Pairing: Cameron Cade x Black!OC Lael Cosette, Esq.
Summary: Years ago, Lael and Cameron were a unit, a force to be reckoned with beneath the scales of Lady Justice and the gravel of their prestigious law school. Hope is deferred when Lael's heart is crushed beneath the weight of nepotism and privilege, and she is determined to come after what's rightfully hears--hell, or high water.
Songs:
WC: 1820
Warnings: Angst. Law terms. Unrequited love. Friends to enemies to something undefined.
Note: This took me three months to write because of how emotionally intense it is, but here we go. Enjoy.
BEFORE THE CASE
“You’re so smart, Cameron. Devastatingly intelligent. And yet, you can’t see that your parents would rend the heavens themselves--with Olympus and every god of land and sea—just to see you win. Why would they allow you to drop the mantle they carried like a generational bruise?
“Why would they allow you to know what struggle feels like, when they broke every stronghold in advance so you would never touch the ground? Your mind may have gotten you to the threshold but know this—your parents kicked down the door, cleared the smoke, and crowned you before you took your first breath. So, shine on, Golden Boy. Blind the world with your power and privilege, and unusual allegiance to these deranged institutions while proclaiming justice and peace.
You’re a walking contradiction, Cade.”
I – The Grant
Attending university seemed like a star in the Milky Way—only achievable by rocket science and calculations reviewed by experts. An opportunity, a chance, that seemed few and far between. But when the letter of her acceptance on a full-ride academic scholarship to her top-choice university arrived at her door like a gift from the divine, she knew favor was on her side.
Four years.
Grueling.
Tiresome.
Rewarding.
Because of the sleepless nights, budgets wound tighter than a spring, and the prayers of a righteous mother, grace carried her across the stage on a rainy day in May with her neck heavy with medallions and heart swelling with pride. That day rolled out the red carpet toward the bigger dream—law school.
Months of preparation for the LSAT tore her away from friends. It left margaritas unmade at the restaurant, had seats on airplanes empty, and library seats too accustomed to her favorite pair of leggings. Tears watered the seeds planted by her mother’s gentle affirmations and grandmother’s wildest dreams.
Lael Cosette was accepted to law school.
But not without its own trials and tribulations.
Partial scholarship.
Merit-based support fell short.
Until a new opportunity arose.
Another opportunity to gather the ducks lost along the way. Another chance to bridge the gap between hope and reality. A scholarship. Endowed by private sponsors of the university’s law program. Willing and generous enough to provide $50,000 for a young pupil to refuel the tank drained by capitalism and lack of caffeine.
She applied. With fervor and zeal. Only for devastation to weigh her down like a blanket the moment her joint study session was disrupted by the email. Tears welled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks like a waterfall, flooding the flashcards half-bent under the weight of her forearms.
“Hey, hey.” Warmth filled her space, but that didn’t stop the shiver that ran down her spine. His cologne was soft as it flooded her senses. “What happened?” He bowed before her reverently, palms heavy against her thighs as he whispered the sweetest somethings.
Lie. She passed. Aced it.
He knew she was lying. And didn’t press.
The beginning of deterioration.
She found out weeks later that he, Cameron Cade, was named the victor in the eyes of the scholarship board. $50,000 ground to liquid gold and spoon-fed to a man who’d only eaten from silver since his first breath.
Closeness met distance.
Coolness suffocated warmth.
Understanding was crushed under bitterness.
Until nothing remained of a once destined union written in the stars.
II – The Firm
She arrived with fury in her eyes and lightning beneath her wings. Vengeance on her mind and violence in her fingertips.
There was something to prove. To others? No. To herself? Everything. That reclamation didn’t come from firm handshakes and fake smiles that dropped the moment she turned her back.
It was earned. Through preparation. Through discipline. Through something that cost her.
She’d given up enough.
What was something else?
Junior Associate. Not the big dog—not yet. But her bite was still strong. Dangerous.
And she smiled at that. Her weapons were still on the blacksmith’s anvil. At rest until they were meant to be wielded.
Until then—she’d do what she’d done best.
Fight.
And win.
III – The Case
Power didn’t boom like thunder crackling through the night sky in Cade Cosette Merrin Lowell Shaw.
It didn’t scream or announce itself.
It hummed and crackled low in the steady pulse of a pressure cooker, squeezing tension to the surface. Lived in glass walls and marble floors that squeaked beneath the soles of expensive Italian leather shoes and red bottoms, required uniforms on a battlefield where brilliance sharpened itself for battle.
It lingered beneath the morning sun, encapsulated by glass, trembling as the footsteps of mighty titans thundered down the hallway, the light bending toward their shadows in reverence as they turned a sharp corner.
The conference room, the pit that swallowed five giants every day once the horizon dipped below the curve of Earth, rattled as they entered, one by one.
Cade. Cosette. Merrin. Lowell. Shaw.
Five names carved into black stone like scripture.
Five legacies.
Five storms learning, unwillingly, to orbit.
And yet power didn’t shift here; it circled.
Slow.
Predatory.
Waiting for one misstep between Lael Cosette and Cameron Cade.
Lael stood at the head of the long oak table crafted by artisan hands, fingers resting on a stack of organized files—stillness masquerading as calm beneath a rabid storm. Stillness that lied. The kind of predator that maintains itself before a vicious kill.
She heard him before he spoke.
The quiet, confident cadence.
The soft exhale of someone who never had to raise his voice to command a room.
“Your prosecution was…” Cameron paused, searching for the right word, as if the right word would bend her spine a fraction. “…unfair.”
Lael didn’t turn.
Didn’t blink.
Dark eyes remained locked on the pages before her, though she no longer saw a single word.
Her nostrils flared.
Her finger paused on the page.
Her spine stood rigid.
Instead, she saw him—his privileged posture, his polished certainty, his lineage stitched into every syllable like a watermark he didn’t know he carried.
A humorless laugh slipped from her throat.
Hit the ground with a heavy thud—something between a laugh and a long-forgotten wound unraveling.
“Grow a thicker layer of skin, Cade,” she retorted, her voice velvet dipped in venom. The metal barrel of a pen was heavier than legal textbooks and more expensive than the overtly large gold watch that wrapped around his wrist. “Part of the game. You either know how to play, or you don’t. Do you?”
She didn’t have to look up to know he was straining.
Jaw wound tight like a string.
Fingers clenching at his side.
Inhaling and exhaling like an amateur student in a yoga class—bit off more than he could chew.
Cameron’s exhale was heavy. Rugged as the carpet beneath their feet, that yelped with each press of her heel into the fabric. His nostrils flared. Foot tapped against the ground like a bull ready to charge at its prey. “I play it well. It’s how I know you’re playin’ dirty, and for what? Unfair.”
Her palm hovered over the pen until it clattered against the glass table.
A crack in the foundation.
Vulnerability leaking at the seams.
“So was the scholarship.” Heat struck behind her eyes. The Earth was scorched by a ring of fire, blazing everything in its path like vengeance armed with flames. It destroyed the tender ground and plowed toward the seas—he stepped back.
She inhaled deeply.
The storms rolled in.
Heavy.
Powerful.
Flooded her until she sank beneath words lodged in her throat.
She didn’t say anything else.
But he heard her clearly.
The fire seared the seas with rage.
You, Cameron Cade, are insufferable.
IV – The Revelation
They were alone.
No conference table.
No observers.
No buffer of glass or marble.
Lael circled her desk slowly. Her nails whispered against the dark wood as she planted herself in front of him
Firm.
Immovable.
Unshakeable.
“You’re not Ares.
You are not an immovable god haloed with the reverence of patrons.
Administrations don’t bend at the whisper of your name.
Governments don’t flee like you’re vengeance in cashmere and Italian leather.
No, Cameron.
I am vengeance.
I am war manifested, justice personified.
I am the verdict you never prepared for.”
She didn’t raise her voice.
“And you.”
A pause.
“You are Achilles.
A presumably mighty warrior with a simple weakness that will destroy you from root to tip.
And that weakness, Cameron Cade, is you.”
Silence.
“You think you’re the storm.
I’m the weather.”
Another pause. Smaller now. Equally heavy.
“I am the hell and the high water you should have learned to flee.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“And yet,” she continued, quieter, “Here I stand. Across from a man, the bright-eyed heir to an empire undeserving, waiting for life to spoon-feed him another victory he didn’t bleed for. Who mistakes inheritance for merit.”
She looked at him then.
Finally.
“Tell me, Cameron. Where are your wounds?”
V – The Verdict
“I’m sorry.”
The words were quiet. Not rehearsed. Not elevated. Quiet.
“I am so sorry.”
Lael didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Not with a heavy sob bundled in her throat, waiting for her jaw to unhinge, desperate for release.
“I didn’t know,” he continued. “I didn’t need it. But that doesn’t change anything. I don’t get to undo it. I don’t get to make it right.” His breath caught on words he’d never thought he’d say. “I am so sorry you suffered because of my name.”
Silence pressed in.
Cameron took a step.
Then another.
He stopped just short of her space, like he was checking if the distance mattered—it did. It mattered the moment they stepped on campus nearly ten years ago and it mattered now, when the flames settled to embers, pulsing under tension.
She trembled then, finally. An involuntary break. Her lip bobbed as her eyes searched his face, searched for a lie, and an opportunity to yell “gotcha!” Darkness scoured the seas for, quick and sharp, looking for the smallest fraction of a tell that showed a slither of disingenuousness. Something, a justification, that she could tear open.
Humility.
She came face-to-face with humility. Pity, maybe? No, not that. Humility. Raw and open, waiting for salt to be dumped in a wound where he’d never known to be cut.
His eyes had changed. Not piercing like the seas hiding the lost kingdom. Softer now. Open sky. A place where nothing was sheathed.
When he lifted his hand, it was slow. Deliberate. His thumb brushed the tear from her cheek before it fell, then caught another at her waterline, her dark eyeliner sliding down his skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. Softer. Familiar. “I’m sorry, baby.”
Lael turned away from him, her cheek brushing against his suit jacket.
Some victories weren’t meant to be shared.
Only understood.
For now, that was enough.
-
Tags: @darkseidex @amirawrah @ga33y3 @ariesthesun @simplementemeencantafutbol @szalipcombo @sheinaskirt @melaninhawtie @unicoo @imperfectlyperfect78 @ariesthesun @blckblossom @fifi-asco @youreadthatright @mauvecherie-writes @imperfectlyperfect78 @uniqueoutlierblog + let me know if you want to be added or removed.
I think something that I've come to realise these past few days since I've decided to get back to writing is how much of a lazy writer I was.
It was something that forced so much reflection when I was reading through my old pieces on here and some that haven't made it to the public.
It's not even just a matter of substance but also pacing, I jump to the most important sections too quickly, and it felt like I was just writing to post and not to engage with my creations. I wasn't writing for my enjoyment anymore.
So, in that reflection, I've decided to learn to pace myself, not to write too sloppily.
It was a bit discouraging at first, and for a good while, I thought I should maybe stop writing permanently. But I think about the fun I've had since taking this hobby a little more seriously. Because at some point, it became more than just a hobby.
I believe that me realising that I don't like the way my old work feels is a good sign of growth. I'm growing as a writer, and though it does not look beautiful now, I know I will appreciate the time I took to introspect in the future. And it will be evident in my work.
With that being said, I will be getting back to writing on here, with a new muse (iykyk). It'll just be quite a long time before I'm confident enough to post again.
I can't wait to step into this journey, and hopefully, you guys will see the difference in my work by the time I'm ready!
Updated 11th September 2025
More description notes
Acknowledged
"You're definitely right about this place making the best coffee,” she acknowledged.
Admitting or accepting something as true.
Added
“Oh, and don’t forget to bring your Xbox to the party,” he added.
Giving additional information after a first sentence.
Admitted
“Alright, it was me who ate the last cookie. Shoot me,” he admitted.
Revealing guilt, confession, or truth.
Agreed
"Yeah, that makes sense," they agreed.
Agreeing with someone else’s point or idea.
Angled
"Maybe we could take the scenic route? I bet the view’s nice,” she angled.
When someone is speaking with an ulterior motive or indirect suggestion to get their way.
Answered
"No, I can’t say I’ve ever seen that movie,” he answered.
Delivering a straightforward response to a question.
Argued
"That’s not true!” she argued.
Showing a defensive or confrontational tone.
Asked
"Do you want some candy?” he asked.
A basic way to pose a question.
Assumed
“I thought he was coming down with us today,” he assumed.
Showing presumption.
Babbled
"And then he said—and I said—and she—“ she babbled.
Rapid, incoherent, or overly talkative speech that makes no sense.
Barked
“Stand up straight!" the drill sergeant barked.
Harsh, commanding tone.
Bawled
“That’s not fair!" he bawled.
Loud crying and yelling; very emotional.
Beamed
“I made cake!” she beamed.
Radiating happiness while speaking.
Begged
"Please don’t make me do that,” he begged.
Desperate and emotional plea.
Bellowed
"Get down here now!" he bellowed.
Loud and commanding voice.
Bemoaned
“Ooooh, I’ll never finish this stupid thing in time," he bemoaned.
Expressing regret or sorrow over something.
Blurted
“But I love you!" she blurted.
Abruptly spoken, without thinking.
Blustered
“Am I supposed to care what they think?!” he blustered.
Loud and aggressive, but with little effect.
Boasted
“Ha! I beat your record!” he boasted.
Showing pride in a show-off way.
Bragged
"I can solve a puzzle in under a minute," she bragged.
Similar to boasted, showing off intentionally.
Breathed
“Phew. Thought for sure we weren’t gonna make that train,” she breathed.
Emotional or relieved tone.
Called
“John! I’m over here!" she called.
Trying to get someone's attention vocally.
Cheered
"We did it!" he cheered.
Celebrating and full of excitement.
Chirped
"Good morning, sleepyhead!” she chirped.
Speaking in a high energy and cheerful tone.
Chuckled
“Hehe. I guess not,” he chuckled.
A light, amused laugh while speaking.
Choked
"I can't believe he’s gone," he choked.
Struggling to speak through emotion.
Chortled
"Well, I guess that’s one way to bring the house down,” he chortled.
A more gleeful or smug laugh. Finding their own pun amusing.
Commented
“Hmm. Interesting design,” she commented.
Making a casual observation or statement.
Complained
"It’s too freaking hot in here," he complained.
Expressing dissatisfaction.
Confided
"I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you,” he confided.
Revealing something private or secret.
Confessed
"I broke the TV,” he confessed.
Admitting guilt or a secret, usually reluctantly.
Croaked
"Help me," he croaked.
Weak, hoarse voice — often from fear, illness, or pain.
Crowed
"I told you I’d win!" he crowed.
Gloating in a triumphant tone.
Crooned
“Well? You gonna take it?” she crooned.
Soft, soothing tone—often comforting, sometimes seductive.
Cried
"I can't believe this is happening!" she cried.
Letting out an emotionally charged, loud or intense expression.
Deadpanned
"I can hardly contain my excitement,” he deadpanned.
Spoken in an emotionless, dry, or sarcastic tone.
Declared
"This is the best day of my life," she declared.
A strong and confident statement.
Deliberated
“From what I’ve seen, It might be best to wait before we head out,” she deliberated.
Showing thoughtful consideration or weighing options aloud.
Demanded
"Tell me where the gold is! Right now!" he demanded.
Strong and authoritative, leaving no room for refusal.
Denied
“Wasn’t me!” he denied.
Refuting or rejecting a claim.
Drawled
“Well, that’s just peachy," he drawled.
Slow, lazy tone.
Echoed
“This is the way,” she echoed.
Repeating another’s words, usually to show thought or agreement.
Exclaimed
"Yay! We did it!” she exclaimed.
Loud or passionate outburst.
Expressed
"I really appreciate you taking the time to help," he expressed.
Communicating a feeling clearly and deliberately.
Faltered
"I... I don’t know if I can," she faltered.
Hesitant or weak, often due to fear or emotion.
Fumed
"I can’t believe they just up and did that," he fumed.
Angry, silent rage; figuratively steaming.
Giggled
"Stop it, that’s not funny!” she giggled.
Light, silly laughter.
Groaned
"Ugh, not this idiot again," he groaned.
Expressing annoyance, pain, or frustration.
Grumbled
“Why am I always the one who has to do the dishes?” she grumbled.
Complaining quietly or under their breath.
Growled
"Get out of my face, pal” he growled.
A threatening, angry, deep tone—almost animalistic.
Gushed
"Oh my gosh, you look amazing!" she gushed.
Overflowing excitement or flattery.
Heckled
"Nice outfit. Where did you get it from? Stupid town?” someone heckled from the crowd.
Mocking someone, often publicly and rudely.
Hinted
"Well, I think someone could use a shower," she hinted.
Indirect suggestion or passive message.
Hissed
“Get out of my house. Now," he hissed.
A quiet and intense whisper with bite.
Hollered
“Your dinner’s ready!" she hollered.
Loud call, typically to be heard over distance or noise.
Howled
"Nooooo!" he howled.
Loud, emotional, often in pain or grief.
Implored
"Please, will you just listen to me for one day,” he implored.
Strong pleading, desperate but sincere.
Inferred
"So, you’re trying to say it’s my fault?" he inferred.
Drawing a conclusion from what's implied.
Inquired
"Is this your first time visiting Rio?” she inquired.
Polite way of asking a question.
Insisted
"You have to let me help you,” she insisted.
Repeating firmly and not taking no for an answer.
Interrupted
“No, actually, I—" she interrupted before he could finish.
Cutting someone off mid-sentence.
Jested
"I’m clearly the smartest person here," he jested.
Speaking playfully or sarcastically; meant as a joke.
Joked
“Do I get a prize if I’m right?” he joked.
Intended humor.
Laughed
"That’s ridiculous!" she laughed.
Spoken during or with laughter.
Lied
“I have no idea where he’s hiding the gold,” he lied.
Being deliberately untruthful.
Mouthed
“Get help,” she mouthed silently across the room.
Silent, no actual sound.
Mumbled
"Whatever you say. Jerk,” he mumbled.
Low, unclear speech. Either nervous, embarrassed, or unenthusiastic.
Murmured
"I love you," she murmured into his ear.
Soft, intimate speech.
Muttered
“What an idiot,” he muttered.
Quiet and possibly annoyed.
Nagged
"Did you take the trash out yet? Well, did you?” she nagged.
Repeatedly asking or complaining.
Noted
“The plane arrives this Friday," she noted.
Used to highlight something worth remembering.
Observed
"You seem tired today," she observed.
Noting something thoughtfully or analytically.
Offered
"Would you like a ride home?" he offered.
Volunteering to help.
Opined
“You want my opinion? I think it’s a stupid idea," he opined.
Giving one’s opinion.
Pleaded
"Please, just give him a chance," she pleaded.
Emotional begging.
Probed
"And what did you do after that?" he probed.
Persistent or investigative—trying to dig deeper.
Proclaimed
“Then let the games begin!" he proclaimed.
A bold and confident declaration.
Promised
"I’ll be there for you. No matter what," he promised.
Reassuring and committing to something.
Queried
“You really think adding jam to that is a good idea?" she queried.
A formal or slightly skeptical question.
Questioned
"Why would you lie to me?" she questioned.
Actively seeking answers, not just asking.
Quipped
"Well, that went well," he quipped.
A quick, witty, often sarcastic remark.
Quoted
"As my father always said, ‘If you want something done right, don’t rely on your pig’” he quoted.
Repeating someone else’s words directly.
Raged
"I’ve had enough of this! I’m gonna freaking kill him!” he raged, slamming the door.
Overcome with anger.
Ranted
“Coffee costs £2 now?! It used to be £1?! And why is there no hot chocolate?!” she ranted.
Going on a loud or long-winded emotional tirade.
Reiterated
"I said it’s not gonna happen,” he reiterated.
Repeating something for emphasis.
Remembered
"Oh! We have that doctor’s appointment tomorrow," she remembered.
Used when a character recalls something aloud.
Remarked
"You’re unusually focused today," she remarked.
A thoughtful or observational comment.
Replied
“I’m good, thanks. Just working on the plane,” he replied.
A straightforward response to a question or statement.
Requested
"Could you please turn that TV off?” he requested.
Polite or formal asking.
Responded
"I'll get back to you soon," she responded.
A bit more formal or detached than simply replying.
Retorted
"Well, I think you’re the problem," she retorted.
A sharp comeback.
Roared
"Everyone into the ship. Now!" the captain roared.
Loud and commanding, filled with urgency.
Said
“I’m gonna check into the hotel,” he said.
The most basic dialogue tag, fit for most situations. Simple.
Sang
“I hear Jerusalem bells a-ringin’. Roman Cavalry choirs are singin’” he sang as she danced.
Literally singing. Or speaking in a sing-song tone.
Scoffed
“Fat chance,” he scoffed.
Dismissive or scornful.
Scolded
"You should be better than that," she scolded.
Reprimanding, either showing disappointment or frustration.
Screamed
“Look out!" she screamed.
Intense and loud, usually from fear.
Screeched
"Don’t touch that!" he screeched.
High-pitched and harsh.
Shared
"This always reminds me of my dad,” he shared.
Voluntarily revealing personal or emotional info.
Shouted
"We’re over here!" they shouted.
Loudly spoken to be heard, especially over distance or noise.
Shrieked
"Get it off! Get it off!” she shrieked.
High-pitched and panicked—often fear or surprise. Sometimes comical.
Sighed
"I guess you can,” she sighed.
Shows resignation, weariness, or relief.
Smirked
"Told you I’d win," she smirked.
A confident, teasing tone.
Snapped
"I said I’m busy!” she snapped.
Sharp and irritated response.
Snarled
“You better get out of my way," he snarled.
Aggressive, animalistic tone.
Sneered
"Nice try," he sneered.
Mean, contemptuous tone.
Snickered
"Nice shirt,” he snickered under his breath.
Sneaky, mocking laugh at someone’s expense.
Snorted
"Yeah, right," she snorted.
Disbelieving or dismissive response, making a sudden explosive sound through their nose.
Sobbed
"I didn’t mean to hurt him,” she sobbed.
Choked or broken speech from crying deeply.
Spoke
“It’s time we talked,” she spoke firmly.
Basic, but can be modified with tone tags like “firmly” or “softly.”
Sputtered
"Wha-what? How—That’s not true!” he sputtered.
Disjointed, shocked speech—usually in surprise or outrage.
Stammered
"I-I didn’t mean to—" he stammered.
Hesitant speech, often due to fear or nervousness.
Stated
”The deadline is final," he stated.
Flat and factual delivery.
Stuttered
“W-w-why are you s-s-saying that?” she stuttered.
Similar to stammered; repetition of sounds due to anxiety or shock.
Swore
"If he touches my Xbox again, I swear to Christ,” she swore.
Making a vow or using profanity.
Teased
"You’re such a goofball,” she teased playfully.
Light, joking, sometimes flirty or mocking.
Threatened
“Let her go. Or you’ll meet the man I used to be,” he threatened.
Intimidating and menacing—implies consequences.
Thundered
"This ends now!" she thundered.
Deep, booming, and commanding.
Told
"I told you not to do it," he told her.
Instructional or informative.
Uttered
"I’m sorry," he uttered softly.
Spoken quietly or barely audibly.
Wailed
"Nooooo!" she wailed.
Long, loud cry of grief or despair.
Warned
“Trust me, you don’t want to go in there," he warned.
Giving caution, often serious or ominous.
Whimpered
"Please don’t do it,” he whimpered.
Weak, scared, and trembling tone.
Whined
"But I don’t wanna go to the mall!” she whined.
Nasal and childish complaining tone.
Whispered
"Meet me at the bar at midnight," she whispered.
Very soft and quiet; often secretive or intimate.
Wondered
"Do they even know the way?” he wondered aloud.
Thoughtful or curious.
Yelled
“Hold it right there!" she yelled.
Strong and loud; typically out of anger, fear, or command.
Yelped
“Ow!" he yelped as the coffee spilled over his arm.
Sharp, sudden cry of pain or surprise.
ೃI'D RATHER BE WITH YOUᝰ
tyriq withers x oc! ( ivy jermaine )
ivy's face claim is teyana taylor ( i need her so bad omg)
Ivy Jermaine has spent years surviving fame’s glittering cruelty, learning how to be desired, watched, and misunderstood without letting the world see her bleed. At thirty-five, she knows better than to be reckless with beautiful men — especially younger ones.
Then she meets Tyriq Withers, a twenty-seven-year-old actor with dangerous charm, quiet patience, and impossible confidence. He is too young for her rules, too direct for her defenses, and far too certain that what he wants is her.
What starts as a charged pre-Met party encounter becomes intimate, risky, and impossible to ignore — forcing Ivy to wonder if the man she thinks is too young for her might be grown enough to ruin every excuse she has left.
Ivy Jermaine had been in the game long enough to know that fame was not a mountain one simply climbed, but an island one washed ashore on, half-drowned and glittering, praying the gods were in a merciful mood when the tide pulled back. She knew the cruel geography of it well, knew the sharp cliffs and golden valleys, the dizzying heights where applause came down warm as sunlight on bare skin, and the low, cavernous depths where the water went black around her ankles and every mistake became something with teeth. She had learned, over the years, that adoration was a fickle sea, beautiful from a distance and brutal once it decided to drag you under. One moment, the world crowned you Aphrodite rising from the foam, all beauty and divine softness, and the next, it turned you into Medusa, monstrous for daring to be seen from the wrong angle.
She could still remember the nights when the internet had torn her apart for things so small they should have dissolved beneath daylight: a wrong like, an ignored credit, a comment taken out of context, some mundane, minute misstep inflated until it loomed over her like Poseidon’s wrath over a trembling shore. She remembered lying curled in bed with her phone clenched in her hand, the blue light washing over her face like moonlight over wreckage, her stomach turning as strangers picked pieces of her apart with the casual violence of gulls descending on something already dead. They called it accountability when they were bored, criticism when they were cruel, discourse when they wanted to pretend there was no blood in the water. Everyone went through it at least once on the road to fame, or at least that was what people told themselves so they could survive it. A rite of passage. A storm before the crown. A necessary sacrifice on the altar. Ivy had never found much comfort in that.
Now, as she sat alone at the bar of the pre-Met party, she felt every mile of the life she had chosen settling into her bones. Her neck ached from the flight, from the red-eye she had taken after filming wrapped, from the kind of exhaustion that seemed to live not just in the body, but beneath it, down in the marrow where no amount of concealer or caffeine could reach. She was running on nothing but an espresso martini, an obscene amount of Red Bull, and the stubborn, practiced grace of a woman who had learned to arrive beautifully even when she felt like ruin.
The room around her glittered like Olympus after dark, all marble skin, flashbulbs, silk, diamonds, and laughter sharp enough to cut glass. Everyone looked sculpted and untouchable, gods and demigods draped in couture, pretending not to watch one another while watching everything. Ivy sat among them in a fitted dress that clung to her body like wet sand after a tide, doing little to hide the curve of her hips, the soft abundance of her thighs, the grown-woman fullness of her figure that cameras loved almost as much as they punished. She looked beautiful, because beauty had become part of the job. But beneath the gold light and the gloss on her lips, Ivy felt more like land after a storm than a goddess before worship — salt-worn, weathered, still standing, but tired of proving she had not been swallowed whole.
“You look over it tonight.”
The voice came from beside her, low and amused, a little too certain of itself for a stranger, and Ivy turned her head slowly, not because she was startled, but because men like that were best observed the way sailors watched a change in the wind; carefully, without panic, without giving the sea the satisfaction of knowing you had felt it shift.
He stood at the bar like he had been carved there by some vain god with too much time and a dangerous fondness for symmetry, all height and hard lines, a rough six-five with broad shoulders wrapped in black fabric that did very little to disguise the body beneath it. His skin was warm and light-brown beneath the gold spill of the chandelier, his blue eyes unnervingly bright, almost mythic in the low light, the kind of blue that belonged less to a man and more to deep water glimpsed from the edge of a cliff. Diamond studs sat in both ears, catching the light like small offerings stolen from Olympus, and his gaze rested on Ivy with the unmistakable patience of someone who had crossed the room with intention.
He was beautiful. That was the first thing Ivy noted, because she was honest enough with herself to admit when the gods had done good work. Not pretty, not merely handsome, not one of those polished, over-managed men Hollywood liked to arrange beneath soft lighting and call irresistible, but beautiful in a way that felt older than manners, rougher than charm, like sin had found flesh and decided to walk upright. He looked like trouble dressed well, like a storm rolling in over calm water, like the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about only to remember, too late, that daughters had always been drawn to thunder.
Ivy’s gaze moved over him with measured intrigue, taking in the confidence in his posture, the lazy set of his mouth, the quiet arrogance of a man who knew exactly what women saw when they looked at him and had long ago stopped pretending to be humble about it. He was an Adonis in his own right, yes, but not the soft, garden-bred kind meant to be mourned by Aphrodite beneath blooming anemones; no, this one looked like he had been raised by war drums and saltwater, like Ares had pressed a hand to the back of his neck and taught him how to walk into a room without asking permission from anyone inside it.
And he was after something. Ivy could feel that much in the air between them, the same way dry earth could feel rain before the sky broke open. She did not mind. If anything, she found herself entertained. Her lips curved faintly as she tipped her chin up to meet his eyes, refusing to be swallowed by his height, refusing to let him mistake her stillness for submission. At thirty-five, Ivy Jermaine had seen enough beautiful men to know that beauty, by itself, was rarely worth the trouble it brought to your door. Pretty faces were easy. Strong bodies were everywhere. Confidence, God help them all, had become common currency among men who mistook attention for substance.
But this one had presence. That was the problem. He stood beside her like discord come to sow itself in her field, like a black-sailed ship appearing on a horizon that had been peaceful five minutes ago, and Ivy, exhausted as she was, neck aching, bloodstream still humming with caffeine and liquor and stubborn survival, could not deny the small flicker of interest that stirred somewhere low and inconvenient in her. She turned back toward her drink, letting one manicured finger trace the rim of her glass before she answered him.
“Do I?” she asked, her voice smooth enough to be mistaken for indifference, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.
The man’s eyes dipped briefly to that smile, then returned to hers.
“A little,” he said. “Like you’re deciding whether the room is worth staying in.”
Ivy gave a soft breath of laughter, not quite warm, not quite dismissive.
“And you came over to convince me it is?”
His mouth curved then, slow and dangerous, as if he had been waiting for her to open the door just enough for him to set one foot inside.
“Nah,” he said, leaning his forearm against the bar, close enough that Ivy could smell the clean, expensive spice of him beneath the smoke and perfume in the room. “I came over because everybody else keeps looking at you like they scared to bother you.”
Ivy arched a brow.
“And you’re not scared?”
He looked at her then, really looked at her, with a steadiness that made the noise of the party seem to pull back like tidewater from the shore.
“No, ma’am.”
The answer should have irritated her. The ma’am certainly should have. Instead, Ivy felt something in her chest give one slow, reluctant turn, like the first crack of land after a long drought. The answer should have irritated her. The ma’am certainly should have. Instead, Ivy felt something low in her belly give a slow, traitorous turn, like the first tremor of earth before the fault line split open, like the tide changing direction beneath a moon that had no business pulling on water so deliberately.
She looked at him over the rim of her glass, taking her time with it, because men who looked like him were used to being consumed quickly, greedily, without ceremony, and Ivy had never believed in letting any man know too early that he had managed to unsettle the weather inside her. She sipped slowly, let the liquor burn soft and bitter across her tongue, then set the glass down with the quiet precision of a woman who had built whole temples out of restraint.
“You always walk up to women you don’t know and call them ma’am?”
His smile deepened, not sheepish, not apologetic, only amused in that lazy, Southern-adjacent way that made arrogance look like a birthright instead of a flaw.
“Only when they look like they might cuss me out if I call them baby too soon.”
Ivy’s brows lifted, and despite herself, despite the exhaustion sitting heavy on her shoulders, despite the dull ache at the base of her skull and the unkind hour pressed behind her eyes, she laughed. It was not loud. Ivy Jermaine did not give strangers that much of herself for free. But it was real enough to change her face, real enough to soften the careful line of her mouth, real enough for Tyriq’s gaze to catch on it and hold there like a man who had just watched the sun break through storm clouds over open water.
“That’s bold,” she said.
“That’s honest.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“They are when I say them.”
Ivy stared at him then, really stared, because there it was, that thing she had felt before he even opened his mouth, that unbothered, insolent confidence sitting easy on his shoulders. Not loud. Not desperate. Not the brittle kind of cockiness men wore when they needed everyone in the room to know they had once been overlooked. Tyriq Withers did not seem to be performing masculinity so much as inhabiting it, relaxed inside it, settled into himself the way land settled after centuries of being carved by water and wind. He was too young to look that sure of himself. That was the first warning. The second was that she liked it.
Ivy turned in her seat just enough to face him, crossing one leg over the other beneath the bar, watching his eyes flick down for half a breath before returning to her face. He did not pretend he had not looked. That annoyed her too, or it should have, because there was nothing boyish about the way he appreciated her, nothing nervous or fumbling or overeager. He looked at her the way a man looked at something he wanted to learn by touch eventually, yes, but not before he learned what made it sacred.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
His mouth curved.
“You don’t know?”
“I asked.”
Something like approval moved through his expression, quick and subtle, like lightning far off over the sea.
“Tyriq.”
She tilted her head slightly.
“Withers?”
He looked almost pleased by the way she said it, his name wrapped in her voice like silk pulled slowly through a fist.
“That sound familiar?”
“I know who you are.”
“Figured.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“I ain’t take it as one.”
Ivy hummed, amused despite herself, and picked up her drink again, letting him stand there with his height, his diamonds, his blue eyes, and all that deliberate stillness. The party moved around them in glittering waves, bodies drifting past in couture and perfume, laughter rising and falling like gulls over a restless shore, but somehow the bar had narrowed into the small charged stretch of space between Ivy’s knee and Tyriq’s thigh, between her glass and his hand, between the guarded woman she had trained herself to be and the younger man looking at her like he already knew there was heat beneath all that marble.
“How old are you, Tyriq Withers?”
There it was. She let the question fall between them without dressing it up, without softening it, without pretending it was casual. It was not casual. Not with the way she looked at him when she asked, not with the faint challenge tucked beneath her tone like a blade beneath satin. She wanted to see him flinch. Wanted to watch his confidence stutter. Wanted to remind him, before he got too comfortable in her air, that she was not some girl dazzled by the fact that a beautiful actor had wandered over and decided to make her his entertainment for the evening.
Tyriq did not flinch. He leaned against the bar instead, one forearm resting on the polished surface, his body angled toward hers like he had all the time in the world and no intention of surrendering a single inch of ground. His gaze moved over her face slowly, not disrespectful, not invasive, but attentive in a way that felt almost worse, because Ivy was suddenly, irritatingly aware of her own breathing.
“Twenty-seven.”
Ivy’s lips parted around a soft breath that was not quite a laugh.
“Twenty-seven.”
“You repeating it ’cause you heard me, or ’cause you judging me?”
“I’m processing.”
“You need help?”
Her eyes narrowed.
He smiled.
God, that smile was going to be a problem. It was not pretty in a harmless way. It was too knowing for that, too edged, too full of trouble. It curved across his face like a dark sail catching wind, like Hades deciding to be charming before stealing spring straight out of the meadow. Ivy looked at him and understood, with an almost academic clarity, that he was used to women forgiving him things before he had even done them. She refused to be one of them.
“You’re young,” she said.
Tyriq nodded once, calm as the sea before it ruined a coastline.
“And you fine.”
Ivy blinked. The sheer audacity of it should have offended her into silence. Instead, the laugh that escaped her came warmer this time, unwilling and low, slipping out of her before she could stop it. She shook her head, glancing down at her glass like it might offer her some legal counsel, some divine protection, something to explain why this man had taken a perfectly reasonable boundary and stepped over it with the ease of someone crossing wet sand barefoot.
“You did not just answer my concern with a compliment.”
“It was a statement.”
“It was deflection.”
“Nah,” he said, and his voice dipped, the amusement still there, but threaded now with something heavier, something that settled against her skin like humidity before rain. “Deflection would be me acting like I don’t know what you’re saying.”
Ivy’s gaze lifted back to his.
Tyriq held it.
“I know what you’re saying,” he continued. “You’re thirty-five. I’m twenty-seven. That’s eight years. You think that’s supposed to scare me off, or make me nervous, or make me start explaining why I’m grown enough to stand here.”
The words landed too cleanly. Too directly. Ivy hated direct men when they were wrong and distrusted them when they were right.
“And are you?” she asked, softer now, though there was still steel beneath it. “Grown enough?”
Tyriq’s eyes darkened, not in color, because that blue stayed bright and impossible beneath the gold light, but in intent. Something in him seemed to step closer before his body did, some invisible part of him crossing the space between them first, laying claim not to her, but to the moment. The air grew thick around Ivy’s throat.
“I’m not asking you to raise me, Ivy.”
Her name in his mouth was a problem. Not because he said it beautifully, though he did. Not because he dragged the syllables out like he was tasting them, though he did that too. It was the way he said it like he had earned the right to use it plainly, without ornament, without fear, without the little reverence other men sometimes put on it when they wanted her to mistake performance for respect.
“I’m not asking you to teach me how to be a man,” he said. “I’m not asking you to lower nothing, soften nothing, pretend nothing. You asked how old I am, and I told you. But if eight years is the only thing standing between me and taking you seriously, then that ain’t really about me being young.”
Ivy went still. Tyriq’s smile faded just enough for her to feel the loss of it.
“That’s about you being scared.”
There it was. The hook beneath the honey. For a moment, Ivy could only look at him, the noise of the party blurring at the edges until it became surf, until the whole glittering room felt less like Olympus and more like some old shore where gods came down from their thrones to meddle in mortal weather. She felt herself exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the dress fitted over her hips or the diamonds at her ears or the gloss on her mouth. This was not the crude exposure of being wanted. Ivy knew how to handle being wanted. Want was common. Want walked up to bars every night wearing cologne and borrowed confidence. This was worse. Tyriq had seen the locked gate and commented on the fence.
“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”
“You right.”
His answer came too easily.
Ivy frowned.
“I am?”
“Yeah,” he said, and that swagger slid back over him, warm and aggravating, a velvet cloak over a blade. “But I know women don’t ask a man his age like that unless they already thought about what it would mean if they liked him.”
Ivy’s mouth closed. His eyes dropped to it. Only for a second. Only long enough for her to feel it. Then he looked back up, and the restraint in that return did more damage than any blatant stare could have done. There was eroticism in the discipline of him, in the way he did not crowd her though she could tell he wanted to, in the way he let the silence touch her first. It was not the rushed hunger of a younger man trying to prove he could devour. It was the patience of a tide that understood shorelines always gave way eventually, not because they were weak, but because water knew how to wait.
Ivy swallowed, furious at the fact that he noticed.
“Careful,” she said.
Tyriq’s head tilted slightly.
“With what?”
“With assuming I like you.”
That smile returned, slow as dawn over dark water.
“I ain’t assuming.”
“No?”
“Nah.” His gaze moved over her face again, lingering not on the obvious places, not on the cleavage her dress allowed or the curve of her crossed legs, but on the tension near her eyes, the exhaustion at her temples, the small pulse betraying itself at the side of her throat. “I’m observing.”
Ivy breathed out a quiet laugh.
“You are very pleased with yourself.”
“I got reason to be.”
“And humble.”
“When necessary.”
“And is it ever necessary?”
“Depends who I’m standing in front of.”
That made her pause, because he did not say it flirtatiously enough for her to dismiss. There was a shade of reverence beneath it, not worship exactly, not the clumsy pedestal men loved to put women on so they could complain later when they turned out human, but recognition. He saw her beauty, yes, but he also seemed aware that beauty was only the shoreline. Something in his gaze kept looking inland, past the white sand and the pretty palms, toward the places Ivy had spent years fortifying. She hated that. She wanted him to be simpler. Beautiful men were easier when they were simple.
“You should be talking to women your own age,” Ivy said, though even she heard that the sentence had lost some of its force.
Tyriq gave her a look so unimpressed it nearly made her laugh again.
“I do.”
“Then go find one.”
“I don’t want one.”
The answer came without hesitation, landing between them with all the weight of a door closing behind someone who had no plans to leave soon. Ivy stared at him. He stared back. No grin now. No teasing. Just that impossible steadiness.
“You don’t even know me,” she said, but it came softer than before, not because she meant for it to, but because her voice seemed to understand the temperature of the moment before she did.
“I know enough to want to.”
“You’re very sure of yourself for a man standing at a bar with a stranger.”
“I’m sure of what I feel when I’m near people.”
“And what do you feel near me?”
Tyriq did not answer immediately. That was what made it dangerous. He took his time, and the pause unfurled between them like a sail, catching every unsaid thing, every warning Ivy had given herself, every rule she had written in the private law book of her life. No athletes. No younger men. No men whose names could pull cameras out of bushes. No men who looked like temptation and spoke like they had already survived the consequences. Then Tyriq leaned in—not enough to touch her, not enough to make a spectacle, just enough for his voice to lower into something meant only for her.
“Like you tired of being looked at and not seen.”
Ivy’s breath caught so quietly it almost did not happen. Almost. But Tyriq saw it. Of course he did. His gaze softened then, and somehow that was more erotic than the heat, more devastating than the swagger, because it turned the space between them from flirtation into something dangerously close to intimacy. The party continued around them, diamonds flashing like constellations over a black sea, laughter breaking against the walls, cameras waiting beyond doors like hungry gods demanding sacrifice, but Ivy felt the world pull back until there was only this man and the unbearable accuracy of his attention.
“You don’t get to say things like that to me,” she said.
Tyriq’s voice stayed low.
“Why not?”
“Because you don’t know what they cost.”
His jaw shifted slightly, and for the first time since he came over, something in him looked less amused and more serious, less like a man playing with fire and more like one who understood that the flame had a history before his hand ever reached for it.
“Then tell me.”
The simplicity of it almost undid her. Not fix it. Not let me handle it. Not I’m different, not trust me, not all those pretty useless things men said when they wanted access to a woman’s wounds without respecting the scar tissue. Just tell me. Ivy looked away first, because she had to. Her gaze found the bottles behind the bar, amber and green and clear glass lined up like little gods of forgetfulness, each promising a different kind of mercy. She should have dismissed him then. She should have smiled, made some sharp comment, left him standing there with his blue eyes and his audacity and his youth. She was good at exits. Elegant ones. Cruel ones. Necessary ones.
But Tyriq was still beside her. Warm. Present. Not pushing. And somehow that patience was the worst seduction of all.
“You don’t want that,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment.
Then, “I don’t know who taught you to keep telling people what they want before they even get a chance to decide, but that ain’t got nothing to do with me.”
Ivy turned back to him slowly. The look she gave him could have turned a weaker man to stone. Tyriq only smiled, faint and devastating.
“There she go,” he murmured.
Her eyes narrowed. “There who goes?”
“The woman everybody scared to bother.”
“I thought you weren’t scared.”
“I’m not.”
“You should be.”
“Maybe.”
He stepped a fraction closer then, still not touching, but close enough that Ivy could feel the heat of him through the charged air, close enough that his cologne threaded through her breathing, clean spice and smoke and something like cedar after rain. Her body noticed him with an honesty her mind found humiliating. The breadth of him. The height. The calm. The danger. The way he made no apology for wanting to be there, in her orbit, under her scrutiny, taking her age and her warnings and her fear and refusing to bow before any of them like they were gods worth worshipping.
“But I’m still here,” he said.
Ivy’s throat worked. Tyriq’s eyes flicked to it again, and this time he did not pretend she missed it.
“You flirt like you’re trying to get slapped,” she said.
His smile turned wicked at the edges.
“Nah. I flirt like I’m trying to get your number.”
“That’s worse.”
“Depends what you do with it.”
Ivy laughed under her breath, shaking her head, and Tyriq watched her like the sound had pleased him more than he wanted to admit. There was something almost boyish in that pleasure, but not immature, not green. Just unguarded for half a second. A flash of warmth beneath all the swagger. A glimpse of the man behind the actor, behind the blue eyes and diamonds and six-foot-five worth of trouble leaning too comfortably into her evening. That was the part Ivy knew would be dangerous. Not his beauty. Not his age. Not even the way he wanted her. It was the way he looked genuinely interested in what lived past the want.
“I’m not giving you my number,” she said.
Tyriq nodded as if she had said something reasonable.
“Okay.”
Ivy blinked.
“Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s it?”
“For now.”
Her lips twitched. “For now?”
“I ain’t begging at a bar, Ivy. You grown. You said no. I heard you.”
The heat of that should not have moved through her the way it did. Respect, Ivy had learned, could be erotic when it came from a man who had enough power to push and enough discipline not to. It landed in her chest first, then lower, unfurling through her like warmth over cold land. He was not retreating, not really, but he was letting the gate remain closed without rattling it. Letting her hold the key. Letting her feel the rare pleasure of being pursued without being cornered. She studied him, suspicious of how much she liked that.
“And if I keep saying no?”
Tyriq picked up the drink the bartender had set down for him, finally breaking eye contact long enough to take a slow sip. When he looked back at her, his mouth was wet from it, and Ivy, to her own disgust, noticed.
“Then I’ll believe you.”
The answer was too good. Far too good. Ivy leaned back slightly, needing space from him and getting none, because the problem was not his proximity anymore. The problem was that Tyriq Withers had walked over with the face of a sin and the confidence of a king, only to reveal something worse beneath it: restraint, emotional intelligence, and the kind of directness that made a woman feel foolish for trying to hide behind semantics.
“You are irritating,” she said.
“I been told I grow on people.”
“Like mold?”
“Like ivy.”
She stared at him.
He grinned.
And that, unfortunately, made her laugh again. Really laugh this time, her head tipping down for half a second as the sound left her, soft and warm and unwilling. Tyriq looked at her like he had been given something. Not won it. Not taken it. Given. That distinction mattered. Ivy wished it did not.
“You think you’re cute,” she said.
“I know you do.”
“Tyriq.”
The warning in his name was immediate, instinctive, and he reacted to it like it had touched him somewhere low, his eyes sharpening, his posture shifting almost imperceptibly. Ivy noticed because she was watching him too closely now, noticed the way his fingers tightened once around his glass, noticed the breath he took before his smile returned.
“Say it like that again and I might start thinking you like me.”
“I already told you not to assume.”
“And I told you I observe.”
The party roared briefly behind them as someone famous entered, cameras flashing from the far side of the room like lightning over a black horizon, but neither of them turned to look. Ivy should have. It was the kind of distraction she needed, the kind of opening she could use to slip away from whatever this was before it became a thing with shape and gravity. Instead, she stayed. Tyriq’s gaze dropped once more, not to her body this time, but to her left hand resting on the bar. No ring. Ivy saw him notice.
“Don’t,” she said.
His eyes lifted, innocent in a way that was entirely false. “Don’t what?”
“Ask.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think a lot of things.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“Right now I’m thinking you need food.”
Ivy blinked again, thrown by the shift.
“What?”
“You running on caffeine and liquor.”
Her brows pulled together. “How would you know that?”
“You got that little tremor in your hand when you picked up your glass, and you look like if somebody breathe wrong near you, you might either cry or commit a felony.”
Ivy stared at him.
Tyriq shrugged.
“Could be both. I’m not judging.”
She should not have found that funny. She absolutely found that funny.
“You always this observant?”
“When I’m interested.”
The words returned the heat to the moment so quickly Ivy almost resented him for it. He did not even have to lower his voice that much. He simply let the truth sit there, heavy and warm, and Ivy felt it move over her like summer rain over dry soil.
“I’m not your business, Tyriq.”
“Not yet.”
Her eyes narrowed, but there was no stopping the smile now.
“You hear yourself?”
“Clearly.”
“And this works on women?”
He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping back into that private register that made the party feel very far away.
“I don’t care what works on women.”
Ivy’s pulse betrayed her again. Tyriq saw it again. His gaze held hers, steady and darkening at the edges.
“I’m talking to you.”
For a moment, Ivy did not answer, and it annoyed her, the way silence had begun to gather around him like loyal subjects around a young king, the way the noise of the party seemed to thin whenever he lowered his voice, as if even the room wanted to lean in and hear what this beautiful, insolent man had to say. He had that thing certain men were born with and other men spent entire lifetimes trying to purchase: presence without desperation, confidence without performance, a swagger that did not need volume because it had weight.
He was not the most famous man in the room. Not yet. That was the dangerous part. There were men around them with Oscar nominations, box-office franchises, magazine covers, legacy last names, men whose faces had been projected thirty feet tall over cities Ivy could name by skyline alone, but Tyriq Withers carried himself as if fame had simply not caught up to him yet. As if the world was late, not him. As if whatever door he stood before would eventually open, not because he begged at the threshold, but because the hinges would get tired of pretending they did not know who he was. Ivy could feel that certainty on him. It moved with him like heat off asphalt after rain.
“You’re talking to me,” she repeated, because the words needed somewhere to go that was not directly beneath her skin.
Tyriq nodded once, easy, unhurried, the corner of his mouth tilting as he watched her try to turn plain confession into something negotiable.
“That’s what I said.”
“You say everything like that?”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know how it ends.”
His smile deepened then, slow and devastating, the kind of smile that did not ask a woman to trust him so much as dare her to pretend she was unmoved.
“I don’t know how it ends,” he said, his voice still low enough to belong only to her, “but I know where I want to start.”
Ivy’s breath went shallow. She hated him a little for that. Not seriously, not with the clean heat of anger, but with the irritated fascination of a woman watching a storm gather over land she had spent years cultivating by hand. He was too direct, too steady, too young to speak with that kind of patience, and too beautiful to make patience feel safe. She could dismiss a man who pawed at attention. She could ignore a man who mistook desire for permission. But Tyriq stood there like he understood both want and restraint, like he could hold hunger in his mouth without letting it spill, and that made the room feel suddenly warm enough to be indecent.
“You’re very bold for somebody who just started getting invited to rooms like this,” Ivy said, turning the blade where she knew it might catch.
Tyriq laughed under his breath, not wounded, not embarrassed, not even defensive. If anything, he looked pleased that she had noticed.
“Damn,” he murmured. “You did some homework on me?”
“I exist in this industry, Tyriq. I know faces.”
“You know mine?”
“I know you were in that limited series on HBO.”
“Two episodes.”
“You died in the second one.”
“Memorably.”
Ivy’s mouth twitched despite herself, and Tyriq caught it like a man catching sunlight in his palm, his gaze lowering briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes with enough discipline to make the glance feel more intimate than touch.
“You had six minutes of screen time,” she said.
“And you remember all six.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I don’t have to. You keep helping.”
She stared at him, caught between irritation and amusement, and the worst part was that he did not look like he needed her laughter to survive, only like he enjoyed earning it. There was a difference, and Ivy had lived long enough to appreciate the distinction. Men who needed to be liked became cruel when denied. Men who enjoyed a challenge could be entertained by a no without trying to punish you for it. Tyriq, unfortunately, looked entertained.
“You’re new,” Ivy said, gentler this time, though she did not mean to soften it. “You don’t know what these rooms do to people yet.”
At that, something shifted behind his eyes, something subtle and dark, a cloud passing over blue water. Not insecurity. Not fear. Awareness.
“I know enough.”
“No, you don’t.”
His head tilted. “You warning me or testing me?”
“Maybe both.”
“I can take both.”
Of course he could. Of course he would say it like that, standing there with diamonds in his ears and the easy arrogance of a man who had not yet been ruined by the thing he wanted, who still believed ambition was a field he could cross without stepping on buried bones. Ivy looked at him and felt an old, unwelcome tenderness stir beneath her caution, the kind reserved for young actors at the beginning of the climb, when their hunger was still clean, before managers taught them to speak in angles and interviews taught them to smile with only half their mouths.
Tyriq Withers was not innocent. No man with eyes like that was innocent. But he was early. There was still something raw beneath the polish, something unbranded and unflattened, some dangerous inner flame that Hollywood had not yet figured out how to put behind glass and sell back to the public. He had the face of a future obsession, the height of a leading man, the mouth of a scandal, and the stillness of someone who had already decided that the world could come for him if it wanted to, but it would not find him easy prey.
“You think because you’re pretty and talented, this place won’t eat you?” Ivy asked.
Tyriq’s gaze did not move.
“I think because I’m pretty and talented, people gon’ try.”
Ivy paused.
He lifted one shoulder, casual as tidewater licking at the edge of a cliff.
“I also think I’m not stupid.”
“No one said you were.”
“Nah, you just keep talking to me like I’m a boy who wandered too close to the fire.”
There it was again. The accuracy. The hook beneath the honey. Ivy turned toward the bar, needing somewhere else to put her eyes, but Tyriq’s reflection found her in the mirror behind the bottles, tall and dark and gilded by chandelier light, looking at her as if her turning away was merely another language he had already begun to learn.
“I’m talking to you like a woman who has seen the fire do what fire does,” she said.
He was quiet for a moment, and in that quiet the party swelled around them, laughter cresting and breaking, glasses chiming, camera flashes bleeding white against the far wall where people were practicing being seen. When Tyriq spoke again, his voice had lost none of its swagger, but the heat of it had lowered into something steadier, something that touched the back of Ivy’s neck like a palm that had not yet earned the right to land.
“Then don’t save me from it,” he said. “Tell me where it burns.”
Ivy looked back at him before she could stop herself. That was the thing with him, she was beginning to realize. Tyriq flirted like a man who enjoyed the game, but listened like a man who understood that the game was not the prize. He had come to her with a grin sharp enough to cut fruit from a branch, with all that height and color and sinful symmetry, but every time she offered him a shallow surface to skate over, he stepped beneath it instead. Not clumsily. Not greedily. With patience. With nerve.
“You ask a lot of questions,” Ivy said.
“I asked one.”
“You implied several.”
“I’m an actor,” he said, mouth curving. “Subtext matters.”
That pulled a laugh out of her before she could lock it away, and Tyriq’s face warmed with satisfaction, not smugness exactly, though there was enough of that to make him insufferable, but pleasure. He liked her amused. He liked her difficult. He liked the fact that she did not melt beneath his attention like sugar in hot tea. That knowledge moved between them like a live thing.
“You’re an actor now?” she asked.
His brows lifted. “Now?”
“You said it very confidently for someone with two episodes and a death scene.”
“I booked a film too.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“With lines?”
“Several.”
“Living through the end?”
“Don’t know yet. They keep changing the script.”
Ivy smiled into her drink.
Tyriq leaned in a fraction, just enough for his shadow to fall warmer across her shoulder.
“But you know what’s funny?”
“What?”
“You teasing me like that, but you not asking because you think I can’t act.”
Ivy stilled.
His eyes sharpened, blue turning ocean-deep beneath the light.
“You asking because you think I can.”
She tried to answer too quickly, but no words came, and Tyriq’s smile returned, smaller now, quieter, more dangerous because it was not just flirtation anymore. He had caught her seeing him. Worse, he had caught her respecting something in him. That was intimate. More intimate than if he had touched her knee beneath the bar. More indecent than if his mouth had brushed her ear. The body could lie. Attention rarely did.
“You have a good face,” Ivy said, because it was easier than saying anything else.
“I got more than that.”
“I’m sure your agent tells you so every morning.”
“My agent tells me I need to smile more in rooms like this and stop looking like I’m deciding whether I want to fight somebody.”
“And are you?”
“Depends who interrupts me.”
The answer came so smoothly that Ivy blinked, and then she followed his gaze just enough to see a woman across the room waving lightly in Tyriq’s direction. Mid-thirties, sleek ponytail, black dress, phone in hand, the unmistakable expression of representation trying not to panic in public. His agent, most likely, or publicist, or some handler who had dragged him here with instructions to network, smile, shake hands, collect contacts, become visible without becoming messy. Tyriq did not move.
Ivy looked back at him, amused.
“You’re supposed to be working the room.”
“I am.”
“No, you’re talking to me.”
“Like I said.”
“Tyriq.”
He loved when she said his name. She could see it now, could see the tiny shift it caused in him, the flicker of heat behind his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw as if he had to stop himself from reacting too openly. Ivy filed that away before she could ask herself why.
“You are just starting out,” she said, her voice lowering into something serious because she knew the shape of this particular cliff and did not want to watch him step backward over it. “You should be shaking hands, meeting directors, letting people see you in rooms where you don’t blend into the wallpaper.”
Tyriq’s expression softened, but the swagger did not leave him; it simply settled deeper, as natural to him as breath, as impossible to remove as salt from the sea.
“I don’t blend into wallpaper.”
“No, you don’t.”
The admission landed between them like a hand laid flat against a chest. His eyes held hers.
“And I saw who I wanted to see.”
Ivy swallowed. There it was. Plain. Unashamed. No little dance around it, no polite exit ramp, no laugh to soften the blade. He wanted her, and he said it the way other men announced facts about the weather, not careless, but certain. She had been desired loudly before, crudely before, publicly before, in ways that felt less like admiration and more like being appraised for auction. This was different. Tyriq’s want did not paw at her. It stood in front of her, broad-shouldered and unapologetic, waiting to see whether she had the nerve to look back at it without flinching.
“You don’t know what you want,” she said, but it sounded weak even to her.
Tyriq’s mouth curved.
“See, you keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Talking for me.”
“I’m making an observation.”
“So am I.”
“And what are you observing now?”
His gaze moved over her slowly, but again, maddeningly, he did not let it turn cheap. He looked at the careful set of her shoulders, the exhaustion beneath her makeup, the guarded humor at her mouth, the hand wrapped around a glass she probably did not need, the elegance she wore like armor because the world had taught her that softness needed witnesses and witnesses could not always be trusted.
“I’m observing that you’re tired,” he said. “I’m observing that you keep giving me reasons I should leave, but you haven’t told me to leave. I’m observing that you like honesty, but only when you can control how much of it comes at you. And I’m observing that the age thing don’t bother you as much as the fact that it doesn’t bother me.”
Ivy stared at him.
“You rehearse that?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I’d deliver it better if I rehearsed it.”
“That was you doing badly?”
“That was me being nice.”
She laughed again, and this time there was no disguising the warmth in it. It loosened something in her face, something that made Tyriq’s gaze flicker, not down, not away, but deeper, as if he had just seen a door open in a house he had been admiring from the road. He liked her laugh. Damn him, he liked her laugh too openly.
“You are not as charming as you think you are,” Ivy said.
“I’m exactly as charming as I think I am.”
“Terrible.”
“Effective.”
“Debatable.”
“But you still here.”
“So are you.”
“Because I want to be.”
The simplicity of it made her chest tighten. That was the problem with men like Tyriq, Ivy thought. Not young men. Not actors. Not beautiful men. Men like him specifically, men who did not hide behind irony, who did not drape desire in plausible deniability so they could retreat later and claim you misunderstood. He stood in the open field of what he wanted and let the lightning come. Ivy had forgotten how erotic it could be, being wanted without being tricked into admitting it first.
She took another sip of her drink, mostly to give herself time, but Tyriq’s gaze dropped to the glass and stayed there long enough for her to notice.
“What?” she asked.
“You need to eat.”
“Again with this?”
“Yes, again with this.”
“I am not a child.”
“Good.”
The word came out lower than expected, and Ivy’s eyes snapped to his. Tyriq did not smile. That was worse. The air between them altered so quickly it felt atmospheric, the shift of pressure before a summer storm, the sea drawing itself back from the shore before returning with force. Good. One word, nothing more, and yet it moved over Ivy’s skin like a thumb dragged lightly across a matchbook. There was no explicitness in it, no vulgarity, no performance for the room, but the implication was there, dark and warm and adult enough to make her remember the exact difference between being handled carelessly and being handled by someone who paid attention.
Tyriq’s eyes stayed on hers.
“I know you’re not a child.”
Ivy’s voice thinned despite her best efforts.
“Then stop fussing.”
“I’m not fussing.”
“You are.”
“I’m taking inventory.”
“Of me?”
“Of what you need.”
A laugh escaped her, softer now, less defended.
“You are very sure you know what I need.”
“No,” he said, and that one word surprised her because it carried no flirtation at all. “I know what I see. There’s a difference.”
For the first time since he had approached her, Ivy let herself look at him without strategy. Really look. He was younger, yes, and there was no use pretending otherwise. Twenty-seven sat on him not like immaturity, but like voltage. There was still speed in him, still hunger, still that beginning-of-the-road brightness beneath the composure, but there was also discipline in the way he held himself, a steadiness that did not feel borrowed. He had the confidence of someone who had been underestimated often enough to become uninterested in convincing people too quickly. Let them doubt. Let them learn. Let them clap later. It was a dangerous kind of patience. The kind that made a woman wonder what else he knew how to wait for.
A server passed behind him with a tray of small plates, and Tyriq turned just enough to catch her attention without fully taking his focus off Ivy. It should have been arrogant, the ease of it, the way people responded to his presence before they seemed to realize they had done so, but Ivy could not even pretend it did not suit him. He asked for something low and polite, voice softened by manners that made his earlier audacity even more frustrating, and when the server left, he turned back to Ivy as if nothing important in the world had happened outside the narrow country of their conversation.
“I didn’t ask you for food,” she said.
“I know.”
“And yet.”
“And yet,” he agreed.
“You always this bossy?”
“When I’m right.”
“And when you’re wrong?”
“I correct myself.”
Ivy studied him.
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to find out.”
The words were not loud, but they landed heavy. There was a beat where neither of them moved. Ivy felt the shape of the invitation beneath the sentence, not to his bed, not even to his life, not yet, but to the possibility of discovery, to the unsettling idea that this man might be exactly as direct tomorrow as he was tonight. That he might not vanish when the music changed. That he might not turn into smoke the second she reached for substance.
“You’re dangerous,” she said.
Tyriq’s smile returned, faint and wicked.
“You knew that when I walked up.”
“I knew you were pretty.”
“Beautiful,” he corrected.
Ivy blinked, then laughed despite herself. “Excuse me?”
“You said it in your head.”
“You don’t know what I said in my head.”
“I know you ain’t look at me like I was just pretty.”
The audacity. The accuracy. Ivy shook her head slowly, unable to decide whether she wanted to slap the confidence off him or study it under glass.
“You are insufferable.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I smile at funerals sometimes. It doesn’t mean I’m happy.”
“That’s dark.”
“That’s experience.”
“There she go again.”
“With what?”
“Trying to scare me.”
Ivy’s smile faded. Tyriq noticed immediately, and the pleasure in his expression shifted into focus, his attention tightening around her not like a trap, but like shelter drawn closer before rain.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” she said after a moment. “I’m trying to be honest with you.”
“Then be honest.”
“I am.”
“No,” he said gently, which somehow made it harder to bear. “You’re being careful.”
Ivy’s jaw tightened. Tyriq leaned one elbow against the bar, his body still angled toward her, still close enough for his warmth to reach but not close enough to touch. He was letting her decide the distance, which irritated her because it made his nearness feel chosen by her too.
“You think careful is dishonest?” she asked.
“I think careful is what people do when honesty cost them too much before.”
The sentence struck something. Not dramatically. Not like thunder splitting a tree. More like water finding a crack in stone and making a home there. Ivy looked at him, really looked, and for one terrible second she imagined what it would feel like to let a man like him see the less curated parts of her, the places fame had bruised, the places love had failed to be gentle, the places thirty-five had taught her to keep locked because people liked a grown woman’s strength better when they did not have to witness the exhaustion underneath it.
“You’re too young to be talking like that,” she said.
Tyriq’s eyes softened, but his mouth curved because he was still him, still arrogant enough to be beautiful with it.
“And you’re too grown to keep using my age as a hiding place.”
Ivy’s lips parted. Nothing came out. Tyriq nodded once, like he had proven a point but was kind enough not to celebrate too loudly.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s what I thought.”
The server returned with a small plate of something delicate and expensive, all architectural greens, fruit, and a piece of bread crisped golden enough to look like it had been stolen from a goddess’s breakfast table. Tyriq took it with a murmured thank you, set it between them, and slid it toward Ivy with two fingers. She looked at the plate. Then at him.
“I don’t eat strange food from strange men.”
“I’m not strange.”
“You walked up to me at a bar and started reading me like scripture.”
“You liked it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You smiled.”
“I regret that.”
“No, you don’t.”
She picked up the piece of bread only because her hand was shaking and he had noticed, and because she would rather feed herself than give him the satisfaction of being right while she sat there pretending hunger was beneath her. The first bite was crisp, salty, bright with something citrusy and sharp, and her body responded with immediate gratitude that made her want to roll her eyes at herself. Tyriq watched her eat with a satisfaction so quiet it felt indecent.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?”
“Like you won something.”
“I did.”
“It’s bread, Tyriq.”
“It’s you listening.”
Ivy stopped chewing for half a second. He did not tease her for it. That was becoming the worst part, honestly. He knew when to press and when to let the moment breathe. He understood rhythm. Maybe that was the actor in him, she thought, the instinct for pauses, for silence, for the tension that lived between lines more than inside them. Or maybe it was just him. Maybe Tyriq Withers was dangerous because he knew how to make a woman feel like every small surrender was witnessed without being exploited.
“I don’t usually listen to men I meet at bars,” Ivy said.
“I don’t usually leave my agent hanging to feed women at bars.”
“She looks stressed.”
“She is.”
“You should go.”
“I should.”
He did not move. Ivy hated the heat that crawled up her neck.
“You’re not going?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
Tyriq’s eyes held hers, steady, confident, absolutely unashamed.
“Because I want you.”
The words did not shock her because she had not known. They shocked her because he did not dress them in anything prettier. No joke. No metaphor. No little grin to make it less dangerous. Just the truth, placed before her like an offering at an altar neither of them had agreed to build and both of them suddenly stood before. The party went soft at the edges. Ivy could still hear everything — the laughter, the music, the clink of glass, the artificial thunder of celebrity weather moving through an expensive room — but it all became distant, like sound traveling across water. Tyriq’s voice stayed near.
“I want you,” he said again, quieter now, not because he was unsure, but because repetition made the sentence heavier. “And not in the way men in here probably been wanting you all night.”
Ivy’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
“You don’t know how men have wanted me.”
“I know how men look when they only see a body.”
His gaze moved to her face, and stayed there.
“I also know how I’m looking at you.”
Ivy breathed in slowly, and the air felt too warm going down.
“You’re very confident for someone admitting that to a woman who already told you no.”
“You told me no to your number.”
“And you think that’s different?”
“I think no means no,” he said, calm as bedrock beneath stormwater. “I also think wanting you ain’t a crime as long as I respect what you do with it.”
God. That was the part that made her feel stripped without being touched. Respect had no business being that sensual, but from him, here, with his blue eyes steady and his mouth softened around restraint, it moved through her like heat. It was one thing to be desired by a man who would test every boundary to see which ones gave way under pressure. It was another to be desired by one who saw the boundary, leaned his shoulder near it, and waited for her to decide whether the gate opened. Ivy had prepared herself for temptation. She had not prepared herself for patience.
“You say things like you’ve practiced them,” she said, though her voice lacked its earlier bite.
Tyriq smiled faintly.
“I’m just telling the truth pretty.”
“That’s still performance.”
“Everything is performance in here.”
He glanced around the room then, briefly, taking in the glittering bodies, the curated laughter, the famous faces arranged beneath soft light like offerings to a god that fed on visibility. When he looked back at Ivy, the swagger returned, but it was sharpened by something almost private.
“But this?” he said, gesturing once between them. “This ain’t fake.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“I know what fake feels like.”
He said it too quietly for someone who had not been burned. Ivy caught that. He saw her catch it. For the first time, a flicker of guardedness moved through him, not enough to close him off, but enough to remind her that he was not only beauty and confidence and youth. There was a life there too, unspooled behind him, not as long as hers perhaps, not as publicly weathered, but real all the same. People loved to flatten younger men into appetite and ambition, but Tyriq stood before her with both, yes, and also something more complicated beneath the skin.
“You’ve been in enough fake?” Ivy asked.
His mouth curved, though the smile did not quite reach his eyes.
“I’m an actor trying to break into Hollywood, Ivy. Half the people who hug me don’t know if they like me yet. They just like that somebody told them they should.”
She was quiet. That sentence did something to the air between them. For all his swagger, for all the lazy confidence and beautiful audacity, there it was: the thin, sharp edge of beginning. Tyriq had entered a world where everyone smiled with measuring tape hidden behind their teeth, where people shook your hand and weighed your usefulness in the same motion, where desirability could get you through the door but not always keep you from being devoured once inside. Ivy knew that road. She knew the early parties, the names forgotten on purpose, the small humiliations dressed as advice, the way success arrived in flashes before it became a shelter.
“You’ll get used to it,” she said, though the words tasted bitter.
“I don’t want to.”
That surprised her. Tyriq looked at her, the gold light catching the line of his cheekbone, the diamonds in his ears, the clean shape of a face the industry would try to own if he let it.
“I’ll learn it,” he said. “I’ll play when I need to. I’m not naive. But I don’t want to get used to people making me less human because they think I might be useful one day.”
Ivy had no immediate answer.
He shrugged once, as if he had not just handed her something honest.
“Besides,” he added, mouth curving back into something wicked enough to save them both from too much sincerity, “if I get too used to fake, I might miss when a fine woman at the bar actually likes me.”
Ivy exhaled a laugh, grateful and annoyed.
“I never said I liked you.”
“No, but you keep not leaving.”
“I was here first.”
“And I came over second.”
“Exactly.”
“Now we’re here together.”
She stared at him, then looked down at the plate because the smile was coming and she refused to give him the full view of it.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m consistent.”
“You’re a menace.”
“I’ve heard that too.”
“I’m starting to think everyone in your life is very honest with you.”
“They try,” he said. “I’m hardheaded.”
“I would have never guessed.”
His grin flashed, and for a moment he looked younger, not childish, but bright in a way that softened the hard edges of his beauty. It was disarming. Unfairly so. Then his agent waved again from across the room, this time with more urgency, and Tyriq finally looked over long enough to lift one hand in acknowledgment.
Ivy followed the gesture.
“You really should go.”
“I know.”
“This is your job.”
“I know that too.”
“And yet you’re still standing here.”
His eyes returned to her, and the humor in them eased into that same steady want that had made her breath misbehave earlier.
“I told you,” he said. “I saw who I wanted to see.”
Ivy’s throat tightened.
“You don’t even know what that means.”
“I know exactly what it means for tonight.”
“And what does it mean?”
“It means I’m going to walk over there,” he said, nodding toward his agent without looking away from Ivy, “shake whatever hands she tells me to shake, smile at whoever needs to feel important, act like I’m not thinking about coming back over here, and then I’m going to come back over here.”
Ivy arched a brow, grateful for the return of teasing because the sincerity had begun to feel too much like a tide at her knees.
“And if I’m gone?”
“Then I’ll find you.”
“Confident.”
“Determined.”
“Stalking is not romantic.”
“Good thing I said find, not follow.”
“Semantics.”
“Subtext,” he corrected again.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Tyriq stepped back half a pace, and Ivy felt the absence of his warmth immediately, which was humiliating enough that she lifted her glass to disguise it. He noticed anyway, because of course he did, but for once he showed mercy and said nothing. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a plain black card, the kind actors carried when they were still early enough to need cards and confident enough not to be embarrassed by it. He set it on the bar beside her plate, two fingers resting on it for a moment before sliding away.
“I’m not giving you my number,” Ivy reminded him.
“I remember.”
“Then what is that?”
“My number.”
She looked at the card. Then at him.
“That is not how this works.”
“That’s exactly how it works.”
“I said no.”
“You said you weren’t giving me yours,” he said, and there was that swagger again, smooth as oil over dark water. “I heard you.”
“So you gave me yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“So when you decide you want to call me, you don’t have to go looking.”
Ivy stared at him, half offended, half fascinated, fully aware that her pulse was no longer behaving like something she owned.
“You really think I’m going to call you?”
Tyriq leaned in just slightly, not enough to crowd her, only enough for his voice to lower into that private place again, that warm, dangerous register that made every word feel like it had been placed directly against her skin.
“No,” he said. “I think you’re going to tell yourself you’re not going to call me.”
Ivy’s eyes narrowed.
“And then?”
His smile came slow.
“And then you’re going to remember I’m not scared of you.”
Her breath caught, small enough to deny if anyone asked, but they both knew. Tyriq’s eyes flicked over her face once more, lingering with an attention so thorough it felt like touch, though his hands remained respectfully to himself.
“And you’re going to like that.”
Then he straightened, leaving her with the card, the plate, the heat, and the deeply inconvenient realization that she had not wanted him to leave as much as she had wanted to see whether he would.
“Eat,” he said, voice returning to that easy command.
Ivy gave him a look.
He grinned.
“Please,” he added, with a sweetness so false and charming she nearly threw the bread at him.
“Go work the room, Tyriq.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The ma’am hit worse the second time. He knew it too. He walked away with the kind of unhurried confidence that made people look before they understood why they were looking, shoulders broad beneath black fabric, head high, stride loose and certain, every inch of him giving not a man desperate to be chosen, but one already convinced he belonged wherever his feet landed. Ivy watched him cross the room, watched his agent begin speaking before he fully reached her, watched him nod, smile, extend a hand to a director Ivy recognized immediately.
And because she had been in the game a long time, she saw it. The shift. The director had glanced at Tyriq politely at first, with the mild interest people gave promising young faces they had been told might matter soon. Then Tyriq smiled, said something, and the man’s attention sharpened. His posture opened. The conversation held. Tyriq did not fidget, did not over-laugh, did not shrink beneath proximity to power. He stood there like a coastline daring the ocean to keep arriving, like he knew erosion was just another form of being shaped for greatness.
Ivy picked up the card. Tyriq Withers. Actor. A number beneath it. No management email. No agent listed. No glossy logo. Just his name, his title, and the audacity of giving her a direct line to him as if directness itself was a signature. She should have left it there. She should have. Instead, Ivy slid it beneath her phone.
…
Later that night, when the party had finally spat her back out into the city, Ivy Jermaine returned to her hotel room alone. Not lonely. There was a difference. Lonely was a hunger, a raw little animal pacing behind the ribs, begging to be fed by any voice willing to call it beautiful. Alone was cleaner than that. Alone was the lock clicking shut behind her. Alone was the hush of an expensive suite high above Manhattan, where the windows looked out over the city like black glass over a restless sea, all glittering lights and yellow taxis moving below like ships with lanterns caught in fog. Alone was the soft groan that left her body the moment she stepped out of her heels and felt the floor beneath her bare feet, cool and solid as old marble.
The room smelled faintly of lilies, linen, and the citrusy spray housekeeping used to convince guests that exhaustion could be sanitized if the sheets were crisp enough. Ivy stood in the entryway for a moment, dress still clinging to her like a second skin, phone in one hand, clutch in the other, her earrings heavy against her neck. The silence received her without applause. No cameras. No shouting assistants. No stylists pinching fabric at her waist. No publicists reminding her who to greet, who to avoid, who had liked something messy about her three years ago and should therefore be handled with caution.
Just Ivy. Thirty-five years old. Tired down to the bone. Still beautiful, because beauty had become so practiced on her that it stayed even when she no longer had the energy to hold it up. She dropped her clutch onto the console table and walked deeper into the suite, the hem of her dress whispering around her legs like dark water around a dock. The city watched her from beyond the glass, neon and moonlight braided together over the skyline, and for a moment Ivy felt like Persephone returning not to the underworld, but to some quiet room between seasons, one where she could take off the crown, unclasp the armor, and admit that being admired all night had somehow left her feeling untouched.
That was the strange cruelty of fame. Everyone looked. So few people saw. Her hand stilled on the zipper at the side of her dress. Tyriq Withers had seen too much. The thought arrived without permission, warm and inconvenient, slipping through her exhaustion like tidewater through a crack in stone. She closed her eyes, and there he was again, leaning against the bar like trouble had learned manners, all blue eyes, diamonds, broad shoulders, and that low, steady voice that seemed to speak beneath the skin rather than above it. I’m talking to you.
Ivy opened her eyes quickly.
“No,” she murmured to herself, because sometimes a woman had to speak sense aloud before her body started making reckless legal arguments.
She moved into the bathroom, where the lights were soft enough to be merciful, and braced both hands against the marble sink. Her reflection looked back at her, composed but not untouched, lips still glossy, eyes lined dark, hair arranged into something sleek and intentional. The dress made her look like a goddess dragged from a storm, all curves and gold undertones and exhaustion disguised as elegance. Tyriq had looked at her like he knew the disguise by name. That was what bothered her.
Not the wanting. Ivy knew what to do with wanting. Wanting was common; it leaned too close at parties, sent bottles to tables, slid into DMs with flame emojis and spelling errors, wrapped itself in compliments so thin they tore if you touched them too hard. Wanting had followed her for years in cologne clouds and rented confidence. Tyriq’s want had been different. It had stood still. It had waited. It had said, plainly and without shame, I want you, and then respected the distance between them like restraint itself was part of the seduction.
Ivy exhaled, slow and annoyed, before reaching up to remove one earring, then the other. They landed on the counter with two delicate sounds, tiny offerings placed before the mirror. She unpinned her hair next, letting it fall loose around her shoulders, and the woman in the reflection softened by degrees. Less goddess. More mortal. Less Ivy Jermaine, the public-facing thing. More Ivy, the woman whose neck hurt, whose feet ached, whose heart had become too disciplined to run toward anything just because it felt warm.
Her phone buzzed once against the counter. She looked down. Not a message. A notification from a news account. A photo of her leaving the party had already surfaced.
Ivy Jermaine stuns at pre-Met event.
She stared at the headline, then laughed under her breath without humor. Stuns. As if she had not spent the entire night holding herself together with caffeine, under-eye concealer, and God’s leftover patience. She turned the phone face down. Then turned it face up again. Because beneath it, partly tucked into the case from when she had slid it there at the bar, was Tyriq’s card.
Plain black. White letters. Tyriq Withers. Actor. His number beneath it. Nothing else. No agent. No brand. No glossy little emblem trying to make him look more important than he was. Just his name. His dream. His audacity.
Ivy picked the card up like it might be hot.
“You are not calling that man,” she told her reflection.
Her reflection, traitorous thing, said nothing.
She carried the card with her into the bedroom and set it on the nightstand, far enough away to suggest discipline, close enough to ruin the lie. Then she changed, slowly, peeling herself out of the dress with the careful exhaustion of someone unwrapping from a role. The fabric fell down her body and pooled around her feet like a shed shadow. She stepped out of it and reached for the silk robe hanging near the closet, tying it loosely around her waist before sitting on the edge of the bed.
The suite was too quiet now. Not peaceful. Quiet. There was a difference there too. Peace had weight. Quiet had space. And space had a way of filling itself with thoughts. Tyriq’s voice came back first. You’re too grown to keep using my age as a hiding place.
Ivy’s mouth pressed into a line.
Cocky little—
No.
Not little.
That was the problem. He was twenty-seven, yes, but there had been nothing little about him. Nothing uncertain, nothing pleading, nothing boyish in the way he stood before her and made his interest known without asking her to reassure him for having it. He had not acted like her age was a hurdle. He had acted like it was information. A fact. Eight years, measured and dismissed, as irrelevant to his desire as the weather outside. She should have found that absurd. Instead, it had touched something ancient in her. Some buried, feminine, saltwater thing that remembered being wanted by men who did not ask permission from fear.
Her hand reached for the card before she could stop herself. She stared at the number. Put the card down. Picked it up again.
“This is embarrassing,” she whispered.
The city blinked beyond the windows, unconcerned. Ivy unlocked her phone. Opened the keypad. Typed the first three digits. Deleted them. Locked the phone. Threw it onto the bed beside her. Then sat there, staring straight ahead, robe slipping off one shoulder, the ache in her neck pulsing beneath her skin, pride and curiosity wrestling in her chest like two gods fighting over a coastline.
She lasted all of forty-seven seconds. Then she snatched the phone back up with a frustrated little inhale and dialed before she could talk herself into dignity.
It rang once. Not even fully once. He answered like he had been waiting with the phone already in his hand.
“Ivy.”
Her whole body went still. Not hello. Not who is this. Her name. Low. Certain. Warm with something that sounded far too much like satisfaction.
Ivy closed her eyes.
“You don’t know it’s me.”
Tyriq’s voice came through the line with a smile in it.
“Yeah, I do.”
“How?”
“Because I gave one woman my number tonight.”
“That doesn’t mean I was going to call.”
“But you did.”
Ivy stared at the ceiling like it might offer help, but the ceiling, like all expensive hotel ceilings, remained useless and tastefully lit.
“You answer the phone for every unknown number like that?”
“Nah.”
“So you were waiting.”
“I was hoping.”
The honesty sat between them differently through the phone. At the bar, it had been gilded by chandeliers, sharpened by eye contact, protected by the noise of the party around them. Here, in her hotel room, with the city pressed dark and glittering against the windows and her robe loose on her skin, his honesty became more intimate, stripped of spectacle. There was no room to hide inside a crowd now. No drink to sip. No server to interrupt. No agent waving him away. Just his voice. Just her breath. Just the thin electric line between them, humming like a wire stretched over deep water.
Ivy shifted on the bed, tucking one leg beneath her.
“You always this available?”
“For you?”
She huffed softly. “Careful.”
“I am.”
“You don’t sound careful.”
“I sound honest.”
“You sound pleased with yourself.”
“I am.”
“At least you admit it.”
“I told you earlier,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “I don’t have to pretend with you.”
That was unfair. He had no right to make something so simple sound like a hand at the back of her neck, guiding her gently out of armor. Ivy looked toward the windows, where her reflection was faintly visible against the city, silk robe, bare shoulder, phone pressed to her ear. She looked like a woman caught between a locked door and the sea.
“You made an impression tonight,” she said.
“Good.”
“That wasn’t necessarily a compliment.”
“I know.”
“You take everything well.”
“No,” Tyriq said, and the answer came so smoothly she could almost see him leaning somewhere, one shoulder against a wall, mouth curved, eyes steady. “I take you well.”
Ivy’s breath slipped. Quietly. Barely. But the silence after it told her he had heard. Of course he had heard.
“Tyriq.”
“Yeah.”
There it was again, that slight change in him when she said his name. Even through the phone, she could feel it, the way the air thickened, the way his reply landed lower, rougher at the edge. Ivy had spent years being desired in rooms full of people, but there was something obscene about realizing desire could travel through a single syllable and still arrive intact.
“You are very dangerous on the phone,” she said.
He gave a low laugh, soft as thunder far out over water.
“I’m better in person.”
Her eyes closed. The room tilted a little, though she had barely drunk enough for that to be the reason.
“You’re very sure of that.”
“I’m very sure of a lot of things.”
“Like?”
“Like you’re sitting somewhere pretending you didn’t call because you wanted to hear my voice.”
Ivy opened her eyes.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I called because I was curious.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“It’s the correct word.”
“No,” he said, that smile still in his voice, insolent and intimate all at once. “It’s the safe word.”
The silence that followed was so charged Ivy felt it move over her skin. Not vulgar. Not explicit. Worse. Accurate. She pressed her tongue lightly against the back of her teeth, trying not to smile, trying not to let him hear that she was smiling, because men like Tyriq fed on openings and she had no intention of becoming a meal.
“You think you know so much,” she said.
“I think I know enough.”
“You met me two hours ago.”
“And you called me thirty minutes after you got to your room.”
Ivy froze. Her eyes narrowed, though he could not see it.
“How would you know when I got to my room?”
“Because you told me you were leaving when you walked past me.”
“I said goodnight.”
“You said, ‘Enjoy shaking hands, Tyriq,’ and then you left with your assistant.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember most things involving you.”
The line went quiet again. Ivy hated how much that did to her. Words were easy to dismiss when they were grand. Men could make cathedrals out of exaggeration when they wanted something, could turn a compliment into stained glass and still leave you cold beneath it. But details had weight. Details meant attention had roots. Details meant something had gone into the earth.
“You should be asleep,” she said, because it was safer than admitting anything else.
“So should you.”
“I’m older. I can survive on less.”
“That’s not how bodies work.”
“You’re an actor now and a doctor?”
“I’m a man with eyes. You were exhausted tonight.”
“I looked that bad?”
“No.” His answer came immediately. “You looked beautiful.”
Ivy’s mouth softened despite herself.
Then he added, quieter, “And tired.”
Something about the separation of those things undid her more than the compliment itself. Beautiful and tired. Not beautiful despite tired. Not beautiful but tired. Both. Seen together. Allowed to exist in the same room without one canceling the other.
Ivy looked down at her hand resting against the white duvet, at the faint tremor still there from too much caffeine and too little food, at the phone glowing against her cheek like a small, dangerous moon.
“You notice too much,” she whispered.
“No, I notice what people miss.”
Her throat tightened.
“Why?”
There was a pause on his end. For the first time, Tyriq did not answer quickly. When he spoke, the swagger was still there, but quieter now, not gone so much as set aside out of respect for the dark.
“Because people missed a lot with me.”
Ivy’s chest changed shape around the sentence. She could picture him then, not at the party, not gilded by chandeliers and dressed in black, but somewhere younger, somewhere before the industry had begun sharpening its teeth around him, learning to stand tall because being overlooked had taught him the cost of shrinking. It was only a glimpse, but it was enough to remind her that his confidence was not empty decoration. It had been built. Maybe out of talent. Maybe out of survival. Maybe out of the stubborn refusal to wait for permission.
“Tyriq,” she said again, softer this time.
He exhaled through the line.
“Say my name like that again and I’m gon’ start thinking you miss me.”
“I don’t know you well enough to miss you.”
“You know me well enough to call.”
“You gave me your number.”
“You still had to use it.”
Ivy laughed quietly, tipping her head back against the headboard.
“You are not letting me have anything tonight.”
“I let you have no at the bar.”
The reminder settled over her. Gentle. Respectful. Heavy.
“Yes,” she said, quieter. “You did.”
“I meant what I said.”
“I know.”
“No,” he said. “I want you to really know. I’m confident, Ivy, not careless.”
The distinction moved through her like warm rain. She was silent long enough that the city seemed to grow louder beyond the glass, sirens in the distance, traffic murmuring below, the whole island breathing beneath its bright skin.
“I’m not easy,” she said at last.
Tyriq’s answer came without hesitation.
“I didn’t come over because I thought you were.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“I have a life.”
“I figured.”
“A full one.”
“I hope so.”
“I have a career, history, scars, habits I’m too old to explain, and a very low tolerance for being embarrassed.”
“I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“You might anyway.”
“Then I’d fix it.”
Her brows drew together.
“You say that like it’s simple.”
“No,” he said. “I say it like I’m willing.”
Willing. That word landed differently. Not promising perfection. Not selling fantasy. Just willingness, which Ivy had learned was rarer than love in some men. Love could be declared. Willingness had to show up on ugly days, had to carry groceries, had to listen without turning defensive, had to stand still when someone else’s fear came dressed as attitude. She did not know Tyriq well enough for that word to matter. And still, it did.
“You’re twenty-seven,” she said again, but this time the sentence sounded less like a warning and more like the last wall trying to remember what it had been built for.
Tyriq hummed softly.
“And you’re thirty-five.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“I can count, Ivy.”
She laughed, and the sound came easier now, slipping into the room like light under a door.
“You’re so annoying.”
“You called me.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I should.”
“You should.”
Neither of them moved toward goodbye. The silence became something else then, not empty, not awkward, but thick with the intimacy of two people standing on opposite shores and realizing the tide between them was coming in. Ivy could hear faint noise behind him now, distant voices, a low pulse of music, something that sounded like an elevator chime or a lobby door opening. He was not in a bedroom. Not fully alone. Wherever he was, he had stepped away from someone, from something, to answer her.
“Where are you?” she asked.
“Downstairs.”
Ivy sat up slowly. Her robe slipped further off one shoulder, but she did not fix it.
“Downstairs where?”
A pause.
Then, softly, with that same maddening calm, “Your hotel.”
Her heart gave one hard, foolish beat.
“Tyriq.”
“I’m not at your door,” he said immediately, and there it was again, the restraint arriving before her fear could dress itself properly. “I’m not pressing you. I’m in the lobby because my agent booked me here too, and because I told myself if you called, I’d ask if I could see you again before the night ended.”
Ivy stared at the window, at her own reflection caught inside the city lights.
“You were going to ask?”
“Yeah.”
“And if I said no?”
“I’d go upstairs, take my ass to sleep, and try again another day.”
“Another day?”
“I told you I was determined.”
She closed her eyes, but that only made his voice closer.
“You are impossible,” she whispered.
“I’m downstairs, Ivy.”
The sentence was quiet. No command. No demand. Just truth. And somehow that made it worse, because truth left room for choice, and choice meant Ivy could not blame anyone else for what her pulse did next. She stood from the bed. Slowly. Bare feet sinking into the carpet. Phone still pressed to her ear. Across the room, the city glittered like an altar built to bad decisions and beautiful consequences.
“I’m not dressed for company,” she said.
Tyriq’s voice lowered.
“I ain’t company.”
Her breath caught. The line hummed. She could imagine him in the lobby beneath her, still in that black suit, maybe tie loosened now, maybe one hand in his pocket, maybe looking too large for the elegant furniture, too alive for the curated quiet, waiting with the patience of a tide that knew the moon had already turned.
“Ivy,” he said.
She swallowed.
“Yes?”
“Tell me to come up.”
Her hand tightened around the phone. The whole room seemed to hold its breath with her. And then, just as her lips parted, there was a soft knock at the door.
tags : @mamasturn @sheinaskirt @authentic-girl03 @k0niiii-blog @trustmymood @glizzymcguirex @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @blackfemreaderr @blckblossom @trustmymood @unicoo @yourleogf @uniqueoutlierblog @og-goddesstrill @determinednot2fall @melaninhawtie @xoadaraox @thatssokarii @kirayuki22 @the1miscief @plan3tch1ld @daliscrim @szatears @that-one-anxious-mango @sonder-slut @saintaquarius (lmk if you wanted to be added or removed )
Penelope wishes she could get rest. Insomnia doesn’t even begin to describe her inability to sleep. She’s tried it all, melatonin, hypnosis, sleeping pills, you name it. On her last straw, she visits her best friend, Georgia who has something that just might work. But, she doesn’t warn Penelope about the vivid dreams that accompany it…
Miles Allam is a wealthy, respected man who feels nothing. His marriage to the elegant, calculating Celine is a performance polished over years -- a partnership hollowed out by distance, routine, and a past affair they never fully recovered from. When the first anonymous letter arrives, they become the only honest conversations in his life. For six months, Miles and the mysterious Drew exchange letters -- intimate but never explicit. But when Drew finally asks to meet, Miles is aware that everything is about to change and the stakes are even higher.
Chapter Synopsis:
Miles finally meets the woman who has lived in the back of his mind for months. Drew Santos is a dream come true and although she's captivating...things aren't exactly what they seem.
Warnings: mentions of infidelity, broken marriage, lies (the LIES!!!)
!!! IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, YOU SHOULD NOT BE READING THIS !!!
!!! SPOILERS FOR S4 OF THE MORNING SHOW !!!
Word Count: 3.6k
The champagne tasted like metal. The bitterness made Miles grimace after a single sip. Just as quickly as he’d picked the glass up by its spine, he set it back on a passing waiter’s tray.
Maybe it was the lighting. Or maybe it was the fact that his wife stood three inches to his right, speaking to a CFO neither of them could stand, pretending she wasn’t the leper of the room. Either way, he was bored. He’d been bored for so fucking long—almost two years now. The aftermath of his affair with Stella hadn’t been pretty, but it was a hell of a lot better than watching Celine get kicked out of UBN and her name practically whitewashed from the Dumont family tree.
Instead of leaving him, she clung to him. And foolishly, he had clung back. Out of guilt? Out of loyalty? He didn’t know. Whatever the reason, he had stayed. They had done their best to move forward—therapy, public displays, glossy magazine spreads, adopting a child who needed a family. But trust had been shattered. Destroyed. All that lay between them now were lies and tattered reputations.
Two years of pretending. Pretending she was still the woman who once ran a conglomerate and not a bored housewife. Pretending he was upright and devoted instead of wondering why he was playing a part when all he wanted was to be himself. The man he used to be.
His thoughts flickered to Drew then. A woman he had never met. Somehow she knew him better than his wife did. The beginning threads of guilt tugged at his chest, but he stamped them out ruthlessly and let himself think about the letters instead—six months of writing about everything and nothing at all. He wondered if she would be just as easy to talk to in person. If her presence would match the warmth in her handwriting. If she was even here tonight.
An hour had passed, and he hadn’t seen a hint of the face that appeared when he’d searched her name. Was it the wrong girl?
Miles scanned the ballroom for the fifteenth time. And then he saw her. She stood at the far end of the bar -- a gorgeous forest green dress that split at her thigh and trailed down the rest of her long legs. She wore black, lacy gloves that stretched up to her biceps. That curly hair was smoothed and placed in a bun at the back of her head. As much as he had scanned the room, she seemed to be doing the same. The bartender was saying something to her and it made a soft smile curve her mouth but her gaze remained looking around the room. Finally, her eyes landed on him. Slowly, her smile widened. Not too brightly but just enough for him to say he hadn't been wrong. She was Drew.
Just like that, the lights felt slightly less offensive. His shoulders loosened. He drew a breath that he hoped Celine wouldn’t notice and quietly made his excuses. Before he could move away, Celine's slim fingertips wrapped around his wrist. She touched him lovingly, stroking at his pulse point but he saw the strain in her eyes as she stopped him. Miles leaned in, kissed her cheek, and whispered -- his tone agitated and impatient. "I have to piss, Lina. Surely, I can do that much alone?"
Celine slowly released him and smiled. "Hurry back." It was spoken sweetly, longingly, but he heard the demand underneath. Instead of arguing, Miles nodded and kissed the palm of her hand before practically fleeing from the conversation. With the practiced ease of a liar, he did head toward the bathroom -- his stride unhurried and relaxed. But he quickly redirected and moved to grab another glass of champagne. It tasted as bad as the one before. Carefully, he circled the room -- moving counterclockwise to his wife's position -- until he ended up at the other end of the bar.
Drew hadn't moved an inch since their eyes met and she followed every move he made. His hand lifting for the bartender's attention, the cash he laid on the bar as a tip, the small sips he took of the good bourbon. "Mr. Allam?" she asked gently.
"Miles." he corrected, tilting his head as he kept her gaze. "You must be Drew."
Immediately, she moved down the bar. Her steps were languid and smooth. When she extended her hand to him, he almost laughed. It felt so formal when they knew each other on another level. He shook her hand politely.
"I'm glad we could meet." she said so softly that it charmed him. "I wasn’t sure you’d come. Busy man."
"I wanted to meet the friend I made through letters." he admitted.
"You're much taller than I thought you would be."
"I've heard that before."
"Have you?"
"All my life. Have you met many short artists?"
"Too many to count." she laughed.
He felt his gut churn. She was delightful and he liked it. Sudden regrets echoed in his head but it was too late to walk away. He was here with her and he suddenly wasn't bored anymore. He took another sip of his drink to steady himself. It didn’t help.
"Well, you’re not what I thought you’d be either."
"What did you think I’d be?" she asked curiously.
"Older. You write like it." he said, meaning it. "Wiser, maybe."
"Wiser?" She wrinkled her nose and he felt his gut clench. "Please. You’re the one who writes like a philosopher."
Miles smiled at the compliment, his gaze dropping to the bar and then redirecting. "I only wrote truths."
"You talk about art like poetry," she corrected him. "You made my sister think I had a secret admirer."
Miles filed the information about her sister away and leaned forward to murmur softly. "Did you pretend I was?"
"For a moment," she admitted. "Before I remembered…your wife."
Her gaze flicked across his face, studying him openly as he stood there – speechless. He could feel her eyes like fingertips on skin.
"I…am married." He replied lamely, knowing it was an idiotic thing to say. She already knew that.
"Mhm."
"But…"
"There’s always a but with a married man."
Despite how firm her words were, there was a smile on her face. He shook his head, more at himself than at her. "It’s not what it sounds like."
The hum of the gala surrounded them but he heard none of it. Only her.
"I wasn’t looking for --" He stopped, because even he didn’t believe the sentence. "I didn’t mean this to become --"
"I understand."
"Do you?"
"Mhm. You were looking for something you didn’t have."
Miles hesitated before responding. "And…what were you looking for?"
"I was curious," she answered. "I was looking for answers about the man who wrote like he was lonely."
Her words cut deep. They weren’t cruel but they were true. Miles felt the ground shift under him, a quiet shift that he couldn’t deny.
"And now that you’ve met the man?" he asked.
"Now I understand why you wrote such beautiful things. You don’t say them out loud. Not to the person you should."
He waited for more, breath caught in his chest. Drew looked down, that same smile returning and he watched her shoulders rise and fall with grace. He noticed everything about her.
"If you can’t say them to her…" she whispered, "I’ll let you keep saying them to me."
The chemistry that sparked between them turned into a flame. Small but damn near undeniable. He told himself not to engage with this. Shut it down. Don’t let history repeat itself. But as she moved from the bar, he found himself following. It was only a few steps to the right but it was as if they had shifted locations entirely.
She asked thoughtful questions but never crossed a line. Never leaning too close. She was careful – god, so careful. And yet the air between them carried change. A charge that was going to turn into several reckless mistakes. He knew that much.
It was only when her gaze strayed over his shoulder did he shake himself from the fantasy. He followed her gaze and met his wife’s gaze. She wasn’t angry. Not suspicious. But curious. Somehow that’s worse. It means she’s paying attention.
"I should let you return to your evening," she says and he can tell by the look on her face that she’d rather do anything but let him go. "Thank you, Miles. For the conversation."
He knows he shouldn’t say it but the words fall out of his mouth like they’ve been waiting behind my teeth. "Tomorrow. Have lunch with me. If you’re free." Her eyes soften. Something like triumph sparks there and it makes him smile to know he wasn’t the only one who wanted it. Or triumph.
"I'd like that," she says. "Where?"
"Here?" He proposes and she shakes her head.
"Let me take you to the best pizza joint in New York." she says with a smile.
"Lombardi’s?"
"God no." Drew wrinkles her nose and it’s like she turns into a different woman. Not poised, not so elevated. It makes her even more appealing. "Ace's. In Brooklyn. Around two?"
He has no idea where it is but he nods, agreeing.
"Goodnight, Miles."
"Goodnight, Drew."
He was far more charming than she expected. Then again -- a serial adulterer had to be charming, didn't he? She let the thought settle with a slow, amused smile as she slips her leather trench over her shoulders. Miles Allam had walked right up to her like a dream from a classic film. When their eyes had met, she was surprised to feel a jolt to her system but chalked it up to -- pretty man staring. She watched him kiss his wife's cheek and walk away but she knew that he was on his way to her. His eyes were tired but bright. His body language open but wary. Vulnerable in that expensive suit of his. He wanted her and he didn't bother to hide it very well.
God, he was going to be so easy.
She stepped into the marble hallway of the Ritz, heels tapping in a soft, unhurried rhythm. Thoughts of Miles Allam hadn't left her mind. In record time, he had damn near pissed on her to mark his territory. A lunch date. Tomorrow. She knew just how to turn that into dinner, breakfast, and then dinner again. Just as she reached the revolving door, her phone buzzed.
The name on the screen was simply a letter: N. A grin graced her lips as she slid the bar aside and answered. "I'm just leaving."
"Well?" The voice came across the line. Impatient and expectant. Her cousin, Naima, had the patience of a damn gnat. "Is he bite-sized or do we need a bigger net?"
"Damn. You don't have any faith in me."
"You know I do. I just want to know if we should shift gears."
"Naima."
"Lucky."
The name her cousin utters is another jolt -- a reminder that she wasn't the sticky sweet and blushing Drew Santos that she'd been pretending to be. Luciana "Lucky" Carter was the name she'd been born with and only people who'd been there the last time she scraped her damn knee could call her that.
"He invited me to lunch tomorrow." she says into the phone and Naima cheers, bringing a smile to Lucky's mouth.
"I know that's right, cuz!"
"I know we can't exactly take this slow but he's cautious." Lucky warns her, moving toward the curb where the uber waits for her. "I know what angle to play. He likes the idea of me. Won't be hard to get him where we want him but we have to finesse it."
"Good." She hears Naima sigh before continuing to speak. "This one should be simple. My contact says Celine’s desperate. She wants her spot back at UBA, and she’ll do anything to get it. Including paying us to fuck off after her husband gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar...again."
She slides into the backseat, closing the door behind her. "You decide how much we'll ask for?"
"We can't be too greedy. A million dollars should do it."
"Way to not be greedy."
Naima laughs. "Please. She's got it so spare. I still think we should ask for more."
"You saw what Celine Dumont did to the last bitch that pissed her off. You not about to get me sent to lockup in another country or find me at the bottom of a damn ravine in my car."
"I'd never let anything happen to you. Carter girls stick together."
Lucky leans her head back, letting the city blur past the window. A long line of family history sits behind her eyes -- scams on the side of Washington Heights streets, running from the cops, slipping little trinkets from stores into her pocket to the claps and pride of her parents. A family full of pickpockets, charmers, thieves. A dynasty of ghosts who made their living off other people’s negligence. She didn't want to live small like her parents did. That's where she and her cousin were most alike. They wanted everything. Not just a piece of the pie.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll keep him close," she says. "But we're sticking to a milli."
"Fine. But not too close," Naima warns. "He's temporary."
"I know exactly what he is. I've been running cons longer than you. I'll be there in a minute."
Miles and Celine arrived home to a silence that felt tense. He had felt it when he returned to her side after Drew took. All night, he kept imagining the brown eyed girl who had shyly agreed to meet him tomorrow. She contrasted with his wife in every single way and it was difficult to put Drew back into that secret little box of his mind. She had been a temptation on paper only until tonight. Celine slipped out of her heels and as they clattered to the floor, Miles forced himself to put Drew out of his mind until Celine wasn't around.
He loosened his bowtie, already feeling the night dragging. He draped his jacket over a chair, hoping they could move past the evening without dissecting it. But Celine turned to him, her voice a touch too casual. "Who was she?"
Miles stiffened. "I don't know. A woman who likes art? We were talking about that and…how boring the party was." The lie came to him so easily that it made him feel guilty. With Stella, he didn't have to lie. Celine had been far too busy to even ask. She suspected, she snooped, she discovered the truth. But she had never asked him about her. Not until the end. He could feel her staring at his face, scanning for a lie.
"Miles, don't do that."
"Do what?" he asked evenly, tugging the tie the rest of the way free.
"Lie." Her voice dipped. "We are on the precipice of our lives being destroyed. We should be a united front, not talking to strangers in public like we have nothing to lose."
He didn’t have a reply -- at least not one that would make anything better. Annoyance pricked at him, hot and immediate. He had cheated with Stella but she'd done the same with that bastard Cory. The same Cory who had not only stabbed her in the back but was the very reason she had to scrape and claw her way back to at least a normal social standing. The conversation felt like quicksand: one wrong step and he’d sink straight into another argument neither of them had the strength for.
He simply exhaled, turned toward the staircase, and said, "I'm not doing this with you again. I'm going to check on the baby."
She opened her mouth to retort but it was as if the exhaustion of pretending all night had wiped her out. She huffed and shook her head before leaving -- heading toward the kitchen. He knew a bottle of wine awaited her and he'd either have to carry her to bed or smell it on her tongue when she kissed him goodnight. Just like every other night.
His footsteps softened the higher he climbed up the stairs. The world softened there. Their daughter slept curled around her stuffed rabbit, cheek pressed to the pillow, small breaths steady and untroubled. It had been Celine's idea to adopt a child. Miles refused because he knew this child was a walking, talking publicity stunt but eventually he relented. His wife wanted her for selfish reasons and so did he -- He didn't want to live in this damn house alone. She was only four and had been with them two years but Angelina Allam had been a godsend. Miles stood in the doorway for longer than necessary, letting the warmth of the moment settle into him. Here, at least, it didn't feel like he was walking through a minefield.
He left her shortly after, heading to the bedroom. Celine was still downstairs. The hot water of the shower erased the tension in his shoulders. He forgot the tension in the car, the look on Celine’s face when she’d spotted him talking to Drew, and the way he felt when Drew walked away. When he finally exited, Celine was in bed. Her eyes were closed but he knew she wasn't asleep. She was already turned onto her side, facing the large window of their penthouse. He settled onto his pillow and tried to sleep but his mind drifted.
It drifted toward Drew Santos -- that soft smile, her bright eyes, the way she’d seemed to understand him too quickly, too easily. There had to be a catch with this woman. A man like him didn't deserve an angel and he didn't think God was going to send him one anytime soon.
The diner sat at the corner of a quiet street, its neon sign flickering like a tired eyelid. Lucky slipped into a vinyl booth in the back. The seat hissed beneath her, the old cushioning not holding up the way it should have. It was decades old though so she knew not to expect luxury. She and Naima had been coming there since they were kids. The old man who owned it was damn near a grandfather to them. She scanned the joint, looking for him, when the bell over the door chimed.
It was Nai -- pushing through the door with a breeze of confidence. Her cousin was strikingly gorgeous, wild and free in a way that Lucky envied. She had cheekbones for days, full lips that she also envied, and gorgeous almond shaped eyes. They were technically stepcousins, her mother had moved from Alabama and married Lucky's uncle, but the girls damn near felt like siblings.
"How the hell did I beat you here?" Lucky asked as Naima slid into the booth.
"I was with my contact." Naima shot back. "Getting every bit of info from him that I could. So...you're welcome." She stuck her tongue out and Lucky couldn't help but laugh. They ordered sundaes, like the ten year olds they used to be, before the night shifted from casual to strategic.
Naima leaned in, chin on her hand. "Tell me everything about tonight. What’s the marriage like? Is he really sexy? You think he'll go for you?"
"Yes." Lucky replied, licking her spoon. She spoke confidently, so assured that Miles Allam was already gone for her. "They're together but it's fragile. They taped that shit back up but they used the cheap shit. You can see it's already peeling. There's strain."
Naima nodded, unsurprised. "Max said as much."
Lucky’s mouth twisted at the name. Maxwell St. John. Illegitimate son of Celine Dumont's father. He was in line for a baron’s title thanks to his mother’s aristocratic lineage but he would get nothing from the Dumonts. He was bitter, entitled, and eager for chaos. For what reason, Lucky didn't know. But she didn't trust his ass at all.
"You need to be careful with him." Lucky murmured. "He's unstable and opportunistic. Just like his damn sister."
"That's perfect for us. The man would sell his own shadow if it got him closer to his inheritance."
"Yeah but for every action, there's a reason and a reaction. What does selling his half-sister out get him? He isn't getting the inheritance. He's not even on her radar. So how does this benefit him?"
"I don't know. Maybe he's feeling petty? Jealous that she and her brother get the attention and he's got nothing but a rinky dink ass baron title?"
Lucky frowned. She didn't like that Maxwell St. John was a question mark but she trusted Naima to deal with him.
"Alright. You deal with him. Your part sounds easy. Mine…not so much. Celine’s paranoid."
"She should be. Her husband's a whore."
"Yeah but we don't want to get on her radar too soon."
"True. If she even suspects you’re circling Miles before you’ve got him hooked, she could shut this shit down."
"I'm working on it. Miles Allam is already halfway there."
Naima’s eyes sparkled with interest. "That fast?"
"You talking to a pro, baby girl." She dropped her voice, mimicking her own father and Naima laughed, identifying the joke easily. "He’s lonely. He wants connection. I’ll have him wrapped around my finger in a week, contemplating leaving his wife after a month, and willing to give me anything in two months."
Naima smiled. "Well, cuz. To your success."
"To our success." Lucky answered.
Hot fudge slid down the sides of the glass bowls as they toasted. Sweet. Warm. Messy. Exactly how their cons always started.
I'll Take Care Of It ~ Rapper! Jabber X Black Fem Reader
Summary: Jay can't catch a break from life hitting him from both all sides of the field, he's been avoiding you so he can avoid his feelings and now that you got him cornered at your own house, you get the truth and and something else while you're at it.
Song List that is HIGHLY recommended along with a blunt and a drink for those that do indulge, we gon be here for a minute
1. Nobody Else-Summer Walker
2. TBH- PartyNextDoor
3. On The Way-Jhene Aiko, Mila J
4. No Feelings-MO3
5. Feels So Right Lloyd
6. So Anxious- Ginuwine
One thing you have to sacrifice in this life when you’re a celebrity is your time and most importantly your energy, it takes a toll on even some of the biggest stars in the market. You had to go through the waves, Eren had it pretty bad and now America’s newest artist has to taste what it’s like dealing with a hectic schedule and scandals being thrown at him from all angles.
He wasn't handling it as well as Eren thought he would.
"Jay! JaytheRula! Jay over here! What happened on tour that made you cancel the remaining dates?"
"Jabber! Is it true you're the special guest for Y/n's performance at the VMAS?"
"Jay!Jay!! How are you taking the critics saying your new single "Ice Prison" flopped on the charts?"
"Can you back the fuck UP? Ya'll watch me shit in the bathroom if you could! Move the fuck out my way!" He shouted, pushing a camera to the ground.
The interviews were give and take, some of them shone Jabber in a decent light and the others questioned his purpose of becoming a rapper.
"That's enough of the basics, let's get into the real tea! What's been going on between you and Y/n? Ya'll have been spotted leaving the club real late and even got a few pics of you in Bora Bora on what looks like a baecation-"
"Ain't you supposed to be asking about my craft and you wondering if I fucked Y/n in Bora Bora?" He cuts, scrunching his face up.
"No! No! Jay these are question from the fa-
"What them cards saying? Let me see!" He exclaimed, snatching the pink cards with the swiped of his hand.
"Are you sleeping with- Are you still cool- Do you think you can beat Eren in rap- Why the fuck do ya'll keep asking them same dumbass questions? ERENNN!!"
"We're gonna have to cut to commercial I'm so-
"Cut this shit, this bitch ain't asking me nothing important!"
And to top things all off, he couldn't come to terms about how he truly felt about you. Eren somewhat got his shit together for the 15th time which meant you weren't spending the little free time you had with him and that tore something new inside of Jabber's heart.
Some of his boys clowned him for catching feelings for a rising female artist and tried to cloud his thoughts by dragging him to strip clubs, hiring hookers the whole 9 to get him to feel better but nothing could compare to the satisfying feeling of laying across your lap feeling your acrylics scratch into his scalp, holding you after letting out all your emotions about Eren, having his stomach full of good warm food, and hearing you call out his name while he's digging you on in his bed.
He was hooked on a girl he technically could have but to fuck up everything he's built so far on a chance at being with you was something he couldn't risk so he avoided you all together.
Until he couldn't.
~
"Should we have him standing beside me or have him behind?" You asked, turning your next over to your choreographer with her arms crossed staring at your background dancers with a raised brow.
"If he's not gonna participate why did you tell him to meet us at rehersals?" Daija mumbled, leaning in closer while cutting her eyes at the annoyed dreadhead sitting in a chair by the mirrored wall with his head resting in his hands, a mean mug look in face as he scrolled on his phone.
"Eren did! We got to perform at the VMA'S in 2 weeks! I'm not gonna ask him what's wrong, that would be pointless and risk him walking out. If he doesn't want to fix his image, that's him! We've got shit to do.." You whispered back, telling the girls to take 5.
"So we have this nigga sitting the entire performance?"
"I've tried to talk to him Daija! I don't know what the fuck has gotten into him and I'm done trying. Eren said he was going to have some sort of talk with him but I don't think that's gonna work..."
"Talked like how? Just straight up asked him what's wrong?"
"Yeah..tried to be sneaky about it..I tried smoking with him to get him to open up but I'm not a nosy bitch to go and pry in some nigga's life!"
"Moscato and I'm talking about the cheapest one you can find unless you wanna get something you actually like drinking. 40$ says he cries.." She whispered back before joining the other girls to take a breather from the obvious tension in the room.
The pink eyed man sucked his teeth as he got up from the chair, mumbling nonsense as he tried to walk out the door.
"Jay.."
"I'm not trying to talk.."
"What the fuck did I do to you?" You said in a tone sharper than you expected but you were fed up! He's been avoiding you, leaving you on read. You told him that shit was gonna get crazy and how things were going between you and Eren so going back in your memory files he shouldn't have a reason to act so fucking stank to you!
"Look Y/N, nothing too deep just.." He paused, like he was going to end the conversation there but he stepped back, taking a deep breath while pushing his locs back with both of his hands. "I can't talk to you right now.."
"Why not Jay? You've been acting out for months! Nobody can get a hold of you, you fighting niggas out of the blue like what the fuck?"
"You don't know nothing about what I got going on!"
"I don't want too! I just want to ease or help out whatever it is! I keep telling you I don't need details Jay!"
"It ain't no 'easing' to this shit Y/n! Niggas in my ass about shit every goddamn day and now you questioning me about shit too! I should be asking yo indecisive ass some questions!" He slipped.
"About what?!"
"Nothing bruh nothing, I can't do this shit.." He scoffed.
"We got a whole song out Jabber! You can't keep avoiding me! JAY!" You shouted, your voice bouncing off the echoed walls. There was no way you and him could work like this, Daija's idea floated around in your mind, thinking about giving him a stress free day but getting him to do anything in this state was like trying to get a horse to put on a pair of pants.
You let out an aggravated grunt throwing your hands up out of frustration going to do what you do best whenever you can’t figure anything out.
Call Eren.
*rrrinnggggggg*
“Baby I’m in the middle of a-something right now can it-
“No it can’t wait! Jay ain’t doing right and you know it! Where’s your focus at Eren?”
“I’m over here dealing with the backlash of his temper tantrums now! Do you know how much shit his outbursts cost?!” He shouted over the phone. “I have to deal with paying these people their money back for the stage and the people who paid for tickets for his tour! Apologize to them for Jay and Semaj getting into that big ass fight, and deal with how to get that interviewing lady not sue his ass for assault! So my focus is on that dumbass. I don't want to hear shit else about him!”
“Eren doesn’t this sound a little familiar?! You were once a rising artist dealing with all of this shit too! I’m not taking his side for what he’s done but don’t you think it’s something deeper than that?”
“Okay? I went through the waves, you went through it and now he gotta put his big boy pants on and deal with the shit too!”
“EJJ..next ones on youuu..who you talking to?” A softer voice giggles in the background
“Eren, where are you?!”
“Call me back if he’s still not acting right, another outburst like that and I'm considering something else..”
“Considering what?!? Eren where the fuck are you?”
*click*
“Both of these niggas acting weird? Are you serious?” You shouted, wanting to throw your phone on the ground but instead you tossed your head back to look up to the sky ready to cuss out whoever was up there listening.
Yari pops her head back into the dance room, her pink curls shaking with every head movement. “Y/n, Jay left the building— said he needed a moment and that was 5–10 minutes ago..”
“Just let him go..bring everybody back in..” You said with a sigh, taking another deep breath to hide the huge amount of anger boiling in your throat.
It was too much at stake to chase after a man who doesn’t wish to be chased, there was no doubt you still had some feelings towards Eren but with the weight Jabber’s putting on your heart you didn’t know what felt real anymore.
Eren wore you on his arm like a cuban piece while Jabber held onto you like nothing else mattered. You assumed since he allowed you to be so open with him that he would soften up and do the same but that’s where you and him differ. You had a lot of learning to do before you could make another attempt at seeing what was on Jay’s heart.
~
1 Week before the VMAS
“Y/nnnn perk up!” Yari said, jingling around in her outfit as people swarmed around you trying to get by and take pictures with you.
“Thank you so much for being here!” You said softly to a couple of people walking past, shaking a few hands.
You and Jabbers music video dropped last night and it’s been the only thing the people have been talking about with your name being #2 trending on Twitter and Jabbers being number #1 for something other than a physical altercation.
You decided to throw a little watch party in your back yard knowing Jabber wouldn’t show his face no matter how good the people saw him again, it was a feeling you were all too familiar with so you understood why he’s deciding to take a step away.
“They both not here, Eren or Jay..” You started, taking a glass of champagne from a server walking by.
“That’s what you’re worried about? Y/N! It’s one of the greatest nights and you’re focused on them..” She said with a whine in her voice.
“One of them is literally on the projector and the other produced it! I’m saving face as best as I can but..Yari I’m hurt..” You said with a defeated tone, going back to check your phone for the millionth time like an insane lunatic, hoping for a phone call, a text message, anything from either of them.
“Aht give me that!” Liyah said, walking up to the front of the projector where you and Yari stood, swiping your phone from your hands and stuffing it in the bust of her outfit.
“Y’all are really comfortable snatching my phone for some reason..”
“It’s got your mind in the wrong places! You have all different types of niggas in here and you worried about EJ and Jay, just do what you normally do!”
“I don’t want to do that no more Liyah! That’s the thing!”
“So what’s the issue? You said everything with you and Eren was fine and that Jay was cool with taking a break!” Yari chimed in, taking a sip out of her glass.
“I haven’t spoken to Eren since last week, Mika’s been handling my schedule..” You said dryly, swirling the champagne in your glass before tossing the remaining liquid back with one swig.
“Y/N!” They both exclaim.
“I’m already in the works with getting her to be my manager I know I know!! I’m so done with Eren’s shit..”
“And with Jay?” Liyah said with hope.
“Shit is complicated with Jay right now, ion know where his head is at. I want to make something work but with Eren in the way and him being so damn unpredictable I don’t know where to start!”
“You can start now..” Liyah said, finishing her glass of champagne, noticing few people turning their heads towards the fence door.
You look in the direction everyone turned to, watching a familiar figure walk in through the brown gate. Wearing a simple fitted white tee, a small silver link chain with a light purple zip up jacket open to show his grey sweats, he took a moment to adjust them upwards as he made his way through the mini crowd forming around him.
This made you point out the imprint of a piece of metal he’d always have on him when he came over, it made a small shiver shoot in a direction it wasn’t supposed to, letting your mind wander to a place you hadn’t been in while.
You saw a flash of his teeth when he smiled to take a picture with one of the people on the yard, his eyes had a pinkish tone showing he smoked a bit before he came and he had his silver grill in today, all of the memories you were forced to put in the back of your mind, overwhelmed you with just one look at him.
You missed seeing him like this so much.
“Uh uh, TALK to him..” Liyah said with the snap of her fingers, lowering her voice as the tall figure approached all three of you.
You put on your professional face and gave him a small smile and a side hug while he dapped up Liyah and gave Yari a hug.
“Thank you for stopping by Jay..” You spoke up.
“Didn’t wanna disappoint my fans and I guess I came to show some support..” He said, flashing that silver smile.
“I need something a little heavier than this cute champagne you got..” Yari said, finishing her glass looking towards Liyah with a look.
“In the cabinet beside the fridge, Liyah you wanna help her out?” You said with a small giggle, looking to her with the same look Yari was giving her saying “let me talk to this nigga..”
“I’ll bring you a cup..” She said with a tone that said “i’ll give in” walking off with Yari, turning around to mouth the words “TALK TO HIM” jumping at you before turning around to catch up with the pink haired girl.
You mentally rolled your eyes before focusing back on the pink eyed man standing in front of you.
“Is there something else you need? Once they bring the cake out I’m gonna call it night..” You said, rubbing your gloss lips together trying to look anywhere but in his face.
“You don’t mind if I kick it with you tonight? I know how you feeling about last week and..uh..damn..”
He was..nervous! For the first time you saw his guard crack, just a hairline fracture showing you something other than the superstar persona he was trying so hard to keep up with, only for a moment.
“Jabber, I’m not gonna force you to ‘fess up about what’s going on, especially with everybody in here coming up to us, wanting to be in our space…just know I understand where you coming from.” You started off, using the adrenaline from what felt like anxiety to say what you had on your chest.
“Do you Y/n? The fame I mean yeah..but it’s shit deeper than that..”
“You keep saying that! What’s so deep about you laying up with me Jay?”
“You’n think that shit does something to a nigga?” He spat, walking closer to you with a hint of a whine laced in his throat, it made a shiver cross over between your legs hearing his voice lower as somebody came up to get a picture of you and Jay together.
*ding*
A lightbulb went off in your noggin as all the dots of what’s been happening connected like hooking up a DVD player to the TV. You had hopeful thoughts that Jay might’ve caught something towards you after all this time, you found yourself going out with Eren daydreaming about being out with Jay, certain smells in the mall reminded you of him and to top it all off you and Jay started taking trips out of the country which ended the both of you in Media tabloids under hot water which was another reason for the break in the first place!
Neither of you wanted to be the first one to admit it.
Stubborn asses.
“We can continue this after all these people leave Jay..you can stay tonight..” You said, as the girl walked off only to be replaced by Daija coming up with a big ass bottle of wine with a bow wrapped around the neck.
“Hey love, I just came by to drop this off..” She said with a questioning smile.
“Oh you didn’t have too! Really..” You said with a giggle as she gave Jay a side hug.
“Is this what y’all be drinking? I can’t pronounce that shit..” Jay said, taking the bottle from the girl to read the cursive writing, leaving the two of you so he could network his way back into good graces.
“Daija..” You said with a wide eyed expression. “I had my own stuff in the fridge!”
“And this is to replace it! We got a week left till the VMA’s and I got 40$ to put in my pocket..”
“I got somewhere! He’s staying with me tonight!”
“No Y/N don’t fuck him, get him to be vulnerable!”
“Vulnerability leads to fucking!”
“Vulnerability leads to making love and that’s the problem with the both of you now!” Daija uttered, pausing as her tongue poked the side of her cheek, giggling to herself while she cut her eyes behind her shoulder sensing Jabber coming back to join the conversation.
“Uh uh, what the fuck is that look for?” You said in a hushed tone. “Daija!”
“You know my cashapp love!” She shouted, walking away with a laugh. Your ankles screamed at your body to sit the hell down and Jay must’ve caught wind since he had some slides pinched together in one hand and a red cup in the other.
“Hm, take them off..” He instructed, leaning down to tap your leg, signaling you to lift up your foot so he could untie it off. Instead of running your mouth to complain about him doing it, you stayed silent while he worked, feeling the sweet release of pressure fall off of your soles once you put your feet into the slides.
“And they bout to bring out the cake..”
“What, they sent you out here to collect me?”
“Something like that, saw you out here tiptoeing and leaning and I felt bad for them shoes..”
“You think you funny!” You laughed with a shove to his chest, that warm diamond encrusted smile coming back to haunt you.
Small moments like these made your heart melt for Jabber in a way you didn’t think could be possible, he seemed so out of reach at times which was the norm for somebody like him and you could hear it in his music. It wasn't like you could sit him down with a clipboard, give a cup of coffee and he'd start telling you his childhood story.
Jay needed a space to feel comfortable and you thought you were giving him that by doing what you usually did with Eren and that's where you went wrong. You wanted to reciprocate what Jabber had created for you, just for him. He grew to study you down to the last detail even by having your breakfast sent to the studio during those frustrating nights, maybe it is deeper than it seems.
Your heart burned going over every thought you could process all while keeping the energy of the rest of the party going until Yari, Daija and Liayh got too drunk in the living room during the "after party" with just you and your friends.
Jay called for their drivers while you started the cleaning process, a calming silence covering the house as Jay made sure they all got into the car safely as you rolled a nice wood to start everything off, Eren tried to convince you to hire maids but it was something personal to cleaning your own house with your own intentions.
"They got in okay?" You asked in between licks, standing in the kitchen in an oversized tee and some shorts, walking around barefoot.
"Yeahhh they drunk asses'll make it home.." He trailed off, walking back into the kitchen taking a moment to watch you finish off the wood, dragging a lighter under it before placing it between your lips, lighting the end as a thick cloud of yellow smoke emerges into the air.
"Damn.."
He couldn't get his eyes off of you, from the way your eyes had makeup leftover creating a messy but put together look on your face from dancing and laughing, your hair in a bonnet with a few strands lingering around your face and the way you had t shirt tied around your waist showing off the pudge poking out from the sides showing off your pierced belly button, he had a satisfied grin on his face as he licked his lips, images of you sprawled on the bed cursing his memory.
"Jay-baby you good?" Your voice broke through his thoughts, you had the lit wood in your hands passing it to him, a little woozy from the shots but you told yourself the weed would mellow you out.
"I'm straight.." He said, taking the blunt from you
"Bull, that tequila got you slipping!"
"Shutcho ass up, you been off yo ass since you wanna call somebody drunk." He said scrunching up his nose as he shoved you to the side, laughing at you tripping over your feet.
"Don't start with me, I gotta fix the house up, we got a lot of shit to do this week.." You giggled, shoving him back a little harder. Yeah you wanted him to be vulnerable but the nigga had to take accountability, with only 6 days left now he didn't have any choreography down or his words together! But the both of you were too nervous to bite the bullet on bringing the energy down to talk about it.
So instead, the two of you smoked, you washed the dishes while he took out the trash, danced around to the playlist you decided to put on with a mix of his songs and yours, he took a moment to head to your room to roll another wood while you swept the floor, leaving you alone with your thoughts as the playlist took a turn from playing the classics to slow R&B.
"Moscato and I'm talking the cheapest one you can find.."
"Shitttt the bottle!" You whispered out loud, dropping the broom on the hardwood floor, grabbing the pink bottle of wine and two glasses from the cabinet.
"Mama you good in there?!"
"I'm alive, I just dropped the broom! Bring it all out here with some of my blankets, I wanna watch a movie on the couch.." You shouted back, setting the glasses on the counter so you could pick the broom off the floor.
A few seconds later Jabber appears from the back with a blunt in his mouth a big ass black and white zebra print blanket draped over his body like a cape, as he threw himself on the giant couch, waiting for you to walk over to join him.
Why could you hear your heart banging outside of your eardrums? This wasn't the first time you and him were alone, or laying around with each other so why did this time feel so
"What we watching baby?" He called from the couch, lighting the blunt as you came around with the glasses in your hand and the wine bottle under your arm, sitting beside the dreadheaded man as he threw the blanket in the air to spread it out so it could cover your lower half.
"Something funny.." You spoke softly, fumbling with the top of the wine bottle, finally twisting the cap open so you could be cute and pour it into the glass but instead the pink eyed fool took the bottle from your hands by its neck, drinking the first few sips of its contents with a couple of gulps.
**
"Jay we supposed to be sipping on this! What we gon drink during the movie?" You said snatching the bottle back, only to copy him by taking a few swigs out of the bottle, humming to yourself at how sweet it was.
"You know damn well WE ain't watching no movie, i give yo ass 15 minutes, maybe even 20 you passing out right on my lap after we kill this bottle." He chuckled, snatching the bottle back.
"Unlike YOU! I've been up all night working so my sleep clock fucked up.."
You saw his face soften into a more solemn look, sneaking another sip out of the bottle as he leaned back on the couch. He knew you were playing around but it was a soft stab to the chest hearing how much you had to put in because of his unexplainable emotions.
"I'm sorry baby..last week was.."
"Alot I know Jay don't..."
"I got to..I..look.." He started off, taking another pull off the blunt before passing it to you. "I..fucked up..It's no other way to put it. I put too much shit on my head and it's coming back to kick me down while I'm already on rock bottom.."
You didn't interject with anything, you sat up with the blanket to let him ramble and get whatever he had off of his chest, exchanging the wine bottle and blunt back and forth.
"That dumbass nigga Semaj been my DJ since kids!! Since the box! Just for his ass to sell me out for some phony ass record deal! I never once put him down for NOTHING and he wanted to come at me before the show with brand new security like he a new man or something! Nobody wanted to point out the fact he had two dudes and had heat on me, nah it's "JaytheRula" attacks DJ Maj before his show tonight” None of them niggas know what the fuck happened!” There was a slur in his reactive speech as he continued on and his eyes fluttered under the weight of the wine slowly taking him down by the minute.
"You know they'll never have the full story.."
"They posting shit about that, dumb shit about Eren and the label, po-posting about me and you..They just won't let up, Jaytherula this, JaytheRula that.." A dry chuckle escapes his lips.
"Did the break mess you up too?" You questioned, finishing off the empty pink bottle, setting it in the cupholder in the middle of the couch. When you turned to look back at him,his eyes were already connected to your body, rubbing his lips together while keeping his bottom lip tucked.
"Y/n...I can't do that shit again.."
"Huh?"
"That whole break..had me bent..ma I tried to keep cool about it..All the bitches, all the lights and cameras don't hit like it used to. It don't even..don't even phase me no more...but.."
"But what Jay?" You wanted to hear him say it, you needed to hear his voice confirm what your heart fantasized about every time he left your arms to handle his business. It wasn’t dumb to say you were falling for Jay, it was dumb to keep this charade going knowing people would find out sooner or later.
“Y/N..i can’t see you with EJ no mo..” He breathed, holding onto the blanket over his lap. “I'm stingy, clingy..call it what the fuck you want..I want you..not for the night...no more late night studio sessions...none of that shit..If that get's me blackballed in the media ion give a fuck..everytime I walk out that fucking door I'm thinking about you.." He said with a crack in his voice, Daija knew what the fuck she was talking about!
It was something about the sudden desperation coating his pink irises staring back into your soul, the whimper stuck in his throat sending flashes of heat over your lower stomach, it felt so wrong to feel your body go against all of natures rules but so right listening to him confess how he wanted no- needed you to be with him.
"You bout the only thing in the rap game that makes any sense..I.." He swallows hard. "I ain't tryna trap you ..own you none of that...I see what they don't Y/N..ion give a fuck about what them blogs gotta say about youuu or me..I want you Y/n....I luh you.." He slurred, pulling you in to straddle his lap, moving the blanket out of the way just to put it back to cover the both of you.
"You really love me Jay?" You softly, a sharp pang hitting you in your chest looking back to the drunken boy staring up at you, his eyes glossed over as he bit his lip.
"How can I prove that shit to you ma? Ion want you to-to do nothing I'll-"
"Uh uh baby..I'll take care of it..I love you too Jabber.." Seeing him in this state shone a different light on the rapper you thought you had figured out,
"Don't leave me out here alone ma..do-do you got me?" He whimpered as his hands crawled up your sides, pushing you forward on the growing length you were trying to ignore.
"I always got you Jabber, you hear me baby? Mika's doing my paperwork with Eren too..i'll go through the fire if you coming with me.." You said breathlessly, snaking your fingers into his locs as he let out a satisfying gasp, feeling your acrylics itch over that spot. He let his head fall back on the couch as your lips softly pecked each other once..then again with another push coming from your hips earning a grunt from the pink eyed man.
"Lips feel so damn good.." He whispered, sliding his tongue inside so you could taste the sweetness of the wine still in his mouth.
"I'll show you how much I love you baby.." You moaned to him, rolling your hips on his now swollen length, his hands started to grab at you eagerly holding you by your sides alternating from your ass to your chest.
"I-I need that shit.." He panted, thrusting his hips up to earn just as much friction as you, a small whimper leaving his lips once you pulled from his mouth, a nasty line of saliva still connecting the two of you.
"I'm gon give it to you baby, keep going fa me.." You cooed to him, putting more emphasis in your movements so he could copy the rhythm, it was slow and intentional, your heart thumped out of your chest and into the shorts you were staining through.
“Ffuckkk keep talking to me like that.." He groaned, digging his nails into your skin to bring you closer to him, putting his plump lips back on yours kissing you like he wanted to suck your face off.
The tiny zaps made you tug on his hair, sending a pretty moan from him on your tongue, you wrapped your fingers deeper to keep him close as you rocked your hips on his now sticky bulge.
“I missed you so much baby..” You mumbled in between his lips, dragging your free hand down to tug at his night pants, pulling his heavy dick out and sliding your shorts to the side to rub his tip on your dripping cunt to collect the juices he helped you make.
“I-I missed you too—ohhh shittt..” Jabber threw his head back, his tip twitching inside of your core hitting that spot just right you didn’t want to move.
Positioning yourself on your knees, your hands found their way back into his hair, yanking him to look back in your direction tight, Jay’s eyes flickered before focusing on you with a scowl in his face.
“Who the fuck you feeling like?” He winced, a moan following after your cunt swallowed the rest of his shaft whole as you sat on his thick length.
“You sound good like that Jay..” You teased, raising your hips back up to start a steady pace. Your ass bounced on his thighs allowing ripples to fall on his fingers while he gripped onto you tight, he threw his hips back up with the same force pounding into you to try and throw you off.
“I sound good saying your name Y/n? Hm?”
“You feel how tight I get when you do baby? Fuck..”
“You squeezing me sssooo damn good mama..this fat ass bouncing on me—you miss this dick lil mama?”
“I miss you baby…just like that..” You groaned, using him and the back of the couch to keep your balance as you shoved your hips down on his tip, feeling his veins rub along your sensitive creamy walls. It was hot and your clit begged for something to graze up on her.
"I miss you so much ma.." He said softly, little hums coming from him with how smooth you cunt dropped on him, he rested a hand on your ass to guide your lips on his shaft, pulling you closer to his body.
"Doonnnnntt leavee me like that ma...please.."
"I won't baby.." You moaned back, your hips going up and down on his fat dick, pressing your lips back on his. Turning the cute pecks into a nasty make out, turning your head to the side to let your tongue play with his piercing.
Jabber let a few moans loose into your mouth, wrapping his lips around your tongue before pulling at your bottom lip with a hard bite, causing you to whine.
"You gon let me take care of it Daddy?" You said in between kisses.
"Lemme see you handle this dick ma.." He said, separating his lips with a line of saliva.
With no hesitation, you slowed down your movements to elevate your stance to get on your toes, impaling yourself down on his thick shaft, allowing your own eyes to cross in your skull from his tip hitting that spongy spot near your stomach.
Jabber lays heavy smacks to your ass, biting his lip from how full his balls were, slapping against your skin. You pull off your t-shirt releasing your pretty tits on full display, pinching your hardened nipples as your cunt choked on his shaft, going for his pierced nipples by giving them a hard tug.
"Againnnn ma..always going for ma ni-fuck!" He yelped out, reaching up to play with your chest, rolling and pinching the buds before scooping them up to lick the buds.
The blanket fell from your hips and trailed off of the couch just from the way you were slamming your ass in him. You hated to admit that the wine turned your anxiety into pure desire and lust, stamina became a thing of the past.
“Ride that fucking dick..” He slurred, feeling your movements suddenly stop to grind his tip to hit that spot you were trying so hard to abuse.
Jabber grabs your ass harshly to continue tossing his hips up into you while your fingers connect around his throat, pushing in his Adam's apple while he stroked you.
“Mhmmm..” He smirked, looking back to you with his bottom lip pulled in and his teeth still smiling at you, eyes oh so hazy from the weed and wine churning in his system.
“Keep fucking me like that, use that dick how I like it..sexy ass eyes.."
“You’n tell me what to—“
*smack*
A filthy growl emits from his throat, vibrating your hands while you gripped tighter, feeling your climax inch closer inside of your stomach.
“Harder—don’t bitch out on me..” He whispered to you.
*SMACK*
“Shhittttt! Burns so fuckinggg good!”
“Don’t bitch out right baby? Huh?” You grunt to him, squeezing your thumb in the side of his neck, returning back to bounce your hips down on his cock, feeling his thick shaft twitch inside like he was close to cumming and you couldn’t have that.
“I’ll take care of this dick..” You hummed, raising your hips up letting his slimy length hit his stomach, going to sit by his side, leaning your mouth down to clean up the mess you so rightfully made on his tip. He groaned, trying to put his hands on your head, earning a smack from your hand.
Your lips made a nasty pop sound as you lifted your head up from his dick, using your hand to continue stroking and rubbing his pretty girth using your juices and your spit as lube.
"Imma make a mess on them nails ma..”
"No you not baby..you gon pay for the next set if you do.."
"Fuck..get em in my favorite co-color too? Mhmm...mhmmm,...Im finna-"
Giving no warning you placed your warm lips back on his cock, wrapping your tongue around while your hands pumped him deeper into your throat, hot thick white stripes of his cum shot right into the back of your esophagus coating your uvula yet you still went on sucking the nasty mixture off his dick, ignoring the dread head shakes and broken crack out moans.
“Hah~! Aaaahhhh! Gahhhdamnnn! Holll—Y/N!!!! I’m-it’s sensitive~! Hahaha FUCK YES!” He growled to you, the pretty whimpers leaving his lips sent trembles to your leaking cunt. You played with his dick in your mouth by making his tip hit the inside of your cheek, pulling him out to slap it on your tongue. you allowed him to push your head once letting his length sit in your throat until you felt your body reject him only to take him back in like a lunatic.
"Talking all that shit just fa me to cum in this pretty ass mouth.." He laughed, pumping into your throat putting him exactly where you wanted him to be. He didn't realize you were sucking him down purely for your own pleasure but judging by the way his legs shook under your tongue he was due for shooting more damage into your throat.
It wouldn't be fair for him to have all the fun would it?
Right as he started his sporadic thrusts into your mouth you placed your hands around his shaft, stroking him hard before squeezing his dick tight, bringing your lips up along with your hand.
"Wwwhat you doing? Shhhhffuck! Tighter.." He whined.
"Open yo fucking mouth.." You ordered the dreadhead, giving his fat dick another squeeze before straddling him like you were going to sit in his lap but instead you angled your slick pussy over his open mouth, his pierced lips and tongue ready to lose themselves in your soaked folds.
“Take care of this shit.." You mumbled to him, carefully sliding yourself on his pierced tongue, feeling the cold metal ball rock over your clit like the perfect vibrator.
"Smoootherrr me mammmaa.." He drawled out, sucking up the juices falling out of your quivering hole, his voice muffled under you almost drew you over the edge but you couldn't stop rolling your hips into his mouth.
"You miss this pussy creaming on yo tongue Daddy? You so fucking nasty sucking that clit like that.."
"Kissing this pussy like this?" He slurped, peppering tiny kisses on your puffy clit using his tongue to erase them and start all over.
"Ouu fffffuck you gon make me cum in yo mouth Jay.."
"Please? *kiss* Please cum *kiss* all over my face..Please mama..Please.." He begged you, his huge pink eyes burning holes into yours as he laid his head back on the top of the couch, you could tell he was smiling and that only made the feeling deep in your core throb harder.
"Yeah you want me to Jay? Hmm?" You hummed to the pleading man, grabbing a handful of his locs to pull his face inside so his tongue can find its way to where it needed to be.
"Yyesssmmmm fuckkkkmmmyyyface.." Jabber moaned as he stuck his tongue out so you could bounce your cunt on his tongue, his nasty ass curling it just so it can hit that spot, causing you to shoot a pretty stream of your juices on his face, clenching your thighs around him so he could suffocate and relish in between your thick brown thighs.
The pain from his scalp sent shocks straight to his heavy stiff dick twitching around for something even the ac blowing in the house for some friction, you loved watching him make it jump in front of your face anytime he wanted some head.
"Don't touch it- aye!" You spat, yanking his locs to get his focus back on you, your legs shaking from the harsh orgasm his pierced lips gave you.
"I ain't tell you to touch shit.." You puffed, smearing your creamy mess on his face and chin, sliding off of him to get a good look at the glisten your cunt left him in.
"I can't tell what you drunk off of baby.."
"You mamaa...'I'm drunk off this pussyy c'mereeee." He whined, pulling you back in with his hands, ignoring your command of not touching anything but how could you say no with him whimpered so good as he lazily licked over your sensitive clit, you felt your body melt back into his wet muscle before giving hair another tug to keep your attention.
You pull him off once again to step down off of the couch, looking at Jabber covered with cum and slick, the nasty squelching sounds of him jerking himself off made a satisfying grin appear on your face, It looked like he needed some help finishing so you turned around to shake your ass in front of him just like a personal stripper.
"I'm gon cum so deep in this pussy..she like hiding from me? *SMACK* Shake that shit just like that..fuck i'll give you anything you want..*SMACK*.." Jabber mumbled, tapping his tip on your ass cheek while you leaned over to spread yourself open for him.
"Want me to shake this ass on that dick?"
"Ouuu fuck, come sit on it.." He whined, squeezing his hand around his tip to release salty precum from his hole, coating his dick like a protectant seal. You listened to his words by engulfing his length back into your swollen heat, the both of you groaning from how tight and how hard he was stretching you, despite you taking him so easy earlier.
You started slow, plopping your pretty self up and down on his shaft admiring every inch with your velvety walls as Jabber saw lines of the cum mixture connect between his dick and your ass everytime you bounced, it was filthy.
"Don't make no fucking sense for this shit to be this big.." You moaned out, cursing out his name every the palm of his hand cracked against your skin.
"I love feeling this shit open up fa me.."
"I'm all open for you baby?"
"All...open..ma..." He said with each bounce, moving his hips up to give your ass the extra recoil he loved so much. He looked over to the ash tray in the cupholder on the couch, looking at the half finished wood still sitting in the ashes. Jabber picked up up alone with the lighter beside it, lighting the wood with two flicks, inhaling a ghost as he kept up with your slow pace, using his free hand to hold you steady on his pulsing length.
"Mmmmm this dick feel so good in me..I love fucking you I swear I doo.."
"I love fucking you too mama..wet ass shit..fuck.." He moaned to you, ignoring the achingly slow pace to thrust his hips up, taking another hit of the blunt as smoke filled the living room.
"Give it.." You said in between a moan, leaning up to twerk your ass on his dick while he passed you the blunt, pulling on the burning material as he put his hands on your side, allowing you to grind on his dick once more.
"Yo pretty ass.." He mumbled, grabbing your throat with his hand to shotgun the smoke from your mouth to his while your hips rolled around, breaking the kiss to take another hit so you could pass it back to him.
"Show me how this dick got you acting.." He smirked, leaning back to let you work his dick how you wanted. You bent over to start throwing your ass on his dick letting your cheeks whirl around his dick while you took every inch he was throwing at you.
"Oh fuck!" He cursed, keeping eye contact with the way it moved, so fluid like a waterbed. You turned your neck back to sneak a look at him with his arm spread out on the couch and the other one holding the blunt, his lips inhaling another ghost.
"Yes baby..fill me up..look at me while I get that nut out for you baby.." You cooed to him, your lash covered eyes blinking to him as the reddish tone defined them.
"Imma spill that shit everywhere...everyfuckingwhere mama.." He babbled, cursing mentally as you slowed down your movements, delaying that bone chilling orgasm he was climbing towards.
"Not yet Daddy, don't cum for me yet baby..hold it for me Jay.."
"I-I can't do that shit ma.."
You ricocheted your hips slowly from his tip all the way to his base, feeling his happy trail tickle your swollen pussy lips, you bit your lip from how his throbbing length drug against your slick covered walls.
"Hold it for me bae.." You said with a smirk, picking up the pace as you heard his voice crack in his throat.
"Fuckkkkkkk.." Jabber groaned, listening to your ass plop in his lap, his thighs shaking from the inevitable orgasm sitting on the edge of his tip.
"I got you baby..I got you daddy let me drain this dick..this yo pussy baby? Hm?"
"This my pusssyyy ma..this my shit..this my-HAAAHH! FUCK! Y/n- bae-y/nnnnnn!! SHIT!" Jabber cried out, throwing himself back into the couch as he sprayed your insides your favorite color, the white liquid seeping out of your pulsing cunt as you carried on hopping your thick ass on him.
"Thattttttsssss right cum all in this tight pussy Jay..mark yo shit..come on don't *plop* bitch out on me now!" You huffed repeating his words, piercing yourself on his cock, a sharp breath coming from you fighting back moans to remain in control. Your vision started to blur from the two of you trembling and shaking, each movement adding to the electricity coursing through your veins.
"I ain't b-bitching!" He growled, mumbling that sentence over and over to himself like he was giving himself something to focus on while you continued to fuck yourself like he was nothing but a sex toy.
You couldn't hold back the urges to call out his name while you impaled your cunt on him, holding his legs to keep your balance as the weed took effect in your system bringing down the high pedestal you started the session with.
"You bitching! You can't handle this pussy Jay.."
Jabber gritted his teeth from how sensitive his cock grew inside of your white creamy walls, he fucked his cum so deep in your cervix he had an image of you holding a son in your arms and went straight into your core, pining you on his dick, pounding all 8 inches into your spine like it was supposed to be there.
"Imma handle this shit like you need it ma! Fuckkkkkkk!"
"You gon cum again fa meeee?" You whined, turning back to look at him like he was crazy, the amount of force going inside of your pussy made your eyes run into each other, tiny black stars dancing in your vision as your jaw fell open, the tiny drabbles of spit falling out of your mouth like a spider web.
"Cum on this dick! Cum on this fucking dick!" He said, his pretty whimpers turned into determined growls, spamming his hips into you before tucking himself inside with a final thrust, swelling your stomach with another load.
A fast, clear stream shot out of you without missing a beat, spraying his legs and a part of the couch, leaving another stain to reminisce on.
"Jay wait! Hollon Daddy wait!" You grumbled, your stamina failing you as your hips fell to a complete stop, giving Jabber full access to rut into like a needy puppy.
"Ain't no more waittttingggg ma! I ain't fucking waittingggg I need you!" He said through slurred words, abruptly pulling out of you to treat your body like a rag doll, it was his turn to prove something to you.
"C'mere.." He panted, getting up to his feet to toss you on the couch, replacing his spot as you sex filled eyes batted up to him standing over you with his twitching length. You lowered your acrylic hand to rub your swollen clit hearing how wet you really were, the sticky substance coating your fingertips making Jay suck in air at the sight.
There a beat of silence between you and him, the plan in his mind consisted of fucking your brains into a puddle of nothing yet instead, Jay walked up to you, leaning down to your eye level to kiss you again.
Hard.
"Mhmmm.." You said trying to get a word out but judging by how he took his hands to hold your body, realigning you so he could lay in between your legs comfortably, molding your body to his with such passion you felt like he was shaping you to be his, his property...his girlfriend...
"I love you ma.." He muttered to you, his dreads covering the both of you like a shield from the outer world. You mumbled the words back to him, starting a dumb war of who could say it first.
"I love you Jay.."
"I love you so...fucking much.." He breathed, taking his hand to line himself up with your heat, slowly puncturing his cock back inside, leaving it there so your cunt could conform to his shape indefinitely, moving at a slow and calculated pace, each pound caused a silent open mouth gasp, you had to pull your bottom lip in to stop yourself from screaming his name, he just started!
Jay uses his thumb to tug your lips back out, placing a soft kiss to you.
"Let me hear how I make you feel ma..that's all I ask. Let me hear how you sound when I make love to this pussy.." He said through stifled groans. "I love when you choke him out like this..I wanna love you Y/n...let me....ohhh my god let me make love to you.." He whined.
“Make love to me Jabber..” You said, your voice just barely above a whisper as your demeanor fell, feeling him dig so deep inside of you, you had no choice but to fall apart in hands, wrapping your arms around him to pull the two of you into a deep hug as Jabber thrusted deep enough to show his dick print through your stomach.
“You see me taking you so well baby? Shittt Jay don’t stop..I love when you stroke me like this..”
“Slow strokes for you mama..slow fucking strokes..” He slurred.
“I want you to cum so deep in me bae..”
“Yeahhhhhh I wann’ go half on a son..” He smiled, grunting from your cunt tightening around him. He tapped on your leg to lift it up to get you at a different angle, kissing and biting at your ankle, drilling into you at a faster pace.
“Half on aaaa sonnnnnn…” You drew out, feeling his drunken self get carried away, slamming his hands in the side of the couch as his half lidded eyes aligned with yours, his pink pupils burning his name on your heart as that feeling pounding in your core swelled inside making it hard to breathe.
“Jabber…Jabber..” Your chest heaved.
“You’d beee a fineeeee asss mama, titties all full of milk, them hips spreading out…fuck! I want a baby with you..marry me so I can have a son..” He babbled, pulling your hips down on his dick over and over again coaxing more of your sweet juices out of your cunt.
“I ain’t done ma..I aint’ doneeeee..” He went on, leaning down to calm your soothing cries with a sloppy kiss, your nails scratching your initials in his back as your foot dangled on his shoulder, his dick sending dopamine to your brain like a shot of heroin.
“I love this dick so fucking much!”
“Awwww who you luh more?”
Your moans were incoherent as his thrusts became more untamed, he couldn’t control himself anymore.
“I’m yours jay! I’m yo girl pl-pleaseee Im cumming againnn..”
“I don’t want to stop! Y/N I can’t stopp you keep dragging back in..what the fuckkkk Y/nnnnnnn I’m so fucking drunk.”
“Don’t stop Jay!”
“Let me have you ma! Let me have this pussy..I’ll take care of you! I’ll take….hahhhh! No FUCK! Let me stay in this pussy!”
“It;s yours! It’s yours!”
“All mine..allmine fuhhh ah-Aahhhhhhahhhhh~!”
As he came his hips snapped into you at pace your brain couldn’t comprehend, he meant what the fuck he said about not stopping. Your tits bounced around with each stroke while you tried your best to keep them steady, smushing them in occasionally to give the pink eyed devil something to look at.
Your pussy was on the brink of being sore causing a stinging mixture of pain and pleasure,you laid a nasty smack across the babbling dreadhead’s face, choking him out again as he smiled rutting into you.
“I fucking loveeee yo stubbborn ass..” He grinned, holding his neck tighter
“I loveeeeeee yo crazy ass..”
“Uh huhhh you love me..you love me ouuuuu FUCKKK!”
Jabber finally pulled out as a tall tower of your cum shot up, wetting up the couch, some got in your hair and he took his dick to rub it across the fountain you created, mixing his white load pouring out of your cunt in beads.
“Thereeeee it issss…”
*tap tap tap*
“Jayyyyy…”
“I loveeeee you mama…”
“You like saying it now?” You giggled, holding his dick with your free hand, stroking the rest of his cum out of his tip
“Imma say it every chance i get I swear..”
“I love you too Jabber..”
This should hold y’all till october yeah?? I told y’all i got carried away..and to all the new dolls in the play house..i hope you enjoy your stay..Don’t be shy to talk to me and tell me how it made you feel i love listening to those pretty voices and suggestions and as always i’ll imagine with you later yeah..i’m hearing rumors of Daija lurking around here somewhere
Pairing: Jalen Shaw x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. SMUT. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female receiving) teasing, size kink, dirty talk, praise kink if you squint, nipple worship, D/s dynamics, all consensual. Sorry if I missed some, I'm rushing, just let me know.
Summary: Jalen puts together a mini photo shoot to capture you dressed in pearls and nothing more. He gets a little carried away...
Edit: forgive me, twinn @westside-rot . I was bleary eyed and tide last night 😭 this is 1 of 93328272615 requests youve given me for this man 🤣 thank you for yapping for months about him with me 🥹 here's to many more 😈😈
And if yall love this, most deff check out her fluffy Jalen fic, Daylight is Calling
Word Count: 3,338k
AO3 Link
A/N: I needed to work this dynamic out in my head. And I think I'm getting pretty hot and bovvered over these two! Squeee. I hope you enjoy this right here! I am also on a mini hiatus as I rework my process. Thanks for dealing with me yall. Toss a coin to your blogger by leaving a comment, gif, or unhinged ask.
Everything had to be perfect. From the red velvet love seat with a high back, trimmed in dark mahogany wood, to the light bulb back drop, to the soft rug in front of it. The lights were currently warm, casting a reddish-yellow glow down over the loveseat.
Jalen pictured you there already, arranged on the couch in the exact way he wanted. Directing you on which way to turn, to look, to pose for him. He hadn't truly had much interest in photography until he found you.
You showed him what true beauty looked like, both inside and out, and it drove him crazy just to be in your presence. He stepped away from his careful decorating, fluffing a white fuzzy throw pillow here or there. He had draped a long string of white and silver baubles around the loveseat, draping it over the edge.
"Are you ready, baby?" Jalen called out. He adjusted himself in his light gray joggers. He was already at half mast and it was painful to wait. To let the anticipation grow.
"Yes, Daddy," you called out, your sweet voice making his heart steady.
Some days he just wanted to rut into your like a rabid animal and watch your eyes roll back from pleasure. Other days, he wanted to take his time and savor every inch gained inside of you.
He knew you hated when he took his time. His impatient little bee, showing him how much she needed him. Only him. It was a particular high he was never giving up.
He turned to the sound of your feet tapping against the fuzzy rugs across the floor. As always, the very sight of you robbed him of breath. He wished you could feel the potent mix of lust and admiration whenever he set his eyes on you. The particular curve of your face or the slight mischievous look in your eyes never failed to make him hard as a brick and want to kiss you senseless.
He smirked as you approached him, covered in pearls and nothing else. He bit his lip as he scanned the length of your body, reaching out to move and adjust the string of pearls around your breasts, your shoulders, around your waist, and over your thigh.
His eyes zeroed in on your matching pearl piercings in your nipples. He groaned as he pulled you closer and wrapped his lips around your nipple. You gasped and then giggled as Jalen sucked and sucked, rubbing the tiny pearl in his mouth as he suckled on your titty.
Your pierced nipples were Jalen's kryptonite. His one true weakness. If you ever found out that you could have whatever you wanted just by flashing those titties at him, he would be a doomed man. Because if you asked for a thousand stars, he'd find a way to create a galaxy for you.
You hissed and moaned, clutching onto his back with every hard suck and soft lick. Your whimpers and cries were music to his ears as he pulled you closer. He let go of your nipple and surveyed his work. Your brown nipple was pert and swollen, making the pearl piercing look even smaller.
Jalen looked up into your eyes and gave you a wink before turning to the other nipple to perform the same act of worship.
"Oh, fuck, oh fuck," you moaned, your cries making him hum in pleasure. His lips vibrated around your nipple and you moaned, going weak in the knees. Jalen held you with ease, his massive arms keeping you lifted as if you weighed nothing more than a feather. You sank into his embrace, knowing without a doubt that he wouldn't let you drop.
Jalen let your nipple go with a loud smack and grinned at his handiwork. He stood up straight and held your hand as he escorted you to the love seat.
He positioned you on the couch, sitting up on your knees, faced to the side. He moved your arms so that he could see your swollen nipples but give him a bit of mystery.
He looked you over, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth because with each new tweak, you looked more delectable by the second. He had to resist his baser instincts to take you then and there.
Seeing you draped in pearls had always been a dream of his. Your beautiful brown skin was made for the glow of pearls and this only proved it. He had half a mind to bend you over now and not let up until morning.
But no, you needed the delay too. He could see your body trembling, poised on the edge of the cliff he had you on. The minute you stepped into the play room, you were fully his to command. His to control. He had taken his time, peeling your clothes off of you and unwrapped the gift that you were.
He had got you naked and told you to wrap your pearls around yourself like he liked. And he was glad you followed directions so well. You were the perfect sub, absolutely everything he could've prayed for and then some.
Your body trembled more as you obeyed his every command. Your eyes locked more than once and Jalen knew when you needed a kiss, when you needed a lick, and when your nipples needed more plumping.
He sucked one back in his mouth and rubbed the other one between his fingers until you were crying and shaking.
Jalen reluctantly let go and went to grab his camera off of the tripod. It wasn't anything super fancy, but it was enough to make your photos look professional and glossed. He focused on your nipples first, trying different angles.
He directed you that way or the other way, getting amazing shots of your swollen nipples surrounded by pearls. The deep vee between your breasts. Or the way the pearls disappeared between your thick thighs.
You whimpered. "Please, Daddy," you moaned and rested your forehead against his stomach.
Jalen chuckled and leaned down. He lifted your head with the edge of his finger until you looked him in the eye. His dick twitched seeing the lust drunk gleam or the slackened way you held your jaw. You were so close, you'd probably explode at the first flick of his tongue.
"Let me get one more picture," he said, letting his voice rumble a bit on purpose. You moaned and fluttered your eyes and Jalen chuckled.
He set his camera down and then maneuvered your body until you were on your back, legs spread wide open for him. Your pussy lips slowly peeled open, dripping with your essence already.
Knowing how good you tasted made Jalen's mouth water. He hooked a finger beneath a string and pulled it through your essence, getting the pearls nice and wet. You moaned as the pearls slid around your clit. He moved it back and forth, growling with how you gushed more and more.
"Oh, fuck, Daddy," you moaned, eyes fluttering shut.
"You ready for me, baby?" Jalen asked.
You nodded, your rapid breathing preventing you from speaking. Jalen quirked an eyebrow, going still at your lack of response. He saw the struggle, the tremble of your body, and the way your teeth clacked as if you were under an air conditioner. The silent plea in your eyes for him to keep going but you knew his rules.
"Yes, Daddy. I'm ready," you said, taking deeper breaths to finally calm down.
"There's my good girl," he murmured. He grabbed his camera from the nearby end table and snapped a few pictures of your pussy. He made you lift the pearls, creating a chain of your slick that he made sure to capture.
Satisfied that he had enough, Jalen put the camera down. He knelt to the plush rug and settled in between your legs. He hummed a quick blessing before opening his mouth and diving in for his first taste in…probably twenty minutes. He never went long without some kind of taste of you.
And right now, you were intoxicating. Exploding on his tongue with the deep heart of you, your taste and smell turning him on to the point that his dick ached. The tip was extra sensitive, begging for the sweet warmth of you. It rubbed against the fabric of his pants, driving him crazy in different ways. But he focused on the task at hand.
He used his big tongue to dip into your pussy, licking as far as he could get. He tongue fucked you for a few strokes before finding your clit and playing with it. You moaned and twitched beneath him, your hands wrapping around his bald head and holding on for dear life.
He loved when you held on and pushed his face in, held him to your sweet pussy while he feasted. He moaned, holding your thighs spread to accommodate him. Your thighs shook in his hands but he kept going, kept sucking and licking to his heart's content.
You were so responsive. Letting him know when he did something you liked and when he needed to switch it up. Your moans turned needy and pleading, curses flying from that gorgeous mouth of yours. He stretched his hands across your belly, finding your nipples. He rubbed the nubs between his fingers, moaning with every hiss and moan you gave him.
'Let it out, baby. You earned it," Jalen said into your pussy.
You tensed, your thighs squeezing his head before you let go. Your back bowed off of the couch, hands shoving his face deep into your pussy. The lower half of his face dripped with your essence. Your wet ass pussy drove Jalen to madness when he was on boring stakeouts or chasing down suspects.
Jalen moaned and pulled away, gulping for air while he licked his lips and enjoyed your taste. His dick strained against his pants, bordering on painful, but he counted to ten and calmed down. Soon, soon.
He stood up and stretched his back. Your mouth hung open and your hands were crossed over your chest. Your knees had buckled together while you shivered. Fuck.
You made such a pretty picture against the vivid couch. Light bounced off of the baubles and your skin, making you look like a naughty 20s film star taking dirty pictures in some director's basement.
Jalen quickly grabbed his camera, turned it on with a quiet beep, and snapped photos of the way you looked after he ate you out. The way your eyes were closed, the way your arms crossed. The under-swell of your breasts pushed together by your arms.
He tapped your knee so that you'd open for him. Without hesitation, your knees flopped open and Jalen groaned. He zoomed in on the sticky gooey-ness that dripped out of you.
"So wet and sexy. I can't wait for you to see these pictures," he said.
You grinned at him. "Fuck, I can't wait either," you said with a saucy wink.
He took a deep breath, still smelling you on his lips. "Hold yourself open for me," he demanded.
"Yes, Daddy," you complied, a breathy whisper. You were going to pass out on his dick, he just knew it. His heart swelled with the knowledge that he could fuck you to sleep. His busy bee was constantly moving, he considered it a fucking privilege to bring you that much pleasure.
You moved your fingers between your pussy lips and spread yourself open. Pearls slid between your fingers and your were deliciously messy. He snapped photos from any angle he could think of, letting the light play off of the pearls.
"Daddy, please. I need your dick," you moaned.
Jalen looked out from behind the camera view-screen and looked at the way you tilted your head at him. The feverish look in your eyes. He grinned and bit his lip.
"You have no idea how fuckin' sexy you look right now," Jalen said. He took a moment to admire your body, the beautiful way you lounged on the loveseat like a goddess.
You gave him that cute, shy grin he rarely sees outside the bedroom. This was the one true place that you let yourself unwind and relax. He was working on that. Soon, all it would take was walking through the house and then your burdens became his to make better. He couldn't fuckin' wait.
"Take them pants off, Daddy," you said, grinning at your boldness.
Jalen set the camera down once more on the nearby end table. He gripped and played with the waistband of his joggers. "These pants?" He asked.
"Yes, those pants," you said.
"Are you sure it's these pants?" He asked. He snapped the waistband against his waist and you moaned, your eyes darting to his abs. He flexed a little bit and you grinned, looking back at him.
"Oh, I'm definitely sure. Take the pants off," you said, more bite to your tone.
Jalen lifted an eyebrow but complied, sliding out of his joggers. "I know I give you a lot of leeway, but you better remember who you're speaking to," he said.
You immediately turned contrite, turning wide doe eyes to him. But he wasn't sure you were as sorry as you should be. He grinned as he stepped forward, grabbed your hips, and pulled you forward on the loveseat. It was an awkward angle, but it'd be worth it to remind your ass who was in charge.
He brought his huge dick to your opening, swirling his thick tip between your folds. You whimpered and moaned, tensing your body for what was to come.
"Watch your tone when you speak to me," Jalen said, sliding in with a savage thrust, stuffing you completely. It had taken a lot of training, but you were able to take all of him. A feat that no other woman had been able to. Ever.
"Yes, Daddy," you whimpered.
Jalen set a brutal pace, slamming in and out of you creating loud, wet smacks that drove him wild. The sound of you taking him was nearly his undoing. He lost his rhythm for a beat so he stopped and then started once more.
"Be good for Daddy because good girls get dick," Jalen huffed.
You cried and whimpered on his dick, a few more strokes and you came on him, flooding his dick with your juices. He moaned as he felt your walls spasm on his dick, clutching him and not allowing him to move. He gritted his teeth through it, the unbridled pleasure. It was overwhelming.
"Thank you, Daddy!" You screamed, squeezing his dick so tight that he saw stars.
He was so in love with you that it made his heart physically ache. So obsessed with you and your body, that he was always hard for you. Hard at the thought of you. And sliding home right now was as close to heaven as he was ever going to get.
He leaned over and kissed your neck, nibbled at the salty taste of you. Sweat gathered everywhere between your bodies. He knew he ran extremely hot, pumping out warmth like a furnace.
And the way he continued to stroke into you only made him burn up worse, teaching you with every stroke that he was in control. That his word was law at the end of the day. That all you needed to do was lay back and obey his commands. Let him know with the needy whine of your voice that he was hitting all the right spots.
He moved his lips from your neck to your mouth, giving you a deep, sweeping kiss. His tongue explored your mouth, wanting every single taste he could get from you. His strokes grew longer, less rapid, but more intense.
Your nails dug into his back and he hissed from the sharp pain but it made his dick twitch. You moaned at the sensation so he did it again. You moaned again and he slammed his hips, driving you into you to claim you even further.
"Ja-Ja-fuck, I ca-," you whined, slapping at his back.
Jalen grabbed both of your wrists in his one giant hand and pinned them above you on the couch. He used his other hand to spread your legs open wider. His orgasm pulsed at the base of his spine, ready to unload this heavy nut he'd saved up for you.
"Let go for Daddy. Fuuuck, let it go," he moaned, the rasp in his voice turned his voice raw. He felt you twitch and clutch around his dick. A stroke later, you fought against his hold while you came, flooding his dick once more with your essence.
He slid in more easily, sinking deeper and touching that hidden place inside you. You tensed up and came once more, taking him with you this time. He finally let himself go, bathing you in his hot, spurting cum.
Your legs closed around his hips and Jalen kept fucking, like he couldn't stop. Like his body wouldn't let him. You felt too damn good wrapped around his dick. It was right where you belonged and he didn't want to stop. If he did, it'd only drive him crazy until he could get right back here. Right back to this feeling of you whimpering and crying on the strokes he delivered.
Jalen unloaded the rest of his nut, coming with a loud, satisfied groan as it filled you to the brim. You squelched as his hips moved, lewd wet noises filling his ears as his cum was pushed out of you.
Your arms trembled in his grasp so he slowed down. He released your hands from above you and rubbed feeling back into them. He stopped moving his hips completely and waited until he softened to slide you off of him.
He kissed along your arms, your chest, your neck, and your lips. He suckled on your nipples as you both came down from the intensity of your lovemaking. He could never get enough of you and he knew you shared the same sentiment.
You yawned and stretched, slipping just that fast to sleep as his cum leaked out of you. Jalen stood on wobbly legs to reach for his camera one last time. He snapped photos of the way his cum dripped out, a full and thorough claiming that satisfied the primal beast inside him.
He took pictures of the way your face smoothed out into a blissed smile. A slight tugging at the corner of your sexy lips. Your nipples were still nice and swollen, the tiny pearl sticking out and catching the overhead lights.
Jalen took pictures of your eyelashes fanning your cheeks. The way your mouth quirked into a smile. He put that there. And he was damn happy for it.
Jalen put away the camera, too eager to upload the pictures to the computer for viewing later. He'd make you cock-warm him while you flipped through and showed him which pictures of yourself you found sexy.
He disappeared to the adjacent bathroom to clean himself up. He grabbed a fresh washcloth for you and cleaned you up while you remained sleeping. He smiled at you, watching your chest rise and fall knowing you were safe and sound in his arms.
He wished he could freeze this moment. You fast asleep, feeling safe enough to do so in his presence. Him, watching over you like the sworn vow he made when you agreed to be his. He would always take care of you. Mind, body, and spirit.
He lifted you carefully in his arms and tucked you into the crook of his neck while he moved you to the bedroom. He turned down the covers and then slid you into bed, tucking you in.
He climbed in on the other side, pulled your back into chest, and sunk down into the best sleep of his life.
Thanks for reading! There will be more! The Secret Jalen Shaw Files
