellow bedside lamp that cast long, jagged shadows across the room. The frame was messy. There was a hoodie thrown over a chair, the edge of a baby’s blanket peeking out from behind her.
It was raw. It was honest. And it was killing him.
She looked exhausted. Smoke couldn’t see her eyes but he knew they had to be droopy with a vacant expression. She wasn’t wearing a wig or a drop of makeup. Her long twists were draped over her shoulders, her skin matte and real. She wore an oversized T-shirt that slipped off one shoulder, exposing a glimpse of her collarbone, and simple cotton panties that looked like they’d been worn all day.
She didn’t greet the room with her usual practiced smile and seductive lip bite. She didn’t tease. She just laid there, half-propped up against her pillows, thighs spread wide in a way that felt less like an invitation and more like surrender.
Smoke took a deep drag of the blunt, the cherry glowing bright orange, and held the smoke in his lungs until it burned.
He watched her yawn, a genuine, tired stretch that arched her back and pulled the fabric of her T-shirt tight across her breasts, revealing perk nipples. She rubbed her eye with the back of her hand, looking less like LaceyBlaze69 and more like a woman who was drowning in her own life.
“Mmm…hey loves…sorry I’m late…I can’t even tell what time it is anymore,” she dragged a single finger over her pussy through her cotton panties, rolling her hips in a lazy circle. “I was having the best dream about getting fucked out of my sleep…but I think I’d rather have the real thing,” Malaya bit her lip. “I’m still so warm from the sheets…can you tell? I’m barely awake, but this pussy is dripping for you. Come on…tip me something to wake me up.” She released a soft chuckle. “Help me hit the goal, I’ll show you exactly where I was rubbing myself before I drifted off…”
The chat was moving fast. Men were demanding more. They wanted her to scream, to arch, to play the part of the hungry slut they paid for.
DangerDick84_: Come on Lacey, show that pussy baby.
WillyMoProblems: Take them panties off.
PhantomDweller$: You have pretty toes. I wanna suck ‘em.
100 Tokens. 300 Tokens. 150 Tokens. 80 Tokens
Malaya didn’t react to them. She didn’t even seem to be reading. She reached down, her fingers sliding under the elastic of her panties, tugging them aside with a movement that was mechanical, devoid of passion. She began to touch herself, her fingers moving in circles, but her body language was unfocused, and Smoke just knew she was staring past the lens, eyes heavy and uninterested.
Then, she started to moan.
Smoke leaned forward, his chest nearly touching the glass desk. He knew that sound. He knew the difference between her desire and her hustle. These moans were hollow. They were a performance for the bills, a fake melody played to keep the tips flowing. She was faking the pleasure, her voice pitching up in a way that didn’t match the deadness in her eyes.
It was a lie, and it made his blood boil.
He hated that she had to do it. He hated that she was forced to pretend to be turned on by the gaze of hundreds of nameless, horny men just to keep a roof over her and Messiah’s heads. The sight of her vulnerability, the way she looked so small and broken in that big, messy bed, hit him harder than any physical blow.
Smoke didn’t type or use YungCipher to talk dirty or GoodBodyAnon to be sweet. He stayed as Camera0ff. The silent watcher.
Smoke reached for his mouse and clicked the tip button. He didn’t send a small amount. He sent a massive sum, a number that would make the rest of the chat go silent, a number that meant she could turn the camera off right now and not worry about money for a month.
He watched her body language change.
She paused.
Her fingers that were circling her clit slowed down. He could actually see her shoulders drop. Like she was relieved.
Smoke exhaled a cloud of grey, gaze darkening.
He wanted to reach through the screen, grab her by the back of her neck, and pull her into his own bed. He wanted to strip that oversized shirt off and replace her fingers with his tongue.
He wanted to give her a reason to moan that wasn’t a lie.
Smoke watched her finish, a quiet, unceremonious climax that left her looking even more depleted than before. As she reached out to end the stream, her shoulders slumped, and for a split second, she looked like she might cry.
The screen set went black.
Smoke sat in the dark, the only light coming from the remaining monitors. He stared at the empty black square where she had been, his hand gripping the armrest of his chair so hard the leather groaned.
He wasn’t just obsessed. He was addicted. And the fact that she was breaking right in front of him only made him want to own every shattered piece.
Smoke leaned back in his leather chair, the embers of the blunt glowing. He shifted, shorts riding lower on his hips, his mind drifting back to the time he’d tried to bridge the gap between the screen and the skin.
He’d used YungCipher for it.
Out of all his personas, YungCipher was the one that carried the most of his actual hunger. He wasn’t the quiet ghost of Camera0ff of the protective shadow of GoodBodyAnon.
YungCipher was the raw edge.
He was the one who talked dirty. The one who tipped when she hit a peak, the one who let her know exactly what a real man would do to her if he had her pinned beneath him.
He remembered the messages he’d sent. He hadn’t been playing a character then. Every word had been the truth. She didn’t need those silicone toys. The tips from strangers was pocket change compared to the life he could provide. He’d been explicit, his words painting a picture of exactly how he’d handle her. He wanted her to know that he wasn’t just another viewer with a credit card; he was the real thing.
You don’t need those dildos, baby. I got the real thing waiting for you. I’ll be your favorite big dick. I’ll give that pretty pussy exactly what it deserves.
Smoke could almost feel the weight of her in his hands, the way her tired body would melt under his dominance. He wanted to replace the fake pleasure she performed for the masses with a visceral, bone-deep satisfaction that would leave her shaking and speechless. He wanted to be the only thing she craved.
But she had turned him down.
The rejection hadn’t been angry or disgusted. It had been a firm, practiced wall. She’d declined the offer to meet, citing her rules.
Smoke didn’t feel slighted or insulted. Instead, he felt a dark, twisted sense of pride. He understood. Malaya was guarded for a reason. She was a mother, a survivor, a woman who knew exactly how dangerous the world was. The fact that she wouldn’t dare meet a stranger from a chat room, no matter how much he promised or how high he tipped, only made her more precious in his eyes. It meant she was disciplined. It meant she was protecting herself and Messiah.
It also meant that if he wanted her, he not only had to ask for her.
He had to take her.
He had to weave himself into the fabric of her life until he was the only safety she had left.
Since that night, he’d dialed back YungCipher. He’d stepped away from the aggressive pursuit, retreating into the shadows of his other accounts. He stopped pushing for the meet-up, stopped the overt demands. He went back to being the silent provider, the gentle protector, the ghost in the machine.
He took another stage of the blunt, exhaling a thick cloud that obscured the monitors. He played the long game. He had tested her boundaries and found them strong.
But boundaries were just lines waiting to be crossed.
Smoke looked at the silver laptop on his glass desk, his encrypted phone sitting beside it. He knew everything about her. Where she lived, where she worked, the exact moment she turned off her lights at night.
Smoke just needed the right moment to show her that everything he’d promised as a persona was a reality as a man.
And then Jordan became a name Smoke saw too often.
At first, it had meant nothing to him. A man’s name in a woman’s phone was not enough to move him. Malaya was beautiful, delicate in ways she tried to hide and sweet in ways that slipped out when she forgot to guard herself. Men noticed. Men always noticed. Some sent her messages with too many hearts eyes on social media. Some tried to be funny and failed. Some waited for her cam shows and spent money they didn’t have just to make her look toward the screen for half a second. Smoke knew the difference between noise and a threat. Most men were noise.
Jordan had been noise until Malaya started smiling at him.
Edge & Thread—Location: North Side 9:05PM
Smoke sat in his private office above Edge & Thread, the monitors casting a cold sheen over the angles of his face. Below him, the barbershop had closed for the day. The last chair had been swept, the last cape shaken out, the last customer sent into the Atlanta night with a fresh line. Up here, everything belonged to Smoke. The locked door. The black desk. The encrypted drives. The wall safe behind a framed print no one but him was allowed to touch.
Malaya’s phone activity was open in front of him.
Smoke told himself it was maintenance. That was the lie he used when he needed one. He had put enough invisible architecture around her life to know when something went wrong, and checking the structure was part of keeping it intact. Messages. Unknown numbers. Strange links. Men who became too aggressive when she ignored them. Clients who thought a tip bought access. He watched for threats because threats had a way of hiding themselves in charm.
But Jordan was not charming in a way Smoke could easily condemn. That was the problem.
The latest message sat near the top of the thread.
Jordan: You still up?
Malaya had answered three minutes later.
Malaya: Unfortunately lol. My sleep schedule is a joke.
Jordan replied with a laughing emoji then a picture of a little boy sprawled across a couch with one sock on, one sock missing, and a Black Panther toy tucked under his arm.
Jordan: Shiloh knocked out like he pay bills lol
Malaya’s response came with three laughing emojis.
Malaya: 😂😂😂 He is SO CUTE. Look at him holding T’Challa!
Smoke’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t the words. It was the ease of it all. Malaya didn’t overthink that response. She didn’t perform. She didn’t angle herself toward seduction or sweetness. She was simply there, amused and unguarded, letting some man send her pieces of his life as if he had a right to place them in her hands.
Smoke scrolled back.
Jordan didn’t text too much. That made him worse. A desperate man revealed himself fast. He pressed for pictures, attention, reassurance. Jordan did none of that. He appeared every few days at first, then more often, then with enough to become expected. A joke in the afternoon to ease the tension while she was at work. A check-in after she’d clocked out to pick up her son when her baby daddy was supposed to do it. A quick call that lasted eight minutes, then another that lasted twenty-three. One night forty-one.
Forty-one minutes.
Smoke stared at that number longer than he wanted to. He clicked into the call metadata, though he already knew what it would show him. Incoming. Answered. Late evening. Malaya had let it ring once before picking up. It wasn’t long enough to avoid him but long enough to see his name and decide what to do with herself before she answered.
Smoke leaned back in his chair and rubbed his thumb along the side of his index finger.
He could picture it too easily. Malaya in her apartment, curled up somewhere, bonnet on or hair loose, phone pressed to her ear. Her voice lower because she didn’t wanna wake Messiah. Jordan on the other end with that easy patience Smoke was beginning to dislike. No rush. No pressure. Just conversation.
Smoke opened another window.
Jordan Ellis.
Smoke preferred men with mess. Mess gave shape to intent. Mess gave him handles. An unpaid judgement. A sealed charge. Old warrants. Bitter women in comments. Something. Anything. He searched with the meditated focus of a man taking apart a machine piece by piece.
Jordan gave him almost nothing.
Thirty. Atlanta born. Local employment, steady enough. Rental history clean. No obvious criminal record. No restraining orders. No heavy social media presence. His pages were mostly private, but not hidden well enough to keep Smoke out. Photos loaded one by one. Jordan at a cookout. Jordan holding Shiloh on his hip in front of an aquarium tank, the boy’s small hand spread against his father’s cheek. Jordan at his son’s outdoor birthday party with a paper cone sitting crooked over his tapered curly fro. Jordan at a convention, grinning beside a wall of anime figures, posing like Sukuna.
Smoke’s eyes narrowed.
Malaya: Same smile 😍 he’s so sweet. Really grew into himself from high school.
Sweet.
Smoke hated that word the most. Sweet men were dangerous when they were real. Not the kind who used softness as bait, but the ones who had grown into patience because life had required it. Jordan had a son. Jordan had responsibilities. A man like that didn’t need to impress a woman with volume. He impressed her with being consistent. With remembering. By calling when he said he would. By laughing at old things from school and asking new questions like he actually cares about the answers.
He returned to the messages.
Jordan had asked about her day. Malaya had told him it was long. He sent a voice note instead. Smoke played it once through the isolated feed. Jordan’s voice came through with a smile in it.
“Well, I hope you eat something and get some rest, Malaya. You work so hard. You deserve to be pampered. Don’t stay up too late watching Love Island knowing your ass need to be asleep. Then get mad when Messiah wakes up hahaha.”
Malaya had answered with a voice note of her own. Smoke didn’t play hers right away. He sat there with his hand on the mouse, looking at the little audio bar as if it had done something personal to him. Her voice belonged to her, but he had collected so much of it that some part of him had begun treating it like a private possession. Her sleepy voice. Her irritated voice. Her calm voice; honeyed and controlled. Her real laugh when she forgot herself. Her little sigh when something made her feel seen. He knew them. He knew the difference.
Now Jordan was learning them too.
Smoke played it. Malaya’s voice spilled into the room with amusement and faint embarrassment.
“First of all, don’t be clockin’ me! Second, I ate. Kind of. I had fries.”
Jordan replied almost immediately.
Jordan: That’s all you eat is fries. You gonna turn into a damn fry 😂
Malaya: They are when you mind your business 😒
Smoke stared at the exchange. It was nothing. That was what made it something. No naked pictures. No heavy flirting. No late-night confession. Just easy back-and-forth. Smoke could have handled vulgarity. He understood men who wanted a body before they understood the woman inside it. He knew how to deal with that kind. This was worse because Jordan seemed interested in the ordinary parts. Her meals. Her sleep. Her memories. Her jokes. The parts Smoke had been studying from the outside like a locked house with the lights on.
A line of texts appeared farther down, from two days ago.
Jordan: I forgot you used to draw Sailor Moon characters in your notebook.
Malaya: Don’t expose me 😭
Jordan: Never. I thought it was cute then too lol
Smoke’s hand closed once. There it was. History. He couldn’t hack history. He couldn’t purchase it, threaten it, erase it, or outrank it. Jordan stood somewhere in Malaya’s past. Some version of her Smoke would never get to see. Drawing girls with moon wands in the corners of her notebook. Smiling at things before life taught her which pieces of herself to hide.
Smoke had files. Jordan had memories. The distinction scraped against something low in him.
He opened Jordan’s background again, harder this time, less patient. He checked financials. Associates. Old addresses. Known relationships. Family connections. He looked for bitterness, instability, some ugliness hidden beneath the calm surface. An angry ex. A custody dispute with teeth. Gambling. Pills. Anything he could name and place between Jordan and Malaya as proof that his instinct was not jealousy but protection. Contentment was a language Smoke did not trust.
He closed the file and returned to Malaya. Her last message to Jordan was from twenty minutes ago.
Malaya: You still watching that show you told me about?
Jordan: Yeah. You were right. It got good after episode three.
Malaya: Told you. You just had to stop being stubborn.
Jordan: 😂 I’m working on that.
Malaya: Liar.
Jordan: Maybe. But I listen when it matters.
Smoke read that line twice. Then three times. The words were not much on their own. A soft little flirt, maybe. A door left open. Jordan had not shoved his way through it. He had simply set the sentence down and let Malaya decide what to do with it. She had not answered right away. Smoke watched the timestamp as if he could will it backward. Four minutes. Seven. Twelve. Then the little mark appeared.
Malaya: You always did 😌
Smoke went very still. Then, he sat forward, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled near his mouth. Jordan had not become a problem because he wanted Malaya. Jordan had become a problem because Malaya was beginning to let him matter.
The next message came a few minutes later.
Jordan: We should get together one of these days. Catch up for real.
Smoke’s eyes fixed on it. The typing bubble appeared beneath Jordan’s message, pulsed, disappeared, then returned. Malaya was thinking. He could imagine her biting her lip, not in the way men begged to see on camera, in the way she did when something made her nervous. He had seen that before. She would glance away from the screen, then back. She would smile at herself as if she needed permission to want something simple.
The response came through.
Malaya: I’d like that.
Smoke did not move. The monitors continued their work around him. Servers blinked. The city passed outside with sirens in the distance and tires whispering over damp pavement. Downstairs, the barbershop slept beneath him, all mirrors and empty chairs, all the day’s voices and buzzing gone. On the screen, Malaya’s words sat beneath Jordan’s.
I’d like that.
Smoke read them until they stopped looking like words and started looking like a hand placed somewhere it did not belong. Jordan was not a client. Not a faceless watcher. Not a man begging for pieces of her through a screen. Jordan was warm skin and a familiar smile. A son named Shiloh. A soft-eyed anime nerd who remembered what Malaya used to draw in school and had the patience to wait between messages.
Smoke exhaled through his nose.
He could ruin him.
The thought came cleanly. It sat there like a tool laid on the table. Smoke knew how. He could make Jordan’s life inconvenient by morning and unbearable by the end of the week. A few pressure points. A little disruption. Nothing dramatic enough to point back to him. Men were easy to move when you knew what they loved and what they feared losing.
Malaya had said she would like that.
Smoke leaned back in his chair, the darkness behind his eyes becoming something colder than anger. He had been patient because patience had always worked for him. He had watched, learned, mapped, waited. He had known her patterns so well that knowledge had begun to feel like intimacy. But Jordan was showing him the insult hidden inside that belief. Knowing where Malaya bought groceries was not the same as being the man she called when she was tired. Knowing what time she went live was not the same as being remembered from school. Knowing what made her body respond on camera was not the same as making her smile at her phone in the middle of an ordinary night.
Smoke stared at the screen.
For the first time, distance felt less like control and more like absence. And absence, he was beginning to understand, made room.
———
Jordan’s text came just after six.
Jordan: I'm outside.
Malaya looked at her reflection one last time before grabbing her purse. She had settled on a fitted chocolate-brown ribbed midi dress that hugged her figure without feeling overly dressy. A cropped cream denim jacket rested over her shoulders in case the evening cooled off. Gold hoops framed her face, a thin layered necklace that rested against her collarbones, and her twists spilled over one shoulder. She’d kept her makeup simple, finishing with nothing more than gloss across her lips. She wasn’t trying to impress him. She just wanted to feel pretty.
When she stepped outside, Jordan was leaning against his car, one hand tucked into the pocket of dark jeans. His black T-shirt stretched comfortably across broad shoulders, and his beard had filled in since high school, giving his face a maturity she hadn't expected. His smile, though, hadn't changed. It was the same warm smile she remembered that always reached his expressive light-brown eyes.
For a second he simply looked at her.
“Damn.”
Malaya laughed. “What?”
“You look good.”
“You clean up pretty nice yourself.” She returned the compliment.
“I had to. Couldn’t let you outshine me.”
She rolled her eyes, smiling as he opened the passenger door for her.
The drive started exactly the way she’d hoped it would. Easy. The conversation slipped between them without effort. They laughed about teachers they swore had hated them, classmates they’d forgotten until one of them mentioned a name, and the anime arguments they’d somehow still remembered years later.
“So you still watch it?” Jordan asked.
She looked at him with mock offense. “You asking me that like you don’t already know the answer.”
“I had to make sure adulthood hadn’t changed you.”
“It definitely hasn’t.”
He grinned. “Good.”
By the time they reached the restaurant, Malaya realized she hadn’t checked her phone once. Dinner felt less like a first date and more like picking up a conversation that had simply been paused for several years. Jordan listened more than he talked. When she mentioned work, he asked questions instead of waiting for his turn to speak. When she laughed, he laughed with her instead of trying to top the joke. He remembered little things she’d mentioned over the last few weeks of texting, surprising her more than once.
“You actually remembered that?”
“You told me.”
“That was like...two weeks ago.”
He shrugged. “I was listening.”
Something about that stirred inside her.
Eventually the conversation turned toward Shiloh. Jordan’s whole face changed. His smile grew and his shoulders relaxed.
For the next several minutes he told her stories about bedtime negotiations, mismatched socks, spilled cereal, and Saturday mornings spent watching cartoons. He wasn’t performing fatherhood. Watching him, Malaya understood something.
Kindness looked good on him.
After dinner, neither of them seemed ready to call it a night.
“You wanna walk for a minute?” Jordan asked.
She nodded.
They wandered the sidewalk without any destination in mind, their conversation drifting from old memories to where life had taken them since graduation.
Jordan glanced over at her. “I was nervous asking you out.”
She stopped walking. “You were?”
“Oh, absolutely. Look at you.”
She laughed. “I would've never guessed.”
“I practiced asking you.”
She blinked. “You practiced?!”
He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing at himself. “Like...four different versions.”
Malaya burst into laughter, lightly bumping his shoulder. “You are lying.”
“I’m dead serious.”
“That’s actually kind of cute.”
“I'll take cute.” Jordan replied with. Smirk.
The drive back to her apartment was comfortable. They listened to music and debated over which anime’s were the best. Jordan eventually pulled into a visitor's space and shifted the car into park. Neither of them reached for the door.
He looked over at her. “I’m really glad you said yes.”
Malaya smiled. “So am I.”
He leaned in slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. She didn’t.
Their lips met gently. The kiss wasn’t rushed or hungry. Their heads swiveled, Malaya reaching out to grip his chin to hold him steady while she damn near stole his breath with those juicy lips that tasted like maple brown sugar. Jordan felt himself getting stiff, squeezing his thighs to try and calm his erection. The kiss was warm, lingering just long enough to make them both smile when they pulled apart. Jordan rested his forehead against hers for a second before quietly laughing. They separated, Jordan licking her gloss from his lips and Malaya fixing hers since some of it got on her chin.
“I’ve wanted to do that all night.”
“I kinda figured.” Malaya giggled.
“You gonna let me see you again?”
Malaya looked at him. “I think that can be arranged.”
She reached for the door handle. As she turned, Jordan’s hand settled lightly at her waist before sliding naturally to the curve of her hip. His fingers gave her ass a playful squeeze over the fabric of her dress.
He laughed. “...Girl.”
Malaya looked back.
“You still…thick.”
Jordan started singing Bobby V Tell Me since it had come up on the playlist.
Malaya threw her head back, laughing. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You are so childish.”
“I ain’t lying though. Tell me, for real cuz man…”
Malaya shook her head, unable to stop smiling.
“Goodnight, Jordan.”
“Goodnight, Malaya.”
He watched her step up, unlocking her apartment door, and glance back one last time with a small wave before disappearing inside. Only after the door closed did he finally pull away. The door clicked shut behind her, but the warmth of Jordan’s kiss still lingered on her lips. A small, genuine smile played on her face, one that didn’t have to be performed for a camera or a tip. He was different. Patient, warm, and the way he looked at her made her feel seen, not just consumed.
As she kicked off her heels and began to peel away her clothes, for the first time in a long time, the place was truly quiet. Messiah was with his father for the weekend, leaving her with a rare, unfiltered solitude. In her bedroom, She paused, her dress slipping over her head, her mind drifting back to the way Jordan’s hand had felt on the cleft of her left ass cheek. She wondered if she should have let him come inside. The thought sent a sharp, electric pulse of lust straight to her core, leaving her thighs feeling heavy and her pussy aching with a sudden, insistent throb.
Malaya was horny—deeply, viscerally horny—and the lingering adrenaline from the date had left her skin hypersensitive. She didn’t want to just sleep it off. She wanted to feel something intense, to lean into the friction of her own desire.
With a determined exhale, Malaya transitioned from the woman who had just been on a romantic date to the persona the internet paid to see. It was time for the “Good Girl Gone Filthy” set.
She transformed her space into a curated altar of simulated innocence and raw filth. First came the lighting. She clicked on the ring light, bathing her face in a professional, clinical glow, but then she layered in the atmosphere. She draped strings of warm fairy lights across the wall and turned on a bedside lamp that changed colors, creating a hazy glow that blurred the edges of the room. She laid out the backdrop. It was a plush, baby-pink faux-fur blanket spread across the floor, topped with a white furry rug that looked soft enough to sink into. It was the perfect contrast to what she planned to do on top of it.
Then came the wardrobe. She slid into pastel pink lingerie with lace trimming that hugged her breasts tight, the fabric straining against her nipples. The thin lace of the crotch area barely covered the swell of her ass and the plumpness of her pussy lips. To complete the “good girl” aesthetic, she pulled on a pair of knee-high pastel socks with little bows and fastened a thin charm bracelet around her wrist, the small silver trinkets jingling as she moved. She reached for her hair, deftly styling her long twists into two high pigtails, securing them with oversized satin bows.
Malaya wears a delicate, intricate pink lace mask that clings to the curves of her face, the fabric sheer enough to tease but thick enough to create a barrier of mystery. The floral patterns of the lace cast seductive shadows across her skin, framing her eyes in a way that makes them look wider, more vulnerable, and dangerously focused.
She looked like a doll. The perfect fuck doll.
The final touches were the props. She placed a large, glossy lollipop still wrapped on the nightstand next to a high-powered Bluetooth vibrator that was gifted to her from MoTh3rL0ad88, deep, purple silicone and appeared not so intimidating. Malaya checked her camera angle, ensuring the frame captured the curve of her hips and the inviting dip of her waist, making sure the viewers would have a front-row seat to her descent.
Finally, she reached for her phone and tapped the screen. The heavy, grinding bass of Tinashe’s Nasty filled the room, the slow, provocative beat syncing with the thrum of blood between her legs. Malaya climbed onto the pink fur, arching her back and letting the music vibrate through her skin. She looked into the lens, her eyes darkening, the “good girl” mask sliding into place just as she prepared to go live and get filthy.
I been a nasty girl, nasty
I been a nasty girl, nasty
I been a nasty girl, nasty
I been a nasty, nasty, nasty
Malaya clicked the “Go Live” button, and instantly, the viewer count began to climb. The screen flooded with a rush of usernames, a digital tide of hungry men eager for their fix. She leaned into the camera, her eyes wide and shimmering, a playful, shy smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
“Hi everyone,” she whispered, her voice an angelic, breathy coo. She brought her index finger to her lips, biting down on the pad of it gently, her gaze fluttering. “I...I didn’t think so many of you would be here tonight. I’m feeling a little shy.”
She giggled, a high, melodic sound, and twirled a stray twist around her finger. She looked like a doll, a pristine image of purity in her pastel pinks and white fur, but the way she let her gaze linger on the lens told a different story. She was playing the part of the innocent girl who had accidentally stumbled into a room full of hungry wolves with brick hard dicks and balls filled with cum, acting as if she were barely aware of how the thin lace of her panties clung to the swell of her ass and wet pussy.
[User: BigDickEnergy99]: Look at those bows…I want to rip them right out of her hair.
[User: VoidWalker]: Stop playing, baby. We know you a little slut for us.
[User: TipKing_X]: Tipped 50 tokens! Show us those cheeks, Good Girl.
Malaya blushed, a performative flush that crept up her neck. “You’re all so mean to me,” she pouted, bouncing her tits like she was throwing a temper tantrum.
If you keep up with me
I'll keep on coming back
If you do it too good
I'm gonna get attached
'Cause it feels like Heaven when it hurts so bad
Baby, put it on me
I like it just like that…
As the heavy, grinding bass of Tinashe’s Nasty kicked back in, the “good girl” mask didn’t falter, it just evolved. Malaya turned on her knees slowly, the camera capturing the dip of her waist and the way her bralette strained against her hard nipples. She turned her back to the lens, glancing over her shoulder with a wide-eyed, innocent expression while her lower body began to move.
She started with a slow, hypnotic roll of her hips, the movement fluid and circular. The white fur of the rug brushed against her thighs as she began to twerk, her cheeks bouncing with a heavy vibration. She wasn’t just shaking; she was oscillating, her hips swinging in a precise, tantalizing cadence that made the lace of her panties disappear between the folds of her ass.
[User: HardCoreHustle]: Fuck, that bounce is lethal. Look at her move!
[User: LustLord]: Tipped 100 tokens! Arch that back, Miss Blaze!
[User: DeepDive_88]: She look so sweet but she moves like a fucking pro. I need to see more.
Malaya let out a, staged moan, her head tilting back as she leaned forward, planting her palms on the pink fur. She pushed her ass high into the air, creating a steep, inviting slope. She began to grind against the air, her hips rotating in a slow, agonizing circle that simulated the feeling of a thick dick sliding deep inside her. She looked back at the camera, biting her lip, her eyes half-lidded and glazed with a mixture of fake modesty and real arousal.
“Is this...is this okay?” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “I don't know why I’m doing this...I feel so naughty, Sir.”
Then, with a sudden, athletic grace that contradicted her fragile persona, she slid backward. In one smooth, fluid motion, she hit a full split on the plush rug, her legs extending wide, leaving her completely open to the lens. The position pushed her panties to their absolute limit, the fabric straining across her ass and her soaking wet pussy, the center of the lace darkening as her arousal leaked through.
She stayed there, chest heaving, her breasts bouncing slightly under the pink cotton. She reached down, slowly tracing the line of her thigh with a manicured nail, her eyes locked on the camera, challenging every man in the chat to tell her exactly how they would ruin her.
[User: BeastMode]: Tipped 200 tokens! Open those legs wider, you filthy little doll!
[User: PureSin]: I can see she's soaking through those panties. Look at that wet spot!
[User: AlphaMale_7]: I wanna see you swallow a whole dick while you in that split, slut.
Malaya slowly pulled herself out of the split, her movements languid. She crawled toward the lens on all fours, her breasts swaying under the pink lingerie, her eyes locked onto the camera with that wide, doe-eyed gaze. She stopped just inches from the lens, her face filling the frame, the soft glow of the ring light reflecting in her pupils.
“You guys are being so loud,” she whispered, a tiny, teasing smile playing on her lips. “I can’t even think...you’re making me feel so...exposed.”
She sat back on her heels and spreading her knees just enough to give them a glimpse of the lace straining against her pussy. With a slow, shaky breath, she pressed her palm flat against her crotch. She began to rub her pussy through the thin fabric of her panties, her fingers circling her clit in a grinding motion. The lace was translucent from her arousal, clinging to every fold of her lips.
Malaya let out a soft, airy moan, her head tilting back as she increased the pressure, her hips lifting off the rug. “It’s so warm,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “I’m just...I’m just a little bit wet. Is that bad?”
Then, without warning, she reached down and grabbed her ankle, pulling her leg upward and outward in one fluid, athletic motion. She slid into a perfect side split, her body stretched wide across the white fur. The position was devastatingly open, her pussy centered perfectly in the frame, the pink lace of her panties pulled tight and damp, outlining the plumpness of her labia.
She looked at the camera, her expression a mask of faux-hesitation, her lip trembling slightly. “Do you...do you really wanna see it?” she asked, her voice a breathy, innocent plea. “I’m so shy...I’ve never shown this many people at once.”
The chat exploded. The token count began to skyrocket as the men scrambled to pay for the reveal.
[User: KingKink]: Tipped 500 tokens! SHOW US! Open those legs and show us that pussy now!
[User: RawDogger]: I'll pay anything to see you dripping for us, you filthy doll.
[User: VoidWalker]: Stop playing the innocent act and show us how wet you are!
Malaya giggled, a sound that was becoming increasingly hungry. She lowered her leg and reached over to the side and picked up a large, bright red lollipop, unwrapping it. She didn’t take it straight to her mouth. First, she ran the hard candy slowly along the line of her jaw, then down her neck, trailing it over the valley of her breasts. Finally, she slid the lollipop into her mouth. She began to lick it with slow, swirling motions of her tongue, her eyes half-lidded and glazed. She sucked on the candy with a wet, loud slurping sound, her cheeks hollowing as she drew the sweetness in. She looked like a corrupted piece of candy herself—sweet, colorful, and utterly decadent. As she sucked the lollipop, she began to use her free hand to tease the edge of the lace covering her crotch, hooking a manicured nail under and pulling it just a fraction of an inch away from her skin, teasing the chat with a sliver of her glistening, deep brown lips and dark pink flesh.
[User: BeastMode]: Tipped 300 tokens! Suck that candy like it's a dick while you pull those panties aside!
[User: PureSin]: Look at her eyes...she loves being watched. She's a total slut.
Malaya pulled the lollipop out with a loud, sticky pop, a thin string of glistening saliva connecting the candy to her lips. She let out a breathy, exhausted tease of a laugh.
“You guys have been so patient,” she whispered, her voice sounding small and fragile in the quiet of the room. “I think it’s time I show you what a good girl I’ve been.”
She reached up, her fingers pulling the straps of her pastel pink lingerie down. She didn’t just rip it off; she played the part, sliding the fabric slowly down one shoulder, then the other, teasing the edge of the lace against her skin. As the bra fell away, her breasts spilled out, dark, gum drop nipples hard and peaking in the cool air. She let the garment rest around her waist, leaving her chest bare and heaving, her breath coming in shallow, jagged gasps that she knew the microphone was picking up.
Then, her hands drifted lower, her fingertips grazing the edge of the lace covering her pussy. She hooked her fingers into the lace, pausing for a heartbeat to let the anticipation build in the chat. Slowly, agonizingly, she slid the lace to the side. One by one, each slippery pussy lip revealed itself, a slimy trail of her arousal clinging to the fabric. Clit poking. Labia twitching. The knee-high pastel socks that hugged her calves, adding to the coquette aesthetic she used as a shield.
Malaya spread her legs wide, exposing the depths of her fat pussy to the lens. She was drenched, her folds glistening and plump, the pinkish-red hue of her clit peaking through the wetness. She looked engorged, exposed, and utterly vulnerable, though her face remained a mask of shy innocence. She reached for the lollipop again, but she didn’t put it back in her mouth. Instead, she pressed the sticky, sugar-coated candy directly against her pussy.
“Mmm,” she moaned, her head rolling back, her pigtails splaying across the white rug. “It tastes so sweet...I can feel the sugar melting right into me.”
She began to rub the lollipop in slow, circular motions around her clit, the glossy candy coating mixing with her own natural lubrication. The wet, slapping sound of the candy against her flesh filled the speakers. She pushed the lollipop deeper, teasing the entrance of her pussy, the sweetness of the candy contrasting with the saltiness of her own arousal.
“I feel so naughty,”she whimpered, her voice breaking as she arched her back. “I’m being such a bad girl for you, Sir…but I’m still your good girl, right?”
The chat was an absolute frenzy, a waterfall of demands and tips, but one username stood out, flashing with a generous contribution that had already changed the trajectory of the night.
Camera0ff
Malaya reached over to the side of the white fur rug, her fingers curling around a sleek, high-tech device. She held it up to the camera, bringing it close so the ring light caught every detail.
“You guys...look what I have,” she whispered, her voice airy and laced with a curated shyness. “I want to say a huge thank you to MoTh3rL0ad88. You’re so generous...you bought me this beautiful Bluetooth vibrator.”
The toy was a masterpiece of erotic engineering. A deep, midnight purple silicone that looked almost black under the lights, with a polished, ergonomic curve designed to hit every internal sweet spot. It had a smooth, seamless finish and a small, pulsing LED light at the base that glowed a soft, inviting blue, signaling it was paired and ready for remote command. It looked expensive, powerful, and utterly invasive.
“I think...I think I’m gonna use it just for you guys tonight,” she teased, her eyes hooded as she looked into the lens. “I’m gonna let the chat decide exactly how I feel.”
Malaya spread her legs even wider on the pink blanket. She guided the rounded tip of the vibrator toward her soaking entrance. She let out a small, needy whimper as she pushed the silicone head past her outer lips, sliding it slowly into her tight, wet channel. The friction made her toes curl inside her pastel socks, and she gasped, her head falling back as she seated the toy deep inside her, leaving just the stimulating nub pressed firmly against her swollen clit.
She froze, her body trembling slightly, her hands gripping the edges of the fur rug. She waited, charged with an electric anticipation.
Then, it happened. A low, deep thrum vibrated through her core. It started on the lowest setting. A gentle, steady pulse that felt like a warm current flowing through her pussy. It wasn’t overwhelming yet. It was a slow burn, a teasing warmth that began to wake up every nerve ending.
“Oh..” she moaned, the sound soft and breathy, barely more than a whisper.
Her hand drifted down, her fingers finding her clit, rubbing the nub in slow circles. The combination of the internal vibration and the external pressure sent a wave of heat crashing through her. She rolled her hips, her pigtails splaying across the rug, her voice dropping to a fragile, needy tone.
“It feels so warm...mmm, it’s just starting to wake me up,” she whimpered, her eyes fluttering shut. “I can feel it...buzzing inside me…please, someone...make it stronger…”
———
10:42PM—Smoke’s Den
The frame is tight, a cinematic close-up focusing solely on a large, veined hand with thick fingers gripping a sleek, encrypted smartphone. The skin is smooth, the knuckles prominent, and the thumb is poised with predatory precision over the screen. On the display, a minimalist app interface glows. A simple slider and a series of preset patterns.
The atmosphere in the den is suffocating, a thick blend of Tom Ford’s masculine musk and the charred, caramel scent of Uncle Nearest 1856. The only light comes from the 120-inch laser projector, casting a ghostly, flickering glow over Smoke’s dark skin, turning the matte charcoal concrete of the wall into a living canvas of Malaya’s desperation.
Smoke is a statue of primal intent, sprawled deep in the black Nappa leather pit. His legs are spread wide, claiming every inch of the space, his chest expanded and glistening under the artificial light. He is the picture of disciplined agony. The bass from D’Angelo’s Voodoo vibrates through the floor of the den, a low, swampy auditory stimulation that mirrors the heavy pulsing in Smoke’s groin.
I feel like making dreams come true
Oh baby
When you talk to me
When you're moanin' sweet and low
When you touch me
And my feelings start to show, show, oh
That's the time
I feel like making love to you
That's the time
I feel like making dreams come true, oh baby…
Below his navel, the ferocity of his arousal is on full display. His nine-inch dick is a rigid, unyielding pillar, gorged with blood and pulsing with a heat that feels like it could melt the fabric of his low-slung black shorts. Because of the way he’s leaning back, there is no place for his length to go but up. That dick is pressed flat against the lower wall of his abs, a heavy, thick ridge of flesh that carves a brutal path straight toward his belly button.
The athletic material of the shorts is stretched to its absolute breaking point, the fabric pulled so taut across the wide, flared head of his dick that the blunt silhouette is unmistakable. Every time he takes a slow, calculated sip of the amber whiskey, his abdominal muscles contract, causing his dick to throb violently against the cloth. It’s a heavy jump. A desperate attempt to break free from the imprisonment of the fabric. A small, dark circle of pre-cum has already begun to dampen the black material, the moisture adding a slick, friction-filled torture every time he breathes.
Smoke refuses to touch himself. The ache in his balls is a dull, heavy roar, a pressure that would drive any other man to madness, but for Smoke, it is fuel. He channels that physical torture into the digital puppetry in his hand.
Smoke leaned back into the depths of his sunken black leather pit, the fabric cool against his bare skin. He wasn’t touching himself. The arousal was purely psychological, a dark, pulsing blaze that settled deep in his gut and made his nine-inch thick dick strain against the thin fabric of his black athletic shorts. His heavy, thick shaft was rock hard, the wide flared head pulsing with every beat of his heart, but his hands remained steady. He preferred the power of the ghost in the machine.
Internally, he was a storm of possessiveness. Watching her on the 120-inch projector, her image towering over him on the matte charcoal wall, he felt a visceral surge of ownership. He knew every inch of her. The scar on her knee, the way she breathed when she was actually peaking.
His eyes narrowed, tracking every movement of her body on the screen. He watched her play the part, the faux-innocence in her voice. Good girl. The phrase tasted like iron in his mouth. He hated the act. Smoke enjoyed the tease, there was no doubt about it, but because he knew the woman beneath the costume, he knew she was a mess of need and anxiety, and he loved that he was the only one who truly saw her.
He could see it now. The way her thighs trembled, the glistening wetness coating her pussy as she rubbed that lollipop against herself. She was soaking, her body betraying her “innocent”persona. She thought she was in control of the narrative, directing the chat, managing the tips, playing the game.
You think you the one pulling the strings, Malaya, he thought, his gaze darkening. But I own the string. And after that date you had tonight, I think I need to remind you.
His plan was simple: total dismantling. Smoke didn’t want her to just orgasm. He wanted to break her composure. He wanted to strip away the “Good Girl Gone Filthy” act until there was nothing left but raw, uncontrolled desperation. He wanted the entire chat to witness the exact moment her curated performance shattered, leaving her gasping and sobbing for a release that only he could grant or deny. He was going to ruin her in front of hundreds, turning her professional show into a public execution of her modesty.
His face is a battlefield of disciplined lust and predatory hunger.
On the screen, Malaya guided the midnight purple silicone head of the vibrator into her tight, wet channel. Smoke watched her eyes flutter, her breath hitching as she seated the toy deep inside her.
The moment the device was fully submerged, Smoke’s thumb moved.
Slowly, almost agonizingly, his thumb slides the intensity bar just a fraction of an inch to the right. He keeps it on the lowest setting, a mere whisper of a vibration, designed not to satisfy, but to irritate the nerves, to create a craving that can’t be scratched.
For a while, he watched her body warm up to it. The goosebumps on her flesh. The way her moans hitched. How she rubbed her clit and bit her lip. His dick bounced within the tight constraints of his athletic shorts. A painful erection that needed tending to but Smoke would rather edge than release. He was on a mission of destroying Malaya.
For making him feel the way he does. For being so goddamn fine. For invading his mind from sun up to sun down.
I got something for you, he thought.
Smoke didn’t slide the bar this time. He flicked it. He jumped the setting from the lowest tease to a high, aggressive thrum.
He watched through the lens as Malaya’s entire body jolted. Her back arched violently, her fingers digging into the white fur rug, and a loud, genuine moan—one that wasn’t for the tips—ripped from her throat. The sudden surge of power inside her was an electric shock, a violent intrusion of pleasure that bypassed her brain and went straight to her nerves.
Smoke let out a low, guttural exhale, a predatory smirk touching his lips. The game had officially begun.
Smoke’s thumb didn’t just slide. It danced with a sadistic tempo across the encrypted screen. He began to cycle through the preset patterns, switching from a steady, aggressive drone to a series of sharp, erratic pulses. He wanted to keep her off-balance, denying her the ability to settle into the sensation, forcing her body to chase a peak that he kept just out of reach.
On the 120-inch screen, the effect was immediate and visceral. Malaya’s composure disintegrated. Her legs, still clad in those innocent pastel socks, began to shake with a violent, uncontrolled tremor. Her thighs clamped shut, then flew open in a desperate, instinctive attempt to either crush the toy deeper into her walls or push it away from the overstimulated nerves of her clit.
Smoke watched with a predatory intensity as her pussy began to weep, the glistening wetness coating the silicone head of the vibrator and leaking out in thick, clear strings that smeared across the white fur rug. He could see the internal contractions of her vaginal walls. The way her muscles gripped the device in starving spasms, trying to milk the vibration out of the machine.
He flicked the intensity to the absolute maximum.
Malaya’s reaction was primal. A guttural, strangled sound tore from her throat, a noise that was completely stripped of the “Innocent Girl” persona. Her fingers clawed at the rug, bunching the fabric into tight knots as her hips began to buck upward in jagged, uncontrolled jolts. Her chest heaved, the pastel lingerie straining against her waist as she gasped for air, her lungs failing her. Her breasts shook and her ass gyrated.
His eyes are hooded, dark voids that don’t blink, locked onto the 120-inch image of Malaya. He isn’t just watching her. He’s consuming her. Every time her thighs tremble or her back arches in a violent spasm. His pupils dilate, absorbing the sight of her surrender like a sponge. There is a slight, savagely crease between his brows, a mark of intense concentration, as if he is calculating the exact millisecond her willpower snaps.
He watched her toes curl tight, her entire frame vibrating in sync with the device buried inside her. The pleasure was so intense it had crossed the line into a form of exquisite torture. Her head snapped back, her neck tendons straining, and her mouth hung open in a silent, breathless scream.
Smoke leaned forward, his eyes locked on the way her stomach rippled, access skin from birth tightening, her core bracing for the impact of the waves he was sending through her. The faint pulse pitter-pattering against her jugular, blood rushing south, pooling in her engorged clit and drenched folds.
He suddenly dropped the setting back to a low, teasing crawl.
The sudden drop caused Malaya to collapse. She slid down the rug, her body going limp for a split second before she began to writhe, her hips grinding frantically against the air, begging for the power to return. She looked wrecked, hair coming undone from the bows, makeup smudged, eyes glazed and unfocused. She was no longer performing for the chat. She was a slave to the signal in Smoke’s hand.
He let her simmer in that desperation for a few seconds, watching her pussy twitch and pulse in a void of denied pleasure. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he slammed the slider back to the top and triggered the “Chaos” pattern—a rapid-fire sequence of bursts and long, heavy vibrations.
Malaya’s body snapped taut like a bowstring. Her internal muscles clamped down on the vibrator with such force that she let out a high-pitched, sobbing moan. Her pelvis tilted sharply, back arching so hard her shoulder blades pressed into the floor, and her entire midsection shuddered in a prolonged, violent orgasm.
Smoke watched the way her pussy pulsed around the toy, the rhythmic squeezing of her walls visible even through the camera lens. She was shaking, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches, body completely surrendered to the digital ghost he controlled. He didn’t stop it. He kept the vibration screaming inside her, pushing her past the peak, forcing her to ride the wave of an orgasm that wouldn’t end until he decided she had had enough.
That mask had been incinerated by the relentless frequency Smoke was pumping into her. She was sprawled across the white fur rug, her limbs splayed and trembling, her head lolling from side to side. A thin, glistening string of drool escaped the corner of her mouth, trailing down her chin as her jaw hung slack. She was panting, the sound wet and desperate, her chest heaving so violently that her breasts bounced with every ragged breath.
“Please…” she whimpered, the word barely a sound, more of a broken vibration in her throat. “Please, Daddy...I can’t... I can’t take it...please!”
The word Daddy hit Smoke like a physical blow. He watched her on the screen, seeing the way her eyes were out of focus,her consciousness hovering on the edge of a blackout. Her voice had devolved into a series of high-pitched, needy keens and guttural whimpers, a symphony of surrender that told him exactly who owned her in this moment.
Below her, her pussy was a disaster of arousal. It wasn’t just wet; it was overflowing. Thick, slimy trails of cream and arousal leaked from her drenched folds, soaking into the white fur of the rug in heavy, translucent patches. Every time the vibrator pulsed, more of her essence was forced out, spraying in tiny, glistening droplets against her inner thighs.
Behind the lace mask, her eyes are glazed with a heavy, shimmering layer of lust and total submission, her pupils blown wide until the irises are nearly swallowed by dark brown. Her eyes dart frantically, flickering with a mix of desperation and a total body surrender, glistening within the ring light like wet gemstones. Every time the vibrator spikes, her eyelids flutter and cross, turning her gaze into a raw, mindless expression of overstimulation that screams she is no longer in control.
The chat was a blur of chaotic energy. Tips were flooding in as the viewers watched a woman be systematically dismantled by an invisible hand. The screen was a waterfall of explicit demands and shock, but Smoke ignored them all. His world was narrowed down to the sight of her breaking.
Smoke’s dick was reacting violently. He remained still, his hands gripping the phone, but his thick length was twitching beneath the fabric of his black shorts. He felt the heavy, thick head of his dick throb in sync with her moans, the veins pulsing with a pressure that felt like it might burst. He was rock hard, strained to the absolute limit, his body buzzing with the reflected energy of her agony and ecstasy.
He saw the moment it happened. Malaya’s entire body suddenly locked. Her toes curled so tight they cramped, and her hips gave one final, desperate upward thrust, her pelvis tilting sharply toward the ceiling.
A sharp, piercing squeal tore from her throat—a sound of total overload.
Then, she erupted.
It was a flood. A massive, violent jet of clear fluid exploded from her core, a torrent of squirt so powerful it sprayed across the rug and splashed against her own stomach. The force of the release was visceral, a physical eruption that shook her entire frame. The volume of the fluid was so immense, the internal pressure so sudden and overwhelming, that it acted like a piston. With a wet, suctioning pop, the Bluetooth vibrator was physically launched out of her pussy, propelled by the sheer force of her orgasm. It flew a few inches across the rug, landing with a dull thud, still vibrating weakly.
Malaya collapsed instantly, her body hitting the floor with a heavy thud. She lay there in a widening pool of her own release, her chest heaving, her eyes vacant, completely spent. She was shaking in long, slow tremors, her pussy twitching and leaking, wide open and ruined.
Smoke stared at the screen, his dick throbbing with a punishing ache. He had never seen her lose control like that. He had pushed her past the breaking point, and the sight of her—soaked, drooling, and utterly defeated—made him want to reach through the screen and claim every inch of her wreckage.
Smoke’s expression hardens. His gaze drops from her face to the glistening mess between her legs, his eyes narrowing with a possessive greed. He looks starved. He looks dangerous. The contrast is visceral: Malaya is a shattered wreck of pleasure on the scene while Smoke is a rigid, pulsing statue of restraint, his face a mask of absolute dominance, savoring the knowledge that he is the only one who truly knows how to make her scream.
He watched her weakly push herself up from the white fur rug, her movements sluggish and disjointed. She looked completely shattered, her eyes glazed and her lips parted, a thin string of saliva clinging to her chin. She looked like she’d been hit by a freight train of pleasure, her pussy gaping and leaking fluid onto the floor.
When the screen finally went black, the “Stream Ended” notification flashing across the 120-inch projection. Smoke didn’t move for a long minute. D’Angelo’s voice rushed back in through the speakers, heavy and suffocating. He stood up abruptly, the movement sharp and jagged. He began to pace the length of the sunken leather pit, his bare feet slapping against the cold, matte charcoal concrete. He was wired, his nerves screaming, his blood boiling with a cocktail of possessiveness and raw, unadulterated lust.
I need a blunt, he thought, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. I need to chill the fuck out.
But the internal command was losing the war against the impulse. Every step he took felt like he was fighting the urge to bolt out the door, jump in his car, and drive those thirty minutes to her duplex. He could almost feel it. The weight of her body as he scooped her up the second she opened the door, the smell of her sweat and pussy hitting him like a drug.
He imagined the carnage he’d leave behind in her apartment. He wanted to wreck her. He wanted to slam her against the wall, flip her over the kitchen counter, and drive his big dick balls-deep into her guts until she forgot how to breathe. He wanted to feel her tight walls gripping him, her screams echoing through the halls, marking her as his in a way a Bluetooth vibrator never could.
His chest felt tight, his lungs struggling to pull in enough air. With every breath, his stomach muscles flexed and rippled, tight with the sheer anticipation of a physical release that felt miles away. He let out a shaky, guttural exhale, his shoulders hunching.
Stop it. Chill. Play the long game, his inner voice hissed, but it sounded distant, drowned out by the throb in his groin.
Smoke stopped pacing and looked down. His black athletic shorts were stretched to their absolute limit. His dick was poked straight out, a rigid, pulsing tower that looked like a traffic cone shoved into the fabric. The wide, flared head was straining against the material, the veins thick and hard, twitching with every beat of his heart. He was rock hard, aching and heavy, the pressure in his balls becoming almost unbearable.
He stared at the protrusion, his breath hitching. He was a man of absolute control, a man who mapped out every move and monitored every variable, but looking at the sight of his own lust fueled by the image of Malaya soaked and broken on a rug, he knew he was dangerously close to the edge.
———
Elijah Moore had built his life on one principle.
Patterns rarely lied. People did.
His monitors glowed against the darkness of the office tucked above Edge & Thread. Three screens displayed different pieces of three different lives. A ransomware recovery for a music producer in Houston. Cryptocurrency movement connected to an old client in Miami. Security footage from a warehouse outside Atlanta waiting to be archived before sunrise.
Smoke moved through each task with practiced efficiency.
Windows opened. Code scrolled. Files decrypted. Logs disappeared.
By the time the eastern sky began trading black for blue, BLK TRACE had already earned more money than most people would see in a week. He leaned back from the desk, his eyes settled on a different monitor. A familiar route. A familiar vehicle. A familiar morning.
Malaya.
The timestamp rested in the corner of the screen.
Thursday—8:14 A.M.
She pulled into the daycare parking lot carrying Messiah against her shoulder. Even through grainy security footage, motherhood had its own flow. She positioned him higher with one arm while reaching for the diaper bag with the other. The little boy wrapped sleepy arms around her neck, unwilling to surrender his mama.
Smoke watched her disappear through the front entrance. Two minutes later she returned alone. She didn’t drive toward work. His gaze drifted toward another monitor displaying nothing more than a street map layered with months of routine.
Colored lines crossed the city like veins.
Home ✅
Daycare ✅
Work ✅
Grocery store ✅
Gas station ✅
Home again ✅
Most days followed the same geometry. Thursdays didn’t. Every Thursday…the route bent.
Honey & Oak.
Arrival—8:28 | Departure—9:03
Thirty-five minutes. Every week.
The pattern had repeated often enough that software no longer needed to flag it.
Smoke noticed it on his own.
He enlarged the map. The café sat on a corner between an old bookstore and a tailor shop. Nothing remarkable. No unusual visitors. No suspicious activity. No reason to investigate.
Except…
Malaya kept choosing it.
He wasn’t interested in coffee. He was interested in decisions. People revealed themselves through repetition. Through what they returned to when nobody was watching.
His fingers rested against the desk.
Thirty-five minutes. Every Thursday.
Why?
He opened another window.
Property records.
Honey & Oak.
Family owned. Nearly eighteen years in business. No police reports worth mentioning. No financial irregularities. No history of violent incidents.
He closed it again.
None of that answered the question. Addresses explained where. They never explained why.
Smoke stood and walked toward the office window.
Malaya always made time for Honey & Oak. Not once. Not occasionally. Every Thursday.
His phone buzzed across the desk.
Stack: Lunch at Mama Dee’s?
Smoke looked at the message before setting the phone back down unanswered. His attention had already drifted elsewhere.
The following Thursday he parked across the street from Honey & Oak.
He arrived early. Engine off. Windows cracked.
Coffee never crossed his mind. People did.
Teachers walked in carrying canvas totes. Construction workers had stopped for breakfast before climbing into company trucks. An elderly couple shared a newspaper at the same window table for almost forty minutes. Two nurses still wearing hospital badges laughed over something one of them read on her phone. Nobody looked out of place. Nobody seemed to be performing. The neighborhood flowed through the café as naturally as conversation.
At exactly 8:27, Malaya pulled into a parking space. She lifted Messiah from his car seat, balanced the diaper bag, and walked toward the entrance. She stayed inside thirty-six minutes. When she came back out, she looked…
Lighter. Less burdened.
Smoke frowned almost imperceptibly.
The following Thursday he returned.
Then the Thursday after that.
He never entered. He never watched Malaya once she disappeared inside. Instead, he studied Honey & Oak itself.
The pace. The customers. The owners greeting people by name. The absence of hurry. The ordinary kindness exchanged between strangers. It wasn’t just a coffee shop, it was a pause. A breather. An escape from reality passed those doors. One small piece of the week that belonged entirely to the people who stepped inside.
Smoke rested both hands on the steering wheel. For months he had believed Honey & Oak was another location on Malaya’s route. Another point on a map. Now he understood something different. This wasn’t where she bought coffee, it was where she caught her breath. He looked through the windshield toward the front door.
If he intended to become a part of her everyday world…there would never be a better place.
Nor a more dangerous one.
Smoke reached for his phone.
Brick answered on the second ring.
“You busy?”
“I got time.”
“I need to move my standing appointment.”
A brief silence settled between them.
“What day you thinkin’?”
Smoke kept his eyes on Honey & Oak.
“Thursday.”
“Aight.”
Smoke ended the call.
Across the street, the bell above Honey & Oak’s front door swung open as another customer disappeared inside.
I know Elijah like to sniff Annie’s bloomers & im sure Elias be sniffing them too when he gets the chance
Lines to a Nasturtium
Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,
I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,
Into your flaming heart;
Then did I hear crisp crinkled laughter
As the furies after tore him apart?
A bird, next, small and humming,
Looked into your startled depths and fled ...
Surely, some dread sight, and dafter
Than human eyes as mine can see,
Set the stricken air waves drumming
In his flight…
A grounding aroma of simmering okra, garlic, and the earthy sweetness of turnip greens filled the atmosphere of the Moore household. Annie moved through the kitchen with grace, her plush figure draped in a soft, cream-colored robe that clung to the generous curves of her hips and the heavy swell of her breasts. She was preparing for her evening bath, her mind drifting toward the quietude of the water.
That’s when she heard the heavy thud of the front door echoing through the house.
She didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was Smoke. She could feel him, the way the energy in the room transitioned, a wave of cold, hard steel crashing against the warmth of her sanctuary.
When he stepped into the kitchen, he looked like a man who had walked through hell and brought some of the soot back with him. His Gatsby cap was pulled low, shadowing eyes that were vacant and haunted, his jaw set in a line of rigid tension. He didn’t speak; Smoke rarely did when the weight of his work was pressing down on his shoulders. He simply stopped in front of her, his presence towering and oppressive, yet desperate.
Annie didn’t ask about his day. She didn’t ask who he had broken or what he had seen. She simply opened her arms, Smoke collapsing into her, his large frame sinking into the softness of her body. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of magnolia and vanilla that radiated from her dark skin. His arms wrapped around her waist, his large hands squeezing the lush meat of her hip, anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that felt real. Annie let out a soft, humming sound, her arms winding around his broad shoulders, her fingers digging into the tension of his upper back.
“You home,” she whispered, her voice a velvet balm.
He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure exhaustion, and pulled back just enough to capture her lips in a kiss. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was hungry and possessives. A silent demand for grounding. He tasted of stale tobacco and something metallic, but Annie met his intensity with a patient, nurturing heat, her full lips molding against his.
Slowly, she began to peel the world away from him. Her soft hands reached up to take the cap from his head, setting it aside. His slicked hair came into view, neatly parted and still in place despite the way he was feeling. She slid the heavy wool suit jacket off his shoulder, gunpowder residue clinging tenaciously to the fabric. Then, her fingers moved to the buttons of his dress shirt. One by one, she popped them open, revealing the stark white tank top stretched tight across his massive chest and the hard ridges of his abdomen.
“Sit,” Annie commanded gently, guiding him to the heavy oak kitchen table.
Smoke obeyed without question, his movements sluggish. He sat, his large hands resting flat on the table, gaze fixed on her with an intensity that bordered on worship.
Annie ladled a steaming bowl of gumbo, thick with okra and seafood, and placed a generous slab of golden cornbread and a heap of turnip greens beside it. She didn’t leave him to eat; she stayed. As Smoke began to eat, the warmth of the food slowly thawing the ice in his veins, Annie stepped behind him. She placed her palms on his shoulders, her fingers finding the knots of tension that lived permanently in his trapezius muscles. She leaned in, the weight of her breasts pressing against his back, her warmth seeping through the thin cotton of his tank top.
She began to massage him, her thumbs digging deep into the muscles, kneading away the violence of the day. Smoke let out a long, shuddering breath, his head dropping forward as he focused on the taste of her cooking and the feeling of her hands. A dangerous man being brought back to life by the woman who owned his soul.
Annie leaned down, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. She spoke in a low, melodic whisper, the ancient tones of Yoruba flowing from her, the words a secret language of devotion and healing that only the two of them shared in the sanctity of their home. She pressed a lingering warm kiss to the side of his neck, her lips molding to his skin, leaving a mark of ownership and peace.
Annie moved around the table, sliding into the chair beside him. With practiced, nimble fingers, she reached for his tobacco and rolling papers. Smoke watched her in a heavy glazed silence, his gaze tracing the way her breasts swayed beneath her cream-colored robe as she worked. She rolled the cigarettes with precision that was almost meditative, her movements fluid. When she finished, she set the hand-rolled cigarettes on the table and stood, gathering his empty plate.
As she moved to the sink to clean the remains of gumbo, Smoke reached for one of the cigarettes, the familiar ritual grounding him. He stood and walked out to the back porch, the screen door clicking shut behind him. The night air was thick and smelling of rich, black earth baked by sun. River water from bayous, creeks, and drainage ditches. Corn, sorghum, and vegetable gardens. Cypress and oak after rain. Mule sweat. And humidity itself.
Smoke leaned against the railing, the orange-cherry of his cigarette glowing in the dark. He inhaled deeply, the nicotine mixing with the lingering scent of Annie’s vanilla and magnolia that clung to his skin. He stared out into the blackness of trees, letting the silence of the Delta swallow the noise of the violence he had dealt with earlier. He stayed there until the cigarette was a mere stub, then crushed it out with a slow motion of his thumb.
When he stepped back inside, he washed his hands in the basin, grabbed some water from the icebox to wash down his food properly, and headed to their bedroom. Past their bed with an iron frame that produced loud squeaks whenever Smoke pounded into his wife. He removed his shoes, the wooden floorboards creaking beneath his feet.
Annie was there, waiting. She had already begun to prepare for her bath, the room warm and humid. She didn’t say a word. She could feel the residue of his burdens, the tight coil of stress that still lived in the base of his spine and the hardness in his eyes. She knew the hunger that came with his exhaustion—a need not just for sex, but for the raw, scant-driven surrender that only she could provide.
Her gaze locked onto his, dark and knowing. Slowly, Annie reached beneath the hem of her robe. Her fingers hooked onto the waistband of her cotton bloomers, and with a slow, teasing slide, she stepped out of them.
The fabric was damp, clinging to the lush, heavy curves of her thighs and saturated with the concentrated essence of her womanhood—the musk of her heat, the sweetness of her skin, and the deep, earthy scent of her arousal.
Annie stepped closer to him, her eyes never leaving his, and dropped the warm, scented fabric directly into his large, calloused hand. The bloomers felt heavy and humid against his palm.
Annie gave him one last, lingering look, then she turned and walked away, leaving him alone.
Smoke stood frozen, his chest heaving slowly, his large hand tighter around the fabric. For Smoke, this wasn’t just a fetish; it was a grounding ritual. A way to purge the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of gunpowder that seemed to permanently stain his soul.
Slowly, he brought the fabric to his face, closing his eyes as he inhaled the intoxicating, pungent cocktail of her natural musk, the sweetness of her fragrance and the salty, primal scent of her arousal, the only thing capable of truly silencing the noise on his head. He didn’t just sniff them; he pressed the fabric deep into his nostrils, molding the cotton against the bridge of his nose and cheeks, sealing himself off from the rest of the world.
Smoke took a deep, shuddering breath, inhaling the scent with a violent intensity. The smell hit him like a physical blow. It was the scent of home, of safety, and of an overwhelming, earthy femininity. It was the smell of Annie’s plush, heavy thighs and the deep hidden folds of her pussy. The aroma was rich and fermented, a heady mix of vanilla, magnolia, and the raw musk-heavy scent of a woman in her prime.
As the scent filled his lungs, Smoke’s eyes drifted shut, his heavy lids fluttering. A low, guttural groan vibrated in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders since dawn finally snapped. The ghosts of the men he’d killed, the screams, the suffocation of the Delta night—all of it was drowned out by the intoxicating potency of his wife.
His body reacted instantly. Beneath his dark slacks, his thick, heavy dick surged to life, straining against the fabric. It throbbed with a demanding pulse, the head of his dick curving to the right, pressing hard against his thigh. He could feel the pre-cum leaking, wetting his underwear as his mind conjured the image of Annie’s full-bodied plushness, the way her heavy breasts would sway and how her wide, lush lips would feel beneath his palms.
Smoke repositioned his grip, rubbing the fabric of the bloomers against his lips, tasting the faint, salty residue of her sweat and heat. He inhaled again, deeper this time, pulling the scent into the very depths of his chest until he felt lightheaded. The musk acted like a drug, stripping away his discipline, leaving only the raw, possessive hunger of a man who belonged entirely to the woman who wore these clothes.
Smoke pressed the cotton harder against his face, breathing becoming ragged and shallow. He imagined he could feel her presence in the fabric—the warmth of her skin, the softness of her curves. He was anchored now, pulled back from the edge of the darkness by the scent of her womanhood.
Smoke stood there lost in the sensory overload. His large frame trembled slightly. He was a deadly man, a killer feared by many, but in the solitude of this room, clutching a piece of damp cotton, he was nothing more than a devotee at an altar, completely consumed by the scent of the woman who had held his heart and his sanity in her hands.
Annie stood by the edge of the clawfoot tub, the steam beginning to curl around her ankles, leaving her completely exposed in the dim lighting of the bathroom. She was a masterpiece of abundance, a landscape of deep, ebony skin that flowed with a soft, natural luster. Her breasts we’re heavy and lush, hanging with a natural, weighted grace, the dark wide areolas peaking through the mist. Her waist dipped inward, creating a dramatic curve that led to the magnificent expanse of her hips—wide, fertile, and sweeping. Her belly was soft, a gentle rounded swell that spoke of warmth and nourishment, leading down to a thick, neatly groomed mound of curls that guarded her honeyed heat. Her thighs were pillars of plushness, rubbing together with every slight movement of weight, and her rear was a heavy, rounded bounty that seemed to defy gravity, shaking slightly with the motion of her hips.
Just as she prepared to step into the water, the door creaked open. Smoke stood there, his silhouette filling the frame, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the room. His eyes—dark and predatory—swept over her nakedness with a hunger that was almost violent. His gaze locked onto hers, his face a mask of hard, disciplined desire.
“Don’t wash yet.” He commanded.
His voice wasn’t a request; it was a low, guttural vibration that seemed to echo in the very marrow of her bones. It was primal, stripped of all civility, carrying the weight of a man who spent the day dealing in death and now craved the only thing that could bring him back to life. The sheer dominance in his tone sent a jolt of electricity straight to Annie’s core, making her clit twitch and jump against her thighs, a sudden, wet pulse of arousal that left her breathless.
“Get back in this room.” Smoke commanded
“Why?” Annie questioned, although she knew why. Like she didn’t just hand over her draws soaked in her pussy.
“Cause I said so.” Smoke replied with finality.
Without a word, Annie obeyed. The submission was instinctive, a response to the raw power radiating off him. She turned and walked back into the bedroom, her heavy hips swaying, her plush thighs brushing together with a soft shuck-shuck sound. When she reached the vanity, she gripped the polished wood and leaned forward, bending deep at the waist. She poked her ass out, offering herself to him, her massive, rounded cheeks framing the hidden entrance to her heat.
Smoke approached her slowly, his feet silent on the floorboards. He didn’t touch her at first, he simply stood behind her, his predatory gaze devouring the sight of her bent-over posture. He could see the way her skin stretched over the fullness of her rear, the deep dimples at the base of her spine.
He reached out, his hands spanning the width of her cheeks. He began to stroke her, his palms sliding over the velvet softness of their skin, kneading the heavy flesh of her ass with a possessive grip. Then, with a sudden, firm movement, he hooked his fingers into the crease of her thighs and pulled her cheeks apart.
The sound was visceral—a wet, tacky schlick as the suction of her plush cheeks broke, the skin peeling away from itself with a moist sliding noise.
As Smoke pulled her open, the view was breathtaking. The stark contrast of his rough fingers against her glowing skin highlighted the vulnerability and the invitation. Her pussy was revealed in all its glory. A plump, swollen slot of deep pink and mauve, glistening with a thick layer of translucent arousal. The outer lips were heavy and lush, pushed aside to reveal the tight, pulsing opening of her canal and the hooded, engorged pearl of her clit, which was weeping with desire.
Smoke sank to his knees with a heavy thud, his breath hitching. From this angle, he was staring directly into the heart of her. He was blown away by the sight—the sheer, fertile abundance of her, the scent of her musk hitting him in a concentrated wave, mixing with the smell of the room. He looked at the way her heavy thighs trembled and how her pussy pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a raw, opening invitation that promised total consumption. Smoke stayed there for a moment, frozen in awe, a predator captivated by the absolute beauty of his prey.
“Lines to a Nasturtium.” Smoke whispered, breathy and full of desire.
Up close, the sight was hypnotic. Smoke watched with a predatory intensity as her clit, a swollen, engorged m pearl of deep mauve began to twitch. It was a frantic, involuntary pulsing, jumping against the hood of her pussy as it sought a friction that wasn’t there yet. The sheer anticipation of his presence, the raw dominance of his command, had pushed her body into a state of desperate readiness.
Below the twitchy pearl, her creamy canal was reacting in kind. Smoke could see the plush walls of her opening clenching and releasing, a hungry contraction that gripped at the empty air. Her pussy was breathing, the tight ring of muscle pulsing in a desperate attempt to pull him inside, the walls sliding against one another in a wet, sliding motion that produced a faint, squelching sound.
The longer he stared, the more her body surrendered to him. The arousal became a flood. A thick, translucent trail of clear cream began to seep from her depths, glistening under the light. It pooled momentarily on her labia before gravity took hold and a single, heavy drop of nectar began to slide slowly down the curve of her clit, tracing a shimmering path toward the floor. Smoke’s dark eyes followed the drip with a focused, singular intensity, his pupils blown wide, tracking every millimeter of its descent as if it were the only thing that existed in the world.
Smoke leaned in closer, his face just inches away from her. The scent of her—that heady, musk-heavy aroma of a woman in peak arousal—bit him like a physical blow, making his thick dick throb violently against the fabric of his slacks. Smoke didn’t touch her yet because he wanted her to ache. He wanted her to feel the void where he should be.
Annie’s palms were pressed flat against the cool wood, her spine arching beautifully. The position thrust her wide, plush hips back, offering her full, rounded ass and plump pussy to him like a feast. The deep dark crease where her cheeks parted. Swollen pussy lips just between them.
He leaned forward, his warm breath ghosting over her sensitive flesh, sending a fresh wave of shivers through her plush thighs. His tongue caught the dripping trail as it spilled like warm honey. He savored the flavor on his tongue before licking his lips. When he spoke, his voice was a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to hum directly onto her clit.
“I’m a lick every bit of this sweetness…” Smoke rumbled, his voice a low, a deep vibration. “Bury my tongue deep in ya and lap you clean ‘til you screamin’ my name.”
Without waiting for a word, Smoke pressed his face flush against her, his tongue sweeping in one long, wet stroke from her opening all the way down to her clit just hanging there begging for attention.
Annie let out a sharp, strangled gasp, her fingers clawing at the vanity as her back arched further. The sound of it, the wet slapping noise of his tongue meeting her drenched folds filled the space.
Smoke groaned deep in his chest, the sound primal and hungry. He began to lap at her greedily, his tongue broad and rough, mimicking the motion of a dick. He focused on her clit, swirling his tongue around the swollen bud before sucking it firmly into his mouth.
Annie’s legs trembled, her knees nearly buckling as she let out a loud, guttural moan. She was soaking him now, her juices coating his lips and chin, but he ain’t give a fuck. He wanted every drop. Smoke pushed two fingers deep inside her, feeling the tight, hot walls of her pussy clamp down on him in a frantic, come-hither motion like he was exercising his trigger finger, all while his tongue continued to punish her clit with relentless pressure.
Smoke was possessed. Driven by a primal hunger that had been simmering since he first pressed her scent-soaked bloomers to his face. The smell of her—that heavy, musk-laden sweetness—had snapped something inside him, and now he was taking it out on her pussy with a predatory vigor. He didn’t just lick her; he devoured her. With Annie bent over the vanity, her plush cheeks spread wide by his bruising grip, Smoke buried his face deep into her flower. He was eating her like a starving man, his thick tongue working with a relentless force that left no inch of her untouched.
Smoke started at her clit, his broad tongue sweeping upward in long, wet strokes that slurped up every drop of her arousal. The sound was visceral—a loud, wet, lapping noise, the sound of his lips slurping her open. Smoke was sucking her pussy clean, lips sealed tight around her swollen folds, pulling the sensitive flesh into his mouth and creating a suction that made Annie’s entire body shudder.
“Goddamn, you taste like heaven…” Smoke growled against her skin, his voice a vibration she felt deep in her womb. “I’m a drink every last drop of you, Annie. Every single fuckin’ bit.”
Smoke shifted his focus, his tongue becoming a weapon of ruin. He began to lap at her clit with a frantic, greedy energy, swirling around the engorged bud before sucking it deep into his mouth. Smoke slurped at her, his tongue flicking rapidly, wet, tongue thrashing sounds mixed with her arousal, driving her higher and higher. He was trying to clean her out, his mouth working tirelessly to lap up the thick, creamy juices that were flooding from her.
Annie was a mess, her fingers digging into the wood of the vanity, her head hanging low as she let out uncontrolled moans. Every time he sucked her in, she felt a jolt of electricity shoot through her spine, her wide hips bucking against his face.
Smoke pushed his face harder against her, his nose pressing right up against her rear entrance, inhaling her intoxicating scent while his tongue—dripping with so much saliva it clung to his goatee—continued to punish her, the wet sounds of his gluttony filling the air—slurp, lap, suck—as he worked his way from her clit up to the very entrance of her canal, licking her clean with a possessive, ritualistic gusto. He wanted her tasted, drained, and completely claimed. He used his thick tongue to probe the opening of her pussy, licking deep inside, tasting the salt and sweetness. He was eating her with a desperation that bordered on violence.
When that thick, wet muscle slapped against her clit and slurped at her opening with a primal greed Annie was seeing stars.
The world had shrunk down to the sensation of Smoke’s mouth devouring her. She had been rendered speechless for several long minutes, her breath hitching in jagged gasps, her mind a blur of white heat. But as he continued to suck her—pulling her folds deep into his mouth and creating a seal that felt like it was drawing the very soul out of her—she finally broke.
“Smoke…oh, Smoke…please…” she whimpered, her voice shaky and thin.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. Her hands, which had been gripping the vanity, began to claw at the wood, then wandered blindly, one hand reaching back to clutch at his head, the other pressing flat against the mirror, leaving a smear of sweat and her fingerprints. She was completely at his mercy, her heavy breasts swinging beneath her, rounded belly trembling with every sound she made.
Smoke didn’t answer with words. He answered with a deep, vibrating hum that echoed through her entire pelvic floor, a low grunt of satisfaction that vibrated against her clit. He was eating her like she was the only thing keeping him alive, his nose buried in her musk, his tongue flicking with a frantic expert precision that drove her toward the edge.
The sensation became too much—a tidal wave of pleasure that crashed over her. As the first spasm of her orgasm hit, Annie’s head snapped back, her eyes rolling. In the height of her release, she gasped out a phrase in Yoruba, her voice a melodic, breathless moan.
"Olúwa, mo n'íyìn rẹ...mọ́ mọ́ mi..."
The words were a prayer and a plea. A surrender to the raw power of the man between her thighs. Her plush body began to shake violently, her wide hips bucking uncontrollably against his face. Her pussy clamped down hard on his tongue, pulsing in thick waves, flooding his mouth with a fresh surge of creamy, hot arousal.
Smoke didn’t give her a second to breathe. As she came, he doubled down, sucking her clit, slurping up the overflow of her climax with a greedy, wet sound. He grunted into her, his face drenched in her juices, his tongue continuing to lap and probe her twitching twat even as she shuddered. He wanted to feel every single contraction, wanted to taste the very peak of her pleasure, refusing to stop until he had drained her completely.
Smoke finally eased back. He stood at his full, imposing height, his chest heaving slightly, dark eyes clouded with lust. Annie turned and leaned against the vanity, her legs trembling, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches as she tried to gather the shattered pieces of her composure. She was drenched, her own juices and Smoke’s saliva slicking her thighs.
Annie watched, mesmerized and breathless, as Smoke reached up and gripped the hem of his tank top, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric clung to his sweat–slicked skin before falling to the floor, revealing the raw power of his torso—broad shoulders, a hard, carved chest, and abdominal muscles that rippled with every breath. Smoke shrugged off his pants and underwear with a disciplined efficiency, letting them drop.
Annie’s eyes widened, her throat going dry. There it was—his massive, thick dick, fully erect and pulsing with a heavy vein wrapped around the shaft. It was a formidable piece of meat, long and heavy, with a distinct aggressive right hook that curved slightly at the top, promising to hit every sensitive spot deep inside her. It stood proud and rigid, a dark, swollen pillar of desire that made her pussy react with a sudden, renewed emptiness.
Smoke stepped forward, no words said. He reached out and gripped her hips, his large hands nearly meeting around her waist with a sudden, commanding strength. Smoke didn’t give her time to adjust. He hooked his arms under her plush thighs, muscles digging into the plush flesh, and hoisted her up, lifting her heavy ass off the vanity.
Annie gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her ankles locking behind his back to keep herself anchored to him. Smoke slammed one of his palms down onto the vanity, gripping the edge of the wood so hard his knuckles bulged, anchoring them both.
Then, he drove into her.
Smoke didn’t ease in. He aligned that right-curving head with her opening and buried himself deep inside her in one brutal, thumping stroke. The impact was seismic. Annie’s head snapped back, a loud moan escaping her as her tight walls were stretched to their absolute limit by his girth. He buried himself to the hilt, his balls slapping hard against her against the cuff of her cheeks that spilled over the edge of the vanity.
Smoke began to move, delivering relentless, thumping strokes that were more like beating down than lovemaking. Each thrust was deep and punishing, the curve of his dick hooking and grinding directly against her G-spot with every plunge. The force of his movements was so powerful that Annie’s plush body was damn near bouncing off of him, her heavy breasts swaying wildly, soft belly slapping against his hard abs with a wet sound.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
A raw, carnal percussion.
Annie was rendered completely speechless, her mouth hanging open, her breath hitching in her throat. She couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t even scream. She could only cling to him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back.
Through it all, Smoke never looked away. He kept his gaze locked onto hers, his dark eyes boring deep into her soul. There was no softness in his expression, only a fierce, possessive intensity. He watched her face as he fucked her, watching her eyes glaze over and her lips tremble, savoring the way she broke under the weight of his masculinity. He was claiming her, marking her from the inside out, his silence more commanding than any word he could have spoken.
He didn’t let up for a second.
His grip on her thighs tightened as he grounded his weight, folding Annie’s plush body even further. He pressed her back against the mirror of the vanity, her spine arching as he tucked her legs deeper over his muscular arms. Her feet dangled in the air, bouncing helplessly with every thumping drive of his hips. The impact was delivered with ferocity, the sound of his heavy balls slapping against her like a wet drum.
Annie was lost in it, her head tossing from side to side, her voice breaking as she cried out his given name.
“Elijah…ooh, Elijah!” Annie wailed, the sound raw. She rarely called him that, but in the heat of this collision, she needed the man. Not the ghost. Not the enforcer. Her Elijah.
As she looked up at him, her vision blurred with pleasure, she saw the evidence of his hunger. Her own thick, sweet cream was smeared across his dark mustache and glistening on his full lips, a messy trophy of how he had just spent the last thirty minutes eating her out. His pupils were blown wide, swallowing the iris, leaving only two dark, predatory voids that stared into her with an intensity that made her feel like she was being consumed. Inside her, his dick felt like a rod of heated iron, so stiff and thick that it stretched her walls to the breaking point.
Mid-thrust, as Smoke drove himself deep, burning his length to the hilt, Annie’s hand shot out. Her fingers brushed the surface of the vanity, snagging the lace of her discarded bloomers. She gripped the fabric tight, pulling the scent-soaked garment toward him jus tax he lunged forward again.
She pressed the damp cotton directly against Smoke’s nose and mouth, muffling his heavy breathing with the concentrated scent of her own arousal.
Smoke froze for a split second, the sudden olfactory attack hitting him like a physical blow. The smell of her filled his lungs. It was the scent of his woman, his home, and his obsession. A low, growl ripped from his throat, vibrating against the fabric.
The scent triggered something feral in him. His eyes darkened even further, and he stopped the thumping, instead grinding his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, twisting that curved head deep inside her at all angles. Smoke inhaled sharply through the fabric, sucking in the essence of her while he stared down, his nostrils flaring.
“You tryna drive me crazy, Annie?” Smoke rasped, his voice a deep, shaky rasp.
“I ain’t gotta try…you already there, baby.”
Smoke grunted, bit down on the bloomers, holding the fabric between his teeth, saliva dampening the fabric further and returned to the brutal pace. His strokes becoming even more forceful. He fucked Annie with a renewed, desperate hunger, his body slamming into her plush curves with a force that threatened to knock the vanity over, claiming every inch of her as he chased the edge of his own release.
“Fuck me, daddy.” Annie moaned, gripping his sweaty biceps.
Smoke’s pace didn’t slow. If anything, the scent of her on his breath and in his nose had pushed him into a state of pure, focused aggression. He was hammering into her, thick, right-curving dick grinding non-stop over her G-spot with a wet thud that shook the vanity. Annie’s breath was coming in jagged, shallow hitches, her fingers digging into his arms.
“Get, it, daddy. Get it. Fuck ya’ wife’s pussy. This Smoke’s pussy—ahhh!” Annie gasped. “Tire ni, tire ni, tire ni baba.”
She could feel it building. A tight electric coil winding up inside her belly, radiating down into her drenched pussy. Every time he bottomed out, her internal muscles clamped tight around him, miking him instinctively. Her voice began to tremble, the words shaking as the pleasure reached a fever pitch.
“Elijah…I’m…I’m gonna…” Annie gasped, her voice wavering, thin and needy. “I’m ’bout to break, baby…I’m comin’…”
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Smoke let out a low hum of approval, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He leaned in, his chest crushing her plush breasts, his lips grazing the shell of her.
He let her draws fall from his mouth.
“Then break for me, baby,” Smoke rasped, his voice a dark, commanding rumble. “Give it all to me, let me feel every bit of it on my dick.”
Thwack…thwack…thwack…thwackthwackthwackthwack—
“Sweet Jesus, please!” Annie wailed, her voice shaking violently. “Right there…just like that…oh, baby!”
Smoke groaned. He repositioned his angle, driving his hips forward with a grinding force that pinned her further against the glass.
Thwackthwackthwackthwack—
“You feel how that pussy hug on my dick?” Smoke grunted, his breath heavy against her neck. “You fuckin’ drenched, woman. Squeezin’ me like you never want me to jump out this pussy—”
“I don’t!” Annie cried out, her voice cracking. “I want you…I want you deep…right on that spot!”
“I’m right here,” Smoke growled, his pace becoming a blur of friction and deep-seeded desire. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Now cum for your man. Cum on this dick, Annie. Let it go.”
The command was the final trigger. Annie’s body stiffened, her toes curling as a violent wave of orgasm crashed over her. Her pussy walls began to spasm, clamping down on his thick shaft in punishing pulses. Annnir let out a long, shaky moan, her voice trembling with the power of her explosive orgasm, her entire frame shuddering against him.
Thwackthwackthwack…thwack. Thwack. THWACK—
Smoke let out a loud, triumphant roar, his own control snapping. He leaned back, grabbed two fistfuls of her heavy breasts, and drove himself in one last time, burning his length to the absolute hilt, his balls slapping hard against her as he began to unload. Smoke groaned, a deep, primal sound of surrender as he pumped thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside her, filling her to the brim while she continued to shake and sob beneath him, completely undone by his strength.
It wasn’t just hot.
it was a wet, clinging weight that soaked through cotton shirts in minutes, making clothes stick to skin like a second, suffocating layer. The Mississippi sun was hateful this particular early evening, beating down on the dusty crossroads outside of Clarksdale until the red earth cracked and the horizon shimmered with a dizzying mirage. The only sound that dared to break the oppressive silence was the relentless, screaming drone of cicadas, a noise that felt like it was drilling straight into the skull. Horse flies flew too close because of the donkeys that wandered. Mosquitos feasted happily on any inch of exposed skin it could find.
Smoke stood by the rusted fender of a Ford Model A, his frame a hard, unyielding silhouette against the bleached-out landscape. He was dressed for business, despite the weather. He wore dark slacks held up by heavy leather suspenders, a wool coat draped over his broad shoulders that he refused to shed, and his cap pulled low, casting a deep shadow over his eyes. His face was a mask of neutral stone, but beneath the surface, he was vibrating.
In the back of the truck, crates of corn liquor were piled high, hidden under coarse, grit-covered burlap. Gasoline and stale, sharp whiskey wafted up, mixing with the smell of hot dust and the metallic tang of the gun oil on his fingertips. The drivers from the north were jittery, their eyes darting toward the road every time a bird over, terrified of a federal raid or a knife in the back.
Smoke’s jaw was clamped so tight it ached. He didn’t like the way this deal was dragging. He didn’t like the nervous sweat on the drivers’ brows of the way the wind carried the faint, distant sound of a dog barking. Or even how the few bushes across from them moved in a particular direction. Every second they sat exposed at the crossroads was a second too long. The law or the klan—no difference—the pressure was building in his chest, a primal, violent urge to just start shooting until the silence returned.
Smoke needed to ground himself before he snapped and painted the red dirt with someone’s brains.
Without a word to the men, Smoke stepped away from the truck, his leather ankle boots crunching on the dry earth. Smoke retreated into the shade of a sprawling cypress tree, its limbs draped in ghostly curtains of Spanish moss that swayed in a breeze that offered no coolness. The shade was dim and damp, smelling of rotting vegetation and ancient water.
He reached into the inner pocket of his wool coat, his gloved fingers brushing against a piece of soft, white cotton. Smoke pulled it out. It was the bloomers Annie had worn the night he’d claimed her on the vanity, the fabric still holding the ghost of her shape.
Smoke closed his eyes and pressed the cotton hard against his face, burying his nose in the fabric. He inhaled with a sharp, greedy lungful, hunting for her.
There it was.
The concentrated, raw musk of her. The salty, pungent tang of her pussy. The deep earthy scent of the root herbs she worked with and the underlying sweetness that belonged only to his Annie. It was a scent of warmth, of plush skin and hidden depths. A stark contrast to the grit of the Delta.
As he breathed her in, the tension in his shoulders dropped an inch, and the red haze in his vision cleared. Smoke clung to the fabric, his nostrils flaring, feeding on the essence of his wife to keep the monster in his blood at bay. The scent of Annie’s pussy was the only thing that kept him sane.
The spell was broken by the sharp, clack-clack-clack of polished oxfords hitting the hard-packed dirt. Smoke didn’t jump, he wasn’t the type to startle, but his hand snapped shut over the white cotton, shoving the bloomers back into his coat pocket in one fluid, violent motion. Smoke stepped out from the cypress shade, his face returning to that impenetrable slab of granite, just as a flash of cream-colored linen emerged from the heat haze.
Stack strolled toward them, looking like he’d just stepped off a street corner in Chicago rather than a dusty road in the Delta. He wore a tailored three-piece suit of pale cream that defied the grime of the crossroads, a silk tie the color of bruised plum knotted perfectly at his throat. A gold pocket watch chain looped across his vest, glinting aggressively under the harsh sun. He walked with a loose, swinging gait, a smirk playing on his full lips, his fedora tilted at a rakish angle that screamed confidence.
“Lawd have mercy, Smoke,” Stack called out, his voice a smooth, honeyed drawl that vibrated with amusement. “You look like you fixin’ to bury a body or start another war. Why you standin’ in the shade lookin’ all moody? You gon’ let the heat rot ya’ brain.”
Smoke just stared, his deep brown eyes tracking his brother’s every movement. The two of them stood there, identical mirrors of the same blood and bone but where Smoke was a closed fist, Stack was an open hand, ready to steal whatever wasn’t nailed down.
Stack stopped a few feet away, smelling like expensive cologne and imported tobacco, clashing with the smell of corn liquor and horse manure in the background. Stack leaned back, hooking his thumbs into his trouser pockets, his gaze drifting from Smoke’s rigid posture to the sight.
A tell-tale bulge in the inner pocket of Smoke’s coat.
Stack’s eyes sharpened. He knew that look. He knew the way Smoke’s nostrils flared when he was trying to hold onto something that didn’t belong to the world around them.
“You got a little secret tucked away in that coat, don’t you?” Stack teased, his voice dropping closer, invading Smoke’s personal space with a playful boldness. “Sum’ sweet. Sum’ that smell like home and magnolia. You lookin’ all stressed out, but I reckon you found a way to keep your temper from boilin’ over.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek.
“Get ya’ head right, Stack. We got a shipment to move.”
Stack laughed, a bright melodic sound that felt out of place in the oppressive silence of the crossroads. He reached out, his fingers grazing the lapel of Smoke’s coat, a daring, risky move that would have gotten any other man’s arm snapped.
“I’m just sayin’, brother…you holdin’ onto that scent like a dyin’ man hold a prayer,” Stack whispered, his eyes dancing with a forbidden curiosity. “Make a man wonder just how sweet Annie’s been lately. Make me wonder if she still wearin’ them little lace things that make her hips look like a damn miracle.”
Smoke’s hand twitched toward the grip of the pistol at his hip, his gaze darkening into something predatory. The brotherly bond was there, but beneath it lay a jagged edge of possession and rivalry. Stack didn’t flinch, he simply grinned wider, his eyes locked on Smoke’s, savoring the danger. He loved pushing Smoke. Loved seeing the disciplined enforcer struggle to keep the beast on a leash.
“Move the crates, nigga.” Smoke commanded, his voice a low, guttural warning.
Stack winked, stepping back with a flourish of his linen jacket.
“Whatever you say, Big Brother. I’ll handle the drivers. They shakin’ like leaves in a storm and I’m just the man to charm ‘em into movin’ faster.”
As Stack turned to lean the jittery men back to the Ford, he cast one last glance over his shoulder. He didn’t see the bloomers, but he could practically smell the musk of Annie clinging to Smoke’s clothes. A hunger ignited in Stack’s gut. Not just for women, but the thrill of taking something that belonged solely to the most dangerous man in the county.
The shipment was handled with frantic energy that only comes from men who know the law—or worse the mob—is breathing down their necks. Stack spent the next hour orchestrating the chaos, his voice cutting through the humidity like a whip, directing the drivers and the muscle with a practiced, theatrical flair. He looked every bit the pretty gangster, leaning against the fender of a black Model A, flicking ash from a gold-tipped cigarette while his eyes never truly left his brother.
Smoke was a ghost in the midday sauna, moving between the crates with a heavy, focused routine. He pointed, shoved, and stared. But Stack noticed the way Smoke’s hand stayed glued to the pocket of his coat, his fingers that were once gloved twitching against the fabric. It was a tell. Smoke was anchored to something, tethered to a scent and a memory that made him dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with the pistol on his hip.
Once the last crate was loaded and the dust from the departing cars settled back into the red Mississippi clay, the stillness of the crossroads beat down on the twins. Stack watched Smoke wipe grime from his forehead with a handkerchief, the muscles in his broad shoulders bunching under his coat.
He’s starving for her, Stack thought, a sudden, sharp hunger clawing at his own gut.
It wasn’t just about the woman. It was the possession of her.
Stack had always been the one to charm the gals in juke joints, rent parties, dance halls, and Chicago clubs alike. The one who could slide into a bed and out of it before the sun rose, leaving nothing but a scent of expensive cologne and a broken heart.
But Annie…Annie was different. She wasn’t a gal; she was a force. He remembered the way she looked the last time he’d seen her, that midnight-brown skin glowing, her hips swaying under a heavy cotton skirt, the sheer, plush weight of her body promising a blaze no city girl could mimic.
Stack pushed off the car, his polished oxfords crunching on the gravel. He walked toward Smoke, his gait loose and predatory.
“You practically vibrating, Smoke,” Stack drawled, his voice a low, teasing vibration. “I can see it in your eyes. You ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout the money or the liquor. You thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ home to that woman. Thinkin’ ‘bout how she feel when she pressed up against you. All soft…heavy skin…”
Smoke stopped dead, his gaze snapping to Stack. The look was murderous, a warning that the leash was fraying.
“Shut ya’ fuckin’ mouth ‘bout my woman, Stack. I swear to’ god that’s my last time warnin’ ya’.”
Stack didn’t shut it. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, his eyes dancing. “I bet she smell like heaven and earth all at once. I bet she got that musk on her now that get in a man’s blood and stays there. I can smell it on ya’, brother. You drenched in her.”
The admission sent a jolt of electricity through Stack’s spine. He imagined Annie in the house, perhaps stripped down to her shift in the midday heat, her large breasts straining against the fabric, thick thighs running together as she moved through the kitchen. He imagined the scent of her—that floral, herbal musk with the raw, salty tang of a woman’s sultriness.
The thought made Stack’s own dick stir. A thick, heavy pressure building behind the fly of his cream-colored trousers. His dick, curving to the left, throbbed against the fabric, demanding release. He wanted to know if she tasted as rich as she looked. He wanted to know if her pussy was as plush and tight as the rest of her body suggested.
“You outta line,” Smoke grunted, his voice a guttural warning. He stepped forward, his massive frame looming over Stack even though they were the same height. “You gon’ earn a spot next to our daddy if you keep talkin’ slick ‘bout Annie.”
Stack just grinned, the expression sharp and hungry. He didn’t fear his brother, not technically, he thrived on the friction. He loved the idea that they shared everything. The same face, the same blood, the same hunger translated differently. If Smoke could have her, if Smoke could keep a piece of her tucked in his pocket to sniff like a gahdamn dog, then Stack wanted a taste. He wanted to steal a moment, a scent, a touch. He wanted to see the look on Smoke’s face when he realized that some things were too delicious to be kept by one man alone.
“I’m just appreciatin’ the finer things, Smoke,” Stack whispered, his eyes flashing. “And Annie…she the finest thing in this whole damn state. Hell, this whole damn South. Ain’t no woman touchin’ Antoinette. Just givin’ my sis in law her praises, Big Brother. After all…I’m the least of ya’ worries. Heard some niggas in town talkin’ bout her.”
Smoke grit his teeth. Jaw working.
“What they sayin’? Sum that’s gon’ get ‘em bumped off ain’t it?”
Stack took a hit of his gold-tipped cigarette before passing it to Smoke. “Fed to the eagles.”
Smoke clocked it. Filed it away. He walked off, his stride heavy and possessive.
Stack followed a few paces behind, his mind racing, the seed of a dangerous desire now fully planted. He wasn’t just looking for a thrill anymore; he was hunting. He wanted those bloomers. He wanted the scent of her arousal. He wanted to slide his hand where Smoke’s had been, to feel the weight of her hips and the heat of her skin, and to do it all while the most dangerous man in Mississippi was just within earshot.
The black Model A roared, kicking up a violent cloud of red dust that coated the roadside weeds in a fine, rust-colored powder. Stack sat behind the wheel, one hand draped casually over the top of the steering wheel, his gold rings glinting in the harsh Mississippi sun. He looked every bit of city slicker, his silk shirt open at the collar to let the breeze hit his chest. He glanced over at Smoke, who sat rigid in the passenger seat. Smoke was a statue of tension, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on the road ahead as if he could force the car to move faster through sheer will.
“I’m tellin’ you, Smoke, I gotta stop at that stand up ahead,” Stack drawled, his voice smooth as bourbon. “I got a hankerin’ for some tamales. Real ones. Those things they try to sell up in Chicago? Pure cardboard. Ain’t nothin’ like the taste of home to settle a man’s nerves.”
Smoke didn’t even turn his head. His voice came out as a low guttural rasp, stripped of any patience. “Annie’s got. Pot of greens and corn pone on the stove. You can eat at the house.”
Stack let out a short, sharp laugh, a glint in his eyes. He shifted gears, the engine whining as he pushed the car harder. He could feel the heat radiating off his brother. The raw, pulsing desperation. Smoke wasn’t thinking ‘bout no food. He wasn’t even thinking ‘bout the successful drop-off or the stacks of cash tucked away.
Stack watched the way Smoke’s thick fingers gripped the leather upholstery. He knew that look. He knew the way Smoke got when he’d been away from Annie for too long. Like a starving dog finally seeing the door to the kitchen.
He ain’t thinkin’ ‘bout no corn pone, Stack thought, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He could practically see it in his mind: Smoke bursting through the front door, not even stopping to take off his hat before he had Annie pinned against the wall. He knew Smoke had been sniffing those bloomers like a lifeline all day, but the cloth wasn’t enough anymore. He wanted the real thing. The dripping scent of pussy that only a man who owned her could truly savor.
“You in a mighty big hurry, ain’t ya’?” Stack teased, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a provocative whisper. “I can practically smell the ginger on you, brother. You ain’t worried ‘bout my belly. You worried ‘bout gettin’ your face between them thick thighs ‘fore the sun go down.”
Smoke’s head snapped toward him, dark eyes flashing with a warning that would have sent any other man running for cover. “Tired of putting your face in sour, street rat pussy, Stack? Ain’t my fault you so stuck on being up Notth while you missin’ out on some real pussy. Since when you had fresh cooch? That watered down, industrial muff got you sayin’ shit that’ll get you tore up. I don’t play ‘bout Annie.”
Stack grinned, leaning back into the seat, feeling his own dick throb against the fabric of his trousers. “Why you think I’m back? I miss home, Smoke. Miss my southern gals with sweat on they backs and a hot pussy.”
The though of Annie and those wide hips, heavy breasts…fuck. The way she always smelled like magnolia and raw woman. It was starting to coil in his gut like a snake. He didn’t want the tamales anymore. He wanted to see the look of possessive rage on Smoke’s face when he realized that Stack was thinking ‘bout the exact same thing.
“I’ll skip the stand,” Stack conceded, his voice humming with a dangerous kind of excitement. “I’m startin’ to get hungry for somethin’ a bit more…substantial.”
The car crunched to a halt on a path, the engine giving one final, shuddering gasp before falling silent. The house didn’t just sit on the land, it seemed to emerge from it. It was tucked away behind a curtain of weeping willows and towering magnolias that shielded it from the prying eyes of the road.
To get to the house, one had to pass by Annie’s shack—a small, weathered structure with the fragrance of dried sage, sulfur, and old earth. It was a place of business and mystery, where the locals came for root-work, protection charms, and cured for ailments the white doctors wouldn’t touch. The shack was cluttered with bundles of hanging herbs and jars of murky liquids, a stark contrast to the sanctuary that lay just beyond.
Smoke’s home was a testament to his silent, disciplined nature. He hadn’t just built a shelter, he had carved a fortress of peace out of the Delta mud. It wasn’t a typical sharecroppers house with a sagging porch and a leaking roof—what they once lived in. This was a sturdy, wide-planked house made of deep-grained cypress and heart-pine, the wood polished. Smoke had built the porch deep and wide, with heavy railings that could support a man’s full weight, overlooking a lush garden of collards, peppers, and medicinal blooms that Annie tended with a spiritual precision.
The greenery swallowed the house in a protective embrace. Thick ivy climbed the walls, and the air felt different around him. It was cooler, dampened by the shade and the smell of damp earth and blooming jasmine. It was a place of absolute privacy, a hidden kingdom where Smoke could shed the skin of the killer and the enforcer and simply be a man.
Stack stepped out of the car, his polished shoes hitting the dirt. He looked at the house and felt a sudden, sharp pang of envy that had nothing to do with the architecture. He thought about where he was staying. A cramped, miserable boarding house in town where the walls were as thin as parchment. In that place, he could hear every cough, every argument, and every creak from the room next door.
His bed at the boarding house was a torture device. It was a rusted iron frame with a mattress that had long since surrendered its stuffing. Every night, Stack felt the cold, jagged press of the metal springs digging into his ribs and hips, leaving him restless and wired. He spent his nights tossing and turning in the humid dark, his mind racing, his body aching for a comfort he couldn’t buy.
Looking at the solid, loving sanctuary Smoke had built for Annie, Stack felt the hunger in his gut intensify. It wasn’t just the house he wanted. It was the warmth inside it. He imagined the soft sheets. The smell of spices and vanilla and musk clinging to the curtains. The plush, heavy curves of Annie moving through the rooms.
Smoke was already moving toward the door, his pace quickening, his broad shoulders tense with the need to be inside. He didn’t look back at his brother. He was a man returning to his altar, and Stack felt like a thief stepping into a temple, already planning how he might steal a piece of the holiness for himself. As they approached the porch, the scent of simmering greens wafted through the air. Stack felt his pulse hammer on his throat.
Smoke pushed the heavy, cypress door open, the hinges making no noise because it’s well-oiled. The interior of the house smelled of the savory food Annie was preparing, beeswax, cedar, and the lingering, sweet scent of Annie’s skin. It was a clean, honest space, devoid of the cluttered chaos of the boating house. The furniture was all Smoke’s handiwork. Heavy oak tables and chairs with smooth, rounded edges, built to last a century.
Stack stepped inside, his shoes clicking softly on the polished heart-pine floors. He reached up and plucked the fedora from his head, holding it by the brim as he let his gaze wander. Usually, Stack’s visits were brief. Business transactions and quick drinks before he headed back to the noise of the Windy City. But today, the tranquil silence pulled at him. He felt the weight of the boarding house sliding off his shoulders, replaced by a sudden, sharp curiosity.
Stack noted the small details.
The hand-woven rugs from the coast. The jars of preserved peaches on the sideboard. The way the natural light filtered through the lace curtains. It was a home built on love and stability, things Stack traded in but rarely owned.
As he drifted further into the house, his eyes were drawn toward the hallway. Their bedroom door was pushed ajar, leaving a gap that felt like an invitation. Stack paused, his brow quirking as he peered inside.
Even from where he stood, he could smell a heavy scent of musk and spent passion. The large iron-frame bed dominated the space. The sheets were a chaotic, rumpled mess of white cotton and linen, twisted as if a storm had passed through them. The floorboards around the bed were marked with scuffs and scratches, evidence of frantic movement and heavy weight.
But it was one thing that caught his attention.
The headboard.
Tied firmly to the rusted iron bars were several strips of fabric.
Silk scarves. Sturdy cotton ribbons. All knotted tight.
They weren’t decorative. They were functional. Worn slightly at the edges from strain.
Stack stared at the scarves. A slow, knowing grin spread across his full lips, dimples popping out like tiny craters.
He imagined Annie’s wrists bound tight against those bars, her wide hips arched and shaking shin Smoke hammered into her from behind. He could almost hear the wet slap of skin on skin and the way Annie’s voice would break into a shaky, desperate moan when she was pushed to her limit.
Stack felt a sudden, hot throb in his trousers. His own thick dick stirred against the crotch of his tailored slacks. The thought of his brother using those ties to hold Annie still, to possess every inch of her lush body without resistance, sent a jolt of raw envy through him.
He wondered if Annie liked the feeling of being trapped. Being completely overtaken by Smoke’s brutal protective hunger.
“You just gon’ stand there gawked or you gon’ settle?” Smoke’s voice rasped behind him, low and warning.
Stack quickly shifted his stance to hide the bulge in his pants. He turned back to his brother, the charm sliding back into place like a mask, though his eyes remained dark with the image of those scarves.
“Just admirin’ the craftsmanship, Smoke.” Stack purred, his voice smooth like the silk of his tie. “You always did have a knack for buildin’ things that last.”
Smoke let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his brother. “Ain’t my fault you stayin’ at that shit hole,” he rasped, his voice like gravel grinding together. “You got more coin than sense, Stack. You can afford to stay somewhere decent, like that fancy-ass apartment you keep up in Bronzeville.”
Stack just shrugged, a playful, knowing glint in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe. He knew the game of visibility. “That’s exactly why I don’t, Smoke. In a boarding house, I’m just another traveler passing through. I blend in. Safer to be a ghost when you haulin’ the kind of heat I do. Too many eyes.”
Smoke grunted, not entirely convinced but knowing Stack’s paranoia was usually rooted in profit. He stepped further into the space.
“You don’t gotta play ghost in your own blood’s house. You can always sleep in the guest room when you come visit. Save yourself the fleas.”
Stack let out a smooth, melodic chuckle, shaking his head.
He looked back toward the bedroom door—and those tied scarves—with a flicker of desire crossing his face.
“I appreciate it, truly. But I don’t want to be a bother. Besides,” Stack added, his voice dropping into a suggestive purr, “I fuck too much to be in here violating ya’ home. I’d have some poor girl screamin’ your roof off by midnight, and I know how ya’ get ‘bout ya’ peace and quiet.”
Smoke reached up and peeled off his coat, tossing it over a chair, followed by his cap, which he set firmly on the sideboard. Stack followed suit, sliding his tailored jacket off his shoulders with a fluid motion, reveling the crisp lines of his shirt and the gold chain glinting against his chest.
“Where Annie?” Stack asked, his voice softening, though the hunger in his gaze remained.
“Finishin’ up at the shack,” Smoke answered. “Got a few folks comin’ for cleansing and roots ‘for me sundown.”
As they moved toward the kitchen, the rich, savory scent of home hit them full force. On top of the black iron wood-burning stove, a heavy cast iron pot sat simmering, the lid rattling slightly as steam escaped. The smell of slow-cooked collards, smoked turkey, and seasoned cornmeal filled the air. It was the smell of Annie.
“I’m gonna go check the ice box.” Smoke grunted, his voice low and final. He didn’t look back as he stepped out the back door, the screen door slapping shut with a sharp crack.
The moment the door closed, Stack didn’t waste a second. He reached over to the stove, snatching a piece of warm, buttery corn pone from the platter, and slid into a wooden chair. He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other. He was chewing slowly, tasting the salt and corn, but his mind was still vibrating from the sight of the bedroom. After he finished, tongue skimming his teeth, flipping a silver coin with a clink-snap against his palm.
Then, the front door groaned open.
Stack stopped mid-flip. The coin landed on the table with a dull thud, forgotten.
Annie walked in, and for a heartbeat, Stack forgot how to breathe.
It had been months since he’d seen her, and the woman had only grown more lush, more devastating. She was dressed for the end of a workday at the shack, wearing a deep indigo cotton dress that clung to every magnificent curve of her frame. The fabric was stretched tight across her heavy, rounded breasts, the buttons straining slightly against the swell of her chest. As she moved, the skirt hugged the massive, sweeping flare of her hips and the plushness of her thighs, swaying with a weight that made Stack’s mouth go dry.
She had an ivory-colored lace shawl draped loosely over her shoulders, and her hair was wrapped in a vibrant orange head tie. That made her deep brown skin glow. She looked like a goddess of the earth, smelling of dried sage, sweet vanilla, and that raw feminine musk that always seemed to radiate off her skin.
Stack’s gaze didn’t just linger on Annie.
It devoured.
He watched the way her backside moved under the indigo fabric. The heavy jiggle of her rear with every step she took toward the kitchen. He could almost imagine the feel of those wide hips under his palms. The way her soft, ample flesh would spill over his fingers if he dared to grab her. He felt his dick stir and thicken in his trousers, a sudden hard ache pulsing in his groin as he imagined her stripped bare, plush body shaking under him.
Annie stopped dead in her tracks the moment she spotted him.
Her expression changed from exhaustion to a cold, sharp irritation. Annie didn’t hide her distaste; her eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line. She knew exactly how Stack looked at her. Like a starving man looking at a feast.
Bastard.
“Elias,” she said, her voice a rich, smooth contralto that vibrated right through Stack’s chest. “I didn’t know Smoke had let the circus back into the house.”
Stack’s eyes slid down from her face to the deep valley of her cleavage and then back up. He gave her a slow, lazy grin. That smile usually worked on every woman from Clarksdale to Chicago, but he knew Annie was different. He knew she carried a blade in her bodice and a spirit that couldn’t be bought or charmed.
He wanted her. Goddamn if he didn’t. But he wasn’t stupid enough to push her to the point where she’d carve a piece out of him.
“Now, Annie,” Stack purred, his voice dripping with a forced sweetness. “No need to be so cold. I just came to visit my dear brother and sis in law.”
Annie ignored the flirtation. She stepped further into the kitchen to set her bag of herbs on the table. As she leaned over, the fabric of her dress pulled taut across her backside, outlining the deep, rounded cleft of her ass.
Stack’s eyes locked onto it, pupils dilating. He was practically eye-fucking her, his gaze tracing the curve of her waist down to the heavy swell of her hips. He could almost smell the torridity coming off her, the scent of a woman who spent her days working with the earth and her nights being thoroughly claimed by a man like Smoke Moore.
She straightened up, catching him staring.
She just looked at him with a mixture of pity and disgust.
“How you been, Elias?” Annie asked, though the question sounded more like a formality than actual interest. “Still runnin’ scams and dodging the law in the North?”
Stack let out a low, humming chuckle, his eyes never leaving the heavy swing of her hips as she moved. He leaned back in the chair, the silver coin dancing across his knuckles again, though his focus was entirely on the way that indigo fabric strained against her plush thighs.
“I been aight, Annie. Just a bit lonely for some of that Southern hospitality,” Stack purred, his voice sliding over her like silk.
Annie didn’t give him the satisfaction of a blush. She just gave him a look of pure, unadulterated disdain, her nostrils flaring. She knew he was tracing every curve of her wide hips and the deep swell of her breasts, and she treated his gaze like a smudge of dirt on the floor.
“You still got a mouth that runs faster than your brain, Elias,” she snapped, turning her back to him to reach for a pot on the stove.
The movement was a gift.
As she reached upward, the hem of her dress lifted just enough to reveal the tops of her thick, deep brown thighs and the tantalizing curve of her rear.
Stack’s dick throbbed violently against his trousers.
He was practically salivating, his gaze locked onto the jiggle of her backside.
Then, the screen door creaked.
Smoke stepped back into the kitchen, his presence instantly swallowing the room. The second his dark eyes landed on Annie, the hard, neutral mask he wore for the world shattered.
He didn’t say a word.
Smoke walked straight up to her, ankle boots thudding on the pine floor, and wrapped his massive arms around her from behind.
Stack watched, a mixture of envy and heat flooding his gut as Smoke claimed her. Smoke’s large, calloused hands didn’t falter. They slid down from her waist and clamped firmly onto her plush ass, squeezing the heavy flesh with. Possessive, bruising grip. He pulled her back hard against his groin, letting her feel the thick, curved length of his dick pressing into the small of her back.
Smoke buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply, his mustache brushing against her glowing skin. He looked like he was claiming his prey, biz eyes closing as he breathed in her scent of vanilla and musk. He began to whisper something low and guttural in her ear—something private and filthy—that made Annie’s shoulders drop and a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips.
Annie glanced sideways at Smoke’s coat, her eyes flickering with a secret understanding.
The realization that Smoke was carrying her scent around like. Drug while currently squeezing her real-life ass made Stack’s head spin.
“Lord have mercy,” Stack interrupted, his voice loud and jarring, breaking the spell. He stood up, tossing the coin one last time and catching it with a sharp snap. “Ya’ll gon’ get to the fuckin’ or can I find out when I get to eat? ‘Cause I’m starvin’ over here, and the smell of that corn pone is startin’ to make me crazy.”
Annie rolled her eyes. She leaned back into Smoke’s chest for one last second before pulling away. She shot Stack. Look that promised a blade to the ribs if he kept talking, but the irritation was tempered by the lingering heat Smoke had just sparked in her.
Annie turned back to the stove, the heavy cast iron skillet sizzling with corn pone and fried catfish. She moved with grace. She slid the golden-brown cakes onto a platter, the scent of grease and salt filling the kitchen.
Stack leaned against the counter, a glass of liquor in his hand that he’d fetched from the Model A, sipping slowly. His eyes were locked on Annie, tracing the deep dip of her waist and the way her breasts strained against her blouse as she leaned over to scoop collards. He took a swallow of the whiskey, the burn in his throat matching the heat pooling in his groin as he watched her.
Smoke, meanwhile, hadn’t moved far from her side. He stood silent and strong, dark eyes locked onto his wife. He wasn’t just looking, he was devouring her. His eyes traveled from the curve of her calves up to the heavy swell of her rear, his jaw tight. He looked like a man who wanted to throw the food on the floor and bend her over the table right then and there.
“Here,” Annie spoke with a hushed tone, setting the heavy ceramic plates down on the pine table.
She stepped behind Smoke, her soft, warm palms landing on his broad shoulders. She began to knead the hard knots of muscle there, her fingers digging into the tension he always carried. Smoke let out a low, grunt, his head tilting back slightly as he surrendered to her touch.
As the men began to eat, the contrast was stark. Stack ate like a city man—precise, talking between bites, his movements theatrical and light. Smoke ate like a starving animal. He tore into the catfish and corn pone with a primal intensity, his movements efficient and heavy, focused entirely on the fuel and the woman rubbing his shoulders.
Annie watched them, her intuitive gaze flickering between the two identical faces. She could feel the static in the room, the way Stack’s energy was a jagged line of desire and mischief, while Smoke’d was a heavy, possessive weight.
“So, Elias,” Annie said, her voice smooth but cautious. “How long you plannin’ on stayin’ in town this time?”
Smoke didn’t stop chewing, but he answered for his brother, his voice so deep that it vibrated through Annie’s palms.
“He stayin’ at that boarding house in town. The one with the thin walls and the bedbugs.” Smoke repositioned his hips, his shoulder brushing against Annie’s chest. “I told him he could take the guest room here. Told him he ain’t need to be payin’ a stranger for a drafty room.”
Annie’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. She didn’t say a word, but her silence was word enough. The thought of Stack sleeping under her roof brought a familiar tightness to her chest. It wasn’t that she feared him, but she knew the wake of trouble he left behind. Stack was a whirlwind of bad decisions and risky gambles, and whenever he rolled into town, he spent half his time trying to convince Smoke to dive headfirst into some new, dangerous venture. She didn’t want that energy in her sanctuary; she didn’t want the instability he brought leaking into the peace she and Smoke built.
But she felt the way Smoke leaned into her. She knew how much the silent man missed his twin, how the bond between them was a tether that Smoke refused to cut, no matter how many times Stack played the fool.
Annie sighed, her fingers resuming their massage. She looked over at Stack, who was watching her with a smug, knowing grin, looking every bit the charming rogue who knew exactly how to push her buttons.
“Now, Elias,” Annie said, her voice softening into a forced sweetness, “don’t be stubborn. You know that boarding house is a pit. Why don’t you just stay here wit’ us? I’ll make sure you got a hot, cooked meal every night you in town.”
Stack’s grin widened, his eyes flashing. He didn’t look at the food on his plate. He looked straight at Annie. His gaze slid down to her chest and back up with an appreciative, playful hunger.
“Well now.” Stack purred, his voice dripping with honey. “If the lady’s promisin’ to feed me…I’d be a fool to say no.
The dinner plates were cleared, the remnants of the meal still steaming on the wood-burning stove. As soon as the screen door clicked shut behind Stack, leaving him to retrieve his bags from the boarding house, the playful jagged energy Stack brought with him evaporated, replaced by the heavy, grounding inferno that only existed between Smoke and Annie.
Smoke didn’t waste a second. He reached out, his large calloused hand wrapping around Annie’s waist, and with one firm tug, he pulled her plush body down onto his lap. Annie let out a soft oomph, her heavy hips settling securely against his muscular thighs. She rested her arms on his broad shoulders, her espresso-brown skin glowing against the fabric of his shirt.
“Thank you for lettin’ him stay, baby,” Smoke whispered, his voice low and gravelly. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. “I know he a handful. Promise you, it won’t be long. Just ‘til he gets his head right.”
Annie exhaled, a long sigh that made her large breasts brush against his chest. She ran her hands over his slicked hair, settling them at the nape of his neck where she drew lazy circles with her thumbs.
“I know he your blood, Smoke. I ain’t blind to that. But tell your brother he better be on his best behavior while he under my roof. I got a root that’ll put him in line and make him as quiet as a church mouse if he start stirrin’ up trouble for you.”
Smoke let out a rare, huffing sound—almost a laugh—and tilted his head up. His deep brown eyes were dark, hooded with a hunger that had nothing to do with the meal they’d just finished. He leaned in, capturing her lips in a kiss that started tender but quickly turned possessive, his tongue sliding against hers with a primal urgency.
As they broke for air, Smoke kept his lips brushed against her ear, his breath causing her to shiver as it ticked her ear. His voice dropped to a filthy, desperate whisper that sent a jolt of electricity straight to Annie’s core.
“I can’t stand it, Annie,” Smoke groaned, his hand sliding down from her waist to squeeze the lush curve of her ass. “Those draws I been keepin’ in my coat…the scent done gone dry. I spent all day sniffin’ ‘em just to keep my mind on you, but they don’t smell like you no more. They ain’t fresh.”
Annie’s breath hitched. The sheer hunger in his tone, the way the most feared man in the county sounded like a starving dog begging for a scrap, made her pussy quiver violently. She could feel the sudden rush of arousal between her thighs, her own juices beginning to soak into the cotton of her underwear.
“You a damn animal,” she whispered, though she arched her back, pressing her softness deeper into his lap.
“I am for you,” Snoke growled, his hand migrating forward, fingers hooking beneath her skirt and slithering up to cup her fat pussy in the palm of his hand. It was hot to the touch and moist. “I need a fresh pair. I need ‘em soaked in you, Annie. I need to smell that sweet pussy fresh off ya’ skin ‘gore I lose my goddamn mind.”
Annie slid side-saddle across Smoke’s thighs. The movement caused her heavy breasts to sway and her wide, plush hips to grind against him. She reached down, her fingers hooking into the lace edge of her bloomers, and slowly peeled them down. She didn’t stand up. She just slid the fabric down her thick thighs and off her feet. Her swollen, dark pussy was now within reach just beneath her indigo skirt.
Smoke didn’t waste another second. He snatched the fabric from her hand with a desperation bordered on feral. He pressed the damp cotton deep into his nostrils, inhaling sharply, his eyes closing as he drank in the concentrated scent of her.
Annie let out a low, throaty moan, her hand sliding down to find the massive bulge in his pants. Smoke was rock hard, dick as thick as a forearm and straining against the fabric. She gripped him, squeezing the heavy length of him, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat through his pants. She leaned in, her lips brushing against the shell of his ear, her voice dropping to a filthy, honeyed whisper.
“I got ‘em extra drenched just for you, Smoke…I been in that shack all day, just sittin’ wit’ my legs open…thinkin’ ‘bout how you fucked me the other night. Thinkin’ ‘bout how you stretched me out ‘til I couldn’t walk straight. Left me sore and achin’ in all the right places.”
Smoke let out a low growl, his grip tightening on the bloomers, bunching the fabric in his fist as he breathed her in. The image of her alone in her shack, leaking for him, sent a surge of desire through his veins.
“You like that, baby?” Annie breathed, her fingers kneading his thick dick “can you smell it? Can you smell how much I gushed for you?”
Smoke didn’t respond with words. He gripped Annie’s thick, brown thighs and hoisted them up, sliding them over his broad shoulders. He dropped to his hands and knees on the floor, positioning himself perfectly between her legs. Annie leaned back in the chair, her breath hitching as she felt the sudden, cool air hit her soaking wet slit, followed immediately by the searing heat of Smoke’s mouth. He dove in with a primal hunger. Smoke didn’t tease; he dove straight in, his long, thick tongue lashing out to swipe across her soaking wet slit.
Smoke groaned into her meaty pussy, the taste of her hitting him like a drug. He tongued her deeply, tasting the thick, creamy mess she’d been brewing all day, his tongue swirling around her clit before sliding deep between her folds—flat against her labia and curling right at her opening—to lap up every drip of her arousal. He was eating her with a starving intensity, breath heavy against her sensitive flesh, confirming exactly how much she had been longing for him.
He was devouring her.
His tongue, thick and powerful, lashed against her clit with a punishing force that made Annie’s entire body shudder. Smoke sucked her clit deep into his mouth, creating a suction that sent electric shocks straight to her core. The sound was wet and obscene. Loud, slapping noises of his tongue meeting her drenched flesh and the guttural groans he made as he tasted the concentrated musk she’d been brewing all day.
Driven by a need to see the devastation he was causing, Annie reached down and hiked the hem of her skirt up past her waist, bunching the fabric in her fists. She looked down, her eyes widening at the sight of her husband’s head buried between her legs, his jaw working tirelessly as he licked her clean, only for her to gush more juice the moment he touched her.
The pleasure was becoming too much to contain.
With shaky fingers, Annie began to undo the buttons of her blouse. She popped them one by one, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. As the fabric parted, she relaxed her breasts from the constraint of her bra, letting them spill out with a heavy, satisfying bounce.
Lush, and heavy, with a deep rich brown hue that shimmered under the natural light filtering in. They were full and pendulous, swaying slightly as she breathed, the weight of them pulling downward in a way that emphasized her womanly curves. The skin was smooth as fine silk, stretching over the ample volume of her chest. At the center of each breast sat a wide, dark areola, the color of bitter chocolate, circling nipples that were hard and peaking, straining for touch. They were thick and prominent, resting to the intensity of the oral pounding she was receiving below.
Smoke looked up for a split second, his face glistening with her juices, eyes dark as he stared at her swinging breasts. He let out a low, growl, then dove back in, his tongue swirling deep inside her pussy, tasting the creaminess of her while Annie arched her back, heavy breasts bouncing with every thrust of his tongue.
Her voice broke into a series of high, desperate moans.
Smoke didn’t pull away. He started talking against her drenched folds, his voice vibrating through her thighs. He sounded possessed, his words muffled by the plush folds of her pussy as he continued to lap at her with a relentless, starving need.
“Goddamn, Annie…I can’t get enough of this pussy,” he groaned, the words wet and thick.
Smoke pulled back just an inch, his lips glistening with her cream. His dark eyes looked up at her with so much adoration.
“I spent all day thinkin’ ‘bout it, baby. Every minute I’m out there, I just ache to get my face back in this sweet, soaking wet pussy.”
Smoke dove back in, tongue delivering a long, sweeping stroke from her bottom to the top, slurping loudly as he sucked her clit so deep she could feel the length of his tongue swipe her button as he sealed his lips. The sound was nasty. A wet, schlick-slurp that filled the kitchen.
“I need it, baby,” Smoke rumbled, his voice breaking into a growl against her flesh. “I need this pussy to ground me. I need to taste you, smell you…fuck, you taste like heaven and sin all at once, woman. I could eat yiu for a lifetime and still be starvin’ for more.”
Annie let out a jagged. High-pitched moan, her head snapping back against the chair. The sensation of his tongue lashing her clit while he whispered filth into her folds was driving her to the edge. Her hands flew to her heavy breasts, her fingers digging into the lush flesh. She gripped her own tits, squeezing, the weight of them spilling between her fingers as she kneaded them.
She watched him from above, her eyes hazy with lust, seeing the way his shoulders bunched and flexed as he worked. She began to roll her hard, chocolate-colored nipples between her fingers, pulling on them in sync with the suction of his mouth.
“Elijah…oh, Lord, Elijah,” Annie whimpered, her voice shaking. She arched her back, pushing her wide, plush mound harder against his face, demanding every bit of his tongue.
Smoke responded by intensifying the assault. He began to sick her pussy with a cyclone-like force, his cheeks hollowing as he slurped her juices up, making loud, messy sounds. He was tearing her fat, fuckin’ pussy up, his tongue swirling and poking deep inside her, tasting the thick, honeyed musk of her arousal.
“My beautiful, thick-hipped woman,” Smoke mumbled with a shaky voice that vibrated against her clit. “This pussy the only thing keepin’ me sane. I love how you gush fa’ me, baby. I love how you taste. Give it all to me, Annie. Just leak all over my damn face.”
Annie’s moans turned into shaky cries. She squeezed her breasts tighter, nipples peaking and straining as she felt the orgasm building, thick thighs trembling on his shoulders while he continued to eat her like she was the only meal he’d ever known. Like the corn pone, catfish, and collards ain’t settle his hunger.
Smoke’s voice had gone from a rumble to a command, a raw, demanding groan. He didn’t just want her pleasure; he wanted her surrender. He gripped her thick, plentiful thighs, fingers digging into the meat of her legs to hold her wide open, pinning her firmly against his face.
“Cum on my tongue, Annie—cum fa’ me, baby, gimme it girl I’m workin’ hard for it where my gushy mess at, baby, give it to daddy.” Smoke barked, the words muffled by her soaking wet folds. “Cum right now. I wanna feel you shake. Paint my tongue wit’ that sweet cream.”
Smoke repositioned his attack, his tongue becoming a weapon of precision. He started to flick her clit with a rapid, punishing speed then his lips created a tight seal around her, sucking her into his saliva-filled mouth. He would go back and forth between quick flicks of his tongue and tight sucks. Wet, slurp–pop, sounds. The sound of a man trying to drain every single drop of cum from her body.
“Paint it, baby—fuck—give it to me.” Smoke commanded, voice deep and demanding and filled with so much hunger. “I wanna taste every bit of it. Pour it all over my fuckin’ tongue, baby, now—”
Annie was beyond words. Her head was thrashed back, her eyes crossed, and her fingers were practically bruising her own heavy breasts. Her thick, thunderous thighs clamped down on Smoke’s head tight. The command in his voice acted like a trigger, snapping the eruption that had been building in her core.
“ELIJAH. Oh…my…God—bẹẹni, kan lara ki o dara, bẹẹni—ELIJAH!” Annie screamed, her voice cracking.
Her orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, a violent, racking explosion that started in her womb and radiated outward. Her pussy clamped down hard in his mouth, pulsing in powerful spasms that squeezed her juices out in thick, hot bursts. She felt herself gushing, milky–white flooding his tongue, painting his lips and chin in a glistening honeyed trail similar to coconut milk.
Smoke didn’t pull away from the trap of her thighs. He leaned into it, lapping at her orgasmic floods, sucking and slurping the pulses of her climax as if he were trying to drink her soul. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure, animalistic satisfaction, as he felt her body shudder and quake on his shoulders.
“That’s it…yeah, paint it…give it all to me,” Smoke mumbled against her skin, his voice thick with lust.
Annie’s muscles twitched because her thighs trembled violently. The aftershocks of the orgasm continued to ripple through her. She collapsed back into the chair, her chest heaving, breasts bouncing with every ragged breath and shaky exhale. She looked down at him—her husband, her rock—his face drenched in her musk, eyes dark and looking up at her with a look that told her he was far from finished.
Smoke rose up from between her spread thighs, knees planted firm on the kitchen floor as he stayed right there between them. His big hands came up and cupped the heavy weight of her breasts, palms sliding underneath to lift and cradle them. Both hands wrapped around the plush fullness, fingers sinking into the squishy give as he pushed them together and angled the wide dark areolas straight toward his mouth.
Annie watched from above, breath catching as his lips brushed the first areola. Smoke kissed slow and open–mouthed, pressing warm, wet kisses all across the dark circle before moving to the thick nipple itself. His tongue flicked out, tasting the pebbles skin, then he sealed his lips around it and began to suck.
The pull was steady and deep. He sucked in a rhythm that matched the throb still pulsing between her legs, tongue pressing up against the underside while his lips worked in a tight seal. Every few pulls he released with a wet pop, only to switch to the other breast, giving it the same treatment. Back and forth he went, sucking one nipple hard until it stood shiny and stiff, then moving to the other, leaving a trail of spit connecting them.
Annie moaned low in her throat. The suction sent sharp sparks straight down to her clit, each strong pull making her pussy clench around nothing. She felt the wet, heat of his mouth and the firm drag of his tongue circling and flicking while he suckled. The pressure was building until it bordered on too much before easing off just enough to start again, sending goosebumps over her skin and a tickle down her spine. Her heavy breasts bounced slightly with every switch, the air cool from his spit hitting her wet nipples before his hot mouth claimed them once more.
“Elijah…” Annie breathed, one hand sliding over his slicked hair as he kept going, sucking and releasing…sucking and releasing, big hands keeping her tits aimed exactly where he wanted them. “te siwaju, mase duro, Elijah…”
She was telling him to keep going.
He swirled his tongue around the thick stiff tip of her nipples, teasing the nerve endings until she gasped, then he’d plunge it back in, drawing the flesh tight.
He was keeping her right on the edge.
“Fuckin’ love these big ol’ breasts, baby—”
“I love the way you make love to my breasts wit’ that mouth—”
“Yeah?”
“beeni, yes…”
“I eat up every inch of you, baby, you know that—”
“I do, yes—Daddy—yes, I do—”
Smoke used his teeth lightly, grazing the fleshy, ample sides of her pendulous breasts, creating a sharp contrast to the wet, sliding, heat of his tongue. Smoke was working her breasts like they were the only thing keeping him alive, big hands squeezing the plush undersides, pushing the heavy mounds upward to give his mouth better access.
Annie was completely undone. The words she tried to form died in her throat, replaced by broken, airy whimpers and trembling moans. She couldn’t find the breath to tell him how much she loved it, or to beg him not to stop. Her mind had gone blank, reduced to nothing but the sensation of his mouth. Every time he switched breasts, the sudden rush of cool air on the wet, swollen nipple made her shiver, only for the heat to return a second later as he claimed the other side.
The suction was so intense it felt like he was pulling the very spoil out of her through her chest. The sensation radiated downward, triggering a heavy, pulsing and in her drenched pussy. Annie felt the wetness leaking from her, dripping down her thighs, while her breasts felt heavy and engorged, tingling with a fierce, electric blaze.
Smoke looked up for a solid second, pupils dilated and eyelids low like he was drunk off her body. His lips were covered in a mixture of spit and her pussy juices. He saw her dazed expression, her head lolling back, her chest heaving. He let out a grunt and a hum and dove back in, sucking her nipples with an even more aggressive hunger.
Smoke was determined to keep her in this state of mindless, shivering bliss and keep her pussy wet so he can get in it with one stroke and make her cream even more.
Smoke sensed her peaking, his instincts sharpening. He latched onto her left nipple with a fierce grip, pulling the dark, swollen bud into his mouth. The sensation came in slow draws, each one lingering longer than the last. While he worked that breast, his fingers reached up to grip the right breast, his thumb and forefinger catching the other stiff nipple and twirling it, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers.
The dual sensation—the deep, wet heat of Smoke’s mouth on one side and the firm, twisting friction on the other—was too much. Annie let out a broken, high-pitched keen, her hips bucking instinctively against the air. She was completely undone, her mind a gaze of deep-brown skin and the overwhelming presence of her husband.
“Smoke…oh god, Smoke,” she whimpered, her voice shaking and thick with lust. Annie reached down, her fingers brushing against the hard, heavy ridge of his dick pressing against his pants. The feel of him—thick, long, and pulsing with a need that mirrored her own—sent a fresh wave of wetness crashing through her.
Annie couldn’t take the anticipation anymore. The need to taste him, to feel that massive length in her mouth, becaus an obsession. She began to plead, her voice dropping a guttural rasp.
“Smoke…please, baby…please let me,” Annie begged, her breath coming in short, jagged gasps. “I need it. I need to suck you…let me taste you, Smoke. Please, let me suck ya’ dick.” Her eyes were pleading and glazed. “I’m beggin’, Daddy…let me get on my knees. Let me take it.”
Smoke let out a grunt. He stepped back, pulling away from her plush breasts, leaving her nipples swollen, dark, and glistening with saliva. He stood tall, his imposing frame casting a wide shadow over her, but the bright Mississippi sun that early, summer evening streamed through the kitchen windows, bathing his brown skin with rich, gold undertones in a warm light.
Smoke reached down and gripped the hem of his shirt. He lowered his suspenders from his shoulders. He started unbuttoned his shirt, eyes never leaving Annie’s face.
“It’s okay, baby…daddy gon’ give you this dick, aight? You ain’t gotta beg me, baby. This dick belong to you. You take this dick, hear?”
The light hit the hard planes of his abdomen, highlighting the ripple of his muscles and the deep, rich tone of his brown skin.
Annie, still breathless and trembling in the chair, watched with wide, glazed eyes as he stood before her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, pussy throbbing with a wet, heavy pressure that made her feel like she was melting into the wood of the seat. She reached out with shaking hands, her fingers fumbling with the buttons on his pants. She could feel the heat radiating off him. Primal. Masculine. Smelling of tobacco, musk, and raw desire.
Her fingers popped open the button and she slid the zipper down with a slow, agonizing rasp. As she reached inside to hook her fingers into the waistband of his underwear, pulling the fabric down and away, his dick sprang free with a heavy thud against his lower belly.
Annie froze. Her breath hitched in her throat.
The natural light from the window hit him perfectly.
It reflected off the smooth, taut skin of his shaft.
His dick was a masterpiece of masculine power.
Thick. Long. Pulsing with a life of its own.
The skin was a deep, dark brown, stretched tight over the engorged veins that coiled around the length like vines of temptation. The head was a swollen, blunt crown, glistening with a so much pre-cum it left behind a long, slimy string that was still connected to his underwear. It sparkled like a dining against the dark velvet of his flesh.
Annie stared. Mesmerized by the way it curved slightly to the right. A heavy, authoritative arc that promised to fill every fucking inch of her. The sheer size of it made her mouth water; just looking at the thickness of the base…where it joined his muscular thighs…made her imagine the feeling of it stretching her wide, splitting her open and hitting the very back of her womb.
A wave of pure, unadulterated lust crashed over her.
The size of his pleasure stick…
Standing proud and rigid in the golden light made her feel small and greedy. She felt a primal urge to serve him. To wrap her lips around that massive head and feel the pulse of his heartbeat in her throat. Her pussy gave a violent, needy squeeze, leaking a fresh torrent of slickness down her thighs as she gazed up at the man who owned her soul and body.
Annie had memorized every vein. Every ripple of muscle. The way the sunlight danced on the wet tip of his dick, knowing that in a few moments she would be tasting every bit of it. Her voice was a fragile, trembling thing, barely a whisper as she looked up at him from her knees. Her eyes were glossy, wide with a mixture of awe and hunger.
“I ain’t never seen nothin’ so beautiful in my whole life,” Annie whispered, her voice shaking with the intensity of her arousal.
Her fingers wrapped around the thick base. As her fingers circled, the tips barely closed around the girth, her palm pressing against him. As she began to stroke him, her movements were slow and delirious, her gaze locked onto the way his dark skin slid over the engorged veins. Annie looked up at him with a look of pure, submissive devotion, her expression screaming that she couldn’t believe he possessed such a massive, powerful piece of meat.
Smoke let out a sharp, jagged breath, his head snapping back, adam’s apple bobbing, a wave of pleasure crashing through him. He was ruined. The contrast of her soft, supple hand gripping his rigid dick was almost too much to bear. He looked down at her—his lush, opulent wife, her heavy breasts swaying and her face filled with worship—and felt a surge of primal dominance.
Annie leaned in, her breath hot against his skin.
She started with a long, wet lick from the base all the way up to the crown. She moaned deep in her throat, a sound of pure satisfaction as she tasted him.
“My big, strong man,” Annie whispered against his flesh, her voice thick with lust. “Got such a big dick…such a beautiful, big dick.”
She licked him again, more insistently this time, swirling her tongue around the swollen head and catching the bead of pre-cum. She was praising him with every wet sound. Every shaky breath. Treating his dick like a holy relic. She looked up at him again, her lips glistening with his pre-cum and her spit, her eyes pleading.
“You so big, Smoke,” Annie groaned, her hand tightening its grip, pumping and bouncing that meaty dick in her grip. “I just want it…I want all of this dick inside me. But I gotta taste ya’ first. I gotta serve ya’…”
Smoke groaned, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch forward. He reached down, his hand burying itself in the fabric of her headwrap, tilting her head back so he could see the sheer desperation in her eyes. He loved the way she looked at him. Like he was a god. Like his dick was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“Then get it, baby,” Smoke growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Open that pretty mouth and take every inch of it.”
She opened her mouth wide, her lips parting in a wet, eager circle as she leaned forward to take him. She started by swirling her tongue around the broad, weeping head of his dick, tasting the thick bed of pre-cum that clung to his slit and wouldn’t stop leaking. She let out a muffled moan of approval, her eyes fluttering shut for a second as she savored the taste of his skin.
Then, she slid forward, taking the head and the first few inches of the shaft into her mouth. The sheer girth of him stretched her lips tight, filling her oral cavity completely. She loved the feeling of being stretched, the way her cheeks puffed out slightly to accommodate the massive thickness of his meat. She knew exactly how Smoke liked it. He didn’t want a gentle touch. He wanted to feel her struggle and succumb to his size.
Annie started to suck.
She used her tongue to massage the ridge of the glans—his most sensitive spot—creating a wet, slapping sound every time her lips broke the seal to gasp for air.
Slurp. Pop. Shlick
The noises were raw and vividly resonant.
Annie focused on the underside of the shaft, flicking her tongue over the vein that pulsed like a living thing against her palate. As she worked her way deeper, she felt the back of her throat tighten. She pushed past her limit, gagging slightly as the head of his dick hit the back of her throat. Instead of pulling away, she leaned into it, her eyes watering, her nose closer to his pubic hair the more she tried.
She loved the feeling of him claiming her mouth. The way he dominated her breathing.
She began to bob her head. Sliding up and down the length of him, throat working hard to swallow as much as possible. Nose pulling in air so she wouldn’t choke. Lips and jaw muscles working to keep a tight ring around his shaft as she sucked.
Smoke was losing his damn mind.
He gripped the fabric of her headwrap tighter, knuckles bulging, guiding her with a firm hand. His hips twitched forward instinctively, driving himself deeper into her wet mouth. He loved the suction she created. The way she slurped and sealed his dick, pulling at him with a needy intensity and a slow, roll of her neck that made his toes curl in his ankle boots.
“Yeah, like that, baby…do it like that,” Smoke groaned, his voice a jagged rasp. “Suck it…take all this meat, you such a greedy lil’ thing.”
Annie responded by increasing the suction, cheeks hollowing out as she pulled on him. She used her hand to grip the base of his dick, pumping in sync with her mouth, ensuring that every single inch of him was being stimulated. She could feel the vibrations of his groans traveling through his dick and into her jaw.
Annie looked up at him through her lashes, her eyes dazed and devoted, watching the way his face contorted in pleasure.
She knew the signs. The way his breath became short and shallow. The way his thighs began to tremble.
She sped up, her tongue working frantically around the head while she sucked the shaft with a powerful force. The sound became a wet, messy symphony of lubrication and lust, the squelch of her saliva coating his dark stick as she worshipped him. She was determined to drain every drop of pleasure from his massive frame.
Smoke’s hand clamped tight onto Annie’s headwrap, his fingers digging into the fabric to anchor her firmly in place. He stopped letting her set the pace and took complete control, his hips beginning to drive forward in a slow, punishing motion.
He started fucking her mouth, the thick rigid length of his dick sliding deep into her throat with every thrust.
Annie looked liked she’d been crying for hours—eyes puffy, spit-covered, cheeks sunken and lips puffy from all that damn sucking—and Smoke loved it.
His face was a mask of raw, unfiltered pleasure.
His features contorted, eyes squeezed shut as he felt the wet, tightness of her mouth gripping him. A low, jagged groan ripped from his chest. Smoke was shaking, powerful thighs trembling with the effort of holding back the tide, but the sensation of her tongue swirling around the head while her throat squeezed the shaft was driving him over the edge.
“Goddamn, Annie…” Smoke rasped. “You suck it so fuckin’ good…mouth feel like heaven…so tight…so wet…”
Smoke thrust deeper, forcing a muffled, throaty whimper from her. He loved the way she surrendered her mouth to him. The way her eyes fluttered in devotion as she took every inch of his girth like a good wife supposed to. Smoke could feel his dick pulsing violently inside her mouth, the veins throbbing against her tongue, engorged to the absolute limit.
Then, she grabbed for his balls. His heavy balls. They were covered in spit. Annie used her fingers to massage his wet balls like they were fine jewels. A soft, rotating motion that tickled in the best way.
The pressure in his loins became an unbearable ache, a white–hot tension that demanded release. Smoke increased the speed, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more desperate. The sound of his dick sliding in and out of her mouth became a wet, slapping symphony—shluck, squelch, pop—as he drove himself into her.
“Look at me. Look up at me while you suck my pole. I wanna see your eyes when I cum.”
Annie did just that. She flicked her gaze up at Smoke, giving him a slow, tantalizing blink like a femme fatale flapper.
Smoke arched his hips forward at the same time Annie sucked. His fingers dug into her plush shoulders. He sounded like he was fighting for air.
“I’m gon’ cum, Annie,” Smoke growled, his grip on her headwrap tightening until his fingers shook. “I’m ‘bout to blow—baby—the it all…take every fuckin’ drop of me—”
Smoke gave one final, deep plunge, burying himself to the hilt in her throat, his hips locking against her face as the first violent wave of orgasm crashed through him.
Summary: Amelia packed her things and took a train to Clarksdale Mississippi to reunite with an old friend, Annie. Annie promised she’d teach Amelia the art of Hoodoo. After a month, Smoke and Stack return with a plan to open a Juke Joint.
Warnings: SMUT
Part Eight
The scream tore out of her throat and vanished into the trees.
Remmick moved.
Not like a man.
Like something slipping through the dark between moments, his body bending forward, jaw split wide, fangs bared as he lunged for her with a hunger that had waited centuries.
Amelia stumbled back, hands flying up on instinct.
“Don’t—!”
Her light answered before her mind could. It burst from her palms in a wild, unshaped flare gold and white and flickering blue. Like fire that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. It struck him full in the chest.
Remmick hissed—sharp—his body snapping back as the light burned across his raggedy coat, searing through fabric, biting into skin beneath. Smoke curled from him, thin and bitter.
But…it didn’t stop him. It only made him laugh. A broken, delighted sound clawed up from his chest as he straightened, eyes glowing red now, brighter…hungrier.
“There it is,” he rasped, “there it is…show me again.”
Amelia’s breath hitched. Her hands trembled as she tried to summon it again—tried to shape it, control it—but it flickered, unstable. Too bright one second. Gone the next.
“I don’t—” she gasped, “I don’t know how—”
Remmick stalked closer.
“You don’t need to know,” he spoke softly, hauntingly, “you just need to bleed.”
Remmick lunged again—
And the forest split. Not with sound. With light.
A clean, violent beam cut through the dark wilderness, cold and focused, nothing like Amelia’s wild glow. It struck Remmick from the side with surgical precision, blasting him backward into a tree so hard the trunk cracked.
The woods went eerily still. Even Amelia’s breath caught in her chest.
Remmick hit the ground hard, smoke rising from his skin, body twitching as something ancient and furious stirred beneath the burn.
Then, a voice followed. Calm. Measured. Unmoved. As if the forest itself was speaking.
“You hunt too loud, fanger.”
Amelia turned.
She hadn’t seen her arrive. One moment the trees were empty. Then the next, she was there.
Virelle stood just beyond the reach of the scattered light, her figure still and composed like she had stepped out of the night itself. No rush. No panic.
Her gaze flicked once to Amelia. Sharp. Assessing. Then, back to Remmick.
“Still clingin’ to scraps in foreign soil,” Virelle said, almost bored, “you grow desperate.”
Remmick rose slowly, head tilting, lips curling back into something feral.
“…Virelle,” he breathed, recognition slipping into his tone like a blade. “Didn’t think they still sent watchers this far south.”
“They don’t,” she replied. “I came on my own.”
Amelia’s pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t understand what was happening, who this woman was, but her fae knew. Something older than fear. Something that said she wasn’t an enemy, but not safe either.
Remmick wiped at the burn on his chest, his fingers coming away dark.
“And this one yours?” He asked, nodding toward Amelia. “Little halflin’ glowing in the woods like o’ dinner bell?”
Virelle didn’t answer. Her eyes shifted to Amelia again, taking in the trembling hands, the unstable light flickering beneath her skin, the grief still clinging to her like damp cloth.
“You flare too loud, little girl. You sure you Lysara’s offspring?” Virelle said simply.
The words landed like a bolder to her chest. Harder than any comfort could have.
Then—
Remmick moved again. Faster. Angrier.
Virelle remained still.
Her hand lifted, just slightly, and the light answered her like it had been waiting.
Controlled.
It shot forward in a narrow, blinding arc and struck Remmick mid-lunge, snapping his body sideways and driving him across the forest floor in a violent drag of dirt and bark. He roared this time, no laughter in it now. Virelle stepped forward once, that was all. But the ground shifted beneath her feet. The light collapsed in on itself and everything went dark. For a single breath, Ameila couldn’t see. Couldn’t feel the ground. Couldn’t hear the forest. Only the echo of her own pulse.
Then, they were somewhere else. Cooler. Thicker. Deeper into the woods where the trees grew taller and the moonlight barely touched the ground. No sign of Remmick. No broken bark. No scorched earth.
Amelia staggered, catching herself against a tree, long hair frizzy and wild, dress dirty, face covered in dry tear streaks and sweat. Eyes blurry. Fingers tingling after the light that burst out in flickers.
“Wha—” she choked. “What was that—where—”
Virelle stood a few paces away, untouched, unbothered, uninterested. She watched Amelia like a problem she hadn’t decided how to solve yet.
“That,” Virelle said. “Was what’s been sniffin’ at your heels since you crossed into this place.”
Ameila shook her head, trembling. “He—he said he was gon—”
“Yes,” Virelle cut in. “He was.”
Amelia’s light flickered again but weak. Exhausted. Virelle’s gaze dropped to her hands, then back up to her face.
“You don’t know how to use it.” She said.
Amelia swallowed hard. “I…I tried—”
“You panicked.”
“I was about to be killed!”
“And you nearly handed yourself over.”
Virelle’s words were cold. Clean. Unforgiving. No room for understanding. Ameila flinched like she’d been struck. Virelle stepped closer, enough now that Amelia could see her clearly. The stillness in her. The absence of fear. And her fae stirred.
“You don’t understand what you are.” Virelle said. “And because of that…everything around you suffers for it.”
Amelia’s chest tightened. “Who are you?”
A pause. Then…
“Someone who’s been watching you burn everything you touch.”
Amelia’s breath hitched.
Somewhere far off, deep in the trees they’d left behind, a low, furious howl echoed.
Remmick.
He was still alive. Ready to hunt again. Virelle didn’t bother acknowledging the sound of Remmick’s ferocity, but her eyes sharpened.
“He’ll come again,” she said.
Amelia’s lungs burned as she tried to steady her breathing.
It wasn’t working.
Her chest rose too fast. Her hands trembled. That light inside her that was usually a low hum felt raw now. Scraped open like it had been dragged out of her without warning and didn’t know how to settle back into place.
“You gon’ stand there staring at me like I ain’t almost just died?” Her voice cracked, sharp with fear and anger. “Or you gon’ tell me what the yell is goin’ on?”
Virelle stood with her weight balanced evenly, hands relaxed at her sides, eyes fixed on Amelia like she was studying something fragile and inconvenient at the same time.
It made Amelia’s skin crawl.
“Who are you?” Amelia pressed, stepping forward. “And how you just do that? Where we at? What was that thing—”
“A vampire.” Virelle said.
Amelia blinked. “A what?”
“A predator,” Virelle continued, as if Amelia hadn’t spoken. “Older than most things that walk this land. Drawn to power. To blood. To anything that burns bright enough to be worth the trouble.”
Virelle’s gaze shifted slightly, dragging over Amelia’s face, her trembling hands, the faint flicker still dancing beneath her skin.
“You’re unstable.”
Amelia flinched. “What?”
“You heard me.”
A sharp breath left her.
“I got chased through the woods by some—some thing tryin’ to eat me and that’s what you got to say?”
“What I have to say,” Virelle replied, voice even, “is that you are loud, untrained, and careless with a power you don’t understand. That makes you dangerous. Not just to yourself.”
Amelia stared at her, stunned.
“You don’t know me,” Amelia said.
“I know enough.”
“Then say it!” Amelia snapped, emotion breaking through. “Say what you think you know ‘bout me!”
Virelle took on step closer.
“You don’t know what you are, she said. “But you feel it. Every time your emotions spike. Every time someone gets too close. Every time you want something badly enough to bend the world around you.”
Amelia’s throat tightened. “That ain’t—”
“You killed a man.”
Ameila staggered back like she’d been struck.
“I didn’t mean to kill Nathaniel. It was an accident—”
“You still did it.”
Virelle’s voice didn’t rise or accuse. It just…stated.
Amelia’s eyes burned. “I lost control. I told you that. I didn’t know what was happenin’ to me.”
Virelle’s expression didn’t change.
“You led him into the water. You let your emotions climb. And your light answered. You wanted to kill him and your fae gave you the push you needed to do it.”
Amelia shook her head, tears spilling now.
“I…It just…it happened.”
“Keep selling that lie to yourself Amelia to make you feel better.” The quiet in Virelle’s tone was suffocating. “You don’t direct it. You don’t contain it. You react. And everything around you pays the price for that.”
Amelia’s chest heaved. “You talkin’ like I chose this.”
“No,” Virelle said. “I’m talking like you refused to learn it.”
Amelia’s hands curled into fists. “Learn from who?” She demanded. “My grandmother died before she could tell me everything. My mama ain’t never been there. I been tryin’ to figure this out on my own—”
“And in the process,” Virelle cut in, “you attached yourself to the first place that felt like safety.”
Amelia went still.
“You embedded yourself in a house already rooted in ancestral work,” Virelle continued. “A woman who practices. A man bound to her. Another drawn to power and pleasure. You placed yourself at the center of something already alive.”
Amelia shook her head slowly. “Stop. Annie was the one person I could feel safe with. I didn’t do that on purpose. I didn’t charm them on purpose.”
“No,” Virelle said. “But you did it anyway.” Her eyes flicked briefly, toward Amelia’s chest. “You made sweetening work.”
Amelia’s breath caught.
“I…” she hesitated. “It wasn’t for them. I made it for myself. To soften things. To keep peace—”
“And instead,” Virelle said, “you amplified what you already are.”
The realization crept in slow and sick.
“You think that jar worked on its own?” Virelle went on. “You think it didn’t respond to you? Your blood? Your nature?”
Amelia’s voice dropped. “I didn’t mean to trap nobody.”
“You didn’t have to mean it.” Virelle’s gaze sharpened like daggers. “You’re a conduit. Not just for desire. For attachment. Obsession. Longing. That jar didn’t create those feelings…it fed them. And you stood at the center of it while it did.”
Images flickered behind Amelia’s eyes.
Annie’s hands on her hips and her lips and tongue on her pussy.
Smoke’s stare and obsession with her smell, his nose pressed into her bloomers.
Stack’s voice telling her he loved her the look in his eyes when he mounted her and fucked her in the backseat of his car.
Her stomach turned.
“I didn’t force them,” she whispered.
“No. But you made it easier for them not to resist.”
Amelia’s shoulders caved in, her hands covering her face as she cried openly now. The kind of crying that came from being stripped down to truth you didn’t want to face.
“I—I just–just wanted somewhere to–to belong,” Amelia choked. “That’s all I wanted.”
Virelle watched her. Unmoved.
“That doesn’t make you harmless.”
Amelia dropped her hands, eyes blazing through tears. “Then what do you want from me?!”
Virelle paused, then…
“I’m here because you’ve become a problem.”
“A problem,” Amelia repeated, hollow.
“Yes.”
“For who?”
“For everything around you.”
Amelia laughed once. Bitter. Broken. “So what, you here to kill me then?”
Virelle’s gaze lingered. She didn’t answer right away.
“If that were the case,” she said finally, “you wouldn’t still be standing.”
Amelia wiped at her face, breathing uneven. “Then why reveal yourself now?”
Virelle looked past her for a moment. Into the trees. Listening to something Amelia couldn’t hear.
“Because something else has.” Virelle said.
Amelia followed her gaze instinctively.
“Remmick,” Virelle added. “He felt you.”
A chill crept through Amelia’s spine.
“And he won’t stop. Virelle said. “Not now that he knows what you are.”
Amelia swallowed hard. “Then teach me.”
It came out raw. Desperate.
“Teach me how to control it. How to stop this from happenin’ again. I can’t keep—” her voice broke, “—I can’t keep hurtin’ people.”
For the first time, Virelle’s expression changed. She didn’t appear as hard, although that was still simmering. She was more focused.
“You don’t get control because you ask for it,” Virelle said. “You get it when you stop pretending you’re not capable of destruction.”
Amelia’s chest tightened. “I know what I did.” She said quietly.
“Knowing isn’t enough.”
The silence between them was thick and waiting. Amelia lifted her chin, even with tears still on her face.
“Then don’t stand there talkin’ down to me like I’m some mistake,” she said. “Either help me…or leave me alone.”
Virelle studied her. Long enough that the forest seemed to hold still around them.
Then, a distant sound cut through. Another growl.
Remmick.
Closer than before.
Virelle’s eyes sharpened. “He found the trail.”
There was no more time to argue.
He had her scent now.
Amelia felt it before she heard it again. Her chest tightened, her breath turning shallow as that same wrongness crept back over her skin. Her light flickered in response, weak but restless, like it was trying to rise and didn’t have the strength.
“He’s comin’,” Amelia whispered.
“I know,” Virelle said.
No panic. No urgency in her tone.
Amelia turned in place, scanning the dark between the trees like she might see him any second. “We gotta go!!”
“We are going,” Virelle replied, stepping forward. “But I’m not dragging you blind through these woods again. You’ll leave a trail he can follow in his sleep.”
Another crack split the distance.
Closer.
Amelia panicked. “Then what do we do?!”
Virelle turned and looked fully at her now.
“Where can you go,” she asked, “where your scent is already known…where your presence won’t raise suspicion…where you can hide without feelin’ like you’re hidin’?”
Amelia’s mind scrambled. Images flickered too fast to hold—Annie’s—no…no. She’s not welcome there—Club Juke—how would she get inside?
Then…
Pearline.
A small house. Quiet. Tucked away. A place that didn’t ask too many questions.
“She got a place,” Amelia said quickly, voice shaking. “Pearline. She lives on the edge of town, near the low fields. Keeps to herself. Ain’t nobody gon’ be lookin’ for me there.”
Virelle held her gaze for a moment. Measuring.
“Think carefully,” she said. “You lead me somewhere unsafe, I will not stay to clean it up.”
“I ain’t lyin’,” Amelia snapped, fear sharpening her tone. “She’s safe. She don’t know nothin’ about this. She just…she minds her business.”
Another sound tore through the trees, accompanied by a wet inhale. A hiss.
Remmick was enjoying this.
Virelle reached for Amelia. Her hand closed around Amelia’s wrist firm and grounding.
“Picture it.” She said.
Amelia’s breath stuttered. “What?”
“The house. The road. The land around it. Don’t think—see it.”
Amelia squeezed her eyes shut, forcing the image to the front of her mind. The shape of Pearline’s porch. The lean of the roof. The narrow dirt path leading up to it. The way the land dipped slightly before the yard opened up.
“I got it.” Amelia said.
“Good.”
The air seemed to tighten. It felt like her body was being pulled away. Amelia barley had time to grasp before everything changed.
The ground vanished. The trees folded inward. Sound dropped out of the world. For a split second, there was nothing but a hollow silence and the echo of her own pulse.
And then, they were standing somewhere else. Amelia staggered forward, catching herself on the rough edge of a wooden post. Her breath came back in a rush. The smell of dry grass and old wood burned her nose.
Pearline’s place.
It sat peaceful beneath the night sky, tucked back from the road like it had learned not to draw attention to itself. The house was small, one story, its paint long since worn down to soft gray wood. The porch sagged slightly at one corner, but the steps were swept clean. A rocking chair rested near the door, its wood polished from years of use. A lantern hung from a hood casting a warm circle of light across the boards. Beyond the house, the land stretched out flat and open, low fields kissed by the last of the evening air. The grass whispered softly with each passing breeze.
Amelia’s chest rose and fell as she took it in, still trying to catch up to where she was.
“We here,” she said, almost In disbelief.
Virelle released Amelia’s wrist. Her gaze swept the property once with sharp and efficient eyes. The house. The land. The edge of the dark.
Evaluating.
“This will do.” She said.
Virelle’s attention shifted back toward the trees, listening. Amelia followed her gaze, her stomach tightening again.
“You think he—”
“He will come.” Virelle said. “Just not yet.”
Amelia swallowed hard, wrapping her arms around herself. The adrenaline was fading, leaving her cold. Shaken.
“What do we do?” Amelia asked.
Virelle finally looked at her again. For the first time since she appeared, there was something else in her expression.
Focus.
“We make sure,” she said, “that when he does…you’re not the same thing he chased into those woods.”
Moonlight filtered through the thin curtains of Pearline’s bedroom that was heavy with the scent of sweat and the river’s distant humidity. Sammie Moore had been there since dawn, slipped in after Stack dropped him off. Her husband was still gone, a letter came in saying his trip would be extended for at least another week. A full day tangled in sheets and each other, the world outside forgotten. Sammie couldn’t get enough of Pearline, especially not of her pussy—insatiable, drawn to it like a moth to flame. Loving the raw, musky taste that built through the hours, her scent deepening in the same drawers she’d worn since that morning.
Pearline lay back on the bed, her deep brown skin sheened with sweat, legs parted wide as she watched Sammie with those expressive eyes, a mix of command and surrender in her gaze. She was still in her lilac-colored robe, hiked up around her waist, the cotton drawers tugged aside just enough. She was in no rush to change; she let the day’s wear cling to her, knowing it drove him wild.
“Come here, boy,” Pearline said with a sultry tone, voice floating like she was singing to him.
She patted the mattress between her thighs. Her fingers trailed down her belly, parting the damp fabric, revealing dark curls matted with her arousal, her pussy lips swollen and slick from his earlier attentions.
Sammie crawled forward on his knees, his lean body buzzing with lust, eyes locked on her like she was salvation and sin wrapped in one. At twenty, he was all eagerness and learning, the Preacher’s son unraveling thread by thread. Guilt flickered in his chest—what would Pop say?—but it drowned under the pull of her, the way she opened for him, trusted him with this scared mess from her honey pot. Sammie settled between her knees, hands gripping her thighs, spreading them wider as he leaned in, the bridge of his nose brushing the damp crotch of her drawers first, inhaling deep. That taste…that smell—earthy, tangy, built up from her sitting through the Delta heat—it hit him hard, his dick twitching in his trousers, hard like locomotive steel.
Sammie hooked his fingers into the waistband, pulling the drawers down her legs slow, letting them bunch at her ankles before tossing them aside. Pearline’s pussy was right there, exposed, glistening folds parted slightly, court peeking out swollen and begging. Sammie dove in without a word, mouth latching into her, tongue flat and broad as he licked from her creamy entrance up to her clit in one long, hungry stroke. She tasted like everything he craved—salty-sweet, her juices coating his tongue, the day’s essence making it richer, more forbidden. He imagined what she must taste like after working the fields. Or after a performance at Messenger’s.
Pearline’s hand found his hair, nails tugging on coarse hair, guiding him, “Right there,” she instructed, voice husky, hips lifting to press her pussy against his face. “Stay on that spot…my clit, baby. Don’t wander.”
Sammie obeyed, lips sealing around the nub, sucking gently like she was a pair of lips he was kissing tender. His tongue circled, then he flicked the tip against her clit before flattening to lap in lazy swipes. Pearline moaned softly, thighs trembling around his ears, the sound validating him, making his chest swell with pride even as attachment knotted deeper.
“Go slow with the tongue,” Pearline breathed, her free hand cupping her breast, pinching the nipple through the fabric of her ribe as she watched him work. “Like you savorin’ it. Yeah…just like that.”
Sammie was a good learner, always had been—earnest, attentive, hanging on her every word like his father’s sermons. He eased his pace, tongue dragging languid across her clit, then dipping lower to thrust inside her pussy, fucking her with it shallow before returning to suckle the sensitive peak. Her arousal flooded his mouth, dripping down his chin, and he groaned against her, the vibration making her buck.
Pearline was wetter now, pussy clenching around nothing as he ate her out, his hands kneading her ass, pulling her closer.
“Suck on it soft,” she directed, voice edging toward a gasp, “like kissing lips…gentle, but firm. Don’t stop.”
Sammie followed, mouth working with precision, alternating sucks and slow licks, his nose buried in her coils, breathing her in. The secrecy of it all added urgency, her husband’s shadow making every lap feel stolen; temporary. For her, this was breathing, being touched with intention, wanted as a woman alive. For him, it was manhood, unfolding, losing pieces of innocence to her taste, her instructions, willingly stepping into the danger.
Pearline’s breaths came quicker, her hips rolling against his face.
“Deeper now…put that tongue back inside, then back up.”
Sammie complied, plunging his tongue into her hole, tasting the depths, lapping at her walls before sliding up to circle her clit again. Pearline was close, body tensing, and he doubled down, sucking harder on the command in her eyes, fingers slipping to part her folds wider for better access. Her climax hit sudden—pussy pulsing, juices gushing as she cried out. Her thighs clamped his head, riding his mouth through the waves.
Sammie didn’t pull away, he licked her clean and savored the aftershocks. When she finally relaxed, hand stroking his cheek, she looked down at him with those beautiful eyes full of release and something deeper.
“Good boy,” she whispered, pulling him up for a kiss, tasting herself on his lips.
Sammie eased up from between Pearline’s thighs, his lips shiny with her juices, chin slick. He knelt there, lean frame taunt with arousal so intense he felt like he would explode just from the taste of her on his tongue. He stared down at her, his eyes wide and earnest, Preacher Boy turned devourer. Pearline lay sprawled on the rumpled bed, her lilac satin robe fallen open like a spilled petal, the smooth fabric clinging to her curves where sweat beaded on her deep brown skin. She’s dabbed on jasmine oil that morning, the sweet, heady floral scent blooming warm from her neck and wrists now mingling with the musk of her arousal.
Her wild curls fanned out on the pillow, dark and untamed, framing her face like a halo of midnight. Her eyes are glossy from her climax that still rippled through her, half-lidded and sated. She gazed up at Sammie with a lazy smile, chest rising steady, one hand idly tracing the edge of her robe where it gaped over her breast.
Sammie wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. That taste lingered on his tongue, tangy and addictive, pulling him back like a river current. He needed more of her pussy, more of that forbidden feast that Stack had talked vulgar about during drives to Club Juke, lessons passed like contraband.
“Stack…he told me ‘bout findin’ that button down there.” Sammie said, voice rough, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand but not quite breaking the stare. “Said to savor it like an ice cream cone. Slow licks, make it last. And keep givin’ the woman what she deserves. A good lickin’, and a happy endin.’”
Pearline let out a soft giggle, the sound bubbling up warm and surprised, her full lips curving as she propped on her elbows.
“Oh, that cousin of yours…Stack got a way wit’ words. Teachin’ you right, ain’t he?”
Her voice carried that southern lilt, smooth as molasses, eyes sparkling with amusement and the afterglow of a woman wielding pussy power. Validation that made her feel seen, wanted beyond the drudgery of her days.
Before she could say more, Sammie moved quick, surprising her with that surge. His hands gripped her knees, pinning them up to her chest, folding her open wide. Pearline’s, hairy pussy was exposed in full, lips pulled apart, clit peeking like a ripe berry, hole leaking. She gasped, a mix of shock and delight, her body surrendering under his touch.
“Sammie—”
He was diving back in, face burying between her thighs, but not with frantic laps, no, he started with just kisses—lips pressing tender to her wet curls that shielded her outer lips, then inner, like he was greeting a lover’s mouth. Peck after peck. Pearline moaned, almost as if she was serenading him. Her hands flew to his head, fingers tangled in his thick hair.
“Ooh, Sammie…mmm, baby…”
Each kiss sent sparks up her spine, her hips twitching despite the pinned position. Sammie kissed directly over her entrance next, lips sealing, tasting the fresh trickle of her arousal without a tongue in sight, just the pressure of his lips.
“Your cousin taught you well,” Pearline breathed, voice hitching as his lips brushed her clit in a feather-light kiss, making her arch. “You may be a young man, fresh as spring rain, but lawd, you sure know how to use them lips. Pleasin’ a woman like me…don’t stop, baby. Keep kissin’ it just like that.”
Pearline’s moans grew deeper, drawn-out sighs and low hums with vocal slides like she was making love with her mouth to a microphone. She called his name in that husky drawl—“Sammie, oh Sammie”—legs trembling against his hold.
He kept at it, kissing every inch, devoted, drawing out her whimpers until her body quivered again, on the brink. His lips mapped her pussy with a steady overflow of kisses that grew firmer, more insistent, each one pressing deeper. Her outer lips, that rich, deep mahogany hue blending into the warm brown of her thighs, began to swell under the attention, plumping pull and heavy. Her inner lips peeked out more like wings, flushed a deeper coral, slick and parting just enough to reveal the tender pinkish core beneath, all of it framed by the coarse, dark curls at the top that were matted now with her growing wetness. With those kisses alone, Pearline started leaking—clear strands of her arousal seeping from her entrance, coating his lips and chin.
Her clit throbbed into view, swelling to a firm pearl, hooded and begging without words as it pulsed under his gentle presses. Pearline’s breath came quicker, her wide eyes fluttering, that sated glow from before reigniting into something fiercer.
“Mmm, that’s it, baby…keep kissin’ me there,” she whispered, guiding him like a patient teacher in a one-room schoolhouse. “Right on them lips…feel how I’m openin’ for you? Lawd, your mouth’s got me all stirred up.”
Sammie patted his lips wider, drawing her inner lips and clit into his mouth, slick petals yielding to the pull, making her hips jerk once. Pearline gasped sharp, a whimper threading through it, her hand sliding from his curls to hook firm on the back of his neck, nails digging just enough to urge him on.
“Suck it like that, Sammie—oh, honey, yes. Get that clit, pull ‘em in your mouth. Ain’t nobody ever…mmmph.” Her words broke into a moan, low and rolling like thunder over the fields.
His energy poured out relentless, that Preacher Boy devotion twisted into something raw and worshipful—eyes closed tight, shoulders hunched as he worked her pussy with single-minded fire, like he was atoning for every forbidden thought in one endless act. No hesitation, just pure, astounding need to draw every sound from her, to make her body sing under his touch. Pearline’s instructions kept coming, husky and fragmented between gasps.
“Suck that wet part, make it pop. Yeah, kiss like…oh, lawd, you doin’ it right.”
Pearline’s levitated her hips then, lifting clean off the bed, her knees still pinned but her core thrusted up, shoving her pussy hard into his face—feeding him every swollen, creamy, gushy inch, grinding against his sucking mouth with a sensual Dan e born of pure want.
Sammie met her halfway, his large hands sliding under to cup her ass, firm cheeks filling his palms, the skin there smooth and sweat-slick. He squeezed, pulled her closer, pushing more pussy onto his lips, burying his face deeper until his nose brushed her curls. Sammie zeroed in, tongue joining the suck, lapping flat and broad over her clit before sealing his lips around it, sucking steady while his tongue swirled the tip. Then down to her inner lips, his tongue flicking between the petals, flattening at her entrance, lips puckering to suck whatever creamy goodness resided on her slick walls. The wet sound of his mouth was ridiculous, mingling with the distant call of a mockingbird outside.
Pearline twitched hard, her body a live wire, thighs quivering against his hold, belly tightening as waves built fierce. Moans spilled free, turning to whimpers that pitched higher, gasps ripping from her throat with every suck on her clit.
“Sammie…oh, baby, it feels so good—don’t you stop, keep suckin’ that…mmm, right there.”
Her hips bucked wilder, shoving pussy into him, the pressure of his hands on her ass only fueling the grind, jasmine-scented sweat beading fresh on her skin, robe twisted forgotten beneath her. The build was too much, too fast—her words tangled, unable to form the warning, just choked.
“I-OH!!!”
It crashed over her. Her climax hit like a Delta Storm, pussy cat clenching and flooding his mouth with a fresh gush, clit pulsing under his relentless sucks and licks. Pearline arched rigid, a long, keening moan tearing out—“PREACHER BOY!!”—body shaking as spasms rippled through her core, whole pussy contracting against his tongue. Sammie didn’t pull back right away, eating her through it all, sucking softer, licking that clit I’m slow circles to draw out every aftershock, swallowing her release with that same devoted hunger, hands kneading her ass to hold her in place. Pearline collapsed back, spent and trembling.
Sammie eased off her then, his lips trailing wet kisses down the inside of her thighs, those smooth, deep brown curves quivering from the aftershocks. He peppered them gentle, savoring the salty tang of her skin mixed with the perfume oil that clung to her like summer vine, working his way lower until her legs relaxed fully, splaying open on the rumpled sheets. Pearline floated in that orgasmic haze, chest rising and falling in lazy waves, her wild curls fanned out like a dark halo, eyes half-lidded with a bliss that softened her whole frame. She was glowing and loose.
Sammie rolled over onto his back, laying flat beside her, a content smile curving on his moist lips—wide and boyish, cheekbones prominent, the sheen of her pussy juice and cum smeared across his chin and mouth, glistening like dew on his skin. Pearline turned her head, gaze drifting down, and there it was: his dick straining hard against the front of his trousers, the fabric tented thick. A dark spot bloomed where pre-cum had leaked through. Pearline hadn’t touched it yet, hadn’t even glanced during their frenzy, but now it throbbed obvious, begging for attention.
Pearline pushed up on one elbow, her satin robe slipping further off her shoulder, and reached over, placing her palm flat against that rigid length. She stroked slow at first, graceful fingers tracing the outline through the rough wool, feeling the heat pulse under her touch, the way it jumped eager against her hand. Sammie looked up at her, those expressive eyes wide with a mix of awe and hesitation
His voice came out rough and tender. “You ain’t gotta do nothin’ you don’t want, Pearline. I can keep eatin’ your pussy all night if that’s what you need. I’d be satisfied with that—more than.”
Pearline laughed soft, a warm throaty sound that rolled like river mist, her hand keeping that steady stroke on his bulge, squeezing just enough to make him hiss.
“Well, what if u wanna know what Preacher Boy Sammie got tucked away in his pants? Been wonderin’ since you walked in here with that shy smile.”
Sammie swallowed hard, glancing down at her fingers working him, then back up to her face. “You sure? I mean…”
“I’m sure, baby,” Pearline purred, leaning closer, her seductive eyes locking on his with that confidence she carried like she was captivating an audience. “I want to. And you deserve it for bein’ such a good guest…eatin’ my pussy like no man ever has, drawin’ it outta me ‘til I couldn’t see straight.”
Sammie tilted his head, curiosity flickering through the haze. “Your husband never ate you up like that?”
Pearline scoffed, a sharp little sound, her strokes turning firmer, thumb circling the tip through the cloth where it wept for her. “No, honey. I married a man that can’t keep it up half the time and sure as hell can’t please a woman like myself. Leaves me high and dry, every night the same old nothin’.” She massaged his hardened dick then, palm pressing full along the length, feeling it throb thick and hot. She worked from base to head in unhurried pulls. “I wanna show you why they used to call me Pretty Mouth Pearline,” she added, voice dropping low and teasing, that southern lilt wrapped around the words like a bawdy blues tune.
Sammie’s breath caught, but he nodded, stunned silent as she sat up fully, her free hand moving to his belt buckle. She worked it open, with practiced ease, the metal clinking, then she tugged it free, looping it aside. Her fingers dipped to the button next, popping it with a flick, zipper rasping down, each tooth parting. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and underwear both, peeling them down his lean hips, the fabric catching brief on his stiff dick, skin a warm brown flushed darker at the head, semi-thick shaft curved downward, the tip slick with pre-cum beading clear and ready. So much pre cum.
Pearline let her eyes roam it appreciative, her hand wrapping around the base, fingertips meeting, stroking once from root to crown, drawing a low groan from him. Then, she leaned in, cupping his jaw with her other hand, and kissed him deep, lips pressing firm against his, tongue slipping past to taste herself on him, and that tangy mess of her release smeared between them. Sammie froze for a beat, stunned that she’d kiss him like this with his pecker in her hand, messy and unashamed, her flavor sharp on his tongue as she licked into his mouth.
Sammie lay there rigid, his gaze locked on Pearline’s hand wrapped around his pecker, those slender fingers gliding with a twist of her wrist like she was churning butter. Speechless didn’t cover it, he cousins form a single word, throat tight as a drum. Jedadiah had run a tight ship back home, no room for anything but scripture and chores, and he’d never even lingered too long with the choir girls after service. Now here he was, stretched out on her bed with her fist working him steady, the heat of her palm sending parks straight up his spine. Sammie flicked his eyes from her face—those knowing eyes watching him close—to the sight of his dick, twitching in her grip, leaking so much pre-cum it stunned him.
Pearline’s thumb brushed over the slick tip each time she reached the crown. She leaned in without a word, her tongue flicking out to lap away the bead of pre-cum gathered there, tasting him clean in one slow drag. Sammie’s whole body jerked, a choked sound catching in his chest as he fought hard not to spill right then, muscles locking tight while pleasure roared up from his balls. The kiss from before still lingered on his lips, but this new touch had him shaking, every nerve lit up under her strokes.
Pearline eased her grip just enough to catch his eye. “Can I suck you, Sammie?”
His chest heaved, the answer bursting out desperate and shaky. “Yes…but I–I don’t wanna cum fast.”
Pearline gave a small nod, calm as ever. “It’s alright if you do. Just relax.”
She settled down between his legs while he watched, eyes wide with nerves. Her palms slid under his balls, cupping them firm to hold his dick straight as the floorboards under the bed. Then, her lips found him, pressing slow kisses all along the length, warm and unhurried. Sammie’s mouth fell open, fresh beat of slick welling up at the tip and trailing down as he leaked steady under her touch.
Pearline didn’t waste another second. She opened her mouth wide and swept her tongue upward, licking him from the base to the crown in one long, slow stroke, just like she was tasting a sweet popsicle on a July afternoon. The warmth of her mouth was a shock to his system, and as she repeated the motion, the tip of his dick leaked a heavy bead of pre-cum that she licked clean with a hungry flick.
She could feel him trembling, his balls tightening and pulling up close to his body as the pleasure spiked. Pearline paused for a heartbeat, looking up at him with those dark, knowing eyes, her voice a sultry drawl.
“You like that, Sammie? Feel good, baby?” She let out a soft, teasing hum, her tongue swirling around the head of his pecker. “Preacher Boy love this tongue on his dick? Love how I’m tastin’ you?”
Sammie’s head hit the mattress, his fingers digging into the sheets. He felt like he was floating and drowning all at once.
“God…you ain’t real…” he gasped, his voice breaking. “Holy shit, Pearline…”
Pearline stopped for a moment, a playful, wicked smile touching her lips. She reached down, her fingers gently massaging his tight balls, rolling them between her palms while her tongue gave the underside of his shaft a sharp, wet lick.
“Ain’t no God in here, baby.” She whispered, her breath hot against his skin. “Just you and me. Just this right here.”
Before he could even process the words, Pearline lunged forward. She opened her throat and took him in, sliding her mouth over him in one fluid motion. She didn’t stop at the head; she pushed deeper and deeper, swallowing him whole until the base of his dick was pressed hard against her lips.
Sammie let out a choked sound, his entire body stiffening. He was stuck, buried deep in the wet, right heat of her throat. The suction was intense, a vacuum that seemed to pull the very soul out of him. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, just lay there pinned by her mouth, feeling the squeeze of her throat muscles gripping his pecker like a vice. He was completely at her mercy, wet, muffled sounds of her taking every inch of him filling the room.
Pearline glides her lips off of him with agonizing slowness, the wet suction making a soft popping sound as she finally released him. She kept her eyes locked on his the entire time—dark, hooded, and brimming with a playful sort of power.
Sammie was a complete wreck. He lay there panting, his chest having, his pecker throbbing and glistening with her spit. He felt stunned, his mind racing to comprehend how she had managed to take every single inch of him down her throat in one fluid motion without even gagging. You see, them Moore men are well endowed. Packing more meat than a butcher. Sammie always struggled with where to put it all, Stack cracking jokes about it.
“See, that’s why all the Moore men walk slow. Safety reasons.”
Sammie frowned. “That true?”
Stack grinned. “That’s what I tell the tailor every time he send me a bill.”
“How…how you do that?” Sammie rasped, his voice sounding thin and strained. He looked at her, genuine bewilderment in his eyes. “Pearline…I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that. You…you use one of Annie’s spells?”
Pearline quirked a brow, a small, amused smile playing on her lips. She let out a low melodic giggle that vibrated in the room. “Annie’s spells?” She asked, her voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm. “You think Annie got spells that help a woman suck some wood?”
Sammie’s mind flashed back to a few days prior. He remembered skipping rocks in the pond near Annie’s shack and overhead Stack talking in a low, gravelly tone to Amelia. He recalled Stack mentioning that Annie sold a special mix—some kind of root powder—that helped women provide their men with a “throat service” that would make a man forget his own name.
“I heard Stack,” Sammie admitted, his voice earnest. “He was talkin’ to Amelia over at the shack. He said Annie sells a mix…somethin’ to make the throat open up, to make it feel different.”
Pearline’s expression softened into something wicked. She reached up, her fingers grazing the head of his pecker, swirling the pre-cum around the tip. She looked up at him, her eyes flashing with a pride that was entirely carnal.
“No, baby,” she whispered, “I don’t need no conjure to suck some dick. This here is all natural. Just a woman who knows exactly how to handle a man.”
Before Sammie could utter another word, Pearline lunged. She didn’t tease him this time; she opened her mouth wide and drove forward, swallowing him whole once again. The sensation was instantaneous and overwhelming. He felt his shaft slide past her lips, past her tongue, and deep into the tight, wet heat of her throat.
She took him all the way back, burying him deep until her face was pressed against his pubic bone. Sammie let out a muffled cry, his hips jerking upward instinctively. He was trapped again, pinned by the incredible suction of her throat, feeling the pulsing squeeze of her muscles propping him tight. Sammie lay there paralyzed by pleasure, realizing that no spell in the Delta could compare to the raw, natural hunger of Pearline’s mouth.
Pearline didn’t give him a second to recover. She locked her eyes onto his once more, a predatory glint in her gaze, and then she dove back down. This time, she kept her hands pressed flat against the mattress on either side of his hips, refusing to use them to guide him. She wanted him to feel the raw, unassisted power of her mouth.
She clamped her lips tight around the head of his pecker and began to suck with a fierce pull. From the very top to base, Pearline was literally eating him, her cheeks hollowing out as she created a vacuum that felt like it was trying to pull the soul right out of his body. There was no hesitation, no tentative teasing, just passionate, hungry consumption.
Sammie was completely shook. He lay there, his lean frame twitching against the sheets, his toes curling as the sheer force of her suction scent electric shocks straight to his spine. He wasn’t just moaning; he was letting out low, guttural groans that sounded more like prayers than pleas.
He looked down at her, his expression one of total defeat. He stared at the top of her head, the wild curls of her hair bouncing with every deep, wet slide of her throat, and he felt a sense of awe that bordered on terror. To him, Pearline didn’t seem like a woman from the Delta anymore; she looked like some otherworldly creature, a siren who had lured him into a trap he had no desire to escape.
He watched, mesmerized and breathless, as his dick disappeared completely into her mouth over and over again. The sight of his own shaft vanishing into the dark, wet tightness of her throat, combined with the wet, slapping of her lips hitting his pubic bone, broke whatever was left of his resolve.
Pearline could feel him shaking, could hear the way his breath hitched in ragged gasps, and it only fueled her passion. She increased the pace, her tongue swirling around the rim of his head before she plunged back down, swallowing him whole with a greedy, desperate hunger. She was claiming him, marking him with every wet side, proving to the Preacher Boy that no sermon or scripture could ever compete with the visceral pleasure of her mouth.
Sammie’s body couldn’t take the passivity anymore. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of her throat clamping down on him triggered something primal, something that drowned out the voice of his father and the echoes of the pulpit. He stopped shaking and started moving. He gripped the sheets tight with one hand and reached down with the other to steady himself as he began to thrust. He started slow, pushing his pecker deep into her wet mouth, grinding his hips against her face. He wasn’t just receiving pleasure now, he was taking it, driving himself into her mouth, causing the mattress to creak beneath them.
Pearline’s eyes widened, looking up at him from under those wild curls. She hadn’t expected the Preacher Boy to find his rhythm so quickly, but she didn’t fight him, her tongue swirling around the head of his dick as he slid on and out. She let him set the pace, her cheeks sunkened as she sucked him past her uvula with every thrust, her eyes locked on his watching the transformation on his face. No.
Then, the sound came. A sound Pearline had never heard from the quiet, earnest boy who played his guitar in the shade.
“Yeah…just like that,” Sammie groaned, his voice dropping an octave, turning raw and gravelly. “Suck it, Pearline. Eat it all…you like that, don’t you? You like havin’ the Preacher’s boy deep in your throat?”
Pearline froze for a split second, a jolt of pure electricity shooting through her. The contrast was intoxicating—5$3 boy who looked like an angel talking like a singer. Hearing him claim her, hearing that filth spill from his lips in that thick Delta drawl, sent a surge of heat straight to her pussy. It fueled a hunger in her that was almost violent.
Pearline didn’t just let him thrust, she started meeting him. She used her tongue to tease the underside of his pecker, sucking the head with a ferocious, intensity every time he bottomed out in her throat. She wanted him to feel exactly how much his words were affecting her. She wanted to drain him dry.
“That’s it, baby,” Pearline thought, though she couldn’t speak with his dick filling her mouth. She started to moan around him, the vibrations from her hums Sammie could feel deep in his balls. She increased the suction, her lips tight and wet, swirling and pulling, determined to brings him back to the edge.
Sammie was losing it. The combination of her expert mouth and the thrill of his own dirty talk had him seeing stars. He thrust harder, his hips snapping forward, breath coming out ragged.
“I’m gon’…I’m gon’ fill you up, Pearline,” Sammie hissed, his voice shaking with the effort of not clomaxing instantly. “I’m gon’ cum right down your throat—you take it all off me. Every drop.”
The challenge in his voice was the final trigger. Pearline dove in with everything she had, her throat working like a pump, her tongue flicking frantically against his frenulum. She was eating him with a desperate, greedy passion, her eyes hungry and dazed, demanding that he give her everything he had. She wanted it right there in the back of her throat.
Sammie’s body snapped like a dry branch in a storm. He felt the surge start deep in his gut, a violent, electric blaze that rushed downward, bypassing every thought of sin or salvation. He let out a strangled, guttural cry, his back arching off the mattress as the first wave of climax hit him with a force that nearly blinded him.
Sammie didn’t just cum; he erupted.
It was the hardest he had ever experienced—a visceral, pulsing explosion that made his hand-jobs feel like a distant, pale memory. The tightness and skill of Pearline’s mouth, the way she clamped down on him and refused to let go, turned the pleasure into something almost agonizingly sharp. He felt his pecker throb violently inside her, shooting thick, hot ropes of cum deep into the back of her throat.
“Oh God…Pearline! Pearline!” He gasped, his voice breaking, his fingers digging into the sheets until the fabric groaned.
Pearline didn’t flinch or pull back to let him breathe or give him a moment of reprieve. She sounded down, gripping the base of his length with her hand, squeezing tight while her mouth became a seal, sucking with a hungry slurp of her lips to draw every single drop out of him. She swallowed hard, her throat working in powerful gulps, taking his hot seed as it flooded her mouth.
His entire frame trembled with the aftershocks. Sammie felt drained, hollowed out, and completely conquered. Every pulse of his pecker sent another spurt of cum into her, and Pearline met each one with a determined suction. Her eyes locked on his, watching him unravel. She wanted him to feel the full weight of his surrender; she wanted him to know that in this room, under her touch, the Preacher’s boy was nothing more than a man driven by raw, animal need.
As the final tremors subsided, Sammie collapsed back into the pillows, his chest heaving, his breath coming in ragged sons of relief. He was floating, his mind a blank slate of white noise and pleasure.
Pearline finally pulled away with a slow, wet pop. A thin string of saliva and cum connected her lip to the head of his glistening pecker. She didn’t wipe her mouth, instead she licked her lips, tasting the salt and heat of him, a triumphant, knowing smile playing on her face.
Pearline looked down at him—spent, utterly defeated—and let out a soft, humming laugh that vibrated in the humid air of the room.
“Now, tell me, Preacher Boy,” she licked her lips, her voice a sultry, velvet caress. “Does your daddy’s book got a chapter on a feeling like that?”
Sammie’s hands shot up and caught Pearline by the waist before she could finish that teasing question. With a sudden yank, he dragged her down onto the mattress, rolling so he was straddling her hips, his spent pecker twitching back to life against the soft satin of her robe.
“No,” he panted, voice still hoarse from the way she’d just wrung him dry, “the book don’t got a chapter for that feelin’.” He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear. “But if it did, I reckon it’d call it damnation…and I’d read it every night.”
Pearline let out a bright, surprised laugh that shook her whole body beneath him.
He kissed her hard, open-mouthed, tasting himself on her tongue as his hips rolled forward. His pecker, slick and semi-hard again, dragged along the warm seam of her pussy through thin fabric, grinding slow and heavy. Pearline moaned into his mouth, her thighs parting wider on instinct, and he pressed down firmer, letting her feel every inch of him sliding against her swollen lips. Sammie’s hands roamed under her robe, thumbs brushing her nipples, nudging his pecker insistently at her pussy lips.
Then came a knock.
Three firm raps against the front door.
They both froze. Sammie’s mouth hovered over hers, breath ragged. His mind raced starved straight to Stack—maybe his cousin had come early to drag him back to Jedadiah or help him finalize things at Club Juke or whatever trouble the twins cooked up. Pearline’sceyes flocked toward the bedroom door, wide and suddenly alert. Pearline sat up quick, sliding out from under him. She tugged her robe tight around her body, knotting the belt with shaky fingers. A flicker of panic crossed her face, the last thing she needed was some nosy fucking neighbor checking in while her husband was gone.
“Stay put,” she whispered, voice firm, “I ain’t finished with you yet, Preacher Boy.”
She gave him one last heated look, then slipped out of the bedroom, leaving Sammie alone on the rumpled sheets, pecker hard and aching, heart hammering as he listened for voices at the door.
Her feet padded across the worn hardwood as she made her way through the small house.
Something about the knock sat wrong with her.
By the time she reached the front door, concern had begun curling in her stomach. She unlocked it and pulled it open.
The sight before her made her heart sink.
“Lord have mercy!”
Amelia stood on the porch. Her curls were tangled and damp. Dirt streaked the hem of her dress. Her cheeks were blotchy from crying, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed. She looked exhausted. Like she’d been running. Like she’d been running for a long time.
“Amelia?”
Pearline immediately stepped forward.
“What happened, baby?”
Amelia opened her mouth. Nothing came out.
Pearline’s worry deepened. Then, she noticed the woman standing beside her. The stranger was unlike anyone she’d ever seen.
Tall.
Elegant.
Still.
Her skin held a pale gold-brown hue that seemed untouched by the world around her. Long dark hair fell in heavy waves down her back, nearly reaching her waist, catching the moonlight in subtle ribbons of silver. Her features were striking enough to make a person stare twice—high cheekbones, straight nose, full mouth.
But it was her eyes that unsettled Pearline.
They were Ancient. Sharp and watchful. The eyes of somebody who spent a very long time studying the world and found little left capable of surprising her. She wore dark clothing fitted close to her fame—a long coat draped over narrow shoulders despite the warmth of the Mississippi night. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on her. As if she hadn’t traveled at all but simply appeared.
Pearline felt the hairs on her arms rise.
The woman said nothing. Simply watched.
Waiting.
Amelia finally found her voice. It came out small and broken.
“P–Pearline…”
The sound alone was enough.
Pearline’s exhaled. “Oh, honey.”
Amelia lowered her head. Tears gathered again.
Pearline reached out instinctively, touching her shoulder.
“What the hell happened?”
Amelia swallowed, then looked over her shoulder toward the darkness beyond the porch, then back at Pearline.
“Can we come in?”
Pearline didn’t hesitate.
“Of course you can.”
She stepped aside immediately. The screen door creaked open wider.
Amelia entered first, and the strange woman followed after her, silent as a shadow.
Pearline closed the door behind them.
It started in a bayou. A bayou that extended wide beneath a pale afternoon sky, its dark water and cypress trunks rose from the earth like old sentinels. Spanish moss hung from the branches overhead, stirring lazily whenever a breeze managed to find its way through the trees. Dragonflies skimmed in the distance, frogs croaked from the reeds, and birds called to one another from hidden perches deep within the swamp.
Six-year-old Elias Moore sat alone on a flat stone near the water’s edge, his bare feet dusty from a day spent wandering farther than his father would have approved of. His overalls were stained at the knees. A thin stick rested on his hands as he scraped absent-minded patterns into the damp earth. Every few moments he glanced across the water, though he wasn’t looking at anything in particular. His thoughts had drifted elsewhere.
Somewhere ahead, Elijah was running through the trees. Stack could hear him now and again. A laugh. A shout. The crack of a branch underfoot. His twin sounded carefree. Untouched by the ache that had settled inside Elias’ chest.
Their mama had been gone a long time.
He never got to hear her voice. Never got to hug her. Eat her cooking. Sit in her lap under the stars after a hard day in the fields. That frightened him more than he liked to admit. And yet, his daddy blamed him for her passing. Beat him so bad with his belt it left him raw on the ass for days. And Elijah would comfort him. Elias feared that the beatings would get worse. And that Elijah would get darker.
Elias lowered his gaze to the muddy ground and swallowed against the lump forming in his throat. The loneliness came in waves. Sometimes it caught him by surprise. Sometimes it sat beside him all day. Today it had followed him all the way to the bayou.
A flash of movement across the water pulled his attention upward.
At first, he thought it was a bird.
Then, he thought it might be sunlight slipping between the trees.
But when he blinked, he realized it was a woman.
She stood beneath a cluster of cypress trees on the opposite bank. For a moment, Elias simply stared. He couldn’t have explained why. Nothing about her seemed frightening. Strange, maybe. Unexpected. Yet there was something about her presence that rooted him to the spot.
The woman moved through the trees with an easy grace. Her long, dark hair flowed down her back, catching bits of sunlight where it touched her. Her skin carried a warm, golden-brown glow that reminded him of river stones after a summer rain. She seemed completely at ease, as though the bayou belonged to her.
Elias frowned slightly.
He hadn’t heard anyone approach.
Hadn’t heard a horse.
One moment she wasn’t there. The next she was.
The woman turned slowly, and her eyes found him immediately.
A smile spread across her face.
The sadness in Elias’ chest eased without warning.
It wasn’t magic. At least, not in any way he understood. It simply felt like stepping into sunlight after standing in the shade too long. Warmth spread through him. The hurt he’d been carrying all afternoon loosened its grip.
She raised one hand and waved.
Elias looked behind himself instinctively, half expecting someone else to be there.
There wasn’t.
The wave was for him.
Tentatively, he waved back.
The woman’s smile widened.
She began moving closer to the water. Calm. Every step seemed measured, as though she already knew exactly where she was going. The closer she came, the more clearly Elias could see her face.
She was beautiful.
Not in the way church ladies described beauty.
Not in the way grown folks talked about pretty women.
She looked like something from an old story. Like she’d stepped out of one of the folktales whispered on front porches after dark.
When she reached the water’s edge, she stopped and looked at him for a long moment. There was kindness in her eyes. Kindness and something else he couldn’t name.
Then, she spoke.
“Everything’s gon’ be alright, baby boy.”
Her voice carried across the water with surprising ease.
Elias felt those words settle somewhere deep inside him.
He didn’t know why he believed her.
He just did.
The woman continued smiling, and for the first time, in a very long time, the ache of losing his mother didn’t feel quite so heavy.
He found himself smiling back.
The woman studied him quietly. There was affection in her gaze now. Pride, even. As though she were looking at someone she had known for years instead of a little boy she’d never met before.
Stack tilted his head. “How you know?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
The woman laughed softly. The sound reminded him of water moving over smooth stones.
“Know what, baby?”
“That everythin’ gon’ be alright.”
Her smile softened.
“Because it will.”
Stack considered that answer carefully and decided it wasn’t much of an answer at all. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but the woman was already looking beyond him, toward something far away.
Toward something he couldn’t see.
When her gaze returned to him, there was a sadness in it now. A tenderness that made his young heart ache for reasons he couldn’t understand.
For a moment, he thought she might say something else.
Thought she might tell him who she was.
Instead, she simply smiled once more.
Then, the sunlight shifted across the water.
A breeze stirred the moss overhead.
And when Elias blinked, the woman was gone.
For years, that was how Stack remembered it.
The woman appeared. She smiled. She told him everything would be alright.
Then, she vanished.
The memory had lived inside him untouched for so long that he questioned it. Never examined it too closely. It remained preserved exactly as he’d experienced it, tucked away in a quiet corner of his mind where grief and wonder shared the same space. Yet now, standing beside the bayou once more, something felt different.
The water no longer moved.
The dragonflies were gone.
Even the breeze had disappeared.
The world had become unnaturally still.
Young Stack frowned.
The woman remained at the water’s edge. Except she wasn’t fading this time. She wasn’t leaving.
Instead, she took a step forward.
Then another.
And another.
The distance between them began shrinking. A strange feeling settled in Stack’s stomach. And it wasn’t fear, it was recognition.
The closer she came, the more details emerged. The curve of her smile. The shape of her eyes. The softness of her cheeks. Features he should have recognized before but somehow never had.
The woman stopped directly in front of him. Close enough that another face began to appear beneath it. Not replacing hers. Blending with it. Like two reflections meeting on the surface of water. Dark eyes. Long hair. A familiar smile.
Amelia.
The realization drifted through the dream slowly.
The woman and Amelia.
Amelia and the woman.
Something connected them. Something important. Stack’s young brow furrowed in confusion.
The woman lowered herself to one knee before him. The sadness in her eyes seemed deeper now.
Older.
Like she carried knowledge too heavy for a child to understand.
“You got a good heart,” she told him softly.
Stack shifted on his feet where he stood. He wasn’t sure what to do with that.
The woman smiled.
Then, she reached out and rested her hand against his cheek.
Warm. Gentle. Real.
The touch filled him with the same peace he’d felt all those years ago.
Only now there was something else beneath it.
Urgency.
The feeling that she was trying to tell him something before time ran out.
The golden glow around her brightened. The trees blurred at the edges. The water shimmered. Everything around them seemed to bend and stretch.
Stack opened his mouth.
“Who are you?”
The woman looked at him for a long moment. Then, she smiled. A sad smile. The kind grown folks wore when they already knew how a story ended.
“You’ll know one day.”
The answer frustrated him.
Before he could ask another question, her hand squeezed his cheek gently.
Then she spoke again. This time her voice sounded far away. As though it was coming from years ahead instead of a bayou.
“Take care of my girl.”
Stack blinked.
The words didn’t make sense.
“My what?”
The woman only smiled.
The glow surrounding her intensified until it washed across the water, the trees, the sky itself. Everything became gold. Everything became light.
And then—
Pain.
A sharp ache exploded through his shoulder.
The bayou shattered.
The light vanished.
Stack jerked awake with a gasp lodged in his throat. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. The dream clung to him stubbornly. He could still see the woman’s face. Still feel her hand against his cheek. Still hear those impossible words echoing inside his head.
Take care of my girl.
His chest rose and fell rapidly as he stared at the ceiling above him. A familiar scent lingered in the room.
Lavender.
Rose water.
Amelia.
Memory crashed into him all at once.
The confrontation. The jars. Smoke shouting. Annie crying. Amelia glowing.
The force of her power slamming into him.
Stack sucked in a breath and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his ribs and shoulder, forcing him to grit his teeth. He pushed himself upright anyway, one hand pressed against his side as he looked around.
Moonlight spilled through the curtains and stretched across the floorboards.
Amelia’s room.
Her dresser sat against the wall. A brush remained where she’d left it. One of her ribbons rested on the counter of the vanity. Her books were pilled in the corner. A dress hung from a peg near the door.
Small pieces of her.
Evidence that she’d been here. Evidence that she wasn’t now.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
She was gone. The dream lingered. The woman’s voice lingered. And for the first time in twenty years, Stsck found himself wondering if that day by the bayou had ever been a memory at all.
When Stack finally stepped out of Amelia’s room, the floorboards creaked beneath his weight as he made his way down the hallway, one hand braced against the wall whenever the ache in his ribs threatened to steal his breath. Every part of him felt sore. His shoulder throbbed. The side of his head pulsed steadily. Even his jaw ached from where he’d hit the floor.
The smell reached him first.
Coffee.
Sage.
Burnt candle wax.
Home.
A warm glow spilled from the kitchen doorway ahead. Stack rounded the corner and found exactly what he’d expected.
Nobody had gone to bed.
Smoke sat at the table with his arms folded across his chest, a half-empty mug resting near his elbow. The hard set of his jaw told Stack he hadn’t moved much since Amelia ran. Annie stood near the counter sorting through bundles of herbs, carefully separating stems from leaves and placing them into small bowls. Broken pieces of glass sat piled nearby, gathered from the wreckage left behind in the shack.
The moment Annie saw him, she abandoned what she was doing.
“There you are.”
She crossed the room immediately.
Before Stack could protest, her hands were already on him. Turning his face. Checking his eyes. Pressing careful fingers against his ribs.
Stack endured it without complaint.
Annie clicked her tongue. “You hurt.”
“I noticed.”
“You lucky you ain’t crack nothin’.”
Smoke let out a grunt. “Hard-headed bastard probably cracked the shelf instead.”
Despite everything, the corner of Annie’s mouth twitched.
Stack managed a weak snort.
Then, the moment passed quickly. Reality settled back over the space.
Annie returned to the counter. Smoke stared into his coffee. Stack lowered himself carefully into a chair.
Silence lingered. Heavy. Uncomfortable.
Smoke finally broke it.
“You still gon’ defend her?”
Stack looked up.
Smoke was already watching him.
Waiting.
Stack rubbed a hand over his face.
“I ain’t defendin’ what happened.”
“Sound like it.”
“It ain’t.”
Smoke leaned back in his chair. “She damn near killed you.”
The words hung there. Sharp. Unavoidable.
Stack’s jaw tightened. “She ain’t mean it.”
“That don’t change what happened.”
“No.”
“Didn’t change what happened to Nathaniel either.”
Silence.
Annie stopped sorting herbs.
Stack looked down at the table.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Annie sighted softly.
“I keep thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’.”
Smoke looked toward her. “So say it, woman.”
Annie sat down across from them. Her hands folded together. “Everythin’ she done got one thing in common.”
Smoke frowned. “What?”
Annie’s gaze drifted toward the dark window above the wash basin. “She lose control.”
Stack lifted his head.
Annie continued. “She lost control with Nathaniel. Lost control tonight. Every story got the same end. Fear. Grief. Anger. Somethin’ pushes her too far and that light takes over.
Smoke’s expression remained hard. “Still got people hurt.”
“I know.” Annie’s voice softened. “I know.”
The sadness there settled over the room. Because they all knew. Nobody had escaped this untouched.
Smoke stared into his mug. Stack stared at the table. Annie stared at neither of them.
Then, Stack finally spoke. “I saw her again.”
Annie looked up first. “Who?”
“The woman.”
Neither Annie nor Smoke said anything.
“The one from the bayou.”
The words pulled their full attention. Stack leaned back carefully and stared at the ceiling for a moment, trying to organize the memory. Trying to make sense of the dream.
“When we was little,” he began, “I told Amelia about somebody I seen near the bayou. That woman.”
Annie nodded slowly.
“I dreamed ‘bout her.”
Smoke leaned in. “Dreamed?”
Stack nodded. “Only this time it wasn’t exactly the same.”
Annie’s brow furrowed. “How?”
Stack hesitated. Then told them. The bayou. The trees. The water. The woman approaching. Her face. Her voice. The way she’d touched his cheek. Every detail.
Annie listened without interrupting. Smoke stayed unusually quiet.
Then, Stack told them the part that had followed him into waking.
“Take care of my girl.”
Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
Annie’s eyes narrowed slightly. Deep in thought.
“What?” Stack asked.
Annie looked at him. “You sure that’s what she said?”
“Yeah.”
“You ain’t never heard her say that before?”
“No.”
Annie leaned back slowly. The gears were turning behind her eyes now.
Stack recognized the look. It was the same look she got when Rootwork revealed something she wasn’t expecting.
“What you thinkin’?”
Annie didn’t answer immediately. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft spoken.
“You described that woman before.”
“So?”
“So I know somebody she sound an awful lot like.”
Stack sat forward. Smoke did too.
Annie looked between them.
“Amelia’s mama.”
Neither brother spoke. The words landed harder than either expected. Stack’s heartbeat picked up.
Smoke frowned. “You think that’s who he saw?”
“I don’t know.” Annie rubbed her hands together slowly. “But I know one thing.”
“What?”
Her gaze shifted to Stack. “The honey jar aint why you saw that woman.”
Smoke’s jaw tightened. “Annie—”
“No, Elijah.” She shook her head. “A sweetenin’ jar don’t make somethin’ from nothin’. It don’t put feelings where there ain’t none. It amplifies. Encourages. Feeds what’s already there.”
Stack held her gaze. Smoke looked away first.
The implications settled heavily between them.
Years before Amelia arrived. Years before the jars. Years before any of this. Stack had seen her mother. Or someone connected to her bloodline. And remembered.
All this time.
Stack exhaled slowly. “I don’t care what that damn jar did.”
Neither Annie nor Smoke interrupted.
“I don’t care what she is neither.” His voice was rough now. Honest. Painfully honest. “I love her anyway.”
The confession lingered in the room. Smoke closed his eyes briefly. Annie lowered her gaze. Neither argued. Neither mocked him. Because they both knew he meant it.
After a long while, Annie pushed her chair back and stood.
“What now?” Smoke asked, lighting a cigarette with a match.
Annie looked toward the dark window. Toward the night beyond it. Toward all the unanswered questions waiting somewhere out there.
“We find her.”
Smoke stared at her. Stack did too.
Whether from anger, grief, love, or some mixture of all three, neither man could tell.
“We find her,” she repeated softly. “And we get the truth.”
The decision settled over the house with a weight that none of them could ignore. The lantern on the table cast a warm glow across their faces, catching the exhaustion that had carved itself into each of them.
Then, Smoke stood.
The chair legs scraped against the floor.
That was all it took.
The room shifted from discussion to action.
Stack pushed himself to his feet more slowly. Pain immediately flared through his ribs, drawing a curse from beneath his breath. He pressed a hand against his side and waited for the worst of it to pass.
Smoke noticed. “You sure you can do this?”
Stack shot him a look. “You askin' or tellin'?”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
Smoke held his gaze for a moment before nodding.
That was the end of it.
The brothers disappeared into different parts of the house.
Annie remained in the kitchen long enough to gather the things she’d already begun setting aside. Her hands moved automatically through years of habit and practice. Small cloth bundles filled with protective herbs. Bottles of oil. Salt wrapped in muslin. Iron nails. Twine. A carved bone charm her grandmother had once carried. Each item found its place inside the leather utility belt resting across the table.
By the time Smoke returned, she was fastening the belt around her waist. A white tank top stretched across his broad chest. Dark trousers sat low on his hips. The leather shoulder holster he wore crossed over his back and chest, hugging muscle and scar alike as he adjusted the straps. His pistol rested securely beneath one arm. A second firearm disappeared into the back of his waistband.
Years of dangerous living had made the process second nature.
He checked each weapon carefully. Then checked them again.
Annie barely looked up.
She knew that ritual.
Smoke had always prepared for trouble the same way.
Quietly. Thoroughly. Without complaint.
Stack emerged from the hallway moments later.
He still looked rough.
The bruise darkening along the side of his face had deepened since waking. Every movement carried a faint stiffness that told Annie he was hurting far more than he admitted. Yet there wasn't a trace of hesitation in him.
He pulled a pistol from the top drawer of a cabinet near the door and tucked it securely into the waistband of his slacks. The motion drew another wince from his ribs.
Smoke noticed that too.
He didn't comment.
No point.
Stack wasn't staying behind. They all knew it.
Annie secured the final pouch on her belt and reached for a lantern resting near the kitchen wall.
That finally got Smoke's attention.
“What you doin'?”
Annie lifted the lantern. “What it look like?”
His expression immediately hardened.
“No.”
She rolled her eyes. “No?”
“No.”
The single word landed firm.
Annie turned toward him fully.
Smoke crossed his arms. “You ain’t comin’.”
A short laugh escaped her. The sound carried absolutely no amusement.
“The hell I’m not.”
“I’m dark.”
“So?”
“We don’t know where she is.”
"We gon’ find out."
Smoke’s jaw tightened. "We don’t know who else out there."
Annie’s expression didn't change. “We never do.”
“Annie.” His voice lowered. More serious now. “The Klan been active these last few weeks. You know that.”
Stack shifted against the wall. He hated agreeing with Smoke, especially lately. But this time he did.
“He right.”
Annie looked at him.
Stack met her gaze. “If she made it far enough out, we ain’t just lookin’ for Amelia.”
Annie remained silent.
Stack continued. We could run into anybody.”
“Then it’s a good thing I know how to handle myself.”
Smoke exhaled sharply. “That ain’t the point.”
“It is the point.”
Annie set the lantern down harder than necessary.
The glass rattled.
“You think I’m sittin’ in this house while that girl out there alone?”
Neither man answered. Because they knew exactly what she meant.
Annie looked between them, emotion glimmered in her eyes.
Raw. Painful.
“I let her in my home.” Her voice softened. “I taught her. Fed her. Loved her.”
Smoke's expression eased slightly.
Annie swallowed. “And whether she lied or not, whether she wrong or not, she ran outta here hurt and scared.”
The words hung heavily between them.
“I already shoulda seen more than I did.” She looked down briefly. Then back up. “If somethin' happen to her tonight and I stayed home knowin’ I could’ve helped…” She shook her head. “I wouldn't forgive myself.”
Smoke rubbed a hand over his face. Stack looked away.
Neither liked it. Neither wanted it. But neither could argue with it either.
Eventually Smoke sighed. Long. Defeated.
“Stubborn woman.”
Annie smiled faintly. “That's why you married me.”
Smoke muttered something under his breath that made Stack snort despite himself. The tension eased for the first time all evening.
Only slightly.
Smoke stepped closer to Annie and pulled one of his pistols from the holster at his back. The weapon rested in his palm for a second.
Then, he offered it to her.
Annie's gaze dropped to it.
Slowly she accepted.
The familiar weight settled comfortably in her hand. Smoke held her eyes as she checked the cylinder.
“Don’t make me regret this.”
“I won’t.”
“You better not.”
Annie slid the pistol into her belt. The lantern returned to her grip. Around her waist hung enough rootwork supplies to stock a small altar. Around them waited the Mississippi night.
The night waited just beyond the threshold.
Smoke stood nearest the door, one hand resting against the frame while the other adjusted the pistol secured beneath his shoulder holster. Stack had already started toward the door, favoring one side despite his efforts to hide it. None of them wanted to waste another minute.
Every second Amelia remained out there alone tightened the knot in their chests.
Then, came the knock. The sound echoed through the house.
Three sharp raps.
Everyone froze. The silence that followed seemed to swallow the room whole.
Stack was the first to move. His head snapped toward the door. Hope flashed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness.
“Amelia.”
Smoke was already reaching for his weapon. “Hold up.”
The brothers exchanged a look.
Another knock followed. More forceful.
Stack took a step forward. “It could be her”
Smoke’s hand settled around the grip of his pistol. “It could be anybody.”
“It could be Amelia, Smoke.”
The desperation in his voice made Annie close her eyes briefly. When she opened them again, her gaze remained fixed on the door.
“No.”
Both brothers looked at her.
Annie tightened her grip on the lantern. “Amelia ain't gonna knock.”
The words settled heavily in the room.
Because she was right.
If Amelia had returned, she wouldn't be standing politely on the porch. She would've come straight inside. The realization drained some of the hope from Stack's face.
Together they approached the door. Smoke positioned himself on one side. Stack took the other. Both men drew their weapons.
The atmosphere inside the house tightened. Annie remained a few feet back, lantern in one hand, pistol resting at her hip.
Smoke lifted three fingers.
Stack nodded once.
Three.
Two.
One.
The door swung open.
The woman standing on the porch looked ready to kill somebody. Rain clouds rolled overhead behind her, turning the night sky nearly black. The lantern light illuminated sharp cheekbones, furious eyes, and a posture so rigid it looked painful.
Celine Broussard–DuPont.
Celine's gaze landed on Stack first.
Recognition flashed immediately. Then confusion.
Her eyes narrowed.
She looked at him. Then looked at Smoke. Then back to Stack. A small crease formed between her brows. The fury didn't leave her face. If anything, it deepened.
Slowly, her eyes traveled between the brothers.
One.
Then the other.
Two identical faces.
Two identical men.
Understanding dawned.
A cold realization settled over her features.
"So…that's what this is."
Her voice was low. Dangerously controlled.
Smoke didn't lower his weapon.
Neither did Stack.
"What you want?" Smoke asked.
Celine barely acknowledged him.
Her attention shifted beyond the brothers. Toward the interior of the house.
Toward Annie.
The moment their eyes met, something changed. The anger sharpened. Became personal.
Ancient.
The kind of resentment that had survived years.
"Cordelia James's granddaughter."
Annie went still.
Celine stepped forward onto the porch. She didn’t cross the threshold, but it was enough to make her intentions clear. The lantern light caught the fury burning in her eyes and for the first time since arriving, she smiled.
It wasn't a pleasant smile.
It was the smile of someone who had finally found exactly who she'd been looking for.
“Been a while since I seen you, Antoinette. Wish this reunion could have been under better circumstances but…I’m here to collect a floozy that fucked my husband. The one you’re keepin’ hidden in this house. The one workin’ in your shop? Yes…the town talks.”
Stack and Smoke didn’t flinch. They remained at the ready, Smoke with one arm extended and his finger on the trigger, Stack with a two–handed grip that didn’t waver. Annie remained still, chin elevated, never blinking as she locked eyes with Celine.
Celine looks between Stack and Smoke, a jaded look on her face.
“I’m not here to tussle wit’ you folks. I just need the girl. Tell me where she is if she ain’t here or bring her to me. Then, I’ll be out your hair.”
Stack narrowed his eyes and flashed a cunning smirk, “She ain’t here. And we ain’t telling you shit, wench.”
Celine rolled her eyes, “Oh, please, nigga. I’m done foolin’ ‘round wit’ ya’ll and this fuckin’ town and your lies and your games. Now if I gotta come in here—”
“You step foot past that do’ I’m a light you up like fireworks on Juneteenth.” Smoke barked.
Celine pursed her lips, light skin turning beet red. She balled her fists and glared between all three of them, refusing to back down.
“She killed my husband! I know it! She skipped town, he was the last person to see here I KNOW!” Celine shouted with a shrill voice. “I’m not leaving ‘til she come out!—”
“And what do you plan to do? Huh?” Annie fired back. “You plan to turn her in to the law? Kill her?”
Celine’s eyelids fluttered and then a slow, creeping, devious smirk spread across her lips.
“I wish I coulda killed her the day she showed up on our doorstep wrapped in cloth while her worthless mama ran off. Ever since she came in our lives it’s been nothin’ but trouble. She ain’t like us. Best to eradicate her now before she cause more harm.”
Stack was seeing red. Annie’s fingers settled tighter around the pistol on her hip. Smoke continued staring at Celine like she was an annoyance that needed to be put down.
Celine looked between them, eyes seemingly looking past them like she could sense that there was an altercation. One twin looks beat up. The other got his hand wrapped in cloth with blood stains. Annie look like she done lost her entire world. And they look like they were ready to leave.
“…She did it again, huh? Came and created a storm before runnin’ off like a broken doe. She ain’t human. I don’t know exactly what she is, my mama knew and didn’t tell me. My brother—” Celine paused, swallowing a knot in her throat. “My brother would still be here if it wasn’t for that strange girl. I wish she ain’t never showed up.”
Silence. Then, Annie stepped forward.
Celine locked eyes with her, cautious. Annie was eye to eye with her,
Then—
SLAP!
A sharp, stinging slap that sent Celine back on her heels, arms bracing the doorway. The side of her face swelled up quickly, and the corner of her lip began to bleed. She looked startled. Like she’d been slapped into a new dimension. Smoke and Stack’s eyes landed on Annie wide. They lowered their guns immediately.
“WHA—YOU BIT—”
“You keep talkin’ ‘bout killin’ that girl like it’s some righteous thing. Let me tell you somethin’, Celine. Every rootworker know there a difference between justice and spite. One got ancestors behind it. The other got consequences.”
She took one slow step forward.
“You come after Amelia with hate in your heart, and I promise you this. Every candle you light gon’ drown in wax. Every prayer you send up gon’ come back unanswered. Every road you walk gon’ lead you right back to the misery you carry inside you.”
Her expression never changed.
“And if that ain’t enough, I got a shovel, a graveyard full of restless company, and more patience than you got years left. So tread careful.”
Celine stood with one hand cupping her cheek and her eyes swimming with unshed tears.
Annie folded her hands in front of her.
“You knew my mama. Which means you know my people ain’t never been in the habit of makin’ empty threats.”
The way Annie spoke was never with a scream. She spoke soft. Careful. And that made it worse.
“If you lay a hand on that girl, I won’t chase you. I won’t argue with you. I won’t beg.”
A pause.
“I’ll simply sit down at my altar and introduce your name to people who ain’t breathed in a very long time.”
Her gaze sharpened. “And unlike me, they ain’t interested in forgiveness.” Annie tilted her head. “Let me save you some trouble, Celine. If you got murder in your heart, carry it somewhere else.” Her eyes were steady. “Because if you bring it to my doorstep, I’ll bury it right alongside you.” She let that sit. Then added quietly. “And the earth around here know my name better than it know yours.”
Smoke clenched his jaw, staring at Annie with a flicker of adoration behind his steadfast eyes. Stack didn’t pull his eyes away from Celine. Because even though he didn’t speak it, he mirrored exactly what Annie said.
“Now, if you don’t mind, we have some place to be. To go look for your niece that ran scared. A niece you were supposed to protect from your nasty, fuckin’ husband. He was preyin’ on her, waitin’ for the moment to strike. How dare you stand here in your t-straps and perfect press with them pearls around your neck talkin’ ‘bout your blood like that? You think August woulda wanted that?”
For the first time, the fury on Celine’s face cracked. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, anger and grief tangled together so tightly they were impossible to separate. Her jaw flexed. Her nostrils flared. She looked like a woman standing on the edge of a cliff, held upright by pride alone. Annie’s words had landed exactly where they were meant to. Celine didn’t fear many people, but she knew enough about the James women to understand that Annie wasn’t bluffing.
Celine stepped aside. Annie, Smoke, and Stack exited the house, shutting the door behind them. Smoke’s eyes trailed Celine walking with a hunch in her back and a shake on her shoulders back to the car she’d picked up while in Clarksdale. Then, she stopped. That caused the three of them to pause. She turned, sadness in her eyes.
“I hate to be wrong. But I feel a heaviness.” She touched her chest. “Like a crushing feelin’. Like…like—”
“Like someone tellin’ you to stop? To be still?”
Celine’s lower lip trembled. She looked toward the night sky. “mama…?”
“We gotta go,” Stack whispered sternly.
Celine exhaled a shaky breath. “Listen…anger makes you say some terrible things. I know my mama wouldn’t want harm comin’ to her.”
“Funny how a slap across the face change the heart, huh?” Stack quipped.
“You can either come or leave. But when we find her, you don’t touch her. You apologize to her, and you leave.”
“I wanna know why she killed him—”
Annie was getting fed the fuck up.
Celine’s composure finally splintered. The anger she'd been holding so tightly gave way to something rawer, something closer to grief. Her eyes shone as she looked from Annie to Smoke and then to Stack.
“Then tell me why.” The question came out rough. “Tell me why she killed him.”
Nobody answered immediately.
Celine swallowed hard. “He wasn't perfect,” she said. “Lord knows he wasn’t. But he didn't deserve to disappear like that. He went lookin’ for her and never came home.”
Her gaze landed on Annie.
“You know somethin’. I can see it all over your face.”
Annie’s stepped forward, lantern light catching the hard set of her features.
“For the last time, Celine, she ain’t kill that man on purpose.”
Celine laughed bitterly. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe whatever you want.”
“I want the truth.”
Annie folded her arms. “The truth is she loved him once. The truth is things got complicated. The truth is somethin’ happened that day she never intended to happen.”
Celine’s eyes narrowed. “What happened?”
Annie shook her head. “That ain't my story to tell.”
“You protectin’ her—”
“I'm tellin’ you what I know.”
Celine stepped closer. “Then tell me why she ran.”
The question lingered between them. Annie’s expression softened for the briefest moment. Not toward Celine. Toward Amelia. Toward the frightened young woman who had arrived on her doorstep carrying more pain than sense.
“Because she was scared.”
Celine scoffed. “Scared of what?”
“Guilt.”
The single word landed heavily.
Annie held her gaze. “She been carryin’ it ever since.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across Celine's face. Only for a moment. Then, the anger returned.
“That don’t bring Nathaniel back.”
“No,” Annie agreed quietly. “It don't.”
Smoke remained still. Even Stack.
Annie looked directly at Celine. “You came here wantin’ a monster.” Her voice stayed calm. “What you gon’ find is a scared girl who made a terrible mistake and ain’t forgiven herself for it a single day since.”
Celine’s eyes glistened again. But whether those tears came from grief, rage, or heartbreak, nobody could tell.
Stack glanced toward the darkness beyond the front yard then back toward the adults still standing beneath the lantern glow.
“We gotta go.”
His voice cut through the argument cleanly. Nobody immediately disappeared because he was right. Every minute they spent standing around talking was another minute Amelia remained alone somewhere out there.
Smoke shifted his grip on his pistol and nodded once.
“He right.”
Annie looked toward the tree line. “We losin’ time.”
Celine’s expression tightened. The grief returned to her face. The anger remained too. Both emotions seemed to be fighting for space behind her eyes. Then, she surprised them.
“I’m comin’.”
Annie blinked. Stack looked openly irritated.
Annie folded her arms. “Why?”
Celine’s gaze slid toward the woods. For a moment, she looked older than she had all evening. More tired.
“I wanna find her.”
The answer came quickly. Too quickly. Annie wasn’t convinced.
“You wanna find her for what?”
Celine didn’t answer right away.
Her jaw tightened. “I deserve answers.”
Smoke made a skeptical sound. Stack looked away. None of them fully trusted her. Not after everything she’d said.
Eventually, Annie sighed. “Fine.”
Smoke looked at her. Annie shrugged.
“We keep our eyes on her.”
“I’m a keep more than my eyes on her,” Stack displayed his pistol. “Or I’ll get Annie to slap her ass ‘round if she try anything. That seemed to do the trick.”
The group set off down the path. Past Annie’s shack. Into the woods. Nobody called Amelia’s name. That had been Annie’s decision. Draws too much attention. Instead, they searched.
Watching. Listening. Hoping.
Pearline returned from the kitchen carrying three steaming mugs balanced carefully on a tray. The scent of chamomile and mint drifted through the room ahead of her. She set the try down on the coffee table and offered Amelia a small smile.
“Drink somethin’, baby. You look like you done cried every year God gave you.”
Amelia managed a weak laugh. “Feel like it.”
Pearline settled into a nearby chair and tucked her lilac robe more securely around herself.
Sammie stepped in from the hallway, shirt buttoned and tucked, wiping his mouth off. He stopped short when he saw Amelia.
“You alright? What's goin’ on?”
His eyes flicked to Virelle next, standing rigid by the window, one hand resting on the frame as she stared into the blackness beyond the glass. The stranger’s presence filled the room in a way that made both Pearline and Sammie exchange a quick glance. Who was this woman? How did she know Amelia?
"What happened?" Sammie asked.
Nobody spoke right away. Amelia’s shoulders shook once, a small, exhausted motion. Her eyes stayed fixed on the floorboards, glowing faint with the storm inside her. Virelle didn’t turn from the window.
Sammie leaned forward on the couch, voice low and careful. “Where Stack at? He know you here? Annie? Smoke?”
Still silence. Pearline waited, hands folded in her lap. The question hung there, heavy, until Virelle finally spoke without looking away from the dark.
"Remmick wasn’t hunting you because you’re Amelia,” she said, voice cool and even. “He was hunting you because you’re fae.”
Amelia’s head lifted slow. The glow in her eyes sharpened. “What?”
Virelle turned then, facing the room fully. “Creatures like him know exactly what you are. They’ve known for longer than any of us been alive. This ain’t just about Nathaniel or Celine or Clarksdale. It’s older. Bigger. And they want you for it.”
The words landed like stones in still water. Pearline’s breath caught. Sammie stood frozen, eyes darting between Amelia and the stranger. Amelia’s hands tightened on the cup until her knuckles showed pale against her warm brown skin, the truth cracking open everything she’d tried to hold shut.
Sammie and Pearline sat stiff on the worn couch.
Who is Remmick?
Celine?
Nathaniel?
Fae?
The steam from their untouched tea curled between them.
The words hung heavy in the warm room.
Pearline’s hands tightened around her cup until the porcelain creaked.
Sammie’s mouth opened, then shut again, his eyes wide and fixed on Amelia’s shaking shoulders.
“Amelia, what’s going on? Talk to us. Tell us something.” Pearline said with a pleading voice.
Sammie nodded.
Amelia drew a shaky breath. She could feel her light flickering faint in her fingertips.
“I killed a man,” she said, voice low and raw. “Nathaniel. He was my aunt’s husband. A prominent figure in the community back in New Orleans. Then he became my lover. He was the first man I’d ever been with.”
Tears slid down her cheeks, catching the faint glow.
Pearline’s breath hitched. Sammie leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“My aunt found out,” Amelia went on, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. “I left to go back home. Nathaniel showed up. “She paused, throat working. “I don’t know how I did it…it was an accident…he just walked into the bayou and never came back up.”
The only sound was the faint tick of the clock on the mantel. Pearline’s lips parted, but no words came. Sammie’s fingers dug into his own thighs. Both of them stared at Amelia like the floor had moved under their feet, the truth settling between the four of them.
Amelia’s shoulders slumped further, the faint gold glow around her eyes dimming to a tired shimmer. “I’m fae,” she said quietly. “I’m not fully human. My powers cause harm more than good. I–I hurt people…Stack…Annie… Smoke… I ain’t tell them what I was. I ran. And ended up staring death in the face.”
Pearline set her cup down with a soft clink. “Is that who Remmick is? The devil?”
Amelia shook her head. “He’s a vampire.”
Sammie blinked hard, brow creasing. “Vampire?”
“I know this all sounds crazy,” Amelia went on, voice cracking, “but it’s real. I’m sorry for bringing this to your doorstep, Pearline. We can leave.”
Pearline reached across the space between them and laid a steady hand on Amelia’s wrist. “No. You stay for as long as you need to. Both of you.”
Sammie rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting toward the window. “My cousins…they might be out lookin’ for you right now. Maybe I oughta head home, see what’s what.”
Pearline turned to him, voice low but firm. “Maybe that ain’t a good idea, given everything we just heard.”
“Going out in the dark while a blood sucker roams around looking to feed…it’s best you wait ‘til morning.” Virelle spoke.
Pearline stands. “We have a guest room. I’ll get it situated. Then you can take a bath and settle. Miss?…”
“Virelle.”
“Virelle…the couch is pretty cozy. If that’s okay?”
Virelle’s gaze remained fixed on Pearline. Studying.
Pearline shifted uncomfortably beneath it.
“What?” She finally asked.
Virelle tilted her head slightly. “Who was your grandmother?”
The confusion on Pearline’s face deepened. “What kinda question is that?”
Amelia glanced between them. She looked lost. Virelle said nothing for several seconds. Then, she spoke again.
“You got old water in your blood.”
Pearline stared. “I beg your pardon?”
A faint smile touched Virelle’s mouth. It wasn’t amusement, it was recognition.
“The blood’s thin. Barely there.” Her eyes remained on Pearline. “But I can still feel it.”
Pearline laughed nervously. “Lady, I don’t know what you talkin’ ‘bout.”
Virelle ignored the comment.
“You ever know things before they happen?”
The laughter disappeared. Pearline’s expression softened. “Sometimes.”
“You ever dream somethin’ and then watch it happen a few days later?”
Pearline looked away. “Maybe.”
Virelle nodded once. “Animals like you?”
Pearline’s eyes snapped back toward her. Now Amelia was staring too.
“What exactly are you sayin’?”
Virelle folded her hands together. “One of ours wandered too close to humans a long time ago.”
Pearline frowned. “Ours?”
The ancient fae looked toward Amelia, then back to Pearline.
“The blood almost disappeared. Almost.”
Pearline swallowed.
Sammie grabbed a piece of cornbread, more so for something to do. He chewed, his eyes landing on Amelia.
“Melia, I’m sure Annie, Smoke, and Stack ain’t mad at ya.”
“You ain’t seen their faces, Sammie.” Amelia exhaled a shaky breath, a single tear falling. “They probably glad I’m gone.”
“I doubt that,” Sammie smirked, trying to make light of the situation. “Soon as morning come, we can go there.”
Pearline returns, a few blankets in her hand, placing them on the couch. Virelle looks at them then a small ‘thank you’ escapes her mouth.
“Any friend of Amelia’s is a friend of ours. Night. Make sure you eat somethin’, Amelia. If you need anything, my room is down the hall.”
“Thank you, Pearline.”
Sammie stands, walking up to Amelia.
He gives her a kiss on the cheek before following Pearline down the hall.
The woods stretched endlessly around them. Crickets sang from the grass. Frogs called from hidden pools of water. The occasional towel cried somewhere overhead. Fireflies glowed like tiny lanterns. But this glow seemed different. Like they were keeping watch.
Smoke and Stack naturally drifted toward the front of the group. Old habits. Old instincts.
Neither brother had spoken about the war much since coming home years ago. Most days they pretended it hadn’t happened. Most days it worked.
Tonight wasn’t one of those days. The darkness between the trees looked too familiar. Every snapped twig made Smoke’s shoulders tense. Every rustle in the bush pulled Stack’s attention immediately.
The woods became France again.
The memory sat beneath the surface.
Mud.
Gunfire.
The feeling of enemies appearing from nowhere.
The certainty that death could be hiding behind any tree.
Stack hated it. Hated how easily his mind returned there. Hated that some part of him never truly left. No matter how many times he tried to hide it behind a smile.
He adjusted the pistol tucked into his waistband and continued forward. Smoke moved silently beside him, the same tension lived on his brother’s posture. Neither acknowledged or needed to.
Then…something moved.
Everyone stopped.
The sound had come from somewhere ahead. A disturbance in the brush.
Annie raised the lantern slightly. The flame trembled behind the glass. Smoke lifted his weapon. Stack did the same.
Nobody spoke.
The woods seemed to hold its breath.
Then, a figure stepped from the trees.
A woman. Young. Barefoot. Thin.
The sight of her made Annie freeze. The lantern nearly slipped from her hand.
The woman looked terrible. Her dress hung loose from her frame. Dirt streaked her clothing. Long braids clung to her shoulders. Her eyes looked hollow.
Lost.
Like she’d been wandering for days. Maybe longer.
Annie knew that face. She knew it immediately. She had stared at it countless times in Shelby. Seen it in photographs. Seen it in the desperate eyes of family members begging for help.
The missing girl.
“Oh my God.”
The words escaped before Annie could stop them. Everyone looked at her. Annie took a step forward. Disbelief flooded her features. The girl stared back at them. Unblinking. Silent. Like she wasn’t entirely sure they were real.
Annie’s heart began pounding. Because she knew exactly who she was…
Lavinia Bell.
The missing girl from Shelby. The one who was supposed to be miles away. The one nobody had been able to find. The one everyone thought was dead.
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