Discover Top Posts Tagged with #dbf!

May I request DBF Smoke. (Nicole is 28 & Smoke is 38) Smoke has known her father for about 4 years due to business. Smoke and Nicole have a love/hate relationship, because they both act alike. He secretly loves her!

One family dinner and smoke session later. He has her on her side, balls deep, forearm around her neck, and ruined. 🫠

Sorry I’m ovulating, and feeling really SLUTTY I mean Smutty. 🙂

Ruined & Kept

Pairing: Elijah “Smoke” Moore (DBF) x Nicole (OC)

Series: Request

Summary: Nicole has always had a love-hate relationship with her dad’s best friend. They clash, they tease, they push each other’s buttons because they’re too damn alike. What neither of them says out loud? That tension masks something hotter, filthier, and forbidden.

One family dinner, one smoke session, and one stolen night later, Nicole finds herself ruined in ways she’ll never forget. And Elijah? He’s not about to let her forget it.

Part 2: What Still Burns

Nicole and Elijah Moore had been circling the same fire for years.

It started the first time her father introduced them — business ties, a handshake that carried weight. Elijah was steady, broad-shouldered, and a decade older than her, the kind of man who walked into a room like it already belonged to him. Nicole was twenty-four then, sharp-tongued and just reckless enough to test him. He’d said something slick; she’d fired back twice as hard. The rhythm was born right there: his gravel against her flame, his patience against her bite.

Everyone called it a love-hate thing. “Y’all too much alike,” her mother used to laugh when the two of them started sparring at family gatherings. Nicole would roll her eyes, Elijah would smirk, and the argument would keep rolling. But under every jab was heat, the kind of tension that hummed too close to want.

They were both stubborn. Both loud when they wanted to be, silent when it mattered most. He called her a brat more than once; she called him an old man, always with that grin that left him gritting his teeth. Four years of it—sideways glances, barbed words, long silences that said more than the fight before them.

By the time that dinner rolled around, everyone at the table thought they couldn’t stand each other. Nobody noticed how often his eyes cut her way.

—

The table was too full that night, laughter and chatter bouncing off the dining room walls. Plates passed hand to hand, forks clinking against ceramic. Her father’s voice carried over everyone else’s, talking business with Elijah like the two were brothers. Nicole sat across from him, chin propped in her palm, eyes sliding toward him every time he reached for his glass.

Elijah didn’t look at her—at least, not directly. But she caught him anyway. The flick of his gaze when she licked gravy from her thumb. The muscle in his jaw tightening when she leaned back, legs crossing slow under the table. He smoked after dinner, always did, and she was already thinking about the curl of it between his lips.

It was a dance. Always had been. Tonight, it was just starting its first steps.

The plates clattered down, heavy with food. Nicole stabbed into her greens like they’d done her wrong. Across the table, Elijah lounged back in his chair, wine glass balanced easy in one hand, the picture of calm. Too calm. She hated when he looked like that — like nothing could touch him.

“You always chew that loud?” he drawled suddenly, just loud enough to reach her, not anyone else. His eyes didn’t lift from his plate, but the smirk tugging at his mouth gave him away.

Nicole’s fork froze mid-air. “Better loud than slow as molasses. Thought you’d be halfway through by now, old man.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him, low and rough. “Ain’t in a rush. Only kids eat like the food gon’ run away.”

She rolled her eyes, sinking her teeth into cornbread like she meant to break it. “Maybe I eat fast ‘cause I don’t waste time pretending to be unbothered.”

This time, he looked up. Their gazes locked across bowls and platters, her fire sparking against his steady heat.

“You bothered, baby girl?” he asked, voice dipping, daring her.

“Only by you,” she shot back, sweet as venom.

Her father cut in with a booming laugh about some story from work, drawing attention back to him. Conversation flowed again, but Nicole and Elijah stayed locked. A small lift of his brow. Her slow, deliberate sip of sweet tea. Every move was chess, every breath part of the game.

When she finally leaned back, her leg brushed the table leg hard enough to make the silverware rattle. Elijah’s eyes dropped, just for a second, before flicking back to hers.

“You clumsy,” he muttered, smirk sharpening.

She tilted her head, lips curving. “And you nosy.”

It was nothing. It was everything.

Dinner rolled on, laughter, drinks, the easy rhythm of family. But beneath it, the air between them thickened, thread by thread.

Nicole told a story about her friend from work, everyone laughing, but she kept sneaking glances at him, watching his hand curl around the glass, the way the light caught the veins in his wrist. Elijah leaned back, listening to her father talk business, but his attention kept sliding sideways. Every time she smiled, something in his jaw ticked.

No one else noticed. But for the two of them, the table might as well have been empty.

Dinner stretched on in waves — plates scraped clean, voices rising, laughter threading around the long table like smoke curling to the ceiling. Nicole sat with her wine glass in hand, feigning interest in whatever story her father was telling. Her smile stayed polite, but her eyes — sharp, defiant — stayed locked across the table.

On the other end, Elijah leaned back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. One arm rested easy along the chair’s edge, his rings catching the warm light. His gaze was steady, fixed right on her like he could read every thought she didn’t say out loud.

And maybe he could.

“So, Elijah,” Nicole said suddenly, her voice sweet but sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. “How’s business? Still spending more time talking than working?”

Her father chuckled, shaking his head. “Nicole. Don’t go pokin’ the bear. You know he always gets the last word.”

Elijah lifted his glass, slow, deliberate, eyes still pinned on hers. “That’s ‘cause I don’t waste words.” He took a sip, then let the rim of the glass hover against his lip, the faintest smirk ghosting there. “Some people just can’t handle them.”

Her fork tapped the edge of her plate, her smile widening. “Or maybe they can’t handle the attitude.”

The back-and-forth was nothing new. They sparred every time they shared a room, fire and flint, sparking until one of them gave in. Tonight, though, Nicole felt something coil tighter inside her — a sharper heat.

She shifted in her chair, letting her heel slip free from the strap of her shoe. The movement was quiet, hidden beneath the clatter of cutlery and conversation. She slid her bare foot forward under the long table, slow, until her toes brushed against the cuff of his tailored pants.

Elijah didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just sipped his wine like nothing had changed, though his jaw twitched once, betraying him.

Nicole pressed a little higher, tracing her foot up his shin. Her lips curved as she leaned back in her chair, tilting her glass toward her mouth. “Don’t choke,” she murmured, the words wrapped in a smile her father mistook as politeness.

Elijah’s eyes narrowed, that dark flash sparking in their depths. He lowered the glass with a soft clink against the table, then set both elbows down, leaning forward. His voice dropped, low enough to disappear into the noise of her father’s laughter.

“You’re gonna regret that,” he said.

Her toes slid higher, teasing along the muscle of his thigh. “Maybe I like regret.”

Her father looked between them, oblivious, still chuckling about the story he was telling. “What’s funny?” he asked when he caught Nicole’s grin.

“Nothing,” she answered quickly, her eyes locked on Elijah’s. “Just enjoying myself.”

Elijah let out a quiet laugh — low, dangerous, like he already knew how the night was going to end. His hand shifted under the table, not to stop her, but to catch her ankle in a firm grip. A warning disguised as restraint.

The squeeze said it all:

Keep playing, and I’ll make you pay later.

The rest of dinner happened in slow, looping waves—conversation rising and falling like warm tide, silverware clicking against porcelain, a chorus of easy laughter that should’ve softened the room and didn’t. Nicole kept her smile polished, chiming in when her father’s business partners dragged the talk toward new contracts and old grudges, but her attention never truly left the opposite end of the table. Every time she dared another swipe of her foot along Elijah’s shin, she felt the small, deliberate flex in his jaw, the measured sip of wine that meant he’d clocked her move and filed it away under later.

He didn’t let her forget it, either. Not with words—he barely spoke to her after that—but with the weight of his gaze whenever the laughter swelled loud enough to cover it. It was a touch all its own, a steady hand on the back of her neck from across polished wood and linen, saying I feel you acting up. I’m not gonna save you from what that earns.

By dessert, she’d slid her heel back on and tucked both feet primly beneath her chair like nothing had happened. It didn’t matter. The damage was done; the table felt smaller, the lights hotter, the air choked with unsaid things. When her father made a toast—something about good work and better friends—glasses lifted and clinked, and Nicole heard her own voice join the chorus while her pulse beat low and insistent, answering another rhythm that wasn’t the room’s.

Chairs scraped. Goodbyes layered the air. Men clapped Elijah on the shoulder, promising to call; women hugged Nicole, promised to set her up with somebody’s perfectly decent son. The house shifted from loud to quiet in pieces, and when the door finally shut behind the last guest, the silence that landed didn’t feel empty. It felt like a held breath.

Nicole carried plates to the kitchen because it gave her hands something to do. Steam curled up from the sink, wine stains bled into soapy water, the familiar domestic hum trying—and failing—to drown out the other hum in her blood. She rinsed and stacked, and still felt his gaze before she heard his steps.

“You gon’ leave all that for me?” her father called from the den, already settling into the comfort of his recliner and a game he’d pretend he wasn’t about to fall asleep on.

Nicole dried her hands on a towel and leaned into the doorway, smile easy. “I got the kitchen, Daddy. It’s your housewarming party part two.”

He waved her off, content. The TV volume went up a notch; the sound of a crowd roared through the walls. Nicole turned back to the sink and found Elijah in the reflection of the window, set back in the shadows just enough to make the chandelier glint off the edges of him—watchband, belt buckle, the silver on his fingers.

“I’ll take the trash out,” he said, voice low and steady, not looking away from her reflection. “Then I’m gettin’ some air.”

“Congratulations,” she said lightly, turning the faucet off. “Heroic.”

“Somethin’ like that.”

He picked up the tied trash bag with one hand, door whispering open, screen nudging after. The night rushed in—warm, crickety, thick with Florida’s late heat. Nicole counted to ten just to prove to herself that she could, that she had a choice, that what happened next would be fully hers. Then she wiped her hands one more time, smoothed the line of her dress like a woman who didn’t need to, and followed the path he’d left open.

The backyard had been dressed for company earlier—string lights draped in soft swags, citronella candles shouldering little halos, the patio table still littered with a few abandoned glasses. Now that it was quiet, the lights felt like stars bent low, listening. The grass held the day’s warmth; the air held the day’s whispers. Elijah stood at the edge of the patio near the old live oak, shoulders angled toward the dark yard, lighter in his hand and a thin roll-up resting behind his ear like a promise.

Nicole let the screen door fall soft behind her. It clicked anyway, and Elijah glanced back. That single flick of attention warmed her more than the summer night.

“You lost?” he asked.

“Found what I was looking for,” she said, matching his calm.

His mouth twitched. He took the joint from behind his ear, thumb rolled the filter, forefinger flicked the lighter. Flame licked, paper glowed, and smoke unfurled in a slow ribbon that caught the string lights and turned them a little hazy. He took the first pull like a man who knew how to savor, then held the smoke a beat too long, like a man who knew exactly who was watching.

She stepped closer. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to count the gold flecks in his eyes. “You gonna share or you just out here flexing breath control?”

He exhaled on a laugh, passing it to her between his first two fingers. His rings were cool against the back of her knuckles when she took it, his hand steady as a metronome while the heat at the tip traveled. Their fingers stayed there, overlapped, a half-second longer than manners would allow.

“Don’t test my patience,” he said, so quiet it barely disturbed the smoke.

“Maybe I like tests.” She drew in slow, felt the burn and softness hit her chest at the same time, held it till her eyes watered just a little. When she passed it back, she let her nail graze his palm. It was petty. It felt like victory anyway.

“You stay with the little games, huh?” He brought the tip to his mouth, eyes on hers the whole time. “Got all the jokes in front of folks. Feet busy under the table. Think I ain’t notice?”

Her face didn’t betray it. Her pulse did. “I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, calm as glass.

He stepped a half-shade closer. Not enough to be obvious if someone glanced through the den window. More than enough for her to smell him—cedar, a cut of bourbon he hadn’t even poured, the cologne she knew he used too sparingly on purpose. The smoke ribboned between them—sweet, slow, a curtain they kept passing through with every breath.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asked, passing the joint back; his fingertips brushed the center of her palm this time, drawing a small, involuntary shiver from her wrist to her throat. “How you look at me when you think I ain’t watchin’.”

Nicole let the smoke sit in her mouth before she took it down. It gave her time to tilt her head, to let her eyes go sleepy-cool. “Bold of you to assume I think about you at all.”

“Bold of you to stand here when you could be inside.” He leaned in the last inch to shield the cherry from the breeze, and the heat of him lapped at the shell of her ear. “You could’ve left me out here alone.”

“That why you came?” she countered, flicking ash into the tray on the patio table. “To be alone?”

He made a soft, amused sound. “Nah. I came for quiet.”

“And you want me to leave you to it?”

“I want you to stop pretendin’.” His hand lifted as if to reach for the lighter in her other palm; instead, his fingers brushed the heel of her hand, slow, then closed around the metal. The contact was nothing and everything—wrist to wrist, pulse to pulse, a handshake that told the truth with no witness but the night. He didn’t take the lighter yet. Neither of them moved.

From the den, her father laughed at something on TV, a broad burst of noise that rolled through the open window and died out here beneath the oak as if the yard refused to host it. Crickets took the space back. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked once and thought better of it.

Nicole dragged again, softer. When she passed it back, their hands didn’t part fast enough. His thumb brushed over the ridge of her knuckles, slow as an apology he’d never say out loud. Static jumped her skin; heat followed. She swallowed it like a secret.

“You gon’ keep acting brand-new?” he asked, the words warmer than the air. “After the little stunt under the table?”

She lifted a shoulder. “Got long legs. Tables are small.”

He smiled with his eyes more than his mouth, a flash of approval that felt like a hand at the small of her back. “Mm. You bold in the wrong rooms.”

“Maybe I wanted to see if you could sit still.”

“I’m sittin’,” he said. “For now.”

The joint burned lower; the smoke thickened. She should’ve stepped back. He should’ve let her. Instead, they hovered in the pocket they’d made—half-lit, half-wild, the kind of charged quiet where people say things they can’t walk back from.

“You stay talkin’ to me like I don’t know you,” he murmured finally. “But I see you when you not lookin’. I see you at these dinners, bored out your mind. I see you gettin’ smart ‘cause you scared to be sweet.” The smoke curled from his mouth, kissed her collarbone before the breeze stole it. “And I see the part you swear ain’t there.”

“You full of yourself,” she said lightly. It sounded thin to her own ears.

His smile cut precise. “Maybe. And maybe I’m just right.”

Their fingers met again when she reached for the lighter this time. He didn’t let go. For a second that stretched, they just held it together—the little metal thing suddenly a hinge, a leverage point, an excuse. Her skin went electric where his thumb pressed. Her body betrayed her with the smallest sway forward, a magnet seeking its twin. The breath she took wasn’t quite steady.

She laughed, quick and airy, trying to shake it off. “You always like this when the night gets humid?”

“Only when you walk out into it,” he said.

She meant to fire something back and found nothing loaded. The quiet wrapped them. She took one last pull to kill the cherry, crushed it gentle in the tray, and when she straightened, his eyes were exactly where they’d been all night—on her mouth, then her throat, then her mouth again. The look didn’t ask. It promised.

She broke it with a shake of her head and a soft, reckless grin. “You need to relax.”

He tipped his chin toward the dark yard, toward the quiet that had swallowed the house. “Thought that’s what we were doin’.”

“Mm.” She set the lighter down, but her hand didn’t leave the table. Not yet. “We’ll see if you got manners.”

“Manners?” he echoed, amused. “You tryin’ to test me again?”

“Maybe,” she said, and her body did what it had done at the table—told on her, pulse rising where his gaze could see it.

He noticed. Of course he did. “Keep laughin’,” he warned softly, eyes low and steady. “See what you earn.”

She held his stare, let the warning fall over her like warm rain, and smiled like a woman who already knew she wouldn’t run.

And when his knuckles brushed hers one more time—“by accident,” neither of them believing it—their hands didn’t pull away fast enough.

The walk back inside was quiet in steps but loud in pulse. Nicole kept her arms folded, not because she was cold but because she needed something to do with her hands. Elijah’s stride matched hers—measured, easy—but she could feel the heat rolling off him, the same heat that had followed her all through dinner, through smoke drifting in the backyard, through the brush of his thumb over her knuckles.

The door shut behind them with a soft click, and the shift was immediate—the hush of a house winding down for the night. The TV was off. Only the hallway lamp glowed faint in gold, throwing a warm shadow across the foyer. Her father’s voice cut through it, deep and relaxed as he moved toward the staircase.

“Goodnight, baby girl.” He kissed Nicole’s cheek, already half turned toward the steps. “Elijah, you know you welcome to stay the night. Guestroom’s there if you want it. Nicole, set it up for him, alright?”

Nicole’s throat bobbed, caught between protest and pretense. Elijah answered first, smooth and sure. “Appreciate it. I’ll take you up on that.”

Her father nodded, gave them both a smile that trusted too much, then disappeared up the stairs, each heavy footstep creaking against the wood until the last one faded into bedroom quiet.

Silence stretched in the wake. The house settled. Nicole’s pulse didn’t.

She turned toward the kitchen, needing distance, and found Elijah already leaning against the counter, watching her like the last two hours had been foreplay for this exact second.

“What?” she asked, sharper than she meant.

“You really gon’ keep pretendin’?” His voice was low, roughened silk. “Act like you ain’t been on me all night?”

“I wasn’t on you,” she snapped, moving past him to reach for a glass. Her hand shook just enough to clink it against the faucet handle. “You’re full of yourself.”

He pushed off the counter. The sound of his footsteps crossing tile made her chest tighten. “Nah. I’m full of patience. Been sittin’ on it while you out here playin’ games.”

Nicole turned, glass half full, and nearly spilled it when his body closed the space between them. The kitchen light painted his face in gold and shadow, jaw tight, eyes locked on hers like she was prey cornered and too stubborn to admit it.

“Say you don’t want me to touch you,” he said, breath brushing her cheek. “Go ahead.”

Her lips parted, the words stuck behind them. Silence was all the permission he needed.

The kiss hit hard. Filthy, teeth catching lips, mouths dragging open like they’d both been starving too long. The glass slipped from her hand, thunked against the counter without shattering, forgotten the second his palm bracketed her hip and dragged her flush.

She gasped into him, tried to push, ended up clutching. His tongue slid against hers, hot, tasting like smoke and bourbon and danger. Her back pressed into the counter’s edge; his thigh wedged between hers, thick and unyielding. The friction made her bite down on his lip, and he groaned like she’d just given him everything he’d been waiting for.

“You got a smart mouth,” he muttered against her jaw, dragging his lips down to her throat. “But right now, it’s just beggin’ me to use it.”

Her hands fisted in his shirt. “You think you’re the only one wantin’ this?”

“I know I’m the only one gonna have you like this.” His hand slid up her thigh, fingers pushing her dress higher, higher, until the hem bunched at her waist. Calloused fingertips skimmed the damp edge of her panties, and she jolted, breath sharp.

The creak of floorboards upstairs froze them both. Her father’s steps—slow, careful—crossed from one room to the other. Nicole held her breath, nails digging crescents into Elijah’s shoulder.

He didn’t stop. His finger hooked the band of her panties, tugged it aside just enough, the pad of his finger dragging through her slick folds like he was taking inventory. His mouth brushed her ear, whisper-dark and devastating:

“Keep quiet, baby.”

Her knees buckled, caught on his thigh, his hand holding her steady as he teased her entrance with the bare edge of his finger. She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood, but her body betrayed her, hips rocking into his touch, pulse thrumming like it wanted to give them both away.

The footsteps upstairs stopped. A door clicked shut.

Nicole exhaled shakily, and Elijah grinned against her neck, sliding his finger deeper with a slow, claiming push. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Now let me ruin you quietly.”

The kitchen lights were low, only the hum of the fridge and the faint creak of the house settling upstairs breaking the silence. Elijah sat Nicole on the counter, her thighs pressed together in a nervous lock, though her smirk said otherwise. Elijah stepped between her knees like he’d been there a thousand times before, his big frame eating up the space.

“Spread ‘em,” he rasped, already tugging at the hem of her dress.

Her lips parted, ready to shoot something smart back, but the look in his eyes snatched the words right out of her throat. That dangerous mix of hunger and authority. She held his stare, slow as sin, and slid her thighs open.

His hand hooked into the lace at her hips, yanking her panties down like they offended him. He didn’t fold them, didn’t set them aside gentle — he tore them down her legs and let them drop on the tile. Nicole gasped when the cool air hit her bare skin, when the counter pressed cold under the swell of her ass.

“Look at you,” he muttered, spreading her knees wider until she was dripping open for him. “Talk all that shit to me across the table, but the second I touch you? Pussy wetter than the faucet.”

She rolled her eyes, but her chest lifted sharp with her breath. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Elijah’s grin was slow, dangerous. “Ain’t gotta. I can smell it.”

Then he buried his face in her. No warning, no tease — just his mouth wide, tongue flat, nose pressed into the heat of her. Nicole slapped a hand against the counter, the other gripping his head instinctively.

“Oh—fuck!” It ripped out of her before she could swallow it down.

He groaned into her, the sound vibrating against her clit, sloppy and greedy. He wasn’t trying to be pretty about it; he was trying to ruin her. His tongue dragged up and down her slit, then circled her clit, then shoved inside her, fucking her with his mouth like he hated the space between them.

Her head fell back against the cabinet, teeth digging into her lip to keep quiet. But it was no use — every time his tongue curled inside her, every time his beard scraped the inside of her thighs, a sound clawed out of her chest.

“Keep it down,” he muttered against her pussy, not lifting his mouth. “Don’t want Daddy comin’ down here, seein’ me eatin’ his daughter like my last meal.”

Her thighs trembled. The filth in his tone made her wetter, dripping down his chin. “You’re—fucking insane,” she gasped.

“And you love it.” His tongue flattened again, relentless, his hand sliding up to pin her belly down so she couldn’t squirm away. He licked her like he had something to prove — dragging every slick sound out into the air until it coated the room thicker than the smoke they’d shared outside.

Her body betrayed her, hips rolling up to meet every stroke of his tongue. He lapped her like he wanted to drink her dry, groaning every time she spilled more. His forearm curled around her thigh, locking her open.

“You taste like trouble,” he murmured, then sucked her clit so hard her whole spine arched. “Sweet, messy trouble.”

Nicole’s nails raked his scalp. She tried to push him back, only for him to growl and shove deeper, tongue fucking her so hard she felt the muscles in her stomach seize.

“Elijah—fuck, wait—”

“Mm-mm,” he cut her off, mouth glued to her. “You gon’ cum on my tongue. Right here, right now. Don’t fight it.”

Her body had no choice but to obey. Her thighs snapped shut around his head as the orgasm tore through her, hot and wet. She tried to choke it back, but her moans spilled, high and broken, the kind that carried even in a quiet house.

Elijah didn’t stop. He licked her through it, groaning like he was addicted, tongue dragging every drop from her until she sagged against the cabinet, limp and shaking.

When he finally pulled back, his beard was soaked, his lips glistening. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, then smirked up at her with dangerous satisfaction.

The air in the kitchen still smelled like her — sharp, sweet, musky — clinging to Elijah’s beard and dripping down his chin. Nicole’s chest heaved, sweat clinging to her collarbones. She thought he’d stop there, thought the risk of someone coming down the stairs would cool him off.

But the way he looked at her said otherwise.

He stepped in tighter, pressing his body between her open thighs until the rough fabric of his pants rubbed against her slickness. His hand slid up her spine, dragging her forward into him. He didn’t kiss her right away — he just stared, his lips wet, beard shiny from her. Then he tilted his head, voice a low rasp.

“You really think I can taste you like that and not fuck you?”

Her stomach flipped. Her hands pressed to his chest, meant to hold him back, but instead they curled into his shirt like she couldn’t let go. “My dad—”

“Asleep.” Elijah’s hand moved lower, gripping the meat of her thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to the heat between her legs. “Only one I hear breathin’ right now is you.”

He kissed her then, filthy and unrestrained, his tongue shoving deep into her mouth like he wanted to own her from the inside out. She gasped against him, muffling the sound into his lips as he lifted her higher onto the counter. The scrape of his beard burned delicious against her skin as his mouth dragged down her neck, teeth catching her pulse.

“Quiet now,” he muttered, voice hot against her throat. “Don’t need him coming down here, interrupting us.”

Her body clenched at that — betrayal and thrill spiking together.

Then his pants came down. He didn’t bother with finesse, just shoved them to his thighs, his dick springing out heavy and throbbing. He pressed the swollen tip against her soaked slit, dragging slowly up and down, smearing her all over him. The sound alone was obscene.

Nicole gripped the edge of the counter until her knuckles ached. “Elijah—”

“Say it right.” His eyes pinned her in place. “Say Smoke.”

Her lips parted, a whisper breaking free. “…Smoke.”

That was all it took. He thrust forward, burying himself inside her in one brutal stroke that made her back slam against the cabinet. She choked on the moan, biting her lip so hard she tasted blood.

“Fuck,” he hissed, eyes screwing shut. “Tight as a fist. Gonna ruin this pretty pussy right here on Daddy’s counter.”

He set the pace, slow at first, dragging out the stretch, savoring the way she clenched around him. Each withdrawal was torture, his dick sliding wet and heavy against her walls, only to slam back in deeper, harder. Her thighs shook, spreading wider to take him.

The slap of skin on skin echoed in the kitchen. The fridge hummed, the clock ticked, but all she could hear was the filthy wet sounds of him fucking into her and his low groans against her ear.

“You feel that?” Smoke pressed his forearm across her chest, pinning her to the cabinet, while his other hand gripped her hip. “Every inch sittin’ inside you.”

Her head rolled back, hitting the cabinet. She tried to breathe quiet, tried to hold the sounds in, but every thrust knocked another moan out of her.

Then a sound froze them both.

A floorboard creaked again upstairs.

They went still, her legs still wrapped around his waist, his dick buried to the hilt. Sweat rolled down her temple as she listened. Another shift, then silence.

Nicole’s heart slammed against her ribs. “We—”

“Shhh.” Smoke’s lips brushed her ear, his voice pure grit. “Stay still, baby.”

He gave one slow thrust, just to hear her choke down a whimper. His smirk was lethal. “See? Can’t even keep quiet. You need to get fucked where it’s safe before you get us both caught.”

Her body trembled when he slid out of her, her cunt clenching on emptiness. He yanked his pants up just enough to cover himself, then leaned close to kiss her — quick, filthy, sealing the taste of her moans on his tongue.

“Guest room,” he whispered, voice sharp with command. “Now.”

He lifted her off the counter, her legs still weak, panties left abandoned on the tile. She scrambled to grab them and the hem of her dress, tugging it down as best she could, her thighs sticky with him. He gripped her wrist and led her out of the kitchen.

The hallway creaked under their weight. The house felt cavernous in the dark, every step amplified, the risk sharpening every nerve. Nicole bit her lip, the adrenaline of being caught making her wetter, dripping down her legs as they climbed the stairs. Smoke’s hand never left her wrist, dragging her like she belonged to him.

The guestroom door shut with a soft click that felt louder than a gunshot in a sleeping house. A hush settled—thin, trembling, almost sacred. Nicole’s back met the wood for a heartbeat, breath catching high in her throat, and Smoke was right there, big body closing the distance like gravity had decided they belonged in the same shape.

He didn’t rush her. He pressed in slow, one palm spreading firm over the side of her neck, not choking—just claiming the real estate—his thumb skimming her pulse like a promise. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was the kind that eats the air, a dark tangle of tongue and teeth that said every second they’d held it together at the table had only wound them tighter. She chased his mouth as he dragged it away, a soft hungry sound caught between them.

“Bed” he rasped, voice rough from smoke and want, “now.”

She didn’t trust her voice. She nodded, fingers already fisting in the front of his tee, walking backward with him crowding every step, the world narrowing to the heat of him, the press of his thighs, the rough drag of denim at her hips when his leg slid between them. Her calves met the mattress, and the bed sighed under her weight as she sat, then lay back. The ceiling fan threw slow shadows over the ceiling, the moon through the half-closed blinds lined him in silver as he stood at the edge, looking down at her like a man who’d worked for something and finally had it in his hands.

They’d already stripped half their decency in the kitchen—her panties gone, the sweet, ruined ache of his mouth still humming between her legs; his pants unbuttoned, zipper eased, control frayed. Here, he took his time because time was cruel, and he liked the cruelty when it served him.

He came down over her on his forearms, body heavy but precise, settling his weight along hers so their chests met. The first contact was a low shock—her nipples brushing his tee, the warmth of his breath at her cheek, the scrape of his stubble on her jaw—then his mouth was on her again, deeper, wetter. She arched up into him like a reflex. He swallowed the little sound she made.

“Open,” he said, not a question. She opened.

His hands skimmed down, big palms mapping her ribcage like he’d been memorizing her by touch for years. He lifted, just enough to peel his tee up, baring thick shoulders, roped forearms, that deep cut line that ran to his waistband. The shirt dropped to the floor without him looking. Nicole’s fingers shook as they traced the planes of his chest, the heat, the ridiculous solidity. He caught one wrist and kissed the inside of it, then planted her hand above her head on the pillow, spread, as if he was framing her for the room to see.

“Dress,” he murmured.

She reached for the side zip; he batted her hand away, a flicker of a smirk in the dark. “I got it.”

He rolled the dress up from her thighs slow—no hurry, no mercy—dragging it high enough that cool air kissed skin his mouth would heat next. He paused at her belly and lowered his face, breathing her in, the barest scrape of teeth at the soft curve had her hips twitching. When he reached the neckline, he sat back on his heels and took the whole thing in one confident pull, the fabric whispering over her shoulders and head, leaving her bare beneath him, sprawled and trembling and already slick from the kitchen sins.

“Look at you,” he said, voice a satisfied drag. “Messy already.”

He bent to her breasts like a man saying grace—palms cupping them heavy, thumbs pressing her peaks until she gasped, then his mouth sealed around one, dark and hungry. He sucked until her back arched off the bed, then licked slow circles to cool the sting. His free hand slid down, down, knuckles grazing the downy trail of her lower belly until he found heat—slick, swollen, pulsing under his touch. He didn’t enter. He teased with two fingers, slow strokes through the wet, spreading it, marking her thighs with it.

“Thought about this all goddamn dinner,” he said against her skin, breath hot, words burning. “You, tryin’ to stare me down while soakin’ for me. You think I ain’t feel that? Thought I couldn’t smell you?”

Her breath hitched. “Elijah—”

He kissed the corner of her mouth to swallow her name, then shushed her with a drag of thumb over her lower lip. “Hush. Keep that sweet little mouth for later.”

He stood, and the bed gave a small protesting creak at the loss of his weight. He shoved his pants down his thighs, the denim catching at the thick line of him. His dick sprang free—heavy, dark, the blunt head wet and gleaming in the low light. She sucked in air like a drowning thing. He smirked at the way her eyes fixed, at the way her thighs pressed together without her permission.

“Spread,” he said.

She did. He climbed back in, bracketing her hips with his knees, and leaned forward until the heat of him lay against her slit, sliding lazy, painting her with pre-come, letting her feel how hard he was, how serious and unhurried and inevitable this was. She rolled her hips for more. He pulled back and denied it. She swore under her breath; he grinned.

“Beg.”

She stared up at him, chin tilted, fire and defiance and hunger all tangled in her face. She didn’t beg. Not in words. She arched, tilted her pelvis just so, and offered slick, open heat to the head of him, a wordless plea his body read just fine. The smile he gave her said that would do.

He lowered, hands under her knees, folding her open, the thick head catching and parting her, pressure building, then—slow, careful, lethal—he pushed in. Inch by claiming inch, he watched her mouth fall open, watched her scramble for a grip on his shoulders, watched her eyes glaze as the stretch lit every nerve in a slow burn. He exhaled a cuss when he bottomed out, hips flush to her, balls snug to the wet. He stayed there, buried, feeling the tight rhythmic squeeze around him.

“Goddamn,” he breathed, forehead dropping to hers. “That’s a grip.”

Her nails bit his back. “Move.”

“Imma move when I’m ready,” he said, and kissed her soft for exactly one second, like he wanted to prove he could. Then he levered up, braced, and finally gave her what she asked for—long, devastating strokes that dragged his length out almost to the tip and slammed back in, punching little gasps out of her, shaking the bed frame against the wall in a rhythm that felt dangerous in a quiet house.

She tried to say his name again; it came out a broken whine. He answered with a low noise in his chest, a rumble of satisfaction, and upped the tempo a hair—still not reckless, not yet, but enough that she couldn’t catch up to the pleasure. Enough that her thighs trembled and her voice kept dissolving.

He kissed her open mouth, swallowed the noise, and then broke the kiss with a ragged inhale. “Turn,” he said.

He didn’t make her do the work. He took her by the hip and shoulder and rolled her like a page in a book, keeping himself inside her, the twist smooth and controlled, his body following in one continuous pivot until her cheek was on the pillow and his broad chest was at her back. He hooked her top knee over his thigh and slid his arm around her throat—not crushing, but firm and absolute—his forearm a bar that anchored and owned. The other hand palmed her lower belly, fingers splaying over the soft there, claiming more territory.

Then he drove.

The angle hit a place that made her see stars—deep, relentless, unarguable. He fucked her balls-deep, every thrust a full-body decision, hips slamming into the round of her ass so hard the headboard ticked the wall in warning. She grabbed at the sheets and then at his forearm at her throat, not to pry it away but to hold it there, to meet the pressure with trust and heat.

“Breathe,” he murmured, voice a rasp against her ear. “I got you.”

She pulled in air when he let her, floated there, then he tightened a hair and the world went bright at the edges. Nothing existed but the wet-slick slide, the thick insistence of him filling her over and over, the anchored hold at her throat that made her feel contained and flung wide at once.

“Talk that shit now,” he gritted, thrusts getting meaner, the line of his body carved with effort. “All that mouth at dinner—where it go? Huh?”

A sound tore out of her, half-laugh, half-cry. “Shut up and—”

He snapped his hips so hard the end of the sentence collapsed into a raw moan. He laughed once, dark and pleased. “Exactly.”

His hand slid from her belly to between her thighs, fingers finding her clit slick and swollen. He circled once, twice, merciless, in time with the thrusts. Her entire body jolted; she bit the pillow and then bit air because biting wasn’t enough.

“Keep it quiet,” he warned, and then sabotaged the warning by pushing her closer to a place that made silence impossible.

The house answered like a sleeping thing—floor settling somewhere far away, the groan of old wood, the ghost of a pipe ticking, then quiet again. The fear threaded the lust and made it brighter. She rocked back to meet him, the wet clap of skin on skin obscene in the hush, and he growled a praise that melted into a curse.

“That’s it. Throw it back. Let me see you work for it.”

She did. She met him, angle for angle, stroke for stroke, and when she almost got ahead of him—when she tried to take control in that thin space—he locked both of their bodies down with that forearm and made a new, ruinous rhythm that had nothing to do with mercy. He shoved her up the bed, chased her, shoved again, chased again, until the sheet bunched under her and her hair stuck to her cheek in damp curls.

“Tell me,” he said, low and dangerous. “Tell me what I’m doin’ to you.”

She tried. It came out in tatters. “You— you’re… deep—”

“Deeper than that,” he corrected, and ground in a circle that lit her nerves like struck matches. “Say it.”

“Ruining me,” she gasped, voice breaking on the word. “You’re—ruining—”

“Good girl,” he said, and everything he put behind the praise wrecked her as much as the thrusts did.

She shattered on his hand, on his dick, on the pressure at her throat, the orgasm ripping through her in a series of helpless clamps that dragged a rough groan out of him. He didn’t stop. He worked her through it, rode her tremors until they blurred into a second wave, wetter and sloppier, her thighs shaking, her cries swallowed by his palm when he covered her mouth for a few brutal strokes to save them both from the house hearing the truth.

“Uh-uh,” he soothed when she writhed, overstimulated. “You asked for me. Take all of me.”

She didn’t remember asking with words. She’d been asking with months of fight. Her body answered anyway, answering yes, yes, yes on a loop while he dragged her past sweet into ragged.

Sweat slicked their skin, a salt sheen under the cool fan-breeze. His forearm at her throat was a brand now, his breath a harsh music at her ear, and his hips a steady machine, each drive bottoming out, the blunt head of his dick kissing a place that made her toes curl hard enough to cramp.

“Quiet,” he reminded when her voice cracked louder. He pressed his mouth at the hinge of her jaw, teeth grazing, and whispered filth that made her wetter. “Feel how you got me? Drippin’ all over me, squeezin’ like you tryna keep me. Drownin’ me, baby.”

She didn’t have language anymore. She had the rhythm. She had the ache. She had the way he owned the pace until she forgot there’d ever been any other. He slowed for three strokes, let her think relief was coming, then gave her five savage, deep drives that knocked her back to the edge. She cried out into his forearm and he smiled into her hair like a sinner satisfied at church.

“She mine,” he told the dark, as if the room needed a record. “Ain’t nobody else puttin’ her to bed like this.”

Another wave built. She felt it like a pull low in her belly, a bright thread winding tight. He felt it too; his fingers on her clit changed from circles to a steady drag that matched the thrusts, perfect and evil. The layered sensation—pressure at her throat, hand on her, dick deep—stacked until it broke her open again, harder than before, so hard she forgot the risk and said his name too loud.

He covered her mouth with his palm, breath stuttering. “That’s it,” he hissed. “Give it to me.”

She came with a tremor that wracked her from shoulder to ankle. The clench dragged his groan from somewhere animal; his hips stuttered. He chased it, swore, lost his rhythm, found it, lost it again. He was close—she could feel the tell: the way his thighs went iron, the way his breath went wild and ugly like he didn’t want to plead but might.

“Where you want it?” he grated, forearm easing enough to let her speak, the question a courtesy he might ignore.

“Inside,” she breathed, no hesitation. “Inside me.”

A sound tore out of him—half surrender, half victory. His hand left her mouth and slid up to hold her jaw, turning her face so he could take her mouth again as he chased the end. The kiss was messy, teeth and tongue and gasp. He broke it with a curse, slammed deep once, twice, three times, then locked there, buried all the way in, grinding like he could carve himself into her. Heat flooded, thick pulses emptying into her, a groan breaking loose from his chest that she swallowed like a prayer.

He didn’t pull out. Not immediately. He held her there, forearm easing from her throat to her collarbones, pressing her down with the weight of him, keeping every drop where he’d put it. The room spun slowly back into focus around their panting.

“Don’t move,” he said, more devotion than order now.

She didn’t. She lay in the heat of it, his sweat on her neck, his heartbeat pounding against her shoulder blade, spread and owned and too gone to pretend otherwise. The fan thumped a lazy beat. Somewhere in the house, a pipe ticked again. The silence hummed with the fact of them.

When he finally slid out, it was a slow retreat, a filthy slick sound that made them both hiss. His spend followed, warm spill on her thigh and the sheets. He caught it with his fingers on reflex, pressed two into her to push it back, not ready to give up the claim. She jerked; the overstimulation shocked through her nerves, a little whimper punching out. He murmured something low and fond and indecent at once, and eased his hand away.

The bed smelled like sex and heat and the kind of trouble that rewrites a life.

He rolled, gathering her to his chest, hauling her flat on her back, then tipped her easily to face him. Big palms framed her face, thumbs sweeping damp hair from her cheekbones. Up close like this, he was all dark eyes and thick lashes and satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide.

“You good?” he asked, low, the gravel gentled.

She nodded, throat tight, breath finally slowing. “Mhm.”

“Color?”

She breathed a laugh—small, grateful. “Green.”

“Yeah.” He kissed her forehead, then each cheek, then her mouth, soft this time, not devouring, more like sealing something they both knew had shifted. “Knew you could take it. Knew you needed it.”

She swallowed. The praise warmed places that had nothing to do with sex. “You’re impossible,” she whispered, but the words carried no fight.

“Mm. And you mouthy.” He brushed a knuckle over the faint sweep his forearm had left at her throat, not bruises yet, just the ghost of pressure. “Beautiful, though.”

He slid from the bed with a reluctant hiss at the loss of heat, padded to the adjoining bathroom. The faucet whispered to life; the dim glow of the vanity lit the doorway. He returned with a warm, damp towel and a glass of water. He cleaned her slow, careful, no rush now, cupping her knee, opening her with his palm to wipe the mess from her thighs, between, the sheet getting darker and darker under each pass. She watched him do it, watched his face soften in these quiet rituals that should have been nothing but felt like vows.

“Gimme your neck,” he said. When she tilted her chin, he pressed kisses to the tender skin, reverent, then rubbed a thumb over it like he was smoothing the memory into place.

“Big talker,” she murmured, teasing thin as breath. “Big… doer.”

He huffed a laugh that felt like a hand smoothing a sheet. “Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish. House asleep don’t mean I am.”

She snorted and winced when the movement tugged at muscle he’d worked mercilessly; he smirked like he’d felt it too. He dropped the towel, climbed back in, and gathered her under his arm, her head tucked under his chin, one leg flung over his thigh like she belonged there. His palm made lazy passes down her spine, the weight of it grounding.

For a long minute they said nothing. The night held.

Then, soft enough the darkness felt like it had to lean in to hear it, he murmured, “You drove me crazy tonight. Foot on me at that table. You know what that did?”

Her smile was a slow thing he felt against his chest. “Knew exactly.”

He kissed her hair. “Yeah. You did.”

A floorboard far down the hall whispered—the house turning over in sleep. They stilled, listening. Nothing followed. He exhaled, tucked her closer, and pressed one last kiss to the hinge of her jaw.

“Gon’ be sore,” he said, not sorry at all. “Gon’ think about me tomorrow every time you move.”

She hummed, a satisfied little sound. “Already do.”

“Good,” he said, and turned off the last stray thought with the steady weight of his arm. “That’s what I wanted.”

The fan kept its quiet spin. The moon moved a fraction across the blinds, laying new silver stripes over the wrecked bed. In the hush, the claim settled—not a word, but a fact—and the rest of the house never knew a thing.

The house smelled like coffee and butter toast by the time Nicole padded down the hall. Her body ached deliciously—deep in her thighs, at the back of her throat where his forearm had pressed, in the stretch of her hips that still hummed with him. Every step whispered of last night. She’d scrubbed the evidence from her skin in the shower, but she couldn’t wash away the soreness, the phantom pulse that reminded her of what they’d done.

Her dad was already at the kitchen table, mug in hand, glasses perched low on his nose as he scanned the paper. Elijah sat across from him, broad shoulders relaxed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth when Nicole entered. She forced her face neutral, praying the heat in her cheeks didn’t betray her.

“Morning, baby girl,” her dad said warmly. “You sleep okay?”

She nodded, sliding into the seat next to him, careful not to glance too long at the man across the table who had ruined her on her side, whispering filth into her ear hours earlier.

Elijah sipped his coffee slow, eyes flicking up to catch hers over the rim. That look was quiet, deliberate, and it stripped the air out of her lungs. She dropped her gaze, stabbing butter into her toast with more force than necessary.

Her dad folded the paper and looked at Elijah. “Glad you stayed, man. Always good company. You drive safe heading out, alright?”

Elijah leaned back, that easy grin sliding into place like armor. “Always. Appreciate the hospitality.”

Nicole’s dad rose, kissed her temple, and clapped Elijah on the shoulder before heading down the hall to grab his briefcase.

The second his footsteps faded, Elijah’s chair scraped back. “Walk me out?”

Nicole’s heart stuttered. She swallowed her nerves, muttered something about needing air, and followed him out the front door.

The morning was soft and golden, dew still clinging to the grass, the world so deceptively innocent it made her shiver. Elijah’s truck sat in the drive, black paint catching the light, a hushed witness to their night.

At the driver’s side, he turned, crowding her back against the warm metal door. He didn’t touch her—too risky with curtains that could twitch open at any second—but his presence pressed heavy, all six-plus feet of him a reminder of what she’d taken and what he’d given.

“You walkin’ alright?” he asked, voice low, threaded with smug concern.

She narrowed her eyes at him, trying not to smile. “You know damn well I’m sore.”

His teeth flashed in a wicked grin. “Good. Wanted you rememberin’ me every step you take today.”

She exhaled hard, glancing back at the front door. “My dad’s in the kitchen. You can’t—”

He leaned closer, his breath feathering her ear, cutting her off. “Your dad think I’m just his boy sittin’ at the table. He don’t know I had you beggin’ into the pillow. Don’t know I left you dripping all over that guest bed.”

Her knees wobbled. She gripped the edge of his jacket to keep steady. “You’re insane.”

“Insane for you,” he said, no pause, no shame. “Always been.”

The door creaked faintly behind them—her dad clearing his throat inside. Nicole jerked back, pulse spiking. Elijah only chuckled, opening the truck door. He climbed in, started the engine, and let it purr loud enough to cover the tension.

Before pulling off, he leaned out the open window, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not his grin. “Text me when you get home. Want proof you made it safe—and proof you’re thinkin’ about me.”

Her father’s shadow stretched across the porch. Nicole forced her lips into a polite smile, waving as the truck rolled down the street.

But her chest burned with a secret only she and Elijah carried: last night, her dad’s best friend had claimed her in every filthy way—and she wanted more.

tag: @blyffe transparentphantomface @mwahkae @championshipshade @christinabae @og-goddesstrill

#dbf!

Trending Tags

Recently Viewed Tags

#dbf!