20 somethings

Chiquita ,20 years a savage #yungPervert

[writinghelpers]

Are there any other blogs like yours that you follow? I'm looking for more writing blogs to follow to help keep me motivated and to find tips for writing. I really enjoy your blog! Thanks!

Here are a few that I follow:

whataboutwriting

thewritershelpers

writing-questions-answered

fictionwritingtips (krisnoel.com)

fuckyourwritinghabits

fuckyeahcharacterdevelopment

referenceforwriters

keyboardsmashwriters

writeworld

[everydaywriter]

Best Friends Forever: Writing Close Friendships

Nearly every book I’ve read has a protagonist. And all of those protagonists were surrounded by several, if not a great many, friends. Within my own stories, my protagonists have quite a few friends. Among those friends, there are usually one or two, maybe three, friends that the protagonist is especially close to. One of my all time favorite series, Vampire Academy by Richelle Mead, follows best friends Lissa and Rose, who act like sisters most of the time. While reading, it’s clear that the two have known each other for a long while, see each other as their closest allies, and see their lives as them against the world. It’s obvious that they’re very close. The question is how does Mead accomplish this? How does any author establish these types of close friendships between characters without blatantly telling the reader?

If you think of your own close friendships, or your best friends, you’ll probably recognize five or more of the following in your relationship with these particular friends –

Understand without speaking.

When you’ve known someone a really long time, or have spent so much time together, you get to know the person so well that you pick up on their habits and quirks and body language. When they bite their lip, you know it’s not that they’re confused, but that the water works are about to begin and it’s time to get them out of there. If their jaw tenses, you take their hand and squeeze it to show they don’t have to face the world alone. They do the same for you. You understand each other so well that no one needs to say anything, and it’s obvious that it’s time for coffee and chick flicks, or that it’s time to head to the soccer field to kick around a ball and de-stress. You might not be able to read each others’ minds, but you understand each other well enough that neither of you needs to say anything. You just do.

Tease each other.

There’s artificial teasing, there’s bully teasing, there’s flirting teasing. But among friends, it’s the way we gently point out each others’ issues and faults without being cruel, it’s how we remind each other of good times, it’s how we show each other that we don’t have to be adult or grown up (regardless of age), it’s how we connect and communicate. Between best friends, teasing is just another way we talk to each other. There’s no malice, jealousy, anger, or bitterness behind it. It’s often light, fun, laughable, and in good humor. It’s a way to make your friend laugh when they’re on the verge of tears. It’s the way we build each other up when our plans fall through. Teasing is always there, but it never, ever becomes a way of putting each other down.

Rely on each other.

Through good times and bad, friends can always be relied upon to be there and help each other. There are no excuses, there is no distance, there are no events that could prevent two best buds from helping each other out in times of emotional and physical need, and friends rely on each other for that. But friends also rely on each other for comfort, for support, for encouragement, and for all the things it seems the world wants to take away from us. Friends are there to remind us that what we want to do, where we want to go, is completely possible and achievable.

Seek each other’s advice.

Perhaps more than our parents, teachers, advisors, and mentors, we seek advice from our friends first. This might be a perfectly faulty action, but because friends understand each other and rely on each other, it’s natural that we seek advice from those we know, and who know us, best. This advice seeking might be as simple as wondering which outfit to wear for an interview, to legitimately questioning your life’s direction and wanting to know whether you should keep on that path. And because you can rely on your friend, they help you out, if only to making fun of something to help you laugh and remind you to loosen up and stop worrying.

Feel comfortable around one another.

As with all of the above, friends are comfortable with each other enough to seek that advice, tease each other, and rely on one another. Even more than that, friends are comfortable with and around each other that they don’t care if they do something stupid, or say something idiotic, or accidently snort and spew food from the mouth in response to something funny (guilty.) Because they’re comfortable with each other, these things happen and no one cares, because these silly things hardly define us. It’s the same with crying, or showing how truly angry we are, or how hopeless we feel. Friends know each other so well that they be vulnerable and sensitive, and the friend won’t misuse them.

Miss each other when gone.

Probably the greatest understatement of all these, but best friends will miss each other. They might be separated for only a day, maybe one has moved away. But miss each other they will, just the same. The effect this has on each other is anyone’s guess, as everyone reacts differently to separation. Some might become depressed, others might lash out, and some might just have that aching sense of loneliness in their gut that seems like it can’t ever be filled. There is most definitely a reaction, and missing each other is just the surface.

Have similar interests/hobbies/goals/pasts.

Whether they grew up together, or met at summer camp, or took the same art class, friends have similar interests. There’s something that initially drew them together, and in writing a book you can’t just put that aside. It will always be their foundation, and while the foundation can grow, there’s that one point, however small and insignificant in the present, that brought them together and caused them to meet (in Vampire Academy, Lissa and Rose both had long names they had to spell in school at young ages. Later on, they grew even closer together when they both survived the car accident that killed the rest of Lissa’s family.)

Grow together as individuals and as friends.

If any relationship is to last and get stronger, growth is a must. Trials, tragedy, celebration, joy; all these add to and change a person, their actions, and how they consider new situations, and this happens in a friendship as well. While going through similar occurrences, if friends cannot grow together, change, and mature together, then their friendship will remain the way it was when it started, and it won’t be able to adjust and react properly to new situations that the friends encounter. Without the ability to grow, the friendship will become stagnant and brittle, and eventually break. Make sure to show the friends, and their friendship, grow through the story.

Don’t judge.

It’s simple. Close friends, who understand, rely, advise, and help each other, just don’t judge. Regardless of what one does, or what the other thinks about a topic, they don’t judge. They accept that they’re individuals with different views and opinions on some things. After all, you can’t have the exact same views as someone else. There are similarities, there are differences, but despite what those are, there should never be any judgment. Friends accept each other for who they are.

Don’t try to change each other.

As I said, friends accept each other. They don’t try to change one another, or mould each other into what their ideal would be, because that would be the farthest thing from acceptance. Friends understand, they don’t judge, and they don’t try to change their friends’ personalities, opinions, views, likes or dislikes, or their hopes and dreams. They accept everything about each other, and celebrate their differences.

Confide everything.

Friends naturally want to talk with each other and discuss the things that happen in their lives, but best friends, as I’m sure you know, will talk about everything. They confide everything in each other without fear of being rejected or judged. They share their thoughts, their dreams, whatever comes to mind, and in sharing so much with each other, their bond grows.

Fights sometimes happen, but making amends occurs quickly.

No friendship is perfect, and because there are two people involved, disagreements are bound to occur. But when fights begin, whatever the topic, close friends will try to move past the argument and come to a conclusion, generally in the form of an agreement or better understanding of one another. They won’t linger on their differing opinions, and will try to make amends as soon as they can. This leads to stronger friendships, and is a way that the friendship can grow and develop.

Can’t imagine life without each other.

Perhaps more than anything else, best friends simply can’t imagine what life would be like if they weren’t together. It’s something they don’t want to think about, and is the last thing they’ll focus on when confronted with the real possibility of lifelong separation. They’ll come up with excuses, plans, arguments, anything that might be able to change the impending separation. They literally can’t picture their life being apart, because their personalities and dreams and emotional selves are so connected that the very idea of being apart for good is like imagining themselves being split in half (this goes for a romantic relationship as well, though more specifically within one where the two were best friends before they fell in love).

These are just a basic few things that can comprise a close friendship. You don’t need to use all of these, and by all means, don’t limit yourself to using only the ones I’ve listed. Use some, use none, but make sure you really look at the characters you have and focus on showing that closeness where it’s supposed to exist. It offers greater development of both characters, adds to the realism of the plot, and helps with the overall story.

For more on this topic with examples, check out Livia Blackburne’s awesome article –

http://blog.liviablackburne.com/2011/06/twenty-ways-to-describe-your-characters.html

Good luck and good writing!

~ Everyday Writer

[theinformationdump]

Seven Steps to the Perfect Story

From structure and plot to heroes and characters, your story must have everything in place if it’s to connect with the reader. Follow our guide to storytelling success.

[acteon-carolsfeld]

There’s an eighth step most of these things tend to miss. It’s called practice. One would assume that such a step follows without needing a mention, but I think it’s important enough to deserve bringing to notice.

[writinghelpers]

Tense Change

I have a tendency to switch between tenses because I write some present-tense stories and I wonder if you have any tips to combat that. - srngdrgn

The first bit of advice I have for you is to focus more on writing now and then worry about your tense use in the revising stage. When re-reading your work, use a highlighter to mark all the places in which you strayed for your desired tense. Then you have visual representation of how much you need to re-work (which isn’t usually that difficult to do) and you may find yourself adding extra plot devices in.

How to Avoid Tense Change in Fiction Writing [there’s advice from Stephen King in here]

How to Avoid Tense Switches

I think the best thing for you to do is be aware while you’re writing. It’s not a huge deal if you mix up tenses so long as you’re prepared to go back and fix it in the editing and revising stages.

[mevima]

List of Vocal Sounds for Smut

I present to you a - probably quite incomplete, I’m sure I’m missing a lot of speech sounds - reference list and a bit of a guideline for the different ways one can describe the sounds your characters make whilst writing smut. I’ll definitely be referring to it, because I sometimes get stuck on exactly how to describe a particular noise. (aka, “he can’t groan again, he just groaned last paragraph”)

Sounds (noun, both independently and describing speech): breath/breathe, gasp, moan, groan, pant, whimper, whine, shout, yelp, hiss, grunt, cry, scream, shriek, sob, growl, curse, sound, sigh, hum, noise, squeak, snarl, howl, roar, mewl, wail, choke, keen, purr

Sounds (noun, describing speech): rasp, husk, drawl, plea, murmur, whisper, beg

Descriptors (adjective): loud, hushed, quiet, low, high, high-pitched, little, tiny, soft, deep, unrestrained, restrained, strained, breathy, rough, sudden, short, drawn-out, sharp, harsh, hard, thick, smooth, thin, heavy, impassioned, insistent, hungry, passionate, repeated, filthy, debauched, sweet, slow, deliberate, guttural, languid, surprised, husky, distracted, happy, pleased, satisfied, wordless, cut-off, bitten-off, contented, hoarse, extended, long, depraved, aching, choked, strangled, broken, helpless, shuddering, shaky, trembling, urgent, needy, desperate, wanton, shattered, pained, eager

Combine a descriptor and a sound for best effect - for example, “needy moan,” “pleased hum,” or “sudden scream.” You can even use two: “low, rough grunt,” “sweet little cry,” “desperate, filthy noise,” as long as you don’t repeat a word that means the same thing, unless you really want to emphasize it. Avoiding repetition is pretty key here. You don’t usually want to say “hushed, quiet gasp” except on rare occasions when it’s very important how soft the sound was.

Use your own common sense, as well; some sounds and descriptors don’t generally work well together. “Deliberate shriek” probably wouldn’t work well, and neither would “languid grunt,” but again, this is all very situational - play around! Have fun.

Feel free to add to my lists, use for your reference or pass them around. It would be fun to see a randomized generator made, too, I’m just too lazy to do it myself. ;)

[sheabuttahwrites]

Welcome to Shea Buttah Bakery. If you’re in need of something sweet, still warm from the oven, you’re in the right place. Feel free to browse the menu and enjoy unlimited samples on me. When something hits the spot, don’t hesitate to indulge as much as you’d like. Here at Shea Buttah Bakery, we don’t judge. In fact, we encourage absolute decadence. New recipes are added regularly, so be sure to check back often to see what’s fresh. If you ever have any questions, my inbox is always open. Lastly, don’t forget to share your favorites with your friends and leave us a review. Your business is deeply appreciated. Thanks for stopping by and I hope to see you again soon. -Shea <3

Est. // 2.23.21 - Hot // 8.12.26 

-Taglist-

[Yahya Abdul-Mateen II x Black Plus Size OC]

in the Morning…………………………………….$0.00

Fine Print…………………………………………….$0.00

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[Erik Stevens x Black Plus Size OC]

THE EPITOME…………………………………….$0.00

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[Michael B. Jordan x Black Plus Size OC]

I Know………………………………………………….$0.00

[Yahya Abdul-Mateen II x Black Plus Size OC]

Something Hot……………………………………$0.00

Chills……………………………………………………$0.00

The First Flow……………………………………..$0.00

Daddy’s Home…………………………………….$0.00

the Venom & the Antidote…………………..$0.00

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[Michael B. Jordan x Black Plus Size OC]

access X Denied………………………………….$0.00

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[Modern!AU Smoke x Annie]

Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fire……..$0.00

Tag Me In……………………………………………..$0.00

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[Modern!AU Stack x Black Plus Size OC]

You Should Be Here……………………………..$0.00

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[Michael Jackson x Black Plus Size OC]

so many miles Away…………………………….$0.00

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[Jaafar Jackson x Black Plus Size OC]

The Shelf Life Of Honey………………………$0.00

[sheabuttahwrites]

THE EPITOME

[Nerd!Erik x Black Plus Size OC]

she spoke of him as if she thought he were perfect. then someone else became the very e p i t o m e of perfection.

Genre: Romance-Drama Warnings: 18+, Explicit Language, Sexual Content

[+1][+2][+3]…

Shea Buttah Bakery Masterlist  -taglist-

[brownsugarletters]

Out of Bounds

Modern AU Elijah “Smoke” Moore x Black!Reader

“Y’know her uncle gon’ kill you, right?” Stack dragged the words out teasingly, but the warning was real. “You betta keep yo hand out that cookie jar, bruh. I’m f'real. That man don’t play about that girl.”

At this, Smoke shot Stack a warning glare that said leave it be.

“Ain’t nobody thinkin’ ‘bout that ‘lil girl.”

“She don’t look so little to me.”

SYNOPSIS: Smoke meets his best friend’s niece and is deeply infatuated from jump. Problem is— reader is strictly off limits.

CONTENT: fluff, FILTHY smut, 18+, unprotected sex, 12-year age gap (38 and 26), use of n-word, some praising degradation, light choking if you squint?, lots of descriptive dirty talk, descriptions of female anatomy, super sweet aftercare, it's just nasty y'all idk

Song Inspo: The Need To Know x Wale & SZA

Word Count: 8,597

Author's note: Disclaimer, reader is 26. She is a grown ass woman. This is my first papa Smoke fic, I hope y'all love it 😝 very lightly proof read sorry in advance for mistakes 😬

Smoke had known about you for years. Every time your uncle, Malcolm, talked about you, he used that distinct overprotective tone he got whenever he was talking about business or something important to him. 

“My niece doin’ real good in school.”

“I gotta go check on my niece this weekend.”

Or, when he thought one of his homeboys was asking about you just a little too much.

“Keep playin’ with my niece nigga, I’ma put you in the ICU.” 

And shortly thereafter, the man’s questions came to a cold stop.

The way he talked about you always made Smoke think you were very young for some reason. Maybe early twenties at most, somebody still figuring life out. Your uncle was deeply protective over his family, and only people who he really trusted ever got to come around them. 

When your uncle finally said, “Come by for dinner Sunday, I want you to meet her.” Smoke expected a kid. He was 38 himself, so anyone younger than 25 was a youngin to him. You can imagine his surprise when he actually met you.

That Sunday, you opened the door looking every bit of 26. You were grown and confident. Soft brown skin, a real pretty face, the kind of natural beauty that stood out in a room. You had a place of your own and a solid career with room for growth. Quickly, Smoke gathered that you were extremely intelligent. When you’d smiled at him and extended your hand to him without a trace of insecurity or shyness, something in Smoke’s chest did a two-step. And that was not something that happened often.

“So…you’re the famous niece I keep hearin’ about?” He asked, voice carefully neutral. He held on to your hand for a few seconds longer than necessary without noticing it. Then you laughed. It was soft and warm, completely unguarded.

“So I’ve been told… hopefully all good things.” 

Your uncle always spoke about you highly. In fact, now that Smoke was thinking about it— the man had never said anything negative about you at all. You were the apple of his eye. But he hadn’t said anything that prepared him for the woman standing in front of him now.

All throughout dinner Smoke couldn’t stop himself from staring. The way you talked real soft and annunciated every word. The way you listened intensely to understand before responding, all of it was so intriguing to him. He even found himself chucking at the sharp little comments you made when joning on your uncle. You were not a kid. You were a grown woman who happened to be the most important person in his best friend’s life. The realization sat wrong and heavy in Smoke’s gut for the rest of the night.

He left early.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next week, your uncle called Smoke on Saturday morning like he had nothing better to do.

“Come help me mount this t.v. real quick. Niece already over there waitin’ on us.” 

At being volun-told at 9 a.m., Smoke nearly told Marcus where he could go and hung up before he was reminded of that nagging feeling it had. It was the kind of feeling you get when you’re about to get to the good part of a book and you’re forced to put it down. That was the feeling Smoke had been having ever since he left Sunday dinner early. Instead of declining, Smoke heard himself saying he would be there in 40.

By the time Smoke pulled up, your front door was open, and your voice was pouring through it, loud and bossy. Nothing like the soft-spoken woman he’d met just a week ago. 

“Uh-uh, make sure you got that side good! I don’t need my walls scraped up ‘cause you rushin’.”

When Smoke stepped through the threshold, you were barefoot in the living room, hair pulled away from your face and wearing little gray shorts and a white tank top. Every time you took a step, your hips rolled sensually and your breasts bounced slightly, nipples poking through the thin fabric. You were gesturing and pointing around your living room like you were directing an orchestra. 

“If y’all put it on that side the glare from the sun gon’ mess up the picture. I’m tellin’ you, it’s gotta go on this side.” Your uncle shook his head, half annoyed, half amused at his little niece bossing up. 

“You hear this? Just grown as she wanna be.”

Smoke set his keys down quietly and you turned at the sound. The smile you gave him was so easy and endearing that he found himself returning a small one and giving you a nod. And Smoke did not smile often, if at all.

“Perfect timing, Smoke. My uncle thinks he know better than the person that actually lives here.” 

“Know enough to know you too bossy for your own good.” He grumbled, shifting the stand to your requested side of the living room. Your laugh filled the room, and you dropped down, legs crossed, to start taking apart the old stand. The little shorts you wore rode up high on your thighs and your skin looked warm and smooth under the morning light. 

The next hour was quiet torture for Smoke.

Every time you bent forward to hand your uncle or Smoke a tool, the tank top pulled taught across your breasts and rose slightly, exposing the soft skin of your tummy. When you sat back and huffed in frustration while you tried to make sense of the instructions, Smoke watched the way you pushed stray pieces of your messy bun out of your face. And whenever you teased your uncle— “If it’s lopsided, I’m givin’ you a bad review on your uncle skills”— your voice remained light, teasing, never crossing any lines. Just comfortable and familiar. 

She don’t even know what she doin’ to me. Just sittin’ there laughin’, talkin’ all soft, lookin’ innocent… and I’m over here fightin’ for my life.

He barely spoke. Smoke kept his eyes on his work like that was the only thing keeping his mind from wandering. Still, his gaze kept drifting over to you. He watched the way your hips spread wide when you sat back on your heels and the way your small, manicured hands moved dramatically while you spoke. He tutted to himself quietly, so damn cute.

At one point you looked over at him and raised an eyebrow. The mischievous smile on your lips let him know you were about to get on him.

“You don’t talk much, huh?”

“Say what I need to. Just tryna make sure this thing don’t fall on nobody.” He replied simply, eyes flicking up to yours and staying there for a moment before drifting down to the soft curve of your mouth. His thoughts betrayed him,

You a damn lie. You thinkin’ ‘bout how soft them thighs look. What they’d look like wrapped around your head...Stop.

You hummed in acknowledgment, but you never looked away. The knowing look stayed in your eyes a second too long, and Smoke noticed.

When the stand was finally up and the tv was mounted, your uncle patted Smoke on the back and headed into the kitchen for water. You stayed in the living room, sitting on the floor with your legs stretched out while you scrolled on your phone. 

The house started to feel too quiet with just the two of you, so Smoke grabbed his keys before he said anything stupid. 

“I’ma head out”

You looked up from your phone with a small frown. 

“Already? We were just about to go out to get somethin’ to eat.”

Smoke wanted to stay. He really did. But he didn’t trust himself. So, he politely declined and said goodbye to your uncle. He gave you— and those pretty brown thighs— one more glance before he headed out and closed the door behind him. 

Later that night Smoke’s place was silent. Nothing but the soft hum of the air conditioner and the occasional creak or groan from the house settling. Smoke laid in the middle of his bed, staring at nothing in particular. He sighed in frustration and rubbed his hands down his face. He was replaying the day’s events and desperately trying to scrub the image of you from his memory to no avail. This was evident in the dull, persistent throb between his legs that he’d been trying to ignore ever since he saw you in those little shorts.

That’s his niece. Closest thing he got to a daughter. You sittin’ over here hard over a girl you ain’t even supposed to be lookin’ at. Get it the fuck together.

He sat like that for a long while before he willed himself to sleep.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Some days later, your uncle was having a cookout. The guys were playing Spades, so he told Smoke to come by. The gathering was in full swing by the time Smoke got there. Smooth R&B wrapped around the yard and the smell of charcoal and grilled meat was thick in the air. He spotted you before anyone else. You were sitting on the edge of a picnic table wearing denim shorts and a strapless top, legs swinging and a drink in hand, talking to some of your girlfriends. 

Smoke grabbed a drink and planted himself near the fence. Close enough to the traffic of the party to be polite, but far enough to keep to himself. 

Maybe it was a habit from his time being enlisted in the army, or just a habit from growing up where he did, but Smoke noticed everything and everyone. And that was why he noticed the exact moment that you caught the attention of a guy from the neighborhood. He was early 40’s, nice enough looking, but way too comfortable. Smoke watched the man’s ego draw his shoulders back in confidence before he made his way over to you. First it was “lemme get you another drink”. Then it was him hovering awkwardly just behind your shoulder while you spoke to your friends.

Smoke watched, jaw tight and plastic cup starting to give under the force of his clenching fingers. He knew he had no right to feel possessive over a woman he barely knew, but he had no say in the matter. His eyes stayed glued, making sure the man didn’t cross any overt boundaries. Your uncle saw it too. 

At first, Uncle Malcolm didn’t say anything. Just kept flipping meat, listening to the conversation around him. Every few moments, his looked over with a calm measuring look, one that surely meant he was letting a man dig his own hole. Smoke recognized the look quickly. It was the same look your uncle had given their friend who kept asking about you before he had threatened to put him in the ICU.

Then, you reflexively flinched and stepped away when the man got just a little too close from behind and his breath brushed your ear. Smoke was already moving before his brain caught up, but he was stopped by your uncle planting a firm hand on his chest.

“I got it Smoke, good lookin’ out.” 

Smoke forced himself to be still as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. Your uncle made his way over to you in three quick steps. He didn’t raise his voice or make a scene. He simply stepped between you and the man so smoothly that it almost looked friendly. 

“You gettin’ too close for my niece’s liking.”

“Oh, my bad man. I just—”

“You was just keepin’ yo hands to yo self, right?” Then your uncle looked over at you with a look that silently said, “you good?”. You nodded, already waving it off with a small smile. The man had no idea how lucky he had just gotten. You’d called your uncle off and spared the man two missing teeth. He nodded once simply and walked back to the grill like nothing had happened. The man took the hint. Visibly shaken he wandered over to the cooler for a drink. Malcolm picked up the tongs and resumed grilling, unphased. Smoke saw all of it and realized quickly that could be him.

He saw the way your uncle’s expression had become flat and cold and how fast he’d delivered the message. No yelling or scene, just quiet authority and the willingness to cause serious harm. These were traits that he himself possessed, and it was one of the reasons he had taken such a liking to your uncle. After all, birds of a feather flocked together. Smoke understood with perfect clarity that if that energy ever turned on him, there would be no explaining or second chances. 

Later, when you walked past him on the way to the cooler, your ass subtly brushed his groin. It was a brief touch and gone in a second. Smoke couldn’t figure out if it was intentional or not, that was until you looked up at him and gave him a small smile. He kept his eyes on the fence for the rest of the afternoon and didn’t look at you again. Didn’t trust himself to.

You better stay the fuck away from that girl. For real this time.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later that evening, the fight was on the big screen in your uncle’s living room. The whole house smelled like wings and the blunt that was in rotation. Your uncle was in his usual spot, reclined back. Stack was in the kitchen making a plate, and Smoke sat on one end of the long couch, quiet like he always was— and far away from you. You and your girlfriend were spread out on the floor, chattering away about something that had nothing to do with the fight.

Somewhere around the third round, Smoke dropped his phone and it slid under the coffee table.

“I’ll get it.”

You were already moving before anyone else could. You leaned forward, then dropped lower on your hands and knees to be able to reach it. The little shorts you had on pulled tight across your ass with the movement and the fabric rode up the backs of your thighs. Soft, brown skin caught the dim glow of the t.v. As you stretched further, the hem of your shorts crept higher until the lower curve of each cheek was exposed and the soft skin of your inner thighs spread a little. Smoke was frozen in place. The view hit him right between the legs with a low pulsing throb.

All he could see was that same position— except with you bent over for real. Shorts pushed to the side, back arched and thighs open. He imagined himself behind you with one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your hip as he sank into you slow and deep. He could almost hear the sound you’d make if he went just a little too deep too fast. He wondered if you would give him a soft, cracked moan or a high and shaky whine when he bottomed out and stayed there. His dick twitched hard in his jeans, and he shifted in his seat trying to ignore it. For a long second he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the way your soft thighs looked spread open like that.

Stack’s voice cut straight through the fantasy, sharp like a blade and low and close to his ear.

“Nigga.”

Smoke blinked hard and looked away quickly as heat spread across the back of his neck. You sat up just a second later, phone in hand. You held it out to him with a smile. He made sure not to touch you unnecessarily as he took it from you. He offered a gruff, “preciate it” before turning his attention right back to the fight. 

But he was caught. Stack was still watching the scene play out, and he was totally amused. Somebody had finally tickled Smoke’s fancy. It wasn’t often that someone piqued his interest to the point where he gawked like that. A wicked grin was already making its way across his brother’s face. He waited until you had settled back into your spot and no one was watching before he spoke again.

“You realll quiet tonight, cat got yo tongue?”

Smoke’s jaw tensed and he avoided his twin's eye contact, keeping his eyes trained on the television. He already knew from the tone in his voice, he was gonna start his shit.

“I’m always quiet, ‘Lias.”

“Nah,” Stack kept his voice low and nudged his brother with his elbow, still grinning. “This different. This the type of quiet a man get when he lookin’ at somethin’ he ain’t got no business tendin’ to.” 

Smoke didn’t answer this time. He just took a slow sip of his beer. Stack chuckled quietly and shook his head.

“Y’know her uncle gon’ kill you, right?” He dragged the words out teasingly, but the warning was real. “You betta keep yo hand out that cookie jar, bruh. I’m f'real. That man don’t play about that girl.”

At this, Smoke shot Stack a warning glare that said leave it be.

“Ain’t nobody thinkin’ ‘bout that ‘lil girl.”

“She don’t look so little to me.” Stack chuckled again but raised his hands in defense when Smoke’s head snapped toward him, hot defensiveness bubbling to the surface. “Aight, I’ma leave it. Just don’t come cryin’ to me when her uncle want yo head on a silver platter. I warned you.”

Smoke didn’t answer. But for the rest of the night his brother’s words sat heavy in his chest— and so did the image of you bent over under that table.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Once night settled and everyone left, you and your best friend were sitting in your car outside your place. She turned the music down and turned to you fully, lifting a leg and tucking it under herself like she always did when she got ready to gossip. 

“Girl.”

You raised an eyebrow, ready to hear whatever off the wall thing she was gonna tell you.

“What?”

“You don’t see how your uncle’s friend been lookin’ at you?” Your eyebrows knitted in confusion; you had no idea what she was talking about. 

“Who? Smoke or Stack?”

“Smoke girl, the real quiet one, quit playin’!” You rolled your eyes immediately and laughed out loud.

“Smoke? Girl, that man is grown as hell. He ain’t lookin’ at me. Have you seen some of the girls that work in his club? It’s big booty central up in there.” Your friend was already shaking her head fervently.

“Uh-uh.  No. He was watchin’ that ass switch the whole time you was bent over gettin’ his phone. I saw him. He was lookin’ at you like he wanted to bend you over his damn self.”

The laugh died in your throat and your joking demeanor faded when you realized she was serious. 

“I’m f’real, girl. That man wants you. Bad. And he lookin’ at you like he knows he ain’t supposed to.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It was a regular Thursday and Smoke was just finishing up some business at the club when his phone rang. He answered without looking but the voice that came through the receiver stopped him cold in his tracks. 

“Hey… you busy?” You asked sheepishly. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, thinking it must be something serious for you to have called him.

“Nothin’ serious. I just… the smoke detector has been beeping all day and it’s driving me nuts. I’m trying to do something for work, and it keeps distracting me. I got the batteries, but I can’t reach the damn thing.” 

Something about the tinge of frustration in your voice and the fact that you called him—not your uncle or one of your little friends, him— tugged at his heart strings. It wasn’t just attraction this time. Now, it was the quiet, unexpected weight of being needed by you. He couldn’t put a name to it, but it sat warm and dangerous in his chest like a badge of honor.

Smoke drummed his fingers against his steering wheel, trying to talk himself out of going over to your place. When he couldn’t think of a reason good enough to turn you down, he turned the engine and headed toward your place. 

Twenty-five minutes later he was knocking on your door, ladder in hand and ready to rescue you. The door opened and there you were, wearing a little spaghetti-strap bodycon dress that hugged all your curves just right and fell gracefully around your ankles, toes perfectly manicured. Bare feet, hair pulled up messily, no makeup. So simple but it landed heavy on Smoke. His eyes dragged over exposed shoulders and down to your hips. The hungry look he gave you made your tummy flip as you stepped to the side to let him in. He couldn’t help but think how pretty a chain with his name on it would look resting against your collar bones.

“Hey,” You exhaled. “Thanks so much for coming. I feel so dumb for calling, but it’s too high up for me. I cannot have this thing beeping incessantly in the back of my conference calls.” 

Smoke chuckled to himself quietly at your use of the word “incessant”. You could’ve just said non-stop, but you always found a way to make the simplest thing sound extraordinary. 

“It’s nothin’. I got it.” He stepped inside and instantly felt comfortable as the smell of your apartment invaded his senses. It smelled like your usual candle and whatever dessert you must have been baking. Too intimate and a little too quiet. 

You led him to your bedroom and pointed up at the fixture like it had personally offended you. Smoke opened his small ladder and climbed up. You left him alone and wandered into the kitchen. He had the batteries changed within 5 minutes, simple and easy. When he stepped down, he finally looked around. Your bed was half made like you’d pulled the sheets up in a hurry and you had a purple duvet on it. 

Damn, that’s a lot of pillows.

He thought to himself. On your dresser was a framed photo of you and your best friend, the girl he’d met on fight night. Smoke drifted closer when he noticed you had books lining your nightstand. Some of them were philosophical, titles he recognized. Others looked like dystopian novels that were half finished, indicated by random bookmarks. 

He was turning to leave when his eyes landed on it. Strewn near one of your pillows was a rose toy. Smoke swallowed hard. It was clear that you hadn’t noticed it— and that it had recently been in use. Smoke stood frozen for a moment, his thoughts betraying him. 

Instantly, a mirage appeared of you in the center of the bed, thighs spread wide and one hand between them. He pictured your pretty mouth falling open on broken moans as you arched your back and rolled your hips closer to your hand. A violent stir in Smoke’s pants snapped him out of his daydream. He shook his head as if he was trying to clear the filthy thoughts before folding his ladder and quickly exiting the room.

When he made his way back to the kitchen to tell you the job was done, you were standing near the counter scrolling on your phone. Sitting on the island in front of an empty stool was a thick slice of chocolate cake and a tall glass of ice water. You looked up and met his eyes when he entered the room. Your face lit up as you gestured to the plate.

“I just frosted it. It’s still a little warm, try it and let me know how it is? It’s a new recipe.”

Smoke couldn’t bring himself to decline. One because you just looked so damn cute with that little pleased smile on your face, and two because he’d been smelling that cake since he walked through the door. He hesitated just long enough for you to take it as a yes. You rounded the counter and patted the stool.

Smoke sat his ladder down and slowly made his way over to you. He lifted his eyebrows in surprise when he looked down at the plate.

“That’s a big ass slice of cake. You gon’ share it with me?” he asked, silently walking over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands.

“Only if you insist.” You said excitedly, pulling a second spoon from your kitchen drawer. Smoke sat down at the counter and watched with amusement as you pulled out the spoon and some napkins. 

“So, you always this quiet or just don’t like talkin’ to me?” you asked as you settled across from him. Smoke’s fingers brushed yours as he took the spoon from you.

“I’m quiet with everybody.” He waited for you to take the first bite and found himself feeling warm and fuzzy when your eyes got wide and rolled back slightly. He followed suit and damn near had the same reaction. It was delicious. 

“Damn girl. ‘Sholl can bake.” He murmured, glancing up at you.

“Mhm.” You tilted your head in satisfaction. “My uncle talks about you like you some sort of legend. Said y’all have known each other since you were young. You always been the quiet one?” A ghost of a smile touched Smoke’s lips.

“Yeah.” He said simply.

“That’s crazy” you leaned over and took another bite of cake. “I feel like I’ve heard so much about you but I really don’t know you. You got brothers? Sisters? What you be doin’ when you not with my uncle or gettin’ drafted into smoke detector duty?”

Most people didn’t ask him questions like this. Usually, they would take one look at the unsmiling, silent— and subtly threatening— way he carried himself, and decided that he wasn’t the type you played 21 questions with. But you didn’t seem to notice, or if you did, you didn’t care. You kept going, small and fearless, like he was any regular man and not somebody half the city treaded easily around. Smoke found himself amused instead of annoyed by the tirade of questions. He never realized you talked so much.

“I got a brother. My twin, you met him.”

You hummed in agreement as you remembered. 

“He’s loud.”

That, Smoke couldn’t deny. He nodded in agreement.

“Y’all so different. He talks enough for the both of y’all”

So do you Smoke thought to himself.

“You got a girl? You be goin’ out or is the club just business? What’s your favorite food? Do you even like cake, or you one of them “I don’t really do sweets” niggas?”

The last question pulled a real, low chuckle from him before he could stop it. The sound pleasantly surprised you and your eyes lit up with amusement. 

“Ohhhh” you pointed with the spoon with a smirk. “So, he does smile.”

Smoke looked away but the corner of his mouth was still tilted upward. The smile wasn’t anything like Stack’s cocky, arrogant grin. It was quieter. Warmer. It made him look younger and softened the lines of his face in a way that made something flutter low in your stomach. He was sexy in a genuine and rare way.

He answered your questions in the order you’d asked them— all except if he was currently seeing anyone. You were still in the middle of talking and making nosey, yet funny, observations about Smoke when a smear of frosting ended up just under your bottom lip. Smoke didn’t think before he acted. He reached out and brushed his thumb under your lip, wiping the frosting away. The contact was light but intimate. You went totally still when he brought the thumb to his own lips and licked the sweetness off. 

Your eyes dropped to lips, and his dropped to yours. Suddenly the air in the room felt thicker and you were much more aware of the scent of his cologne. And for one dangerous, dangerous second, he almost leaned in and closed the little bit of space between the two of you.

Then, the reality of his best friend— your uncle— slammed back into him like a door shutting. Smoke straightened up quickly and reached for his keys. 

“I should go. Thank you for the cake, and the hospitality.”

Your voice was quieter than intended when it came out.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.” He was already moving toward the door before you could protest again. “I got the batteries changed. You should be good to go now.” He didn’t wait for you to walk him out. In fact, he left your place like something was chasing him.

For a full minute, Smoke sat in his truck with his hands tight on the wheel. He could still taste the frosting, and he could still see the way you’d looked at him. 

And— he could still envision you in the center of your bed, head lolled back in ecstasy as you touched yourself. 

Smoke pulled off so fast he nearly hit your trash can on his way out.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next time Smoke found himself at your place, it was because your uncle insisted on checking on you on their way back from handling some business at the club. 

“Swing by my niece spot real quick. I ain’t seen her in a couple days and I wanna check on her. Said she got plates ready for us too.”

Smoke’s hands tightened on the wheel but still, he gave a short nod and turned to make the familiar journey to your place. You opened the door, this time in little shorts and an oversized shirt that was falling off one of your shoulders. You smiled brightly at your uncle as you stepped aside to let him in. The one you gave Smoke was subtler, more private and holding the memory of your last encounter with him.

“I was just about to put on this new movie I rented, come on in.”

Your uncle kissed the top of your head as he walked past and started making himself at home. Smoke followed behind, slower. You made both their plates and made small talk as you served them. Of course, they tore it up in little time. After, it had turned into a movie night without anyone really deciding. 

You took one end of the couch, and Smoke took the other, careful to leave a respectable amount between the two of you. The movie played and flickered soft shadows over the living room. Within twenty minutes of it starting, your uncle was out like a light. 

Smoke kept trying not to look at you and failing. Every few minutes, his eyes drifted over to you. He watched the way you bit down on your bottom lip in anticipation before a jump scare came up. How your legs were crossed, accentuating the fullness of your hips. And every time he caught himself, he forced his gaze back to the t.v. 

Your uncle’s phone ringing disturbed the quiet. He jerked awake and fumbled around for it before answering with a rough voice. Whatever he heard on the other end made him sit up straighter, voice dropping into a sultry register. Most likely one of his many girlfriends.

“Aight, I’m on the way.” He stood, still half asleep and looked over at Smoke. “Can I borrow your car right quick? I gotta go see about something. I’ll bring it back when I’m done.”

Smoke’s stomach dropped. He should have said no or offered to just take your uncle himself. He should have made any excuse to keep him from being left alone with you for an indeterminate amount of time. But instead, he found himself handing over his keys. Your uncle clapped him on the shoulder and thanked him before heading out. 

“Preciate it. Look out for my niece, I’ll be back.”

The door shut behind him and the lock clicked, and suddenly Smoke had a feeling that he may have just made a terribly risky decision.

The movie played for another twenty minutes, and he stayed on his side of the couch, eyes locked on the t.v. like it was the only safe thing to look at. After a while you shifted and stretched your legs, and the soft side of your foot brushed his calf. It was a light touch, but it still sent a tingle up his leg.

“You good over there?”

“Yeah… just tryna understand this movie, I’m lost.” You smiled at him as if you heard more than he’d actually said. 

When the credits started rolling, you both reached for the remote at the same time. Your hands brushed, and instead of pulling away, Smoke slowly turned his palm upward. Waiting. You trailed your fingertips over it and his gaze stayed on your face the whole time. When you finally locked eyes with him, you were the one who leaned in.

The kiss started off hungry without testing or careful exploration. Just your mouth on his, soft and real sure. It was the type of kiss you could tell you’d both been thinking about.

A low sound rumbled from Smoke’s chest and he kissed back harder, one hand already sliding up to the back of your neck. Before he knew it, you were climbing into his lap, backs of your thighs bracketing his like you were meant to be there. He could already feel the heat coming from you through your shorts. He broke the kiss first, chest heaving.

“Yo uncle gon’ kill me and smile in the mugshot, girl. You know he don’t want nobody sniffin’ ‘round you… especially not his best friend who’s the same age as him.”

Your expression was unchanged, and you didn’t get off him. You just stared at him, eyes dark with lust and lips already a little swollen. Smoke’s hands settled comfortably on your hips and his thumbs brushed the soft skin under the hem of your shirt.

“You sure you want this? ‘Cause once we start, ain’t no takin’ it back. And once I’m inside you… I ain’t pullin’ out till it’s messy. You never been with a grown man like me before. It’s gon’ feel different.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and climbed off him. Laying back against the couch cushions, you parted your thighs for him, just enough for him to be able to tell you weren’t wearing panties.

And in that moment— Smoke’s restraint gave in. He dropped to his knees and turned you by your hips so you were facing him. Easily, he dragged your panties and those little shorts down to your ankles. He gently parted your thighs so that you were fully exposed to him and just looked for a second. Arousal was already dripping from your slightly parted lips and Smoke cooed at the sight.

“Even prettier than I thought.” He murmured. When he put his mouth on you, it was unlike anything you’d experienced before. He licked you open with the flat of his tongue and sucked your clit between his lips with steady pressure. When a surprise gasp punched from your chest, he eased in his middle and ring fingers. Stretching you slow and savoring the soft sound your pussy made as it opened up for him. The wet sounds that commenced were immediate and nasty.

Continuously, he curled his fingers against that soft ridge inside you that made your stomach jump. Your back arched hard and a high, broken sound left your throat. He didn’t ease the pressure when your thighs started trembling.

“Look so pretty spread open f’me like this.”

The vibrations from his voice involuntarily made your thighs close around his head. Soft shocked whimpers kept spilling from your lips while he ate you like he had all day and stroked his fingers deep. Spit and your cream mixed together until his lips and chin were shiny with it. He kept up that steady rhythm until your tummy clenched and a long, shaky cry tore form you. Your walls clamped down around his fingers in hard, rhythmic pulses and cream and slick trailed down his wrist. A warm rush flooded your core as the orgasm rolled through you in heavy waves. Smoke kept licking you slowly through every single one, only slowing when your thighs shook too hard and you tried to close your legs.

Only then did he kiss his way up your body, pushing up your shirt as he went. When he finally settled between your thighs, he latched his mouth to your areola. A surprised gasp escaped you and your hands flew to his shoulders. He suckled gently at your nipple while he rubbed the fat head of his dick through your folds, and the mess he’d just made of you. Your pussy clenched around nothing like it needed to be filled again from the sensation. He gave your other breast the same treatment— hot, wet, and slow, before returning to your lips.

“Breathe for me” he watched your face as he started to push past your entrance. “Pretty lil pussy ‘bout to get stuffed full. You gon’ take it for me?” His lips brushed yours before pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. You nodded and stuttered out a soft yes as he slowly stretched you, inch by inch. It was deep and overwhelming in a way that made you both want to push him away and pull him closer. When your thighs tried to close on instinct, he caught the backs of your knees and pinned them open against the couch, keeping you spread while he sank deeper.

“Uh-uh. Keep these pretty thighs open for me. Wanna feel every bit of this soft lil pussy takin’ me.”

He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush to yours. The pressure sat heavy and deep in your stomach, and your mouth fell open on a quiet overwhelmed sound. Your walls kept fluttering around him helplessly and cream was already collecting around the base of his dick, dripping between your cheeks and down to the couch.

His strokes started off slow, letting you feel the ridge of his tip and every vein. Soft sounds kept leaving your throat every time he bottomed out, and your eyes went glassy while your fingers dug into his biceps.

He kept you pinned open for him like that and the wet sounds of your pussy taking him filled the quiet apartment. Your second orgasm built slower this time, and it was drawn out by him dragging the head of his dick over that sensitive bundle of nerves over and over again.

“There it is… look how pretty you look takin’ all this dick. Already cryin' for me and creamin' down my balls. You never had it this deep before, have you?” When the coil in your belly finally snapped, your back arched hard and a loud choked cry came from you. He fucked you through every wave until you were a trembling mess under him, still stuffed full and thighs shiny with the mess he made you make. You were still shaking when the words left your mouth.

“Lemme get on my knees for you.”

Smoke went still and the image slammed into him without warning. The way you looked under the table that day reaching for his phone. Shorts lifting enough for him to make out the curve of your bare ass and soft brown thighs spread. He had pictured this exact position more times than he cared to admit. Quickly, he obliged.

He gently pulled out and turned you on your stomach before tugging your hips up. Your ass was high and your chest was flush to the couch. One hand spanned the small of your back to keep your arch deep while the other wrapped around the base of his dick. He gently nudged your clit with the thick head before pushing back in slowly.

“You sure? 'S gon’ feel real full.” 

When you only pushed back toward him, he sank into you in one slow, heavy thrust and filled you to the hilt. A high, shaky sound left your lips and it was music to Smoke’s ears. Just like he’d imagined. He let out a low, satisfied moan as his hands settled on your hips. He started stroking into you deep, angling in a way that made your stomach jump. The depth started to overwhelm you and your hips twitched forward on instinct trying to ease away. A soft, panicked whimper slipped from you. Smoke felt it immediately.

“Look at you, baby. Makin’ a mess for me already. Look so fuckin’ pretty like this….Stop runnin’ from me. This what you wanted, right?” When you didn’t answer fast enough, his hand came down in a light stinging spank across your right cheek. “Answer me when I talk to you baby”

A startled gasp left your throat and you pushed back to take him deeper.

“Y-yes. I wanted it ju-Ah! Just like this” you whimpered out helplessly. His palm gently rubbed the cheek, massaging away the sting.

“Good girl… keep that arch f’me just like that and take this dick real deep.” His other hand came up and fisted gently in your hair just enough to pull you back onto his dick. He left another spank on your ass as he buried himself deep, grinding the thick head of his dick against that swollen spot deep inside you in slow deliberate circles. A thin string of saliva left his lips and landed right where he was stretching you open. The warm sensation forced a moan from you and you arched deeper for him.

“S-so good Smoke. Thank you for fucking me like this. I love it so m-much.”

Your fingers clenched the cushions under you as he kept stroking. Smoke’s eyebrows furrowed in surprise and a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He never imagined you’d talk to him so filthy, and he loved it. He released the fist in your hair and wrapped both arms around your waist. He pulled you up and back until you were sitting fully on his thighs, spine flush against his broad sweaty chest.

The new position kept him buried deep inside you. You kept fluttering around his length as he bullied himself into your swollen, oversensitive walls. Your thighs were trembling on either side of his and the sweat made everything slippery and hot. Soft, shaky whimpers kept spilling out of you as he stayed deep.

One large hand splayed low on your belly, pressing gently and increasing the pressure in your tummy so you could feel every inch of him. The other hand came up and his fingers wrapped lightly, but possessively, around your throat. He didn’t squeeze, just held you there. Owning. His thumb rested against your pulse, keeping your head tipped back against his shoulder while he rolled his hips in a deep, slow grind. Soft kisses pressed against the side of your face while he murmured in your ear.

“Finally stopped all that runnin’, now you takin’ this dick just like you wanted it.” He kissed you messy and open mouthed, claiming your lips and swallowing your little moans. When he pulled away, you let out a breathless little laugh that turned into another moan.

“This… this the most you ever talked to me.” You managed, voice real shaky. “I—I like your voice.”

Smoke made a low, pleased sound against your ear. He took your wrist gently and guided your hand between your thighs, pressing your fingers against your clit. He moved them in slow steady circles, showing you the exact rhythm he wanted you to use. Then he left your hand there. 

“Keep touchin’ this pretty lil pussy just like that, and I’ll keep talkin’ for you, baby.”

You obeyed, fingers moving in the same slow circles he’d just shown you. The dual sensation of your own touch combined with the thick length of him grinding deep made your body shake harder in his arms. Soft, dazed moans left you and your eyes fluttered as the mixture of your arousal and his pre-cum slicked your fingers. Smoke’s lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“I kept catchin' you lookin’, y’know.” his voice was soft but the words were filthy. “Every time I was sittin’ with my legs spread wide…you’d stare. Thought I didn’t notice? I saw the way them pretty eyes kept droppin’ to my lap.”

He ground deeper and the hand on your throat tightened just enough to make you feel a little lightheaded, in a good way. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto your shoulder.

“This what you was thinkin' 'bout’?” he asked, voice gravelly. “Me holdin’ you real close like this… dick all the way inside this lil pussy…” he nudged just a little deeper on the last word. “Makin’ you take it nice and slow while you shakin’ and creamin’ on me? That what you kept you starin’ at me for?”

When you whimpered in response, he nipped lightly at your earlobe.

“Answer me, mama.”

“Y-yes” you managed. Smoke grunted before trailing the flat of his tongue slowly along the outer curve of your ear. The sensation made your eyes roll back hard and another helpless sound spilled out. A thin string of drool slipped from the corner of your lips.

“Just like that” he murmured. “Keep them lil fingers movin’ like I told you to. Pretty pussy stuffed so full and you just sittin’ here takin’ it and droolin’. And here I thought you was so innocent.”

He rolled his hips again, slow and mean, keeping you locked against his chest as your fingers worked your clit, soft sounds kept leaving your throat. He drew the next orgasm out just as carefully—voice real low and filthy against your ear, until your whole body shook in his lap and a long, trembling cry left you. 

“Keep cummin’ for me, just like that. Told you this grown man dick was different, baby.”

Your walls fluttered and pulsed around him in heavy waves. More cream spilled out around his dick again, making the wet sound even filthier. He held you through every second of it. Hand still possessive on your throat, the other firm on your belly, murmuring praise against your skin while you came. Sweat and spit and cream made everything between you slick and messy. 

The second your body started to soften, Smoke’s rhythm broke. He kept you locked against his chest, head tipped back on his shoulder so you could see the side of his face. His hips stuttered, grinding deep one last time before he barely pulled out. Just enough that the thick, swollen head of his dick slipped free and rested heavy against your soft folds. His hand left your belly only long enough to wrap around himself, stroking fast and tight right against your pussy.

A sound tore out of him that you’d never heard before.

Low, rough, almost wounded, like it had been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest. His head tipped back, jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut for a second before they opened again and locked on yours. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot out across your lower belly and the soft lips of your pussy in messy, heavy stripes. Each pulse made that same raw sound catch in his throat, quieter the second time, then again as another thick spurt landed on your skin.

He kept stroking himself through it, head of his dick dragging through the mess he’d just made on you and hips twitching every time another wave hit. His hand on your throat never loosened, keeping you exactly where he wanted you so you had no choice but to watch him fall apart against you.

When the last weak pulse left him, he stayed there breathing hard, forehead pressed to the side of your face, dick still resting against your messy pussy, and cum cooling on your belly. The only sound in the room for a long second was both of you trying to catch your breath.

“…Fuck” he finally muttered, voice wrecked in a way you’d never heard from him before.

When the last tremors finally faded, he laid your trembling frame on the couch. Still in between your legs, he leaned in and pressed soft, wet kisses to your swollen lips while your pussy clenched around nothing, missing him already.

Eventually, he pushed himself up off the couch, still breathing a little hard. He disappeared down the hallway and came back a moment later with a warm, damp washcloth. You were still stretched out where he’d left you, thighs parted slightly and chest rising and falling.

He sat on the edge of the cushion and started cleaning you softly like you were fragile. The cloth was hot and gentle against your skin as he ran it over the soft inside of your thighs. He wiped away the slick and the faint marks his hands had left. Then he moved between your legs, careful and thorough, making your stomach involuntarily jump. Lastly, he wiped the cloth across your tummy, erasing the thick stripes of his cum from your soft brown skin.

The whole time he barely said anything. He was back to his usual quiet self. His eyes kept drifting up to your face, taking in the soft, blissed-out look in your eyes, the way your lips stayed slightly parted, the gentle bounce of your breasts with every still-uneven breath as your body tried to calm down. Something quiet and tender rested in his expression while he worked.

When he finished, he set the cloth aside and finally met your eyes.

“So what now?” you asked, voice soft and a little raw.

Smoke’s gaze flicked up to yours again and he shifted, settling his larger frame next to you on the couch and pulling you carefully into his chest. One heavy arm wrapped around the small of your back. The other found your hand and gently intertwined your fingers with his.

“Ima get my black ass decent before yo uncle comes in here…” he murmured, thumb stroking slow over your knuckles. “And then...it’s up to you.”

You were quiet for a second. Your cheek rested against his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heart. When you spoke again it was almost a whisper.

“I like you. Wanna see you again.”

Smoke didn’t answer right away. He just pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, lips warm against your skin as he let the words settle between you.

“We gon’ figure it out,” he said finally, voice low and sure. “You worth the trouble, baby.”

And that was enough for now.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌

Everything posted here is written

by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to Al tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.

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[theogbadbitch]

My uncle would just have to accept that his best friend is my man.

[sheabutterrosesandeucalyptuspls]

Nikkithot

[nika324]

I wish my girl would get back into her modeling bag.

The home decor content is cute and whatnot but get to work. 😭😭😭

Ain’t nobody topped this face yet.

[myheartsaysyes]

LOVE HER. 😍

She stopped modeling? I know she had been MIA for minute, but I thought it was because she had her third baby.

[nika324]

@myheartsaysyes she hasn’t modeled for a bit, sista. 😔 ain’t been on youtube either.

All of her current content is mommyhood and home decor which is great but we need her on the runway and photoshoots. Her sister, Duckie, has been quiet too.

[myheartsaysyes]

The Kissing Booth

Summary: Annie's sorority picks a kissing booth for their university Spring carnival. Smoke swears he's completely fine with it.... He is not.

A/N: Based off a prompt list by @sunshinerepublic. Just fluffy goodness. I've been wanting to write a D9 Annie x Smoke fic for so long...this is my first run. As you can tell by the colors and images...yes I made Annie an AKA, cause DUH. It's THE best sorority. 🤭 And Smoke kind of reminds me of an Alpha. This was written in a day and off the dome, so if it sucks....lie to me. 🙃

By the time Annie realized they had spent twenty-three minutes arguing about funnel cake, she was beginning to regret volunteering to chair the carnival committee herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust her sorority sisters.

She did.

Mostly.

But the Phi Upsilon Chapter of Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated had a way of turning even the smallest decision into something that required testimony, rebuttal, side commentary, and at least one person loudly insisting that everybody else was missing the point.

“This is exactly why we should’ve just done food,” Nia said from the second row, one hand lifted like she was addressing Congress instead of twenty-seven women packed into a classroom on the third floor of the student union. “Everybody buys food at a carnival.”

“Everybody sells food at a carnival,” Jasmine shot back.

“Not funnel cake.” “There are three funnel cake booths already.” “Three?”

Annie looked down at the sheet clipped to the front of her binder. “Four, actually.”

That earned a chorus of groans. She leaned one hip against the desk at the front of the room and adjusted the pink-and-green pen tucked between her fingers. The meeting had started ten minutes late because half the chapter had come in carrying iced coffees and apologies. They had already handled service-hour updates, next month’s scholarship luncheon, new-member mentoring assignments, and a reminder that nobody was to leave the storage closet looking like it had been hit by a tornado again. The spring carnival booth should have taken fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Instead, they were nearing forty, and Annie could feel the beginning of a headache forming right behind her left eye.

“Okay,” she said, lifting her voice just enough to cut through the overlapping conversation. “Can we please remember the actual problem?”

The room gradually quieted. Somewhat. Someone in the back was still whispering. Annie waited until the whispering stopped.

“Thank you.” She glanced at the paper again. “Student Activities is approving booths in the order they’re submitted, and we’re already behind. The Kappas turned theirs in yesterday.”

That immediately got somebody’s attention. “What they doin’?”

Annie’s mouth twitched. “Some kind of challenge booth.”

“What does that mean?” “It means Stack helped plan it.”

The room erupted.

“Chile…” “What he propose? A who-can-eat-it-better challenge?” “Danielle!”

Danielle lifted her hands sheepishly. “Just askin’.”

Annie laughed despite herself. “Basketball, dominoes, whatever else they can convince people to pay to compete in. They’re calling it Beat a Nupe.”

“Corny as fuck.” “Very.” “Still gonna make money.” “Unfortunately.”

Annie made a note beside their name. “The Alphas are doin’ a dunk tank.”

That got a different reaction. Heads came up. Brows lifted. A few smiles appeared that Annie did not trust at all.

“A dunk tank?” “Yes.” “With who sittin’ in it?” “I don’t know.” “Which Alphas?” “I said I don’t know.” “Is Smoke doin’ it?”

Annie looked up slowly.

The room broke apart before she even answered.

“Oh, she mad.” “She is answerin’ that.” “President Landry, this is relevant information.” “It’s not relevant information.” “It is to attendance.”

Annie pointed her pen at them. “Y’all ain’t about to turn my boyfriend into a marketing strategy.”

“Too late.” “Girl, if Smoke gets in that tank, the Alphas hittin’ their goal by noon.”“Exactly.”

Annie pressed her lips together. She hated that they might be right. Elijah had the unfortunate problem of attracting attention without ever seeming to notice it. Or maybe he noticed and simply didn’t care. Annie had never figured out which one was worse. He could walk across campus in gray sweats and an old fraternity hoodie and somehow have women finding reasons to look twice. He barely smiled at anybody. Rarely flirted. Usually looked like he would rather be left alone.

It didn't matter.

Apparently mystery was a public service.

“Anyway,” Annie said pointedly, dragging the conversation back before somebody suggested ticket presales for throwing balls at her man. “The Deltas are doing a sweet shop.”

“Of course they are.” “Red velvet?”

Annie checked the sheet. “Red velvet, strawberry shortcake cups, candy apples, lemonade.”

“Okay, so they came to win.”

“Exactly. Which is why we need to decide.” Annie continued. “Zetas haven’t submitted yet. Omegas are doing a step challenge. Student Government has the photo booth. The international student association has games. Nursing is doing blood-pressure checks, which is somehow very on brand and also deeply boring.”

“They doin’ blood pressures at a carnival?” “Apparently.” “Who gettin’ their blood pressure checked after eating fried Oreos?”“Somebody’s mama.”

That made Annie laugh again. She capped her pen and set it across the binder. “So. We need something that actually makes money, doesn’t require us buyin’ five hundred dollars’ worth of supplies, and isn’t already taken.”

Nia raised her hand.

“No funnel cake,” Annie deadpanned.

“No funnel cake.” “Bake sale?”

“No,” Jasmine stated flatly.

“We did that last year.” “And barely broke even.” “We broke even because Monique ate half the brownies.” “I was stressed!” “You was hungry!”

Laughter moved through the room.

Annie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Next.”

“Ring toss?” “Taken.” “Face painting?” “Fine, but who in here can paint?”

Several people looked at Jasmine.

Jasmine recoiled. “Why everybody lookin’ at me?”

“You did that mural.” “That was lettering. I cannot draw on nobody’s face.” “Car wash.” “No.” “Why?” “‘Cause I ain’t washin’ anybody’s car in April humidity.” “You live in Mississippi.” “That doesn’t mean I have accepted it.”

Another round of laughter.

Annie let them go for a few seconds before checking the clock again. They really did need to decide. She had promised the chapter advisor the form would be submitted tonight, and Annie hated missing deadlines almost as much as she hated people who responded to group emails with questions that had already been answered in the original email.

“All right,” she said. “Other options.”

A hand rose from the back.

Annie recognized the expression before the words even came. “No.” “You don’t even know what I’m gonna say.” “Yes, I do.”

Kiki smiled. “Kissing booth.”

The room exploded. Half the chapter started talking at once. Annie immediately shook her head. “Nope.”

“Why not?” “Because.” “Because why?” “Because no.” “That’s not very presidential.” “It is when I’m the president.” “You just abusin’ power now.”

Annie laughed and crossed her arms. “I ain’t havin’ y’all out there lettin’ random dudes kiss you.”

“They wouldn’t kiss us.”

Annie looked at Kiki.

Kiki shrugged. “We kiss them.”

“And that’s better?” “It kind of is.” “How?” “Control.”

A few women nodded solemnly like this was a serious business proposal. Annie stared at them. “You cannot be serious.”

Jasmine leaned forward. “Wait. She got a point.”

“No.” “Listen.” “I don’t want to listen.” “Annie.”

She sighed.

Jasmine sat straighter. “Not on the mouth.”

“Obviously.” “Cheeks only.” “Still.” “And we set levels.”

That slowed Annie down. “Levels?”

“Yeah. Like five dollars gets you a lipstick kiss on a paper heart.”

Nia snapped her fingers. “That’s cute.”

“Ten gets a kiss on the hand.” “Okay.” “Twenty gets cheek.”

The room went quiet for half a second. Then someone said, “Twenty-five.”

Another woman immediately shook her head. “Too high.”

“Men are stupid as hell.” “That don’t mean they have money.” “Twenty.” “Twenty is perfect.”

Annie opened her mouth. Nobody noticed. They were building the entire booth without her.

“We can decorate it pink and green.” “Of course.” “Little paper hearts everywhere.” “Disposable lipstick applicators.” “Sanitizer.” “Sanitizer is a must.”

“And rules,” Annie cut in. That finally brought several faces back to her. She hated that she was already participating in the planning.

Kiki smiled slowly. “Oh, so we considerin’ it now?”

“I didn’t say that.” “You asked about rules.” “Because if y’all are goin’ to keep talkin’ about it, somebody needs to inject common sense into the conversation.” “Same thing.”

“No, it ain’t.” Annie uncrossed her arms and picked up the pen again. “If this were even somethin’ we entertained, nobody gets to touch anybody. Period.”

“Agreed.” “No arms around waists.” “Yep.” “No grabbing faces.” “Obviously.” “No trying to turn your head at the last second.”

That earned immediate disgust.

“Ooh, yeah.” “Absolutely not.”

“They do that and they’re done.”

“Security.” “We don’t need security.” “We got Alphas.”

The room went suspiciously quiet. Annie looked up. Every face was innocent. Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”

Nobody said anything.

“That includes Smoke.”

That made them laugh.

“He ain’t security?” “He ain’t standin’ beside our booth intimidating customers.” “He wouldn’t have to say nothin’.” “Exactly.”

Annie tried not to smile. That was unfortunately true too. She wrote another note. “Every sister chooses whether she wants to participate. Nobody has to do cheek kisses if they’re not comfortable. Nobody has to work the booth at all if they’re not comfortable.”

Heads nodded.

“And nobody does anything beyond what’s on the sign because somebody offers more money.”

That earned a louder round of agreement.

“We fundraisin’. We not out here sellin’ ass.”

Nia covered her mouth. “Annie!”

“What?” “Sellin’ ass, really?” “I said what I said.”

They all were still laughing when Annie checked the clock again. “Okay. Enough. We’ve officially spent too much time on this.”

“But it would make money.” “I know.” “A lot of money.” “I know.” “People would come just because it’s us.” “That right there is why nobody likes us.” “You a damn lie. Everybody loves us.” “Pretty girls.”

A few women answered automatically. “Wear Twenty Pearls.”

“Period.”

The room broke into smiles. Annie shook her head. This was why meetings took forever. She looked down at the list they had built on the whiteboard. Bake sale. Ring toss. Face painting. Trivia wheel. Kissing booth. Not one option had unanimous support. And she could already feel another debate trying to start.

“Okay.” Nobody heard her. “Okay.” Still talking.

Annie picked up the wooden gavel their advisor had given her as a joke at the beginning of the semester and knocked it once against the desk. The crack snapped through the room. Every head turned.

She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

Someone muttered, “She been waiting all semester to use that.”

Annie ignored her. “We’re voting.”

Groans and cheers came at the same time.

“No more arguments. No more speeches. No more trying to convince people that funnel cake is somehow innovative.”

Nia sucked her teeth.

“Let it go.” “I’m tryin’.”

Annie began reading the options one by one, hands going up around the room as votes were counted. Bake sale disappeared quickly. Face painting did better than expected. Trivia almost won. Then Annie reached the final option. She looked at the room. Several women were already grinning.

Annie sighed. “Kissing booth.”

Hands shot into the air. Too many. Far too many. She counted once. Then again because she hoped she had somehow gotten it wrong. She hadn’t.

A cheer broke out. Annie closed her eyes. “Y’all get on my nerves.”

“We’re gonna make money!” “We better.” “Wait till the Kappas hear.” “Why the Kappas?” “You know why.” “They better bring cash.” “They will.”

Annie wrote the final tally beside the option and circled it. “Fine. Kissing booth wins.”

The cheering got louder.

She pointed the pen at them again. “With rules.”

“Yes, Madam President.” “With a schedule.” “Yes, Madam President.” “And if anybody act stupid, I am shutting the whole thing down.” “Yes, Madam President.”

Annie stared at them until the smiles widened. She already knew she was going to regret this. Not because of the booth. Not even because half the campus was going to enjoy this far more than necessary. No. The problem was that in approximately two hours she was going to have to tell Smoke. And while Annie loved her boyfriend deeply, completely, and with a level of patience that had been tested by everything from his habit of answering serious questions with one word to his conviction that folded laundry could remain in a basket indefinitely as long as it was technically clean, she knew one thing with absolute certainty.

Elijah “Smoke” Moore was going to say he was fine. He was going to mean it too.

At first.

He was at the kitchen table when she told him. Smoke’s apartment always felt quieter when Stack wasn’t home. Not actually quiet—the old refrigerator hummed, somebody upstairs dropped something heavy every fifteen minutes, and music from a passing car occasionally rattled the windows—but quieter in the way any room became quieter when Elias Moore wasn’t occupying it.

Annie sat cross-legged in one of the dining chairs with her laptop open in front of her, though she had stopped pretending to work almost ten minutes ago. Smoke was across from her. Economics textbook open. Notebook beside it. Black T-shirt. Gray sweats. One hand resting against his jaw while he read something on the page with the same concentration he brought to everything, as though the textbook had personally challenged him.

She had been waiting for a natural opening. None came. Smoke could sit in silence for an unreasonable amount of time and consider that companionship. She loved that about him. Usually. Tonight it was inconvenient. She tapped one fingernail against the edge of her laptop. He didn’t look up. She did it again. Still nothing.

“Smoke.” “What’s up.” “We picked our carnival booth.”

His eyes stayed on the page. “What y’all doin’?”

There it was. An opening. Annie drew a breath. “Kissing booth.”

His pen stopped. Just once. Barely noticeable. Then continued.

Annie watched him write something in the margin and waited.

Nothing.

“Elijah.” “What?” “You heard me?” “Yeah.” “And?”

He finally looked up. “And what?”

Annie stared at him. His expression was completely neutral.

Too neutral.

“We’re doin’ a kissing booth.” “I heard you.” “And you okay with that?”

One eyebrow lifted. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Annie leaned back. She had prepared for at least a look. A question. A pause longer than half a second. Something. Instead, Smoke lowered his eyes to the textbook again.

She narrowed hers. “You actin’ weird.”

“I’m readin’.” “No, before that.” “I was readin’ then too.” “Smoke.”

His mouth moved faintly at one corner. That almost-smile irritated her more than an argument would have.

“You think this is funny?” “A little.” “Why?” “’Cause you waitin’ on me to be mad.” “I’m not waitin’ on you to be mad.”

He looked at her. Annie held his gaze for three seconds. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

“Mhm.”

She closed the laptop halfway. “Well, I just wanted to tell you before the carnival. Because I didn’t want you showin’ up Saturday and seein’ it and thinkin’ I hid it from you.”

“You ain’t hide it.” “Nope.” “So we good.” “We good?” “Yeah.”

Annie studied him. He looked genuinely unbothered. That should have relieved her. Instead, it made her suspicious. “You want to know how it works?”

He shrugged. “If you wanna tell me.”

She ignored the casualness. “Five dollars is a lipstick kiss on a paper heart.”

Nothing.

“Ten is a kiss on the hand.”

Still nothing.

“Twenty is a kiss on the cheek.”

His eyes lifted. “Twenty?”

Annie smiled. “See!”

He frowned. “What?” “You do care.” “I asked how much.” “‘Cause you care.” “I asked ’cause twenty dollars for a kiss on the cheek is fuckin’ crazy.” “It’s for charity.” “Still crazy.” “Apparently your brothers think women are going to pay money to throw baseballs at y’all, so maybe don’t judge.” “That ain’t my booth.” “It’s literally the Alpha booth.” “I ain’t plan it.” “You participatin’.”

Smoke looked back down. “Maybe.”

Annie sat straighter. “Maybe?”

He had been deliberately vague about that all week.

“Elijah.” “What?” “Are you gettin’ in the dunk tank?” “Don’t know.” “Who knows?” “Chapter.” “You are chapter.”

He shrugged.

Annie stared. “You get on my nerves.”

“Mhm.”

She pushed her laptop aside and got out of the chair. Smoke glanced up as she walked around the table. She stopped beside him and leaned one hip against the edge.

“So let me understand this.”

He looked at her.

“You’re completely fine with me kissin’ other men.”

His expression changed. Not much. But enough to where Annie caught it instantly..

Smoke leaned back in the chair. “On the cheek.”

“Right.” “That’s what you said.” “Yes.” “So.” “So you fine.” “Yeah.”

Annie nodded slowly. Then smiled. “Wow.”

His eyes narrowed. “What?”

“Nothin’. I’m impressed.” “By what?” “How mature you are.”

He stared at her. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Whatever that is.”

Annie laughed. “I’m serious.”

“No, you ain’t.” “I am. You are secure. Confident. Emotionally evolved.” “Bro.” “My man has grown up.”

He caught her wrist when she tried to step away. She laughed again as he pulled her between his knees.

“You play too much, bruh.” “I’m proud of you.” “You gon’ be proud somewhere else in a minute.” “No, I like it right here.”

His hands found her hips. Annie rested hers on his shoulders. She liked him like this. Relaxed. At home. No fraternity obligations. No classes. No work-study shift. No Stack barging into conversations with commentary nobody requested. Just Elijah. She bent and kissed his forehead. His hands tightened lightly against her sides.

“You really okay?” she asked, quieter now.

His eyes lifted to hers. “Yes, woman.”

She searched his face. “You would tell me if you weren’t?”

“Yeah.”

That answer came too easily. Annie gave him a look. “Elijah.”

He sighed. “I would.”

“Okay.”

She accepted it— Mostly. Then she smiled again. “Besides, it’s not like they kissin’ me.”

His brows drew together. “What?”

Annie slid her fingers along the back of his neck. “I’m kissin’ them.”

He went still. She felt it immediately. Not enough that anyone else would have noticed. But Annie knew him. She knew the smallest pauses. The barely there changes in his breathing. The way his eyes became more focused when something had landed differently than expected.

She bit the inside of her cheek. “Elijah?”

He stared at her. “That’s different.”

Annie burst out laughing. “How?”

“I thought they was kissin’ your cheek.” “No.” “So you leanin’ over kissin’ niggas?” “They’re cheeks.” “Still.” “Oh my God.” “You made it sound different." “I told you it was a kissing booth!” “Yeah, but—” “But what?”

He stopped. Annie waited. His mouth pressed into a line.

She laughed harder. “Smoke.” “Ain’t shit funny.” “It’s a little funny.”

His hands slid away from her hips. “Go finish your work.”

“No.” “Annie.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck. “You said you were emotionally evolved.”

“I ain’t say that. You said that.” “And now?” “Now you annoyin’ me.”

She kissed his cheek. Once. Soft. Quick. Exactly the kind of kiss they were talking about.

Smoke looked at her.

Annie smiled innocently. “That one was free.”

His eyes narrowed.

She kissed the other cheek. “Another freebie.”

“Keep playin’.” “Twenty dollars each on Saturday.”

He reached for her. Annie squealed and slipped away before he could catch her, circling the table while he looked at her like he was deciding whether standing up was worth it.

She grabbed her laptop. “Study, baby.”

“Yeah.” “I love you.” “Mhm.” “You love me too?”

He looked down at his book again. “Sometimes.”

Annie smiled all the way back to the couch. For the rest of the night, Smoke didn’t mention the kissing booth again. Not once. He finished reading. Closed his textbook. Helped her with a statistics problem she had been pretending not to struggle with. Ordered food. Argued with Stack over the phone about who had eaten the last of something in the refrigerator. And made love.

He walked Annie to her car close to midnight and stood beside the driver’s door while she dug through her purse for her keys. Everything was normal. When Annie rose onto her toes and kissed him goodnight, Smoke caught her at the waist and pulled her closer. The kiss lasted longer than she expected. Not enough to make her late getting home. Enough to make her smile against his mouth.

When they separated, she looked up at him. “What was that for?”

He opened her car door. “Nothin’.”

She laughed. “Goodnight, Smoke.”

“Text me when you get home.” “I always do.”

He waited until she pulled out of the lot before heading back upstairs. The apartment was empty when he walked in. Stack still wasn’t home. Smoke locked the door behind himself, went into his room, changed, turned off the light, and got into bed. For several minutes, he stared at the ceiling. There was nothing wrong with a kissing booth. It was a fundraiser. For charity. Annie had explained the rules. Nobody was touching her. Nobody was kissing her.

She was kissing— His eyes opened. He rolled onto his side. Closed them again. Random ass niggas sittin’ in front of her face. Smiling. Waiting. Annie leaning down. Those full pillow soft lips touching their faces— Smoke opened his eyes again. His mouth flattened.

Saturday suddenly felt very far away. And for the first time since Annie had told him about the carnival, a thought arrived with perfect, irritating clarity.

Fuck nah.

By 11:30 Saturday morning, Annie had already changed her mind about the kissing booth twice. The first time was while taping a strand of paper hearts across the front of the table and realizing that every single one had been cut slightly crooked. The second was when Kiki showed up carrying a plastic storage bin filled with lipsticks, glosses, disposable applicators, blotting sheets, hand sanitizer, mints, baby wipes, and what appeared to be enough pink tissue paper to wrap a small car.

Annie stared into the bin. “Why do we have this much stuff?”

Kiki set it on the folding table with a satisfied thump. “Because we are professionals.”

“At what?” “Fundraising.” “This looks like a backstage dressing room.” “Exactly.”

Annie shook her head and reached for the laminated price sign propped against one of the chairs. They had spent most of Thursday night making it. Actually, they had spent most of Thursday night arguing about fonts. Annie had wanted something simple. Nia had insisted simple was boring. Jasmine had somehow introduced rhinestones into the discussion. By the time they were done, the sign had a pink border, green lettering, lipstick marks in every corner, and enough glitter sealed beneath the laminate to catch sunlight from halfway across the quad.

At the top, in bold cursive letters, it read:

KISSES FOR A CAUSE

Underneath: $5 — Lipstick Kiss on a Paper Heart $10 — Kiss on the Hand $20 — Kiss on the Cheek

And beneath that, in smaller but extremely deliberate print: NO TOUCHING. NO TURNING YOUR HEAD. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Annie had added the last line herself. Jasmine had added a tiny heart beside it. Annie had removed the heart. Jasmine had put it back. Some battles were not worth fighting.

The carnival stretched across nearly the entire center of campus. White tents lined the walkways between the student union and the library. Bright banners snapped softly in the warm breeze, and music rolled from speakers near the main stage, mixing with bursts of laughter, fraternity chants, children shrieking from somewhere near the inflatable obstacle course, and the occasional amplified announcement from Student Activities reminding everybody that parking behind the science building was not, in fact, carnival parking. The air smelled like sugar, grease, sunscreen, and grass already warming beneath the noon sun.

Annie loved it. She always did. Spring carnival had been one of her favorite campus traditions since freshman year, partly because everybody seemed to emerge from whatever cave midterms had shoved them into and remember that college could actually be fun.

Professors brought their families. Students wore organization shirts and Greek letters. People wandered from booth to booth carrying lemonade, fried Oreos, funnel cake, snow cones, and paper plates stacked with things no one should reasonably eat before dinner.

The Divine Nine had taken over the east side of the quad. The Omegas were already yelling about something near their step challenge. The Deltas had a line for their sweet shop before they had even officially opened. The Kappas had taken up an obnoxious amount of space near the basketball court for Beat a Nupe, complete with a handmade scoreboard and a microphone that Annie already regretted them having access to.

She had heard Stack over it twice. The carnival hadn’t even started. The Alphas were directly across the quad from them. Which Annie had tried not to think too much about. Tried being the important word.

“Girl.”

Annie looked up. Nia was standing beside her with both hands on her hips.

“What?” “You have been starin’ over there for like thirty seconds.” “I have not.” “You have.” “I was checkin’ setup.” “Whose setup?”

Annie gave her a look.

Nia smiled. “Exactly.”

Annie turned back to the table. “I’m literally the president. I’m supposed to know what’s going on.”

“With the Alphas?” “With everybody.” “Mhm.”

Annie ignored her.

Across the quad, several Alpha brothers were dragging a long folding table into place beside the dunk tank. Their setup was simpler than theirs. Black-and-gold banner. Ticket bucket. Hand-painted sign.

DUNK AN ALPHA. Five dollars for three throws. Ten dollars for seven.

Annie could already hear women laughing around the booth. Of course. She leaned farther to the side. Smoke wasn’t in the tank. Good. Not that she cared. She was simply observing. As president. For organizational purposes.

“Still looking.” “Go put the paper hearts out.”

Nia laughed and did as she was told. Annie busied herself arranging the table. She had decided on a pale pink AKA T-shirt tucked into high-waisted denim shorts, white sneakers, gold hoops, and her hair pulled away from her face in a high curly ponytail. Most of the chapter had coordinated around some version of pink, green, denim, and white, which made the booth look even more put together than Annie had expected.

They had six sisters assigned to the first shift. Three would handle the actual kisses. One would take money. One would manage the paper hearts. One would stand nearby pretending not to be crowd control. Annie had assigned herself wherever she was needed. Because she was president. And because she did not trust half of them to remember to replenish sanitizer.

“Madam President!”

Annie turned. Jasmine was coming toward them carrying a large pink poster board over her head. “What is that?”

“Our goal.”

She lowered it: $2,500.

Annie stared. “Two thousand five hundred dollars?”

“Yes.” “We said fifteen hundred.” “That was before we saw how fine as fuck we look today.”

Annie closed her eyes. “Jaz.”

“What?” “You can’t create a fundraisin’ goal based on attractiveness.” “Why not?” “‘Cause that’s not a metric.” “It is today.”

Kiki leaned around Annie. “Twenty-five hundred is doable.”

“With what math?” “Twenty dollars a cheek.” “That’s not math.” “Girl math.”

Annie laughed despite herself. “Y’all exhaust me.” “Leadership is sacrifice.” “Apparently.”

A voice came through the Kappa microphone across the lawn.

“GOOD MORNING, GOOD PEOPLE—”

Annie groaned.

Stack.

His voice carried across half the quad. “Beat a Nupe is officially open for business! Think you can shoot? Think you can play dominoes? Think you can embarrass one of these handsome men in public?”

Several women screamed.

Stack paused. “See? They get it.”

Annie shook her head.

Nia cupped her hands around her mouth. “BOOOOO!”

Stack heard her. Somehow. His head turned. He spotted the AKA booth and lifted the microphone. “Hold on now. Was that hostility comin’ from the Pretty Girls from Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority? Can’t be.”

The booth erupted in boos.

Annie put both hands over her face. “No.”

“Oh, I know y’all not booin’ us when y’all out here selling pus—kisses!”

The girls around Annie screamed louder.

“STACK!”

He grinned from across the quad. “Respectfully.”

“Give me that microphone!”

Someone near him tried. Stack dodged. Annie was laughing harder now. This was exactly how the day was going to go. Loud. Messy. Fun. Probably exhausting. Then a shadow crossed the table.

“Y’all open yet?”

Annie looked up. A freshman boy stood there. She recognized him vaguely from one of the biology labs. He looked nervous. Too nervous. The carnival technically did not start for another seven minutes.

Annie glanced at the time. “Not yet.”

“Oh.”

His face fell.

One of the girls beside her whispered, “Damn.”

Annie elbowed her.

The boy looked at the sign again. Then at Annie. Then at the sign. “Can I come back?”

Kiki answered before Annie could. “Absolutely.”

He nodded too quickly and disappeared into the crowd. Annie watched him go. Then slowly turned toward her sisters.

“No.” “What?” “No.”

Kiki was already laughing. “That boy was sweet.”

“That boy looked like he was about to pass out.” “He probably was.” “This is goin’ to be a disaster.” “It’s goin’ to be profitable.”

Annie opened her mouth.

A hand touched the small of her back. She knew who it was before she turned. Smoke stood beside her. And just like that, every thought she had been having disappeared. He wore a black Alpha T-shirt with gold lettering across the chest, dark jeans, sneakers, and sunglasses on his head. Nothing special. Nothing he hadn’t worn a hundred times.

Still.

Annie hated men sometimes. Specifically this one. He looked good as hell without even trying, which felt disrespectful considering how much time she had spent deciding between two pairs of shorts that morning.

His hand stayed at her waist. “You good?”

Annie smiled. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

She leaned into him automatically. He bent and kissed her. Quick. Easy. Right on the mouth.

Nia made a dramatic choking sound behind them.

Annie pulled away and turned. “Do you need somethin’?”

“Nope.” “Then find somethin’ to do.”

Nia saluted. “Yes, Madam President.”

Smoke’s mouth twitched.

Annie looked back at him. “You’ve been here long?”

“Twenty minutes.” “And you didn’t come say hi?” “Was settin’ up.” “Mhm.”

His eyes moved over the booth. The decorations. The hearts. The sign. Then stopped.

Annie waited. His gaze stayed on the price list longer than necessary. She folded her arms. “You’ve seen this before.”

“Nah.” “Yes, you have. I told you everythin’ on it.” “Telling me ain’t seein’ it.”

He read the sign again. Then the rules. His expression relaxed by maybe half a degree.

Annie noticed. “You approve?”

He looked at her. “Of what?”

“The rules.” “I ain’t say nothin’.” “You don’t have to.”

Smoke glanced toward the crowd moving through the carnival. Then back at the booth. “How long you workin’?”

“First shift. Then I’m floatin’.” “How long is first shift?” “An hour and a half.”

His brows lifted.

“What?” “Nothin’.” “Why’d you make that face?” “What face?” “That one.” “I ain’t make a face.”

Annie smiled. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing a person well enough to catch lies nobody else would even recognize as lies.

“You look cute when you pretend not to care.”

His hand dropped from her waist. “Here you go.”

She laughed and caught his wrist before he could step away. “Where are you goin’?”

“Back to my booth.” “Are you gettin’ dunked?” “No.”

The answer came too fast. Annie’s smile widened. “Elijah.”

“No.” “Why not?” “Don’t feel like it.” “You told me maybe.” “Changed my mind.”

She looked over his shoulder. Several of his fraternity brothers were standing near the tank. One of them caught Annie’s eye. Smiled. Then pointed directly at Elijah. After that, he pointed at the dunk tank.

Annie looked back at her boyfriend. “Oh.”

Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“You’re scheduled.” “No, I ain’t.” “Yes, you are.” “No.”

Behind him, one of the Alphas called out, “Smoke! One o’clock!”

Smoke closed his eyes.

Annie burst out laughing. “ONE O’CLOCK!”

“I heard you.” “You said you weren’t doin’ it.” “I’m not.”

His brother yelled again. “President said everybody takin’ a turn!”

Smoke slowly turned his head. “Mufucka, shut up.”

Annie laughed harder. “Oh, this is wonderful.”

“Ain’t shit funny.” “It is.”

His gaze dropped to her. “You got jokes now.” “I always have jokes.” “Mhm.”

She reached up and straightened the front of his shirt. “So one o’clock?”

“No.” “One.” “No.”

She smiled sweetly. “I’ll come watch.”

“That supposed to help?” “Absolutely not.”

Before he could answer, somebody called Annie’s name from behind the booth. She turned.

Jasmine was holding up the cash box. “We need you!”

Annie sighed. “Duty calls.”

Smoke looked past her toward the growing crowd. Then back down at her. “Text me if you need somethin’.”

“I will.”

He started to step away. Annie caught the front of his shirt. He looked down. She kissed him again. Longer this time. Not inappropriate. Just enough to make one of her sisters whistle behind them. Smoke’s hand came back to her waist.

When Annie pulled away, she smiled. “That should hold you.”

His eyes stayed on her mouth for a second. “From what?”

“Being emotionally unevolved.”

He stared.

She grinned. “Bye, baby.”

Smoke shook his head and walked away. Annie watched him cross the quad. His shoulders loose. Hands in his pockets. Completely calm. Totally fine. At least from the back. She smiled to herself and returned to the booth.

The carnival officially opened three minutes later. For the first ten minutes, things went smoothly. A few women bought paper kisses. Two little girls came by with their mother and paid five dollars each to get pink lipstick hearts for their scrapbooks. A professor donated twenty dollars and refused a kiss altogether.

Then a group of Kappas showed up. Of course they did. They came in a pack. Stack at the front. Sunglasses on. Kappa shirt. Confidence entirely undeserved.

Annie saw them coming and immediately pointed across the quad. “No.”

Stack looked offended. “We ain’t even done nothin’.”

“You about to.” “That’s profiling.” “That’s experience.”

He stopped in front of the sign and read it. Then nodded slowly. “Twenty dollars.”

Annie stared at him. “For what?”

“Cheek.” “No.”

His mouth fell open. “You can’t deny a donor.”

“I can.” “Your sign does not say that.” “It does now.”

Stack looked around. “Witnesses?”

Every sorority sister nearby was trying not to laugh.

He pressed a hand to his chest. “I came here to support my sisters.”

“You got the Deltas, Zetas, and the Sigmas over there, go support them.” “This is crazy.” “You have your own booth.” “My own booth don’t offer kisses.” “Sounds like a personal problem.”

Stack leaned closer. “What if I request somebody else?”

Annie waved toward Kiki. “Please do.”

Kiki recoiled. “Why me?”

“You wanted this booth. And…” Annie began in a teasing manner, “you should be very familiar with those cheeks.”

Kiki gasped.

Stack smiled wide. “I got twenty.”

Kiki narrowed her eyes. “You get cheek only.” “That’s what I paid for.” “Hands to yourself.” “I’m a gentleman.”

Every woman at the table laughed. Kiki kissed his cheek. Quick.

Stack touched the spot. “Worth every penny.”

Annie rolled her eyes.Then noticed Smoke across the quad. Watching. He stood near the Alpha booth talking to one of his fraternity brothers, body angled toward them, sunglasses on. But his head was turned. Just enough. Annie looked at him. He looked away. Her mouth twitched.

Interesting.

A few more customers came through. Mostly for paper hearts. A handful of hand kisses. Then the first man paid twenty dollars for Annie. She didn’t think anything of it. At least not at first. He was tall, probably a junior. She recognized him from around campus but couldn’t place his name.

He smiled. “You Annie?”

She blinked. “Yes.”

“Twenty.” He held out the bill.

Jasmine took it before Annie could.

“Cheek kiss?” “Yeah.”

Annie smiled politely. “All right.”

The guy leaned slightly toward her. Annie stepped closer, he turned his face, and she pressed a brief kiss to his cheek. Barely a second.

She stepped back. “Thank you for donating.”

He grinned. “Anytime.”

Annie laughed politely. He walked away. She reached for sanitizer. And then she felt it. A stare. Not from the customer. From across the quad. She looked up. Smoke was no longer pretending to be engaged in conversation. He was looking directly at her. Sunglasses pushed up again. Expression unreadable.

Annie froze for half a second. Then smiled. He didn’t smile back.

Oh. Oh, no.

Jasmine leaned beside her. “Why Smoke lookin’ over here like somebody stole somethin’?”

Annie bit the inside of her cheek. “He’s fine.”

“Is he?” “Yes.”

Across the quad, Smoke was still staring. Jasmine followed Annie’s gaze. Then slowly looked back at her. “Annie.”

“He said he was fine.” “Girl.” “He did.”

Jasmine’s eyes widened with delight. “Oh, this is about to be good.”

Annie tried not to laugh, because she loved Smoke. She did. And she would never intentionally make him uncomfortable. But there was something deeply, deeply funny about the fact that three nights ago he had sat across from her at his kitchen table acting like she was ridiculous for even asking whether this would bother him. Now one man had gotten a kiss on the cheek. ONE. And Smoke looked like he had just discovered an entirely new category of bullshit.

Annie picked up the hand sanitizer. “Don’t start.”

“I ain’t said nothin’.” “You thinkin’ loudly.”

Jasmine laughed. Another customer stepped forward. Twenty-dollar bill already in hand. Annie looked at him. Then, despite herself, looked across the quad. Smoke was still there. Watching. Her lips twitched.

Oh, this was absolutely going to be a problem.

The second customer was worse. Not because he did anything wrong. That was the irritating part. He walked up, paid his twenty dollars, read the sign, kept his hands to himself, and even asked Annie if she was comfortable before leaning in. Perfectly respectful. Smoke disliked him immediately.

He stood across the quad beside the Alpha booth with his arms folded, pretending to listen while one of his fraternity brothers argued about whether the dunk tank tickets should be sold in bundles. He had no idea what the answer was. Didn’t care. His attention was somewhere else. Again. Annie leaned in. Quick kiss. Cheek. Done. The guy smiled. Too much. Smoke’s eyes narrowed.

“Smoke.”

Nothing.

“Smoke.”

Still nothing.

A hand snapped in front of his face. He looked over. Brandon stared at him. “You hear anythin’ I just said?”

“Yeah.” “What I say?”

Elijah looked at him.

Brandon laughed. “That’s what I thought.”

Smoke ignored him and looked back toward the AKA booth. The guy was gone. Good. Another one was walking up. Bad. He exhaled through his nose. He had known what a kissing booth was. He understood the concept. He had sat right there at his kitchen table while Annie explained the whole thing to him in unnecessary detail.

Five dollars—Paper. Ten—Hand. Twenty—Cheek. Easy. Harmless. He had agreed. Because what kind of man got worked up over somebody getting a peck on the cheek at a charity fundraiser?

Apparently him. The third guy was wearing a basketball jersey. Smoke already hated that. Couldn’t have said why. Just did. Jersey walked up smiling. Annie smiled back. Not flirting. Smoke knew the difference. He knew Annie. She was friendly. Warm. The kind of person who made strangers feel like they had known her longer than five minutes. It was one of the things he loved about her. Today, however, he was finding it deeply inconvenient. Jersey handed over twenty dollars. Annie leaned in. Smoke looked away. He lasted maybe two seconds, then looked back. She was already stepping away. Fine—Whatever. He could do this.

“Nigga.”

Smoke closed his eyes.

Stack.

He didn’t bother turning around. “I know you heard me.”

“What, nigga.”

Stack came up beside him carrying a paper tray loaded with fries and enough ketchup to qualify as soup. He followed Smoke’s line of sight. Then looked at him. Then looked back across the quad.

His face slowly changed. “Ah.”

Smoke said nothing.

Stack smiled. “No.”

“Don’t.” “I ain’t even said nothin’ yet.” “Then keep it that way.”

Stack ate a fry. They stood there together. Another guy approached the kissing booth. Stack chewed. Watched. Looked at Smoke. Smoke’s mouth flattened.

Stack swallowed. “You sick.”

“Shut the fuck up.” “I knew it.” “Knew what?” “You was gonna get over here and start actin’ crazy.” “I’m standin’ here.” “Exactly.”

Smoke turned toward him. “What that mean?” “It mean you ain’t moved in twenty minutes.” “I’m helpin’.” “With what?”

Smoke looked around. The Alpha booth was fully staffed. Nobody needed him. Brandon had apparently solved the ticket crisis without his input. The dunk tank was already open. Two brothers were laughing beside it. One was wet. Everything was fine.

Stack nodded. “Right.”

Smoke looked away. “Go back to your booth.”

“I’m on break.” “You need a shorter one.”

Stack laughed. Across the quad, another twenty-dollar customer stepped forward. Smoke watched Annie glance up. Not at the guy. At him. Their eyes met and then she smiled. Not the polite booth smile. A different one. Small. Knowing. Smoke stared. She knew. Annie knew his moods before he had finished deciding whether he had one.

The guy leaned toward her. Smoke’s attention went right back to him. Quick kiss. Done. Stack made a noise beside him.

Smoke didn’t look. “What.”

“You countin’?” “No.” “That was four.”

Smoke turned slowly.

Stack grinned. “I wasn’t countin’ before, but now I am.”

“I’m about to knock that plate out yo’ mufuckin’ hand.” “You jealous.” “No.” “Smoke.” “No.” “Yo’ whole forehead mad.”

Smoke rubbed a hand over his face. “I ain’t jealous.”

Stack ate another fry. “Bruh.”

“It’s weird.” “What’s weird?” “That.”

Stack looked toward the booth. “Charity?”

“Her kissin’ random ass niggas.” “On the cheek.” “I know where.” “Then whatchu mad for?” “I ain’t mad.”

Stack looked at him for a long moment. Then started laughing. Hard. Smoke’s eyes narrowed. “What’s funny?”

“You sound just like Annie said you was gon’ sound.”

His head turned. “What she say?”

Stack stopped laughing. Too late.

“What she say?” “Nothin’.” “You just said—” “I’m just fuckin’ wit you, bro.”

Smoke took one step toward him. Stack backed up. “See, now you focused on the wrong thing.”

“What Annie say?” “She ain’t say nothin’ bad.” “What she say.”

Stack sighed. “Said you was actin’ all cool about it.”

Smoke stared. “And?”

“And she knew you wasn’t.” “I was.” “Was?”

Smoke said nothing.

Stack nodded slowly. “Right.”

Across the quad, the line got longer. Smoke noticed that too. It had been maybe eight people earlier. Now it was closer to fifteen. Mostly men. His entire expression changed.

Stack followed his gaze. “Oh, shit.”

“What?” “That line gettin’ serious.” “I can see.” “Your girl popular.”

Smoke looked at him.

Stack raised both hands. “Compliment.”

“You enjoyin’ this shit too much.” “Absolutely.”

Smoke looked back at the booth. Another guy stepped up—this one sprayed cologne. Actually sprayed it. Right there, from a little travel bottle. Smoke’s head tilted.

Stack saw it at the same time. “Ah, hell nah.”

Smoke pointed. “You saw that shit?”

Stack started laughing again. “Nigga just sprayed himself, bruh.”

“For a cheek kiss.” “Maybe he wanted to smell nice.” “For who?”

Stack lost it. Smoke stared at the guy. Cologne Man ran a hand over his shirt. Smoothed his beard, then approached the table like he was going on a date.

Smoke’s mouth opened slightly. “Mane, what the fuck.”

Stack bent forward, laughing into his fries. “You cannot be serious.”

“He freshenin’ up.” “So?” “So why?” “Maybe Annie got standards.”

Smoke looked at him.

Stack immediately straightened. “Bad joke, my bad bruh.”

Annie spotted Cologne Man, then she spotted Smoke. Then, to his complete annoyance, her shoulders started shaking. She was laughing. At him.

Smoke pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “Yeah.”

Stack followed his gaze. “Oh, she got you.”

“Go away.” “She know you mad.” “I’m not mad.” “Jealous.” “No.” “Possessive?”

Smoke looked at him.

Stack thought about it. “Concerned citizen?”

“Elias.” “Aight.”

Cologne Man paid. Annie took the kiss. Quick. Polite. He walked away smiling. Smoke watched him go.

Stack did too. Then Stack looked back at Elijah. “That one hurt.”

“I hate you, bruh.” “I love you too, bro.”

Smoke unfolded his arms. He could leave. That was the smart thing. Go work his own booth. Walk around. Get food. Do literally anything besides stand across the quad watching men hand over twenty dollars for access to his girlfriend’s lips. He took one step. Then another customer approached. Smoke stopped.

Stack looked at him. “Bro.”

“What.” “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.” “Shut up, nigga.”

He stayed watching for another ten minutes. By then, Stack had started keeping an actual tally on a napkin. Smoke noticed on number seven.

“What is that?” “Data.” “Give me that.”

Stack pulled it away. “Scientific observation.”

“You got seven marks on there.” “Eight now.”

Smoke looked across the quad. Sure enough, another cheek kiss. He exhaled.

Stack made the eighth mark. “Current estimate, your girl has raised one-sixty on cheeks alone.”

“I know math.” “Clearly not, because you standin’ here watchin’ instead of investin’.”

Smoke looked at him. “What?”

Stack shrugged. “You got money.”

Smoke stared. Then looked toward the booth. Then back. “Nah.”

Stack smiled. “Didn’t say nothin’.”

“You said invest.” “Charity.” “I’m not payin’ my own girlfriend to kiss me.” “Why not?” “‘Cause she’s my girlfriend.” “Exactly. Discount.”

Smoke shook his head. “That’s stupid.”

“Less stupid than standin’ here mean muggin’ her and them niggas.” “I’m not mean muggin’.” “Riiiight.”

Stack ate another fry. Smoke ignored him for about three minutes. Then another man walked up. Twenty. Cheek. Smile. Smoke’s hand went into his pocket.

Stack froze. Slowly. Very slowly. A grin spread across his face.

Smoke looked at him. “Don’t.”

“I ain’t sayin’ shit.” “You look like you about to.” “Nope.”

Smoke pulled out his wallet. Stack turned away. His shoulders were shaking. “Elias.”

“I’m mindin’ my business.” “You laughin’.” “Quietly.”

Smoke took out a twenty.

Stack made a strangled sound. “Man.”

Smoke pointed at him. “One word.”

Stack bit his lips together. Smoke started across the quad. The closer he got, the more ridiculous the idea felt. He could just walk up to Annie, kiss her and leave. No money required, but that wasn’t the point. Actually, he wasn’t sure what the point was. He only knew that he was tired of watching everybody else step up to that table. And it was for charity. That part mattered. Probably. The line stretched farther than he had realized. Smoke stopped at the back.

A guy in front of him glanced over his shoulder. Then did a double take. Smoke ignored him. The guy looked at the booth. Then at Smoke. Then back again. “You in line?”

Smoke looked at him. “What it look like?”

The guy nodded. “Aight.”

He faced forward. Two seconds passed, then he turned again. “Ain’t that yo’ girl?”

Smoke stared. “Yeah.”

The guy frowned. “So why you—”

“It’s for charity.”

“Oh.” He turned around.

Smoke could practically feel Stack laughing from across the lawn. The line moved. Slowly. Too slowly. By the time Smoke reached the front, Annie had already seen him. Of course she had. Her eyes found him somewhere around fourth place. They widened. Then narrowed. Then lit with so much amusement that Smoke immediately regretted coming over. Not enough to leave. But enough.

Jasmine saw him next. Her mouth dropped open. “No.”

Annie looked at her. “Don’t.”

“Is he—” “Jaz.” “He is!”

Every woman at the table started looking. Smoke kept his expression neutral. The guy ahead of him paid for a paper heart. Five dollars. Smart man. He moved aside. Smoke stepped forward.

Annie folded her arms. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

Her eyes dropped to the twenty in his hand. Then back up. “What are you doing?”

“Donatin’.”

Behind her, somebody choked on a laugh. Annie’s lips twitched. “You know you can just donate without getting anything.”

“I know.” “Okay.”

Smoke put the twenty on the table. “Cheek.”

That did it. The entire booth erupted. Annie closed her eyes. “Y’all are so embarrassin’.”

Jasmine grabbed the money. “No refunds!”

Smoke looked at her. “Ain’t ask for one.”

Annie stared at him. He stared back. She tried to keep a straight face. Failed.

“You really are somethin’.” “It’s twenty dollars.” “To kiss me.” “For charity.” “I kiss you for free.” “I know.” “Every day.” “I know.” “On the mouth.”

His eyes dropped briefly to her lips. Then he licked his own. “I know.”

Annie’s stomach flipped. Then she stepped closer. Smoke leaned down slightly. She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Exactly like all the others. Except it didn’t feel like all the others. Maybe because her hand brushed lightly against his wrist. Maybe because she smiled against his skin. Maybe because she murmured, “Thank you for your donation, sir,” just loud enough for him to hear.

Smoke looked at her when she stepped back. Her eyes were sparkling. He shook his head. “Funny.”

“Very.”

He turned to leave.

Jasmine called after him. “Come again!”

Annie whipped around. “Jasmine!”

“What? We need money!”

Smoke walked away. Stack was waiting halfway across the quad. Smiling. Smoke stopped in front of him. “Say it.”

Stack shook his head. “No, I respect it.”

“Say what you wanna say.” “I respect a man who supports the cause.”

Smoke stared. Stack broke, bent over, and started laughing so hard he nearly dropped his fries. Smoke walked past him.

“One-twenty left in your wallet!” Stack called.

Smoke stopped and turned. “What?”

Stack held up the napkin. “You had seven twenties when we got here.”

“How the fuck you know that?” “I pay attention.” “Stop countin’ my money, mufucka.” “Just sayin’.”

Smoke walked away. He lasted six minutes. The next guy paid twenty. He tried to ignore it. Couldn’t. His hand went back into his pocket.

Stack looked up from his food. “No.”

Smoke said nothing.

“No fuckin’ way.”

Smoke pulled out another twenty.

Stack started laughing before he even moved. “You just went!”

Smoke headed back across the quad.

“Smoke!”

He kept walking.

“You was literally just there!”

Smoke got back in line. Same spot. Same expression. Different twenty. This time Annie saw him almost immediately. She stared. He stared back. Then she covered her mouth.

One of her sorority sisters leaned over. “What?”

Annie pointed subtly. Her sister looked, then doubled over laughing. Smoke waited. He could handle it. Probably. The guy ahead of him turned around. Same guy from before. He looked at Smoke. Then at the booth. Then at Elijah again.

“Bro.”

Smoke already knew. “Don’t.”

“You just—” “I know.” “Ain’t that—” “Yeah.”

The man nodded slowly. Then smiled. “Respect.”

Smoke looked away. By the time he reached the front, Annie had tears in her eyes. Actual tears.

“Elijah.”

He placed the twenty down. “Cheek.”

She laughed. “You were just here.”

“I got twenty more dollars.” “That ain’t how this works.”

Jasmine immediately leaned in. “That is exactly how this works.”

“Stay out of it.” “Fundraisin’ goal.”

Annie looked back at him. “You can’t keep payin’ me.”

“Why not?” “Because.” “That ain’t a reason.” “You my boyfriend.” “Still got money.” “That makes it worse.” “How?” Annie looked around at her sisters. No help. Every single one of them wanted his cash. Traitors. She turned back to him. “You know what? Fine.” Smoke raised his brows. Annie stepped forward and kissed his cheek. Quick. Then she pointed away from the booth. “Go.” He looked at her. “Go where?” “Anywhere but here.” “Thought this was open to everybody.” “Not to you.” The women behind her booed. Smoke’s mouth twitched. Annie caught it. “There.” “What?” “You think this is funny.” “Nah.” “Yes, you do.” He stepped back. “See you in a minute.” Annie’s eyes widened. “No.” Elijah walked away. “ELIJAH!” He didn’t turn. Across the quad, Stack was already marking something on the napkin. Annie put both hands over her face. Jasmine leaned against her shoulder. “I love your relationship.” “I hate all of you.” “Forty dollars." “I know.” “From one man.” “I know.” “Your man.” “Jasmine.” “Two thousand four-sixty to go.” Annie lowered her hands. “We already had money before him.” “Still.” Across the quad, Smoke was back beside Stack. Pretending nothing had happened. Annie watched him. Then watched Stack say something. Smoke shoved him lightly. Stack nearly fell over laughing. A fresh customer stepped forward. Annie turned back. Twenty-dollar bill “Cheek?” she asked. “Yeah.” She smiled. “Okay.” The kiss lasted less than a second. When Annie looked across the quad again, Elijah’s hand was already in his pocket. She pointed at him from fifty feet away. “No!” He stopped. Stack looked between them. Annie shook her head hard. Smoke slowly pulled his empty hand back out. The whole booth started laughing. Even he smiled this time. Barely, but enough. Annie laughed too. Then the line moved again. And for the next twenty minutes, Smoke somehow managed to stay away. Mostly. Then the Alpha president clapped Smoke on the shoulder. “Your turn. Smoke looked over. “What?” “One o’clock.” His face changed. Across the quad, Annie saw it. She checked the time. 12:58. Her smile spread. Oh. She had almost forgotten. The dunk tank. Jasmine followed her gaze. “What?” Annie slowly set the sanitizer down. “My man has an appointment “Where?” She pointed. The Alpha brothers were already steering Smoke toward the tank. He was protesting. Not loudly. Smoke did very little loudly. But his body language was clear. No. Absolutely not. One of his brothers grabbed the hem of his shirt. Smoke slapped his hand away. Annie laughed, then grabbed her purse. Nia looked at her. “Where you going?” “Taking a break.” “For what?” Annie pulled out a five-dollar bill. Across the quad, Smoke looked up. Their eyes met. He saw the money. Then saw her smile. His expression went completely flat.Annie nearly skipped across the grass, because jealous Smoke had been entertaining. But wet Elijah Moore sitting over a dunk tank while half the women on campus lined up to throw balls at him? That might be even better.

By the time Annie reached the Alpha booth, Smoke was sitting above the dunk tank looking like a man serving a sentence. His shoes were gone, so were his socks. And, apparently, his shirt.Annie slowed.

Oh. She hadn’t known about that part. Smoke sat on the narrow platform in nothing but black athletic shorts that hit just above his knees, forearms braced against his thighs, broad shoulders bare beneath the afternoon sun. The Alpha shirt he had been wearing all morning was nowhere in sight, likely surrendered somewhere between his brothers steering him toward the tank and whichever one had finally convinced him that climbing into several feet of water fully dressed was stupid. Annie stopped several feet away. Well. This had been a terrible idea. Not putting Smoke in the dunk tank. That was an excellent idea. Coming over here to watch it? That was where she had made her mistake. Because the booth had a line. A long one. Annie looked at it. Then looked at Smoke. Then back at the line. Women. A few men from other frats who were clearly there for the pleasure of knocking an Alpha into a tank of water, but mostly women. Annie’s smile faded. Beside the tank, Brandon was taking money. “Five dollars, three throws! Ten dollars, seven! Step right up!” A girl Annie recognized from one of her sociology classes handed him ten. Annie folded her arms. The girl stepped toward the throwing line. Smoke sat above the tank staring straight ahead, looking profoundly uninterested in the fact that he was half naked in front of what appeared to be an increasingly enthusiastic section of the female student body. “Smoke!" He looked over. The girl smiled. Smoke gave her a polite nod. Annie’s eyes narrowed. Oh, now he knew how to acknowledge people. Interesting... The first throw missed. Badly. The girl laughed. “So close!” It had not been close. The second missed too. By the fourth, Annie started wondering if the girl was intentionally throwing badly to stay there longer. That was ridiculous. Probably… Maybe. The fifth ball hit the edge of the target. Smoke looked bored. The sixth missed, but the seventh—Bullseye. The seat dropped. Smoke disappeared. The splash sent water over the side of the tank. The entire line screamed. Annie laughed before she could stop herself. He surfaced. Water streamed down his face and shoulders as he pushed both hands over his head, wiping it from his eyes before swimming toward the platform. Annie stopped laughing. Oh, hell no. Apparently a dry, shirtless Elijah had been one problem. A soaking-wet, shirtless Elijah was another entirely. Water gleamed across his shoulders and ran in thin trails down his chest as he hauled himself back onto the platform. He wiped a hand over his face, completely oblivious—or pretending to be—to the sudden increase in noise from the women waiting in line. Annie heard somebody behind her say, “Damn.” Her lips pressed together. Yes. She was aware. Smoke looked toward the line. Then toward Annie. Their eyes met. He saw her face. His mouth twitched. Annie immediately frowned. Don’t. His smile grew. Not much, but enough. She knew exactly what he was thinking. He had caught her. Annie lifted the five-dollar bill in her hand. His smile disappeared. Better. She got in line. A white girl ahead of her turned around. “Oh my God, he is sooo hot.” Annie blinked. The girl smiled and continued. “I've been waiting all morning for his turn.” Have you? Annie smiled. “That right?” “Yes! Girl, look at him.” Annie looked. Unfortunately. Smoke dragged both hands over his wet face, then swept one across his chest, brushing away the water still trailing down his skin. Her lips parted. Well. That was unnecessary. He glanced toward her. Annie looked away. Miss Been-Waiting-All-Morning sighed. “I don’t even care if I hit the target.” Annie looked back. “What?” “I mean, I want to hit it. But I just wanted to see him wet.” Annie stared. Miss Thirsty laughed. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.” Unfortunately. “Do you think he has a girlfriend?”

Annie’s eyebrows rose. Oh. So we goin’ there? She looked Miss Do-He-Got-a-Girlfriend up and down, every polite answer disappearing from her mind as something considerably less charitable rose to take its place. “Actually—”

“Next!” Brandon shouted.

Miss Wanna-See-Him-Wet brightened. “That’s me!” She hurried toward the throwing line. Annie stood there with her mouth still slightly open. Oh, no. Bitch, come back here. Because now she had something to say. 

Her gaze followed Miss Five-Dollars-and-a-Dream toward the tank before sliding to Elijah. He was already looking at her. Annie narrowed her eyes. His brows lifted. She stared. 

Your little fan club, that’s what. Something in her face must have translated because the corner of his mouth started to rise. Annie pointed at him. Don’t. His smile grew anyway. Fine. Let him enjoy himself. Miss Front-of-the-Line had three throws coming—first throw missed. Annie watched her. Then looked at Smoke. He was still looking at her. She mouthed one word. Girlfriend? He frowned. Annie pointed to herself. His eyes narrowed like he had no idea what she was talking about. She shook her head. Men. Miss He-So-Hot threw again. Missed. Annie stood there with her arms folded.  Miss I-Been-Waiting-Since-Breakfast tried one more. Missed again. Not even close. Annie’s mouth twitched. Miss All-That-Thirst-and-No-Aim laughed it off and stepped away from the throwing line.  Annie watched her go. Mm-hmm. All that carrying on about seeing somebody else’s man wet and couldn’t hit a damn target to save her sunburnt life! Tragic. “Next!” Brandon looked up and noticed Annie. His entire face lit up. “Oh, shit. Smoke followed his gaze. Annie smiled sweetly. Brandon laughed. “Smoke, you in trouble.”

Smoke looked at Annie.

She held up her five. “Just supportin’ my brothers.”

Brandon nearly dropped the cash box. Smoke stared. Annie stepped forward when it was her turn.

Brandon took her money. “Three throws.” “I only need one.” The people around them reacted immediately. “OHHHH!” Smoke leaned back on the seat. “You talkin’ big.” Annie picked up the ball. “You scared?” “Nah.” “You should be.” “Throw it then.” She smiled. He knew that smile. She could tell by the way his expression changed. Annie drew her arm back. Threw. The ball smacked the center of the target. Smoke dropped. Splash. The Alpha booth erupted. Annie threw both hands in the air. “Yes!” Brandon doubled over. “FIRST THROW!” Smoke came up wiping water from his face. Annie walked closer to the tank. “Five dollars well spent.” He looked at her. “You practiced.” “What?” “You practiced.” “Why you hatin’?” He hauled himself back onto the platform, water streaming from his shoulders and down his chest. He pushed a hand over his face, then shook the excess from his head. Annie tried not to look. Failed. Her gaze dipped before she could stop it, following a bead of water as it slipped down the center of his chest and disappeared at the waistband of his shorts. When she looked up again, Smoke was watching her. His brows lifted. Annie immediately frowned. “What?” His mouth curved. “Ain’t say nothin’.”

“You were about to.”

“Nah.”

“Yes, you were.”He leaned forward slightly. “You good?” Her eyes narrowed. “Fine.” “Mhm.” That smug little sound irritated her more than an actual comment would have. She pointed the remaining two balls at him. “Keep playing with me and I’ll use both of these.” Smoke leaned back onto the seat, entirely too pleased with himself now. “Thought you only needed one?” Annie stared at him. Oh, she hated him. Brandon called the next person forward before she could come up with a response that wouldn’t embarrass both of them in public. Annie started to walk away. “Smoke!” He looked at her. She pointed at him. “Put a towel on.” The Alpha brothers lost their minds. Smoke laughed. Actually laughed. Head dropping for a second before he looked back at her. Annie walked away before he could say anything. She heard Brandon behind her. “Not a towel!" The Alpha brothers lost their minds. Smoke laughed. Actually laughed. Head dropping for a second before he looked back at her. Annie walked away before he could say anything. She heard Brandon behind her. “Not a towel!” Another voice joined in. “President Landry said cover up!” “Shut up, nigga!”

She was still smiling when she reached her booth.

Jasmine saw her coming. “Well?”

Annie picked up the sanitizer. “Well what?”

“Did you dunk him?” “First throw.”

Her sisters cheered. Annie accepted the praise she deserved.

Then Nia leaned closer. “Why you look mad then?”

“I don’t.” “You do.” Jasmine looked across the quad. “Oh.”

Annie followed her gaze. Another woman was stepping up to throw. “Stop.”

Jasmine started laughing. “Look at you.”

“I said stop.” “All mornin’ you been laughin’ at that man.” “And?” “And now you over here lookin’ like you wanna fight a line.” “I don’t.” “Ok.”

Annie reached for the cash box. “Where are we?”

Jasmine was still smiling when she checked. “Little over sixteen hundred.”

Annie blinked. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

That pulled her attention back immediately. They had been open less than two hours. “Paper hearts are doing way better than I thought.”

“Told you.” “And cheeks?” “Better.”

Annie looked at the line. Still long. She sighed. “Okay. Let’s keep it moving.” For the next forty minutes, they did.“I do not.”

The carnival grew more crowded as the afternoon wore on. Music got louder. Lines stretched farther. The smell of funnel cake seemed to cover the entire campus. Annie rotated out twice to handle chapter business, helped one of her sisters deal with a customer who thought offering fifty dollars meant the rules no longer applied, refilled the paper hearts, found more change, answered three questions from Student Activities, and somehow acquired half a lemonade she could not remember buying. 

By 2:30, her feet hurt. Her lipstick needed touching up. And they were closing in on two thousand dollars. Smoke hadn’t returned. She told herself she hadn’t been looking for him, but she had. Every now and then, she looked toward the Alpha booth. He was there. Dry now. Back in jeans, talking to his brothers and helping. Being normal. She should’ve been relieved. Instead, a tiny part of her wondered if she had embarrassed him earlier. Maybe she had pushed the joke too far. She was considering texting him when a twenty-dollar bill appeared on the table. Annie looked down. Then up.

Elijah.

She stared. He stared back. “No.”

His brows lifted. “I ain’t said nothin’.” “You don’t have to.”

Jasmine appeared beside Annie like she had been summoned by money. “Welcome back!”

Annie turned. “Go away.”

“I work here.”

Smoke placed the twenty flat on the table. “Cheek.”

Annie crossed her arms. “You already had two.”

“I know.” “Then why are you back?” “Got another twenty.” “You done.” “How?” “You’ve had two.” “Sign don’t say there’s a limit.”

Annie looked at the sign. Damn it. Smoke followed her gaze. “Exactly.”

She looked back at him. “You ain’t about to keep doin’ this.”

“Doin’ what?” “Payin’ twenty dollars every time somebody else gets a kiss.” His face became blank. Jasmine made a sound.

Annie’s eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

“I ain’t doin’ that.” “Yes, you are.” “No.” “You are!” “Annie.” “That’s why you came back?”

He looked away. That was all the confirmation she needed.

Her mouth fell open. “Elijah!”

“Keep your voice down, woman.”

She started laughing.

He frowned. “Ain’t funny.”

“It is!” “Here you go.” “You jealous.” “I ain’t jealous.”

“You have spent—” She looked at Jasmine. “How much?”

“Forty.”

“Sixty,” Smoke corrected.

Annie turned slowly. “Sixty dollars?”

He shrugged.

Jasmine looked delighted. “Thank you for supporting our philanthropic efforts.”

Annie covered her face. “Lijahhh.”

“What?” “You have spent sixty dollars kissin’ your own girlfriend.” “For charity.” “Stop sayin’ that!”

He almost smiled. Almost. Then another guy stepped into line. Smoke noticed. Annie saw him notice.

She looked between them. “No.” Smoke reached for his wallet. “No!” Her sisters started screaming. He pulled out another twenty.

“ELIJAH.” “What?” “You ain’t payin’ again.” “Why?” “Because this is crazy!”

Jasmine grabbed Annie’s arm. “Let that man support education!”

“Whose side are you on?” “The scholarship fund’s!”

Smoke held out the twenty.

Annie refused to take it.

He looked at Jasmine.

Jasmine took it immediately. “Thank you.”

“Traitor!”

Smoke stepped closer. “Cheek.”

Annie stared at him. He waited. The guy behind him waited. Her sisters waited. Annie leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Quick. Then she turned his face and kissed the other. Quick.

Then she whispered near his ear, “You’ve lost yo’ damn mind.”

Smoke turned his head slightly. “No touching.”

She jerked back. He smiled.

Annie gasped. “You—”

“Rules.”

He walked away. Her sisters collapsed.

Annie stood there staring after him. “Did he just use my own rule against me?”

“Yes.” “I hate him.” “No, you don’t.” “No, I don’t.”

She reached for the sanitizer. Then stopped. Smoke hadn’t gone far. He was standing beside Stack. Stack looked at him. Looked at the booth. Looked at the twenty Jasmine was putting into the cash box. Then pulled something from his pocket.

A napkin.

Annie narrowed her eyes. “What is he doin’?”

Jasmine followed her gaze. “Who?”

“Stack.”

Across the quad, Stack made a mark on the napkin.

Annie’s eyes widened. “He’s keepin’ count.”

Jasmine laughed. “Of what?”

“Elijah.” “No.” “Yes.”

Annie left the booth.

“Where are you going?” “I need answers.”

She crossed the grass. Stack saw her coming and immediately hid the napkin behind his back.

Too late.

“Give it.” “Hey, Annie.” “Give me the napkin.” “What napkin?” “The one behind your back.”

Smoke looked between them. “Don’t give her that.”

Annie’s head snapped toward him. “Oh, now I definitely want it.”

Stack backed away. “See, this between y’all.”

“Elias.” “Why y’all usin’ my government name today?” “Napkin.”

He sighed and handed it over. Annie looked down. There were marks. Far too many marks. And numbers. And dollar signs.

She looked at Smoke. “What is this?”

He looked at Stack.

Stack pointed at him. “Don’t look at me like that. You knew I was documentin’.”

“You a whole weirdo, nigga.” “Weirdo? Mufucka you the one buyin’ subscriptions to your own girlfriend.”

Annie choked.

Stack continued. “Eighty dollars.”

Annie looked down. Then at Smoke. “Eighty?”

“Apparently.” “You spent eighty dollars?”

Smoke shrugged.

Stack leaned toward Annie. “He got another hundred forty in his wallet.”

Smoke shoved him. “Stop countin’ my money.”

Annie laughed so hard she had to bend forward. Smoke waited. Arms folded. Expression annoyed. She tried to stop. Couldn’t.

“Smoke, baby.”

“Don’t.” “Eighty dollars?” “It’s goin’ to somethin’ good.” “You somethin’ good!”

Stack made a sound that might have been a laugh or a cough.

Annie wiped beneath her eyes. “You could’ve taken me to dinner.”

“I do.” “You could’ve bought me flowers.”

“I have.” “You could’ve kissed me for free.” “I did that this morning.” “Then why are you payin’?”

Smoke stared at her. For a second, Annie thought he might actually answer. Then his eyes moved past her. Toward the booth. The line. Back to her. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. Annie’s laughter softened. There. Under all the stubbornness. Under the denial. Her ridiculous, quiet boyfriend who had spent the entire morning trying to convince himself that he didn’t care about something he very clearly cared about.

Annie stepped closer. “You really hated it that much?”

Smoke’s gaze returned to hers. “Didn’t say hate.”

“You’ve spent eighty dollars.” “That don’t mean I hated it.” “It kind of does.”

Stack nodded. “It really does.”

Smoke looked at him. “Go away.”

“Gladly.”

Stack took two steps. Then stopped. “Wait.”

Neither of them liked his tone. Stack looked toward the booth. Then at Elijah. A slow smile spread across his face. “How much y’all tryna raise?”

Annie froze. “No.”

Smoke looked at her. “How much?”

“No.” “Annie.” “No!”

Stack started laughing. “How much?”

She pointed at him. “You shut up.”

Smoke looked toward the pink poster board beside the booth. He could probably see the number from where they stood.

His eyes narrowed. “Twenty-five hundred?”

“No.” “You almost there?” “That’s none of your business.” “You got how much?” “Smoke.”

Stack leaned in. “Little over two thousand last I heard.”

Annie whipped around. “How do you know?”

“I got sources.” “You ain’t a source. You a disease.”

Smoke reached for his wallet.

Annie slapped her hand over it. “No.”

He looked down at her hand. Then at her. “What?”

“You ain’t buyin’ out the kissing booth.” “I ain’t buyin’ it out.” “What are you doin’, then?” “Donatin’.” “Enough to close it?”

He paused. Stack made a strangled noise behind them. Annie’s mouth fell open. “Smoke!”

“What?” “No!” “Why?” “‘Cause you can’t solve jealousy by fundin’ it!” “I told you I ain’t jealous.” “Then why are you tryin’ to shut down my booth?” “I ain’t shuttin’ it down.” “With money!” “Still counts towards the goal.” “That’s not the point!” “Seems like the point.”

Stack was openly crying with laughter now.

From the AKA booth, Jasmine yelled across the quad, “STOP BLOCKIN' BLESSINGS, ANNIE!”

Every head turned. Annie closed her eyes. “No.”

Another sister joined in. “WE ACCEPT CASH!”

“STOP HELPING!”“VENMO TOO!”

Smoke’s shoulders moved. Annie opened her eyes. He was laughing. Quietly and trying not to. That broke her. She laughed too. “Y’all are terrible.”

Stack wiped his eyes. “This the best carnival we ever had.”

Annie shook her head. Then looked at Smoke. “No buyin’ out the booth.”

He sighed.

“Elijah.” “Aight.” “Promise.” “I ain’t promisin’.”

She stared. He smiled.

“I’m going back to work.” “You better.”

He bent and kissed her forehead. Free. Annie caught his shirt before he could move away. “You owe us twenty dollars for that.”

Smoke looked at her. Stack screamed. Annie released him and walked back toward the booth laughing.

She heard Smoke behind her. “That’s not even on the sign!”

“New rule!”

Smoke didn’t try to buy out the booth. He did, however, appear in Annie’s line again before the afternoon was over. Twenty in hand. Annie was in the middle of answering Jasmine, checking the cash total, and trying to figure out where half their paper hearts had disappeared to when he reached the front.

She looked at the bill. Then at him. “Seriously?”

“Last one.” “You said that before.” “Never said that.”

Fuck him.

Jasmine took the twenty.

Annie kissed his cheek and pointed toward the Alphas without another word. Smoke left looking entirely too satisfied with himself. Annie went right back to counting money. What she didn't see was him slip into the line once more later, while she was across the quad dealing with Student Activities. Kiki had been working her spot, and when Smoke finally reached the front and realized Annie wasn't there, he should have walked away. Instead, he handed Jasmine the twenty anyway.

“For when she get back.”

Jasmine stared at him. “You prepayin’ for kisses now?”

Smoke looked at her.

She snatched the bill. “Never mind. We accept advance donations.”

He got his cheek kiss when Annie returned ten minutes later, sandwiched between her asking where the extra paper hearts had gone and Jasmine telling her somebody needed more change. Annie never even saw the money change hands. And Elijah didn't volunteer the information either.

They passed twenty-five hundred dollars at four-twelve. Jasmine screamed so loudly that people at the Delta booth turned to look. Someone rang a little handbell Annie had not known they possessed. Her sisters hugged each other. Nia changed the number on the goal board while Kiki announced to everyone within earshot that they had officially exceeded their carnival goal. Annie stood behind the table smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. They kept the booth open another forty-five minutes. By five, the crowd had started thinning. Families headed home. Music lowered. Organizations began packing decorations into plastic bins. The inflatable obstacle course sagged slowly toward the grass. 

Annie’s feet hurt so badly she had stopped pretending otherwise. She kicked off her sneakers beneath the table and stood in her socks while counting the final cash total with Jasmine.

“Twenty-eight sixty-five.”

Annie looked up. “What?”

Jasmine turned the calculator around. $2,865.

Annie stared. Then smiled. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

They had almost doubled the original goal. Annie leaned back in her chair. “Oh my God.”

“Worth it?”

She looked at the remnants of their booth. Paper hearts everywhere. Lipstick tubes scattered across the table. Half-empty sanitizer bottles. Glitter somehow on everything. “Ask me tomorrow.”

Jasmine laughed.

One by one, the sisters began carrying supplies toward the student union. Annie stayed behind with the money box and paperwork. By the time she finished, the quad looked completely different. Quieter. Open. The late-afternoon sun stretched shadows across the grass. Somebody had turned the music down to something soft enough that Annie could finally hear herself think. She was trying to peel tape from the front of the table when a hand reached past hers.

Elijah.

He pulled the tape free. “Got it.”

Annie looked up. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

He had changed back into the black Alpha shirt from earlier. His hair was still slightly wet from the dunk tank. Annie smiled at the sight.

“Don’t.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You was about to.” “I was goin’ to say you look handsome.” “Mhm.”

He folded the paper-heart banner and set it in the bin. Annie watched him. “You don’t have to help.”

“I know.”

He picked up another decoration. Annie didn’t ask again. They worked beside each other for a while. He folded tables. She gathered supplies. He carried the heavier bins. She organized what needed to go back to the chapter storage room. By the time they finished, most of the carnival had disappeared. Annie sat on the edge of the last table.

Smoke stood in front of her. “Tired?”

“My feet are dead.”

He looked down. “You ain’t got shoes on.”

“They betrayed me.”

He shook his head, then reached for one of her feet.

Annie blinked. “What are you doin’?”

Smoke lifted it into his hand like the answer should’ve been obvious. His thumb pressed into the aching center of her arch. A groan slipped out before Annie could stop it. “Oh gawddd.”

“That bad?” “Yes.”

He moved closer, resting her heel against his thigh as his thumbs worked slowly over the bottom of her foot. Annie nearly melted right there on the table.

“You could’ve told me your feet was hurtin’.” “I was busy.” “Right.” “And I didn’t know they were goin’ to hurt this bad.”

“You been standin’ all day in them little-ass shoes.”

Annie looked down at the white sneakers abandoned beneath the table. “They normal-sized shoes.”

“For who?”

She kicked lightly at his thigh with her other foot. “Shut up.”

Smoke caught that one too. Annie laughed as he switched feet without being asked, settling her heel against him and pressing his thumb into another sore spot.

Her eyes closed. “Okay, I forgive you.”

“For what?” “Being annoyin’ all day.” “I ain’t do nothin’.”

Her eyes opened. “You spent a hundred dollars at a kissin’ booth where your own girlfriend was workin’.”

“For charity.” “Smoke.”

His mouth twitched, but his attention stayed on her foot. Annie watched him for a moment, some of her amusement softening around the edges. That was Elijah. He could spend half the day stubbornly refusing to admit he was jealous, then notice her bare feet beneath a table and start rubbing them without her having to ask. She reached down and brushed her fingers over the back of his neck. “You know you could’ve just told me.”

He glanced up. “Told you what?”

“That you was jealous.”

He sighed. “Here we go.”

“I’m serious.” “So am I.” “You were jealous.” “I ain’t like it.”

Annie smiled. “That’s jealousy.”

“Nah.” “What is it, then?”

Smoke worked his thumb slowly along her arch before answering. “Not likin’ niggas kissin’ on my girl.”

Annie’s eyebrows rose. “Elijah.”

“What?” “They weren’t kissin’ me.”

His hand stopped. Annie knew immediately what she had done. She bit her lip. “I was kissin’ them.”

He stared at her. She burst out laughing.

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talkin’ about.” “I’m sorry!” “You keep makin’ it worse.” “I didn’t mean—” “First you leanin’ over kissin’ niggas, now—” “Cheeks!” “Still using yo’ mouth.”

Annie was laughing hard enough now that she had to brace one hand against his shoulder. “Okay. Okay.”

Smoke shook his head and went back to rubbing her foot, though his expression had soured all over again.

That only made her laugh harder. “You know what I mean.”

“Mhm.” “And I would’ve stopped if you really wanted me to.”

That changed something. His hands slowed.

Annie’s laughter faded. “I would’ve,” she repeated.

“I know.” “You know that, right?”

His gaze lifted to hers. “Yeah.”

She studied him. “You could’ve told me it bothered you.”

Smoke looked away for a second. “I told you it didn’t.”

“Before you saw it.” “Yeah.” “And then?”

His gaze returned to hers. He shrugged. “Then I saw it.”

Annie smiled. There was something so simple about the admission that it touched her more than she expected. He hadn’t asked her to stop. Hadn’t embarrassed her. Hadn’t interfered with the booth. He had stood across the quad and suffered through every ridiculous feeling until his solution became repeatedly handing her sorority twenty-dollar bills. A hundred dollars’ worth, apparently. All because he didn’t like watching her kiss somebody else on the cheek. Ridiculous man. Sweet man.

Her man.

Annie curled her toes lightly against his palm. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know.” “And jealous.” “Nope.” “And very charitable.” “Y’all welcome.”

She laughed softly. Smoke gave her foot one final squeeze before lowering it carefully to the ground. Annie immediately missed his hands.

“Guess how much we made.” “Twenty-eight sixty-five.”

Her mouth opened. “How you know?”

“Stack.” “Why Stack know everythin’?” “Nosy.” “He knew exactly how much money you had in your wallet too.” “Right, nosy.”

Annie laughed. Smoke moved between her knees now, his hands settling against her thighs. She looked up at him. “You know what the crazy part is?”

“What?” “I think you genuinely believed you were gonna be okay with it.” “I was okay with it.”

Annie stared at him. “For how long?”

He thought about it. “Till the first one.”

She burst out laughing. Smoke’s mouth twitched.

“One man.” “Mhm.” “One little kiss on the cheek.” “Didn’t like him.” “You didn’t know him.” “Didn’t need to.”

Annie shook her head. “What was wrong with him?”

“Smiled too much.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Elijah!”

“What?” “He donated twenty dollars!” “Could’ve donated and kept movin’.” “He did!” “Eventually.”

Annie laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck. Elijah’s hands slid farther around her thighs, drawing her closer to the edge. “And what about the one with the cologne?”

His expression changed immediately. “That nigga was weird.”

She lost it.

“He put on cologne, Annie.” “I know!” “At the booth.” “I was there!” “For a cheek kiss.” “You never lettin’ that go, are you?” “Nah.”

She tucked her face briefly against his shoulder, laughing. Elijah let her. For a second. Then, “You done?”

Annie lifted her head. “With what?”

“Talkin’ shit.”

Her smile widened. “About you being jealous? Never.”

“Aight, bruh.”

Something about that made her eyes narrow. Smoke was looking at her now, the faintest smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth.

“What?” “Nothin’.” “Elijah.”

He shrugged. “Just funny.”

“What’s funny?”

His thumbs moved lazily against her thighs. “You thought I ain’t notice.”

Annie went still. “Notice what?”

His smirk deepened. Oh, shit.

“That girl at the dunk tank.”

Annie blinked. “What girl?”

Smoke laughed under his breath.

“I don’t know what you talkin’ about.” “Sure.” “There were a lot of girls over there.” “Was only one you looked ready to fight.”

Annie’s mouth fell open. “I did not look ready to fight that girl.”

“Aight.” “I didn’t!” “You was pointin’ at me and shit.” “Because she asked if you had a girlfriend!”

Smoke’s brows lifted.

Annie stopped. Fuck. His smile spread.

“Oh, fuck you.” “There it is.” “That was different.” “How?” “Because.” “Because what?”

Annie opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Smoke waited.

“She was bein’ disrespectful.” “How?” “She said she’d been waiting all morning to see you.” “So?” “Then she said she wanted to see you wet.” “And?”

Annie stared at him. “And then she asked me if you had a girlfriend!”

Smoke nodded slowly. “So you was jealous.”

“No.”

His eyebrows went up.

“I was irritated.” “Oh.” “Yes.”

“That what we callin’ it?”

Annie narrowed her eyes. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?” “Turn this around on me.” “Ain’t turnin’ nothin’ around.”

“You spent a hundred dollars!” “You got in line.”

Annie stared at him. “To support the fundraiser!”

“Mhm.” “I had five dollars!” “Mhm.” “And I wanted to dunk you!” “After you stood there mean-muggin’ that girl.” “I was not mean-mugging her!”

Smoke laughed. Annie shoved his shoulder. “Shut up.”

He caught her hand. “Jealous.”

“Was not.” “Possessive?”

Annie’s eyes narrowed.

Smoke’s smile grew. “Concerned citizen?”

Her mouth dropped open. “Did Stack tell you to say that?”

He laughed.She tucked her face briefly against his shoulder, laughing. When she lifted her head again, Smoke was watching her. The laughter slowly eased from her face. The carnival was almost gone around them now. No line. No sign. No sisters taking money. Nobody waiting for their turn. Just Smoke standing between her knees.

Annie brushed her fingers over his cheek. “This one’s free.” Then she kissed him there.

Smoke looked at her when she pulled away. “Just that one?”

She smiled and kissed his other cheek. “That one too.”

“Good.”

His hands moved to her waist. Annie’s smile softened. She touched his face. “And this one.”

Then she kissed him. Not his cheek. His mouth. Smoke’s arm slid around her back and pulled her closer. Annie smiled against his lips before the kiss deepened. All day she had been giving away little pieces of affection that meant nothing. Quick. Playful. For a cause.

This wasn’t that.

Smoke kissed her like he had been waiting for the entire carnival to disappear. Like he had spent hours watching and pretending and denying and counting twenty-dollar bills while telling himself he was fine. Annie’s fingers slipped to the back of his head. Somewhere behind them, a plastic bin hit the ground.

Then—

“AYE!”

They broke apart. Jasmine stood twenty feet away holding another box. Annie closed her eyes.

Jasmine pointed at them. “That one ain’t on the menu!”

Annie laughed and buried her face against Smoke’s shoulder. He didn’t move.

Jasmine cupped a hand around her mouth. “THAT’S FIFTY DOLLARS, SMOKE!”

Smoke’s hand left Annie’s waist. She felt him reach toward his back pocket.

Her head snapped up. “Boy, if you don’t—”

He was already pulling out his wallet.

Annie grabbed his wrist. “Elijah!”

“What?”

Jasmine doubled over laughing. “Put your money away!”

“It’s for charity.” “The booth is closed!” “Still take donations.”

Annie stared at him. His mouth finally broke into a full smile. She snatched the wallet from his hand. “No. You have lost financial privileges.”

“Give me my wallet, man.” “No.” “Annie.” “You spent a hundred dollars kissing me.” “One-twenty.”

Her mouth fell open. Smoke froze. Behind them, Jasmine screamed. 

Annie narrowed her eyes. “One-twenty?”

He reached for his wallet. “Give me that.”

“No, no, no.” Annie held it behind her back. “You went back again?”

“Annie.” “When?” “Ain’t important.” “It’s extremely important!” “Give me my wallet.” “Elijah Alexander Moore!”

He caught her around the waist when she tried to slide off the table, laughing as she shoved at his chest.

“You went back again!” “Was for charity.” “You a liar!” “How?” “You had me thinkin’ it was a hundred!” “I never said it was a hundred.”

Annie stopped. Her eyes narrowed. Damn him. He hadn’t.

“You let me think it.” “That ain’t lyin’.” “That is lyin’ adjacent.”

Behind them, Jasmine was barely holding herself together. Smoke reached around Annie for his wallet. She twisted away. “Nope.”

“Annie.” “No. Financial privileges revoked.” “Give me my shit.”

She laughed. “No!”

He caught her around the waist again, and this time Annie squealed as he pulled her against him.

“You crazy,” she said.

“I know.” “And jealous.” “Nah.” “And one hundred and twenty dollars poorer.” “For a good cause.” “I hate you.” “Nah.”

He kissed her before she could argue. Annie tried to hold on to her outrage. She really did. Then his hand settled against her back and his mouth softened over hers, and somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, she started smiling.

Jasmine groaned behind them. “Okay! Now y’all just stealin’!”

Annie pulled away just enough to laugh.

Smoke kept her close. “You done?”

“No.” “Whatever, man.” “I want my hundred and twenty dollars back.” “Your sorority got it.” “You stupid.” “Probably.”

She smiled. Then kissed him again. 

Behind them, Jasmine started carrying the box away. “I’m adding fifty to the total!”

Annie lifted one hand without turning around. “Do it!”

Smoke pulled back. “Hold on—”

Annie laughed into his mouth. Because maybe the kissing booth had been ridiculous. Maybe her sisters were never going to let her live this down. Maybe Stack had documented enough of Smoke’s descent into jealousy to torment him for the remainder of their natural lives. But Alpha Kappa Alpha Sorority, Incorporated had raised nearly three thousand dollars.

Her boyfriend had discovered that he was considerably less emotionally evolved than he thought. And Annie had learned that watching a shirtless Elijah Moore get dropped into a tank of water was worth every penny. All things considered, the carnival had been a success.

Even if one Alpha had personally financed a suspicious percentage of it. End Note: So...what did y'all think. Remember this was off the top of my head and may or may not be based off of true events. But I hope y'all liked it. 😁

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[nika324]

To read

[sonderpoison]

MONALEO Everythang Pinka (feat. Teezo Touchdown)

[midnightmemoirsofher]

Southern Discomfort

Pairing: Elijah Moore x Kamilah

Summary: A cross-country road trip takes an unexpected detour when a carefree woman stops at a rural Mississippi gas station and becomes the target of a married man's raw, unrestrained anger and desire.

Warnings: Smut, Public Sex, Infidelity, Cuckolding, Explicit Language, Hair-pulling, Creampie, Degradation, Power Dynamics.

The Price of Disrespect

The sun was a merciless, white-hot hammer beating down on the long stretch of I-10, turning the asphalt ahead into a shimmering, liquid mirage. Inside her cherry-red coupe, Kamilah felt like she was baking in an oven, the vintage air conditioner wheezing a pathetic, lukewarm protest against the oppressive Mississippi heat. It was day three of her solo pilgrimage from the sandy shores of Florida to the promised land of California, and the initial thrill of the open road had given way to a sticky weariness. This wasn't just a trip; it was a rebirth. She'd packed up her entire life, cramming it into the trunk and backseat, leaving behind a dead-end job and a relationship that had been dying on the vine for years. Out here, under the vast, unforgiving sky, she was nobody but herself, and that freedom was exhilarating. Her hair, a thick cascade of dark curls, was pulled up into a messy bun, but rebellious strands clung to the damp skin of her neck and temples. She was a woman untethered, a carefree spirit chasing the horizon, and right now, all that spirit wanted was a fucking Slushie and some air conditioning that actually worked.

The gas station appeared on the horizon like a mirage given form, a faded oasis promising fuel and frozen treats. It was the kind of place that time seemed to have forgotten, a relic from a bygone era of American road trips. The main building was a low-slung rectangle of peeling white paint and sun-bleached brick, with two rust-stained pumps standing guard out front like weary soldiers. A flickering neon sign, missing several letters, proclaimed "G-S STATI-N," its buzz a constant, irritating hum even from a distance. As Kamilah pulled her coupe up to the pump, the gravel crunched under her tires with a sound that seemed to absorb all other noise. She killed the engine, and the sudden silence was broken only by the drone of cicadas hidden in the sparse, parched trees that dotted the landscape. The heat was a thick, wet blanket that clung to her skin the moment she stepped out of the car, making the simple act of breathing feel like an effort. She could feel the sweat begin to prickle between her breasts and along her spine almost instantly. This was the deep, sweaty, soul-crushing South, and it was a character in its own right.

Kamilah was dressed for the weather, not for modesty. Her outfit was a celebration of her own body, a canvas of brown skin and confident curves. The cutoff muscle shirt, once a standard piece of athletic wear, was now a ragged crop that ended just below her breasts, leaving her toned midriff completely exposed. The frayed edges of the denim shorts were a testament to how often she wore them, and they were glued to her hips and ass. They were short—embarrassingly short, her mother would have said, but Kamilah didn't give a fuck. The high-cut hem showcased the thick, powerful muscles of her thighs, a legacy of years spent dancing and her recent dedication to Pilates. Every step she took was a statement, a rhythmic sway of her hips that was both natural and practiced. She knew she looked good, and in the suffocating monotony of this rural landscape, she was a splash of vibrant, unapologetic life. The soles of her worn leather sandals slapped against the hot concrete as she walked toward the station's entrance, her movements unhurried despite the heat. She was on her own time, her own schedule, and the whole world could just fucking wait.

The interior of the gas station was a welcome shock of cold air, blasting from a rattling unit above the door. It smelled of stale coffee, disinfectant, and the faint, sweet tang of motor oil. The fluorescent lights hummed and flickered, casting a jaundiced glow over the aisles stocked with an overwhelming array of junk food, sodas, and automotive necessities. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager with a face full of piercings scrolled listlessly through his phone. Kamilah paid him no mind. Her mission was clear, a quest as important as any she'd undertake on this journey: find the perfect road trip snacks. This wasn't just about hunger; it was about ritual. The right combination of sweet, salty, and sour could make the difference between a tedious drive and a joyful one. Her eyes scanned the shelves, a connoisseur assessing her options. She bypassed the healthy shit—granola bars and baked chips—with a disdainful curl of her lip. This was a vacation from responsibility, a rebellion against her own better judgment. She wanted sugar, she wanted salt, she wanted the kind of processed goodness that would make her teeth ache, and her spirit soar.

Her bare feet, now cool against the linoleum floor, carried her deeper into the labyrinth of processed delights. She started in the chip aisle, her fingers trailing over the colorful bags. Lays? Too basic. Doritos? A classic, but she was feeling more adventurous today. Her gaze landed on a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos, and she felt a pull. Yes. That was the kind of heat that matched the weather outside. She grabbed the bag, its crinkle satisfying in the quiet store. Next, she moved on to the candy section. This required more thought. Should she go with something chocolatey and melty, or something fruity and long-lasting? Her eyes danced over the options—Snickers, Milky Way, M&Ms—before settling on a bag of Sour Patch Kids. The perfect combination of sugar and sour, a little explosion of flavor for every mile. She was building an arsenal, a curated collection of delights to sustain her through the long, lonely hours of driving. She felt a small smile touch her lips. This was it. This was the freedom she was looking for. The simple joy of choosing her own path, even if that path was currently paved with high-fructose corn syrup and monosodium glutamate. She was lost in her mission, her mind focused solely on the task at hand, completely unaware that she was about to become the focal point of someone else's very different kind of mission.

She moved toward the refrigerated section at the back of the store, her hips swaying to a silent beat only she could hear. The glass doors were fogged with condensation, and she had to wipe a clear spot with her palm to see inside. Her eyes lit up at the sight of the brightly colored Slushie machine. That was the prize. The holy grail. But first, more snacks. She turned her attention to the lower shelves, where a new treasure awaited: a limited-edition flavor of Pringles. "Smoky Gouda," the label proclaimed. Intriguing. She squatted down, her back to the aisle entrance, to get a better look. The position caused the denim of her shorts to ride up even higher, the frayed hem disappearing into the crease where her thigh met the curve of her ass. The fabric stretched across her backside, outlining every generous curve in explicit detail. Her skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, making the brown of her thighs and the darker denim a delicious contrast. She was completely absorbed, her fingers reaching out to trace the lettering on the can, her mind already tasting the smoky, cheesy flavor. In that moment, she was the picture of unselfconscious, sensual abandon, a woman in her element, and she had no idea that the door had just chimed, signaling the arrival of a man whose frustration was about to find a very unexpected, very compelling target.

The chime of the doorbell was a shrill, metallic clang that sliced through Kamilah's candy-coated reverie, a jarring intrusion into her snack-fueled sanctuary. She didn't look up, her focus still locked on the Smoky Gouda Pringles, but the cold air seemed to thin, replaced by a thick, oppressive wave of heat and something else… something acidic and tense. Elijah stepped into the gas station like a storm cloud threatening to burst. The Mississippi heat had done him no favors; his onyx-toned skin gleamed of sweat, and the crisp lines of his white t-shirt were already damp, clinging to the sculpted planes of his chest and shoulders. He was a powerful man, thick with muscle, a presence that demanded space even when he was standing still. But today, that power was a compressed spring of frustration. His jaw was set like granite, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he scanned the store, his deep brown eyes holding no warmth, only a simmering, dangerous heat that had nothing to do with the weather.

Trailing in his wake was the source of that heat: his wife, Heaven. She was a beautiful woman, there was no denying it, with smooth, caramel skin and a body that was still turning heads even after a decade of marriage. But her beauty was currently weaponized, her mouth set in a thin, unforgiving line as she launched into another tirade. "I'm just saying, Elijah, you could have at least asked me if I wanted something to drink before you just parked and got out. It's called common courtesy. Or does that not exist in your world anymore?" Her voice was a whining drone, the kind of sound that could burrow under a man's skin and lay eggs. Elijah didn't turn, just kept walking toward the counter, his shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing against a physical blow. "Heaven, for the last time, I'm not your butler. You got two perfectly good feet. Use 'em," he muttered. The words were quiet, but they carried the weight of a hundred similar arguments, a decade of built-up resentment that was starting to crack at the seams.

This was their dance. A vicious, exhausting tango of nagging and retreating, of pushing and pulling until one of them—or both—broke. Today, the music was particularly discordant. The trip to visit her mother had been a disaster from the start, a four-hour drive filled with her complaints about his driving, his choice of music, his very existence. The heat had amplified everything, turning their car into a pressure cooker of unspoken grievances. Heaven, for her part, felt justified. She was tired of feeling like a single woman who just happened to share a last name and a bed with a man who was more like a roommate than a husband. She missed the man who used to look at her with fire and desire, the man who would bring her flowers for no reason. Now, all she got was this grunting, silent brick wall who seemed to be actively plotting her demise with every passing mile. "Don't you 'Heaven' me like I'm some child," she snapped, her heels clicking angrily on the linoleum as she followed him. "You've been in a mood since we left home, and I'm sick of it. You're supposed to be my husband, not some brooding-ass nigga I picked up on the side of the road."

Elijah stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his head slowly, and the look in his eyes made Heaven flinch, despite herself. It was a look she knew well, the one that promised consequences, the one that usually preceded a night of him sleeping on the couch or her giving him the silent treatment for a week. But today, there was something different in that gaze. Something colder. Something broken. "You want to know what's wrong, Heaven?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft. "I'm tired. I'm tired of the sound of your fucking voice. I'm tired of this trip. I'm tired of your mother's passive-aggressive comments about my job. And I swear to God, if you say one more word to me, I'm gonna put my fucking fist through this wall. And then I'm gonna get back in the car, and I'm gonna drive home. And you can figure out your own damn way back." The threat hung in the air between them. Heaven's mouth opened, then closed. She saw it then, the line he was about to cross. For the first time all day, a sliver of genuine fear pierced through her indignation.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Elijah held her gaze, his chest rising and falling with each controlled breath, the fight draining out of him and leaving behind a hollow, aching void of pure anger. He was at his breaking point. He could feel it in the way his blood pounded in his temples, in the way his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He needed out. He needed a fucking minute before he did something he couldn't take back. He broke the stare first, turning away from her with a sigh that seemed to deflate his entire body. "Look," he said, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "I'm gonna get a drink. You wanted food, right? They got a little diner thing in the back. Go see what they got. I'll be here." It wasn't a suggestion; it was a dismissal. A clear, unspoken command to get the fuck out of his face before he exploded.

Heaven stared at his back, a war of emotions waging across her face. She was still angry, still hurt, but that flicker of fear had sobered her. She knew Elijah. She knew his limits, and she knew she'd just been dancing on the edge of a cliff. With a huff of indignation that was more for show than anything else, she spun on her heel. "Fine," she tossed over her shoulder, her voice tight. "But you're paying. And you better not leave without me." She stalked toward the back of the store, her movements sharp and aggrieved, disappearing behind a partition that separated the main convenience store from the greasy spoon attached to it. The moment she was gone, the tension in Elijah's shoulders eased, just a fraction. He was alone. Alone with his anger, his frustration, and the overwhelming, suffocating silence. He ran a hand over his low-cut fade, trying to physically push back the rage that was threatening to consume him. He turned, his eyes scanning the aisles, looking for nothing and everything at once. And that's when he saw her. Squatting in the chip aisle, her back to him, a vision of brown skin and thick curves that seemed to suck all the air out of the room. And in that moment, the chaotic storm of Elijah's anger found its eye.

Kamilah was still lost in her own little world, a universe contained within the shiny foil of a Pringles can. She was completely oblivious to the domestic drama that had just unfolded, the toxic energy that still lingered in the air like the scent of ozone after a lightning strike. All she knew was the cool air on her skin and the life-altering decision of whether to commit to the Smoky Gouda or stick with a classic like Sour Cream and Onion. The position she was in, bent at the waist with her ass pushed out, was one of unthinking convenience. It gave her the perfect angle to peruse the lower shelves, but it also presented a spectacle that was nothing short of criminal. The frayed denim of her shorts had surrendered completely, disappearing into the deep crease of her ass, leaving the round, firm globes of her buttocks almost entirely exposed. The thin strip of dark fabric from her thong was a stark line against her rich, brown skin. Her thighs were flexed slightly, the muscles defined from her squat, and the soft curve of her hips flowed into her narrow waist. It was an ass that could make a man forget how to speak, an ass that could start wars and broker peace treaties. And it was currently aimed directly at the entrance of the aisle.

Elijah saw it, and his world stopped. The roaring in his head, the cacophony of Heaven's nagging, the suffocating weight of his own anger, it all vanished. In its place was a sudden, sharp, and almost violent surge of lust. It hit him like a punch to the gut that stole his breath. His body reacted before his brain did. Blood rushed south, thickening his dick in an instant, a hard ache that pressed insistently against the zipper of his jeans. There was no thought of his wife, no flicker of guilt, no consideration of his wedding vows. There was only the undeniable need radiating from the woman in front of him. He felt like a parched man who had just found an oasis. His anger didn't disappear; it transmuted. The destructive energy that had been aimed at Heaven was now channeled, focused, and honed into a single, burning point of desire. This wasn't just a woman; she was a solution. A release. A goddamn gift from the devil himself, delivered in a gas station chip aisle in the middle of Mississippi.

He moved without a conscious thought, his feet carrying him down the aisle toward her. His movements were silent, predatory, in contrast to the heavy, frustrated energy he'd brought into the store. He stopped a few feet behind her, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body, close enough to smell the faint, sweet scent of her perfume. He just stood there for a moment, his eyes devouring the sight before him. He took in the smooth, unblemished skin of her back, the delicate curve of her spine, the way her muscles shifted as she adjusted her position. He could see the tiny, dark hairs at the nape of her neck, damp with perspiration, and he had an almost overwhelming urge to lean down and press his lips there, to taste her skin. His hands, which had been clenched into fists at his sides, relaxed, his fingers uncurling as if preparing to touch her.

Finally, Kamilah made her decision. With a soft grunt of satisfaction, she grabbed the can of Smoky Gouda Pringles and straightened up, turning to place it in the small basket she was carrying. And that's when she saw him. She turned, and her eyes met his, and she came face-to-face with a wall of a man. A little gasp of surprise escaped her lips. He was… intimidating. And gorgeous. His skin seemed to absorb the fluorescent light, and his eyes, a deep, intense brown, were locked onto hers with a focus that was almost frightening. He was close, too close, invading her personal space, but she found herself not wanting to back away. There was an energy coming off him, a masculine power that was thrilling. She could feel the heat of his body, and she could see the unmistakable bulge in his jeans, an effect she had on him. A sly smile crept across her face. Well, well, well. This day just got a whole lot more interesting.

"Damn," she said, "You tryin' to give a girl a heart attack, sneakin' up on her like that?" She didn't sound scared; she sounded amused. Her eyes danced with mischief as she looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on the hard planes of his chest, the thick muscles of his arms, and the prominent erection straining against his denim. She wasn't shy about her interest, and her blatant appreciation seemed to feed the fire in his eyes.

Elijah's lips curved into a smile of his own, but it wasn't a friendly smile. It was a hungry, knowing grin that promised all kinds of trouble. "My bad, ma," he said. "Couldn't help myself. You were bent over lookin' so good, I had to get a closer look." He didn't bother with pretense. He didn't try to pretend he wasn't just staring at her ass. He owned it.

Kamilah laughed, "Oh, so you just admiring the view, huh?" she teased, shifting her weight to one hip and pushing her chest out slightly. The movement caused the thin fabric of her cutoff shirt to stretch even tighter across her breasts, and she saw his eyes drop to her cleavage for a split second before meeting her gaze again. "Well, the view is free, but touching costs extra." She was playing with fire, and she knew it. But this was the kind of adventure she'd been looking for, the kind of spontaneous, unexpected encounter that made a road trip memorable.

"I got money," Elijah replied, his voice dropping even lower. He took another step closer, closing the distance between them until they were almost touching. He could feel the heat radiating from her skin, could smell the sweet, floral scent of her body wash. He reached out, his fingers brushing against the bare skin of her arm, just below the sleeve of her shirt. The touch was light, almost accidental, but it was electric. Kamilah felt her nipples harden, pressing against the thin cotton of her shirt. "But I was thinkin' more of a trade," he continued, his eyes locked on hers. "I touch you, you touch me. Sounds fair to me."

Her breathing faltered again. This man was playing for keeps, and she was more than ready to play along. She leaned in slightly, her lips just inches from his, her voice a seductive whisper. "What makes you think I want to touch you, big daddy?" she challenged, her eyes sparkling with defiance and desire.

Elijah's smile widened, he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against her ear, his voice a hot, ticklish breath that sent shivers down her spine. " 'Cause I can see it in your eyes," he murmured. "You want this. You want this just as bad as I do. You lookin' for a little adventure on this road trip of yours, and I'm the motherfuckin' adventure you been waitin' for." He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what's it gonna be? You gonna let me show you what a real Mississippi welcome feels like?"

The air between them crackled, Elijah's words hung in the air, a challenge and an invitation rolled into one. Kamilah felt a thrill course through her that made her heart pound in her chest. This was it. This was the edge she'd been chasing, the moment where the safe, predictable path diverged into something wild and unknown. She looked up into his eyes, seeing the storm of anger and lust swirling in their depths, and she wasn't scared. She was turned the fuck on. She saw the glint of gold on his left hand, the unmistakable band of a wedding ring, and it didn't give her a moment's pause. If anything, it amplified the excitement. A married man. A man who was supposed to be off-limits, a man who was clearly looking for something his wife wasn't giving him. Well, Kamilah was more than happy to provide. She wasn't a homewrecker; she was a temporary escape. An irresistible detour on his journey of marital misery.

"An adventure, huh?" She took a small step forward, closing the last inch of space between them, her breasts brushing against the hard wall of his chest. "You talk a big game for a nigga whose wife is probably in the back orderin' a BLT right now." She brought her hand up, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, feeling the rough stubble beneath her fingertips. Her touch was a slow, sensual exploration that let him know she was in control of her own desire. "You sure you can handle the kind of trouble I bring?"

Elijah's response was a low rumble in his chest. He didn't answer with words. He answered with action. His hand shot out, wrapping around the back of her neck, he pulled her closer, his face just inches from hers, his hot breath fanning across her lips. "I don't handle trouble, ma," he rasped. "I am the fuckin' trouble." His other hand came up to rest on the small of her back, his thumb stroking the strip of exposed skin just above the waistband of her shorts. The touch was proprietary, a silent declaration that he was claiming this moment, this space, her.

They were in the middle of a public gas station, with the teenage cashier just a few aisles away and Elijah's wife potentially emerging from the back room at any second. The thought of getting caught, of Heaven walking around the corner and seeing her husband with his hands all over another woman, should have been a deterrent. But for both of them, it was an accelerant. It fueled the fire, turning a simple flirtation into a high-stakes game of erotic Russian roulette. Kamilah could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins, making her feel alive. She leaned into his touch, her body molding against his, a silent invitation to take it further.

Elijah's mind was a blank slate. There was no room for guilt, no space for hesitation. All he could think about was the feel of her skin under his hands, the taste of her lips that he hadn't even had yet but already craved. His anger at Heaven was a fuel, a raging fire that needed an outlet, and Kamilah was the perfect kindling. He wanted to fuck her. Not make love, not have sex, but fuck. He wanted to bend her over, to bury himself inside her, to use her body to purge himself of all the frustration and resentment that had been building up for months. He wanted to hear her scream, to feel her nails digging into his back, to mark her as his, even if it was only for a few stolen minutes.

He tightened his grip on her neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind her ear. He leaned in, his lips hovering just above hers, teasing her with the promise of a kiss. "You still haven't answered my question. You gonna let me show you what a real Mississippi welcome feels like?" His eyes bored into hers, demanding an answer, daring her to back down.

Kamilah's response was to close the distance between them. She surged up on her toes, crushing her lips against his in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was a clash of teeth and tongues, a hungry, desperate exploration. She poured all of her carefree, adventurous spirit into that kiss, all of her pent-up loneliness and longing for connection. She kissed him like she was starving and he was a five-course meal. Her hands came up to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, holding on for dear life.

Elijah met her passion with a ferocity of his own. He kissed her back with a punishing intensity, his tongue delving into her mouth, claiming every inch of her. He dominated the kiss, his lips and teeth and tongue working in concert to overwhelm her senses. He wanted to devour her. His hand on her back slid down, cupping the curve of her ass, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling her against his aching erection. He grinded his hips against hers.

The kiss deepened, growing more frantic, more urgent. They were lost in their own little world, a bubble of lust and need that existed outside of time and space. The sounds of the gas station faded away: the hum of the fluorescent lights, the drone of the cicadas outside, the distant voice of the cashier. All that mattered was the feel of each other's bodies, the taste of each other's mouths, the overwhelming, all-consuming need for more. They were two strangers on a collision course, and the point of impact was going to be explosive. There was no more talking, no more teasing. The decision had been made. They were going to do this. They were going to fuck in the chip aisle of a rundown gas station in the middle of nowhere, and they were going to love every goddamn second of it.

The kiss broke, leaving them both breathless and gasping, their chests heaving. A thin string of saliva connected their lips for a moment before Kamilah licked it away with a wicked grin. There was no need for words. The decision had been made in that frenzied clash of tongues and teeth. Elijah's hand was still clamped on the back of her neck, a firm, possessive grip that sent another jolt of desire straight to her core. He used that grip to turn her, his movements rough and unapologetic. He guided her deeper into the aisle, past the Pringles and the Doritos, toward the more secluded corner near the endcap, where the store kept the oversized bags of party chips and generic pretzels. It was a sliver of privacy, a flimsy shield against the rest of the world, but it was enough.

"Bend over," he commanded, his voice a low growl that was all command and no request. He didn't have to tell her twice. Kamilah was a woman who appreciated a man who knew what he wanted, and this man wanted to fuck her right here, right now. She turned, placing her hands on her knees and sticking her ass out, presenting herself to him like an offering. She could hear him behind her, the sound of his zipper being lowered, the soft rustle of denim. It was the sexiest sound she'd ever heard. He didn't bother with finesse. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her shorts, yanking them down over the swell of her hips and ass in one motion. The denim pooled around her ankles, followed quickly by her flimsy thong, which he pushed aside.

Elijah took a moment to just look at her. Her ass was a masterpiece; her pussy was glistening, he'd done that to her. He'd made this stranger, this tourist with her sweet, non-local accent, wet and ready for him with just a look and a kiss. He spat on his hand, coating the head of his dick, which was hard as steel and leaking. He didn't need to; she was more than ready, but it was a gesture of nastiness that he knew she would appreciate. He positioned himself behind her, the thick head of his dick knocking at her slick entrance.

"Fuck me," she moaned, wiggling her hips, trying to impale herself on him. "Stop teasin' me, nigga, and fuck me."

That was all the encouragement he needed. He gripped her hips with both hands and slammed into her. He didn't give her time to adjust. He started fucking her, hard and fast, his hips pistoning against her ass, his balls slapping against her clit with every stroke. He was using her, fucking her with aggression. He was taking out all his frustration on her pussy, every nagging word from his wife, every moment of suppressed rage, every ounce of his pent-up anger; he was channeling it all into this one act.

The sounds of their fucking were a wet, slapping rhythm that echoed in the quiet aisle. It was punctuated by the crinkle of chip bags as Kamilah's hands pressed against them for support, and the distant hum of the store's air conditioner. Elijah's hands roamed her body, one gripping her hip, the other sliding up her back to tangle in her hair. He wrapped her thick, dark curls around his fist, pulling her head back, arching her spine. The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, and she screamed, a muffled sound of ecstasy that he quickly stifled by covering her mouth with his free hand.

"Shut the fuck up," he grunted, his voice strained with effort. "You want the whole store to hear you gettin' this dick?" His words were degrading, but they only made her wetter. She loved it. She loved being treated like a dirty little slut, a receptacle for his anger and his lust. She bit down on his palm, the sharp pain making him hiss, but he didn't let go. He just fucked her harder, his strokes becoming more erratic.

He was lost in a haze of pleasure and rage, his mind a blank slate of pure sensation. He was fucking her so hard his vision wouldn't stay focused, his balls drawing up tight. He was close. He could feel her tightening around him, her pussy clenching and spasming as her own orgasm approached. He pushed her down even harder, forcing her to bend even lower, until her forehead was almost touching her knees. The new position showed off her flexibility and his power. And it was from this vantage point, looking over the top of the chip rack, that he saw her.

Heaven.

She was standing by the entrance to the little restaurant, a paper bag in her hand, a confused look on her face. She was looking for him. And then their eyes met. Her expression shifted from confusion to dawning horror, to disbelief. She saw him. She saw him with his hand fisted in another woman's hair, his hips buried between her thighs. She saw him fucking a stranger in the chip aisle of a gas station. For a split second, a rational thought flickered through Elijah's mind. A thought of panic, of regret, of oh fuck, I've been caught. But it was quickly extinguished by a surge of something much darker: triumph.

He didn't stop. He didn't slow down. He just stared at his wife, his eyes burning with a cold, hard fire, and he fucked Kamilah harder. He used the look on Heaven's face as fuel, as a catalyst for his release. Every thrust was a punishment, a declaration. He was owning this moment, this woman, this act, and he was doing it right in front of her. He watched as her face went slack with shock, her mouth falling open. He felt a sick, twisted sense of satisfaction. This wasn't just about release; this was about power.

He slowed his strokes just enough to speak, his voice cut through the wet slapping sounds of their fucking. "Heaven," he called out, his eyes never leaving hers. "Come here."

Kamilah, her face buried in her arms, muffled a confused sound, but Elijah tightened his grip in her hair, a silent command to stay put. He saw his wife hesitate, her body frozen in place, a war of shock and humiliation waging across her features. He didn't repeat himself. He just waited, his hips still moving in a slow rhythm, his dick buried deep inside the stranger. 

Slowly, as if in a trance, Heaven started to move. She took one step, then another, her eyes locked on the scene in front of her. She walked down the aisle, her movements robotic, the paper bag in her hand crinkling with each step. She stopped a few feet away, close enough to see everything, to hear the slick sounds of his dick pistoning in and out of the other woman's pussy, the smell of their sex. Her eyes were wide, her face drained of color, but she didn't cry. She just watched.

"That's it," Elijah grunted, his pace picking up again, his hips snapping against Kamilah's ass. "Stand right there and watch. You wanted to know what was wrong with me? This is what's wrong with me. This is what you do to me. You push me, and you push me, and you push me, until I don't give a fuck anymore. Until I'd rather fuck a stranger than listen to you run your damn mouth for one more second."

He was talking to Heaven, but his words were for Kamilah, too. He was using them both, using his wife's humiliation and the stranger's body to exorcise his demons. He could feel Kamilah's pussy clenching around him, her body responding to his dominance, to the nasty power of the moment. She was getting off on it, too. The thought made him fuck her even harder.

"You see this, Heaven?" he snarled, his voice strained with effort, each word punctuated by the wet slap of his hips against Kamilah's ass. "You see how she takes this dick? You see how she loves it? This is what I need. This is what you've been denying me. This is what I'm gonna take whenever the fuck I want." He paused, his strokes slowing to a deep, grinding rhythm that made Kamilah whimper, his eyes never leaving his wife's. He saw the shock, the humiliation, the dawning understanding in her gaze, and he fed on it. "And you're gonna watch. Every. Single. Time."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. "You think I'm gonna divorce you? Oh no, baby. That's too easy. That's a clean break. You don't get off that easy." A cruel smile twisted his lips. "Nah. From now on, this is your life. This is your new job. You're gonna be my little cuck. You're gonna stand right there and watch me fuck any woman I want. You're gonna watch me fill their pretty little pussies up with my cum, and you're gonna thank me for it."

He straightened up, his pace quickening again, the power of his words fueling the force of his thrusts. "You keep bitchin', you keep moanin', you keep gettin' on my motherfuckin' nerves, and I promise you, I will humiliate you. I will fuck your best friend on our wedding anniversary. I'll bend the checkout girl at the Piggly Wiggly over the conveyor belt and make you watch me bust a nut all over her back. Shit, I'll go to your mom's next Sunday dinner and fuck her on the dining room table while you're in the kitchen making the damn sweet tea. And your sister? Oh, I've been wantin' to hit that for years. I'll fuck her in the back of my car while you're on the phone with her, tellin' you how good she takin' this dick."

He was breathing hard now, his chest heaving, his words a torrent of petty, dominant rage. He was painting a picture of a future so bleak, so debasing, that it was a fate worse than divorce. He wasn't just cheating on her; he was systematically dismantling her world, claiming everyone and everything she held dear as potential territory for his wrath. "So you think about that next time you wanna run your fuckin' mouth. You think about me diggin' deep in your sister, thinkin' about how I'm gonna make you lick my cum outta her pussy. You keep pushin' me, and I swear to God, I'll get the whole town pregnant. Now stand there and be a good wife. Watch me make this pussy cum."

He was close, so close. He could feel the cum boiling in his balls, ready to explode. He looked at his wife, his eyes burning into hers, a final, brutal act of ownership. "Watch me, Heaven," he commanded. "Watch me cum in her pussy."

He slammed into Kamilah one last time. His body seized as his dick began to spasm, each contraction sending another thick spurt of his creamy release into her. He held himself there, buried deep inside her, his eyes locked on his wife as he emptied himself into the stranger. He was claiming Kamilah's pussy, and he was destroying his marriage, and rebuilding it in his own image, all in the same explosive moment. He felt Kamilah's body shudder beneath him as her own orgasm ripped through her, her pussy drawing out every last drop of his cum. And then it was over. The storm had passed. He was spent, empty, and strangely calm, and as he slowly pulled out of Kamilah, a trickle of his cum ran down her thigh. He turned to face his wife, a satisfied, fulfilled smirk playing on his lips.

The air in the chip aisle was thick. For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths, a trio of people trying to find their equilibrium after a Category 5 hurricane of lust and rage had just blown through. Kamilah was the first to move, slowly and stiffly pushing herself upright. Her legs felt like jelly, her thighs trembling with the aftershocks of an orgasm that had been ripped from her soul. She could feel the sticky warmth of Elijah's cum beginning to trickle down the inside of her thigh. She reached down with shaky hands, her fingers fumbling with the denim of her shorts. She pulled them up, she didn't bother with her thong, just left it where it was, a sodden scrap of fabric hanging from her hip. She looked over at Elijah, who was watching her with that smirk still playing on his lips.

Heaven was still standing there, a statue carved from humiliation and shock. Her eyes were wide, but she was no longer crying. She was just… present. A witness to her own degradation. She watched as Kamilah dressed, her gaze flickering between the stranger and her husband, a silent, frantic computation happening behind her eyes. She was trying to process it, to compartmentalize it, but how do you file away the image of your husband filling another woman with his cum in a gas station chip aisle? You don't. You just carry it. You carry it like a stone in your gut.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke the spell. It was the teenage cashier, his bored voice calling out, "Y'all find everything okay over there?" The mundane, everyday normalcy of the question was absurd, a cosmic joke. Panic, sharp and sudden, sliced through the post-coital haze.

Elijah, however, didn't panic. He was the eye of the storm, the calm center of his own chaos. He just turned his head toward the sound of the cashier's voice and called out, "We're good, my man. Just lookin' for the right flavor." His voice was smooth, casual, as if he weren't standing in a cloud of his own sexual musk with his dick still half-hard and his wife watching him like a ghost. He then turned his attention back to Heaven, his expression hardening. The smirk was gone, replaced by a look of cold, dismissive authority.

"Go to the car," he said. His voice was low, but it carried the weight of a threat. "Now."

Heaven didn't argue. She didn't even hesitate. She just turned and walked away. She didn't look back. She just walked, her head held high, her back straight, a queen marching to her own execution. The paper bag of food she was still holding crinkled with each step, a sad, pathetic little soundtrack to her retreat.

Elijah watched her go, his eyes narrowed, as he waited until she was out of sight, until he heard the ding of the bell on the door as she stepped outside into the oppressive heat. Then he turned back to Kamilah. He took a step toward her, closing the distance between them. He reached out, his fingers gently tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

"You good?" he asked, his voice softer now.

Kamilah looked up at him, her eyes still wide with a mixture of awe and disbelief. She saw the man who had just fucked her with a brutal, punishing intensity, the man who had used her body to wage war on his wife. But she also saw something else in his eyes. Respect? Gratitude? It was hard to tell.

"I'm good," she said, her voice a little shaky. "I'm real good."

A small, genuine smile touched his lips. "You're somethin' else, you know that?" he said. "A real fuckin' trip." He leaned in, his lips brushing against her ear. "Thanks for the adventure, tourist."

He pulled away, his eyes holding hers for a long moment. It was a look of mutual understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the crazy, fucked-up, beautiful thing they had just shared. There were no regrets, no apologies, no promises. There was just the memory, an indelible mark on their souls. He gave her a final, lingering glance, a look that said, "I'll never forget you." Then he turned and walked away, leaving her alone in the chip aisle, the scent of him still clinging to her skin, the taste of him still on her lips, the memory of his dick buried deep inside her forever etched in her mind.

Kamilah stood there for a moment, the silence of the aisle pressing in on her. She could still feel the ghost of his touch, the phantom weight of his hand in her hair, the lingering heat of his body pressed against hers. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the air thick with the scent of their sex, and a slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. She felt alive. She had just been a willing participant in a man's public, brutal takedown of his wife, and she had enjoyed every fucking second of it. She adjusted her shorts, wiped a smear of his cum from her thigh, and picked up her basket of snacks. The Smoky Gouda Pringles, the Sour Patch Kids, the bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos—they were no longer just snacks. They were trophies. Souvenirs from the battle. She walked to the counter, her hips swaying with confidence.

The teenage cashier didn't look up from his phone, just grunted when she placed her items on the counter. "That'll be $12.47," he mumbled.

Kamilah dug a twenty out of her pocket, her fingers still a little shaky. "Here you go," she said.

He took the bill, still not looking at her, and made change. As he handed her the bills and coins, he finally glanced up, his eyes widening slightly as he took in her disheveled appearance, the rosy flush on her cheeks, the wild, satisfied look in her eyes. He looked from her to the chip aisle and back again, a flicker of understanding, or at least suspicion, in his gaze. Kamilah just smiled at him, a bright, innocent smile that didn't reach her eyes. She took her change and her snacks, and walked out of the store without a backward glance.

The cherry-red coupe was a welcome sight, a beacon of freedom and escape. She slid into the driver's seat, the hot leather sticking to her skin as she tossed her snacks onto the passenger seat and started the engine, the rumble of the motor a comforting purr. As she pulled away from the pump, she saw them. A black SUV, parked in the shade near the edge of the lot. Elijah was in the driver's seat, his arm resting on the windowsill, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Heaven was in the passenger seat, her head turned away, looking out the side window, a still, silent figure. Elijah watched her as she drove past, their eyes meeting for a brief, charged moment. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He just watched her. Kamilah held his stare for as long as she could, then she turned her attention to the road, put the car in drive, and sped off, leaving the gas station, the drama, and the married man behind her. She didn't know where she was going to stop next, but she knew one thing for sure: this was a road trip she would never forget.

Inside the SUV, the silence was alive. It had weight and substance, filling the space between them, pressing down on them with an unbearable pressure. Elijah took a long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his head, a hazy halo for his dark, brooding mood. He watched Kamilah's red coupe disappear down the highway, a speck of color in a landscape of dull green and brown. He felt a sense of satisfaction that had been missing from his life for months. He had done it. He had crossed the line. And he had enjoyed it.

He turned his attention to his wife. "So," he said, his voice casual, as if he were asking about the weather. "You understand my terms? You understand my rules?"

Heaven didn't look at him. She just kept staring out the window, her jaw set, her hands clenched in her lap. "You're not serious," she said, her voice tight, brittle. "You wouldn't dare."

Elijah laughed, a low, humorless sound. "Oh, I'm serious, Heaven. I'm dead serious. I just showed you how serious I am. Or were you not paying attention?"

She finally turned to face him, her eyes flashing with a familiar defiance. "You're a pig," she spat. "A disgusting, pathetic pig. You think you can just fuck some random whore and threaten to fuck my family and I'm just gonna roll over and take it? You're insane. I'm not gonna be your little cuck. I'll divorce you. I'll take you for everything you're worth."

Elijah just smiled, which made her blood run cold. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. "You still think I'm bluffing?" he asked, his voice soft. He tapped the screen. He held the phone up to his ear, his eyes locked on hers. "Let's find out, shall we?"

Heaven's heart stopped. She watched him, her breath caught in her throat, as the phone rang. Once. Twice. Then a voice, a voice she knew better than her own, answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Hey, Whitney," Elijah said, his voice smooth as silk. "It's Elijah. How you doin', girl?"

Heaven's world began to tilt. Her sister. Her younger sister, Whitney. The one she was supposed to protect, the one who looked up to her, the one who had no idea what kind of monster her brother-in-law truly was. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she felt the blood drain from her face. She shook her head, her eyes wide with pleading, a silent, desperate plea for him to stop.

Elijah ignored her. He just kept smiling, his eyes cold and hard. "Nah, I'm good, just chillin'. Hey, listen, I was wonderin' if you were free later. Me and Heaven were talkin' about you, and we were thinkin' it'd be nice to get together. Maybe you could come over to the house tonight? Just us. We got a lot to catch up on."

He could see the fight drain out of Heaven, the defiance replaced by fear. She knew he would do it. She knew he would fuck her sister, not just to hurt her, but because he enjoyed it. She shook her head again, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. She mouthed the word, "Please."

Elijah watched her, his smile widening. He had her. He had her right where he wanted her. He had broken her. "Okay, cool," he said into the phone. "See you tonight, Whitney. Bye." He hung up the phone and tossed it onto the dashboard. He looked at his wife, his expression triumphant. "Well?" he asked. "You ready to agree to my terms now?"

Heaven just nodded, her head bobbing up and down like a broken doll.

"Good," he said, his voice soft, satisfied. He started the engine, the SUV rumbling to life. He put the car in drive and pulled out onto the highway, heading west, toward home. He glanced over at his wife, who was staring out the window, a silent, obedient little thing. "Now," he said, his voice commanding. "Suck my dick."

Heaven didn't hesitate. She just unbuckled her seatbelt, leaned over, and unzipped his pants. The moment she reached in to pull his dick out, the scent hit her. It was a faint aroma that was undeniably not her own. It was the ghost of another woman's pussy, the lingering evidence of his infidelity, and it made her stomach clench with a sickening mix of humiliation. The smell was potent; the moment his dick was exposed to the cool air of the car, it stood up immediately, hard and proud, the head still glistening with the remnants of his cum and Kamilah's juices.

She took his dick in her mouth, the taste was even more potent than the smell. It was a salty, tangy flavor that was foreign and intimate all at once. It was the taste of betrayal, the taste of another woman's pleasure on her husband's skin. She didn't know what to make of it, didn't know what to make of the situation, didn't know why his sudden dominance was such a turn on and also angered her at the same time. But she did as she was told. She closed her eyes and sucked his dick, her tongue swirling around the head, trying to erase the taste of the stranger with her own saliva, but only succeeding in mingling their flavors together.

As she began to suck him off, Elijah picked up his phone again. He found Whitney's number and hit redial. As the phone rang, he rested his hand on the back of his wife's head, his fingers tangling in her hair, guiding her movements. "Hey, Whitney," he said. "It's me again. Change of plans. Why don't you just come on over now? The sooner, the better." He pushed her head down, forcing his dick deeper into her mouth, making her gag slightly. He smiled, a cruel, satisfied smirk. He had his wife's mouth on his dick, and he had her sister on the phone. Life was good.

 @blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl  @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist @justazzi

[midnightmemoirsofher]

The Scent of a Need

Pairing: John x Kam

Summary: In the days following their encounter on the train, John finds himself consumed by a singular hunger. Haunted by the memory of Kam, his own space becomes a prison of his thoughts until he realizes he doesn't have to wait for the next meeting to satisfy his craving.

Warnings: 18+ content, stalking themes, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, and strong language.

Two Kinds of Hunger

It's been three days. And John’s house had become a cage.

It was a spacious loft in a converted warehouse, all exposed brick and steel beams, a space that usually felt like a sanctuary. Now, it felt like a box. He’d tried to sleep, but the sheets were too cool, the silence too loud. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back on that train. The sway of the car, the heat of her body, the way her ass had felt pressed against him. He’d get up, his dick already half-hard, a persistent, aching reminder of his unfinished business.

He tried to eat. A steak, rare and bloody, sat untouched on a plate on his kitchen counter. He’d stared at it, his mind not on the food but on the way she’d bitten her lip, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and lust as Franklin watched them. The thought made his dick throb, a heavy pulse against his thigh. He hated this feeling. This… need. It was a weakness. A hunger that was gnawing at him from the inside out.

He paced the length of his living room, his bare feet silent on the polished concrete floors. He was a man who needed a problem to solve, a thing to fix. He looked around his loft, at the perfectly placed furniture, the organized bookshelves, the spotless floors. There was nothing to fix. And that was the problem. His hands itched to break something, just so he could have the satisfaction of putting it back together.

Is she thinking about me? The thought was a whisper in his mind, a question that had been looping for days. Does she crave this as I do? He hated that he didn’t have her number. Hated that he was at the mercy of a weekly meeting, a public forum where he couldn't say the things he needed to say. He felt like a junkie jonesing for a fix, and she was the only drug that could take the edge off.

He stopped his pacing, his eyes landing on the laundry basket in the corner of his room. He’d thrown his sweatpants in there the night he got home, too exhausted to even think about laundry. He walked over and reached into the pile. His fingers brushed against the soft, familiar fabric of his sweats, and then they found it. Something smaller, lacier.

He pulled them out.

The red lace panties. They were still slightly damp, a tangible reminder of their night. He brought them to his face, and slowly pressed the fabric to his nose and took a deep sniff.

The scent hit him like a punch to the gut. It was her. The sweet scent of her pussy, mixed with the salty, sharp smell of his own cum. It was the scent of their perfect, intoxicating blend of submission and dominance. It was the scent of her need, and his.

And just then, he remembered.

He didn’t need her number.

He knew where she lived.

He’d walked her home. He’d counted the steps, noted the street, the specific townhouse with the black door and the single flickering porch light. It was only a ten-minute walk.

A dangerous smile spread across his face. The pacing stopped. The hunger sharpened into a singular, undeniable purpose.

He didn't bother to change. He just pulled on a black hoodie and a pair of dark jeans, his movements silent. He waited. He waited until the neighborhood outside his window was swallowed by the deepest part of the night, the time when the world was asleep, and the only sounds were the distant hum of the city and the frantic beating of his own heart.

Then he left.

The night air was cool, a welcome relief against his heated skin. He moved through the quiet Brooklyn streets like a ghost, his long strides eating up the pavement. He didn't see the houses or the trees. He only saw the path that led to her.

And then, he was there. Standing in front of her townhome, the black door cast in the darkness. The porch light was off now, the house shrouded in shadow. He could picture her upstairs, in her bed, asleep, unaware that the monster from her dreams was standing just a few feet away, ready to make himself at home.

 @blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl  @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist @justazzi

[midnightmemoirsofher]

The Price of Disrespect

Pairing: Elijah Moore x Heaven Moore

Summary: After the gas station, Elijah reflects on all the times he let his wife walk all over him. He thinks about the women he could've had, the disrespect he ignored, and the rage he suppressed. The patient husband is dead, and the man in his place is ready to show her the price of her actions, and that the good dick she took for granted now belongs to whoever he says it does.

Warnings: Infidelity, Cuckolding, Explicit Language, Degradation, Power Dynamics, Emotional/Psychological Abuse.

Southern Discomfort

The steady hum of the truck's engine is a dull, monotonous drone beneath me, a sound that used to mean home but now just means more of the same. My hand rests on the back of Heaven’s head, my fingers tangled in her hair, guiding her movements as she bobs in my lap. The wet slurps of her sucking my dick are the only other noise in the truck, besides my voice on the phone. "Yeah, Whitney, I know it's short notice. Just get in your car and head over. We need to talk." I said smoothly. This is the voice of a man who just got done fucking a stranger in a gas station chip aisle while his wife watched.

I can still smell her pussy on my dick. Heaven can taste it too. I felt her hesitate for a split second when she first wrapped her lips around me. She didn't pull away, though. She just closed her eyes and got to work, a good little wife doing what she's told. It's funny. All this time, all these years, I thought she held all the cards. But sitting here now, with my dick in her mouth and her sister on the line, I see it for the first time. She was just a brat who hadn't been properly disciplined. And I'm the one who's been letting her get away with it.

My mind drifts back as I watch my wife continue to suck my dick, a highlight reel of my own humiliation. I think about last year's company picnic. Remember that? All the guys from the shop, their wives, their kids. And me, playing the dutiful husband, grilling burgers while you were over by the coolers, laughing it up with Mark from accounting. Your hand on his arm, your head thrown back, that same flirty giggle you used to reserve for me. He was eating that shit up, and so were you. Everyone saw it. I saw it. And what did I do? Nothing. I just stood there and flipped another burger, my blood running hot, my smile plastered on my face. I could've fucked Brenda from the front office that day. She'd been eyeing me all afternoon, licking her lips every time I looked her way. She was bent over the dessert table, grabbing a spoon for the potato salad, and her dress was riding up. I could've been deep in her in the port-a-potty in five minutes flat. But I didn't. Because I was a husband. Because I had vows.

Then there was the time with my own brother, Stack. My own fucking twin. I saw you push your tits against his arm. I saw you whisper in his ear. And you know what he did? He pushed you into my path. He had more respect for our bond than you did. And what did I do? I got mad, sure. I yelled a little. But then you cried, and I backed down. I let you turn it around on me, make me feel like the bad guy for being angry that you tried to fuck my twin. I should've bent you over the hood of my truck right then and there, in front of God and everybody, and showed you who the fuck you belonged to. But I didn't. I took you home and let you ice me out for a week.

And the letters. Fucking Dante from cell block D. I found those letters, Heaven. I read every nasty word. You were sending him pictures of your pussy. The same pussy you were supposed to be giving me. You were giving it away to a felon. A man you'd never even met. And I just… watched. I waited. I let it happen. All those women at the shop, the ones who'd bend over just a little too long when they were asking for a wrench, the ones who'd "accidentally" brush up against me in the breakroom. I could've had any of them. I could've bent one of them over the hood of a '68 Impala and fucked her senseless, come home smelling like her perfume and another woman's sweat. But I didn't. Because I thought you were my wife. Because I thought this life, this simple, boring life, was what you wanted.

This is the life you wanted, Heaven. You wanted to be the stay-at-home wife. You wanted the house, the cars, the security. You wanted the traditional life where the man works, and the woman keeps the home. You got it. I gave it to you. And then you got bored. You got bored, and you decided that the cure for your boredom was to systematically dismantle my manhood, piece by piece. You wanted to be spontaneous with our sex life? All you had to do was say so. All you had to do was come to me, whisper in my ear, "Elijah, I want you to fuck me in the ass tonight." I would've done it. I would've done anything you asked. But you didn't. You took it outside our marriage. You took it to a place of disrespect. You made it a spectacle. You made me a joke.

And for what? For your own entertainment? Because your life was too boring? Well, it's not boring anymore, is it? It's not boring now that you've seen me bury my dick in another woman. It's not boring now that you're tasting her on your tongue. It's not boring now that your sister is on her way over to our house, and I'm gonna fuck her, too. Right in our bed. I'm gonna fuck her in that bed, and you're gonna watch. You're gonna listen to every sound she makes, every whimper, every moan. You're gonna watch, listen, and you're gonna learn.

I'm done being the patient husband. I'm done being the understanding partner. I'm done being the butt of your jokes. I'm done being your punching bag. The man you married is dead, Heaven. You killed him. You killed him with your words, with your disrespect, with your boredom. And the man who's in his place now? He's not here to love you. He's not here to cherish you. He's here to remind you who wears the pants in this marriage. He's here to show you what happens when you push a man too far. He's here to show you that all this good dick you've been taking for granted can be given to someone else. Someone who appreciates it. Someone who doesn't take it for granted. Someone who doesn't make him feel like a fucking fool for loving her. I'm gonna show you, Heaven. I'm gonna show you all the things I could've been doing all these years. You're gonna watch, and you're gonna learn. And you're gonna regret the day you ever made me, your husband, your enemy.

The scent of motor oil and hot metal was a constant in Elijah’s life, a cologne he’d been wearing for over fifteen years. It was the smell of his labor, the smell of his provision. In the bay of Moore’s Auto & Body, a shop his father had built from the ground up, he was a king. His hands, though perpetually stained with a grease that no amount of Gojo could ever fully erase, were instruments. He could diagnose a failing alternator by the sound of its whine and rebuild a transmission with a blindfold on. The respect he commanded here was tangible. Customers trusted him with their second-most valuable asset, and his younger mechanics looked to him with a reverence that bordered on worship. Here, he was Smoke. The calm leader. The man who could take a hunk of useless metal and breathe life back into it. But when he clocked out, wiping his hands on a dirty rag for the last time that day, he left that king in the bay. He drove home to a different kind of kingdom, one where his name was Eliajh and his crown felt more like a dunce cap.

He pulled his gleaming black F-150 into the driveway of the immaculate two-story craftsman he’d bought with his own blood, sweat, and tears. The lawn was a carpet of vibrant green, and edged. The flower beds, which Heaven tended to with a meticulousness that bordered on obsessive, were explosions of color. It was the picture of suburban perfection. A testament to what a man like him could provide. He killed the engine; the silence that followed was nothing like the chaos of the shop. For a moment, he just sat there, gripping the steering wheel, bracing himself. It was always like this, the transition from the respected, competent mechanic to the simple, boring husband. He took a deep breath, the lingering scent of coolant and brake dust a final comfort before he stepped out into the world of his wife.

Inside, Heaven was exactly where he expected to find her: curled up on the plush cream sofa in the living room, scrolling through her phone, the television playing some reality show she wasn’t watching. The house was spotless, smelling faintly of lemon-scented cleaner and the vanilla candle she had burning on the mantel. It was a home. It was everything she had ever wanted. She’d been the one who’d pushed for this life. The one who’d dreamed of being a wife, a homemaker, the traditional woman who kept the home fires burning while her man provided. He remembered her excitement when they’d bought the house, her joy in setting up their shared space. But the dream, it turned out, had a shelf life. The reality of quiet days and predictable nights had begun to curdle into something sour and restless in her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and tired as he dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door.

She didn’t look up from her phone. “Hey. You’re late.” Her tone was flat, devoid of any real curiosity, just a statement of fact laced with the familiar edge of disappointment.

“Had a late come-in. A ’78 Camaro. Owner wanted it done yesterday.” He walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge. The domesticity of it all, the cold air, the neatly arranged shelves, the leftover Tupperware from last night’s dinner, felt like a costume he had to put on every day.

“Mmmhmm,” she murmured, her thumb flicking upward on her screen. He could hear the faint, tinny sound of a woman’s voice from the phone, a reality TV host cackling about someone’s failed relationship. The irony was lost on her.

He grabbed a bottle of water, leaning against the counter, watching her. She was beautiful. Even in her gray sweatpants and oversized t-shirt, she was a vision. Her skin was smooth like caramel, her hair a cascade of dark curls he’d paid to get done just last week. She was the prize he’d won, the woman he’d worked his ass off to give this life to. And she was miserable. He knew it. He’d seen the shift over the past year. The slow dimming of the light in her eyes, the way her laughter had become a rare and guarded thing. The sex was still incredible; a sweaty connection that was the one part of their life that still felt honest. But the rest of it? The day-to-day? It was a performance. And he was her favorite audience, or so she thought.

He walked back into the living room, standing over her. “Anything good on TV?”

“Not really,” she said, finally tearing her eyes away from her phone to look at him. Her gaze swept over him, from his grease-stained T-shirt to his work boots. There was no heat in it, no affection. It was the same look she gave the outdated furniture in the corner. A critical assessment of something that no longer pleased her. “Just boring people living their boring lives. Kinda reminds me of someone.”

There it was. The first little poke of the day. A tiny, sharp needle designed to draw a reaction. A year ago, he would have tried to engage, to ask her what was wrong, to coax her out of her mood. But he’d learned. He’d learned that her moods weren’t things to be soothed. She was bored. This life she’d craved, this life of domestic tranquility, was a cage to her now. And her favorite form of entertainment was seeing how many times she could poke the bear before he roared. She pushed his buttons intentionally, a twisted game to make her own existence feel less mundane. She wanted a reaction. Any reaction was better than the silent, suffocating normalcy she’d created for herself.

Elijah just stared down at her, his face unreadable. He didn't rise to the bait. He didn't give her the satisfaction. He just stood there, a mountain of a man, letting her words hang in the air between them. He could feel the old anger stirring, the familiar hot knot tightening in his gut. But he pushed it down. He buried it deep, where it could fester and grow. He thought about the way she’d flirted with his own brother at the last family cookout. He thought about the prison pen pal he’d found out about, her guy "friend" whose texts made her giggle. He thought about all of it, and a cold, hard resolve began to form in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t just her husband anymore. He was a problem-solving man. And he was starting to think about the solution.

“You got anything to eat?” he asked.

She sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sound that grated on his nerves. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. But you’ll probably have to heat it up yourself. I’m not your personal chef.” She went back to her phone, dismissing him.

Elijah nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. He didn't say another word. He just turned and walked back to the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out the container of food. As he stood there, microwaving his dinner in the quiet hum of the machine, he made a silent promise to himself. He was done being the boring husband. He was done being the butt of her jokes. He was going to let her keep pushing, keep poking, keep thinking she was in control. He was going to let her unravel the very threads of their marriage, thinking it was all just a game. 

Because he knew something she didn't, he knew that one day, she was going to push him too far. And on that day, he was going to be ready to play a game of his own. A game where he made all the rules. And the prize wasn't just her submission; it was her dream. She wanted to be a traditional wife? He would give her a masterclass in what that truly meant. He would show her what it was like to be the woman at home, waiting, while the man's life carried on without her. The possibility of him stepping out wouldn't be a scandal; it would be normal. Him taking a weekend trip to the next town to "take care of" his mistress and their kids would be just another entry on his calendar. He didn't even care if he had kids or not, and she'd made it clear she didn't want them. So he'd have them with another woman, just to spite her. He'd create a whole other family, a whole other life, just to show her how much her constant, cruel button-pushing had hurt him. He would make her the perfect, doting housewife to a man who had no use for her beyond the domestic. He would give her the life she wanted, but on his terms, and it would be a living hell.

The smell of charcoal and hickory smoke was a sacred thing on a Sunday. It was the smell of family, of tradition, of the Moore brothers doing what they did best. Elijah stood over the grill, a pair of long tongs in his hand, his focus absolute. The ribs were his masterpiece, a recipe he’d perfected over years of trial and error, a secret blend of spices he refused to share with anyone, even his own twin. He wore a plain black apron over his white t-shirt, his expression one of serene concentration. This was his domain. Out here, with the smoke curling around him and the sizzle of meat hitting the hot grates, he was in his element. He was a provider, a master of his craft, and the pride he felt in feeding his family was a quiet, steady flame in his chest.

Across the yard, his twin brother Stack was talking to their cousins. He was Elijah’s mirror and his opposite, the same onyx skin and powerful build, but where Elijah was a controlled burn, Stack was a raging wildfire. He was loud and magnetic, a whirlwind of chaotic energy that drew people in. And today, his primary audience was Heaven. She was dressed to kill, as always. A tight, canary-yellow sundress that clung to every inch of her body, her hair and makeup done to perfection. She wasn't just at a family barbecue; she was on display. And she was making sure Stack got the best view.

Elijah watched them out of the corner of his eye, his hand tight around the handle of his tongs. He saw the way she leaned in just a little too close when Stack whispered something in her ear, the way her hand lingered on his arm a second too long. He saw the way Stack ate it up, his grin widening as he leaned into her space, his body language an open invitation. He watched as she laughed at a joke that wasn't that funny, her head thrown back, her throat exposed. He knew her. He knew the tells. He knew the subtle art of her seduction, because he’d been on the receiving end of it for years. But seeing it directed at his brother, his other half, was a different kind of poison. It was a public spectacle, a performance of his own wife's infidelity, played out for the amusement of his entire family.

He tried to focus on the ribs. He turned them, basting them with his secret sauce, the sweet and spicy aroma a familiar comfort. But he couldn't block them out. He could hear her high, tinkling laugh over the music playing from the portable speaker. He could hear Stack’s low, rumbling chuckle. He could hear the words, snippets of conversation that drifted over on the breeze. "Girl, you crazy," Stack was saying. "You know I can't be trusted." And Heaven’s reply, a purr of a voice that used to be reserved for him. "That's what makes it so much fun."

The afternoon wore on, a slow, agonizing torture. Elijah became a statue by the grill, his movements stiff, his smile a brittle mask. He played the part of the gracious host, handing out plates of food, accepting compliments on his cooking, but his mind was a raging war. He was counting the minutes until he could get her home, until he could unleash the torrent of anger building inside him. He felt a strange mix of rage and a sick, twisted sense of pride. He was angry, of course. How could he not be? But there was a part of him, a dark, petty part, that was proud. Proud that his wife was a woman other men desired. Proud that she was a prize to be won, even if she was the one who was trying to give herself away. It was a fucked-up thought, of ego and insecurity, but it was there, simmering just beneath the surface of his rage.

The final straw came when he saw her hand on Stack’s chest, her fingers tracing the hard lines of his pectoral muscles through his thin t-shirt. She was whispering something in his ear, her lips brushing against his skin. And Stack, his own brother, was letting it happen. He was leaning into it, a smirk on his face, his eyes locked with Elijah's across the yard. But then, Stack’s smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of genuine annoyance. He’d been enjoying the game, the ego boost of his brother’s fine-ass wife being so thirsty for him, but this was crossing a line. Her fingers were starting to drift a little too low, her whispers a little too intimate. This wasn't just flirting anymore; this was a proposition. And while Stack was a lot of things, a hothead, a hedonist, a walking temptation, he wasn't a man who fucked with his brother's wife. Not for real.

Just as Elijah's face contorted into a thundercloud of fury, Stack made his move. He put a firm hand on Heaven's shoulder and pushed her away, not hard, but with enough force to make her stumble. "Whoa, there, sis," he said, his voice a low, warning rumble. "Back up off the dick." He looked up, his eyes meeting Elijah's as he saw his twin stomping towards them. With a quick, almost imperceptible nod, he pushed her again, this time directly into Elijah's path. "Nah, sis. I don't fuck with my brother's leftovers, no matter how fine they are. That's his problem to deal with."

That's when Elijah caught her as she stumbled into his arms, his grip like a vise on her arm. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed her and pulled her away from his brother and the rest of the family.

"Hey, what the fuck, Elijah?" she protested, stumbling after him.

"We're leaving," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"What? Why? We just got here."

"Now, Heaven," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

He dragged her to the truck, his grip unrelenting. He didn't care who was watching. He didn't care what they thought. All he cared about was getting her away from his brother, away from the prying eyes of his family, and getting her home.

The drive home was a silent, suffocating affair. The air in the truck was thick with unspoken words, the tension a palpable thing that pressed down on them, making it hard to breathe. Elijah gripped the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road. He was a man on the edge, his anger boiling in his gut. He could feel her gaze on him, but he refused to look at her. He didn't trust himself. He didn't trust what he might do if he looked at her, if he saw the smug, unrepentant look on her face.

"What?" she finally said, her voice a sharp, brittle thing. "You're not gonna say anything? You're just gonna sit there and pout like a little bitch?"

He didn't answer. He just kept driving, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

"Jesus, Elijah, lighten up," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "I was just having a little fun. Not everyone has to be as boring as you. God, you're so fucking serious all the time. It's exhausting."

That's when he snapped. He slammed on the brakes, the truck screeching to a halt on the side of the road. He turned to her, his eyes burning with a cold, hard fire. "Don't you ever disrespect me like that again," he snarled, his voice a low, menacing growl. "In front of my family. In front of my brother."

Heaven flinched, a flicker of fear in her eyes, but she quickly recovered, her own anger rising to meet his. "Or what, Elijah? What are you gonna do? You're not gonna do shit. You're all talk. You're a big, strong man with a big, strong truck, but you're a coward. You're a coward who's afraid of his own wife."

He was on her in a second, his hand wrapping around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her in place, a silent, terrifying threat. "Don't test me, Heaven," he whispered, "Don't you ever test me."

He saw the fear in her eyes then, the real, genuine fear. He saw the tears welling up, the tremor in her lip. And just like that, the anger drained out of him, replaced by a wave of guilt and regret. He let her go, his hand dropping to his side. He leaned back in his seat, his head falling against the headrest, his eyes closed. He was a monster. He was a monster, and he was married to a woman who knew exactly how to bring out the worst in him.

Heaven started to cry then, soft, pathetic little sobs that tore at his conscience. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "I'm sorry, Elijah. I didn't mean it. I was just... I was just having fun."

He looked at her, at the woman he loved, the woman he hated, the woman he was bound to by a piece of paper and a lifetime of shared history. He felt the old familiar pattern taking over. The anger, the regret, the guilt, the forgiveness. It was a dance they'd been dancing for years, a vicious, exhausting cycle. He knew he should just drive. He knew he should just take her home and pretend like it never happened. But he couldn't. Not this time. This time was different. This time, the seed of something dangerous had been planted. A seed of doubt. A seed of resentment. A seed of rebellion. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that it was only a matter of time before it grew into something he couldn't control.

The aftermath of the barbecue was a cold war. The silence in their home was no longer just a symptom of their disconnection; it was a weapon. Days bled into a week, then two. Heaven, ever the performer, tried to maintain her air of wounded innocence, but there was a new brittleness to her. She pushed, but she did it from a distance, her barbs now delivered with precision, as if testing the newly reinforced walls he’d thrown up around himself. Elijah, for his part, was a ghost in his own house. He went to work, he came home, he ate his dinner, he went to bed. He was a machine going through the motions, his heart a cold, heavy stone in his chest. The hurt was still there, a dull, persistent ache, but it was being slowly encased in ice, hardening into something else.

He found the first letter by accident. He was looking for the warranty information for the washing machine, a stack of manuals and important documents he kept in the bottom drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed. Tucked beneath a folder of mortgage papers was a manila envelope, postmarked from a state penitentiary two hours away. His name wasn't on it, but the handwriting was hers, all loopy, feminine curves. With a sense of dread that settled in his gut like lead, he pulled out the contents. It was a letter, five pages long, written in her familiar purple ink. And it was filth. The kind of explicit, nasty shit he hadn't heard from her in years. She described, in graphic detail, the things she wanted to do to this man, the things she wanted him to do to her. She sent pictures, too. Not of her face, but of her body. Her tits, her ass, her pussy. She was sending them to a felon. To a man with a number instead of a name.

He didn't confront her. Not this time. The old Elijah would have stormed into the living room, the letter held like an accusation, his voice trembling with a mixture of hurt and rage. But that Elijah was gone. The new Elijah, the one being forged in the fires of her betrayal, was a strategist. He read every word of that letter, and the ones that came after it. He memorized the tone, the intimacy, the desire she was giving so freely to another man. He learned the inmate's name—Dante. He learned his crime—armed robbery. He learned his release date—two years away.

The second betrayal came a month later. She'd left her phone on the kitchen counter while she was in the shower. It buzzed, the screen lighting up with a message from a contact saved simply as "D." The preview was enough to make his blood run cold. "Can't stop thinking about the taste of you." He picked up the phone, his thumb swiping across the screen with a chilling detachment. It wasn't password protected. Of course it wasn't. She was arrogant. She was sloppy. He scrolled through the conversation, a sickeningly familiar pattern of flirty banter and escalating intimacy. This wasn't just a friend. This was a "guy friend," a term she'd use before, always with a dismissive laugh. But this was different. These weren't just friendly chats. These were the kinds of texts that led to motel rooms.

He saw the pictures she sent this one, too. The same kind of pictures she was sending to the convict. The same tits, the same ass, the same pussy. She was giving them away like party favors, her body a commodity she was trading for attention, for the thrill of it. He felt a surge of something so cold and so dark it almost scared him. It wasn't hurt. It wasn't even anger. It was soul-deep disgust. He was no longer just a wounded husband. He was an observer. A scientist studying a particularly fascinating, and particularly venomous, species. He was no longer her husband; he was her case manager.

He put the phone back exactly where he’d found it. He didn't delete the messages. He didn't block the number. He just closed the app and walked away. He went into his garage, the one place in the world that was still his. He sat on his stool, the smell of grease and metal a familiar comfort, and he thought. He thought about the letter from the convict. He thought about the texts from the work husband. He thought about the way she'd flirted with his own brother. He thought about the constant, relentless, soul-crushing disrespect. He thought about the thousand paper cuts she'd inflicted on him, each one a tiny, insignificant wound on its own, but together, they were a masterpiece of agony.

He started to see her not as his wife, the woman he loved, but as someone he stopped confronting directly. He stopped reacting to her jabs and her taunts. He started watching. He started waiting. He started planning. He would come home from work and watch her on her phone, a small, knowing smile on his face. He would listen to her on the phone with her friends, her voice a syrupy-sweet lie, and he would feel nothing. He was no longer a participant in their marriage; he was a spectator. And he was waiting for the perfect moment to step back into the game. A game where he made all the rules. A game where the prize was her complete and total submission. He was done being the victim. He was ready to be the architect of her downfall.

The week leading up to the trip to her mother's house was a study in stillness. A suffocating quiet had settled over their home, a silence that was heavier and more menacing than any of their previous shouting matches. Elijah was no longer a man reacting to her provocations; he was a man biding his time. He moved through the house with a quiet deliberation that was more unnerving than any outburst. He watched her, his expression a mask of calm. He was planning. Every time she left her phone unattended, he was there, a silent thief in the night, gathering more intel, more ammunition. He was no longer just her husband; he was the architect of her coming reckoning.

Heaven, in her infinite arrogance, mistook his silence for surrender. She saw his quietness as a sign that she had finally broken him, that he had been "broken in" by her constant onslaught of disrespect. She pushed harder, her words becoming more pointed, more cruel, testing the new boundaries of his newfound passivity. "Are you just gonna sit there and say anything?" she'd sneer one evening, as he sat in his chair, cleaning his gun. "You're so pathetic. You used to have a little fire in you. What happened? Did I fuck it all out of you?"

Elijah didn't even look up from his work. He just continued to clean his weapon. The slide of the cleaning rod, the soft click of the pieces being reassembled, the only sounds in the room. He just smiled, a small, private smile that made her shiver. He knew something she didn't. He knew that the fire wasn't gone. It had just been banked, waiting for the right moment to roar back to life. He was no longer a man who was hurt by her words. He was a man who was fueled by them.

The car ride to Mississippi was the final pressure test. Four hours in the cab of his truck, a rolling steel cage of her incessant whining and his simmering rage. Every complaint, every sigh, every critical comment from her was another log on the fire of his fury. "Can't you go any faster?" "I'm hot." "This music is garbage." "You're such a boring fucking driver, Elijah." He didn't respond. He just drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

He was no longer just angry. He was a man who had been pushed to the absolute limit, a man who had been backed into a corner one too many times. He was a man who was ready to unleash the full, unbridled force of his rage on the woman who had dared to make him her enemy. He was a man who was ready to become the monster she had always accused him of being.

They pulled into the gas station, a rundown oasis in the middle of nowhere. He was at his absolute limit. He looked at her, a stranger sitting in his passenger seat, and the last of his old self died. The man who had loved her, the man who had provided for her, the man who had tried, and failed, to make her happy, was gone. In his place was a man with a plan and the will to see it through. He looked at her, at the woman he had once loved, the woman he had once vowed to protect, and he felt nothing. Nothing but a certainty that this was the end.

 @blyffe @transparentphantomface @daddysmoke @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill @writingsbytee @bananajoeclone @psychicafrorainbow @blowmymbackout @storiesbyasl  @bananajoeclone @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @nayys-world @monstaxmomma0 @kimmiedream @hotebonynearby @underated345-blog @xeniaonvenus @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kindofaintrovert @mmbee675 @bestleowoman2exist @justazzi

[cravemyhoney]

𐙚 𝖡𝖤 𝖶𝖨𝖳𝖧 𝖸𝖮𝖴 ⸺ 𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖺𝗌 𝗆𝗈𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗑 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋.

𝖨𝖭 𝖶𝖧𝖨𝖢𝖧 ⸺ “ 𝖺 𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖼𝖺𝗆𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗀𝖾𝗍𝗌 𝖺 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝖺 𝗇𝖾𝗐 𝗌𝗎𝖻𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗂𝖻𝖾𝗋, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗂𝖼 𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇 𝗅𝖾𝖿𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗍𝗈 𝖼𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖿𝗋𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗍𝗅𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗄𝗇𝗈𝗐 ; 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝗇 𝖿𝖾𝗅𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗒. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗐𝗈𝗎𝗅𝖽𝗇’𝗍 𝗅𝖾𝗍 𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗂𝗅𝗒,,

the sounds of pornographic moans fell out of the brown-skinned woman’s mouth, her perfectly arched eyebrows were currently slightly furrowed as her dark-brown orbs rolled slightly back into her head. she plunged the purple dildo in and out of her gushing pussy. heat radiated off of her sweaty skin. “oh fuck!” she moaned as she felt herself become closer and closer to reaching her peak. “feels so good.” she exclaimed using her free hand to grope her breasts, and using the hand that was guiding the dildo in and out of her to speed up it’s pace.

the sounds ‘ping, ping, ping,” erupted from [ ♡ ] ‘s computer screen. her livestream was currently going crazy, she had men and women tipping her various generous amounts of money. some, even sending her gifts for her to try in her next video or livestream. “t-thank y-you so much for the gifts!” she moaned out as her hips began to slightly buck and meet the dildo’s thrusts, “‘m so close.” she whined. her breaths becoming slightly shallow as moans began to take over her vocal cords.

she pried her hand away from her breast, before reaching it down to her clit and rubbing it in small, fast, and tight circles. the sensation bringing her even closer to her peak. after a while she felt a knot form in her stomach, and with a few more strokes of her dildo, she orgasmed. her muscles tensed, and her back arched off of the mattress. she came with a loud euphoric scream. once her high wore off, she pulled the dildo out of her hole and her sticky cream gushed out of her pussy and flowed onto her sheets.

[ ♡ ] brought her hand down to her essence and using her middle finger and ring finger to gather some of her juices before plunging her digits into her mouth and sucking on them as she started straight at her laptop. the sight of her unclothed, her tits sitting up perky, and her pretty dangly belly ring shining because of the light projected from the ring light. her legs spread out on her bed, putting her pussy on full display. juices gushing flowing in a gentle and unbroken stream, with her fingers in mouth as she sucked on them truly looked like something straight out of a porno,

her cheeks began to hallow as she sucked on her fingers harder, after a few seconds of sucking she pulled her fingers out. they released with a “pop” sound. and a trail of saliva flowed out. she let out a airy dragged out before propping herself up off of her back and leaning towards her computer. her pretty brown tits completely in the computer’s view. “thank you all for tuning in, i really appreciate all the gifts. until next time;” she spoke batting her eyelashes and ending the live stream. she closed her laptop with a sigh before getting out of her bed and sauntering over to her bathroom.

without hesitation she turned on her shower and allowed the water to run, she then grabbed a towel and some soap out of her counter’s cabinet before mindlessly slipping into the shower. she grabbed her body wash that was sitting in the corner of her shower, before opening and squirting it into her towel and lathering it up. she then used the soap covered towel to wash her sweat covered body.

after thirty minutes she stepped out the shower before grabbing a clean body towel, wrapping it around her, and walking into her bedroom. and after twenty minutes, she was fully dry, moisturized and dressed. she swiftly took her soaked sheets off her bed and carried them into the laundry room before loading them into the washer. minutes later she was putting new sheets back onto her bed before climbing in it and grabbing the remote to the tv that hung on her wall.

she then scrolled through options of television shows to watch before settling on watching abc’s “abbott elementary”. the comedic jokes made [ ♡ ] laugh each time. after watching about three or four episodes, she was interrupted by a sound erupting from her closed computer. she furrowed her brows before reaching over and opening the computer. before she could register anything, she noticedhad a new notification.

‘stackthatmoney’ requested a one on one session!

i cut it off right here for plot purposes… anyways. i’m so so happy that my account is back now. i genuinely thought i was a goner.. like genuinely. i DID NAWT wanna start all the way over omg. could yall imagine?? over a year’s worth of work. i almost cried omg! it happened while i was in the middle of writing too.

taglist! @oakiewritestew @aizawash0e @li-da-savage @omgffs @babythugga

visual representation of me when tumblr exited me out of my account while i was writing.

@anitalenia for one of the dividers.. and i dunno who made the second one! but full credit goes to them.

[nubianqueensworld]

Sinful Desire

WARNINGS: 18+ only, SMUT, Threesome, Oral Sex, Dirty Talk, Mild Violence, Mention of Alcohol usage, etc.

PAIRING: Smokestack Twins x Black OC

SYNOPSIS: In Clarksdale, Mississippi, 23-year-old Mae James, dutiful preacher’s daughter, slips out for one forbidden night at the newly opened Club Juke. There she catches the eye of the club’s owners, the Smokestack twins. What begins as a simple escape from the pressure of expectation quickly draws her into a charged world of music, desire, and choices she never planned to make. By morning she must return to the church pews, but the night has already left its mark.

This is a long one, enjoy :)

————————————————

She moved like the night itself had poured into her body. The piano rolled low and dirty, a barrelhouse stride that made the floorboards complain under every stomping foot, and her hips answered it without permission. Skirt swinging just above the knee, blouse damp at the back from the heat of too many bodies packed into Club Juke, she let the rhythm take what the church had spent years trying to hold still.

Nobody here called her by her Sunday name. Here she was just another girl with sweat on her collarbone and a lie still warm on her tongue. Her daddy thought she was at Marlene’s helping with the new baby. Marlene would cover for her. They had an understanding. Preacher’s daughters always did.

The joint smelled of cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and the sharp sweetness of liquor. She spun once, laughing under her breath, and the room tilted pleasantly. No one spoke to her. No one needed to. The music was enough.

Tomorrow she would stand in the church and open her mouth and let the old hymns come. Tonight the music was different.

Unbeknownst to her, the owners of the juke joint were looking at her. The Smokestack twins. As soon as she entered the building she stuck out, like an angel in a room full of devils. They observed her. Watched her.

She didn’t feel their eyes. The crowd moved around her like water around a stone, but she stayed inside the music with her eyes half-closed.

Upstairs from the shadowed railing that overlooked the floor, the twins stood still. Smoke drew on his cigarette, the tip glowing once, then fading. Stack stood beside him with a toothpick working slowly between his teeth. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. Their gazes tracked the same slow arc of her body, the way her shoulders rolled, the way her feet found the beat without looking for it.

They recognized her immediately. Mae James. Daughter of Reverend James, one of the most well-known preachers in Clarksdale besides their own uncle, of course. It wasn’t the first time church folk had crossed the threshold of Club Juke. Plenty came looking for the same release they chased on Sunday mornings. Only this time, no one was catching the Holy Ghost.

They stared longer.

Smoke drew once more on his cigarette, then gave a small nod toward the floor below. Stack’s mouth curved. He smoothed a hand over his hair, tugged the front of his suit vest straight, and headed down the stairs without a word. His eyes never left her body as he moved through the crowd of dancing bodies, cutting a clean path until he stood just behind her.

The sweet trail of her perfume reached him first.

“Now what’s a saint like you doing in a room full of sinners?”

Mae stopped. She turned and found herself face-to-face with a smile that had hints of gold. He held out his hand.

“The name is Elias,” he said, “but folks call me Stack.”

She placed her hand in his slowly, shaking it without looking away. “I know who you are. Thought you and your brother were in Chicago.”

Stack chuckled. “We were. But we back now.”

Her hand was still in his. She noticed it, yet didn’t pull away at once. She hadn’t expected him to look like this. The stories that drifted through Clarksdale had painted the Smokestack twins as older, harder, something rough enough to match the name. Instead she found round brown eyes, thick lips, and the soft press of dimples when he smiled. Stack’s smirk deepened the moment he caught her looking. Mae withdrew her hand.

Mae opened her mouth, realizing she hadn’t given her name.

“I’m Mae—”

“Mae James. Reverend James’s daughter, right?”

Her brows drew together. She nodded slowly, surprised he already knew.

Stack caught the look and tipped his head. “My uncle Jed and your daddy real close. Been that way a long time.”

Something shifted in her face—quick, quiet embarrassment, like she had been caught somewhere she didn’t belong. Stack saw it and didn’t like the way it sat on her.

“Hey now,” he said. “I ain’t down here to judge nobody. This place take all kinds.”

The piano changed beneath them, the hard barrelhouse roll softening into something slower. Couples drifted together across the floor, bodies finding each other, grinding to the new rhythm.

Stack’s gold teeth flashed again as he smiled.

“Matter fact,” he said, “I come down here to ask if you fancied a dance.”

Mae nodded.

Stack took her hand and turned her in a slow spin. The room tilted for a second before her back met his chest. His hands settled on her hips. The contact was warm through the thin fabric of her skirt. Goosebumps rose anyway. She went stiff almost immediately. It had been a long time since a man put his hands on her like this.

“Don’t be shy now,” Stack murmured near her ear. “Move them hips like you was doin’ earlier. Go on. Close your eyes… let loose.”

Mae drew a deep breath that trembled on the way out. She let her eyelids fall shut. For a moment she only stood there, feeling the press of him behind her, the rise and fall of his chest against her back. Then she began to move.

The first movements were careful, more sway than anything. Her hips barely shifted. Stack didn’t push. He just stayed with her, following whatever little rhythm she offered.

Bit by bit the stiffness eased. Not all the way but enough that her body started answering the beat without her having to force it. Stack’s grip tightened slightly when she finally rolled her hips with more intention. He matched her without missing the time, his own movement controlled behind her.

“Just like that,” he said.

Mae let her head tip back until it rested against his shoulder. His hands stayed on her hips, thumbs stroking once in quiet encouragement as she finally gave the music everything it asked for. Stress, doubt, the careful version of herself she wore in daylight slipped out with every slow roll of her body. For the first time all night, she wasn’t performing or hiding. She was simply moving. And Stack stayed right there with her, whispering soft praise against her ear, keeping her inside the moment as the piano played on.

Mae opened her eyes.

Smoke was still at the top of the stairs. Cigarette was between his fingers and leaned against the railing. His gaze cut down through the haze of smoke and low light and found her immediately. It wasn’t hungry exactly. It was focused. Like he was studying every shift of her body and filing it away. Her stomach tightened. She knew she ought to look somewhere else, anywhere else, but she couldn’t.

Stack’s hands stayed firm on her hips. Mae pushed back into him harder than before, rolling her hips with more confidence, and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. The movement pulled a low sound from Stack’s throat. He drew her tighter against his chest, closing the last bit of space between them.

That was when she felt the hard press of his bulge against her. At the same time Smoke’s stare held her pinned from above. The two sensations hit together and ignited something low in her belly. Her panties dampened immediately, the sudden wetness noticeable against the thin fabric. She kept moving with her eyes still locked on the man upstairs even as her body reacted to the one behind her.

Smoke took one last drag of the cigarette . He held her gaze a little longer before he turned and walked out of sight. Stack’s breath stayed warm against her ear, but Mae could still feel the ghost of that stare.

Overwhelmed by the feeling, Mae turned in his arms. She gripped the front of his vest with both hands and pulled him down into a kiss before she could second-guess it.

Stack froze for a split second, clearly caught off guard. Then he answered her. His mouth opened against hers, and his hands slid low on her back, fingers spreading over the curve just above her hips as he drew her against him. The kiss turned deeper. His tongue pushed past her lips.

Mae’s pulse hammered. Part of her knew how reckless this was but the thought only sharpened the lust instead of killing it.

Before the kiss could tip any further Stack broke it. He kept his hands on her while he scanned the floor. Couples were still dancing close, lost in the music. Nobody seemed to be watching them too hard. His eyes flicked up to the railing. Smoke was gone.

He looked back down at her. “Joint fixin’ to close up soon. Stay behind after. We can finish what we started.”

Mae nodded. She rose onto her toes and kissed him again.

A worker shouldered through the dancers and touched Stack’s arm. “Boss. Got a problem in the back. Some men at the tables got to arguin’ over the cards. Gettin’ loud.”

Stack didn’t take his eyes off Mae right away. “What you do about it?”

“Tried to break it up myself. They ain’t tryin’ to hear me.”

Stack sucked his teeth and shook his head. “Fuck I’m payin’ you for then?” He gave Mae’s waist a final squeeze and stepped back. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go nowhere.”

Then he turned and cut through the crowd toward the rear of the joint.

Mae was still burning. She needed space. She slipped through the dancers and claimed an empty stool at the far end of the bar.

The piano changed under her. The number faded into something faster and brighter. Skirts flared. Boots stamped. Laughter rose over the music. Mae found herself swaying on the stool without deciding to.

She didn’t notice the man until he was already too close.

He was older than her, shirt half-untucked, eyes glassy and unfocused. The smell of liquor reached her before his words did. He leaned an elbow on the bar beside her and gave a crooked smile.

“I ain’t interested,” Mae said.

He didn’t take the hint. His hand closed around her upper arm. “Don’t be like that, girl. Come on—”

“Get off me.”

She tried to pull free. His grip only tightened. He bent until his mouth was near her ear, and the full reek of alcohol washed over her as he whispered that he wanted to fuck her. Mae’s stomach turned. She shoved at his chest with her free hand, but he barely swayed.

Then a different presence filled the space behind him.

“Get your hand off her.”

Smoke’s voice was quiet, but it cut through like a blade. The drunk glanced over his shoulder, annoyed more than alarmed.

“This ain’t got nothin’ to do with you, man. Mind your business.”

Smoke stepped in closer. “I don’t think you heard me.” His right hand settled at his waist, fingers curling around the grip of the gun holstered there. He didn’t pull it. He didn’t raise his voice. “You gon’ take your hand off her willin’, or I’m gon’ take it off for you.”

The fingers on Mae’s arm loosened. The man lifted both hands in a show of surrender and backed up a step, nearly stumbling into a dancing couple.

Smoke never looked away from him. “Get the fuck out. Don’t come back in here. Next time you step foot through that door, you won’t see daylight again. We clear?”

The drunk muttered something under his breath but he kept moving, pushing through the crowd toward the exit. A few people near the door glanced over, then went back to their drinks and their partners.

Smoke turned his full attention back to her.

“You alright?”

Mae nodded too quickly. “Yes.”

He studied her face a moment longer and clearly didn’t believe the automatic answer. The leftover adrenaline still showed in the tight set of her shoulders and the way her hands stayed curled on the bar.

“He hurt you?”

“I don’t think so.”

Smoke kept looking at her. Then he asked, “Can I touch you?”

The question caught her off guard. She hesitated half a second before nodding.

He stepped in and took her chin gently between his fingers, turning her face first one way, then the other. His gaze was hard, brows drawn together as he checked for any mark the man might have left. Finding none, he released her jaw and carefully lifted her arm, examining the place where the drunk’s hand had gripped her. His thumb brushed once over the skin

Mae used the moment to look at him properly. The same handsome features as Stack but everything on Smoke sat harder, like the years had pressed down heavier on him. There was a roughness around the edges that Stack’s easier smile softened. When his eyes lifted and met hers again she looked away fast.

“Might be a little tender right there,” he said. “But you gon’ be fine.”

Mae nodded. “Thank you.”

Smoke stayed where he was. “What you doin’ in here, anyway? Don’t you got church in the mornin’?”

She let out a short breath. “I’m supposed to sing in the choir. My daddy’s church. I just… needed a break. He’s always got me doin’ something for the church. I told him I was goin’ to my friend Marlene’s to help with her new baby. But I came here instead.” She glanced around the noisy floor. “I just wanted one night where nobody expected me to be the preacher’s daughter.”

Smoke listened without interrupting. When she finished he gave a short sound that might have been a laugh.

“You ain’t supposed to be in a place like this,” he said. “This joint full of drunks, liars, and cheaters. Ain’t no secret about it.”

Mae met his eyes for a second, then looked back down at the bar. “So is the church. They just do a better job at hidin’ it.”

Smoke studied her a moment longer.

“Most church girls would’ve run out the door after what just happened.”

“I’m not most church girls.”

“I’m startin’ to see that.” His eyes stayed on her. “Don’t mean this is a safe place for somebody like you.”

Mae held his gaze. “Maybe I got tired of safe.”

Smoke just looked at her. This time Mae stared right back. Neither of them spoke. The space between them felt charged, heavy with something that had no clean name.

Stack appeared at his brother’s shoulder and gave it a firm pat, breaking the moment. “I’m ‘bout to get on stage and tell everybody we closin’ up for the night.” His eyes shifted to Mae. “You alright?”

She told him what had happened with the drunk man. Stack’s expression changed fast. The easy charm he usually carried hardened into something sharper.

“He put his hands on you?” His voice rose half a step. “You sure you good? He hurt you anywhere?”

Before he could work himself up any further, Smoke cut in. “I handled it.”

Stack held his brother’s gaze for a second, then nodded. His eyes moved back and forth between Smoke and Mae, lingering longer on Smoke. Mae watched the silent exchange closely. Whatever passed between the twins needed no words. She couldn’t read fully into it, but a certainty settled in her chest that it had something to do with her. Maybe it was only ego talking. Maybe not.

Stack leaned in close enough that only she could hear. “Don’t go nowhere.” The words were low, almost a promise. He glanced at Smoke one more time before he turned and made his way toward the stage to deliver the closing announcement.

Smoke’s attention returned to Mae the moment his brother left. His eyes traveled over her slowly—first her eyes, then the shape of her mouth, then lower, taking in the line of her body with an intensity that felt almost physical. A visible shudder ran through her under that look. When his gaze finally climbed back to meet hers, he spoke just loud enough to cut through the noise of the room.

“You trouble, Ms. James.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there with the weight of those words still on her skin.

The heat from earlier rose again, stronger this time. Mae stayed where she was and waited for the joint to close so she could be tamed.

—————————————————————————

Once everyone was gone and the front door locked, Stack led her toward the back. The joint felt different emptied out. Mae glanced around as they walked, eyes searching the shadows near the bar and the stairs. Smoke was nowhere to be found. The absence sat with her longer than she expected.

Stack opened the office door and guided her inside. The moment it clicked shut behind them, his hands settled on her waist. He pulled her against him and brought their mouths together in a kiss. There was nothing hesitant about it. He walked her backward while they kissed until the backs of her legs bumped against something soft.

She broke the kiss just long enough to look down.

They had a bed in their office?

Before the question could fully form, Stack eased her down onto the mattress and followed. The springs gave under their combined weight. He settled between her thighs, hands sliding under her legs to wrap them around his waist. The motion pushed her skirt higher, bunching the fabric around her hips and leaving only the thin barrier of her damp panties between them.

He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the side of her neck. A low sound left him as he breathed her in.

“Damn… you smell sweet.”

His lips traveled slowly up the line of her jaw before finding her mouth again. This time the kiss was deeper. He rolled his hips once, grinding the clothed length of his bulge against her pussy. The friction pulled a moan from both of them at the same time.

Stack slowed the roll of his hips until the grinding stopped completely. He leaned down and gave her one more kiss before he pushed up onto his hands so he hovered over her. His eyes moved across her face.

“Are you a virgin, baby?”

Mae shook her head against the pillow. “No. But it’s been a while.”

“It has?”

She nodded once.

Stack’s gaze dropped between their bodies and landed on the damp patch of her panties. He reached down and dragged two fingers slowly over the soaked cotton, pressing just enough to feel the wetness of her. A small shiver ran through Mae at the touch. He watched the reaction and chuckle.

“Look at that.”

He eased backward off the bed and stood at the foot of it. For a moment he only looked at her. Then he shrugged out of his suit vest and tossed it onto the nearby chair.

“Unbutton your shirt for me.”

Mae’s hands rose to the front of her blouse. She worked each button free one by one. When the last one opened she sat up just enough to slip the shirt off her shoulders and let it fall to the floor beside the bed.

Stack’s eyes traveled over newly exposed skin. “Pretty as hell.”

He reached up, loosened the knot of his tie, and pulled the silk free with a slide. He dropped it on top of the vest, then untucked his dress shirt and began unbuttoning it from the top down. Mae stayed where she was, propped on her elbows now, watching the slow reveal of his chest and stomach without looking away.

“You nervous?” he asked.

She nodded.

“I need words, baby.”

“Yes.”

Stack studied her face a second longer. “Music help you feel better?”

“Yes.”

He turned and crossed to the corner of the office where an old phonograph sat on a low wooden cabinet. Stack lifted the lid, chose a record from the small stack beside it, and set the disc on the turntable. He cranked the handle a few turns, lowered the needle, and Ma Rainey’s rich voice crackled to life.

Stack turned back to her, shirt hanging open, and let his eyes travel over her again while the music played.

The door opened without warning.

Smoke stepped inside. His eyes went straight to Mae.

Mae’s breath caught. Shock flashed across her face clearer than fear. Her head turned toward Stack, searching for some explanation or cue.

Stack stayed where he was at the foot of the bed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Ain’t nothin’ gon’ happen you don’t want. Next choice is yours.”

Smoke pushed the door shut behind him until the latch clicked. The sound felt louder than it should have in the small room. Ma Rainey’s voice kept drifting from the phonograph as he walked a few steps closer. He stopped near the edge of the bed but didn’t reach for her.

“We both been watchin’ you since you walked in,” he said. “Wantin’ you. We was just tryin’ to see how open you was to the both of us.”

He let that settle for a second.

“You got three choices,” Smoke continued. “We can get you dressed and take you home right now. No questions, no hard feelin’s. Or you can have just Stack… or just me. Or—” his eyes moved once over her body and back to her face—“you can have both of us.”

Stack’s voice came softer beside his brother’s.

“It’s your choice, baby.”

Mae sat there with the two of them watching her. Her mind turned over the offer slowly. Both men were attractive and different in the ways that mattered. She was drawn to both of them, heavily. The question that kept circling was simple and dangerous: what would it feel like to have them both? The thought alone made her pussy pulse again.

“I want both,” she said.

Smoke’s eyes stayed locked on hers. “You sure?”

“Yes.” The word came out quieter than she intended. Then the need underneath it pushed forward. “Please… I want both of you.”

The soft plea made Smoke’s dick twitch hard against the front of his pants. Stack looked over at his brother. Smoke met his eyes and gave a single nod.

That was all Stack needed. He came back to the bed and put his mouth on Mae’s neck. He kissed the skin first, then sucked harder, dragging his tongue over the spot until a moan slipped out of her. Her arms rose and wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer while her body arched into the contact.

Over Stack’s shoulder her eyes found Smoke again. He was already stripping. His fingers moved steadily down the remaining buttons of his shirt, the fabric falling open to show the hard lines of his chest and stomach. When he noticed her watching he didn’t look away or rush. He held her gaze and kept unbuttoning, letting her see every inch he revealed.

Stack’s hand slid between her thighs at the same moment. He pressed his fingers against her pussy through the soaked cotton of her panties, rubbing a line over her clit. The direct touch dragged a louder moan from her throat. Her eyes fell shut under the sensation as he head tipped back against the mattress.

Stack pulled back from her neck and looked at her.

“Stand up for me, baby.”

Mae shifted to the edge of the mattress and rose. Her legs trembled a little under her own weight. Stack’s hands came to her waist immediately, steadying her so she wouldn’t stumble.

Smoke moved in behind her. His palms ran slowly up and down her arms first before one hand slid around and gripped her breast through the thin fabric of her bra. Mae’s head tipped back against his shoulder on instinct.

Stack’s voice was low. “Me and Smoke gon’ take real good care of you.”

Smoke’s mouth was close to her ear. “Anytime it get to be too much, you say the word and we stop."

“Okay,” Mae breathed.

Smoke turned her face toward him with two fingers under her chin and kissed her. The first press of his mouth was firmer than Stack’s had been and a soft moan left her at the new sensation. She kissed him back while her body stayed framed between the two of them.

At the same time Stack leaned in and kissed a slow path down from her chest to her stomach. He sank to his knees in front of her. His fingers hooked into the waistband of both her skirt and her panties and drew them down together in one motion. The fabric pooled at her ankles.

He was met with the sight of her pretty, neatly trimmed pussy which was already glossy and creamy. A moan left Stack’s throat at the view.

“Damn, baby… look at you.”

Behind her, Smoke unclipped her bra with one hand. The straps slid down her arms and the garment fell away. His hands came up immediately, warm palms covering her bare breasts, thumbs stroking over her nipples as he kept kissing her.

Stack lifted one of Mae’s legs and settled it firmly over his shoulder. His hands locked on her hips, holding her so she wouldn’t slip between them. The position opened her completely to his mouth. He didn’t start slow. He dragged the flat of his tongue through her soaked folds in one long stroke from the bottom of her pussy all the way up to her clit.

Mae’s moan tore out of her louder than before. “Oh my God… fuck, that’s so good—”

Stack groaned against her like the taste alone was enough to ruin him. He went deeper, licking her open with no patience left. His tongue pushed between her lips and fucked into her in short thrusts, scooping up the cream that was already coating her. He pulled out only to suck her clit between his lips and bat it with the tip of his tongue until her standing leg started to shake. Every time she tried to close her thighs he gripped her hips tighter and held her open.

He spread her with his thumbs so he could see everything, spat directly on her swollen clit, and watched it drip before sucking it back into his mouth with a loud sound. His tongue worked in circles, then flattened again so he could lick her from hole to clit in long strokes that left her glistening and dripping down his chin. When he pushed two fingers inside her while he kept sucking, the wet suck of her pussy around them made him moan harder into her.

Behind her, Smoke’s hands never stopped. He cupped her bare breasts, thumbs dragging over her nipples before pinching and rolling them until they were stiff.

“Listen how wet you are. You gon’ cum on his tongue, Mae?”

Mae’s arms moved without thinking. One slid up and wrapped around the back of Smoke’s neck. The other reached down and gripped the back of Stack’s head.

“I’m about to cum—” she gasped.

She forced her eyes open and looked down. Stack was already staring up at her, gaze locked on hers even as his tongue dragged through her soaked folds and sucked hard on her clit. The sight of him on his knees, mouth glistening with her, face buried between her thighs, shoved her right to the edge.

Smoke’s mouth stayed close to her ear.

“Cum for us.”

Mae’s body locked up. A violent shake ran through her as the orgasm tore free. She came with a high moan, pulsing hard against his mouth and spilling over his tongue, lips, and chin until his face was wet with her. Stack only gripped her hips tighter and kept licking her while Smoke held her upright from behind as she trembled between them.

Once the shaking finally eased and her breathing started to even out, Stack slid his hands under her and lifted her easily. He carried her the short distance to the bed and laid her down on her back against the mattress. Behind them, Smoke worked his belt open and pushed his pants down.

Stack looked at her. “I need to be inside you.”

Mae responded. “Then stop talkin’ and put it in me.”

Stack’s mouth curved into a smirk. He stepped back, undid his own belt, and let his pants and underwear fall. Both brothers stood naked in front of her now. The sight made her pussy clench hard. They were similar in length, but Smoke was longer and Stack was thicker.

“Open your legs,” Stack said. “Spread yourself for us.”

Mae did as she was told. Her knees fell open wide and her hands reached down, fingers spreading her own folds apart so nothing was hidden. The brothers went quiet for a second as they looked. Her pussy was still flushed and swollen from the orgasm, the neat trim of hair framing her glistening lips that were parted and shiny with her release. Cream coated the inner folds and had dripped down to the tight pucker beneath. Her clit sat swollen and exposed at the top, still sensitive enough that the cool air of the room made her twitch.

Smoke let out a low curse under his breath. Stack only smirked again, eyes locked between her legs.

They moved in together. Stack settling between her thighs while Smoke stayed at her side. Smoke’s hand brushed her arm.

“ ‘Member what I said. It get to be too much, you tell us. We stop.”

Mae nodded, eyes flicking between them.

Stack took his dick in hand and dragged the thick head up and down through her soaked folds. Then he pushed forward slowly, stretching her open until he was fully seated inside. He stayed still, jaw tight, giving both of them time to adjust to the sudden sensation.

Mae’s hand shot out and gripped his forearm, fingers digging in as she breathed through the full feeling of him.

Smoke’s voice stayed quiet beside her. “That’s it. You doin’ good.”

Stack’s eyes met hers. “Can I move?”

When she gave a small nod, he pulled back and pushed in again. A shared moan broke from both of them. Stack cursed under his breath.

Stack kept moving inside her. His hands stayed firm on her hips, guiding every stroke so he sank all the way in each time.

“Shit… you feel so good,” he groaned. “So tight and wet around me. Keep takin’ it just like that.”

Beside the bed, Smoke wrapped a hand around his own dick and stroked slowly, eyes locked on Mae’s face. He watched every scrunch of her brow and every open-mouthed sound that left her while his brother fucked her.

Mae reached over without looking and pushed Smoke’s hand away. Her fingers closed around the length of his dick and began stroking him in the same rhythm Stack was using inside her. Smoke’s reaction was immediate. His eyebrows furrowed tight and his head tipped back as a low groan rolled out of his throat.

With her other hand Mae grabbed Stack’s jaw and pulled him down. Their mouths met in a deep kiss, both of them moaning into it while Stack kept thrusting and her fist kept working Smoke’s dick. Stack broke the kiss just long enough to speak against her lips.

“Goddamn, you feel too good… don’t stop squeezin’ me like that. Just like that, baby.”

Then he kissed her again while Smoke’s heavy breathing stayed close on her other side and the three of them moved together in the small room.

Mae did something unexpected. She tilted her head to the side, parted her lips, and took the head of Smoke’s dick into her mouth.

“Shit—” The word left Smoke, almost startled, as the wetness of her mouth closed around him.

She didn’t pull back. She took him deeper, cheeks hollowing as she sucked, tongue dragging along the underside of his shaft. At the same time Stack kept thrusting into her, every stroke making her breasts bounce softly between them.

Stack watched the two of them for a second and let out a breathless laugh. “Damn, baby. Church girl got a real dirty side, huh?” He cupped one of her breasts in his hand, then leaned down and pulled it into his mouth. He sucked hard, and the sudden sensation dragged a muffled moan out of Mae around Smoke’s cock. The vibration made Smoke’s hips twitch.

Smoke looked down at her. One hand settled lightly at the back of her head.

“That’s it,” he said. “Keep goin’.”

Mae’s eyes flicked up to meet his for a brief second before they fluttered shut again.

Stack kept thrusting into her while Mae’s mouth worked over Smoke. He shifted his weight and reached down between them, finding her clit with two fingers. He rubbed circles in time with every stroke.

Mae pulled off Smoke’s cock with a wet sound, head tipping back as a broken moan left her.

“I’m about to cum again—”

Stack’s voice stayed close. “That’s it, baby. Let it go. Cum on this dick for me. I got you.”

Before the next cry could fully leave her throat, Smoke’s hand came up, caught her jaw, and turned her face to his. He kissed her hard, swallowing the sound as the orgasm hit. Mae shook hard between them, pussy clenching tight around Stack while she moaned into Smoke’s mouth. Wetness spilled out of her with every pulse, coating Stack’s dick and dripping down onto the sheets.

Stack kept moving through it, slower now, riding out the orgasm with her. When the worst of the trembling eased he kissed the side of her face and spoke against her skin.

“Good girl. You did so good for us.”

Smoke pulled back from the kiss, still close enough that his breath brushed her mouth.

“You alright?”

“Yes.”

“You got one more round in you?”

Mae nodded.

Stack’s voice cut in. “Words, baby. ‘Member what I told you.”

“Yes,” she said out loud.

Smoke gave a short nod. “Good. Get on your knees.”

Mae shifted onto her hands and knees on the mattress. The sheets were already damp beneath her. Smoke moved in behind her, one hand settling on the small of her back to steady her. Stack knelt in front of her. He cupped her face in both hands, thumbs brushing slow over her cheeks.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “You so pretty.”

Behind her, Smoke leaned down and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the center of her back, then another a little lower, right above the curve of her ass.

“You ready for me?” Smoke asked.

Mae started to nod. Stack clicked his tongue softly.

“Aht aht. Use your words, now.”

“Yes.”

Stack’s mouth curved into a smile. “Good girl.”

Smoke took himself in hand and lined the head of his dick up against her. He pushed in slow. Mae was still sensitive from the last orgasm. The length of him pulled a broken moan straight out of her throat. Smoke sank all the way in until his hips met her ass, then held dead still. Her pussy clenched and fluttered around him in small pulses while she tried to breathe.

“Easy,” Smoke muttered. “Just breathe. I ain’t movin’ till you ready.”

Only when her arms stopped trembling and her breathing started to even out did he begin to move.

Stack rubbed the wet head of his dick across her lips, smearing himself over them. Mae looked up at him through her lashes, opened her mouth, and took him in.

Smoke’s pace picked up. The sharp sound of skin meeting skin filled the small office, mixing with the low crackle of Ma Rainey on the phonograph and the overlapping moans and grunts of all three of them. Stack’s hand stayed gentle in her hair while he watched her take both of them, and Smoke’s grip on her hip stayed firm as he fucked her deeper.

Smoke’s grip tightened on her hip as he kept driving into her.

“You like both of us fuckin’ you like this?” His voice was husky. “This what you wanted?”

Mae’s answer came out muffled around Stack’s dick, “Mhm.”

The sound shot straight through Stack. His head tipped back, a deep moan leaving his throat as her mouth kept working him.

Behind her, Smoke looked down. The sight of her ass rippling against his stomach with every thrust pulled a curse out of him. Her cream had already coated his cock, leaving wet streaks along his dick every time he pulled back.

Stack’s breathing turned heavier. His hand flexed in her hair.

“Shit, baby… you keep suckin’ me like that, you ‘bout to make me cum.”

Mae started pushing back to meet every one of Smoke’s thrusts, throwing her ass against him hard while her hand slipped down to cup and roll Stack’s balls in her palm. The motion dragged deeper sounds out of both men.

Smoke’s hand came down in a stinging smack across one cheek. Stack let out a breathless chuckle, eyes low as he watched her work both of them.

Smoke’s was focused on the way she kept pushing back onto him. “Cum on this dick. Let me feel that shit.”

Mae did. The orgasm tore through her suddenly. Her whole body jerked, pussy clamping down tight and spilling fresh cream around him.

The sound of her cumming pulled both of them over the edge right behind her. Smoke pulled out with a rough curse and stroked himself twice before painting thick ropes across her back and the curve of her ass. At the same time Stack slipped from her mouth and came across her cheeks and lips with a broken groan.

For a long moment the only sounds in the office were their uneven breathing and the soft crackle of the phonograph needle at the end of the record.

Stack recovered first. “Shit—sorry ‘bout that, baby. Hold on now.”

He moved quick, grabbing two clean cloths from the small washstand in the corner. He tossed one to his brother and kept the other. Smoke wiped the mess from her back with careful strokes. Stack tilted her chin up with two fingers and cleaned her face just as carefully.

When they were done they eased her down onto her side on the bed, rearranging the pillow under her head so she’d be comfortable. Both men started gathering their clothes in the low light.

Mae just watched them from the mattress. Awe sat on her face as she took in the two of them getting dressed like what had just happened was both ordinary and completely unreal at the same time.

———————————————————

Once Mae was dressed again, the twins offered to take her home and she agreed.

Smoke stayed behind a moment to lock the front door of the joint while Stack walked her out to the car. He opened the rear door for her and waited until she was settled in the back seat before closing it gently. Then he climbed into the front passenger side and turned halfway so he could see her.

For a short while it was just the two of them in the car.

Stack spoke first. “You doin’ alright back there? Ain’t no shame if you need a minute.”

Mae looked at the back of his seat. “I’m alright. Just tired.”

He gave a small nod. “Long night. You handled yourself better than most would’ve.”

Before she could answer, the driver’s door opened and Smoke slid behind the wheel. He glanced at her then at his brother.

“Where you stay at?”

Mae gave him the street name and the crossroads near her father’s house. Smoke nodded once. He knew the area well enough.

“Alright.”

He started the engine and pulled away from the curb. For a few blocks the only sound was the low rumble of the car and the occasional soft thump of the tires over uneven road. Then the brothers fell into conversation like she wasn’t even there.

“Delivery came up short again,” Smoke said, eyes on the road. “Whiskey and the beer. Man claimed the truck had trouble outside Greenville.”

Stack sucked his teeth. “That’s the second time this month. We keep lettin’ it slide, he gon’ think we soft.”

“I already told him next short load we take our business elsewhere. He didn’t like hearin’ it.”

“Good. What about the door? Weekend crowd gettin’ thicker. That boy we got now too slow when it get packed.”

Smoke’s hands stayed steady on the wheel. “I been thinkin’ the same. Might bring Cornbread in on Friday and Saturday. He know how to keep folks in line without startin’ more trouble than he stop.”

Mae stayed quiet in the back seat, hands folded in her lap, eyes on the dark road sliding past them. She tried not to listen too hard, giving them the space to handle their own affairs. Her mind, though, refused to stay still.

The whole night replayed itself in pieces. She wondered how much of it had been planned. Had the man at the bar been random chance, or had one of them let the situation play out so Smoke could step in looking like a savior? Had he really been defending her… or had he just been clearing the path so both of them could get in her panties later?

The questions sat heavy in her chest.

A stretch of silence settled over the car after the brothers finished talking business.

Mae shifted in the back seat, fingers twisting together in her lap. The questions that had been circling her mind the whole ride finally pushed their way up.

“Can I say somethin’?”

“Go ‘head,” Stack said.

Mae drew a thin breath. “Was everything planned? The man at the bar… you showin’ up right when you did… all of it?”

Another silence settled, thicker than the first. The longer it stretched, the more she regretted asking. She opened her mouth to take it back, already stumbling toward an apology, but Smoke spoke before she could get the words out.

“You ain’t got no reason to apologize.” He kept his eyes on the road. “I meant what I did back there. I don’t care for seein’ no woman get disrespected like that. Wasn’t no setup. Man put his hands on you, I handled it. That’s all.”

Stack turned more fully in his seat so he could look at her straight.

“He’s tellin’ the truth. But we ain’t gon’ sit here and lie to you either. We felt somethin’ the second you walked through that door. Way you moved, way you carried yourself. Stood out from everybody else in the room.” He let a small smile pull at his mouth. “And look at you… sexy as hell. Hard not to notice a woman like that.”

The blunt compliment caught her off guard. A surprised laugh slipped out of her before she could stop it. Stack chuckled with her. In the driver’s seat Smoke just shook his head once, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a smile of his own.

“Smokestack twins don’t fake nothin’,” Smoke said. “Never have. If we want somethin’, we go after it. Simple as that. Don’t need to play games to do it.”

Stack’s voice softened again. “You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about, baby. Not with us.”

The words settled over the heavy doubts that had been sitting in her chest since they left the joint. Bit by bit the tight feeling loosened.

They pulled up in front of her house.The street was still quiet. Most of the windows along the block were dark, and the only sound was the low idle of the engine.

Stack got out first. He came around to the rear door and opened it for her, offering a hand as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Once she was steady on her feet he pulled her into a quick hug and pressed a light kiss to her cheek.

Mae glanced past his shoulder toward the driver’s side. Smoke sat behind the wheel, one wrist resting on top of it. When their eyes met he gave her a single nod.

“I enjoyed myself,” Mae said.

Smoke’s answered. “We glad you did.”

Stack’s mouth curved into a smile . “Don’t be a stranger, now. You welcome back anytime. Door’s open.” He reached for her hand, lifted it, and kissed the back of her knuckles before letting go.

As she started up the short walk toward the porch, Stack called after her.

“Sing good at church in the mornin’, you hear?”

Mae felt a real laugh rise in her chest. She shook her head without turning around. She unlocked the front door, slipped inside, and closed it softly.

For a moment she simply stood in the dark entryway, back against the wood, letting the silence of the house settle around her. Then she moved to the front window, pinched the curtain between two fingers, and drew it back only an inch. Outside, the car’s headlights swept across the street as Smoke pulled away from the curb. She watched the glow of the car shrink and finally disappear around the corner, leaving the block empty and quiet again.

Mae walked deeper into the quiet house. The floorboards creaked softly under her feet. At the end of the short hall a door stood cracked open, a thin line of light cutting across the dark floor. Soft gospel music drifted out.

She hesitated a second, then pushed the door open a little wider.

Reverend James sat at his desk in the small study, Bible open under the lamp, a yellow legal pad covered in his careful handwriting. A half-empty glass of water sat near his elbow. He looked up and offered her a smile.

“You’re back late.”

Mae kept her voice calm. “Me and Marlene lost track of time. The baby was fussy most of the evening. We got to talkin’ after he finally settled.”

He studied her face for a moment in the lamplight. She held still and let him look. Finally he simply nodded.

“Get some rest. Church in the mornin’.”

“Yes, sir.”

She closed the door with care so the latch wouldn’t sound too loud and stood alone in the dark hallway. Her eyes fell shut. Guilt settled heavy and immediate in her chest. Two sins in one night. She knew both were wrong. But underneath the guilt lived the memory of how good it had felt. The two feelings refused to cancel each other out. They simply sat side by side and made her heart beat harder.

Mae went to her bedroom and undressed in the dark. The air cooled her bare skin. She left the clothes in a small pile and walked into the narrow bathroom, turning the taps until hot water thundered into the claw-foot tub. While it filled she stood in front of the mirror above the sink. She lifted her hands and let them follow the path the twins’ hands had taken. She slowly went across her arms, up the side of her neck, over the curve of her breasts, then lower between her thighs where she was still sensitive and a little sore. The memories rose vivid and immediate. She pulled her hand away before the feeling could climb any higher and forced herself to focus on the bath instead.

When the water was steaming she stepped in and sank down slowly until it closed over her shoulders. A involuntary moan left her throat at the simple heat of it. She rested her head against the curved back of the tub and let her eyes close.

In a way the water felt like washing the night from her skin, preparing her mind for the choir loft and the hymns. She knew she would stand there in a few hours and open her mouth and let the old songs come out clean and pure, exactly as expected. She also knew, with the same certainty that lived under the guilt, that this would not be the last time she saw the Smokestack twins.

——————————————

Two 👏🏾 bad 👏🏾 bitches👏🏾 at the same 👏🏾damn 👏🏾 time! Told y’all it would be worth the wait! Thank you for your patience and I really hope y’all enjoyed it!

[tnychellee]

Smoke giving Stack the OK would have aroused me more! Mae a born-again woman, they can have their way with me😩

[nubianqueensworld]

Girl, me too!

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Sanctified Heat

The Rise of first Blood

Summary: When the preacher’s wife starts protesting outside The Blackline, Stack Moore mocks her from the shadows until her holy fire turns to something hotter. Plain and pious, Sister Marigold Baptiste hides a body made for sin, and Stack makes it his mission to break her righteousness down to the bone. Their hate burns into obsession, and soon she’s sneaking out in her Sunday whites to be devoured in the dark. He fucks the holy out of her and sends her home to her husband full of his cum, knowing she can’t bear children but she can carry the weight of his sin.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT (degration, dirty talk, BDSM, rough sex, deep throating, oral fixation, edging, cream pie, cheating, enemies to lovers) Angst. Southern Gothic.

Part Eight

The last lick of Sammie’s guitar echoed like a ghost in the rafters. The crowd erupted. Cheers and hoots and drunken applause filled the cabaret thick. Someone let out a sharp whistle. Another slapped the top of the upright piano hollering, “That’s the blues, boy! That’s the blues!” 

Delta Slim hollered behind Sammie, laughing so hard he almost fell off the bench. Sammie lowered his guitar, his chest rising fast with adrenaline and sweat. And joy. Real joy. To be seen, heard, and appreciated. His fingers tingled from the strings. 

And then…he saw her. 

Evangeline. 

Not far from the bar, standing between two other girls who clapped and hollered with the rest of the room. She wasn’t hiding now. Her chin was up, dress pressed just right against the lines of her body, dark curls pinned back with a silver clip. 

She waved. Shy-like. 

It hit Sammie like a second solo. 

He stepped off the stage and cut through the crowd toward her. Voices called at him as he passed—praises, back slaps, someone offering him a smoke and another a glass of rye, but Sammie barely heard them. 

“You came,” he said, voice still a little breathless. 

Evangeline folded her arms, pretending not to be impressed. “I did,” she said, slow and honeyed. “You gon’ get me and my girls a drink, Preacher Boy?” 

Sammie grinned. “‘Course.” 

Evangeline smiled back, pleased, then turned and ushered her girls toward the bar like royalty leading her court. 

They made their way through bodies pressed close, past a man in suspenders slow-dancing with a girl in nothing but beads and a feather boa, past women draped across velvet chairs with slits up their thighs and men watching from the shadows. 

“Pippy,” Sammie called once they reached the bar, “make them what you made me earlier.” 

Pippy—brown-skinned and quick-handed with a gold tooth in her grin—saluted him with a muddler already in motion. “Comin’ up, sugar.” 

The drinks slid across the bar, cold and fizzy with dark liquor and citrus. The girls giggled and sipped, their eyes wide at the debauchery happening all around them. 

“Lord,” one whisperered, “that man got his whole hand up her skirt.”

The other covered her mouth and said, “This place ain’t no juke joint. It’s a damn brothel!” 

Evangeline didn’t say a word. She sipped her drink, eyes fixed on Sammie’s profile. 

“You ain’t from around here,” she spoke eventually, her voice low enough for his ears only. “How you know the Smokestack Twins?” 

Sammie leaned on the bar, close. “They my cousins. Blood.” 

That caught her attention. Her gaze sharpened. 

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head. “You must be bad just like them, huh?” 

Sammie laughed. “Nah, I’m a college boy, not a gangster.” 

“That’s alright.” Her lips curled slow. “I like ‘em smart. Means you can talk to me while you in it.” 

Sammie blinked. Froze. Didn’t breathe. 

The sentence struck him dead-center.

Evangeline giggled, bold and pretty. Then, before he could recover, she reached for his wrist. 

“Put that guitar down, Preacher Boy,” she said, tugging gently. “Come dance with me.” 

Sammie set the guitar behind the bar and let her pull him through the crowd. The music was faster. Dirty and grinding. Bodies were pressed like sweat and sugar. Evangeline didn’t care that everyone was watching. She turned to face him, arms draped over his shoulders, hips moving in time with the bass. Sammie swallowed hard and let his hands rest at her waist. She smelled like night jasmine and pink peppermint. 

“I been watchin’ you since you stepped on stage,” she whispered, lips just at his ear. “Thought you was shy. But now?” Evangeline rolled her hips into his. “I think you just needed somebody to make you move.” 

The bass was thick as syrup, the snare drum snapping like a belt in the dark. A woman moaned on the record, low and drawn out. Evangeline’s hips circled in slow figure-eights, dragging Sammie into her gravity. She turned around without warning, her back pressing to his front like it had always belonged there. And then, she rolled her ass against him. 

Sammie’s hands froze mid-air, unsure where to stand. She didn’t give him time to figure it out. Evangeline dipped lower, grinding back with a smooth, steady push, the curves of her body dragging over the front of his slacks. She kept one hand lifted in the air, the other sliding down the slope of her own hip, guiding the movement like music was pouring through her fingers. 

Sammie inhaled hard through his nose. His eye were wide, palms sweating, heat galloping. He gripped her waist before he even knew he’d done it. 

That made her smile. 

Evangeline leaned her head back against his shoulder. Her voice was honeyed, the words teasing the shell of his ear. 

“Mmm,” she hummed, “you still sure you ain’t bad?” 

Sammie swallowed. “Not like them.”

“Then you might wanna let go of my hips,” she whispered, rotating even deeper against him, “cause you holdin’ me like you tryna get me pregnant.” 

Sammie damn near stopped breathing. 

Behind him, the crowd blurred into heat and howling. Somewhere to the left, a woman cackled as she poured moonshine down her chest for a man to lick. Over by the piano, Delta Slim was laid back with his mouth open, watching them with a lazy grin and one lifted brow like well damn. 

Evangeline kept winding. Kept moving slow, dragging her ass over Sammie’s growing hard-on like she meant to mold him right there on the floor. 

Sammie leaned in, lips barely brushing the curve of her neck. “You tryna get me in trouble?”

She smiled without looking back. “You already in it, Preacher Boy.” 

Then, she backed it up again but harder this time. Sammie groaned under his breath, low and shaken. 

“Damn.” 

Evangeline laughed, swaying her hips. “You cussin’ now?” 

“I’m thinkin’ ‘bout worse.” 

“That so?” She turned her head enough to meet his eyes. “Like what?” 

 Sammie answered with his hands gripping her tighter. The look in his eyes told him everything. Evangeline—sweet little thing in a Sunday-best silhouette and soul made of trouble—just kept on grinding. 

The blues got nasty. 

A woman’s voice crawled through the speakers, half growl, half sigh. 

🎶 He left me achin’, legs still wide…put his name where I used to cry…ooh, I ain’t never touched the floor since then… 🎶 

The crowd whooped. A man slapped the table and hollered. Someone popped a garter off a thigh and twirled it like a lasso. But Sammie Moore wasn’t paying attention to none of that. His world had narrowed to Evangeline. To the rhythm of her body. To the scent of her skin like shea butter and girlhood wrapped into one big naught bow. To the way she ground slow and deep, like every roll of her hips was a scripture only he was allowed to read. 

Sammie was hard now. There wasn’t no denying it. 

And Evangeline felt it. 

Pressed flush against her backside. And she didn’t shy from it or stiffen or pull away. She simply pushed back into it. Danced deeper. Dipped lower. Her ass dragged slow over the length of him like she was tracing her name into his lap. Her fingers reached behind to brush his thigh, soft and slick, like she wanted to feel how hard she was making him. Sammie clenched his jaw, sweat beaded at his temple. 

“You feelin’ okay back there, college boy?” She teased, voice coy.

“You gon’ kill me,” Sammie breathed.

Evangeline tilted her head just enough to look up at him, lips parted, lashes heavy, “then die real slow.” 

Her girl friends at the bar were too caught up to notice. One was perched on a man’s lap, laughing with her mouth open and a whiskey shot in her hand. The other was tucked into a booth corner, letting a smooth-talking Kat reed her peach slices from the peach cobbler Aunt Pearl and Minnie cooked up. Nobody was paying Evangeline any mind. 

And that was just how she liked it. 

Sammie’s hands started to roam a little. His palms slid from her waist to her hips, then back again. His fingers flexed against the curve of her lower belly like he wanted to hold the heat she was working into him. 

🎶 Told him baby slow down, let it burn…now I beg just to take my turn… 🎶 

“You ever been dry-humprd in front a crowd before?” 

Sammie choked a laugh. “No ma’am.” 

“Well…” she rolled again, this time extra slow, her ass fitting into his lap like a final puzzle piece. “You bein’ real polite about it.” 

Sammie growled. Actually growled. 

His hands gripped tighter. More bold. More needy. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder, just breathing, trying to hold himself together. Trying not to rut against her like every man in the room wasn’t watching. But Evangeline? She ended him right on the fucking edge. Teeterin’. Drenched in sweat. She liked the way his fingers twitched every time she bent deeper. The way his voice got stuck in his throat. The way he kept whispering her name. 

“Evangeline…”

She turned around. Face to face with him now. Arms loose around his neck. Sammie’s lips were parted and his eyes were dark with desire. 

“You alright?” She asked, syrup-sweet.

Sammie nodded once. Then again. “Yeah. I just…”

He trailed off, breath catching as her hips gave one last grind, barely there, slow as molasses sliding down a glass. 

She smiled. “You thinkin’ ‘bout what I said earlier?” 

Sammie blinked. “W-What?”

“That you could talk me through.” Evangeline said, voice soft and teasing. 

Sammie’s throat bobbed. 

“I been listenin’,” she whispered, pulling him a fraction closer by the lapels of his jacket. “ her fingers brushed his. “I bet you could make me cry out without even fuckin’ me.” 

Sammie sucked in a breath so sharp it made his shoulders rise. 

Evangeline just smiled like the devil knew her name. 

Sammie’s heart was beatin’ like a snare drum. Fast. Irregular. Hot behind his ribs. Evangeline’s lips were so close to his he could count each lash hair. 

“You okay, Preacher Boy?” she whispered, tilting her chin up so her lips brushed his cheek.

“I’m fine,” he lied.

She hummed. “You don’t look fine.”

He didn’t. His jaw was tight. His hands had started trembling just a little. And his dick? Still stiff and pressed against her hip beggin’ for relief. Evangeline dragged one perfectly manicured finger down the middle of his chest, slow like a match being struck.

“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she said, like she was asking him what time it was. Like it wasn’t laced with temptation. “Just to cool off. Ain’t tryna get you in trouble.”

“Cool off,” he repeated.

She nodded. Innocent smile. But her eyes? They were anything but.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Sammie hesitated. Swallowed hard. Then nodded. “Yeah.”

“Good.”

She turned, grabbed his hand, and started walking past the laughing girls at the bar, past Stack’s piano man and the clapping crowd, past the booth with folks too deep in their own pleasures to notice. And Sammie followed like a lamb led not to slaughter but to something just as dangerous. They moved through the hallway behind the bar, where the walls were painted burgundy and the air smelled like cedarwood and spilled liquor. One of the girls working the floor raised a brow as they passed and smirked, turning back to her client.

When they reached the back stairs, Evangeline paused, looking at him over her shoulder. “You sure you can behave, college boy?”

Sammie looked at her.

At those eyes.

At those lips.

At the slight shake of her shoulders as she laughed softly and took another step up.

“No,” he said. “Not even a little.”

And that made her smile even wider.

“Good.”

She opened the doo and slipped inside.

The room she led him to wasn’t much, just a tucked-away dressing suite with soft lighting, a velvet chaise, and not enough ventilation. The window was cracked, letting in the humidity of the Delta night and the scent of magnolia from the trees outside. There was a mirror on one wall and a half-empty wine glass on the vanity, left behind by someone who wasn’t coming back anytime soon.

Evangeline clicked the door shut behind them.

Sammie stood still. Back straight. Breath tight. Hands in fists like he didn’t trust ‘em. Like if he so much as blinked wrong, he’d ruin it all.

“C’mere,” she said.

He did.

She stepped close, right into his space. Slipped one hand up his chest. Took her time smoothing his collar down with her fingers, like she was just straightening him up. But it wasn’t that. She looked at him the whole time and when she reached the middle of his chest, she pressed her palm flat and said, “You nervous.”

“I ain’t,” he lied again, voice low.

She tilted her head, smiling like she didn’t believe a word.

“You been watchin’ me since I walked in.”

“Maybe.”

“You hard as a rock down there, preacher boy.”

He exhaled sharp through his nose, lips parting. Sammie didn’t deny it.

Evangeline leaned up slow and kissed him. Full on the lips like heat curling from a matchbook, low and steady. Sammie didn’t move at first, too stunned by the feel of her lips—warm, plush, with a hint of cherry gloss and something wilder underneath. But then his hands found her waist. And she moaned just a little into his mouth, and that cracked him wide open. Sammie kissed back with everything he’d been holding in since the moment he first saw her. Their mouths worked slow but deep, open-mouthed, breath mingling between them. He gripped her tighter at the waist, pulled her in flush and she melted, curling her fingers around his neck, her thigh slipping between his legs. Evangeline smiled when she felt him twitch before she broke the kiss and looked at him, her eyes half-lidded, lips wet, voice like honey over a flame.

“You gon’ let me touch you?”

Sammie nodded, throat thick.

“Words, preacher boy.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes…you can touch me.”

She kissed him again, but this time her hands roamed—curious, unhurried, exploring his chest through his shirt, then slipping lower, fingertips brushing the waistband of his trousers.

“You ever been touched by a girl like me?” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He swallowed. “No.”

Her hand moved over the bulge pressing desperate and heavy beneath his slacks. “You ever cum from just a hand?”

“Not like this.”

She grinned. “Then hush.”

And her hand dipped slow—no rush, no shame—just a girl and a boy in the dark, heat blooming between them, her fingers wrapping gentle around the part of him that throbbed with every pulse. She stroked him through the fabric.

Up. Down. Slow.

His eyes fluttered shut.

Evangeline leaned into his ear. “Breathe.”

And he did. Heavy. Wanting.

All for her.

Her hand moved slow, fingers easing over the outline of him like she was memorizing the shape and weight of it. Not stroking hard. Just…learning.

Sammie’s eyes fluttered open at her question.

“If you ain’t been touched like this…” Her voice was low, almost teasing. “That must mean you a virgin?”

His breath caught.

She didn’t say it loud. Didn’t laugh or pull back. Just let it hang there between them, soft and smoky. Sammie hesitated. His jaw tensed like he might lie again. But then her thumb brushed just beneath the head, right through the fabric, and he exhaled hard. Honest.

“Yeah.”

Evangeline blinked once, gaze searching his face. Then she smiled. Slow and pretty.

“Mm. That why you act so shy with me?”

“I ain’t shy wit’ you girl.” 

“No?”

“I just—” He paused, swallowed. “I just ain’t done this before.”

She leaned in, mouth brushing his. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

She kissed him again, more mouth than tongue. It was the kind of kiss that could teach a lesson without saying a word. His hands slid to her hips. Gripped like he didn’t want her to float away.

“You want me to stop?” she asked against his lips.

He shook his head. “Hell no.”

“Tell me what you want then.”

He opened his eyes—dark, wide, and vulnerable in a way that tugged at something low in her belly.

“I don’t know. Everything, baby.”

Evangeline grinned. “That’s alright. I do.”

She took his hand and slid it up under the hem of her dress. No panties. Warm skin. The swell of her thigh, the dip between.

His breath hitched.

“You wanna learn?” she whispered.

His voice was a rasp. “Yeah.”

She guided his fingers between her folds, helped him find that soft, wet place he’d only dreamed of. 

“That’s me,” she whispered. “That’s what you do to me.”

His fingers twitched.

“You feel how warm I am?” she asked.

He nodded, entranced.

Her hips rolled slow into his hand, showing him how she liked it, how to follow her rhythm.

“Don’t rush. Just feel me.”

And so he did.

Evangeline moaned low, soft and breathy, her forehead pressing to his. They stayed like that for a long while, hands exploring, lips brushing, breath mingling. Her hips moving gentle over his fingers, and his dick straining in his pants like it could feel everything she felt.

She nuzzled his jaw, whispering, “Preacher boy got his hands baptized tonight.”

And he let out a broken little laugh. Aroused. In awe.

“Say it,” she murmured, teasing his earlobe with her teeth. “Tell me this feel good.”

“It feel…real good. Better than my mama’s black eyed peas.” he breathed.

Evangeline smiled, then kissed his throat. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t done with you.”

Evangeline pulled away from him suddenly. She backed up a step, then turned and climbed onto the low table beside them, perching there like she knew exactly what she was doing. The hem of her dress slid higher as she settled, knees parting just enough to make Sammie’s breath stutter.

“You think they gon’ find us in here?” she asked, tone lazy, almost bored.

He swallowed. “No.”

She smiled at that.

Her hands went to her thighs, thumbs hooking the fabric, lifting it just enough to show him what she wanted him to imagine—dark curls and wet pussy. 

Sammie froze.

He’d never seen a woman offer herself like that. Not with confidence. Not with curiosity instead of fear.

Her legs opened wider. “Look,” she said softly.

His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile. She placed both feet up into the low table, causing her knees to spread wider. There was enough light shining in that room to see what she was offering up to him. A deep plum-colored pussy with lips that resembled a wishbone and a little button. Tight coils matted with her essence. 

“Here it is. All open for you. Look at it...it’s gettin’ wet just ‘cause you lookin’. I can feel myself achin’ for you. You see how it’s twitchin’? That’s ‘cause I want you inside me so bad I can hardly breathe. Come on, baby, touch it. See how soft it is…”

“Evangeline…”

She tilted her head. “You gon’ show me just what Preacher Boy been wantin’ since he saw me?”

He nodded, honest. “Fuck Yes.”

That pleased her.

She leaned back on her palms, unbothered, completely aware of the effect she was having.

“Good,” she said. “Means you still listenin’.”

His eyes dragged back up to her face, like he was afraid if he kept looking he’d lose himself completely. He saw the way she was offering herself to him. She looked confident and sultry and the sight of her pussy—pink, plump, and glistening with a dew that smelled like wild honey and musk—made his blood roar in his ears.

Without a word, he sank to his knees. The movement was like a man approaching an altar. Sammie wanted her to feel every second of the anticipation, to feel the heat radiating off his body as he settled between her legs. He gripped her thighs, his fingers calloused from strumming his guitar digging into her soft skin, anchoring her in place.

Then, he leaned in and pressed his face directly into her.

Evangeline let out a soft moan, her hips jerking upward. She hadn’t expected the suddenness of it. Sammie didn’t start with a kiss, he started with a long, slow lap of his tongue, starting from the very bottom of her opening and dragging it all the way up to her clit.

“Oh! Oh, shit!” she damn near cried, her fingers digging into his shoulders. "What you doin’? What you...oh, Preacher Boy!” 

Sammie was too busy tasting her. She tasted like the earth after a summer rain—sweet, salty, and intoxicating. He groaned deep in his throat, a primal sound that vibrated against her flesh, and then he dove back in. 

He began to eat her with a hunger that shocked her. He wasn't just licking, he was devouring that sweet pussy. He used his tongue like a muscle, swirling it in tight, heavy circles around her clit, pressing hard enough to make her vision blur. Then, he flicked his tongue rapidly, a rhythmic, drumming sensation that sent electric shocks straight to her belly.

The sounds filled the secluded space with a wet, sloppy noise of his tongue sliding over her drenched folds, the rhythmic slurp-slurp of him drinking her in, and the desperate, broken moans escaping her throat.

“You...you ain’t never...how you do that?” she sobbed, her head tossing from side to side. “It feel too good! Stop...no, don’t stop! Please, baby, don’t you dare stop!”

He responded by burying his face deeper, his nose pressing into her soft mound while his tongue pushed deep inside her, mimicking the motion of a dick. He sucked her clit right into his mouth, pulling on it with a firm, steady suction that made her back arch. 

“Lord have mercy!” she moaned, her voice cracking. “Y-You eatin’ me up! You eatin’ m-me right out my skin, baby! I can’t…I can’t take it! It's too much!”

Sammie came up for air enough to look her dead in the eyes with her pussy juice all over his face.

“You came here askin’ fa’ me to tear ya’ ass up now you can’t take it?” 

She stared down at him with a perplexed expression. Pussy pulsing in his face.

“Thought you was stronger than that Evangeline. This tongue too much, darlin’?” 

Evangeline released a shuttering breath “I—”

“Don’t talk. Just keep your legs open and get this pussy ate.” 

Sammie buried his face again, pushing Evangeline’s legs up by the backs of her thighs. She gasped and with nowhere to run she could only sit there with her legs spread open like the fast tail gal she is. 

Sammie could feel her pulsing against his lips, her pussy twitching and clamping down on his tongue in waves whenever he stuck his tongue in her. He didn’tlet up. He increased the pace, his tongue working with a disciplined, brutal precision, swirling and flicking, sucking and licking until she was nothing but a shaking mess of nerves. 

“Sammie, FUCK,” Evangeline melted against his mouth, staring down at the top of his head with blurry eyes. “W-Why you ain’t t-tell me you eat pussy l-like this?” 

He shoved her legs back in response. So far back her knees touched her shoulders. Evangeline whimpered, watching Sammie eat her pussy like he’d been out of a meal for days. He puckered his lips and kissed her lips, sealing his lips around her clit and giving it a nice wet kiss that forced her to beg. 

“Sammie, PLEASE—”

Sammie could taste the climax building in her, the flavor of her juices changing, becoming sharper and sweeter. He let out a muffled growl against her skin and gave one final, powerful suction on her clit, holding it there until she finally broke.

Evangeline let out a long, guttural moan, her thighs attempting to lock around his head and squeeze him tight as her orgasm ripped through her. She sobbed his name, her body shuddering in violent peaks, while he stayed right there, refusing to move, licking every last drop of her sweetness from her skin until she finally slumped back, breathless and ruined. It was as if the noise of The Blackline returned. Evangeline had to blink to focus. Remember where she was. 

Sammie lingered for a moment, his face still glistening with the sweetness of her, before he looked up at Evangeline. His eyes were dark, heavy with a hunger that hadn’t been fully sated just because she’d come. He leaned in, his mouth crashing against hers in a kiss that was greedy and desperate, tasting himself on her lips. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was a claim, his tongue pushing deep into her mouth, swirling against hers as if he wanted to swallow her whole.

When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, Sammie rested his forehead against hers. His voice was a low, rough rumble thick with lust.

“Tell me the truth, Eva,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Did I eat that pussy good? I mean...I was the only man to ever do it right for you, wasn’t I?”

Evangeline let out a soft, airy giggle, her chest heaving as she looked up at him with eyes that were wide and glazed. “Yes, Sammie...oh, yes you did.” She reached up, tracing the line of his jaw with a trembling finger. “I swear, the minute my pussy came out, you turned into a different man. I ain’t know you had that kind of devilry in you.” She shifted beneath him, her legs still draped loosely over his shoulders, a playful, daring glint entering her eyes. “Maybe next time...your cousin could join in.”

Sammie froze, his expression shifting to one of pure perplexity. He pulled back just an inch, frowning. “My what?”

“Stack,” she whispered, the name sounding like a sin on her tongue. “I bet he’s the one who taught you how to eat pussy that good. He look like the type of man who knows exactly where to put his tongue.”

Sammie stiffened, the thought of sharing her—of having Stack’s eyes, lips, tongue on her wet, open folds—sent a jolt of possessiveness through him. He ain’t like the idea. Not one bit. He shifted his weight, his voice turning gruff.

“Stack?” Sammie scoffed, shaking his head. “Baby, Stack got a whole house full of women. He got more pussy than he know what to do with. Why you can’t just have me and be satisfied?”

Evangeline didn’t shrink back. Instead, she arched her back, pressing her chest toward him, her voice growing firm, laced with a newfound rebellion. 

“‘Cause I’m tired, Sammie,” she said, her voice ringing with a sudden clarity. “I’m a sheltered church girl. I done had folks tellin’ me how to sit, how to speak, and what I should and shouldn’t  be doin’ with my own body. I’m done with it.” She looked him dead in the eye, her gaze hungry and defiant. “If I wanna get my pussy ate by two men at once, I can. If I wanna get fucked blind by two men in some smoky back room after a dice game, I can. If I wanna get down to the nastiest, filthiest blues there is...then that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

Sammie stared at her for a long beat. The distant sound of a harmonica drifting through the walls. Slowly, a smirk spread across his face, and he let out a low, knowing chuckle.

“I hear you, Eva,” he said, his eyes softening with a shared understanding. “Lord knows I can relate. Bein’ the son of a preacher...I been pretendin’ I ain’t got a taste for the sin.”

Sammie’s expression hardened, a flash of that raw, possessive instinct crossing his face. He pinned Evangeline more firmly against the surface beneath her, his voice dropping an octave into a warning growl. 

“But you ain’t gettin’ your pussy ate by Stack. No,” Sammie stated firmly, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. “I don’t care how much of a rebel you feelin’ like. That part of you is off-limits to him.” 

Evangeline let out a melodic, teasing giggle, her chest heaving against his. She looked up at him, her eyes dancing with mischief as she felt the heat of his body pressing into her. “My, my…my. You only known me a day and already you claiming this pussy?” 

Sammie didn’t blink. Eyes intense and blazing with desire. He leaned down, lips brushing against hers, his voice a low, dangerous vibration. 

“You tellin’ me it ain’t mine? ‘Cause the way you was shakin’ while I was down there…felt like you belonged to me.” 

The tension snapped like the string on a guitar and they crashed together again this kiss was different—less about hunger and more about ownership. It was deep, wet, and demanding, their tongues tangling in a fierce battle for dominance. Sammie’s hand slid down, gripping her hip with. Force that would surely leave a mark, pulling her flush against his hardness. 

Just as Sammie began to move his hand back toward her wet pussy, the heavy wooden door swung open with a loud thud against the wall. A man and a woman stumbled in, practically falling over one another. They were locked in a desperate embrace, the man’s hands shoved deep up the woman’s dress, her head thrown back with a loud, needy moan of pure ecstasy. They were so blinded by their own lust that they didn’t even notice Evangeline and Sammie in the room for the first few seconds, their breathing heavy and synchronized. 

Sammie broke the kiss, blinking and letting out a sharp exhale. He looked at the newcomers, then back at Evangeline, who was breathless and flushed. A small, amused smile played on Sammie’s lips. He started to pull his clothes back together, helping Evangeline to stand and smooth out her dress. They both started to laugh—a low, shared chuckle at the absurdity of the timing. 

“Seem like the spirit of the blues is movin’ through folks tonight.” Sammie whispered in her ear, giving her backside a firm, possessive smack as he guided her toward the exit. 

Evangeline giggled, leaning into him as they slipped out the door, leaving the other couple to their own private sanctuary of sin. 

The music hit harder than before, drum and bass slick with sweat. The blues curled around bodies too caught in the night to care who watched. The Blackline had grown louder, hotter. No longer as immersing but boiling over. 

Sammie reached for Evangeline’s hand again as they walked along the shadowed hall and back into the chaos of the main floor. Sammie was still warm from their moment tucked away. Evangeline couldn’t help but grin just thinkin’ about it. 

“C’mon,” she whispered, leaning toward him. “Introduce me to them cousins of yours. The infamous gangsters.” 

Sammie laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You really wanna meet them?” 

Evangeline raised a single brow. “‘Course I do. Maybe they can share some wild stories about Preacher Boy.” 

Sammie shook his head. “This the wildest thing I done did, Eva. Less you wanna hear about how Stack teased me growin’ up. And Smoke keepin’ an eye on me like he my daddy instead of my cousin.” 

Sammie started to guide her across the floor, weaving past hips and heels and slick backs, past the perfume of lust and liquor. Just as they approached the far side of the room, Evangeline caught sight of something that made her steps slow. Her body went still mid-stride and her eyes narrowed. 

There, in the corner booth veiled by beaded strings and red lamplight, sat Sister Marigold Baptiste. First Lady of the church. Preacher’s Wife. Purity Teacher. Her Mentor. 

She didn’t just sit—she perched. Relaxed and glowing in a satin-black dress that clung to every curve like it had been poured on her. She was angled on Stack Moore’s lap, his hand stroking the bare skin of her thigh like it belonged to him. His mouth brushed her neck slow and greedy. Marigold tipped her head to the side, sipping from the glass he’d offered, her lips painted the color of garnet wine. 

She looked…decadent. Drunk on something far deeper than bourbon. 

Evangeline was frozen. She stared with a shocked gaze 

And then, so did Marigold. 

Their eyes locked across the room like a shot fired. 

In an instant, Marigold froze mid-sip. Her lashes fluttered, lips parted in surprise and guilt as the glass hovered just beneath her mouth. The booth around her blurred. She was no longer in The Blackline, not in her lover’s lap or on his tongue. She was standing back in that purity classroom, bam in the rows of wide-eyed girls, speaking of obedience, respectability,  restraint. 

Evangeline’s gaze sliced through her. 

Sammie leaned in, confused. “You okay?” 

Evangeline didn’t respond. Her smile had vanished. The flirt gone out of her hips. The phantom sensation of Sammie’s tongue vanished. 

Sammie followed her gaze. 

“Oh, that’s Marigold. Stack says she’s a Preacher’s wife. You know her?” 

“Excuse me,” Evangeline said, already moving. 

She slipped away before he could follow, cutting through the crowded room with a sharp elegance that only made the sting worse. As if an invisible camera followed her every move, she brushed past patrons with hurried movements until she disappeared down another hall that led to more rooms. 

From the booth, Marigold slid stiffly off of Stack’s lap. Her heat raced. 

“Where you goin’, Goldie?” Stack asked, voice slick with curiosity, the imprint of her body still on his leg. 

“Bathroom,” she said without looking back. 

Her heels clicked quick on the wooden floor, fast enough to betray the panic under her ribs. The red lights pulsed overhead like they knew her name, like they saw everything. Marigold eased toward the guest hall, the narrow corridor just past the end of the bar. Her eyes scanned every corner, every face. Evangeline was nowhere in sight. 

That was, until she felt a pull. It wasn’t physical but unmistakable. A sensation of being watched. Not by strangers but by truth itself. 

She turned a corner and there it was. 

A hand reached out from the shadows, caught her wrist, and dragged her inside a narrow passage near the bathroom door.

Beneath the noise were the sounds of the trade. A muffled scream of pleasure echoed from a doorway they passed, followed by the wet, slapping sound of skin hitting skin. A woman’s voice, strained and needy, called out a man's name, her voice breaking into a high-pitched keen that signaled a climax. The scent of musk and sex clung to the wallpaper, a constant reminder that in this house, every shadow held a secret and every room was a playground for the flesh.

And Sister Marigold Baptiste was standing in it. Standing in the one place she’d sworn was Satan’s playground. 

Evangeline let go of her wrist with a shove that was more insult than force.

For several long seconds neither of them spoke.

Marigold stared at the young woman she’d known since she was a child. She remembered scraped knees after church picnics. Braiding her hair before Christmas pageants. Holding her tiny hands during altar prayer.

Now those same hands rested on hips full of defiance.

Evangeline looked at her as though she’d never seen her before.

“No.”

The word came out as a laugh.

A bitter one.

“No…no, I don’t believe this.”

Marigold swallowed.

“Evangeline—”

“No.” Another laugh. “You don’t get to start with my name.”

Marigold searched her face. “I know what this looks like.”

“What it looks like?” Evangeline’s eyebrows lifted. “It looks exactly like what it is.”

Her eyes traveled slowly over Marigold. The satin-black dress. The glossy finger waves. The wine-dark lipstick. The diamonds catching every sliver of light.

“You look beautiful.” The compliment wasn’t kind. It was sharpened into a blade. “So beautiful I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Marigold instinctively folded an arm across herself. Because suddenly, it felt as though it exposed everything.

“Evangeline…”

“You told us.” Her voice cracked. “You stood in front of all us girls every Wednesday and told us women who came here sold pieces of themselves.”

Marigold closed her eyes.

“You told us this place was the Devil’s playground!!!” Another step. “You told us if we respected ourselves, we’d never walk through these doors!!!” Another. “You looked me in my face and said purity wasn’t just what we did. It was who we were!!!”

Each sentence struck harder than the last.

Marigold felt every one.

“I believed you.”

That hurt most. Because it was true.

Marigold’s lips trembled. “I…I did believe it.”

Evangeline laughed again. “Oh, I know you did.” She gestured back toward the crowded room. “Then I see you sittin’ on Stack’s lap.”

Marigold flinched.

“I see him holdin’ you like you belong there.” Another step. “I see you drinkin’ from his glass.” Another. “And the way he was lookin’ at you…” She shook her head. “He wasn’t lookin’ at the First Lady.” The words hung between them. “He was lookin’ at his woman.”

Marigold’s throat tightened. “I never meant—”

“You never meant what?”

“For this to happen.”

Evangeline barked a laugh. “Hell already done broke loose in the both of us.”

Marigold stared at her.

“You just too scared to admit yours.”

Marigold reached for her gently. “Evangeline…listen to me.”

“NO!!”

“I need you to.” Marigold’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. 

“No.” Her eyes watered. “You don’t get to tell me what I need anymore.”

Marigold’s hand slowly fell back to her side. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Says you? Really? Who the fuck are you to tell me where I ain’t outta be?!” Evangeline scowled. “Wait until they hear about this. Their precious First Lady committing adulterous acts and drinking the devil’s juice and sittin’ on a pimp’s lap.” 

Marigold shook her head. “Evangeline please don’t say anything! Promise me you won’t—I—I can explain—”

“That you been feeding us lies to make up for your own sins? Tellin’ us about how we shouldn’t fall into temptation and defile the Lord so you feel less guilty?”

Marigold looked toward the doorway. “This place. It changes people.”

Evangeline followed her gaze before looking back. “It changed you.”

The sentence landed like a slap.

Marigold couldn’t deny it.

She couldn’t.

Not after everything. Not after Stack. Not after discovering desire inside herself. Not after choosing to return.

Evangeline’s eyes softened for only a heartbeat. Then they hardened again.

“You know what hurts?”

Marigold looked up.

“I wasn’t shocked you were here.” She paused. “I was shocked you looked…happy.”

Marigold’s breath caught.

“I ain’t never seen you smile like that.” A long silence followed. Evangeline’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Now I know.”

Marigold felt tears prick her eyes. “Evangeline…”

“No.” She shook her head once. “I don’t know whether to hate you…” Her voice broke. “…or feel sorry for you.” Evangeline leaned in closer, her breath warm against Marigold's cheek. “So tell me, Sister...when Stack burying his dick deep inside you...which part of the scripture you reciting then? Or do you just save the prayers for the mornings after?”

Marigold flinched, her composure finally fracturing. Her hand flew up to push Evangeline away, but it wasn’t a strong push, it was a desperate, trembling gesture. “Stop it! You don’t understand the pressures I face. The things I have to do to keep that place runnin’, to keep the girls safe—”

“DON’T LIE TO ME!!” Evangeline shouted, the sudden volume echoing in the small space. “Don’t you dare wrap your lust in a cloak of sacrifice. You ain’t doing this for the girls. You doin’ it because you love the taste of the sin you tell everyone else to fear. You a fraud, Marigold. A beautiful, polished, lying fraud. And I hope Naomi stay far away from you. She told me about what happened.” 

Marigold shut her eyes. “Eva, let me explain—”

“YOU LET HIM PUT HIS HANDS ON HER! You let him hurt your niece! How could you?!—”

“I DIDN’T KNOW! Okay?” Marigold cried. “I didn’t know Obadiah struck her! I didn’t know ‘till it was too late—”

“Oh please, shut the fuck up. Save your tears, Sister. You and that husband of yours wanna preach about who’s worthy of making it to heaven? Look at ya! First your sister, then Naomi—”

“She told you about Esther?” 

“How the church got her institutionalized? How she lost custody of Naomi? ‘Course she did. I’m more family to her than you ever was.” 

As if a switch flicked in Marigold’s brain, her eyes turned cold. Resentful. 

“You don’t get to stand there and talk about my family. You don’t know the first thing about family, Eva.”

“Just like you don’t get to stand in a classroom and tell me what I should do wit’ my body when you in here every night getting torn a new hole by Stack Moore? Really? Least my family fight for me. Can’t say the same for you. Daddy ain’t love you, momma had no backbone. Niece hate you. Sister too strung out on whatever meds they feedin’ her up in Pline Buff. Husband won’t touch you.” 

“Shut up—”

“I rather be a whore who knows she a whore than a saint who just a liar in a fancy dress,” Evangeline countered, her voice dropping back to that lethal, quiet hiss.

The slap that came from Marigold’s hand was a sharp, wet crack that cut right through the muffled roar of the band playing in the main room. Evangeline’s head snapped to the side, her cheek instantly blooming into a hot, stinging bruise. For a heartbeat, the only sound was the ringing in her ears and the heavy, ragged breath coming from Marigold.

Marigold’s hand was trembling, her fingers splayed as if she could still feel the impact of Evangeline’s skin. The “First Lady” looked fractured. The wine-dark lipstick that usually defined her poised, authoritative mouth was slightly smudged, and her eyes—those wide, soulful eyes that had once looked at Evangeline with such sisterly warmth—were now swimming in a mixture of rage and absolute devastation.

Evangeline stayed frozen, her face turned away, a slow, jagged smile spreading across her lips. She could taste a copper tang of blood where her tooth had nicked the inside of her cheek. The pain was a grounding wire, pulling her deeper into the spite that had been festering in her gut for years.

Slowly, Evangeline turned her head back. She didn’t recoil. Instead, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, venomous hiss that barely carried over the sound of a trumpet.

“There she is,” Evangeline whispered, her eyes scanning Marigold’s satin-black dress, the way it clung to hips that had spent too many Sundays hidden beneath layers. "There’s the woman the church built. The one who knows exactly how to handle something she can’t control. A firm hand, right?” 

Marigold flinched as if she’d been struck. She stepped back, her heels clicking sharply on the hardwood floor, her chest heaving under the black fabric. “I–Eva I’m so sorry—please forgive me.” Marigold closes her first. “I thought I…I thought if I taught you to follow the path—”

"The path to where, Marigold?! To a pew in a church where you can preach purity while your pussy drip for a man who sell girls by the hour?!” Evangeline stepped forward, invading Marigold’s space, her presence aggressive and suffocating. “Go ‘head! HIT ME AGAIN!” 

“Stop it!” Marigold cried, the sound breaking into a sob. She reached out, perhaps to push Evangeline away or perhaps to grab her, but her grip was weak, her fingers clutching at the air. “You don’t know the weight I carry. You don’t know what it’s like to hold a whole community together while you falling apart inside!!” 

“I know what it’s like to be lied to,” Evangeline countered, her voice hardening. She reached up, slowly wiping the blood from her lip with her thumb, then looked at the red stain with a cold curiosity. “I know what it’s like to watch you tell us girls—sweet, naive sisters—that our bodies were temples, while you were treatin’ yours like a public house. And Naomi...god, Marigold. You let that girl run because she saw the rot in you. She saw the hypocrisy before any of us did. She warned me to get out.”

Marigold’s face went slack. The fire vanished, replaced by a hollow, haunting grief. She looked small, the glossy finger waves and the expensive dress feeling like a costume that no longer fit. She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself or perhaps to beg, but no sound came out.

Evangeline saw the break. She felt the victory, but it tasted like ash. She leaned closer, her breath warm against Marigold’s ear, her tone shifting from rage to a cruel, intimate tenderness.

“You can slap me until my face is blue, Marigold. But every time you close your eyes, and every time you feel Stack hands on you, you gon’ see me. You gon’ remember that I know exactly who you are.”

Evangeline pulled back, giving Marigold one last, assessing look from the polished toes of her shoes to the trembling line of her jaw. Without another word, Evangeline turned her back on the First Lady and walked toward the noise of the party, leaving Marigold standing alone, shaking in her black satin, the silence of the corridor heavier than any scream.

For the first time in years, Marigold Baptiste realized something she had never allowed herself to imagine. The girls had been watching her every bit as closely as she’d been watching them. The First Lady had fallen from the pedestal she’d spent half her life standing on.

Marigold allowed her tears to fall freely. She placed both palms against the porcelain basin to steady herself. Finally staring at her reflection, she barely recognized the woman staring back. Her finger waves were still immaculate, each glossy curve resting exactly where Cordelia had pinned it. Garnet lips framed a mouth that had spent the evening smiling in ways she never thought possible. Diamonds winked beneath the light every time her breathing hitched.

She looked beautiful. But she had never felt uglier.

Her chest rose sharply as she reached for the towel hanging beside the washstand and dabbed beneath her eyes before any more tears could ruin the careful work Peaches had done.

“You weren’t teachin’ purity…”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“You were teachin’ us how to become you.”

The words refused to leave.

She leaned forward, lowering her forehead until it nearly touched the mirror.

What had she become?

The question frightened her because she no longer knew whether it came from God…or from Obadiah.

A careful knock sounded against the door. Marigold straightened immediately, swallowing every ounce of grief she could force back down.

“I’m alright,” she called, though no one had asked.

The latch turned.

Stack eased inside, closing the door behind him quietly. He took one look at her, and that was all it took. His easy grin had disappeared. He stood within the doorway, not moving to rush or crowd her. The bourbon he’d been drinking was long forgotten. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his pressed trousers as he studied the woman before him. 

Marigold busied herself smoothing wrinkles that weren’t there.

“I’ll be out in just a minute.”

Stack remained silent, his eyes studying her. She reached up to fix one of the clips in her hair, though she didn’t need to because they were perfectly placed. Anything to keep her hands occupied. To keep from looking at him. 

“You ain’t gotta hide from me.” His voice was soft and gentle. 

That nearly undid her. 

She finally looked over.

“I’m not hiding.”

“No?” A small smile touched one corner of his mouth. “It must be somebody else standin’ in front of me then.”

Despite herself, the faintest breath of a laugh escaped her. It disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

“I’m fine.”

Stack held her gaze.

He knew. She could see it. He knew she wasn’t.

He crossed the room until only a step separated them.

“You cryin’?”

“No.”

“You mad?”

“No.”

“You scared?”

Her answer caught. “…No.”

He nodded once. “Alright.”

That surprised her. He didn’t argue or press or tease. It was just…alright. 

Marigold blinked. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened?”

“I already did.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“You didn’t.”

Stack looked at her the way he always did, not searching for perfection, not measuring her against a standard she could never reach.

Only seeing her.

“I ain’t gon’ make you talk before you ready, baby.” 

Her shoulders sagged. Marigold expected interrogation. Correction. To defend herself. Instead…she’s been given room. That almost felt foreign to her. 

“I failed somebody tonight.”

The confession slipped free before she could stop it.

Stack’s expression softened. “You think so.”

“I know so.”

He let those words rest where they landed. He didn’t chastise her. Tell her she was wrong. Tell her she was right. He stepped closer and reached up, gently straightening one diamond earring that had shifted during the evening, his fingertips barely brushed her skin.

“You still wearin’ the whole world on your shoulders.”

She looked down. “I don’t know how to stop.”

“I know.” His thumb lingered beneath her chin just long enough to lift her eyes back to his. “But you don’t gotta carry it by yourself.”

The tears threatened again. She blinked them back with stubborn determination.

“If I tell you…”

“You don’t have to.”

“What if it changes the way you look at me?”

A quiet chuckle escaped him. “Goldie.” He smiled then. Small. Certain. “I been lookin’ at you the same way since the first time you and them church biddies stood outside my do’ tellin’ me to repent.”

She smiled faint. Her lips quivered. She wanted to believe him. More than that…she wanted to believe herself worthy of it. Instead, she reached up and rested her hand over his just  for a second. Long enough to steady herself.

“I need another minute.”

“You got ten.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “I’ll keep ‘em from botherin’ you.” He turned toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back once more. “You come back when you ready.”

Then, he was gone, the latch clicking softly behind his retreating frame. 

Marigold released the breath she’d been holding and closed her eyes once again. 

She never noticed the other pair of eyes watching from farther down the corridor. Hidden where the hallway bent into darkness, 

Mirabel remained perfectly still. Eavesdropping. 

She had seen Evangeline shove the First Lady against the wall.

Seen the slap.

Heard raised voices sharpened by hurt until they became impossible to untangle.

Now, she had watched Stack Moore walk into that bathroom after her. Watched him leave with tenderness written plainly across his face.

She stood there, hands folded neatly before her, committing every look, every silence, every secret to memory.

Some truths were far more useful…when nobody knew you were the one carrying them.

Evangeline stumbled a step, her senses reeling from the wreckage of her blow up with Marigold. As she stood there, the world she was born into. The one she was made to conform to. A world of starched collars, hushed prayers, and the suffocating expectation of purity. It all felt like a thin veil that had finally been ripped away. 

Around her, The Blackline was a riot of brown skin and perspiration. The blues weren’t just playing, they were vibrating through flesh and bone, a dirty, low-down moan of a saxophone that sounded like it was having an orgasm. Folks weren’t just dancin’. They was grindin’, hips locked, bodies sliding against one another with hungry friction. Evangeline saw a man with a wide grin and a gold tooth pull a woman’s skirt up to her waist, his large hand disappearing under the fabric to squeeze a heavy, rounded cheek with a possessive grip that made the woman throw her head back and howl with laughter. 

To her left, a card game was erupting. A man slammed his palm against the wooden table with a sound that cracked like a gunshot over the music, sending dice and coins scattering. The men around him weren’t fighting with hate but with a raw, boisterous energy, voices deep as they shouted insults and jokes that would have made a deacon faint. 

Then, there were the curtains. Heavy, velvet drapes that partitioned off small corners of the room. They ain’t hide much. Evangeline watched the silhouettes pressed against the fabric. The violent thrusting of a man’s hips. The arch of a woman’s back. The frantic movement of hands clutching at hair and skin. Wet, slapping noises, guttural moans, and the occasional sharp cry of pleasure that cut through the music. Blatant. Obscene. Honest.

The smell of the place wrapped around her. A heady, intoxicating cocktail of expensive pomade, pungent cigar smoke, and the mouth-watering scent of Aunt Pearl’s kitchen. Plates of fried catfish and collard greens piled high with smoked turkey were being passed around, the grease glistening on fingers and lips. Folks was eating with a primal intensity, laughing with their whole bodies, doubting over in fits of genuine, unburdened mirth. 

Evangeline felt strange, trembling sensation in her gut. Since she was a little girl, she’d been taught to walk the “right” path, a version of holiness that felt more like a cage every day. Been taught to look at people like this with pity. And to see Sister Marigold give into her hidden desires left her confused and angry. Looking at the raw, sweating, fucking, laughing chaos of The Blackline, she could see no judgement here. No one was pretending to be a saint while hiding a secret in the dark. The sin was out in the open, worn like a badge of honor, and in that openness, there was a terrifying, electric kind of peace. 

She watched a woman lean back in a chair, legs spread wide, laughing as she fed a piece of corn bread to a man who looked at her with pure, uncomplicated lust. 

This is it, Evangeline realized, the thought echoing in the hollow space where her faith used to be. This is what it looks like to actually be alive.

It wasn’t just a juke. Or a brothel. It was a sanctuary of the flesh. For the first time, the word ‘freedom’ didn’t feel like a Sunday school lesson. It felt like the heat of a stranger’s hand on a hip, the smell of grease and sex, and the courage to be exactly as broken and hungry as everyone else.

Sammie Moore stood near the edge of the stage with his guitar resting comfortably against his shoulder, still riding the rush of applause and his first taste of pussy that refused to leave his chest and his tongue. Every few seconds someone stopped him with a pat on the back. A handshake. A clap on his shoulder. 

“Damn, boy! You sure can play!” 

“You had Delta Slim grinnin’.” 

“That guitar talk back to you.” 

Sammie smiled through every compliment, thanked every stranger, but his eyes kept drifting over their shoulders. 

Searching. 

Soft-blue dress had been easy enough to find. 

But now…nothing.

Despite that, Sammie caught himself smiling anyway. She was probably making him wait on purpose. That seemed like something Evangeline Monroe would enjoy. Sammie finally excused himself and began weaving through the crowded room. Cards slapped against green felt. Dice bounced across polished wood. Women laughed and moaned with their heads thrown back. Someone carried two platters of fried catfish through the crowd while another hurried past balancing slices of sweet potato pie. 

Sammie circled once, then again. 

Still nothing.

His smile began to fade. 

Near the bar, he spotted the two young women who had arrived with her earlier. They stood shoulder to shoulder, wrapping light shawls around themselves while glancing nervously toward the front entrance. 

Sammie approached. “Evenin’ again, ladies.” 

The girls looked up. 

“Oh,” one of them said with relief. “Hi, Sammie.” 

“You seen Evangeline?” Sammie asked. 

“The girls exchanged a look. 

“We was just lookin’ for her ourselves.” 

“Thought she came back wit’ ya’ll.” Sammie said

“Naw. She wandered off after…somethin’.”

“After what?” Sammie questioned. 

“She shrugged. “Don’t know. She looked pretty upset. I tried to wave her over and she just kept on walkin’.” 

The second girl sighed, chewing the inside of her cheek. 

“We can’t stay much longer.” 

“Our mamas think we sleepin’ over at my auntie’s house. If we don’t get back ‘fore sunrise…” she winced. “Lord.” 

“The whole neighborhood gon’ know we snuck out.” The other friend said. 

Sammie glanced across the room again. “I’ll find her.” 

“You tell her we had to leave?” 

“We sure didn’t wanna but…we told Eva that we can’t stay too long.” 

“Our daddies…” one of them shook her head. “They’ll turn us black and blue if they find out.” 

Sammie cringed at that last part. But ultimately, he nodded his head with understanding.

“I’ll tell her. Ya’ll get home safe now.” 

The girls thanked him before hurrying toward the entrance, pulling their shawls tighter as one of the doormen quietly unlatched the door for them. For a second, Sammie simply stood there. He looked toward the stage. Toward the card tables. Toward Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl talking close. Toward the staircase where Violet stood, Smoke beside her puffing on a cigar like he was her watch dog. 

Still no Evangeline. 

Then, he saw her. 

Marigold.

She emerged from the hallway near the guest rooms, composed once more, though something about her expression seemed…heavier than before. Her lipstick had been touched up. Her shoulders were square. Only the faint puffiness under her eyes hinted that something heavy was on her mind. Sammie brightened immediately and walked toward her.

“Miss Marigold.” 

Marigold turned at the sound of her name. 

“I’m sorry to bother you.” 

“You aren’t a bother at all, Sammie.” 

Sammie glanced over his shoulder, still hoping to catch sight of dark-brown skin and a flirty grin. 

“I can’t seem to find Evangeline.” 

The name struck her like a pebble dropped into still water. Barely noticeable from the outside. Impossible to ignore beneath the surface. 

“Evangeline?”

“I done checked the dance floor. The bar. The stage. I ain’t checked none of the rooms down here but they seem to be occupied. Upstairs ain’t been checked. Her friend had to head home. They was lookin’ for her too.” 

Concern settled quietly across Marigold’s face. “When was the last time you saw her?” 

“A little while ago. We was supposed to meet back up.” Sammie rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish smile trying to return. “I reckon I might’ve got caught up wit’ folks tryna talk to me after I played.” 

Marigold looked across the crowded room. The celebration carried on without interruption. She could spot Stack laughing with Cornbread at the bar over a glass of bourbon. 

“I’ll help you.” 

Sammie’s shoulders relaxed. “You will?” 

“Of course. Evangeline is one of the youth at church. Her well bein’ is just as important to me as is to you, Sammie.” Marigold offered him a reassuring smile, though unease had already begun coiling inside her chest. “If she’s still here, we’ll find her.” 

Marigold grabbed Sammie by the hand as they stepped into the current of bodies moving through The Blackline. Sammie searched with hopeful eyes. Marigold searched with growing dread. Neither of them noticed that, across the room, someone else had quietly begun watching the search unfold. 

Someone only Liza June could see. 

Stack peeled himself away from the bar with the last swallow of bourbon still warm in his chest. His eyes drifted toward the hallway leading toward the bathrooms. 

Goldie should’ve been back by now. 

He frowned. 

As he crossed the floor, Peaches breezed past carrying a tray stacked with condoms and fresh drinks, hips rocking to the band without missing a step. 

“Peach.” 

She looked over one glistening shoulder. “Mhm?” 

“You see Goldie, tell her quit hidin’ from me and come on to my office.” 

Peaches smirked. “You done got needy.” 

“I been needy.” 

Peaches laughed. “I’ll tell her, baby. Maybe I should warn her you primmed and ready then, huh?” 

Stack shot her a lazy grin and kept walking. 

As he walked, the scent of fried catfish, greens, and fresh cornbread drifted from the kitchen. As he passed the swinging door, something caught the corner of his eye. Stack stopped and backed up. He pushed the kitchen door open just enough to peek inside. 

Delta Slim had Aunt Pearl backed against one of the prep tables, grinning from ear to ear while she cupped the old pianist’s face with both hands and kissed him like she’d been waiting all week to do it. Delta Slim chuckled into the kiss. Aunt Pear swatted his shoulder without ever pulling away. 

Stack pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lord have mercy.” 

Neither of them heard him. Stack pushed the door shut with a quick thump. 

“Ain’t nobody wanna see all that.” His head shook as a laugh escaped him. “Two old folks actin’ like they sixteen.” 

Still smiling to himself, he adjusted his jacket and continued down the hallway toward his office, unaware that before the night was over, laughter would be the last easy thing anyone remembered. 

Stack’s polished shoes stopped dead on the worn floorboards. There was a girl huddled in the corner. She wasn’t just any stray, Stack recognized her to be the girl Sammie been checking for since he showed up in Little Rock. Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was still trying to fold herself smaller while her face told a different story. Split lip. Purple blooming under one eye. Marks that didn’t come from no fall. 

“You alright, sugar?” His voice came out low and careful. 

Evangeline dragged the heel of her hand across her wet cheeks, sniffling hard. “I’m fine. Just fine, Mr. Stack.” 

Stack stepped closer, the wall sconce from the hallway catching the damage. His jaw worked once. 

“Somebody put hands on you?” 

Evangeline remained silent. She looked past him like the wall might swallow her whole. 

“What’s your name?”

“Evangeline.” 

Stack studied her. “If you walk out them doors lookin’ like that, word gon’ travel faster than a rumor in a choir loft.” He said. “And if it gets back to your people that you was here…” he let the rest hang. They both knew what that meant.

“I’m not going back home.” She spoke, but it was so low Stack had to strain his ears to catch it. 

“Where my cousin at?” The question came out tight. Deep in his gut he knew Sammie wouldn’t raise a hand to a woman, he knew better than to do no shit like that. But the marks on her face made his fingers itch anyway. 

“I don’t know.” She whispered.

Stack exhaled through his nose and opened his office door, the hinges giving a soft groan. Warm lamplight spilled across a heavy desk cluttered with loose papers and an ashtray still smoking. 

He nodded inside. “Come on. ain’t nobody need to see you like this.” 

Evangeline hesitated, then stepped past him. Stack cracked the door behind them, cutting most of the noise from the hall. Stack stayed by the door a moment, watching her take in the room, her eyes darting over the velvet sofa, the half-empty bottle of whiskey, the coat rack heavy with his good jackets. 

“Go on, sit.” Stack said. “Ain’t gon’ bite.”

Evangeline lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, her fingers twisting in her lap. Stack crossed to the desk, poured himself a finger of whiskey into a glass, and took a sip. His gaze drifted back to that split lip. 

“You don’t gotta tell me what happened.” He said, after a beat. “But if somebody’s puttin’ hands in you, you best believe they gon’ answer for it.”

Evangeline’s wet eyes tracked him from head to toe before pulling away. 

Stack eased himself onto the edge of the heavy desk, one polished shoe braced against the floor, the other dangling. He watched her for a moment, finger tapping the glass, the wheels in his head turning. Hoping Sammie ain’t got nothing to do with her hurtin’. 

“Who hit you, Evangeline?” Stack’s voice stayed low, almost gentle. 

She kept her eyes on her lap, shoulders shaking, fresh tears sliding free. 

Stack let out a slow breath through his nose. He set his glass aside and pushed off the desk. The door to the back room creaked as he disappeared inside. When he came back, he carried a damp cloth and a small chunk of ice wrapped in it. He held it out without a word. 

Evangeline took it with trembling fingers and pressed the cold against her swollen cheek. Stack lowered himself onto the sofa beside her, close enough that the cushion dipped under his weight. 

“One of them boys out front?” he asked. “Say the word and I’ll handle it. Get you home safe, no questions asked.”

Her face crumpled again. The tears came harder, silent and hot. Stack reached over and laid his palm between her shoulder blades, rubbing slow circles through the thin fabric of her dress. Stack just stayed there, unsure of what to do other than go out and ask around. Surely, if an altercation did occur, he would have known. 

“Did some man try and come on to you?” Stack asked. 

Evangeline sniffled, rubbing her eyes. Eyes that kept betraying her as they swept over Stack’s body. The feeling of his hand making her feel fuzzy. 

“Wasn’t nothin’ like that. I…”

“Funny thing ‘bout nothin’. It usually leave folks lookin’ like somethin’ happened.” His voice never rises. “You ain’t gotta explain it to me.” Another pause. “Just don’t sit here thinkin’ somebody got the right to leave their fingerprints on your life. Folks’ll have you believin’ love always come with a hard hand. I should know.” 

Evangeline crumbled. She leaned her head against Stack’s shoulder, her tears soaking into the silk of his shirt. 

“Shhh, hey now…it’s alright. Listen, why don’t I go look for Sammie. See if we can sort this out—”

Her hand slid down between his legs, fingers closing around the softened outline of his dick through the fabric of his trousers. Stack shot to his feet so fast the sofa scraped back an inch. 

“What the hell you doin’, girl?”

She stayed where she was, eyes puffy, lips trembling. “I always wanted to know what it was like to be with one of the Smokestack Twins. You been so kind to me, Mr. Stack.”

Her fingers went to the buttons of her dress. She started working them open.

Stack’s voice came sharp. “Keep that dress on.”

“What? You don’t wanna make me feel better?” 

Stack looked away. He swiped at his nose and then made his way to the door. “Not like this. I ain’t who you think I am. I’m many things but not this. Button that dress back up.” 

Evangleine laughed, a bitter little sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Since when does Stack Moore turn down some pussy?”

Stack was seeing red. He crossed the room in three strides and reached for the door, “I’m gettin’ Aunt Pearl to take you home—”

Before he could open the door it swung open. 

Sammie and Marigold stood right there in the hallway. Sammie’s eyes went straight to Evangeline’s open dress, skin showing beneath, the bruise on her face. His jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped.

Marigold stepped inside first. “What’s going on in here?”

Stack looked from Sammie, to Marigold, to Evangeline. 

“Found her outside my office banged up. Somebody hit her—”

“Evangeline, everything alright?” 

Sammie crossed the room to her. Evangeline stood abruptly, turning away to fix herself. 

“Eva—”

“STOP! I’m fine. I ain’t fuck your cousin, Sammie. If that’s what you worried about.” 

Sammie frowned. “You think that’s what I care ‘bout right now? Your face—”

“Ask Sister Marigold why my face look like this.” 

Stack and Sammie turned their eyes onto Marigold. 

“I struck her.” Marigold confessed. “I ain’t mean to—”

“You meant to. Just like you meant to ruin our lives. Wait till I tell everyone that you fuckin’ a pimp in a pussy house. That image you worked so hard for gon’ burn so bright everybody in Little Rock gon’ see it.” 

Evangeline stormed past Sammie and bumped Marigold’s shoulder. Sammie grabbed her wrist but Evangeline wiggled her arm out of his grip and stormed out of the office. He was on her heels like a bloodhound with a fresh scent. Stack and Marigold stood frozen for a moment before following them. 

“Eva! Come on, now. We can talk about this—”

“Stop following me, Sammie!” 

“Listen, whatever happened, we can help. You ain’t gotta go through this alone—”

She turned as though she meant to leave, but Sammie stepped into her path. He didn’t grab her this time. He simply stood there, concern plain in his eyes. 

“Talk to me.” 

Her laugh came again, full of pain. “Why?”

“‘Cause somethin’ happened.” 

“You don’t know what happened.”

“No. But I know you hurtin’.” 

The tenderness in his voice hurt worse than an accusation could have. Evangeline’s chin trembled before she caught it between her teeth. She wanted him to be foolish. She wanted him to flirt, to say something smooth, to give her an excuse to laugh at him and walk away. Instead, he looked at her like her tears mattered. 

“You don’t even know me.” She said.

Sammie lowered his voice. “Maybe not yet.” 

“There ain’t gon’ be no yet.” 

His brows furrowed. “What that mean?” 

“It mean you need to stop lookin’ at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m somethin’ sweet.” 

“You are.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I know enough.” 

“No, you don’t.” Her voice sharpened, cutting through the music between them. “You met me on a sidewalk licking ice cream. You saw me in a pretty dress, let me dance on you, kissed me a little, sucked my pussy, now you think you know what kind of girl I am.” 

“I never said that.” 

“You ain’t have to, Sammie.” 

Sammie’s expression softened further, which only made her angrier. 

“Evangeline, I ain’t tryin’ to judge you.” 

“Everybody says that right before they do.” 

“I ain’t everybody—”

“You a preacher’s son.” 

“I ain’t my daddy—”

“You still got his Bible all through you!” 

The words struck him, though he tried not to show it.

“What would your daddy think if he found out you been licking pussy? You hangin’ ‘round The Smokestack twins? You performing blues music in a Juke full of the drunk and the frisky, huh? I’d get out while I still can. At least you got time for savin’.” Evangeline rubbed quickly beneath one eye. “Go enjoy your birthday. They threw this whole night for you. Got women in there that know exactly what you want and how to give it to you.” 

“I was lookin’ for you.” 

“Well, stop.” 

Sammie went still. Evangeline drew a breath that trembled all the way down.

“I got somebody anyway.” 

Sammie’s face changed. Only slightly. A tiny glimpse behind his eyes. 

“You got a man?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

Sammie searched her expression, perhaps waiting for the teasing curl of her lips or a wink that would reveal the game. None came. Evangeline forced herself to hold his gaze until the lie settled between them.

“Why you ain’t say that before?” 

Evangeline scoffed. “I ain’t owe you my whole life story.”

“I know…”

“Then quit askin’.”

Sammie nodded slowly. “Alright.” 

His acceptance should have brought relief. Instead, it left her feeling hollow. Evangeline looked at him properly thenz at the college pin on his lapel. At the faint sheen of perspiration resting along his temple. At the gentle hands that had gripped her waist and pinned her legs in that dressing room. He had looked at her as though she were worth discovering. That was precisely why she had to push harder. 

“Go find you somebody more suitable.” She said. “Some good little college girl. Some little church girl from back home. A girl who writes letter and sit quiet while you play. Somebody worth your time.”

Sammie’s brows drew together. “Why you talkin’ like you ain’t?” 

She looked away.

“Evangeline—”

“Just leave me alone, Sammie.” 

He could hear the plea beneath the anger. He could also hear his father’s voice from years ago, insisting that women needed correction when their emotions carried them too far. Jedediah would have followed. Cornered. Demanded answers until there was no room left for anything but obedience. 

Sammie would not become that man. 

Evangeline stepped around him and headed toward the front of the room. 

Sammie turned after her. For one breath, he followed. One step carried him into the stream of dancers before he stopped himself. She had asked him to leave her alone. Whatever had transpired between her and Marigold, she didn’t want him beside her while she carried it. 

“Preacher Boy!”

A hand clapped his shoulder from behind. Someone called for another song. Delta Slom lifted both hands from the piano and shouted that the birthday boy owed the room one more number. Sammie glanced back at them, then toward Evangeline. She had already disappeared among the bodies. He stood there another second, torn between instinct and respect, before lowering his head. 

She needed time.

He would find her later.

The office door had scarcely stopped rattling from Sammie and Evangeline’s hurried exit before things settled uneasy. Marigold stood in the middle of the room, arms wrapped tightly around herself, staring at the open doorway as though Evangeline might suddenly appear again. 

“I struck her.” Her confession came with shame. “So hard.” Her voice wavered. “I have never laid my hands on one of my girls.” 

Stack remained where he was beside his desk. He said nothing. 

Marigold laughed once, though it carried no humor. “I looked at her…” she swallowed. “…and all I could see was myself.” She pressed trembling fingers against her lips. “I became exactly what she accused me of.”

Stack watched her for another moment before speaking. 

“No.” 

She lifted weary eyes toward him. 

“You became somebody who lost hold of herself.” 

The distinction did little to comfort her. A fresh wave of shame crossed her face. Then, another thought entered. 

“What if she tells? What if she tells everybody?” Marigold whispered. “The congregation…my husband…those girls…” she shook her head. “My whole life…”

Stack’s answer came without hesitation. “Then she tells.” 

Marigold stared at him as though he’d struck her himself.

“That’s all you got to say?” 

“What else you want me to say?” Stack tilted his head. 

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand just fine.” 

“No. You don’t. They’ll talk.” 

“They might—”

“They’ll rip me apart.” 

“They might.” 

“My girls won’t listen to another word I say—”

“Maybe.” 

Each answer landed heavier than the last. Frustration finally overtook her. 

“You don’t care.” 

Stack’s brow lifted. 

“You think this some kind of joke.”

“I think it’s the truth.”

Marigold shut her eyes. “I could lose everything.” 

“You already losin’ it, Goldie.” 

She blinked. “What?” 

“You hate hearin’ the truth.”

“I do not—”

“You do.” His voice never rose. “You hate any truth that asks somethin’ of you.” 

Marigold shook her head fiercely. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Stack.” 

“I know exactly what I’m talking’ ‘bout.” He took one measured step toward her. “You spend time worryin’ ‘bout what everybody else think, you ain’t ask yourself what you think in a long while.” 

Marigold felt the walls closing in. 

“I need to go.” 

She turned for the door. Before her fingers reached the knob, Stack crossed the room. He opened the door first, glanced into the hallway, then quietly shut it again.

The lock clicked into place.

Marigold stared. “What are you doin’?”

He motioned toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

“I said I need to leave.”

“I heard you.”

“Move.”

“No.”

She searched his face, waiting for the arrogance she had come to expect from men who gave orders. It wasn’t there.

Only patience.

Only resolve.

Her shoulders sagged. The fight left them. Slowly, she lowered herself into the chair. Stack remained standing for a long moment before finally asking the question that had lived behind his eyes for weeks.

“Why you still with him?”

Marigold looked down at her hands.

No answer came.

He asked another. “Why you still tied to that church?”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. Words that had once come so easily refused to appear.

Duty. Marriage. Calling. Obedience.

Each felt thinner than the last.

Stack watched the realization cross her face.

“You keep tellin’ me what you scared of losin’.” He leaned against the edge of his desk. “Tell me one thing over there that’s still holdin’ on to you.”

Marigold searched for it. For something. Anything.

Obadiah. No. Her marriage. No. The church building. No. Her title. No. Only faces came. The young women. Bible lessons. Hospital visits. Meals delivered to grieving families.

Evangeline.

The thought struck so sharply she rose from the chair.

“I can’t do this.”

She hurried to the door and unlocked it before Stack could stop her. The knob turned. She stepped into the hallway. Behind her came his voice, carrying just enough amusement to make her stop for the briefest second.

“Runnin’ again?”

She closed her eyes.

“Thought we was past that.”

Marigold looked back over her shoulder. The glare she gave him carried exhaustion more than anger. Then, she walked away. She moved quickly through the back corridors until the music softened behind thick walls. The warmth of the kitchen met her first. Pots soaked in wash tubs. The smell of cornbread still lingered in the air. Alma Rose stood at one sink with her sleeves rolled high, drying heavy platters while Aunt Pearl wiped down one of the long preparation tables, humming softly beneath her breath. Both women looked up together. One glance was all Aunt Pearl needed.

“What happened?”

Marigold tried to answer but nothing came. She lowered her eyes instead.

After a long silence, she managed quietly, “Aunt Pearl…”

The older woman set the rag aside. “Mm-hmm?”

“Would you…” Her voice nearly broke. “…would you mind drivin’ me home?”

Concern settled across Aunt Pearl’s face, but she asked no questions.

“Course I will.” She untied her apron and handed it to Alma Rose. “You finish up in here for me, baby.”

Alma Rose nodded. “I got it.”

Marigold waited near the back door while Aunt Pearl gathered her things.

Just as Aunt Pearl reached for her coat…

The church bell rang.

One slow toll.

Its sound rolled through the kitchen walls and settled over every pot, every plate, every tired pair of hands. Even Alma Rose’s rag stilled against the china. Marigold felt the sound settle somewhere deep inside her chest. Aunt Pearl quietly slipped her coat over her shoulders.

“Come on, baby.”

Marigold nodded.

Neither woman spoke as they stepped out into the Arkansas night.

Behind them, The Blackline laughed.

Across the street, the bell rang again.

The Rise of First Blood

Evangeline moved without purpose through The Blackline, letting the crowd swallow her. She passed couples with their foreheads pressed together, women laughing over cards, men losing money with good humor and ordering another round. The room that had seemed scandalous when she first entered now looked different through the sting of her tears.

She saw a young woman sitting beside the stage with her face buried against Peaches’ shoulder. Peaches did not tell her to straighten up. She did not tell her that tears invited weakness or that grief could be prayed away. She stroked the woman’s back and listened while she cried, her full attention offered without correction.

Near the bar, a patron reached for one of the dancers. The woman caught his wrist, shook her head, and continued past him. He lifted both palms, accepted the refusal, and turned back to his drink. No one dragged her aside. No one asked what kind of woman denied a man after accepting his attention. At a nearby table, Aunt Pearl set down a plate in front of a girl who had been too busy working to eat. She fussed over her until the girl took the first bite, then walked away satisfied. The Blackline contained vice. Evangeline could see it clearly. Liquor poured faster than water. Clothes fell open. Money passed between hands for pleasures no church woman would name aloud. Yet beneath all of it lived something she had not expected to find.

Choice.

The realization disturbed her more than the obscenity. Marigold’s face returned to her. Garnet lips. Black satin. Her body settled on Stack Moore’s lap while he kissed her neck and whispered filth no doubt. The look of shock on her face when she’d locked eyes with her. The woman who had once warned Evangeline that wickedness entered through open doors had looked more alive in that booth than she ever had standing beside Obadiah. 

Evangeline hated her for it. She envied her for it too. That truth was harder to bear.

She drifted closer to the entrance, wrapping her arms around herself. The mark on her cheek and the split in her lip had begun to ache now that the adrenaline has settled. Everything she had said to Marigold returned in jagged pieces, crueler now that the anger had faded. She remembered Marigold’s face after the slap, the horror and regret that followed it. 

She had wanted the First Lady to hurt. 

And she had succeeded. 

It had not made anything better. 

Across the room, tucked behind a veiled alcove, Liza June sat with her cards gathered loosely in both hands. She had stopped reading them some time ago. Lana had wandered away to tend to a John, leaving her alone with the spread and the company no one else could see. 

Louisa Fields, one of the spirits, had remained near the piano after Sammie finished playing. The Harris twins had stood together beside an empty booth, their fingers linked. Clarene Bell watched the stage with a longing that had survived her body. Larissa Boone lingered near the wall, stern and watchful. Cressida Weatherford stood closest to Marigold as she surfaced without Stack, her weathered hands held near her sides. 

Then, Louisa turned toward the front door. 

The Harris twins followed.

Clarene lowered her head and went after them. 

Larissa crossed the room with the grave composure of a woman answering a summons.

Liza June straightened. 

The spirits did not disappear. They moved through the living crowd, passing between dancers and tables without disturbing cloth or flesh. Every one of them traveled in the same direction. 

Her cards tightened between her fingers.

“Where ya’ll goin’?”

None turned.

One card slipped free and landed face up on the table. 

Death. 

Liza stared at it. 

Ordinarily, she would have scolded anyone foolish enough to fear the card. Death did not always mean a grave. It could mean change, release, one life ending so another might begin. Tonight, the image looked different. 

Cressida remained behind for one final heartbeat. Her eyes found Marigold across the room. The First Lady was scanning the crowd beside Sammie now. Both of them searching for someone they could no longer see. Then, Cressida looked toward Liza.

No chant came this time. No words formed inside her mind. The old woman simply closed her eyes. 

Grief moved across her face before she turned and followed the others. 

Liza’s stomach tightened. She didn’t rise or follow. She remained perfectly still while the dead passed through the front door. 

Evangeline reached it moments later. 

The doorman recognized her from when she came in and tipped his hat. “Headin’ out, Miss?”

“Just need some air.” 

“Friends left some time ago.” 

Evangeline glanced back into the room. Her girls had gone. She figured as much. They were past their curfew. She spotted Sammie with his guitar, forcing a smile on his face. Evangeline nearly called his name. The thought rose to her lips. Then, Pride swallowed it. 

“Actually, I think I’m a head home. Thanks anyway.” 

The doorman opened the door. “Have a good evening.” 

Music poured into the night around her, bright and lively for a few seconds before the heavy door closed and reduced it to a muffled pulse behind brick. West Ninth had thinned considerably. Storefronts sat dark behind their glasses. Stratton’s three pale circles across the pavement, leaving stretches of shadow between them. The August heat had not broken, though the night breeze cooled the tears drying on Evangeline’s face. Across the narrow lane stood Greater Calvary Holy Temple Church of Deliverance. It’s white exterior looked gray beneath the moon. The iron fence bordered rows of lilies that appeared colorless at this hour. High above the street, the bell tower cut into the skit like a raised finger demanding silence. 

Evangeline turned away from it. 

She walked slowly, without any true destination. She didn’t want to go back home. To face her mother’s judgment or her father’s hand. She only wanted distance form Marigold, from Sammie’s kindness, from the music that had reached into her chest and stirred feelings she was not prepared to name. 

Behind her, the dead emerged through The Blackline’s closed door. 

Louisa came first, small and barefoot, ribcage visible above her nightgown; malnourished. The Harris twins walked behind her, still holding hands, translucent and water-soaked, dripping constantly, leaving puddles wherever they moved. They still wore the same swollen, bluish features with their hair plastered their face and clothing clinging like wet rags. Clarene had bruising around her neck and walked with a wobble. Larissa carried a medicinal scent mixed with the old communion wine sweetness. Other spirits joined them, spirits tied to the patrons, the musicians, the kitchens and the old streets beneath Little Rock. Faces from lives already lived. Shapes belonging to years not yet born. 

Cressida came last. 

The formed a silent procession several paces behind her, keeping pace as she crossed beyond the strongest reach of The Blackline’s lights. Evangeline felt the change without understanding it. The fine hairs along her arms lifted. She glanced over one shoulder. 

The street appeared empty. 

She rubbed her palms over her sleeves and kept walking. The music weakened with each step Evangeline took until that world became no more than a distant rhythm carried through the night. 

Evangeline paused beside the church fence. 

A lily had fallen onto the pavement. She nudged it with the toe of her shoe, then looked toward the road leading home. 

“Miss Monroe.” 

The voice came from behind her. 

Evangleine turned.

Deacon Josiah Wells stood beneath the nearest streetlamp. She had known him most of her life. He had carried her on his shoulders during church picnics when she was small and slipped peppermint candies into her palm after services. Tonight he wore a dark suit buttoned to the throat, his hat held respectfully against his chest.

The tension left her shoulders.

“Deacon Wells.”

“Your mama and daddy been worried.”

Her gaze dropped. “They know I’m gone?”

“They know enough.”

“I was fixin’ to head home.”

“I figured as much.” He gave her the same patient smile she remembered from childhood. “Come on, then. I’ll see you there safe.”

Evangeline glanced toward The Blackline. She thought of Sammie. She thought of going back inside and telling him the truth, at least enough of it to apologize. Then, she pictured her father waiting at home.

“I can walk.”

“At this hour?” Deacon Wells chuckled softly. “Your daddy would have my hide if I let his girl cross town alone.”

The words sounded reasonable. Familiar.

She stepped toward him.

The spirits stopped.

Every one of them.

Louisa’s face tightened with fear. The Harris twins drew closer together. Clarene opened her mouth though no sound passed through it. Larissa reached for Evangeline and met only distance.

Cressida raised both hands. The hands that had delivered children, closed wounds, calmed fevers and helped women survive the touch of cruel men.

They could do nothing now.

Evangeline had nearly reached Deacon Wells when another man stepped from the deeper shadow beside the church steps. Then, a third appeared near the gate.

Her pace slowed. “Who they?”

Wells’ smile remained, though all warmth had left it.

“Church business.”

“At this time of night?”

“You been keepin’ late hours yourself.”

Something in his voice changed her breathing.

Evangeline stepped backward.

Wells reached for her arm.

She jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

The men moved at once.

One caught her from behind. A broad hand covered her mouth before she could scream. She kicked backward, heel striking bone, and heard someone curse. Her teeth closed against the palm over her lips.

“Hold her.”

Evangeline twisted hard enough to tear one sleeve at the shoulder. She clawed at the arm trapping her, eyes fixed on The Blackline’s entrance only yards away.

The music continued behind the walls. She tried to call Sammie. Only a broken sound escaped beneath the man’s hand.

Deacon Wells seized her legs as the others lifted her from the pavement. Her eyes widened. Not with confusion anymore.

With recognition.

The spirits crowded around them, reaching, grieving, powerless. Cressida stood closest, her hands pressed against Evangeline’s face without being felt.

The girl fought until a dark cloth was forced over her nose and mouth.

The church bell tolled once.

Evangeline’s body went slack.

The men carried her through the iron gate. Behind them, the fallen lily lay crushed against the pavement. And across the lane, The Blackline kept singing.

Morning came. It slowly settled over the carriage house behind The Blackline. Thin ribbons of sunlight caught lazy flecks of dust that drifted through the warm air. The fragrance of old cedar, worn leather, hay, faint traces of manure, and machine oil. An empty wagon leaned against one wall beside stacked feed crates and coiled harnesses that hadn’t seen a horse in years. 

Beyond the open doors crowded with overgrown grass, life had already begun again. Minnie laughed and cooed in the kitchen. A pan clanged against a stove, probably Aunt Pearl frying up some bacon fat fritters. Delta Skim tested a few wandering notes on the piano before deciding against a tune to play tonight. Cornbread was snoring in one of the guest rooms, causing some of the girls to groan about missed sleep because of a grisly bear. The little white kitten, Trouble, darted across the courtyard chasing something only he could see. 

The world had moved on accordingly.

Sammie had not. 

He sat alone on an overturned crate with his guitar resting across his lap. It had once belonged to Smoke and Stack’s father before the brothers placed it in Sammie’s hands years later, telling him every instrument deserved another voice. 

This morning it felt heavier than usual. His fingers wandered over the strings, searching for something familiar. A blues progression found its way beneath his fingertips before faltering halfway through. He tried again. Stopped again. But nothing sounded right. Sammie’s thoughts refused to stay on the music. Instead, they drifted back to the night before. 

Evangeline laughing. Evangeline dancing. The sharp wit behind every smile she sent his way. Then…her face after everything had unraveled. The bruise. It wasn’t the mark itself, or that Marigold had struck her. It was the way she reacted. She hadn’t looked surprised. She didn’t seem to care that she’d been hit in retaliation. She looked…ready. As though somewhere in her life she’d already learned what it meant to brace herself before a hand came. 

That was the part Sammie couldn’t shake. 

He drew a slow breath and rested both hands across the guitar. He allowed himself to be swallowed by silence before it was broken by footsteps crunching across the gravel outside. 

“They teach y’all that at college?”

Sammie looked up.

Stack leaned against the doorway with a steaming mug balanced in one hand. His hat had been traded for a neatly combed head of conked hair, his suit coat abandoned somewhere inside. Suspenders crossed a white shirt rolled neatly to his forearms. But the gold on his fingers and around his neck never left him. He was Elias Moore after all.

Stack nodded toward the guitar. “Or you tryin’ punish that poor thing?”

A corner of Sammie’s mouth lifted despite himself.

“I ain’t punishin’ it.”

“Mmm.”

Stack wandered inside without waiting for permission and lowered himself onto a crate beside him. He took a sip of his chicory coffee mixed with a little melted chocolate. He looked out through the open carriage doors, his eyes tracking Trouble trying to catch dragonflies. They simply breathed beside each other, Stack taking sips of his coffee and Sammie plucking the strings with his thumb. Stack had always known when silence needed company more than conversation. After a while he nudged Sammie’s shoulder.

“She got you all tangled up already?”

Sammie gave a quiet scoff. “Ain’t like that.”

“If you say so, lil’ nigga.” 

“It ain’t.”

Stack smiled into his coffee but let the denial pass. Another stretch of quiet settled between them. Finally, Sammie spoke.

“I keep thinkin’ about her.”

“The girl?”

Sammie nodded. “I keep seein’ that look on her face. The way she…” His voice lowered. “She looked…broken.” He swallowed. “Not because of Marigold.”

Stack turned his head. “What you mean?”

Sammie stared down at the strings. “I don’t know.” He searched for the words. “Sum’ just ain’t right.” 

Stack didn’t rush to answer. He simply listened.

Sammie let out a tired breath. “I don’t know. Just…it bothered me.”

“It ought to.”

Sammie looked over.

Stack rested his elbows on his knees, turning the coffee mug slowly between his palms.

“World got a habit of puttin’ too much on folks before they old enough to carry it.” He looked toward the bright morning outside. “Sometimes somebody cross your path and all they leave you with is a question.”

Sammie frowned. “What kinda question?”

Stack’s gaze stayed fixed ahead. “The kind you spend years answerin’.”

The words lingered between them.

Sammie looked back down at the guitar.

“You ever have somebody just…” He hesitated. “…walk out your life before you figured ’em out?”

Stack chuckled softly. “More than once.”

There was something unreadable behind the smile that followed. Before Sammie could ask anything else, Stack clapped both hands against his knees and stood.

“That’s enough of this.”

“What?”

“You.” Stack pointed at him. “You in your big cousin’s house actin’ like somebody done stole Christmas.”

Sammie laughed. A real laugh this time, though it still carried a trace of weariness.

“I ain’t actin’.”

“You absolutely actin’.”

Stack reached over and caught him in a loose headlock, rubbing the top of his head with his knuckles until Sammie pushed him away.

“Man, quit.”

“There he is.” Stack grinned. “I knew you was still in there somewhere.”

Sammie shook his head, trying not to smile. 

“You supposed to be celebratin’.” Stack slung an easy arm across his shoulders and steered him toward the open doors. “You a college man now. A bluesman. My lil’ cousin. Ain’t no room ‘round here for mopin’ all day.”

They stepped into the morning together. Trouble darted past their feet and damn near leaped up the steps into the kitchen. 

Stack leaned close, lowering his voice as though conspiring to rob a bank.

“Aunt Pearl got sweet potato biscuits coolin’ in that kitchen.”

Sammie raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Stack looked over both shoulders with exaggerated caution.

“I heard tell she made peach preserves too.”

A grin finally spread across Sammie’s face.

“You know she gon’ fuss.”

“Only if she catch us.”

They crossed the courtyard shoulder to shoulder, laughing quietly like two boys about to steal something they both knew they’d be forgiven for before supper.

Stack moved like a shadow, his broad shoulders hunched as he crept toward the cooling rack. He didn’t make a sound, his movements were fluid and practiced while Sammie hovered just behind him, his eyes darting toward the doorway. Stack’s large hand shot out, snatching a golden-brown sweet potato biscuit still steaming from the oven. He grabbed another for Sammie, pressing it into his cousin’s palm with a wicked, knowing grin. Using his thick fingers, Stack split the biscuit in half and walked over to the peach preserves, using a tiny, sterling silver engraved spoon to scoop some onto the biscuit. Sammie held his own biscuit out and stack gave him a dollop. 

“Hush now,” Stack whispered with a low, gravelly voice. “‘Fore Pearl catch us and use that bread paddle to whip us.” 

Sammie snorted a laughter while Stack masked his by taking a bite of the buttery delight. Peach preserves danced across his tongue and made his eyes roll shut. 

They retreated from the kitchen, sneaking through the back hallway and slipping into the main area of The Blackline. The main area held the aftermath of a crowded room with floorboards scarred by years of dancing boots and spilled liquor. On stage, Delta Slim sat at the upright piano, his dark fingers dancing over the keys in a slow, mourning melody that seemed to pull the very soul out of the keys. 

A few paces away, Aunt Pearl stood still as a statue. Her dark skin was etched with the lines of a hard-lived life. Her gaze was fixed on Delta with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. She watched him play with a look that hovered somewhere between love and a deep, aching grief. 

Stack leaned in close to Sammie, the biscuit halfway to his mouth. He lowered his voice, a playful glint in his whiskey-colored eyes. 

“I tell ya’, Sammie…I seen ‘em last night,” Stack whispered, glancing back at Pearl. “Caught ‘em in the kitchen. Delta and Aunt Pearl was tongue-kissing like two teenagers who just found out the preacher went to sleep. Thought they was gon’ swallow each other whole.” 

Sammie almost choked on a piece of biscuit, his eyes widening. “Aunt Pearl? Swear? She too strict for that.” 

“Strict in the light, maybe,” Stack chuckled, his deep dimples popping. “But the dark do something to a person. Make ‘em remember things they tried to bury.” Stack paused, his expression softening as he watched the two of them. “I wonder how they even started. You don’t just look at a man like that unless there’s a whole lifetime of ghosts between you.” 

A heavy sigh sounded beside them. Minnie stepped into the light, her shoulders slumped and her eyes heavy with a bone-deep weariness. Her dark skin looked matte when the light hit it and she moved with a slow, dragging gait of someone who hadn’t seen a bed in twenty-four hours. She didn’t say where she’d been, but the way she rubbed the small of her back and the distant, exhausted look in her eyes hinted at her night spent pacing a floor. 

Minnie overheard them and let out a dry, raspy laugh. “Ya’ll talkin’ ‘bout ghosts now? You ain’t gotta wonder, Stack. Pearl used to be the star of the show.” 

Stack raised an eyebrow. “The star?” 

“Mm-hm,” Minnie nodded leaning against a pillar. “She told me sum’ she ain’t never share before. Back in the day, Pearl had a voice that could make the devil weep. She used to sing them old ragtime songs—fast, filthy, full of life. Delta there? She said he was the heart of the band. They was thick as thieves, those two. Had a fling that set the whole Delta talking.”

Sammie looked from Minnie to the piano. “What happened?”

Minnie’s expression dimmed. “Life happened. Delta got caught up in some trouble and needed to on the chain gang. Gone for years. Just like that. Pearl…she ain’t hear nothin’ for a long time. Word got back that he and his buddy Rice had been hanged by the state. Pearl took that news and buried it deep. She married a good man, had her boy, and tired to forget the sound of that piano.” 

Stack watched Delta hit a low, resonant chord. He saw the way Pearl’s chest hitched, a small sharp intake of breath. 

“Seein’ him walk back through those doors.” Minnie continued softly. “It ain’t just bring back the love. It opened up every old wound she ever managed to scab over. It’s a heavy thing, comin’ back from the dead.” 

Stack just stood there, chewing the last of his biscuit, watching the silent communication between the woman and the musician. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. It wasn’t a cruel one. It was the smile of a man who understood that the most powerful desires were the ones that survived the impossible. 

Sammie’s expression turned thoughtful, almost tentative. He looked at his cousin—this man who seemed to glide through life with an effortless, seductive confidence, always surrounded by laughter and the scent of expensive pomade and women’s perfume. 

“Stack,” Sammie started, a small, teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You always out here playin’ the field, keepin’ every girl from here to Chicago guessin’. You ever think you gon’ actually find love? Or you just gon’ keep collectin’ ‘em like stamps?” 

Stack let out a loud, booming laugh that bounced off the scarred floorboards, his deep dimples carving into his cheeks. He slapped his thigh, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Delta Slim and Aunt Pearl looked over like they’d been interrupted. Minnie walked away with a shake of her head towards the kitchen to start prepping for the night’s opening. 

“Find love?” Stack chuckled, shaking his head. “Boy, you talkin’ like I’m some lonely soul wanderin’ the wilderness. I got love in spades.” Stack gestured broadly with a large hand, encompassing the room. “I got you, I got Smoke—even if that man act like a stone wall half the time. And I got my girls, them sweet twins. I got more love than I know what to do with, Sammie. Why trade a whole garden for one single rose when I can have the whole damn field?” 

Sammie didn’t seem convinced. He let the silence stretch for a second before his voice dropped an octave, becoming a soft, pointed needle. 

“What ‘bout Marigold?” 

The laughter didn’t vanish but it froze. The playful light in his eyes dimmed into something guarded, something unreadable. The name hung in the air between them, heavy and thick, clashing with the mournful chords of the piano. For a heartbeat, the mask of the charming rouge slipped, revealing a glimpse of the man who knew exactly how dangerous a woman like Marigold could be. And exactly how much he craved that danger. 

Stack cleared his throat, his jaw tightening as he straightened up. He didn’t look at Sammie, instead focusing his gaze on the doorway, his voice returning to its usual smooth, dismissive rumble, though the warmth was gone.

“I got shit to do,” Stack muttered, pushing off the pillar. He didn’t linger, turning on his heel to make a quick exit. As he walked away, he tossed a hand back over his shoulder, his tone returning to a forced, teasing edge. “Go on now. Go find yourself some stag films and a bottle of corn liquor. Put some hair on that chest ‘o yours ‘fore you start gettin’ all poetic on me.” 

A few blocks over, Marigold scarcely slept. The dawn had come pale and slow through the bedroom curtains, finding her already awake, sitting upright with the blankets gathered around her waist. Obadiah had risen before first light as he always did, his side of the bed left neat and undisturbed, the lingering scent of his shaving soap hanging faintly in the room. He’d come home late, Marigold faking sleep to avoid him. She remained where she was long after he had gone. Her cheek rested against her fingertips and every time she closed her eyes, she saw Evangeline. Not the girl laughing with Sammie. Not the girl slipping through the doors of The Blackline.

The girl in that narrow hallway. Eyes shining with hurt. Voice trembling beneath anger.

You weren’t teachin’ us. You were teachin’ us how to become you.

Marigold squeezed her eyes shut. Then came another.

Naomi was right.

Her stomach tightened.

Naomi. Esther.

The wounds she had spent years trying to bind together with prayer and patience had been ripped open in the span of a few cruel minutes. Evangeline had spoken their names like accusations. Like Marigold had stood by while both of them slipped beyond her reach.

Had she?

The question refused to leave.

She rose at last, bathed, dressed simply, and tied her hat beneath her chin with hands that would not stop fidgeting. She intended to make her usual house visits that morning. Instead, her feet carried her somewhere else.

She needed to see Evangeline. Needed to apologize. Needed to explain. Or perhaps…she simply needed to know the girl had made it home. That thought settled uneasily in her chest. She couldn’t stop thinking that Evangeline had returned safely…and would tell someone where she’d seen the First Lady the night before. Marigold hated herself for thinking it. More than that, she hated that the thought had come before anything else. She whispered a prayer beneath her breath as she walked. The prayer wasn’t for protection. It was for forgiveness.

The Monroe home sat undisturbed beneath the morning sun, its white paint weathered by Arkansas summers and damp winters alike. A pair of rocking chairs rested on the porch, one still gently swaying as though someone had only recently risen from it. Marigold climbed the steps, and for a moment she almost turned around.

What if Evangeline refused to see her? What if Ruth answered with questions Marigold couldn’t bear?

She lifted her hand anyway. Three soft knocks.

Tap tap tap. 

Footsteps approached from inside. The door opened.

Ruth Monroe stood there, and Marigold knew instantly something was wrong. Ruth’s eyes were swollen. They weren’t red from a restless night. They were red from crying.  Her apron had been thrown on carelessly over yesterday’s dress, and her hair, usually pinned with meticulous care, had begun slipping loose around her temples.

“Ruth…” Marigold’s voice softened. “I came to—”

Ruth looked at Marigold with the bewildered expression of someone whose world no longer obeyed reason.

“You ain’t seen her…have you?”

The question struck like cold water.

Marigold frowned. “Seen?”

“Evangeline.”

A hollow ache opened beneath Marigold’s ribs.

“I thought she’d be here.”

Ruth shook her head slowly. “She never come home.”

The words settled between them. Heavy. Impossible. Marigold searched Ruth’s face for the certainty that this was all a misunderstanding. Perhaps she’d stayed with cousins. Perhaps she’d gone to one of the girls from Bible study. Perhaps…

Ruth lifted a trembling hand.

There was an envelope in it. Its edges had already softened from being unfolded and folded again.

“I found this on her bedside table this mornin’.”

Marigold looked down. Across the front, written in familiar handwriting, was one simple word.

Mama.

“I went to wake her,” Ruth whispered. “Her bed…it hadn’t been slept in.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “This was sittin’ underneath her Bible.”

Marigold felt something inside her sink. Like a stone disappearing beneath dark water.

Ruth held the letter against her chest. “She says she left.” Her voice broke. “She says she needed to find herself.”

Somewhere beyond the yard, a mockingbird sang as though the morning had begun like any other.

Marigold looked toward the open doorway, into the little house she had visited so many times over the years. She could almost picture Evangeline as a child racing through those rooms with ribbons flying behind her.

Then, her thoughts returned to the night before.

To the hallway. To the slap. To the hurt in Evangeline’s eyes.

A terrible guilt settled over her. She had come to ask forgiveness.

Instead…

She found only absence.

“Come on in.” 

Marigold hesitated only a moment before crossing the threshold. The Monroe joke carried all the familiar comforts she’d known for years. The smell of coffee lingered in the kitchen. There was a half-finished basket of mending rested beside Ruth’s favorite chair. Family photographs lined the mantel with polished silver frames that caught the light. 

Nothing changed. Yet everything had.

Ruth closed the front door behind them but didn’t sit. And wandered into the parlor, one hand wringing the folded letter while the other worried at the edge of her apron. 

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.” Her voice shook. “I just…I keep thinkin’ maybe she’ll come through that front door and fuss at me for worryin’.” 

Marigold removed her gloves, buying herself a moment to steady the knot in her chest. 

“Had anyone else seen this?” 

Ruth shook her head. “No. My husband left before daylight for the mill.” She swallowed. “He still think she asleep.” Her eyes filled again. “I don’t know how to tell him.” The words barely made it out. “He—he already think we been losin’ her.” 

Marigold stepped closer. Ruth had always been the steadier parent. Gentle where her husband was firm. Patient where he was quick to correct. Seeing her come apart unsettled something deep inside Marigold.

“May I…?” Marigold nodded toward the letter.

Ruth looked down at the page for a long moment before placing them into Marigold’s hands. 

“I’ve read it so many times I know every word by heart now.” Ruth drew a shaky breath that never quite settled. 

Madigold unfolded the paper with great care. The handwriting was unmistakably Evangeline’s. Neat. Rounded. Carefully practiced. Marigold could tell from the years spent in purity class walking the rows between desks, staring down over the girls’ shoulders as they wrote brief essays on how to remain sacred and serve the Lord. 

She began reading. 

Mama, 

I’m sorry. I know I disappointed you and Daddy more times than I can count. I don’t fit here anymore, and I don’t think I ever will. I need to figure out who I am without everybody tellin’ me who I’m supposed to be. Please don’t come lookin’ for me. I’m safe.  I just need somewhere I can breathe.  Maybe one day you’ll forgive me. Tell Daddy I’m sorry. I love you. 

Evangeline. 

Marigold lowered the page but did not immediately look up. It sounded…possible. Painfully possible. And painfully familiar. Every line echoed the frustration Evangeline had carried for months. Yet something about it sat strangely against Marigold’s heart. 

Ruth managed a weak, watery smile through her tears. 

“The handwriting’s hers.” 

Karigold looked back down. “It certainly looks like it. I recognized it the second I opened it.” 

Ruth laughed softly, though there was no joy in the sound.

“Funny thing is…” she wiped beneath her one eye. “When she was little, she would dot all her little i’s with Tony circles.” 

Marigold glanced up. “Circles?” 

“Mmm-hmm.” Ruth smiled at the memory. “Little bitty things.” She held her fingers barely apart. “Looked like she’d sprinkled flower petals all over her schoolwork. I used to tell her nobody’d take her serious writin’ like that.” Another quiet laugh escaped her. “I guess she finally outgrew it.” 

Marigold’s eyes drifted back to the page. Each lowercase i wore an ordinary dot. Perfectly ordinary. She folded the letter carefully along the original crease before returning it to Ruth.

“I hope that’s all it is.” 

Ruth clutched it against her chest again. “I keep tellin’ myself she’s eighteen. Maybe she just…” her voice cracked. “…needed to leave.” 

Marigold reached out and gently covered Ruth’s trembling hand. “I…I know this is hard.” 

Ruth looked at her with eyes full of questions no mother should ever have to ask. 

“You think she gon’ come back?” 

Marigold opened her mouth. No answer came. Instead, she gave Ruth’s hand the smallest reassuring squeeze she could manage.

“I pray she does.” 

Even as the words left her lips, an uneasiness settled deeper inside her. She could not shake the memory of the last thing Evangeline had said before walking away.

Hell already done broke loose in the both of us.

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