Aug 31, 2025
Where's the African mythology?
The Kickstarter is live now!
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Where's the African mythology?
The Kickstarter is live now!
Finally finished painting this water nymph
timelapse + WIP images
The witch of the midwest, Tammy Harris by fellow Indie Showrunner Dana Terrace (Insta @ danaterrace)
The Three Tomes is a Queer YA coming of age series about a bi black teen witch fighting monsters and falling for vampires. Support The Three Tomes on Kickstarter.
A queer YA coming-of-age story about a black teen witch girl in the 2010s, fighting monsters and falling in love with vampires.
Check out Episode 1 on Youtube and learn more about the world of The Three Tomes here on the master post. Support Black Queer Creators. Support Black Queer stories.
BLACK CREATORS SHOUT-OUT!!!
Inspired by @creatingblackcharacters post here, here's a list of Black creators to check out and support this month & beyond, as well as places you can support them:
@rockybloo(creator of the webcomics "Beanstalked" and "Glitter and Guilt"): I've been following them across many social media sites, beginning on Deviantart in 2018-ish, on Twitter, Tumblr and Bluesky. I have seen their work grow and flourish over the years, becoming more self-indulgent with their characters and stories, and their care and devotion for both of that shines through in their art. Their work has really inspired me as I've seen them grow as a creator through their art. Go support them through their Patreon & Ko-fi!
@btrcp(creator of the webcomic "UM"): I came across their work around 2020/2021, and have enjoyed witnessing their creative process and expressing their opinions regarding storytelling, philosophy, and a variety of other subjects. Go support them through Patreon, follow them on Twitch where they stream their work, and pick up a copy of UM: Volume 1!
@simplynovology(creator of #IndigeNovember): an amazing artist & character designer, showcasing much variety and range within their original artwork and fan creations. I'm so lucky to have first commissioned them years ago and see all the little details and things they put into their art, which makes it so uniquely theirs. Check out his Commission page and other links, and check out this link for ways to assist them financially.
@theawesomeadventurer(creator of @cryptidzdotorg): A multifaceted artist and crafter who has made many wonderful things, from paintings to jewelry, T-shirts to music. I am grateful to have gotten to have known them through their creativity and vibrancy, seieng how they move within the world as an artist and a person. Go check out their store at cryptidz.org and their linktree for more info!
@genkibutch(illustrator & fan artist): a bright and talented artist whose specialties are vivid colors, painterly rendering, and a semi realistic art style. I am blessed to consider them my creative peer and mutual; from their innovative redesigns of popular characters to their in-depth analyses of Mitski lyrics, it's been so incredible to see what they're working on and how they want to continue improving as an artist. Check out their carrd and follow them on Bluesky!
Also~
Shoutout to Micah(known as @/micah_ers on Instagram), creator of the comic "Dark Zone" on Webtoon, as well as the animated shorts "Can I Please Have A Waffle" and "Coulda Dropped My Croissant"!
Their work fits within speculative fiction, mainly science fiction and fantasy, primarily centering Black characters within the setting of Earth and the fictional planet of Danyella(the aliens are unmistakably Black coded)
Micah recently created a Patreon page where they post behind-the-scenes work connected to the world of DZ and other projects they're working on; go on & check it out!!
Creating Animation and Comics
I'm so lucky to have witnessed the beauty, talent, passion and ingenuity of all these wonderful people I listed here!
Go check out these amazing artists, follow them, and support them year-round, not just in February!!
Happy Black History Month y'all!
Penthouse Neighbors
Pairing: Adonis "Donnie" Creed x Black Female OC (Bria)
Summary: A high-tension slow burn between a retired boxer and the yoga instructor who catches his eye in their shared penthouse gym. After weeks of stolen glances and unspoken desire, a late-night encounter in the sauna ignites a passion that burns through every room of his penthouse, culminating in a confession that changes everything.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, detailed smut, unprotected sex, oral sex (female receiving), face fucking, multiple positions, creampie, marking, possessive behavior, dirty talk, and a whole lot of built-up sexual tension finally being released.
The 5:30 AM silence in the Olympian Towers gym was a sacred thing. It was a cathedral of sweat and steel, where the only sounds were the rhythmic thrum of treadmills and the controlled hiss of expelled breath. Bria moved through it like a priestess conducting a ritual. Her bare feet were silent on the cool, polished concrete of the yoga studio, a space demarcated by frosted glass panels that offered the illusion of privacy without delivering the reality.
Her body, a testament to discipline, flowed through the opening sequence of Sun Salutation A. The sports bra and high-waisted leggings she wore were a second skin, the deep plum fabric stretching and contracting over muscles that were long, lean, and powerful. Each movement was a conversation between breath and bone, a deliberate unfolding. Inhale, reach for the ceiling, feeling the stretch in her obliques. Exhale, fold forward, surrendering the weight of her torso. The glossy black waves of her hair, secured in a loose bun at the nape of her neck, threatened to spill with every deep bend, a few disobedient tendrils already framing her face, clinging to the damp skin at her temples. This was her time, her space, her church. Until he entered.
The shift wasn't audible. It was atmospheric. A subtle change in the energy of the room, a gravitational pull that made the hairs on her arms stand up even before her eyes registered him. She was in Downward-Facing Dog, her body forming an inverted V, gaze fixed between her own feet, when she saw them: a pair of pristine, bone-white Nike trainers, scuffed just enough at the toe to be real. They stopped just outside the glass, and she felt his presence like a physical weight.
Adonis Creed.
Even in her peripheral vision, he was an event. He didn't just occupy space; he commanded it. He moved with the contained, prowling grace of a predator in a world too small for him. Today, he wore a fitted black tank top that did nothing to hide the breathtaking landscape of his shoulders and chest, and simple grey sweats that hung low on his hips, revealing the carved V-lines that disappeared beneath the waistband. He was 200-plus pounds of disciplined violence and quiet power, and he was looking right at her.
Bria held the pose, her core tight, her breath steady, but her heart kicked against her ribs like a trapped bird. She didn't look up. Not yet. She let the moment stretch, let his gaze wash over her. It was a familiar dance. For weeks, this had been their routine. He would arrive, she would be mid-flow, and for a beat, the world would shrink to just the two of them, separated by glass but bound by an undeniable current. She knew what he saw: the deep, rich ebony of her skin, glistening with a fine sheen of effort; the elegant curve of her spine as she arched into the pose; the strength in her legs as they held her steady. And she knew, without a doubt, that he liked what he saw.
She slowly pushed up into a standing position, raising her arms overhead in a fluid sweep. Only then did she allow her eyes to meet his through the glass. It was a mistake. And a triumph. His eyes, a soft, warm brown that belied the intensity within, were locked on hers. They weren't just looking; they were consuming. A slow, deliberate smile touched the corner of his mouth, a ghost of a thing that was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough. It was a spark in a room full of kindling. Bria answered with the barest tilt of her chin, a silent acknowledgment that was both a challenge and an invitation. Then, she broke the connection, turning back to her mat, to her class, to the world that wasn't him.
Adonis moved to the free weights, the clank of the plates a sudden, jarring intrusion into the serene quiet. Bria began leading her class through Warrior II, her voice a low, soothing melody. "Reach through your fingertips. Feel that extension. Breathe into the pose." But her focus was fractured. Her senses, honed by years of practice, were no longer tuned inward. They were tuned outward, reaching across the forty feet of gym floor that separated them.
She could feel him without looking. She could hear the low, guttural grunt as he bench-pressed what looked like the entire dumbbell rack. She could smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, something woodsy and dark, cutting through the sterile gym air. And when she risked a glance, she saw that he was watching her. Not just a casual look. A stare. His head was turned toward the yoga studio even as his arms powered the weights up and down, his gaze intense and unwavering. He was watching the way her hips squared in the pose, the way her lats engaged, the way a single drop of sweat traced a path down her sternum and disappeared between her breasts.
It was infuriating. And it was the most thrilling thing that had happened to her in months.
Bria had moved into Olympian Towers six months ago for the anonymity and the amenities. The penthouse was a sanctuary, a reward for years of building her brand from the ground up. She'd seen him in the building directory—'Creed, A. - PH A'—and had her moment. Of course, she knew who he was. But in her space, in her gym, he wasn't the celebrity. He was just the ridiculously fine man who lifted things and stared at her with an intensity that made her feel like he was mentally undressing her with a slow, deliberate hand. And God help her, she was doing the same.
Later, as she was guiding the class into Savasana, their final resting pose, she saw him finish his workout. He grabbed his towel and wiped down the bench, his movements economical and precise. He didn't look at her again, and a strange sense of disappointment pricked at her. He draped the towel around his thick, corded neck and headed for the exit. Bria dimmed the lights in the studio, her voice softening. "Let your body be heavy. Let go of all effort."
Her eyes were closed, but she felt him pause at the door. She felt his gaze one last time, a final, sweeping caress over the silent, prone bodies in her class, but lingering on hers. It was a look that said, I see you. Then the door sighed shut, and he was gone.
Bria finished the class, her voice steady, her hands-on adjustments gentle and professional. But inside, she was a mess. A slow, simmering fire had been lit low in her belly, and it had nothing to do with the physical exertion of her practice. It was him. It was always him. She said her farewells to her students, her smile bright and professional, but her mind was already replaying the way his muscles had bunched and flexed, the dark promise in his eyes.
She rolled up her mat, her movements sharp and agitated. She was tired of this. Tired of the nods, the polite "hellos," the charged silence. Tired of going back to her empty penthouse, alone, knowing he was just across the hall, probably doing the same thing. The thought struck her with sudden, startling clarity: he was a hermit. She never saw him except here. He was hiding away in that fortress of an apartment, just like she was.
An idea, reckless and exhilarating, began to form. Tonight, she wouldn't rush. She would stay. She would clean the studio, she would rearrange the props, she would do whatever it took to be the last one here. She would wait him out. She was going to find out where he went when he left this gym.
And as she finally stepped out into the main floor, the gym now deserted and echoing, she saw him. He was by the water fountain, taking a long drink, his throat working, his back to her. He must have gone to the locker room. He hadn't left yet. This was her chance.
Bria walked toward the exit, her stride purposeful. She didn't look at him. She just kept walking, her keys jingling in her hand. But as she passed the row of elliptical machines, she risked a glance in the darkened reflection of the screen.
He was watching her leave. Again. But this time, there was something different in his posture. A stillness. A decision. He straightened up, capped his water bottle, and started walking, not toward the locker rooms, but in the same direction she was going. Toward the elevators.
A slow, wicked smile spread across Bria's face. Oh, this was going to be fun.
—
The evening gym session was a different beast. The 5:30 AM crowd was gone, replaced by the after-work warriors and the dedicated few who chased endorphins under the sterile glow of fluorescent lights. But by 9:00 PM, even they had thinned out, leaving the vast expanse of the Olympian Towers fitness center feeling cavernous and hollow. The rhythmic slap of Bria's jump rope against the polished concrete was the only sound, a sharp, percussive beat that echoed off the mirrored walls.
She'd finished her last private client forty-five minutes ago, but she hadn't left. She couldn't. Not when he was still here. Adonis Creed was a creature of habit, a man whose discipline was as legendary as his left hook. Morning workouts were his religion. This late-night session was a deliberate deviation. A pilgrimage. Bria felt it in her bones, a thrumming certainty that his presence had nothing to do with building muscle and everything to do with breaking a routine.
She stole a glance at the floor-to-ceiling mirror that ran the length of the cardio area. He was in the squat rack, a fortress of steel and iron. The bar across his thick, broad shoulders was loaded with an obscene amount of weight. His back was a perfect, rigid plane, his trapezius muscles bunched like rocks as he lowered himself into a deep, controlled squat. The veins in his forearms stood out like rivers on a map, his hands wrapped around the bar in a grip of pure command. He was a monument to physical power, and every drop of sweat that traced a path down his temple felt like a personal message to her. I'm still here. Why are you?
Bria switched to ab work, laying out her mat and positioning herself so she could see him without being obvious. She hooked her feet under the padded bar and began a set of slow, deliberate sit-ups, her body rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Each time she came up, her eyes would find him in the mirror. Each time, his gaze was already there, waiting. It was a silent, unbreakable thread of tension stretched taut between them across the fifty feet of empty gym floor. He was watching her. He was always watching her. And tonight, she wasn't pretending she didn't notice.
She finished her set, her core burning, her breath coming in controlled huffs. She sat up, wiping her face with the hem of her cropped tank top, knowing full well the flash of her midriff would be captured in his periphery. A small, satisfied smile played on her lips. Two could play this game.
Finally, he was done. He re-racked the weights with a clang that seemed to signal the end of their standoff. He grabbed his towel and water bottle, and for a heart-stopping second, Bria thought he was just going to leave. But he didn't. He walked over to the stretching area, a neutral zone, and began to cool down. He was waiting. The confirmation sent a jolt of adrenaline straight through her, sharp and electrifying. This was really happening.
Bria took her time, meticulously rolling up her yoga mat, wiping down every piece of equipment she'd used, organizing the free weights back into their neat, designated rows. She was drawing this out, milking every second of the charged atmosphere. The gym was empty now, the cleaning staff having already passed through. It was just the two of them, the hum of the ventilation system, and the weight of everything they hadn't said.
She shouldered her gym bag and took a deep breath, turning to leave. He was right there. Not looming, not threatening, just… present. He'd moved from the stretching area to stand directly in her path, a silent, immovable obstacle.
"Late night," he said.
His voice was even lower than she'd imagined, a quiet, raspy thing that seemed to vibrate in the air between them. It was the kind of voice that was made for dark rooms and whispered secrets.
Bria stopped, her heart hammering against her ribs. She tilted her head, affecting an air of casual curiosity. "So are you," she countered, her voice smooth and even. "Don't usually see you this deep into the evening hours, Creed."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Couldn't get my reps in this morning."
"Liar," Bria thought, but she just raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge. "Well, don't let me keep you from your... reps."
She tried to move past him, but he shifted slightly, blocking her path with an easy, unconscious movement. His eyes, those warm, intense brown eyes, held hers. There was no pretense now. No casual glances. This was a direct, unflinching stare.
"You're always here when I am," he observed, his tone flat, a statement of fact that was loaded with a question.
Bria felt a thrill shoot up her spine. He'd noticed. Of course, he'd noticed. She let a slow, deliberate smile spread across her face. It was her turn to play. "I'm a dedicated instructor, Mr. Creed. My clients' wellness is my top priority."
The professional title was a deliberate jab, a way to maintain a sliver of distance in a moment that felt intensely intimate. He didn't buy it for a second. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of amusement in their depths.
"Is that all it is?" he asked, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a near-growl that made her stomach clench.
"That's all it is on the schedule," Bria replied, her voice just as soft. She held his gaze for a beat longer, then broke it, turning toward the exit. "Have a good night."
She walked away, her stride confident, her hips swaying just a little more than usual. She didn't look back, but she could feel his eyes on her, burning a hole in her back. She heard his footsteps fall into step behind her, not too close, but close enough. A silent agreement had been broken, and a new one had just been made.
The walk to the elevator bank was a study in tension. The silence was no longer empty; it was thick, vibrating with unspoken words and unsatisfied desires. They stood side-by-side, their shoulders almost brushing, the scent of his sweat and cologne mingling with the clean, floral scent of her own body wash. Bria pressed the 'up' button, her finger steady, betraying none of the riot going on inside her.
The elevator arrived with a soft ding, the doors sliding open to reveal a mirrored box. They stepped inside, and the doors closed, sealing them in. It was the first time they'd ever been this close, in a space this small. The air crackled. Bria could feel the heat radiating off his body, could see the rise and fall of his chest in his reflection. He was so much bigger up close, a solid wall of muscle and restrained energy.
"Which floor?" she asked, her voice sounding too loud in the confined space.
He didn't answer right away. He just watched her in the mirror, his gaze dark and inscrutable. "Penthouse," he finally said, his voice a low rumble.
Bria's finger hovered over the panel. She pushed the 'PH' button, her movements unhurried. The elevator began to ascend, a smooth, silent climb that felt like it was taking them somewhere far more significant than just the top floor.
"So," he began, his voice breaking the heavy silence. "Bria."
He knew her name. Of course, he knew her name. But hearing him say it sent a jolt straight through her. "That's me," she said, turning her head slightly to look at him. "And you're Adonis."
"Most people call me Donnie," he offered, a small, genuine smile finally gracing his lips. It transformed his face, softening the intensity and replacing it with something boyish and charming.
Bria found herself smiling back, a real smile this time. "Donnie," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. It felt more intimate, more real. "I like that."
The elevator slowed, the soft chime announcing their arrival. The doors slid open, revealing the private, hushed hallway of the penthouse level. It was carpeted in thick, sound-absorbing wool, the walls a soft, warm cream. Only two doors were visible on this landing, facing each other from across the wide hall.
Donnie stepped out, his movements fluid and powerful. He expected her to stay in the elevator, to ride it back down to her own floor. He gave her a brief, questioning look, a silent farewell.
Bria held his gaze for a split second, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. Then she stepped out of the elevator, right behind him.
The sound of her sneaker on the plush carpet made him freeze. He turned, his expression a mixture of confusion and dawning realization. Bria didn't break stride. She walked past him, her gym bag bumping lightly against his thigh, and headed directly for the door on the opposite side of the hall.
She stopped in front of it, fishing her keys out of her bag. She could feel his eyes on her, wide with disbelief. She found the right key, slid it into the lock, and turned. The lock disengaged with a heavy, satisfying thunk.
She glanced over her shoulder, leaning against her own front door. He was still standing by the elevator, staring at her, at her door, and then back at her own door across the hall. The penthouse. PH B.
"Small world, huh, Donnie?" Bria said, her voice laced with humor and a deep, undeniable satisfaction.
He just shook his head slowly, a slow, incredulous laugh escaping his lips. It was a rough, beautiful sound. "You've got to be kidding me," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Bria pushed her door open, but she didn't go inside. She just stood there, framed in the doorway, a challenge in her eyes. "Guess we're neighbors."
For weeks, they had been orbiting each other in the vast, anonymous space of the gym, never once realizing they were sleeping just fifty feet apart. The absurdity of it, the sheer, mind-blowing coincidence of it, hung in the air between them, thick and palpable. The routine wasn't just broken. It had been shattered into a million pieces. And in its place, something new, and infinitely more dangerous, was just beginning.
—
The discovery of their shared hallway didn't just change the routine; it rewrote the entire script. The silent, charged walks to the elevator became a ritual, a non-negotiable bookend to their respective workouts. Days melted into a week, then two, then three, and the elevator rides transformed from a space of thick, unspoken tension into a confessional box on the rise.
The first few rides were still steeped in the novelty of it all.
"You know," Bria said one evening, leaning against the mirrored wall as they ascended, "for a guy who's supposed to be retired, you spend an awful lot of time looking like you're about to fight the building itself."
Donnie chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that she was quickly becoming addicted to. He was in his usual post-workout state: sweaty, exhausted, and utterly magnetic. "Boxing ain't something you just turn off, Bria. It's in the wiring. Like… breathing."
"Is that why you're always grunting like you're trying to push a planet off your chest?" she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
He shot her a look, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. "Maybe I am. Or maybe I just know you're watching."
The directness of it, the easy confidence, made her stomach flip. She didn't deny it. She just raised an eyebrow. "And what if I am?"
"Then I'm lifting right," he answered, his voice dropping to that near-growl that never failed to send a jolt through her.
That was the turning point. The professional veneer had cracked, and what was pouring through was pure, unadulterated interest. They talked about everything and nothing. Bria found herself opening up about the philosophy behind her teaching, how yoga wasn't just about flexibility but about finding stillness in the chaos, about controlling the breath to control the mind.
"It's like fighting, but in reverse," she explained one night, her voice soft as the elevator glided upward. "You're not trying to overpower an opponent. You're trying to surrender to yourself. To find the strength in letting go."
Donnie listened, really listened, his dark eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her feel like she was the only person in the world. "I get that," he said, his voice thoughtful. "The ring is the one place I don't have to think. It's all muscle memory, all instinct. My mind is quiet. Sounds like what you're talking about."
It was in these moments, in the shared space of the ascending elevator, that they built their bridge. He learned she'd grown up in Chicago, moved to the city to build her brand from scratch, and that her penthouse was her hard-won sanctuary. She learned about the weight of the Creed name, about the brutal beauty of the sport that had defined his life, and about the quiet struggle of finding purpose when the roar of the crowd faded away.
"I don't miss the fame," he admitted one night, his voice low and confidential as they stood in the hallway, their doors opposite each other like a final, tantalizing barrier. "I don't miss the cameras or the interviews. But I miss the purpose. The feeling of knowing exactly what I was built to do."
"You're still built, Donnie," Bria said, her gaze deliberately sweeping over his chest and arms before meeting his eyes again. "Maybe you're just supposed to be building something different now."
The physical proximity evolved just as naturally. It started with nothing, a careful six inches of polished floor between them. Then, one evening, the elevator shifted unexpectedly, and Bria stumbled slightly, her hand shooting out to brace herself against the wall. Her fingers brushed against his forearm, and the contact was electric. She felt the jump of his muscle, the heat of his skin, and a current shot up her arm that had nothing to do with the elevator's mechanics.
"Whoa," she breathed, pulling her hand back.
"You good?" he asked, his voice tight, his eyes fixed on the spot where her hand had been.
"Yeah. Just… gravity being a bitch."
After that, the touches became more frequent, more deliberate. A hand on the small of her back to guide her out of the elevator. A playful nudge of his shoulder against hers when she made a particularly sharp-witted joke. One night, they were laughing about something—she couldn't even remember what—and he reached out, his thumb gently brushing a stray tear of laughter from the corner of her eye. The gesture was so tender, so intimate, it stole the air from her lungs. He held her gaze for a beat too long, his thumb lingering on her skin, and the air between them crackled with enough heat to power the whole building.
Then came the night the elevator decided to test them.
It was a Friday, late. They were the last ones in the gym, as usual. The conversation in the elevator was easy, flowing, filled with the comfortable rhythm they'd developed. They were talking about music, debating the merits of 90s R&B versus today's soul.
"See, you can't beat the foundation," Donnie was arguing, his hands gesturing as he spoke. "D'Angelo, Maxwell… that's the bedrock."
"And I'm not saying it's not," Bria countered, laughing. "I'm just saying the house has been renovated. SZA, H.E.R., they're building on top of that foundation. Evolving."
"Or ruining it," he shot back with a grin.
As if on cue, the elevator gave a violent shudder, a grinding screech of metal on metal, and then lurched to a halt. The lights flickered once, twice, then dimmed to a low, emergency-level glow. The emergency button glowed a faint, ominous red.
"Well, shit," Bria said, her heart suddenly pounding in her throat.
Donnie was instantly alert, his body shifting into a protective stance. He pressed the emergency button. Nothing. He tried the panel. Nothing. They were trapped.
"Okay," he said, his voice calm and steady, a stark contrast to the adrenaline coursing through her. "Just a mechanical thing. They'll get it working."
But as the seconds stretched into a minute, then two, the reality of their situation settled in. They were stuck. In a box. Together. And the low, intimate lighting cast everything in a new, dangerous glow. The space felt smaller, the air thicker.
"You scared of small spaces?" he asked, his voice softer now.
"Only ones with unpredictable retired boxers in them," she quipped, trying to break the tension.
He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. His gaze was intense, focused. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Bria."
"I know," she whispered. And she did. That was the problem. She wasn't afraid of him hurting her. She was afraid of what he might do to her heart.
The silence that followed was different. It wasn't comfortable or easy. It was heavy, thick with everything they'd been avoiding for weeks. He took a step closer. Then another. He was right in front of her now, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his chest, could see the dark flecks of gold in his brown eyes.
"Donnie…" she breathed, a warning and a plea all at once.
He lifted a hand, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw with a featherlight touch that made her shiver. "I've been wanting to do this since the first time I saw you in that yoga studio," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy confession.
And then he leaned in.
The world narrowed to the space between their lips. She could feel the ghost of his breath on her mouth, could smell the clean scent of his skin. Her eyes fluttered shut, her body leaning into his of its own accord. This was it. The moment the tension finally, finally broke.
BING.
The elevator lurched back to life with a cheerful chime, the lights flashing back to full brightness. They jumped apart as if they'd been shocked, the spell broken. Donnie took a sharp step back, raking a hand through his hair, his chest heaving. Bria pressed herself against the wall, her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to escape.
The doors slid open to their familiar hallway.
"Guess… guess that's fixed," Donnie said, his voice rough, strained.
"Yeah," Bria managed, her own voice barely a whisper. "Fixed."
They stood there for a moment, the awkwardness a physical presence between them. Then he nodded, a short, jerky movement. "Night, Bria."
"Night, Donnie."
They disappeared into their respective penthouses, and the silence that fell between their doors was louder than any conversation they'd ever had.
That near-kiss changed everything. The next time they saw each other in the gym, the air was so thick with unspoken desire it was hard to breathe. Their elevator rides were no longer filled with easy banter. They were filled with charged silences and lingering glances, with flirtatious comments that were no longer veiled.
"You're wearing that to stretch?" he asked one afternoon, his eyes roaming over her sports bra and leggings with an open, appreciative gaze.
"It's a gym, Donnie. Not a fashion show," she replied, though she couldn't help the preen in her stance.
"Could've fooled me," he shot back, his voice a low purr. "You look like you're starring in one."
Bria felt a blush creep up her neck, but she held his gaze. "And what kind of show is that?"
"The kind I'd pay to see," he answered without missing a beat.
They both knew they were on a collision course. It was no longer a question of if, but when. And Donnie, it seemed, was done waiting.
It was a Thursday night. They were standing in the hallway, the familiar dance of lingering at their doors playing out. But tonight, his energy was different. More focused.
"Your last class on Saturdays," he said, his tone casual, but his eyes anything but. "What time is it over?"
Bria's breath hitched. This was it. "Usually around one. Why?"
"No reason," he said, but the slow, predatory smile that spread across his face told her it was every reason. "Just wondering."
—
Saturday. One o'clock. Bria finished her last class with a final, grounding "Namaste" that felt more like a prayer for her own sanity. The week had been a slow, delicious torture. Every elevator ride, every hallway encounter, every lingering glance in the gym had been a step closer to the edge of a cliff she was dying to jump off. Donnie's question from Thursday—"What time is it over?"—had been a lit match, and she'd been walking around with a fuse burning ever since.
She was cleaning the studio, wiping down the mirrors and rolling up the last of the mats, when she felt it. That shift in the atmosphere. She didn't need to look. She knew he was there. She finished her task, her movements deliberate and unhurried, a silent performance for an audience of one. She turned, and there he was, leaning against the doorframe to the studio, looking like every fantasy she'd ever had and a few she hadn't even dared to conjure.
He was in a pair of black nylon shorts that hung just right on his hips and a fresh white tank top that did nothing to hide the powerful lines of his chest. A fresh white towel was draped around his neck. He looked like he'd just showered, his skin still damp, his hair free of product and curling slightly at the nape of his neck.
"Finished?" he asked, his voice a low, casual rumble that did anything but relax her.
"Just about," Bria replied, her own voice steady. "You're late today."
"I was busy," he said, pushing off the doorframe and walking toward her. "Planning."
"Planning what?" she asked, though she had a sinking, thrilling feeling she already knew.
He stopped in front of her, so close she could feel the heat coming off his body. "The sauna's empty," he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Figured we could… decompress. Before we go up."
It wasn't a question. It was a proposition. An invitation to the next level. Bria's heart hammered against her ribs, but her smile was slow and sure. "Decompress, huh? Is that what we're calling it now?"
"Call it whatever you want," he said, his eyes dark and intense. "As long as you're in there with me."
The gym sauna was a small, cedar-scented cocoon of heat and steam. The moment Bria stepped inside, the air wrapped around her, thick and heavy, making her skin prickle. The lower benches were empty, and Donnie was already settling onto the upper tier, his long, powerful body stretched out with an easy grace. He'd stripped off his tank top, and the sight of his bare torso in the low, golden light was enough to make her mouth go dry. His chest was a masterpiece of sculpted muscle, his abs a rigid, beautiful landscape, and the intricate lines of his tattoo snaked over his shoulder and down his bicep, a story written in ink on his skin.
Bria had worn a simple black sports bra and matching boy-short leggings, an outfit that was functional for the gym but suddenly felt scandalously revealing in the enclosed, humid space. She settled onto the lower bench, directly across from him, the heat already beading on her skin.
They didn't talk at first. They just sat in the thick, steamy silence, the air crackling with a tension so potent it felt like a third person in the room with them. Bria could feel a fine sheen of sweat forming on her skin, could see it glistening on his chest, tracing the defined lines of his pectorals. She watched as a single drop of sweat slid from his temple, down the sharp line of his jaw, and onto his neck. Her eyes followed its path, and her tongue darted out to wet her own lips, a gesture that was entirely unconscious.
Donnie saw it. His gaze darkened, his jaw tightening. He shifted on the bench, and the movement was slow, deliberate, predatory. He moved from the upper tier to the lower one, sitting down next to her. The space, which had felt large moments before, suddenly felt suffocatingly small. His thigh brushed against hers, and the contact was searing.
"Bria," he murmured, his voice a rough, strained thing.
"Donnie," she whispered back, turning her head to meet his gaze.
That was all it took. He closed the remaining distance between them, his hand coming up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking the sweat-damp skin of her cheek. And then he was kissing her.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was a desperate, hungry collision, a kiss that was weeks of frustration and months of unspoken desire all unleashed at once. His lips were firm and demanding, his tongue tracing the seam of her mouth, seeking entry. Bria opened for him with a soft gasp, her hands flying up to tangle in the damp curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, a frantic, messy, beautiful exploration. He tasted like mint and man, a heady combination that made her head spin.
His other hand moved, sliding down her side, over the curve of her hip, to rest on her thigh. His touch was a brand through the thin, damp fabric of her leggings. His fingers squeezed, a possessive, claiming gesture that made her moan into his mouth. Encouraged, his hand began to move, tracing a slow, deliberate path upward, underneath the hem of her shorts.
His fingers found the edge of her panties, and he paused, a silent question. Bria answered by arching her hips, a silent, desperate plea. He didn't need any more encouragement. His fingers slid beneath the fabric, through the slick, wet heat of her folds, and a choked sob escaped her throat.
"Fuck," he groaned against her mouth, his fingers exploring her with precision and a lover's reverence. He found her clit, already swollen and sensitive, and he circled it with a slow, maddening pressure that made her whole body tremble.
Bria's own hands were not idle. She broke the kiss, panting, her eyes locked with his as her hand slid down his chest, over the rigid planes of his stomach, to the waistband of his shorts. She dipped her hand beneath the fabric, her fingers wrapping around the thick, hard heat of him. He was velvet and steel, impossibly hard and already slick with his own arousal. He was wet, leaking. A steady, desperate pulse of fluid that coated her fingers the moment she touched him, making her strokes smooth and effortless.
"Fuck," he groaned, the sound torn from deep in his chest, a raw, guttural thing that was equal parts pleasure and disbelief. His hips bucked into her hand, a completely involuntary movement that betrayed the iron control he was famous for.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Adonis Creed didn't lose control. He was the master of his body, a man who had trained every muscle, every nerve, every impulse to bend to his will. Pain was a signal, fatigue was a suggestion, and desire was a fire he learned to bank and control. But this… this was a fucking flash flood. He was leaking for her, a steady, shameful stream of precum that slicked her palm and his own length, a physical testament to a need so profound it bypassed his discipline entirely. No woman had ever done this to him. No one had ever made his body betray him so completely, so wantonly. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one dictating the pace, the one holding the power. But with her hand on him, stroking him slowly from base to tip, her thumb swirling through the mess he was making, swirling over the sensitive head, he was just a man. A man drowning in sensation, on the verge of coming apart in her hand like a teenager.
"Bria," he gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head for a moment before focusing on her again. "You gotta… you gotta stop."
"Never," she whispered, tightening her grip, stroking him a little faster, a little harder.
He captured her mouth in another searing kiss, his fingers working her clit with a renewed urgency, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. The steam filled the small room, their heavy breathing the only sound, punctuated by the slick, wet sounds of their hands on each other. It was raw, it was primal, it was everything they'd been building toward.
And then, the sound.
The distinct, unmistakable click of the sauna door latch being opened from the outside.
They broke apart like they'd been electrocuted. Bria snatched her hand back from his shorts, Donnie yanked his from her leggings, and they both scrambled to opposite ends of the bench, trying to compose themselves, their chests heaving, their faces flushed with a combination of heat and raw panic. The door swung open, revealing a couple in their late fifties, clad in fluffy robes and looking entirely too cheerful.
"Oh, good, it's not too steamy in here!" the woman chirped, stepping inside.
Bria couldn't look at them. She couldn't look at Donnie. She could only stare at the cedar walls, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs, the ghost of his touch still burning on her skin, the feel of him still imprinted on her palm.
"We were just leaving," Donnie said, his voice a low, rough rasp. He stood up, grabbing his towel and holding it strategically in front of him. He held out a hand to Bria, helping her to her feet.
She kept her eyes down, her hand trembling in his as he led her out of the sauna and into the cool, sterile air of the locker area. They didn't say a word. They just walked, their steps quick and purposeful, straight for the elevator. The moment the doors closed behind them, sealing them in their private, ascending world, Donnie had her pinned against the wall, his mouth crashing down on hers again.
There was no hesitation this time. No slow burn. It was an inferno. His hands were everywhere, tangling in her hair, gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him. Bria's hands were just as greedy, roaming over the broad expanse of his back, digging into his shoulders, holding on for dear life.
The elevator dinged for their floor, but they didn't separate. Donnie fumbled for his keys, his mouth never leaving hers, his body pressing her into the door of his penthouse. He finally got the key in the lock, turned it, and practically kicked the door open, sweeping her inside and kicking it shut behind them.
—
The door slammed shut behind them, the heavy thud echoing in the cavernous silence of his home. It was the sound of a finality, a point of no return. They didn't make it past the entryway. Donnie had her pinned against the cool, smooth wood of the door, his body a hard, unyielding pressure against hers. His mouth was a brand on her neck, his teeth scraping her sensitive skin, his tongue soothing the sting. It was a frantic, desperate clash of need and release.
Clothes were not removed; they were annihilated. Bria’s hands tore at the hem of his tank top, yanking it over his head, her nails raking down the sculpted expanse of his back. He groaned into her mouth, the sound a primal vibration that she felt in her bones. His hands were just as greedy, fumbling with the clasp of her sports bra, his impatience a heady aphrodisiac. When it finally gave way, he pulled it off, his hands immediately cupping the weight of her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her already-pebbled nipples. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pure pleasure that made her arch against him.
“Donnie,” she gasped, her head falling back against the door as his mouth found her nipple, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before he sucked it into his mouth, hard. He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t asking. He was taking, and she was giving, her body a willing offering to his raw, insatiable hunger.
He lifted her then, as if she weighed nothing, his powerful arms wrapping around her waist. Bria’s legs instinctively wrapped around his hips, locking him to her. He carried her through the dark, expansive living room, their bodies a tangled, desperate knot of limbs and need. He didn’t take her to the bedroom. He laid her down on the wide, leather couch, the cool material a shocking contrast to the fevered heat of her skin.
For a moment, he just stood there, looking down at her. The city lights twinkled through the windows, casting a soft, ethereal glow over her body. His chest was heaving, his dark eyes roaming over her, taking in every curve, every dip, every inch of her skin. It was a silent question, a moment of quiet consent in the midst of their frenzy.
Bria answered by reaching for him, her hands tracing the lines of his tattoo, her fingers dancing over the hard muscles of his stomach. “Donnie,” she whispered again, her voice a soft, breathy plea.
He knelt before her, and then, he began to worship her. His hands were reverent, his touch a slow, deliberate exploration. His mouth followed, a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses that left her trembling. He wasn't just kissing her; he was memorizing her, learning the topography of her body with a devotion that was breathtaking.
Bria ared into his touch, her body a bowstring pulled taut, every nerve ending singing with pleasure. She had never been touched like this, with such a potent combination of raw desire and tender reverence. It was overwhelming, and it was everything.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her leggings, and she lifted her hips, allowing him to peel them away, along with her soaked panties. He tossed them aside, his gaze fixed on the glistening, wet heat of her. She was beautiful, a perfect, pink flower glistening with her arousal, her lips already swollen and parted in silent invitation. The sight of her, so wet, so ready for him, made his mouth water. He lowered his head, and the first touch of his tongue against her clit was a revelation. It was a slow, deliberate swipe, a taste that was both a question and an answer.
“Fuck, Bria,” he groaned, his voice muffled against her. “You taste so good.”
He settled between her thighs, his shoulders pushing her legs wider, giving him full access, his tongue and lips and teeth working her with a skill and intensity that had her crying out his name, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. He was relentless, driving her higher and higher, pushing her to the edge of a precipice she hadn't even known she was standing on.
His tongue was a meticulous artist, and her body was the canvas. He didn't just lick; he mapped. He started with the flat of his tongue, tracing the delicate outer folds of her pussy, a slow, reverent exploration that was less about tasting and more about learning. He followed the intricate pattern of her lips, dipping into the creases, savoring the salt-sweet taste of her skin. It was a patient, almost worshipful act, a prelude to the masterpiece he intended to create. He was charting her, memorizing her topography before ever claiming the heart of her.
"Oh, God," Bria breathed, her hands tightening in his hair, not to pull him closer, but just to hold on, to anchor herself to the reality of what was happening. This wasn't frantic or hungry; it was deliberate, and it was undoing her in a way she hadn't anticipated.
Then, his tongue changed. It narrowed, becoming a firm, insistent point of pressure. He found the tight, sensitive bundle of nerves just below her clit and began to draw slow, deliberate circles around it, never quite touching it directly. The teasing was exquisite, a sweet torment that had her hips lifting off the leather, searching for more of that perfect, maddening friction. He was playing her, and her body was an instrument he knew exactly how to tune.
"Donnie," she whimpered, the sound a desperate plea. "Please... right there."
He answered her by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking, hard. A sharp, piercing jolt of pleasure shot through her, and her hips bucked wildly. His hands gripped her ass, holding her down, holding her still for his pleasure. He wasn't just eating her; he was feasting. He was devouring her. He alternated between sucking and flicking his tongue, a relentless, maddening rhythm that had her babbling incoherently.
"Shit, shit, shit," she chanted, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut. "Don't stop. Please, baby, don't you dare stop."
He growled against her, a low, possessive sound. "Wasn't planning on it," he slurred, his voice thick and muffled by her flesh. He slid one hand from her ass, his fingers tracing the cleft of her cheeks before finding her tight, puckered hole. He circled it gently, a teasing, exploring touch that made her whole body clench.
"Fuck! Donnie!" she cried out, her body trembling uncontrollably. "You... you're playing dirty."
He chuckled, a dark, wicked sound that was followed by the feel of his tongue delving inside her, fucking her with the same rhythm he used with his fingers. It was too much. It was not enough. She was a live wire, a bundle of frayed nerves, a woman on the verge of completely and utterly losing her mind.
But she wanted more. She wanted all of him.
She tugged on his hair, pulling him up, her mouth finding his in a frantic, desperate kiss. She could taste herself on his lips, a musky, intimate flavor that was intoxicating. "I want to taste you," she breathed against his mouth.
He didn't hesitate. He shifted, positioning himself over her, his knees on either side of her head, his thick dick jutting out, a magnificent offering. Bria wrapped her hand around him, her fingers stroking the velvety length, her thumb swirling through the bead of moisture at the tip. She leaned up, her tongue darting out to taste him, a slow, deliberate flick that made him shudder.
She took him into her mouth then, her lips stretching around him, her tongue swirling around the head. He was big, impossibly so, and she took her time, exploring him, learning him, worshipping him with her mouth just as he had worshipped her with his. He groaned, his hips rocking gently, his hands tangling in her hair, his touch a gentle, guiding pressure.
But the gentleness was a prelude. A test. And Bria passed with flying colors. She took him deeper, her throat relaxing, her tongue working the sensitive underside of his shaft as she took him inch by glorious inch. When he felt the head of his cock bump against the back of her throat and she didn't flinch, didn't gag, just moaned around him, something in Donnie snapped.
The gentle guide became a firm grip. His hands tightened in her hair, holding her head in place. "That's it," he growled, his voice a low, guttural command. "Take all of it."
He began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, deliberate rhythm. He wasn't just letting her suck him anymore; he was fucking her mouth. Each thrust was a little deeper, a little harder, a little more demanding. Bria's eyes watered, her mascara running in tiny black rivulets down her cheeks, but she didn't pull away. She welcomed it. She opened for him, her hands coming up to grip his powerful thighs, her nails digging into his skin, a silent encouragement to take what he wanted.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "Look at me while I fuck this pretty mouth."
Bria's eyes, dark and glassy with unshed tears, locked with his. She looked up at him, at the raw lust on his face, at the way his jaw was clenched with the effort of holding back, and she felt a surge of power. She was the one making him lose control. She was the one making this disciplined, powerful man unravel.
He started to move faster then, his strokes becoming more urgent, more erratic. He was chasing his own pleasure, and Bria was along for the ride, a willing passenger on his journey to the edge. She could feel his thighs tensing, could hear his breathing becoming more ragged, could feel the thick, hard length of him pulsing in her mouth.
"Fuck, Bria," he gasped, his hips stuttering. "Your mouth... so fucking good."
He was close. She could feel it. She could taste the increasing flow of his precum, a salty, musky promise of what was to come. She wanted it. She wanted to taste him, to feel him lose control, to be the one to push him over the edge.
They were a tangle of limbs, a symphony of sighs and moans, their bodies moving in a slow, sensual rhythm. The world outside the windows ceased to exist. There was only the couch, the night, and the two of them, lost in each other.
The need for more, for deeper, for harder, was a palpable thing between them. Donnie pulled away, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark with a need that mirrored her own. He stood up, pulling her with him, and led her into the sleek, modern kitchen.
He bent her over the cool, granite countertop, her hands flat on the surface, her body presented to him. The cool stone was a shock against her fevered skin, a contrast to the heat pooling between her thighs. Her body was a perfect, the elegant curve of her spine rising from the small of her back to the delicate nape of her neck. Her ass, high and round and firm, was an offering, a temptation that made his mouth water. The dim light of the kitchen caught the subtle sheen of sweat on her skin, highlighting the defined muscles of her back and the soft, womanly curve of her hips. Her legs were long and strong, her feet planted firmly on the floor, her ankles crossed in a gesture of both anticipation and submission. He kicked her feet apart with his knee, opening her up, and the sight of her, so wet, so ready, so completely his for the taking, was almost enough to undo him right then and there. He could see the glistening pink of her pussy, the way her lips were already swollen and parted, a silent invitation that he was powerless to resist. And then he was inside her, one deep, hard thrust that stole her breath. He filled her completely, stretching her, a delicious, overwhelming fullness that made her cry out.
He didn't move for a moment, letting her adjust to his size, his hands gripping her hips, holding her still. "Look," he commanded, his voice a low, rough growl.
Bria opened her eyes, her gaze finding their reflection in the darkened screen of the mounted television. She saw them, saw his powerful body behind her, saw the way her back arched, saw the look of ecstasy on her own face. It was the most erotic thing she had ever seen.
He began to move then, a slow, deep, grinding rhythm. Each thrust was a deliberate, powerful statement, a claiming. He reached around, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing slow, maddening circles that pushed her closer and closer to the edge.
The kitchen, the living room, it was all a prelude. They were a whirlwind of desperate need, a frantic search for a release that was just out of reach. They stumbled up the stairs, a clumsy, laughing, breathless tangle of limbs. They didn't make it to the top. They fell on a landing halfway up, and Bria straddled him, sinking down onto his dick with a cry of pure pleasure. She rode him hard, her hands braced on his chest, her body moving in a frantic, desperate rhythm. He met her thrust for thrust, his hands gripping her ass, pulling her down, deeper, harder.
Finally, they made it to the bedroom. It was a large, spacious room, dominated by a king-sized bed with a simple, black headboard. The moonlight streamed through the windows, bathing the room in a soft, silvery glow.
He laid her down on the edge of the bed, positioning her on her hands and knees. He entered her from behind again, his strokes deep and powerful, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her back to meet his thrusts. The sound of their bodies slapping together, the sound of their heavy breathing, the sound of their desperate cries, it was a primal, beautiful symphony.
He pulled her up then, his arms wrapping around her waist, his chest pressed against her back, his mouth next to her ear. "I got you," he breathed, his voice a low, rough promise. The words were a physical thing, a warm, damp puff of air that sent a shiver racing down her spine, raising goosebumps on her sweat-slicked skin. He held her like that, his hips rocking into her, his body a solid, unyielding presence behind her, his hands roaming over her breasts, his fingers pinching her nipples.
His breath was a constant, intimate rhythm against the sensitive shell of her ear, a low, ragged hiss that was the only sound in the world besides the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies. Each exhale was a brand, a warm, possessive claim that made her toes curl. Bria's head fell back against his shoulder, her throat exposed, a silent offering. She felt completely surrounded, utterly consumed by him. The solid wall of his chest at her back, the powerful arms banded around her waist, the thick, demanding length of him moving inside her—it was a full-body sensory overload that was both terrifying and exhilarating. She wasn't just being fucked; she was being held, cherished, possessed in a way that went far beyond the physical. A deep, part of her, a part she hadn't even known existed, purred in satisfaction at the feeling of being so completely claimed, so utterly safe in the arms of this powerful man.
For Donnie, this was a revelation. His mind, usually a fortress of discipline and control, was a chaotic, beautiful storm. He'd expected this to be about release, about scratching an itch that had been driving him insane for weeks. He hadn't expected this. This feeling of rightness. Of coming home. The way her body fit against his, soft and strong and perfect, was a truth he felt in his bones. Her scent, a mix of her sweat and her arousal and something uniquely, intoxicatingly her, filled his lungs, blotting out everything else. He wasn't just thinking about how good she felt, how tight and wet and perfect she was around him. He was thinking about how he never wanted to let her go. How he wanted to wake up to this scent, this feeling, this woman, for the rest of his life. The thought was so sudden, so profound, it almost made him stumble.
His hands, which had been roaming with a mind of their own, stilled. He cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her hard, pebbled nipples, feeling them tighten even more under his touch. He could feel the frantic, fluttering beat of her heart against his palm, a frantic little bird that mirrored the wild, chaotic rhythm of his own. He dipped his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder, and he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to leave a mark. A brand. A claim.
Bria cried out, a sharp, broken sound of pleasure and pain, her body arching against him. "Donnie," she gasped, her hands coming up to cover his, her fingers lacing with his, holding on tight. "Oh, God, Donnie."
He didn't answer her. He couldn't. Words were useless, meaningless things in the face of what he was feeling. He just held her tighter, his hips rocking into her, his body a solid, unyielding presence behind her, his mouth next to her ear, his breath a constant, possessive whisper against her skin. He was marking her, claiming her, making her his in every way he knew how. And in the back of his mind, a voice, a quiet, persistent voice, was already whispering a single, terrifying, wonderful word: forever.
He pushed her forward then, sliding into her from behind in a new position, a deep, drilling angle that hit a spot inside her that made her whole body tremble. He was relentless, his strokes hard and fast, his control finally, finally giving way to the raw need that had been simmering between them for weeks.
But Bria wasn't done. She was done being taken. It was time to take.
In a move that surprised them both, she used her strength and flexibility to flip him over, straddling him, his dick still buried deep inside her. She looked down at him, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face. "My turn," she said, her voice a low, confident purr.
She began to ride him in reverse, her body moving in a slow, sensual rhythm, her hips grinding against his. She leaned forward, giving him a perfect view of her ass, his hands immediately coming up to grip the round, firm globes. He was an ass man, she realized, and she was more than happy to indulge him. She rode him harder, faster, her body a blur of motion, her cries of pleasure filling the room.
He couldn't take it. The sight of her, the feel of her, the sound of her, it was too much. With a roar, he tossed her off him, pulling her close, rolling them so they were lying face to face, their bodies tangled together, their legs intertwined.
He entered her again, this time in a slow, tender, sideways missionary position. He looked into her eyes, his gaze soft, his expression open, vulnerable. "Bria," he whispered, his voice a raw, emotional thing.
And then, they let go. It was a slow, deliberate, mutual surrender. They moved together, their bodies in perfect sync, their eyes locked, their souls bare. The tension, the need, the desire, it all coalesced into a single, perfect moment of release.
"Let go for me, Bria," Donnie's voice was a raw, ragged thing in her ear, his hips grinding into her with a deep, steady rhythm that was pushing her closer and closer to the edge. "I wanna feel it. I wanna feel you cum all over my dick."
His words were the final push. The dam didn't just break; it atomized. The pleasure wasn't a wave, it was a seismic event originating deep in her core, a violent, beautiful earthquake that shattered her from the inside out. It wasn't a clench; it was a cataclysm. Her pussy didn't just tighten around him—it seized, a greedy, milking vise of hot, slick muscle that rippled up his length in a desperate, rhythmic prayer. Her back didn't just arch; it snapped into a perfect, agonized bow, a bridge between pleasure and pain as a animalistic sound was torn from her throat, a raw, ragged cry that was his name and a curse and a prayer all at once. It was a violent, beautiful implosion, a supernova of sensation that left her a shaking, sobbing, breathless ruin in his arms.
He felt her let go, felt the wet, hot rush of her release, and it was the breaking of the last chain. The last shred of his control, the final thread of his discipline, disintegrated in the face of her pleasure. He ripped himself free, his dick pulling from her clenching, grasping heat with a slick, sloppy sound that was the most obscene, beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He didn't have to think; his body took over. His hand flew to his own length, his grip almost punishing, his movements a frantic, desperate blur as he chased the release he could feel building in his balls, a hot, heavy pressure that demanded an outlet. His gaze was locked on her face, on her flushed, sweaty, beautiful face, on her half-lidded eyes that were still clouded with the aftershocks of her own orgasm, her lips parted as she struggled to catch her breath. She was his undoing. She was his salvation. And he was about to fucking explode.
Bria's hands came up, her palms cupping his jaw, her thumbs stroking his stubble. Her eyes, dark and glassy with pleasure, locked with his. "That's it, baby," she breathed, her voice a low, filthy purr. "Cum for me. I wanna see it. I wanna feel it. Give me all that fucking cum, Donnie. I know you've been saving it all for me."
Her words, her touch, the look in her eyes, it was all too much. With a strangled cry, he came. It wasn't just a release; it was a fucking explosion. A thick, hot, seemingly endless stream of cum shot from him, painting her stomach, her breasts, her thighs. It was a visceral thing, a physical testament to the weeks, the months, of pent-up need and desire. He came and came and came, his body trembling, his hips jerking, his heart pounding a frantic, desperate rhythm against his ribs.
When it was finally over, he collapsed against her, his body a dead weight, his head buried in the crook of her neck. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his mind a blissful, blank slate.
Bria held him, her arms wrapped around his sweat-slicked back, her hands stroking his hair. She could feel his heart beating against her, a slow, steady rhythm that was a comforting, reassuring presence.
After a moment, he shifted, his still-hard dick sliding back into her, a slow, deliberate movement that made them both moan. He didn't move, just stayed there, buried deep inside her, his body a solid, comforting weight on top of hers. He held her close, his arms wrapped around her, his face buried in her hair.
And in the quiet aftermath, in the tangled mess of their limbs and the sticky, sweet evidence of their passion, they both knew. This was more than just sex. This was more than just a release. This was the beginning. And it was the end. It was everything.
—
The first light of dawn wasn't an intrusion; it was a gentle unveiling. It seeped through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Adonis’s bedroom, painting the rumpled sheets in hues of soft grey and pale gold. The city below was slowly waking, but in this room, high above it all, there was only the quiet, heavy rhythm of breathing and the tangled, sated limbs of two people who had thoroughly and completely wrecked each other.
Bria was a warm, weighty presence against his side, her head nestled in the crook of his shoulder, one leg thrown possessively over his. The air in the room was thick with the scent of them—sweat and sex and something deeper, the musky, intimate perfume of a night spent exploring every inch of skin. Donnie was exhausted in a way he hadn't been in years, a bone-deep satisfaction that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with the woman currently using his chest as a pillow.
He traced idle patterns on her shoulder, his fingers ghosting over the faint marks he'd left on her skin. The bite on her neck, the fingerprint bruises on her hips. They were his claims, his brands, and a fierce, primal part of him swelled with a possessive pride. But underneath it, a softer, more terrifying emotion was taking root.
Bria stirred, her body shifting against his. She let out a soft, contented sigh, her eyes fluttering open. They were hazy with sleep, but clear, so clear, and they found his immediately. A slow, lazy smile spread across her face. "Morning, hermit," she murmured, her voice a soft, raspy thing.
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through his chest. "Morning, temptress." He leaned down, capturing her lips in a soft, gentle kiss. It was nothing like the frantic, desperate kisses from the night before. This was slow, tender, a conversation without words. It was a hello, and a thank you, and a promise all in one.
They lay there for a long time, just kissing, their hands roaming over each other's bodies with a slow, familiar intimacy. There was no urgency, no frantic need. Just the quiet, comfortable exploration of two people who had nowhere else to be and no one else they'd rather be with.
Finally, Bria propped herself up on an elbow, her hair a wild, beautiful halo around her face. "So," she said, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "That happened."
Donnie smiled, a real, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Yeah. That happened." He reached up, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I've wanted this since the first time I saw you," he admitted, his voice a low, rough confession. "In the gym. That first morning. You were in that damn tree pose, looking all serene and untouchable, and I just... I knew. I knew I was in trouble."
Bria's expression softened, the teasing glint in her eyes replaced by something warmer, more vulnerable. "Me too," she confessed, her voice barely a whisper. "I saw you walk in, and it was like the whole room just... stopped. I was supposed to be teaching a class, but all I could think about was you. About what it would feel like to have you look at me like that. Like you wanted to eat me alive."
"Still do," he growled, his hands tightening on her hips, pulling her closer.
Bria laughed, a low, throaty sound. "I know," she said, her eyes softening. "But it's more than that, isn't it?"
Donnie didn't answer her with words. He just looked at her, his gaze open, vulnerable, his heart in his eyes. He was a man who had spent his life in the spotlight, but he'd never felt more seen than he did in this moment, with this woman, in the quiet dawn of a new day.
"So what now?" Bria asked, her voice soft, her fingers tracing the lines of his tattoo. "Do we go back to our separate penthouses and pretend this was just a one-time thing? A really, really good workout?"
Donnie's arms tightened around her, a possessive, protective gesture. "No," he said, his voice firm, decisive. "No more pretending. No more separate penthouses. I want you here. With me. Every night."
Bria's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise and something else, something that looked a lot like hope, in their depths. "Donnie..."
"I'm serious," he said, cutting her off. "I'm tired of hiding up here, waiting for something to happen. You're my something, Bria. You're the reason I've been feeling so restless, so... incomplete. I didn't know what it was, but I know now. It's you. It's always been you."
Bria looked at him, her heart a frantic, fluttering mess in her chest. She saw the sincerity in his eyes, the vulnerability, the raw, unadulterated need. And she knew. She knew he was right. This wasn't just a fling. This wasn't just a good time. This was it.
"Okay," she said, her voice soft, but firm. "Okay."
Donnie let out a breath he hadn't even realized he was holding, a wave of relief so profound it was almost painful washing over him. He pulled her close, burying his face in her hair, his heart pounding a frantic, triumphant rhythm against his ribs.
They lay there for a long time, just holding each other, the weight of their decision settling over them, a comfortable, reassuring presence. They talked then, about everything and nothing. About their pasts, their dreams, their fears. About what their future would look like, a future that was suddenly, wonderfully, terrifyingly real.
Eventually, Bria drifted off to sleep, her body a warm, trusting weight against his. Donnie watched her, his heart aching with a love so intense it was almost painful. He watched the way the morning light caught in her hair, the way her lips were slightly parted in sleep, the way her chest rose and fell with each steady breath.
He was a hermit no more. He'd found his reason to leave his penthouse. Or, more accurately, he'd found his reason to invite someone in. He'd found his home. And as the sun finally crested the horizon, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow, Adonis Creed knew, with a certainty that settled deep in his soul, that everything had changed. He was no longer just a retired boxer, a celebrity hiding from the world. He was a man in love. And he was finally, truly, home.
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[Claudia from Interview with the Vampire - left to right - portrayed by Kirsten Dunst in the 1994 film adaptation, portrayed by Delainey Hayles in AMC's show adaptation (Season 2 - 2024) portrayed by Bailey Bass in AMC's show adaptation (Season 1 - 2022) & my design for her portrayal in the book published in 1976]
