A.N: I saw the picture when I woke up, wrote this during my study break (writing Psychology soon). So here’s something cool, calm and short. Also, new o.c unlocked!! If ever I write for Aaron himself again it’s gonna be with Sam, so just in case everybody say “hi Sam!” Anyway, I’m gonna disappear for the next 3 weeks for exams so I really hope y’all enjoy this for now. Thanks for reading❤️
~Tee❤️
If their walls could talk, oh the freaky little stories they would tell. The worst ones being of the days Aaron and Sam went to the gym together. A lovely tale of adrenaline and lust carried by affection.
How there would be no warning before the front door flies open with them stumbling through it. Mental maps guiding their steps through the house while their hands wandered freely on each other’s skin.
Soft hums and light gasps chronicling their desire for one another; the occasional smacking of lips like a little ad-lib. Not much of a word exchanged as Aaron awaits a command of direction.
“Kitchen.”
“Bedroom.”
“Bathroom over the sink.”
“Fuck it, right here,” a breathy word or two from Sam, activating him like a sleeper agent.
Their movements would grow more frantic; rushed. They understand how much time they have. They know they should probably take a shower first. But what’s a little more sweat? And why later when sooner is right there? So he’d hoist her up into the arms she adored so much and take her wherever she asked-we’re going to talk about the bathroom today-and alter her consciousness.
Another door flies open, banging against the wall with a force that would have had them both knocked upside their heads by their mothers. Sam’s usually nimble fingers tug at the hem of his shirt before lifting as far as she can reach. From there Aaron finishes the job, pulling it over his head and tossing it behind him, leaving his chain to gleam against his salty sheen covered chest. He returns her initial favour, but more gently to preserve her hair.
He was horny, not cruel.
His wide, soft palm cups the back of her neck while the fingers on his other hand tug her body closer by the waist band of her black Nike tights. Her honey coloured gaze speaks to him. Tells him she wants this as much as he does. Tells him she needs him. As much as he needs her. It calls him in, and he complies, fingers digging into some of the hair at her nape to angle her head upwards.
Their lips mingle for only a moment before getting comfortable with one another like old friends. Their tongues embrace and their bodies collide. Once again he has her entire weight in his arms, walking towards the large bathroom sink. He gently places her there and trails his lips across her jaw with the occasional soft kiss and tender pull of suction.
Her hands move across his shoulders, fingers trembling in need as she studies the skin of her constant undoing. Her parted lips are an instrument of his unraveling control. His kisses grow desperate, paired with teeth and grunts bordering on primal. Biting into her soft, chestnut skin, his hands make quick work of her tights. She assists with the quick lift of her ass from the granite the small counter space. Soon they’re but a distant memory. All Aaron and Sam can think about is what’s next.
Soon, Aaron is on his knees, soft lips planting a wet trail across her thighs. He doesn’t linger there too long though, as the scent of her arousal draws him to what lies beyond them. Aaron was never really a gentle eater. He was more of a “last supper” kind of guy. His tongue’s attack on titan was nothing new to Sam, yet it never failed to rock her world. The way he’d devour her with his entire face in it would always leave her breathless and numb in the head. 1, 2, 3 orgasms with nothing but the power of the tongue; it’s no wonder it doesn’t take much for her to get dick-dumb.
As the echoes of her desperate cries and her thighs vibrate against the sides of his head, he pulls back. His hazel irises have darkened considerably and his clean shaven chin is drenched in her. Always a messy eater when it comes to her. Slowly, he rises to his full height.
“Get down, let me see you properly first,” what should be a soft whisper, comes out as a gruff rasp. But his accent-oh his accent-keeps it tooth-rotting nonetheless. As she instinctively obeys, she just hopes her needs aren’t too weak.
The low yellow light illuminated her body, hypnotising Aaron. She looked like an angel whose skin was the halo. The mirror behind her reflects his thirsty ass expression and her rounded ass; stretch marks, cellulite and hand prints from 2 nights ago nearly send him into a spiral. The previously solid ponytail holding her goddess braids was looser now. The free curls framed her radiant face; gym days meant no makeup, just an intense glow from the workouts, and now having her thoughts ate out of her. The days didn’t matter much to Aaron though. To him, Sam always looked like a dream he never wanted to wake up from.
A cocky smirk stretched at her lips. “You like?” she teased, her silky voice making Aaron’s nervous system act a fool. Something inside him switches as his throat dries. His dick makes a bit of scene by jumping against his cotton sweats. Although his eyes narrow seemingly like a predator zeroing in on its pray, there isn’t a single thought in his brain anymore. No, that’s not true. There is one thought. Only one.
“I fucking love you.”
Without another breath, his hands plant themselves onto her waist, turning her around. His tattooed arm reaches around her neck. Her chin firmly in his hand, he tilts her head to the side as if creating access. Eyes trained hers through their reflections, he drags his tongue across her shoulder, stopping at the base of her neck. Back across the same shoulder he went, this time by wet, gentle kisses.
“Never forget that.”
Before Sam can respond, the hand cupping her chin is on the back of her neck, firmly folding her over the edge of the granite edge. His fingers find her slick folds and parts them for the pad of his thumb to find her clit. Her body shivers against his as his thumb works her into a pleading mess.
“Aaron-“
“Baby please.”
“Fuck me, please! I need you!” she cries, eliciting a dark chuckle from Aaron who increases the pressure of his thumb. For an extra gift, he inserts 3 fingers inside of her, stretching her sweetly around them. The action pulls out one of the most pornographic noises he had ever heard from her. All it does push him further.
His fingers curl.
They scissor.
They retreat.
They plunge back in.
Orgasm number 4 was more of a splash into his hand. Wetter than the previous 3 that’s for sure. Maybe that explained the tears in her eyes. And suddenly her ignored attempts to grab his wrist make all the more sense.
“You alright over there?” he taunts. Her teary browns met his playful greens, struggling to grasp the audacity of this man. Then her eyes widen in what seems like fear as she detects a certain glint in his irises. His lips curve slightly as a silent response. “What did I say you should never forget?” he asks her, his tone deceptively sweet.
“That you lo-AH!” she cries, her answer being sharply cut off by his fingers plunging right back into her. Two curls against her warm walls is all it takes for a 5th orgasm. And in a way she didn’t even know was possible, it’s messier and wetter than the 4th.
Aaron retracts his soaked fingers with the ghost of a sinister smirk across his features. His dry hand grabs the loose ponytail and wraps it around his fist. As if she weighs nothing, Sam’s back is arched inwards, bringing her face to face with Aaron.
“Hey,” is all he says before shoving his pussy covered fingers into her mouth. His fingers dance over her tongue as he essentially uses it to wipe them off. Right as it seems like he’s about to remove them however, they slide further down her mouth right past her uvula. She gags and chokes mindlessly, catching him wink as fucks the back of her throat with his fingers.
Okay, maybe he is a little cruel.
“You know, I’ve always found it fascinating how you still manage to look this fucking beautiful while being the nastiest little whore I’ve ever had the pleasure of encountering. Absolutely fucking amazing I tell you,” he muses. It’s at this point that Sam fully accepts her oncoming fate. However she still can’t tell you for the life of her what she did to earn it.
His fingers leave her mouth but not before using her spit to paint her lips. “What did I tell you not to forget just now?” Aaron asks again as his fingers run up and down the valley of her breasts.
“That you love me,” her reply comes out as a croak as a result of him treating her gag reflex like a toy.
“And I do, Sam. I really do,” he pauses to lean in and place a soft kiss on her cheek. “But now I’m going to ruin you.”
His hands are on her waist again as he takes a step forward, pressing her front against the sink. He pushes his pants and briefs to his thighs, releasing his impatient looking cock. A few quick strokes and a slight lift of her waist is all the prep she has before Aaron pushes roughly into her. A ragged moan is all Sam has to offer as her man bottoms out inside of her, stuffing her like a garage pie. With no hand holding her up, the pressure folds her right back over and has her hands inching for something to grab. Aaron isn’t having it though; he reaches for her ponytail again and yanks, only this time she’s flush against him. Holding her there is his meaty tattooed bicep, keeping her in what could be a headlock if she finds a way to test him.
With his other hand on her waist, he wastes no time with waiting for her to adjust and instead just rams into her torturingly slow. Each time he pulls out, her brain is tricked by his tongue and lips peppering kisses on her skin and it confuses itself with false relief. Until he slams right back into her, reaching her soul with his girthy tip. “Look at you…such a pretty little slut aren’t you? Mi deh fuck yuh foolish an’ yuh still look perfect, yuh si?” he groans. The pure eroticism in his tone mixed deliciously with the Patois he had taken to using as a weapon formed against her…
Samkelisiwe Pierre never stood a chance.
Aaron’s strokes, although measured and deep, are unrelenting. The precision at which he hits that sweet, sweet spot makes Sam feel like there’s a secret mission afoot. Like there are other forces at hand. If only she had the power to at the very least fight back against them. Never resist or stop them though. Not when they had her seeing stars like this. Not when they had her stomach doing cartwheels around the pressure building up.
“Fuck, daddy…feels so mmh…gonna cum,” she breathes out.
“Is that right? ‘Cause I don’t recall you asking me to.” To the untrained ear, it sounds like an observation, a comment, a note. But Sam’s ears are seasoned. She’s fluent in “Aaaronese” and to her, this is a veiled warning. He’s daring her to do it without asking.
Unfortunately for both of them, she spoke too late and is too close to turn back. There’s nothing she can do to stop the orgasmic freight train that’s coming at her at lightning speed. Nothing she can bite hard enough to quell the guttural scream that escapes her throat. And unfortunately, there’s no amount of clenching that could stop the 6th wave of pleasure pouring from her onto his dick.
All of it happens so fast; so hard, that she can’t even feel the subtle change in pace as she rides it out. He’s going slower, but only so little that she can’t tell the difference. He should be upset…in fact he should be livid at her blatant disregard. But damn, he couldn’t help but be softened by the way her features twisted and relaxed in euphoria. He also understands that there wasn’t much she could do to stop it. Not after a whole workout and…well.
His arm releases her neck, allowing her more breathing room. She places her hands on one of the sinks, using it to brace herself while she takes in their reflection in the mirror. Aaron is still knee-deep inside of her, letting her recover with a more gentle tempo.
“I’m sor-“ she’s quickly cut off by an even sharper stroke. Then another. Then another. All increasing in pace until all it is is just Aaron pounding into her like a mad man. He may have forgiven her last transgression; that doesn’t mean he’s in the mood to hear her lie about her remorse.
The soft grunts painted on his lips accompany her cries of wanton. He’s chasing his own release. He hadn’t originally planned to do it this soon, but Sam derailed his plans. Now he just wants to paint her walls then clean her off in the shower; take care of her for the rest of the night.
He continues to slam into her, pace completely unrelenting but tempo growing sloppy. He’s close, and judging by the way she’s clenching around him, she was too. He leans forward, kissing her along the jaw and her cheek. Her dazed eyes find him through the mirror. There’s drool on the corner of her lip, so he does what any good man would do. He licks it up and lets it mingle with his own saliva before using one of his hands to cup her chin and turn her face towards him.
Almost like she can hear his thoughts, her mouth is slightly open with her tongue sticking out. Little phantoms of his name trail out, waiting on the gift he’s about to give her.
And it comes in the form of a slow, long line of spit, directly on her tastebuds. And like that, the hard earned white ring around his dick grows. Sam’s grip on him warrants one last punishing thrust; one that shakes her to her core and drowns her in powerful tides of pleasure. Her walls hug him tightly and coax his own release out of him. Aaron has no choice but to comply. With a strained groan, his dick twitches, spasms then let’s go, making a complete mess inside of her to match the one outside.
Having emptied himself completely, he pulls out, still leaning on her back. “You know, other couples usually take showers after the gym,” she giggles, back vibrating against his head.
“Love that for them sweetheart. I generally prefer a snack and some cardio,” he teases hoarsely, planting a soft smack on the side of her ass. Sam glares playfully through their reflections, shaking her head at the innuendo. “I won’t hold you though, that shower does sound like a good time right now,” he adds.
“I hear you. But then knowing you, it could turn into you catching your third wind,” she jokes. His head snaps up, mischief shining in his eyes.
“I mean if you don’t mind-“
“Hayi hayi hayi! Mna, I’m tired. Actually, get off my back before you put that thing back inside me. In fact, ingathi I’m going to shower alone,” her tone is firm, but Aaron can hear the humour below. Besides, she hates showering alone so even if he couldn’t, he would know she’s bluffing.
Still, he listens, standing up straight and moving to lean against the sink himself with his back facing the mirror. He pulls her in for a soft kiss, their lips having a tender little slow dance. The taste of her still on his tongue mingles with the taste of litchi flavoured water and his spit.
Sam shifts a little, finding herself in between his legs with her hands against his chest. His hands travel down to her ass, offering a quick squeeze. A sharp gasp escapes her lips and is quickly stolen by Aaron. Her smooth fingers trace his skin, skating down his abs and stopping right where his happy trail starts. Suddenly, he feels her palm him, and it stops him in his tracks.
Surely they can wait 20 more minutes for that shower. He’d even cook for her right afterwards, whatever she wants too. Just one more round-
“Don’t even think about it big boy. You’re not getting another workout out of me.”
Unprotected sex (please bazalwane, one condom one round)
Gunplay (minor) (logic does not live here besties)
Breath play
Degradation
Impact play
Edging
Orgasm denial
These people just might hate each other
Technically stalking ig
Word count: 5468🧍🏾♀️
A.N: so, here's my very late submission for the Terry Birthday bas by @megamindsecretlair . Also, introducing the Milaverse where I will be writing a bunch of oneshots, all in different universes with there only being 3 constants: Mila, Terry, and smut. I really wanted to do a fluffy one this time around but I couldn't get this out of my head, so the next one will hopefully be some cutesy stuff. Anyway, I hope you guys enjoy this, and thanks for reading and engaging. (also, let me know if you wanna be on the taglist for all Milaverse fics)
~Tee❤️
Ah yes, Sundays.
Good food, a glass of wine, good music, maybe a good trip, but most importantly, good old peace and quiet. Relaxation aside, Sundays meant no work calls for Mila, which meant no dealing with her annoying Team Leader, Terry. In another life, this would have been enough for her to believe in God.
Having finished what was supposed to be a weekend-long mission in Singapore in a mere day, Mila had taken her early clock out as a vacation opportunity. And so there she was, in Phuket with her locs in a ponytail, and a clay face mask, wearing nothing but her older brother's old Outkast t-shirt and a pair of white crocs, lounging before a lush mountain view enjoying her third glass of Shiraz. A knock sounded at the front door of the villa, making her groan. The knock was soon followed by the familiar voice of one of the housekeeping ladies announcing herself. Mila pressed her lips together in mild annoyance as this was the second time she'd have to exist in the company of the older and mouthy lady, completely killing the peace she enjoyed in solitude.
“Coming!” she called as she ruefully placed the glass of wine on the table in front of her.
In 5 long, impatient strides, she reached the door and opened it to a view that irritated her to no end.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snapped, glaring at the disruption standing before her.
“Oh, room servi-” Mrs Suwan began to respond before being cut off by Mila.
“I'm sorry Mrs Suwan but I'm actually talking to the big headed oaf behind you,” Mila said, eyes narrowing at the 6’1, now green eyed, honey skinned, undying pain in her ass behind the much shorter and somewhat terrified looking Thai woman.
Terry's lips quirked into what one would swear was a smile, but to Mila was a nasty sneer. “Now Mila, that's no way to talk to your husband who's trying to surprise you,” he spoke cooly, baffling Mila. She noticed Mrs Suwan wince slightly as her body jerked suddenly.
Which meant-
“Especially after everything I went through to make it happen,” he added, now through gritted teeth, confirming her suspicion. Terry was angry, and angry Terry was someone nobody dared to knowingly tango with. Even more so when he had a weapon in his hand. So Mila played along, hoping he would release the older woman between them if she let him in.
“Mila,” Terry said, snatching her out of her head and right back into the real world. The real world where he glared at her expectantly while still maintaining that strained grin.
She swallowed her pride and wore an expression that rivaled his. “I'm sorry sweetheart, I just wasn't expecting you. Come on in,” she bit out as sweetly as she humanly could.
Although the intense staring contest with Terry continued, Mila caught a glimpse of Mrs Suwan’s posture relaxing in her peripheral, as the quiet click of a gun being put on safety sounded behind her. “Thank you, Mrs Suwan. I'll be leaving a generous tip for your services,” he said, not once letting his smoldering glare at Mila falter.
Suwan nodded and scurried away, likely about to cry or throw up from trauma. Although sympathetic, Mila paid her no mind, only focusing on Terry, whose smile instantaneously dropped the moment she left.
“She couldn't even see you smiling, you fucking idiot,” Mila hissed, making no move to let him into her temporary space.
"I was committing to the bit.”
“While holding her at gunpoint?”
“Nudge in the right direction.”
A beat passed in the middle of their back and forth as Mila took in his appearance properly. With a duffel bag slung over shoulder, he was dressed in a royal blue knit golfer that revealed his bulging muscular arms, and navy slacks that likely shaped that juicy ass she often stole glances at during training, at the gym and during post-mission se-
His face however, didn't sell the polished image too well. Aside from the likely cut that was hidden beneath the bandage on his eyebrow, the remnants of his last fight were glaring. A split lower lip, dark with dried blood, a cut healing along his tense jaw, and most obviously, the dark bruise forming below his left eye, all told her everything she needed to know about his weekend.
“You look like shit,” was all she said though, not sure if it was safe to ask why.
Terry's features scrunched up in momentary distaste at the comment, before he took another to scan her appearance, basically eye-fucking her with his cutting gaze.
“Well you don't look so fresh and so clean yourself 3-stacks,” he retorted cooly, his bluff making Mila roll her eyes.
“Whatever nigga,” was all she said before she stepped to the side to finally let him into the villa.
Terry stepped in but not without immediately dropping his back onto the one of the couches, slamming the door behind him and grabbing Mila's wrist to drag her into the kitchen. He cornered her against the counter where the rest of her ingredients lay abandoned. His nostrils flared subtly, as his usual even glare bore through her with a tinge of fury. His large hands were on her sides, gripping at the edge of the counter and caging her in should she attempt an escape.
“You've been annoyingly hard to find,” he stated, his tone low and dangerous, like him in the field.
“It's almost like that's my literal job description,” Mila bit out sarcastically, her fiery glare matching his to a T.
Terry's jaw shifted as he likely ground his teeth. Mila fought the urge to respond with a quip about how that was bad for his precious pearly whites that he cared about so much. But she had already committed to being passively rebellious and she figured he was in no mood to hear a joke about his appearance. Especially considering his current state.
“Last I checked, ghosting your Team Leader wasn't in your contract,” Terry scoffed, his burning gaze setting her skin ablaze.
“Neither is having said Team Leader barge into my personal space on a Sunday, yet here you are,” Mila snarked, getting increasingly impatient.
Terry let out a sardonic chuckle, before firmly grabbing her chin. “Mila, I am not in the best mood right now, so I advise that for your own sake, you watch your fucking tone,” he snarled, venom dripping from his deep baritone.
Ignoring the shiver his tone sent down her spine, she tilted her head up even further, her eyes blazing with defiance. “Or what? You stick a gun against my forehead till you get your way? Nah, you're too much of a bitch to do that to your equals. I know, you're gonna pull out the usual! Bend me over and fuck me silly till I catch an attitude again? Huh Bitchmond? You gonna-” her tirade was promptly cut off by the hand that previously held her chin, now firmly gripping her throat, almost promising to tear it out. An additional surprise was the cold barrel of a gun pressing her chin.
“How ‘bout I do you one better? How ‘bout I shut that big ass mouth of yours and make you gag and slobber all over this here glock. And then when you've got it all nice and wet for me, I'll use it fuck that pretty little cunt of yours till the only thing you can remember is that I am your fucking superior,” he muttered darkly, every last ounce of restraint turning to dust.
Tears pricked through Mila’s eyes as with every word he cut off more and more air from her lungs. This made her pooling arousal all the more disgraceful to an unfamiliar spectator. However this was what Mila decided she wanted the moment she invited him in. No one, except Mila dared to knowingly Tango with an angry Terry, because to her, angry Terry meant sweet, twisted release that nobody else could grant her. Only she knew which buttons to push and how. Only she could rile him up and get exactly what she wanted from his rage.
Still, she mentally cursed herself when she noticed how her lack of underwear caught his attention, like a wolf catching the scent of prey. His hazel irises darkened even more than what Mila thought was possible, as a dark sneer spread across his face.
“Of course you like that shit. You. Filthy. Little. Whore,” he snickered mockingly, punctuating every word with a taunting tap to the cheek with the gun.
“Safe word?” he demanded, loosening his grip on her neck but not completely removing his hand.
“Moonstone,” Mila choked, struggling to speak between the breaths she was trying to catch up on.
“Who?”
“Sir.”
And with that confirmation of consent, the show was back on as Terry grinned slyly. He traced the butt of the gun along her left cheek, drawing lines and circles until he reached the corner of her lips. “Safety’s still on. Open up,” he commanded raspily.
Ever defiant, Mila parted her lips and spat out a defiant, “fuck you.” Terry's grin morphed into a malicious sneer as his grip around her throat tightened once again, snatching her right to breathe.
“Now I already told you that I ain't in the mood for no bullshit, so open that fucking mouth or God help Me I'm going to rip your fucking jaw in half with my bare fucking hands,” he seethed, fury laced in his still low tone.
A spark of rebellion passed through Mila's eyes as she spat in his face. Anything to get him to completely snap and make their little game go faster.
Children, this is a cautionary tale to be careful what you wish for.
His eyes went cold, and the rest of his features emotionless. He removed his hand from her skin and took a step back to retrieve a handkerchief from one of the pockets of his slacks. He wiped the substance from his face, his features not moving an inch from their stoic state. He then balled the now wet material up and marched back up to Mila whose triumphant smirk fell into a fearful grimace as she tried to book it for the room upstairs. Unfortunately, she wasn't fast enough, as signified by Terry's iron grip on her ponytail yanking her back against him.
“You know that was fucking stupid right?” he demanded, voice ragged from his labored breaths.
Understanding that she had flown too close to the sun, Mila internally surrendered. “Yes sir,” she whimpered in a mix of fear and pain from the sting of her thoughts being snatched out of her scalp.
“And you know what comes next right?”
Mila sighed as realization set in. Nothing is ever worth a week of paralysis from the waist down, yet that was exactly what she had ordered. Lust made her irrational and now she was gonna pay the price. But what else was new?
“Yes sir.”
While parts of her legs ached from being pushed and practically dragged up the stairs of the villa, a disgusting sting of excitement burned all over Mila’s skin. Yes, she was fucked, but she was also about to be fucked: a win was a win. Even when Terry let go of her locs as he discarded her onto white covered, large double bed that took up most of the space in the room...until Terry stepped in of course, she couldn’t help but to rub her thighs together to quell the anticipation making itself known underneath the oversized t-shirt. Her Team Leader, for all his quirks on the more annoying side, was what she considered an amazing lay who never failed to shake her world up whenever it collided with his. And that was just on his more mildly frustrated, but relatively nonchalant days. Although she had never crossed this far into the inferno that was Terry’s notoriously violent rage, she had learned on a few occasions that once her little green-eyed monster’s nostrils flared, a time was about to be had, albeit at the cost of functional lower limbs.
You win some, you lose some.
She used all her might to fight the smirk that threatened to tug at her lips, but it was futile. By the way the flecks in Terry’s irises darkened blazed momentarily, she had lost dismally. He stood silently at the foot of the bed, the decade in Academi evident in his bone straight posture. In his hand, like an extension of the limb, was the tool that had aided his rampage, threatening as it gleamed against the dim glow of the lamps that illuminated the bedroom. Even with the remnants of his last fight, he still looked unreal. The soft, luscious pink lips, the glow of his honey skin, and those deep bright eyes whose natural state eluded her due to his guarded demeanor and ever changing moods, had maintained his otherworldly appearance; but the bruises and cuts that littered his godly face, came with the addition of something more rugged. His steely and borderline hateful glare melted with a drizzle of desire while he likely contemplated how to deal with Mila’s blatant disregard for his authority. Mila itched with the need to break the biting ice. She had even settled on a quip about how he looked even sexier when he was beat up, but Terry’s low and cold tone beat her to the punch.
“You’re excited,” he noted, a hint of irritation inflecting in his tone.
“I know what I’m in for. Sue me for reacting accordingly,” she retorted with a shrug, a miniscule prior semblance of submission having evaporated under the heat of his gaze.
Terry let out a near silent but all the more sinister snicker as he shook his head and scratched his jaw. “You a smart little bitch aren’t ya? Aight then Einstein, that little toy you carry everywhere? In my hand. Now!” the command came out as a growl that Mila immediately obeyed.
After a quick search through her suitcase and her second toiletry bag, Mila retrieved the hot pink and royal purple silicone toy and its accompanying lube, and immediately placed them both in his outstretched palm. Terry hummed approvingly at her obedience before speaking again: “I’m giving you 5 minutes to wash your face while I head downstairs and get something to drink. By the time I get back up here, I want you on this bed, naked, on your back and with your legs wide open for me,” he instructed, leaving the two new additions to his arsenal on one of the complementary towels splayed across one of the corners of the bed.
And that’s exactly what she did. She rinsed her mask off then cleansed and scrubbed away at her face before moisturising. She tossed her t-shirt into the guest hamper in the bathroom and slid the crocs off her pedicured feet. She then assumed the given position, slowly lying back into the foam mattress covered in white sheets and duvets, and spreading her legs wide enough to give Terry a clear view of what awaited him.
The man of the hour returned to the room with his duffel around his shoulder, the bottle of Mila’s Shiraz, and a single glass. Mila watched, antsy as he dropped his bag near the bathroom door and set the wine and the glass on one of the nightstands. He then wordlessly moved to climb the bed, kneeling at the edge and reaching out to grab Mila by the backs of her thighs and yanking her towards him, eliciting a sharp squeal. A loud slap rang through the room, followed by a yelp. His calloused hands struck the outside of her thighs, one by one, one sharp smack after another. All Mila could muster were cries of pain and lust as the stinging on her thighs birthed an ugly baby named arousal. The suddenness of Terry’s attack sent her reeling and unable to think straight, which was ironic considering the fact that she was trained to maintain cognisance regardless of what was being thrown her way.
Unfortunately no amount of training can prepare you for the wrath of Terrence Richmond, fuck or foe.
“Just ‘cause ain’t a paddle, don’t mean you shouldn’t be counting,” Terry stated gruffly as he increased the pressure of each smack.
“I don’t know-” she cried out before being promptly cut off by a moan that tore from her own throat at an even harder crack.
“Then figure it out. Ain’t that what smart-mouthed whores like you do?” he asked, mockingly. “You better get that shit right too, ‘cause I don’t mind improvising and starting from the top to wear that ass out properly,” he promised with a malicious sneer.
Mila mentally clawed at her own brain, desperate to figure out what number they were on. Maybe in the first 5, she would have gotten to the answer immediately, but Terry had waited before reminding her, and worst of all he wasn’t even stopping. This light-skinned, grinch-eyed motherfucker had set her up for failure from the start and judging from the growing tent in his slacks, he was getting off on it. Except Mila would have had the chance to avoid the brick wall if she had just remembered to count from the start. And there wasn’t a single doubt in her mind that he would keep his promise and get creative: painfully creative. But right as the thought crossed her mind, Terry’s assault came to an abrupt halt, leaving Mila’s thighs a smoking debris on the outside and a soaked mess on the inside. He was getting dangerously unpredictable.
“Hmm, I’m over here singing your praises, calling you a genius little slut, but you can’t even do something as simple as count? Disappointing,” he taunted with a scrutinizing glare. He sucked his teeth in as he leaned over to grab the vibrator from the towel, slowly moisturizing it with the lube next to it.
Her teary brown eyes met his steely, focused silver ones as he harshly wrenched her legs apart. His features softened when he once again caught a whiff of her sweet, vanilla-peach scent, eyes closing as the pads of his fingers danced lightly on her skin while he basked in it with a slow inhale. Mila bit back a smile at what was to come. Her pussy may have just thrown Terry off whatever treacherous course he had intended for her…or he had just cut her punishment short and was about to fuck her anyway. Either way, what bliss. Terry’s expression however turned back to stone as he had freed himself from the momentary trance. Mila held space though, hoping that despite whatever he had planned, she would still get her fill.
“You’ve gotten too damn comfortable with me Mila. I knew that little attitude of yours would be a problem the moment you were assigned to me, but I thought I could fix it. I tried tougher drills, I tried harder warm-ups, and you just got worse. So I got alternative, I tried being nice, and unfortunately all that did was make me care about you beyond your safety on the field,” he vented, still keeping his tone low and menacing. Mila recalled how he had been a nuclear asshole when she had first joined his team. He had already been a bit of a standoffish prick by the time she arrived, but her defiance against his tone and unreasonable drills sent him over the edge.
So Mila pushed even further. Terry then reverted-actually became more tolerable than when she had met him. Sure, his tone still had a bite to it when he spoke to her, but he was more considerate and more respectful. Never nice though. Which is why she had been surprised when he told her that she was slowly becoming his weakness and that he was finding it harder and harder to pull away from her. And despite their past spats, Mila was forced to confront her desire for him and her enjoyment of their incessant push-and-pull. That was how they built what she called their “healthily toxic love affair”. Without the love of course, because to Terry, outside of his concern for her safety, it was still about keeping her under control.
“Then you let me take creative liberty when you let me fuck it out of you. I thought giving you wanted would quell that agitating fire in you, but I was wrong. So fucking wrong, because now you’re disappearing on me, ignoring warnings, calling me out my name. Spitting in my gotdamn face,” he gritted through his teeth, fingers still tracing light circles, effectively igniting another flame on her inner thighs.
Mila tucked her lip between her teeth, keeping a snarky retort down her throat because the universe knows that Terry’s fury would likely tear through it and her if she said what was on her mind.
“I can’t keep giving you everything if you can’t give me the one thing I expect of you. Come on Einstein, tell me what that is,” he said with an expectant glare.
“Respect,” Mila replied softly, earning another sharp smack, this time to her inner thigh at the incomplete answer. “Respect sir, ‘m sorry,” she whimpered.
“Trust me Mila, unless you tap out and say your safeword, you will be,” he expressed, his dark promise coated in sincerity.
“I don’t wanna say it sir.”
“Mmmh.”
She watched intently as he turned the vibrator on, the low hum growing with every increasing setting. Her eyes widened as he inserted the toy in her sopping cunt, immediately sending unearthly shockwaves through her body. The unholiest of potential noise complaints spilled from her lips as the vibrator worked at her clit and g-spot at once. The overwhelming sensations dulled her mind, weakening her resolve than any of the drills Terry had ever thrown at her. All she could see was the orgasmic light at the end of the tunnel, a light she ran towards until her path was blocked by an evil set of greens and her breathing being cut off.
Fingers pinching at her nose and a heavy forearm pressing against her chest, his gaze burned through her skull as he spoke: “Nah, none of that. Orgasms are for respectful little whores. And you,” he paused to chuckle, “ain’t even halfway there.”
With that, he was off the bed, leaving Mila there to curl and writhe in the bed she had made. He bent over to rummage through his duffel before finally retrieving…a book. A fucking book. He grabbed the wine and glass from the night stand, stealing one last glance at Mila. “I’m not gon’ hold you though, this is a nice ass place,” he noted lightheartedly before retreating to the balcony, closing the sliding door behind him and getting comfortable in the hanging loveseat.
30 minutes.
That was the amount of time that Terry had left Mila to suffer for before making his return from his me-time. By then, Mila only existed between a deep seated regret for crossing someone as twisted as Terry Richmond, and an even deeper desperation for release. Although he was seated beside her, he had made no move to remove the torture machine from her pussy. All he did was watch indifferently as the toy repeatedly drilled the lesson into her while she writhed and squirmed about. Finally, he lulled her from her frenzied state, rolling her to her back and removing the vibrator. His touch felt cold against her raw skin, eliciting a pained groan. Her vision was blurred, but she could still see him smirking down at her in twisted satisfaction.
She heard him tsk at the soaked toy before he redirected his attention to her.
“Always gotta make shit harder than it has to be, huh? Now look at you,” he spat, still fairly vexed by her display earlier.
“‘M sorry sir. So sorry,” she managed to whimper through quivering lips.
Terry only clicked his tongue before getting up and taking his belt off. He made a single loop, wrapping one end around his knuckles. Naively, Mila tried to crawl away, only to be manhandled onto Terry’s lap with her stomach against his muscular thighs. “You miss a number, I start again, understood?” he inquired sternly.
“Yes sir,” Mila replied with a desperate nod.
Smack! “One, sir!”
“You gon’ learn how to fucking talk to me Mila!”
Smack! “Two sir!”
“You gon’ learn to treat me with some fucking respect!”
Smack! “Three sir!”
“You gon’ learn that me and you ain’t equals!”
Smack! “Four sir!”
“I am your superior in every sense of the fucking word!”
Smack! “Five sir!”
“I fucking own you!”
Smack! Six sir!”
“Say it,” he growled, arching her back as he held her up with a first in the now loose ponytail.
“You own me sir,” she whimpered, earning another stinging crack of leather to her bare ass.
“Ah-seven sir!”
“And?”
“We’re not equa-” Smack! “Gyahhh! Ei-eight sir!”
“Again,” he commanded.
“We’re not equals!”
“Because?”
“Because you own me sir!”
With two final cracks of his belt to the pricking skin on her ass, Terry rolled her body off his lap, ragdolling her onto her back. He wasted no time discarding his shirt before taking his dress shoes off. His dick had all but strained against the material of his slacks from snuffing out the brat in Mila and he was ready for his more personal dues. He made quick work of his pants along with his boxers, long and girthy glory springing free for play time. Roughly grabbing her thighs and wrapping them around his waist, he lined himself up at her entrance. Her body jerked as he rammed his way into her now flooded cunt, filling her like a piece of herself that had been missing. The feeling of him bottoming out felt like she was being completed.
Mercilessly, he rammed in out of her, the sound of his pelvis slapping against her ass akin to the clap of thunder. Moans, cries, and screams of pleasure and praise slowly ate away at Mila’s voice. Her throat had begun to dry and fizzle from the way she exerted her vocal chords. The next person to hear her would think she had been at a Beyonce concert. Until they saw her body of course. Terry made her skin a foster home for his mouth, kissing, sucking and biting at whatever he could taste like a starved bear.
“Whose fucking pussy is this?” he rasped as he fucked her mind into nothing.
“It’s yours sir! All yours,” Mila screamed, unable to contain the fire Terry's unforgiving thrusts into her.
Bright green eyes darkened with lust bore into her soul, the erotic stare making Mila even wetter. The familiar knock of impending release began knocking for Mila to open up, and she had no issue reaching for the handle after turning it away for so long. However she hadn’t accounted for Terry reading her like a novel he had finished 4 times over. Suddenly his hand was wrapped around her throat, squeezing like she were a foe.
“You thought this shit was for you wasn’t it? Nah baby, I’m just trying to catch a nut before my nap,” he growled tauntingly, a damn near demonic smirk splayed across his features.
“Don’t get it twisted Mila. The only reason I cut shit so short is jet lag. You ain’t earned shit yet,” he chuckled menacingly, feeling spurred on by the tears in Mila’s eyes making their umpteenth appearance that afternoon.
“Bu-but…I said…I said I…’m sorry,” Mila whimpered helplessly.
“I’m sure you are. But I need that shit to stick. Need you to remember what happens when you boutta forget who the fuck you talking to. Need you to remember the consequences for taking my kindness for granted,” he said, finally about to chase his own high.
All he granted Mila was a warning before he came inside her with a guttural groan. As he caught his breath, Mila held onto a hope that maybe by some miracle, Terry was joking. Unfortunately her hope was snatched away with the feeling of him inside of her when he pulled out. Her heart dropped as he grabbed his duffel from the hardwood floor and made his way into the bathroom. With the pent up tension eating at her, she couldn’t even console herself with the view of his retreating ass. The sound of water rushing into the bathtub reached her ears, deepening her disappointed frown. But it wasn’t long before he had come back out though, once again fueling a spark of optimism in her heart, until he gently scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the en suite bathroom. As the water began to fill the large tub, Terry gently placed her body inside before retreating into the shower a mere step away.
Unsurprising considering his chronic fear of non-sexual intimacy.
Mila sighed in contempt as she slid further into the tub. The hot water soothed most of her body while stinging at her ass. If she hadn’t survived worse, she would probably be crying in pain. The water reached her neck, prompting her to close the faucet. She turned her head slightly to glance at the shower. The glass doors were blanketed in condensation, obscuring her view of the delectable looking cause of her ruining cleaning himself up. Then a mischievous thought crossed her mind.
If she couldn’t see Terry, then that meant he couldn’t see her.
So she slowly inched her hand down her abdomen, touching herself until finally her fingertips ghosted over her clit-
“Don’t even think about it!”
Mila was back in the living room, nose buried in one of Terry’s many books he always had on him, while the man in question napped upstairs. Gold Teeth by Blood Orange played softly in the background to drown out Terry’s slightly less soft snores from upstairs. Flicking to a new page, something fell onto her lap. Absent-mindedly picking up what she thought was a bookmark, Mila lifted it to hold it against the page Terry had marked. As the object lifted into her view, her eyebrow arched. The bookmark was Terry’s I.D. Her attention was immediately on the picture, displaying a slightly younger Terry with less frown lines and a mini-fro Mila wished he had kept. Even younger Terry wore the same stoic expression he was notorious for unless he was yelling. She snorted to herself before her eyes shifted to the words on the side.
Terrence James-yeah he seems like a James-Richmond
03/17/1992
Mila frowned at his birth date. She thought Terry was at least in his 40s with how uptight he was. She always chalked his appearance up to good genes and “black don’t crack”. Then there was the date formatting that never failed to irk her anytime one of her American peers or friends would show her their licenses or the time on their phones.
Oh, and there was the fact that today was March 17th.
“Kganti le Terrence wa birthday’a? I never expeded it,” she joked to herself right as the card was snatched from her hand.
She craned her neck up slightly to find Terry’s tired, unamused stare trained on her. She grinned innocently, not sure how he’d react to her little quip since he had clearly heard it. To be fair, he didn’t really move like the laws of humanity applied to him.
“You know contrary to popular belief, I’m actually a regular person,” he snarked, turning Mila’s grin into a smirk that said, “really? You?”
He simply clicked his tongue before snatching his book too and making his way to sit on the opposite end of the couch. Not letting him enjoy his peace since he had taken hers away, she moved closer to him, nearly close enough for their arms to touch. The point was to annoy him, not violate his boundaries. Still, she poked him in the side, earning a mildly annoyed glare. For someone who had probably flown across the world to find her, despite her ensuring she was impossible to track down, he sure had a funny way of expressing his desire to be around her. She didn’t mind it though. This was the closest to nice she would ever get out of Terry and if she was being real, she liked him like this.
“Happy birthday Dumbo,” she said, taking a shot at his ears. He rolled her eyes, a ghost of a genuine smile tugging at his lips.
On the first day of Christmas, the devil gave to me-
Lewis Hamilton x black!o.c
Warnings:
18+
Language/swearing
Smut (we gets NASTY around these parts)
Unprotected sex (🗣️ONE CONDOM ONE WHAT?)
Angst? (Fuck if I know)
Infidelity
Age gap (about 5 years)
A Christmas party (I hate these things)
A concerning amount of toxicity between two GROWN ADULTS (please do not find yourselves in these kinds of relationships or dynamics)
Violence (again, please do not find yourself in a dynamic with a man that makes you want to smack the taste out of his mouth).
Lewis is an ASSHOLE
The o.c is EVEN WORSE
Like if Santa is real and has lists; they have their own one labelled, “DNI”
I wouldn’t call it a happy ending
Word count: 6191🧍🏾
A.N: Started watching F1 around October and had my eyes opened to Sir Lewis Hamilton. And like, I’ve always known he exists but I largely ignored his existence until this year when I realised that this man is actually a FINE BABE😔✋🏾. Also, this is probably the only LH piece I’ll ever write unless I ever feel inspired again. Anyway, enjoy my little LATE Holiday offering (or don’t; free will and stuff), and thank you so so much for reading❤️. Also, happy New Year (literally thought I’d have this posted by Christmas)🥹
~Tee❤️
Christmas in New York was objectively, devastatingly beautiful.
Snow sprinkling over the city, transforming the multitudes of buildings, apartment complexes, and unnecessarily crowded roads into a wonderland akin to a severely powdered doughnut.
The inside of the Manhattan mansion however, was a winter-esque utopia. A Christmas scene that Santa himself could only have wet dreams about. Artificial snow falling gracefully as though created by real clouds. A leviathan of a forest consisting of carefully decorated Christmas trees creating the illusion of a fantasy land. Snowflake shaped chandeliers illuminating the magical landscape in angelic blues. Tinsel lightly shimmering over the expensively kept hair of the grossly wealthy cast of partygoers. Mistletoe in every doorway for them indulge borderline pornographic levels of embrace.
Not a single luxury magazine or movie scene could fully capture the image of the breathing enchantment that was Cromwell’s annual Christmas Party.
The same way the Grinch himself, could never rival the utter and absolute disdain Andani Cromwell had for it all.
Dani believed herself trapped in a never-ending perdition among the annoyingly waggish and jaunty crowd. The blended sounds of the attendees; celebrities, business moguls, athletes, and politicians alike, cajoling each other into networks of benefit, along with the grating sounds of the famous Christmas classics that mostly felt like commercial cash-grabs, acted like a mallet of led banging at her brain like a shrill gong. Even while trapped in the well-heated mansion, the cold weather outside was an inconvenience to Dani’s health—she hadn’t gotten sick yet but she was well on her way. On top of all of that, like a needle to her fragile balloon of patience, was the unbearable presence of her in-laws; the hosts themselves-the Cromwells.
“Lord, if you can hear me, if you love me, please…take me today. Take me NOW,” was a prayer she found herself whispering and internally repeating since her husband, Lyle, had convinced her—no—manipulated her into spending their first holiday season as a married couple with his family. It truly was a wonder how he managed to do it considering the fact that her concession wasn’t due to a loving sacrifice. Dani loved Lyle, that much was true, however it wasn’t enough to willingly offer herself up to become a rotisserie chicken that was cooked to perfection in the fiery depths of hell.
Damn that man, his knowledge of her expensive tastes, and his ability to use them to his advantage.
Dani, however, was not the type to lay her cards out in the open. Even in this situation of duress, she had effortlessly slipped into the Oscar-worthy role of the bright and conversant socialite. She entertained the indescribably dull older elites as they tossed about their unremarkable stories of their money generated youth. Her body shook with joyous laughter at jokes that would have served as evidence in a federal case—oh, she was going to kill Lyle for surrounding her with such an alarming number of sexual deviants and filthy criminals. Her full, darkly lined lips parted into a graceful smile, revealing teeth that should have been reduced to nothing from all the grinding they did, accepting and brushing off a slew of insults that ranged from juvenile but shady shots at “marrying up”—God forbid a girl loves a man that also happened to offer stability for the rest of her life, to downright racist comments from the Cromwells’ extended branches.
Again, my girl deserved an Oscar.
Unfortunately, even when it came to the celebrity/athlete invite draft-pick, it appeared the criteria was, “white as the New York snow”. Meaning Dani was virtually alone in a 4000 square feet den of unmelanated wolves, while Lyle-her own little unmelanated husky-seemed to be having an absolute ball.
However, just as she lamented the glaring lack of skin folk in the crowd, Dani’s prayer was soon answered. Except it seems the wrong deity received it because the first black person that Dani encountered that night was the last person she ever wanted to see again.
Warm brown skin that had brushed and laid against her deep chestnut enough times to engrave every feeling into her skull. That familiarly subtle yet muscular frame that had her pinned against too many surfaces to count, yet never being too difficult for her to name. Those perfectly braided twists—God bless his braider’s hands—that she had twisted her hands into on many an unholy occasion, falling from those perfect parts into a perfect low ponytail leaving 2 twists to fall in his face. His face-oh fuck, that face-being the picture of warmth as he laughed with another face she recognised to be his dear friend, Sebastian Vettel. That face she had seen in all of its natural forms; from cotton candied joy, to tides of silent anger, to pleasure that translated into the language their bodies had come up with, developed, and kept as their own to speak of every intense feeling between them that they would never verbally name. And like a cherry bomb on top of her fuck-off sundae; the garments that were supposed to be saving her from a trip down the memory lane that a more innocent soul would sooner sever their own head to avoid encountering, the bespoke outfit sent her reeling.
Fully in black—unlike the other guests that insisted on red and white; just like her, the ankle length coat did nothing to soften the blow of the devastatingly—and downright inappropriate—deep v-neck that showed off his chest and the tattoos that decorated it like a sinful mural; tattoos that Dani still thinks are corny and typical, but still loses control of her salivary glands whenever faced with them. The loose, yet perfectly fitting pants that folded right above his boots complimented the coat perfectly, sparing Dani from the silhouette of the part of him she knew all too well. The pearls above the “Powerful Beyond Measure” tattoo that she had seen up close and personal too many times, hugged the base of his neck in ways that made her hands twitch in muscle memory. To Dani, the spasm in her hands was a sign that she ought to turn her attention elsewhere.
What kind of wife damn-near hyperventilated over a past that was fraught with an intense passion that mingled too well with a toxic taste for mutual destruction? In her husband’s family’s home no less?
She then, in a moment of temporary cruelty, wondered how the Cromwells would react if they found out that their diversity invite had been more familiar with every crevice of her body than their son has ever been.
A shame they’ll never find out.
Ending her little session of reminiscence and lament, Dani set out to find her husband so as to remind herself of the love that had done nothing but reward her over the last 3 years. She brushed through crowds, her voice automatically set in a string of polite greetings and apologies alike, determined to ground herself with Lyle’s touch before she did something stupid.
Life however had other plans, because Andani Cromwell was apparently not allowed to run from the prospect of making bad decisions. No, life decided to use the firm hand of Sir Lewis Hamilton to reel her into its sick game, forcing her to confront a past she had tried her best to erase from her mind, testing her self-control and sheer force of will.
Which is funny because the lack of the latter is how she ended up at this fuck-ass party to begin with.
But spending Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere becomes the least damning thing when she’s suddenly bound by the familiar, paralysing gaze of her ex—what even the hell were they(?) They’re in a more obstructed part of the hall, a part where the guests either can’t see or don’t care to pay attention to; the perfect place to be cornered by the demon of Christmas’ past.
He says nothing at first, eyes sizing her up as if trying to refresh his memory with a new image to store. Although his breath is even and his expression is devoid of a single sign to decipher, Dani knows him well enough to smell the hunger and equal rage bleeding into his pupils. His right hand is still clutched around the bicep he grabbed when he snatched her out of her journey to moral reprieve. His posture is deceptively relaxed, the only glimmers of tension being in the death grip on her arm, the near imperceptible tick of his jaw, and the flinching left hand that is itching to touch her in unspeakable ways; both violent and sexual.
Dani silently contemplates going to the press about Formula One’s sweet, and zen golden child and telling them all about his…spicier tendencies. The fan girls would have the biggest field day, she suspects.
“Andani,” he finally spoke, saying her name as though he was testing the lethality of a poison on his tongue.
Dani, enticed and simultaneously searching her brain for an escape, arched an eyebrow. “Lewis,” she returned, her tone mixing frustration, interest, and a challenge.
“Still a runner I see.”
“Yes but it appears I’ve gotten slower over the years.”
The corners of his lips twitched in devilish amusement—Andani needed to get away from this man and she needed to do it QUICKLY.
“Why are you here Lewis?” Dani was nothing if not inquisitive. Apart from him knowing that the Cromwells are her in-laws, there’s also the fact that Lewis famously prefers to spend Christmas quietly with his family. So his presence, while an added nuisance, was also baffling.
With a nonchalant shrug, he responded: “Your husband invited me,” using his PR training to evade the real question he knew she was asking. Then there was the way he said the words ‘your husband’…to the untrained ear it was merely an obvious statement devoid of any meaning. But to Dani, it felt like a long overdue accusation. Bless Lyle’s naive, F1 fanboy little heart, but he had no idea what he had set upon their household by letting his idol in.
“Well I should fucking hope you were invited otherwise you’d be trespassing, but that’s not what I’m asking you right now and you fucking know it!” she hissed, allowing the simmering rage to slowly seep through. As much as she was in a fist fight with her morals, she didn’t really owe Lewis kindness.
“Because you’re suddenly entitled to answers from me after the shit you pulled three years ago?” he asked venomously, his head tilting, yet his expression still giving nothing to an onlooker.
Of course he’d bring that up.
“YOU,” she begins, her index finger roughly jabbing the visible part of his bare chest, “were the one who yanked me into a corner in my in-laws’ house while I was minding my business. So yeah, I do think I’m entitled to an answer, and some fucking respect.”
“Minding your business? Is that what people are calling eyefucking each other across the room now?”
Unfortunately, he got her there. But Dani’s mother didn’t raise a quitter—well not a full-time quitter.
“I wasn’t ‘eyefucking’ you! I was trying to figure out why the hell you’re here. You know? The question I JUST asked you?”
“The same question I just answered—honestly might I add.”
“Right because your spiteful ass would skip Christmas with your precious ‘mummy and daddy’-“
“I’d ask why you’re not with yours but we both know the answer to that.”
Oh now that was just low.
“Fuck you,” she shot back, dragging the former word. “I know you Lewis, and I know that little zen act you’ve been putting on for the camera is a front because you are a petty, self-serving, greedy little fuck-“
“Little?”
Of course that’s all he heard.
“…who can’t see far enough beyond himself, or be self-aware enough to know that he is nothing but a poison to everyone that gets close to him!”
Lewis shrugs. He just fucking shrugs. “Funny you should say that because my friends, my siblings, and my ‘precious mummy and daddy’ don’t seem to think so. The people around you on the other hand? Let’s just say you don’t have the most fun track record when it comes to being a good person. So maybe stop projecting and finally take some fucking accountability for the fact that you are just as—if not astronomically more—fucked up than I am.”
Silence. Well as silent as it can be when there’s shitty Christmas music blaring and even shittier people having a good time. If it could, Dani’s eye twitching would contribute to the unbearable noise. It’s a shame that her heart hammering against her chest is all she has to offer.
“And that right there, is exactly why I left. Because you would sooner stick your hand into my chest and take your time shredding through my ribs before finally ripping my chest out, than to actually confront your own flaws. Because you can’t stand that I can see past that the perfect smoke and mirrors, and call you out on every fucked up horror you’ve been hiding behind them since you got PR trained. Because you would sooner tear me apart than be honest with yourself.”
“Maybe. But I also know that you ran because you got tired of seeing the parts of yourself you couldn’t fix, in me. You ran because you desperately wanted me to lose control of myself and everything around me. Just. Like. You,” he snarls.
A beat.
“No wonder you went and flung yourself into the arms of saint Cromwell like a desperate-“
Lewis didn’t get to finish his sentence, as Dani’s hand connected sharply with his cheek, sending his head to the side. She didn’t slap him hard. She just had to make sure it stung, and because his skin was relatively sensitive, she knew it would leave a temporary mark either way.
She watched as he processed her actions, regret instantly swelling up in her chest.
She hated how he always managed to bring out the best and the worst—mostly the worst—in her. She hated that he was right; that for most of her life she had destroyed everything and everyone around her, leaving her a desolate black hole of self-loathing and resentment. She hated how it took three years to repair her relationship with her family, and it still wasn’t at the point of comfort where she could spend Christmas with them because of the pain she left in her wake before she even met Lewis. She hated how their fire was fuelled by a mutual attempt to turn each other into their mirror images; Lewis trying to mold Dani into a muted version of herself while actively unleashing his shadows unto her, and Dani trying to get Lewis to stop hiding the shadows while actively cutting through him with ruthless commentary of how fucked up a human being he was.
And even more so, she hated how exhilarating it was to break out of the dutiful shell she had built herself after leaving him. She hated how much she loved their default setting for all of its deeply fucked up configurations.
Dani, in her heart of hearts, knew that Lewis loved it too. She knew because he skipped Christmas within the perfect bubble he had crafted himself, to accept a Christmas party invitation from the husband of the one woman who knew every way she could break him and wasn’t afraid to use them.
That’s why she didn’t back away when his gaze snapped back to her. Luckily no one had seen their spat, but with a deep breath, he managed to slip back into that ungodly level of composure. Save for the fury dancing with desire in his eyes, his sole tell of human expression was a smirk.
Entertained, yet simultaneously ready to make Dani pay for her transgressions against him—not just the slap, but all of them.
Dani, on the other hand, felt a shameful amount of need pull in her abdomen. Her body responded to danger the way a moth did to an open flame. She was by no means an adrenaline junkie like Lewis, but there were some battles she was always ready to run into—whether she was armed to the teeth, or only with her mind to her disposal—and this seemingly unending purgatory between her and Lewis would always be one of them.
And the lack of bile in her throat was more than enough of a sign that she currently did not care for the ring on her finger.
Lewis took a single step, and he was in her space; close enough for his breath to mingle with hers. “You know when I got here your husband gave me a tour of the place. Showed me all kinds of places really, but he especially felt the need to go on and on about all of your favourite places on the property.”
Dani tilted her chin upwards. “And what does that have to do with anything?” She actually didn’t have any favourite places in this prison, she had only mused over some of the spaces that were most sentimental to Lyle to make him happy. But Lewis didn’t have to know that.
“I figured out during the first stop that you don’t like any of that shit. The rest of the tour just kept proving my point,” he chuckled, a piercing chill in his amusement.
Well never mind then.
“Again, what does that have to do with anything?”
Again with that damned head tilt. “You’ll find out soon enough. Meet me in the drawing room in 15 minutes. Find him, tell him you need air or whatever the hell you need to do to get him off your back while you’re gone,” was all Lewis said before turning away from her and leaving her alone—well as alone as she could be—to return to his friends.
Dani took a second to recollect herself, slipping back into the role of a lifetime: Lyle Cromwell’s loving and faithful wife who would never hurt a fly let alone him. Except she was doing it as a precursor to commit an act of hatred and disloyalty against him, one that would potentially shatter him if he found out.
Oh how Dani hated Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere.
It wasn’t long before she found him, and it wasn’t long before she regretted finding him. Lyle was drunk out of his mind and being even more affectionate than his usually overwhelming levels of affection. The way he looked at Dani like she created the universe and hung the stars just for him, while telling her that he had never loved anyone the way he had loved her, was supposed to break Dani’s resolve, but it didn’t. And that’s the part that broke her.
Not the fact that she was about to cheat on the one person in her life who loved her more than life itself, but the fact that she was perfectly content with doing it.
She really was a monster.
But she decided she’d stew in her venomous nature later, right now she kissed Lyle on the cheek, the forehead and his mouth—he asked so nicely that she couldn’t say no—told him she loves him, and left him to his devices.
As she ventured through the labyrinth she had vague knowledge of, Dani had two questions on her mind:
1. Won’t it be obvious and suspicious when the only two black people at the function go missing at the same time?
And 2. How the hell did Lewis, after one tour, already know the house better than she did after a week’s stay?
Must have something to do with having to memorise racetracks or whatever, she surmised.
Eventually, after getting lost four times, Dani finally found an ever patient looking Lewis perusing through the many indulgent—and downright vain—portraits of the Cromwells, muttering under his breath about some people just had too much money and too much time. As soon as her left foot crossed the threshold, his eyes were on her while he repositioned himself to the centre of the room. The brown hues of his irises flashed with expectation, starvation and vengeance. Dani felt like she was an audience to the devil; a special prize rather, that he had been millenia to toy with, break, and if any bit of mercy gleamed through the flames around them: he would rebuild.
Dani couldn’t recall a single time where Lewis had been merciful towards her. If anything, the man always seemed to enjoy watching her dance with her own ruin.
“Let’s make this quick, shall we?” said Dani, careful not to allow her voice to be a weapon Lewis could use against her.
One of those inhumanely perfect eyebrows arched in question, while the corners of his mouth tugged his lips into something that should be a smile. “Quick? Andani have you been hitting your head while Saint Cromwell makes love to you?” The tone, the wording, that fuck-ass tilt of his head, told Dani one thing: his twisted little ledger included no plans for ease—not on her mind, probably not on her body, definitely not on her soul, and most certainly not on her conscience. Dani also knew she was naive to expect Lewis to let her go gracefully after the absolute bullshit they had dragged each other through.
“Sit,” he said.
As Dani searched for the seat furthest from him, she realised something that should have caught her attention significantly earlier; the furniture had been slightly rearranged. Every seat—the chairs, the stools, the sofas—had been removed from their places around the tables in the middle of the room; now they were all positioned under different portraits of the Cromwells—mostly the ones including Lyle.
“You’re a sick individual,” Dani spat.
“So you’ve said. Now take your pick. Now most preferably,” he spoke as though he were completely unbothered by anything that wasn’t his current mission.
Dani, however, didn't budge. An act of defiance against Lewis and the last inkling of her morality blocking her from choosing a portrait. She knew this wouldn’t go unpunished but it was comforting to know she tried.
“You’re still standing,” Lewis stated, not pointing it out like fact but mildly offended by her defiance.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Silence. There is no rebellion in telling the truth with Lewis. There is only vulnerability to exploit. Just ask Nico Rosberg.
A sharp exhale through the nose and a disappointed shake of the head. “Fine. If you want to spit in the face of my generosity, I have no problem taking it back.”
Lewis’ speed off the track was something to be marvelled on its own, because Dani really couldn’t tell you how many steps it took for him to get from the centre of the room to the doorway, grab her by the wrist then gently pull her towards the single seat couch underneath her and Lyle’s wedding portrait. It wasn’t even till she had been planted onto the couch by his hand that had her braids wrapped tightly around it, that she had even registered what happened.
With his hand still in her hair, tilting her head up to meet his deceptively softened expression, he asked her: “You gonna start cooperating now, or am I going to have to keep helping you?”
Dani rolled her eyes and scoffed, causing his grip to tighten. With a hiss she said, “Fuck! Yes, I’ll fucking cooperate.”
Lewis grinned, nightmarishly beautiful the way his perfectly white teeth and that gap that Dani once—and still—-thought to be boyishly charming, were bared in satisfaction. His fingers untangled themselves from her hair, hand falling back to his side as he took a step back to admire her. It was as if Lewis had been hit by a spell of admiration that temporarily washed over hate(hurt)-filled lust. Dani felt like a spindle under the strings of resentment and reverence tightening around her judgement.
Only Lewis-
“Lift your dress to your hips.”
Dani obeyed, revealing a black lace thong.
“Lose the thong.”
Dani slipped it off before he took it from her hands.
“Spread your legs for me.”
Dani leaned back and let her legs hang over the armrests for good measure.
“Fuck…just how I remember. Absolutely beautiful,” he whispered, as his pupils slowly pushed at his irises.
A step closer, then on his knees with his hands gently running up and down her thighs.
And like a man coming back from war, absolutely famished; Lewis feasted. Mouth around her clit as his tongue flicked and prodded, using one forearm to keep her still as she writhed and cried out in bliss. Fluctuating between Lewis’ name and calling upon God, Dani’s back curved off the couch, delivering herself to Lewis on a silver platter that he consumed greedily. The thumb of his free hand slipped through her parted lips, beckoning her tongue to lubricate it. Dani lapped and sucked on the thumb before it was swapped with his index and middle fingers. Dani wasn’t sure what she was preparing him for but she had a hunch that it wasn’t her pussy. That was gushing all on its own.
And then she felt it—his thumb pressed on the rim of her ass, circling and teasing, spurring her pleasure on with a promise for more. Dani silently prayed against Lewis using her guilty pleasure today, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep it at low gasps and strangled cries.
Lewis however was uninterested in anything that didn’t involve hearing her come apart, so he slipped his thumb in, pressing until Dani had nearly bitten her lip into two. Her self control seemed to offend Lewis, so he switched fingers, and it wasn’t long until Dani was on the verge of losing her voice while emptying herself all over Lewis’ face as her orgasm washed over her.
It has been 3 long years since she had cum like that, and all it took was Lewis knowing her all too well, before even fucking her.
She wasn’t sure if Lyle would be wounded or in awe of his hero’s efficiency.
Having drunk her up like the first water after 3 days in a desert, Lewis pulled back, removing his thumb from her other hole, and stared up at her. Heavy breaths from both of them—Lewis as a result of anticipation for what comes next—thickened the air in the room. Lewis had been set in a glorious blaze of mild satisfaction and a desire for more, his beard covered in her as he smiled at his work. His eyes then furiously shifted to the portrait above her; Dani and Lyle’s regal poses in their ethereal wedding attire daring him to do even more damage. Demanding with insult, that he reclaim what’s his.
He stood up, adjusting Dani’s body to have her lying across the couch, her legs hanging over one armrest and her head over the other. The look of borderline possession stabbed right into Dani’s mind, sending her into a conflicted spiral. While Lyle was the epitome of stability and had given her everything she wanted and more, Dani was an adrenaline junky, and Lewis was the danger she could never seem to completely stay away from. Being with Lewis was pain itself, unfortunately Dani was a masochist and derived pleasure from it.
During her orgasm-induced stupor, she hadn’t even heard Lewis’ zipper come down. The next thing she knew, a hand was back in her hair with the other holding his dick above her lips.
“Open.”
Dani let him in without ceremony, taking every inch she could until he began to slope down her throat, straining her jaw with his size. He may have been shorter than Lyle but he was bigger in every other way that mattered.
Lewis started off slowly, as if to remind himself of how her mouth and throat felt. He always liked to take her like this, something about it being easier. Then his pace picked up, immediately choking her as he fucked her throat. Tears prickled in her eyes as he mercilessly took her ability to breathe, not even bothering to have her suck him off. Soft grunts and praise how well she was doing that was accompanied by furious musings of how fucked up she was for keeping this from him became their backing track. Dani couldn’t even make a sound of her own because her throat was too preoccupied. He went faster, and harder, using his hand in her hair as leverage to meet him with every thrust. It wasn’t long until he caught his release, warm seed going down her oesophagus, never even meeting her tongue.
He knew she hated the feel of cum on her tastebuds; a texture issue mostly.
Lewis gently pulled out of her mouth before crouching to meet Dani at eye level. He placed a disarming kiss on her temple, then moved to her ear.
“You’ve been good Andani, so I’m gonna extend an olive branch. You get to choose whether you want to risk everyone in this house hearing you scream for me while I ruin you on the sofa under your husband and his family’s family photos—the ones you’re in.”
Dani’s breath hitched slightly. The mere idea of cheating on her husband under the stilled gaze of his family; a gaze that had already been scrutinising her for 3 years, now exacerbated by his gazing lovingly through the image, seemed too cruel. The other option had to be more merciful.
“Or they still hear you, but they have the pleasure of possibly walking in while I fuck you over the table facing the mirror so you can watch yourself come apart for me. The way it’s supposed to be.”
That was somehow worse. Less disrespectful. But worse.
“Which one is it gonna be?”
Dani closed her eyes and considered her equally unfavourable options. It was either the picture, or her reflection. Her reflection wasn’t worse because of guilt, it was worse because of the optics if she got caught. The idea that she enjoyed cheating enough to watch herself do it, would probably get her shunned from all of society.
Lewis would probably survive it, his lawyers and his team would never let him drown.
But her? Absolutely fucked—no pun intended.
Yet still, getting fucked under the portrait made her stomach churn.
“Mirror,” she whispered in defeat.
His lips curved in malicious content, the way the devil would when his biggest sinner accepted their damnation with open arms. His fingers dug into her jaw, prying it open for him to claim her by spitting into her mouth.
As she swallowed, his lips trailed across her cheek. “That’s my girl,” he murmured.
It wasn’t long until he had her bent across the large mahogany table in the middle of the drawing room, arms being held being her. She watched his face screw up in twisted satisfaction as he slid into her. The stretch drew a shaky exhale from her slack jaw. He bottomed out, causing her head to hang in temporary reprieve—then his hand wrapped around her braids for the umpteenth time that night, arching her backwards so she could face her reflection perfectly.
“Seems she missed me,” Lewis chuckled.
“I don’t know about all that,” Dani breathed out dismissively, refusing to fold any further.
Lewis responded with a sharp, deep thrust that buried him into her stomach. Dani had no control over the scream that tore through her.
That’ll do it.
“You should know better than to lie to me sweetheart.”
“Fuck you.”
Lewis was nothing if not good at taking instruction. Every slow and relentless thrust dug Dani’s inhibitions out of her. As his hips snapped against her ass, he punished, he pleased, and most of all, he collected the debt he felt was owed to him.
Through hooded eyes, Dani helplessly watched herself be taken apart, tears streaming down her eyes from something she couldn’t name. She could feel her voice threatening to give out if he continued like this.
“Still. Feel. So. Good for me baby. Taking me better than ever,” Lewis groaned, face knitted in amazed concentration as he wanted her every reaction through their reflections.
“You missed this shit, didn’t you Dani?” he taunted before leaning to bite into her exposed neck.
“Fu—don’t get ahead of yourself Lewis. I still get good dick…maybe even bet-“
Her lie was cut off by Lewis hitting that spot with the precision of an arrow piercing through a bullseye. All that came out was a strained, “Lewissss!”
“Yeah that’s right! Say my fucking name baby.”
And if anyone asked Dani, she couldn’t think enough to say much else apart from a few ill-put together curses.
Dani’s walls clenched, her stomach fluttered and her vision blurred as she felt herself about to break once again. Lewis’ predatory gaze and matching grin sent her spinning as he continued to fuck her like he hated her.
“Tell me you still love me. Say you fucking love me right now Andani,” he demanded.
Maybe it was the brain chemistry-altering dick, maybe it was—no, no, unfortunately it was just Dani. Unfortunately she was mentally askew enough to still love Lewis. But she couldn’t risk everything she had built—this didn’t count unless she got caught—not for some poorly conceived, dark romance bullshit. She couldn’t leave her marriage for a man who couldn’t even settle down into a serious relationship for her.
“I don’t-“
“Don’t fucking lie to me Andani! You’re going to piss me off.”
She couldn’t even gather her defenses before he pulled her up so far that they were eye to eye.
“Tell. Me. You. Fucking. Love. Me. Right fucking now,” he hissed, punctuating every word with a hard snap against her spot.
Through the guttural moans, and choked whines, Dani managed out a terrifyingly passionate, “I fucking love you Lewis—please!”
“I love you too baby. So fucking much.” The amount of sincerity juxtaposed with the venom in his voice scared Dani.
Such an undeniable truth during such a heinous act of adultery. Far from either version of the Christmas spirit.
“Lew…Lewis I’m gonna—“
“I know, baby. Cum for me. Cum all over this dick,” he rasped, loathing and adoration filled gaze staring into her soul, helping coax her second coming.
Dani’s eyes rolled back as she let herself be swept by her orgasm. Her mind buzzed, overcome with pleasure. So much so that when Lewis stuck his fingers into her mouth and fucked them over her tongue then into her throat, her body responded on autopilot.
“My perfect, perfect girl,” he whispered before spitting into her mouth, using his fingers to guide their mingling saliva down her throat.
She felt his digits slip out from her mouth, then her lips captured by his in what Dani wouldn't dare call a kiss. That wouldn’t do it enough justice. Lewis breathed life into her, while snatching her soul at once. Too consuming and too possessive were the ways in which his tongue staked claim over hers, the ways in which his mouth sucked her lips, making sure to swell them up for display. A senescent feeling ignited in her as he swallowed her moans.
Lewis’ destruction of her being felt too much like home.
More of a home than Lyle’s gentle reverence ever could.
Lord deliver Andani from Lewis’ Hamilton’s nefarious hands.
And like her prayer had downright been outright denied, Lewis came. Inside of Andani.
She couldn’t even be mad because she had faintly heard him warn her that he was about to buss. She had also absentmindedly nodded when he asked to do it inside of her.
Yes, Dani had an IUD in. But now she’d have to deal with a stunted function of her lower limbs, and Lewis’ nut running down her thigh, because knowing him, he had filled her to the brim. Unfortunately for Dani, she had refused Lyle’s mother's “suggestion” of a longer dress, instead opting for something stopping right in the middle of her thighs.
Lewis may cum hard, but Karma comes around harder.
As he pulled out, Lewis’ hold around her wrists dissipated completely, while the one in her hair mildly loosened, allowing her a little bit of breathing room. Dani was ready for him to completely let go and pretend nothing had happened. While ever possessive before and during sex, his post-coital demeanour was always dismissive and avoidant. He probably just needed to get his quick fuck in as revenge, and didn’t even mean anything he said-
“I’m giving you an hour to pack your shit, say your goodbyes, and take that ugly ass ring off,” he abruptly said, voice still rough from fucking her brains out.
Dani blinked twice before meeting his gaze in the mirror. He was dead serious.
“What?”
“You’re leaving with me Andani. No arguments, no bullshit. One hour.”
That was all he said before giving her a tender kiss on the cheek and leaving her in the Cromwell drawing room, utterly fucked out, utterly baffled, and utterly about to make what was possibly the decision of her life.
Oh how Dani fucking hated Christmas in the Northern Hemisphere.
Extra A.N: I mostly listened 3 songs when writing this
Favourite Mistake, Giveon
Body, Sinéad Harnett
Love You Too Much, Lucky Daye
Also, heyyy to the LH fandom, I’m T, I occasionally write on here, I’m black, I’m in my 20s, I’m South African, I’m neurodivergent as fuck (ADHD and Autistic), I’ve recently found myself becoming obsessed with all things Formula 1, and I have never in my life written a stable relationship or character😝.😭. Anyway, again, happy Holidays and happy New Year or whatever.
A.N: I'm not a monster so here's a little band-aid for "Requiem For My Lover". Anyway, if you've read any of my stuff then you know that I don't write fluff. Because I don't really know how to. So I don't know if this counts as fluffy, but I'm giving Mila a break. Now, what I lack in the sweetness department, I try to make up for with filth. So sit back, relax, and enjoy some Milaverse shenanigans where there are only 3 constants: Mila, Terry, and smut.
~Tee❤️
-SoMiLa/Ring Finger.
T.R
One would think that being a Grammy award-winning artist and having a painter for a husband would make Mila some sort of a visual art connoisseur; or at least mean she at least understood it. But neither were true. In her 29 years of life, Mila had been to many an art gallery. Be it on a date or for her sister’s friend’s exhibitions, she never truly grasped the concepts of any of the works she had laid eyes on. Other than being pretty artworks, they sparked nothing but confusion in her regardless of how long she stared or how many artists and coordinators explained.
Until she met Terry. Suddenly the art began to make sense, invoking all kinds of different thoughts and feelings. And maybe it was vanity, but an artwork that centered her was the only kind that could capture and hold her attention hostage.
Although she was a household name in the music industry for her entrancing voice and soul clutching lyrics, she was shrouded in mystery. Her fans and the public had been grasping for straws for anything personal regarding the enigma that was SoMiLa. All they had to speculate over was the music and the rare interviews. Terry was no different. Critics, peers and fans alike would jest about how they could count on their fingers how many times he had made public appearances. The number would come to dwindle when he and Mila moved in together, both prioritizing a quiet and private life together over their public images. Even though they had been spotted out together a few times over the last 7 years, fans couldn’t tell if they were together or just close friends. This sparked a years-long movement of fans analyzing the rather cryptic lyrics in her love songs and his paintings that centered the same black woman who always somehow resembled Mila. The pair remained silent, not confirming or denying anything. Not out of secrecy either; they just had no desire to entertain the public.
Then came the release of her latest album, "I Rich(MoNd)". With the added bonus of the famous "T.R" signature across the originally hand-painted cover art. But the real icing on the cake? The final track being titled “T.R/Ring Finger.” The public was sent into a frenzy, but the couple paid them no mind, continuing with their lives in private while everyone fretted over the long awaited confirmation of their relationship.
“Don’t tell me you named it after-” Mila gasped as she marveled at her man’s latest creation.
“Our song? You’re my muse, I’m yours. It only felt right,” Terry said from beside her.
Terry’s newest exhibition, “RiChMoNd,” consisted of personal works that symbolized his adoration for and marriage to Mila. Thus none of the works were for sale. They were however available for public viewing at his Johannesburg museum, “Heart of Richmond.” The museum housed many artworks. Some were favorites from his mother’s collection, others were the very few that Mila remotely got and liked, and the rest were works by Terry that he refused to sell. The exhibition also served as the opening of the latest addition to the gallery, also titled. “I Rich(MoNd)”. A passion project he had been working on since he had proposed 4 years ago.
Despite standing in an entire gallery of works devoted to her and their love, the image of the semi-faceless black woman intrigued her. Aside from the boho locs, the subject’s resemblance to Mila hid in the more intricate details. From the tiny mole above the deep-thought induced dimple, to the scars that painted memories of her childhood over the cocoa skin of her arms and the single raised thigh that was visible. Glimpses of her personality appeared as the pens sticking out of her locs, the lit J tucked between her full two-toned lips and the way the white sheet draped over only a fraction of her body. Laid up in an unorganized space full stationary and opened CDs, tinted by the red hue of the sun was the exact reflection of Mila’s writing process. Complete with the song that not only perfectly encapsulates the way her husband inspired her, but also won her 5 new Grammys.
While Terry was a man of very few words, his hands always found ways to say the most endearing and intimate things for him. Their families joked about how stoic and quiet he was for an artist, but Mila knew better. Terry’s love language was only understood Mila, a canvas, and every crevice of the house he had fucked her into.
“You’ve done it again. It’s amazing. All of it is perfect,” Mila said appreciatively.
His breath lightly brushed her skin as he leaned into her. “Not as perfect as the woman that inspired it all,” he whispered between light kisses behind her ear.
It didn’t take much for Mila to have Terry bricked like the third little pig’s house. He had been absolutely taken from the very moment he had laid eyes on her and only grew to fall in love with her and everything about her. All she had to do was open her mouth to breathe and Terry would be on his knees before her. The way she looked at the moment didn’t do his self-control any favors either. As much as he didn’t care for what the media thought of him or their relationship, he still wasn’t one to get caught up in a scandal. But damn, the way the exposed parts of her soft, mocha skin in that backless wine-colored satin gown invited him, silently goaded him into throwing all rational thought away. If the cost wasn’t a possible snapshot of him making love to his gorgeous wife in the middle of an exhibit modeled after his love for her, he probably would have ripped that dress off right there and then.
Cameras clicked behind them, reminding them that they weren’t in the safe bubble of their home where they were just Terry and Mila Richmond. Now they were SoMiLa and Terrence Richmond, music’s prodigal son and the new age Basuiat. The public’s favorite unicorns making one of those prized rare appearances before disappearing back into whatever hidden mythical realm for who knows how long. Although conscious of the attention, Terry kept his nose buried in the skin of her neck and his hands planted firmly on her waist. As far as he was concerned, their love had never been a secret: everyone had just either been too blind or dumb to see it. Not that he cared either way.
“Fuck baby, I need you,” he rasped needy in her ear.
Although her own arousal had begun to make itself known and was begging Terry to just drag her out of the building so he could turn her every which way all over their Bryanston home, Mila understood that he still had some work to do. And if the boner digging into her lower back wasn’t enough of an indicator, Terry’s erotic declaration was definitely a sign that she had to be the smart one. Otherwise his agent, Sandra, would have both their heads for weeks to come. Neither of them feared the cut-throat agent, they just didn’t have the energy to have her yelling down their throats for a week.
“And you can have me T, but first you have to find Sandra and then get through this opening night,” Mila replied, biting back a moan at the unrelenting kisses on her sweet spot.
His grip tightened around the satin covering his wife’s waist as he let out a disgruntled grunt. “Man fuck Sandra and all these people. Let’s get out of here so I can taste you. Make you feel good, hmm?” he hummed against her now goosebump riddled skin, a natural green light from her body that contradicted her words.
“How about you make me feel even better by keeping me by your side while we make tonight a success? Then I'll let you taste every single part of me all you want, loverboy,” Mila said, objecting to her own deep desire for the man that threatened to consume her whole.
“Promise?” Terry asked, moving his affectionate attack to the other side of her neck.
Mila raised her pinkie for Terry to interlock with his. “Pinkie promise.”
Terry texted Sandra to open the doors and have everyone gathered in the center immediately. He wanted this over with, and he wanted to do it quickly. He had a wine colored bowl of a chocolate dessert waiting on him. The kind that had a creamy center and melted on your tongue. And Terry was never one to deprive himself of his favorite treats, let alone the one next to him.
As the guests poured in, Mila helped Terry straighten out, smoothing his jacket and wiping his glasses. She placed them back on his face, gracing him with a proud and grateful smile. Despite his lips barely moving an inch, the corners of his eyes crinkled as if he were grinning. Such little expression covering so much emotion. Emotion only Mila could read, like her own secret diary.
Still, it was a miracle that this man could paint because he was terrible at expression of any other form (that wasn't affection for Mila).
Having become accustomed to large crowds, Mila had grown indifferent to all the eager eyes focused on her and Terry. They stood in the center of the gallery, hand in hand, as they waited for everyone to settle down. Right behind them stood Sandra who was nursing a glass of champagne to ease the nerves and whispering animatedly with her best friend, and Mila’s manager, Sid. The couple’s mothers and teams chattered excitedly among themselves about the direction of the night.
“Good evening everybody. My name is Terrence Richmond and I wanna welcome you all to the grand opening to the latest, and dearest to my heart, vessel in the Heart of Richmond, a passion project that I’ve put my all into because a tribute to my literal heartbeat and our love deserves nothing less: “I Rich(MoNd)”,” he announced, garnering loud applause from the crowd.
He waited for the clapping to subside before continuing. “I would like thank each and everyone of you for taking time out of your busy lives to celebrate with me this ode to the love of my life, Somila Richmond.” Another round of applause sounded through the room as Mila stepped into the imaginary spotlight that was the audience’s admiration and his loving gaze. She shone them a grateful smile before stepping back to place short but yet desire filled kiss on Terry’s lips. The low growl that rumbled in the depths of his chest had her fighting the urge to deepen their kiss and have him show the room just how much he loved her. But she was the rational one, so she pulled away, but not before sneaking a light swipe of her tongue over his lip. The only reaction she had dragged out of him was a sharp inhale and his nails once again digging into her waist. She retook her place beside him while he finished his relatively short intro speech.
He implored everybody to enjoy their evening, watching the crowd disperse into the gallery. Almost immediately the press swarmed in with their cameras, beckoning the power couple’s attention for a photo op for their websites, blogs and magazines. Terry had banned microphones from the opening, stating he would only be giving interviews starting the following week. This decision was influenced by Mila during his meeting with Sandra a month ago at their Phuket home. Her reason was that Terry would be too tired from planning and setting the gallery up, and her man’s health was a top priority. The public would wait till he was at least somewhat well rested and that was that.
“Abagqibi na aba? It’s been 10 minutes and I, personally, get tired of smiling,” Mila hissed through what was slowly becoming a strained sneer.
“Imagine how tired I am,” Terry gritted through his teeth, cracking Mila’s sneer back into a genuine grin as she bit back a chuckle.
One of her favorite things about doing press with Terry was his absolute disdain for smiling and how much of a grouch it made him during photo ops. If she was lucky, he’d start cussing like a sailor any second now.
“Alright, that’s enough!” Sandra called out, earning disappointed groans and protests from the disgruntled photographers.
“That’s a lot of complaining from people that haven’t been kicked out. You guys getting ungrateful with me now?” she demanded as she stood before them with her hands placed on her hips and an expectant glare. That seemed to silence them as they also ventured into different parts of the gallery.
Terry and Mila both instinctively relaxed as the cameras disappeared into the crowd. Terry flexed his jaw while Mila stretched her neck. Terry’s hands came to the rescue, gently grabbing and twisting at Mila’s chin and cranium till a tiny crack signaled a job well done. Mila mouthed a grateful thank you right as Terry placed gentle kisses on her cheek and forehead. Sandra approached the pair, smirking as they gathered themselves.
“Where would you two be without me?” Sandra asked sarcastically, making Terry roll his eyes.
“Scary Terry over here would probably be in jail for massacring a gaggle of photographers because they dared to ask him to show some tooth,” Mila quipped, earning chuckles from their managers. Terry just scoffed as he absentmindedly rubbed circles on her shoulder.
“Like you weren’t complaining,” he deadpanned, his unamused glare making Mila giggle like a schoolgirl.
“You’re so cute when you’re grumpy,” Mila gushed with a playful elbow to his side.
The corner of Terry’s lip twitched into a smirk. “I’m even cuter when I’m eating you out till you cry.”
Sandra’s features scrunched up in disgust before strutted away, muttering something about finding Sid and the champagne. A flustered Mila on the other hand, smacked his bicep, only earning a wider smirk as a reaction from Terry. “Kanene wena woyikwa zintloni,” Mila sighed with a click of her tongue.
Terry took her wrist into his hand, gently pulling her into him. His palms cupped her face, angling her upwards to meet him for yet another soft kiss. Only this time her lips felt like they were being claimed as his by his. His hands had taken refuge back on her waist, keeping her body flush against his to make her feel his growing arousal. Thank God for the long wrap-around coat his stylist, Tori, had picked out for him. Although the matching slacks were a little loose around that region, Mila doubted they would have fared well on their own. With a gentle tug of her lip, he pulled back, leaving Mila in a semi-lustful haze.
“Let's get out of here. I'm not asking this time,” his tone, although barely above a whisper, left no room for argument. Luckily for the two of them, Mila had none left in her. Especially when he had stolen her breath and common sense a mere moment ago.
She nodded, offering a breathless “yeah” as he led her out of the building, not bothering with any formalities. Either way, his job for the night was done. He'd just text Sandra to handle the rest of the night.
With Mila in front, and Terry trailing right behind her like a bear-sized pup, they quickly paced to the car. He hurriedly opened the passenger door to their Rolls Royce, ushering her in and making sure she was safe inside before making his way to the driver's side and starting the car.
One hand gripping the steering wheel with purpose and the other firmly perched on Mila's thigh. Halfway through the trip, Terry had begun to regret his insistence that they drive there and back themselves. He stupidly ignored the possibility of wanting to turn his wife inside out on the way back. Now he had to give all of his attention to the road while ignoring the temptful gaze piercing threatening to veil his judgement. He was only able to spare her the occasional squeeze of her leg, resulting in a subtle clench, a light gasp, or her fingers brushing against his knuckles.
The usual 29 minute drive was cut to 19 as Terry basically drifted into their driveway like he was Dominic Toretto. He wasted no time, moving like a man on a mission from the driver's seat to retrieve Mila from the passenger side. A quick shuffle and a fumble with the keys later, they were in their living room, locked in a tangled frenzy of wandering hands and spells against each other's lips.
“Where?” he breathed against her.
“Anywhere. Fuck, right here,” she moaned into him.
He hoisted her by the backs of her thighs, placing her gently on the suade couch. He knelt before her and slid the scarlet So Kates off her French-pedicured feet, placing soft kisses up her ankle to her calf. Repeating on the next foot, his heavy lidded gaze found her needy one.
Her chest gently rose and fell under the top of that dress. That dress that took him three steps back from God whenever he laid eyes on her that night. Her deep cherry lined lips were agape as she welcomed the last few regulated breaths for the night. All these shades of red, like the blood pumping through his veins, into his hardened cock, goading him into fulfilling every sinful thought that had crossed his mind since they had left the house.
“Sandra…you need to-”
“She's a grown woman, she'll be fine. I need to attend to more pressing matters,” he interrupted, as he pushed her dress up to her hips and guided her legs open to reveal the thin lace material covering the aforementioned matters.
Red. The thong was red.
“But T, the gallery-your work-” Mila breathlessly protested, earning a sharp smack to the back of her thigh.
“It can wait. My princess’s pleasure on the other hand can't, and if she can't understand that then I'm going to have to gag her for the night,” Terry stated.
“Do you want me to gag you princess? Do you want to deprive me of hearing that beautiful song of you coming undone? Are you trying to punish me Mama?” he asked, tone dripping of lustful sincerity.
Mila's head shook frantically as she reached for the hands clamped around her calves. “No baby, I want you to hear me. Need you to touch me, please.”
Terry's head tilted to the side, feigning confusion at her request. “But I am touching you sweetheart. Is there something I'm doing wrong?” he was taunting her into specificity, and he knew she wasn't far gone enough to understand that.
“Fuck, Terry just touch my pussy please!” she breathed out, beginning to lose her patience for his games. He had insisted they leave early so he could make her feel good. Now was the time, and teasing just simply wouldn't do.
At her command, Terry’s fingers hooked beneath the thin waist straps of her racy underwear. Instinctively, Mila lifted her hips slightly for him to pull the only thing in the way of him feasting on her, down her legs. He tossed the thong over his shoulder as though it were a nuisance, not caring where it landed. Mila’s hand reached behind his buzzed head, angling him to meet her in a careless gathering of lips dancing against one another.
Her tongue slid into his mouth, occasionally brushing against his own in a claim of dominance. He groaned into the kiss, the sharp tips of her acrylics grazing his nape and pushing him into a delirium that only grew his hunger for her. Like a psychic. her teeth sunk into the plump flesh of his bottom lip, daring him to consume her as she had just done to him.
The sense of duty his military father raised him with, overtook him as he reluctantly pulled away from the soft, cherry flavoured appetizer. Like a panther in the night, his bright irises zeroed in on his meal as he grabbed her legs and reeled her in for her reckoning. Mila’s shaky gasps and growing whimpers hit his ears like music. Melodies he controlled with the varied pressures of his thumbs on her clit. With every stroke and light brush, her pussy leaked with a call for Terry to devour her whole.
His index and ring fingers joined the fleet, greedily plunging into her entrance.The curve of his digits against her walls rewarded him with a lewd cry for more, and who was Terry if not a dutiful husband. Daring to tear his gaze from his treat, the sight of Mila’s needy state cracked the stained glass window that was his self-control. Her hooded eyes burning with wanton, her cherry stained lips trembling, and the rest of her features idle from the pleasure only nurtured the unholy lust scorching him from the inside out.
“I’m the luckiest nigga on earth, no doubt about it. You’re so fucking perfect Mama,” the curl of her lips paired with the light giggle his words elicited drove Terry’s fingers even deeper into the valley of her sex.
“Teeerryyyy!” her honeycombed voice, accompanied by the squelch of Terry working her pussy like a fiddle, cried as her head flew further into the back of their couch.
Between watching her unravel on his fingers and watching said fingers take a swim in the frothy center that awaited his taste buds, Terry was beginning to grow impatient.The fragile glass of his window was falling apart as her desperate song for more backed by the raw instrumental of her pussy being prepared just for him, dealt devastating blows. But with the way she screwed herself around his digits as her walls clenched, the light at the end of the tunnel appeared. She would cum soon, and then he would feast on her as if he were a death row inmate and she was his last meal.
“Terry I-”
“I know Mama, just let go. Let me handle the rest. Let me take care of you,” he coaxed as her juices thickened and whitened into the creamy delight that consumed his more sinful thoughts. Her eyes clenched shut, prompting a sharp smack to her thigh. “Come on Princess, I need you to look at me. Need to see those beautiful eyes process what I’m giving to you,” he cooe’d.
And there they were; beautiful brown eyes spiraling through mindless pleasure while Terry’s words and fingers carried her through to the other side of the bridge he had built her by hand. The bridge called “mind-scrambling pleasure”. The end of it being Terry’s insatiable hunger for his Princess. The center of his being. His wife. Somila Richmond.
Feeling her come down, Terry slowly retracted each finger individually, savouring the labored gasps and strained whimpers he drew out of her. Each finger was immediately cleaned off by Terry’s tongue. A satisfied groan vibrated in his throat, eyes closing as he enjoyed his little taste test. The thought of how close he was to tasting the real thing sent a rush to his head and his dick. This woman had no idea how much of a crack fiend she had turned him into.
“Y’know Mama, if it were up to me, I wouldn’t need trivial shit like food, water or even air. You’d be all I need to survive-no. You’d be all I need to live,” his words of praise were punctuated by kisses of worship against the soft skin of her inner thighs.
“I love you…so fucking much T,” Mila declared breathlessly, making Terry’s heart flutter.
His loving gaze, carrying a predatory undertone, connected with her love-drunk one. His heaven on earth sat before him. The only woman to ever have him on his knees; not sexually, but in full submission of his heart, mind and soul. Everything he did was for her, and the moments like these? With her lost in pleasure he had hand delivered to her (although sometimes out of greed) professing her love to him? These were the moments that made life feel worth it. Because what would his be if it weren’t the one he built with her?
“I love you too Mama. More than you could ever comprehend.”
Having said his grace, Terry pressed his forearm to her hips, pinning them to the velvet seat cushions without breaking eye contact. One thing he just couldn’t have interrupting his meal, was uncontrollable squirming. His knowledge of Mila’s body was extensive enough for him to anticipate and plan for such…inconveniences.
He watched her watch him have a few quick laps at the mess he had created. The remains of her previous orgasm were always the first focus. In tandem, the thumb on his free hand began to massage her clit, coaxing her pussy to increase his supply.
His tongue dipped into her sex, scooping through anything it could taste. The once smooth, lewd sounds sliding from her lips became indecisive erratic cries. As the tip of his tongue swirled through her entrance, the pressure of his thumb increased, as if opening a faucet. Uncontrolled grunts vibrated against her entrance as her essence kissed his taste buds and flowed down his goatee while her body writhed and shook from unbridled pleasure.
Terry wasn’t even in the business of overstimulation, he just had a tendency of feasting on her like a madman. The way his tongue would rearrange her mind just by pressing deeper into her pussy always blossomed a few seeds of pride in his chest. His lips had begun to glisten, matching Mila’s now glowing skin from the sweat she was working up.
He momentarily swapped his tongue and thumb, the coarse, flat pressure on Mila’s nub sending ripples through her body while his thumb worked her back to where he needed her to be. Flat pressure turned to light flicks, and Mila turned to mush as another orgasm tore through her with a guttural moan.
More creamy froth coated Terry’s thumb, telling him to switch back. The onslaught continued as Terry relished the taste of Mila’s undoing while Mila dissolved into a body of incoherent whimpers. Like the glutton she had turned him into, he went for thirds, then fourths, cleaning her out of every orgasm he could claw onto. But alas, his jaw could only take so much, and his tongue could only flex for so long.
Finally releasing her, Terry got off his knees and stood at full height, only then being reminded of the raging boner he had developed back at the museum. Unfortunately his greed had delivered him his comeuppance rather soon. Mila was a twitching mess of nothing but pleasure and vibes on the couch. The bun her locs was in had come undone, leaving them in a sprawled high ponytail. A clear sheen covered her face and the dark brown skin glowing iridescent under their dim orange light. The lip liner had faded but the cherry lip gloss remained, keeping her plump lips soft and smooth.
Still absolutely perfect.
“Fuck, I did too much didn’t I Princess?” he chuckled hoarsely, earning nothing but a mere incoherent mumble in response.
If Terry were a lesser man, he would take more than necessary. He would take the monster prowling in his slacks and fuck her till she didn’t even know who he was. But he wasn’t. He was a man of honour. One that at least accepted consequence when met with it. So he gently scooped her into his arms and carried her bridal style into their ensuite bathroom.
He would just use the hand that was complicit in his gluttony to get himself off. A small price to pay really.
A.N: So, italics=flashback. Mila and Terry shenanigans?? I'm not too sure...Welp, happy reading and I hope you enjoy the latest installment of the Milaverse where allegedly only 3 things are constant: Mila, Terry, and smut.
~Tee❤
“You know I’m always gon’ be here for you, right Mimi?” Terry vowed as he clasped the stainless steel necklace around her neck.
“I’ll hold you to it,” Mila replied before turning around to face her lanky boyfriend. She shifted her weight onto the tips of her toes to plant a small peck on his cheek.
A light shade of red tinted his honey skinned features. Even while celebrating 6 months as an official couple, Terry couldn’t help but still be awestruck. The moment Mila had set foot into his homeroom as a new transfer student, she had stolen his heart (and those of many other horny adolescent boys in his class). Being on the football team usually had its perks for him and his teammates in the romantic avenue, but Mila had no interest in the sport. She went from refusing to waste her energy on a “breast milk flavour of rugby” jock, to being his girlfriend in over a year.
As her feet shuffled on the dirt, hand in hand with Ndoni’s, Mila’s fingers fidgeted with the small T charm dangling from the necklace Terry had gifted her on her 17th birthday. She was 42 now, and it had long rusted, but still she cherished it all these years later. Not the first gift, but one of the most special. Right after their baby girl of course. A small smile appeared at the sight of the 5 year old trekking through with a basket swinging in her other hand…excited to talk to “Dada”.
Because Terry had more than football in his arsenal. He also had strict Southern parents that kept his manners in check. Now the girl of his dreams was his girlfriend, and if he had a say in the matter: she would be his wife in the future.
“6 months old, and she already as stubborn as her momma,” he grumbled, making Mila chuckle behind him. He had been trying to put her to sleep for an hour and nothing was working. Lullabies make her dance and giggle, feeding led to kicking and screaming, walking around and rocking her gently led to wet raspberries in his face. Virtually nothing was working.
“What happened to her being “Dada’s lil twin”?” Mila laughed as she gently took their daughter from Terry’s arms. “Pass me her fleece blanket,” she said as she positioned the babbling baby onto her back.
Terry obliged, covering his daughter’s back with the soft blanket while Mila used a safety pin to keep it tied together in the front. He watched in awe and wonder as Mila strolled around the room, singing Love like you by Rebecca Sugar softly. It wasn’t long before their energetic little ray of sunshine was asleep. Mila smirked triumphantly at Terry who responded with a playful eye roll.
“Better get them numbers up if you still tryna be parent of the year lil’ nigga,” Mila teased, earning a gasp of disbelief from Terry.
“Girl, first of all, ain’t shit little about me. Second of all, I didn’t even know you was in the runnin’ with how far behind you’ve been Mimi,” he joked with an exaggerated roll of his head.
Ndoni detangled her tiny hand from Mila’s, placing it on her waist as her cheeks puffed up to blow out an exasperated sigh. Her eyebrows knitted in frustration, hazel eyes frustrated and in equal parts calculating. Mila snorted at the sight of their little “adventure cadet” attempting to estimate the distance remaining.
“Tired soldier?” she questioned playfully. The toddler straightened her posture, sporting a determined expression that matched Terry’s to a T. “Dada’s lil twin” to the bone.
“Sir, no sir!” Ndoni’s tiny voice called out, tugging a reluctant giggle from her mother. “General Mama! You’re not supposed to laugh! You have to be serious, like General Dada,” she whined, crushing a dead leaf with the stomp of her little foot.
Mila swallowed the last giggle that threatened to mutate into something ugly. Something Ndoni definitely did not need to see on their “Dada Day”. While Terry always encouraged them to be vulnerable and never hide their monsters from him, “General Dada’s” teachings of being a soldier that marches on after they fall were the ones that seemed to resonate with their mini-cadet. Although interpretation did tend to get lost on the colourful mind of their little genius.
“I’ve been thinking Mimi,” Terry lamented from the driver’s seat.
“Weh Nkosi…”
“Okay, one, that’s not very nice,” he said, clutching his chest in false hurt. Mila rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth in, waiting for him to continue. “Two, this the third time you’re graduating and for some reason, I still ain’t had the chance to fuck you in a graduation gown. What’s up with that?” they had reached a stop light and Terry took the opportunity to shoot her a questioning look.
Mila stared at him, glossy lips agape at the outrageous question before bursting into a disbelieving cackle. Her outburst however died down when she realized that he wasn’t laughing or even smirking.
“Oh, you’re serious? Wow,” was all she could respond with.
Terry’s features deepened into a frown. “Wow? I’m asking real questions here and all you have to say is “wow”?” he asked incredulously, only inciting a shrug as a response from his fiance.
The light turned back to green, continuing their journey to their apartment. Where they would be celebrating her PhD in Electrical Engineering. With their friends and some of Mila’s family. Although, if you subtracted the latter two factors, it wasn’t a bad idea.
“I mean you could tonight. You know, after everybody leaves,” she suggested, her hand creeping over his thigh, palming his manhood. She watched the muscles in his jaw tense as he struggled to keep his eyes open. A strained groan erupted from his throat while his right hand slowly removed hers from his crotch and placed it back on the arm rest.
“I need you to know that I’m not gonna stop till I get you pregnant. Gon’ have another genius running around with her momma’s big brains real soon,” he promised, brushing his palm over her exposed thigh.
The calm fall breeze barely lifted the dirt and leaves on the ground. Yet Mila still couldn’t help but shiver as she stood before him in a salut. “Finally!” Ndoni cheered before hurriedly placing the basket beside her.
“General Dada, Cadet Ndoni and General Mama reporting for duty,” Ndoni recited, mimicking her mother and performing the salut Terry had taught her the moment she could walk.
“At ease soldier,” Mila whispered shakily, her hand coming down to tighten her coat.
Ndoni dissolved the salut and turned her attention to the basket. Mila watched through clouding eyes as her and Terry’s little bundle of intellect and adventure retrieved the couple’s signature pink picnic blanket and laid it on the ground. Mila then began to empty the basket of its other contents, being all of Terry’s favorite foods and drinks: a cranberry juicebox for Ndoni and a bottle of Jack for him and Mila. Paper plates, plastic cutlery and their cups, each of which brandished with their names, were set out in threes. Perfect for a family picnic.
Finally, Mila and Ndoni sat down across from him. Choking back a pool of a now familiarly painful emotion, Mila listened as Dada’s lil twin rambled animatedly about her first month in her new preschool class. She even engaged, laughing at Ndoni’s jokes about her classmates’ antics, clapping at the mention of her learning to read and humming in agreement when needed.
At the request of her toddler, Mila shared some PG tales of her own. It only tore at the very thin elastic holding her together for their baby. But damn the way every second weighed heavier on her eyes. Damn the way the mild air made her yearn for his touch.
Damn him.
Damn him for bringing them here. Damn him for leaving them. Damn him for leaving her. For breaking his promise.
“You know I’m always gon’ be here for you, right Mimi?”
While Ndoni had settled into the monthly tradition they created, 7 months had passed and Mila was yet to accept it. Or the reason for its creation rather. Because no matter how hard she tried, mourning her husband still felt like getting caught in a tsunami. They had been together for so long that he had become the air in her lungs. But now he was gone, and she was drowning in grief.
“Dada, I miss you. Mama misses you too,” she heard Ndoni whisper, snapping her from the void that was her mind.
Finally, a tear escaped Mila as their daughter moved to touch her Dada. Or his gravestone rather.
Terrence James Richmond
Husband. Father. Son. Best friend.
03/17/1994-06/24/2035
Never let a little tumble stop your march forward.
~”General Dada”
