Synopsis: Stack absolutely hates when you post on social media.
Warnings: Heavy Smut, degrading, overstimulation, Stack is insatiable, pregnant sex, cursing, use of N word, overstimulation, squirting, Stack talks you through it.
Part 1
Part 2
MINORS DNI
-
You were the perfect picture of innocence. A rare beauty that stopped anyone dead in their tracks, with a smile so warm they could practically melt. A southern belle with an accent thick enough to make anyone swoon. You had always been the center of attention and yet remained humble enough to ignore it.
You also ignored all the boys that tried to tie you down, not interested in the cookie cutter, goodie two shoes that were convinced they’d be perfect for you.
Your mother begged you to settle down with a good man like Johnny, who goes to church every Sunday, or Thomas, who was the pastors son. But you didn’t care for them, they bored you out of your mind. Too soft to handle you like how you truly wanted.
You were convinced that Mississippi didn’t have the version of the man you craved and that at some point you’d have to settle for one those men your mom kept trying to put you on to.
That was until the twins moved back. You hadn’t heard of them, too busy wrapped inside your own little world to worry about what others had going on but once they came back, the word spread like wildfire. The flames were big enough to knock the walls down of your domaine and the whispers echoed loudly in your ears.
“Heard they just came back from Chicago.”
“I heard they was over there stealing and killing people.”
“I’m surprised they ain’t locked up. Somebody should do something.”
You minded your business though, tended to your horses, dogs and your bakery business.
Cookies, pies, cakes, brownies and just about anything sweet that you could name, was your specialty. You started getting called Peaches for your obsession with making peach cobbler and handing it out to your neighbors. You had learned to cook and bake from a very early age, your mother making sure you knew how to throw down in the kitchen so that you could impress your potential husband.
But you didn’t care for that, you learned because you liked it, loved it actually, and eventually you took your talents elsewhere.
To Tik Tok.
Pink kitchen and utensils caught the attention of millions of people who liked to watch you do what you do best. You hadn’t expected the surge of attention, the videos only being posted in hopes to your reach your friends and family, but the algorithm had other plans. And so that’s how you spent your days, tending to your animals and baking sweets for your millions of fans and to share with your neighbors. Eventually you became the talk of the town, everybody wanted to try a piece of your desserts and before you knew it, you had people showing up at your doorstep asking for anything, a crumb even.
One night, while you were preparing sugar cookies, you heard a knock at your door that wasn’t frantic like it usually was. It was slow and loud. Just two knocks.
You wiped your hands on your pink apron, long curly light brown hair cascading down your back as you walk towards the entrance, the shorts you wore barely covered your ass and the cropped tank top hugged your upper body tight. You weren’t expecting anyone this late, no one usually showed up at this time.
The clock ticked to 11PM just as your hand reached the handle. A man, who you hadn’t seen before, stood there in a all black suit. His face was expressionless but his eyes stayed on the way your cheeks reddened before they traveled down your body, zeroing in on the deep brown moisturized skin that glowed against the moonlight.
Something about his demeanor made your stomach turn, nerves clawing at your body, but there was something else, a heat hidden behind the fear.
“Oh. Hi! H-How may I help you?” Your voice was soft and something about it caused Stack’s jaw to tick slightly, that and the way you smelled of fresh vanilla and peaches.
“Evenin ma’am. Names’ Stack. My apologizes for disturbing you so late. I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Delphine, says her husband sick and in the hospital again, been craving sum of them lemon cookies you be making.”
His voice was deep and rough in a way that would send anybody else running. Accent slow like molasses and thick just like yours. Your thighs clenched before you could stop yourself.
“Oh um. Y-yeah. I have some. I just gotta pack them up for him. Um—” You hesitated, teeth sinking into your plush lip before mentally telling yourself ‘Fuck it’.
“Um— Do you want to come in and wait while I get everything together?”
Stack nodded, a small smirk appeared on his lips before he stepped inside your little world that you had carefully crafted for yourself.
And the rest was history.
Your viewers started to notice the change, the way you recorded videos with a smile so wide you’d think the measuring cups had told you a joke. They noticed how softer you were, the dreamy look on your face and the way you just glowed.
Assumptions about a man being in the picture were in almost every single video you posted. You didn’t bother confirming nor denying anything. Just let them keep guessing.
Until you popped out with a ring on your finger. You weren’t even bothering on being discreet, your perfectly manicured hand was all in the camera as you recorded how you baked a cheesecake. The boulder on your finger catching the light and making its presence known.
You tried to remove the ring, your audience too distracted by it to pay attention to what you were making but Stack wasn’t having that. Not one bit.
“Stop fucking playin with me. Put that shit back on.”
He groaned as he watched the video you had posted without it. Stack didn’t even have a tik tok account before you, didn’t even care about anything pertaining to social media. But once the two of you got together, he made sure to watch anything you posted.
‘User3829928’ liked your video.
He didn’t even bother making a name for himself, didn’t care to post or even watch anything else. His only purpose was to watch you. Sometimes you’d post things to get under his skin. A picture with a miniskirt that was wayyyy too short. A dress that hugged your curves too tight for a video on how to make homemade ice cream. Or starting a ‘get ready with me’ video in a silk robe that showed a little too much for him. Each time ended with you on your knees, attempting to apologize to him as he fucked your throat. You promised you wouldn’t do it again through tears that seeped through the pillow case while he fucked you silly.
But you never kept your promises.
-
You shouldn’t have done it, but you were frustrated beyond belief. Stack had left early that morning with the lie stuck on his lips that he’d return in time to make cupcakes with you. It was a cute little tradition the two of you had started since you first got together.
Every Friday, the two of you would spend the day baking or cooking something. Anything.
Last Friday, Stack wanted tomato soup and grilled cheese. So the two of you spent the day making that, even had more than enough to send over to Smoke and Annie.
This Friday though, you and the small little bean growing inside of your belly were craving cupcakes and Stack had given you his word. Said he just had a few errands to run with Smoke and that he’d be back early enough to bake the cupcakes so that they’d be ready by dinner time.
By 5PM you were still waiting for him, the pout on your face deepened as you texted him for the 8th time in the past 10 minutes.
By 5:30 you have had enough. You changed into a red halter top, mini dress that Stack had specifically bought just for you to wear for him, fluffed out your curls and touched up your makeup. You grabbed your phone, set it up on the tripod in the kitchen and started the live.
Comments flooded in seconds, compliments being thrown left and right. Some from the ladies but most from men.
“Hi guys!” You waved to the camera, the stack of bracelets dancing loudly on your wrist. “It’s a bit late but I was planning on making cupcakes so I figured you guys would like to join me.” Your smile was sweet, as it always was. No one suspected your ulterior motives.
No more than 5 minutes of you starting, your iPad started ringing. Your phone, which was placed on DND, recorded as you watched your iPad ring before shutting it off.
It only took Stack 20 minutes to drive home. You were distracted, too deep into explaining your recipe to notice him walk into the kitchen. His heavily tatted arms were crossed across his chest, his body stiff behind your phone. White T shirt clung to his muscles, black jeans handing low on his hips, some Jordan’s and chains sitting heavy on his pretty neck.
“Okay so make sure that you’re adding enough vanilla extract or it’s going to taste like—” You jumped once you noticed him, heart racing loudly in your chest. The viewers noticed, half concerned, half excited to maybe get a glimpse of your man.
“Is that him?”
“Omg don’t tell me we’re about to meet Mr.Peaches himself.”
“Guys have you noticed that she looks a bit pregnant here?”
Stack eyed you. Fully. From the top of your head, down to the French tip pedicure on your toes. He clenched his jaw as he looked at the dress you wore.
“End the live fa me, baby.” You bit the side of your bottom lip, eyes wide and staring up at him. Somewhat embarrassed that this was happening on live, somewhat turned on from the intensity of his stare.
“I—I’m not done, papa.”
“I know you ain’t done but we gotta talk, so end the live.”
“Ooop not my good sis done fucked up”
“Shiiiitttt girl he sound like he not playing, ga head and end the live.”
“Why do I feel like I’m the one getting in trouble?”
You nodded. “Okay guys, I’ll see yall in a bit.” The screen went dark as soon as the live ended. You locked your phone and placed it on the counter. You could feel the weight of his eyes on you but pretended not to.
“You like playing with me?” Stack slowly walked up to you.
“Stack—”
“Nah, answer me. You like pissing me off?” He stood right in front of you, arms on either side, holding on to the counter behind you. He leaned down and it took everything in you not to throw yourself into his warmth. He smelled of cologne and weed, scent strong enough to make you dizzy with desire.
“No…” your lips formed a pout, eyes wide in the way you knew could get you anything you wanted. His lips twitched, trying hard not to smirk at how cute you looked. “Get ya ass upstairs. Now.”
“But-”
“Now, baby.”
You nodded, and headed up the stairs with him trailing behind you. He didn’t like being mean to you, you were too sweet for that, but he was never afraid to put you in your place.
You sat at the edge of the bed and waited for him to walk in, your nerves were through the roof but you also lived for the thrill and he knew that. Stack’s steps were heavy, you expected him to walk right to you, to grab you up and choke you like how he always does but instead he walks to the vanity that sat across from the bed. You watched the muscles on his back move, his big frame blocking what he was doing.
After a few seconds of messing around, he turned and walked to you. His hand gently gripped your jaw, thumb smoothing circles onto your skin. “You wanted my attention, mama? Huh? That’s why you did that?”
You nod, face formed into a pout. This wasn’t usual for him, the gentleness after you piss him off.
“Nah speak up. Tell me what the problem is.” Your breath stutters and eyebrows furrow in confusion. His voice was soft, the complete opposite of what you were expecting. “Speak, mama. I’m here now. Tell me what’s up.”
Your mouth opens, getting ready to spill your truth, to admit that your hormones and emotions were completely out of wack and all you wanted was your man.
Stack lowers down to his knees, his hands pull your dress up in one quick motion. A small gasp escapes your mouth when he presses a kiss to your knee, trailing his lips further up your thigh. “I don’t hear you.” He looks up at you, waiting for you to say something, anything.
“I—It’s just that I-” Stack spreads your legs further, prompting you to lean back on to your elbows. He digs his nose onto the damp spot of your panties, groaning at your scent. Your breathing picks up, hands already gripping onto the sheets and body slightly trembling.
“Mm, so fucking sensitive.” He places a kiss to your covered mound before gripping the sides of your underwear and pulling them down your legs. “I don’t hear you talking.”
You whimpered at the heat of his face so close to where you needed him the most. “Elias” You softly begged.
“Nah, none of that. I ain’t moving till you speak.”
You groan, laying your body down fully as your eyes stare up at the ceiling. “I just… I really wanted cupcakes and you promised me you’d make them with me—” Stack dug his face in your drenched pussy, tongue flattening on your clit before pulling back. A moan stops you mid sentence, eyes drifting down to him as you watch him spit. His fingers mix it with your essence before slowly pushing into your tight hole.
“Eliiiasssss” Your back arches, small belly bump covering the way he leans in and wraps his lips around your aching clit.
“I ain’t tell you to stop, did I?” His fingers curl inside of you, moving faster as his tongue continuously laps up your juices. “Talk to me. I’m listening.”
“F-Fuck!” Your moans mixed into whimpers, already feeling the coil forming in your stomach. “Don’t stop.” You gasped, eyes rolled to back of your head while Stack feasted on you.
He smacked the inside of your thigh with his free hand. “Keep talking or ima stop.” You felt him slow down, face slowly pulling back just as you were about to cum.
“Fuuuuckk, okay okayyy. I just, I needed you here—” Stack hummed in satisfaction, fingers continuing to slowly pump in and out of you while he watched you try not to fall apart. “A—And you were gone for a long time—” You couldn’t stop whimpering, pregnancy making you extra sensitive to his touch.
“Mhm and what else, mama?”
You squirmed, full body trembling from the feel of his fingers reaching deep inside of you as he slightly picked up his pace. “Eliasss fuucckkkk.”
“Keep going, you doing good, baby.” He placed kisses to your clit, holding you right at the edge of that breaking point.
“Fuccckkkk, I just needed you here. I needed your attention— I just wanted you, daddy.” You sounded so sultry, voice high and full of moans.
“Yeah? That’s all it was?” Stack puckered his lips around your clit again and let his tongue play with it. You cried out, hands reaching out to grab his head while your hips frantically moved up and down his face.
“Yes! Yes! That was all, daddy. I swear!” It didn’t take much for the restraint to snap, your juices decorated Stacks face and your body twisted and turned as if trying to find a place to store the pleasure you were feeling.
“You so fucking wet, my god.” Stack moaned as he sucked and licked every drop from you. He stood to his full height, hands immediately reaching for his shirt and removing it. Next was his pants, thrown to the side along with his boxers. You moaned at the sight of him, tattoos tracing his front and back, including your name right along the side of his neck.
Stack grabbed your body and turned you to the side, then laid right behind you. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you to his chest while the other one gripped your leg, lifting it high enough for your knee to reach his shoulder. “This what you wanted, right?” You felt the head of his dick nudge your folds, drenching it in your essence. The sound was obscene. There was no denying how badly you needed him.
“Yessssss.” You arched back onto him.
“Ga head, take it. Take what you want.”
Your trembling hand reached down and grabbed his dick, slowly pushing it inside of you. Stack groaned, burying his face in your neck as he slowly moved his hips.
Moans escaped your open mouth as you felt the stretch from the pure girth he carried. “Oh my god.” You cried out as he bottomed out, his full length deep inside of you while you clawed at his arm and the sheets. “Fuck!”
“Mhmm, take it, take that shit baby.” He sped up his pace. Thrusting in and out of you while you cried out every time he kissed your cervix.
“S—so big, papa!” You whined, already feeling the way your stomach was tightening again.
“I know baby, I know. But you can take it right? Look how good you’re doing. Taking all this big dick.” He grabbed your face and turned it to his. Your lips met in a slow dance that contrasted with the way he was fucking you. You couldn’t stop moaning into his mouth, your face forming a small pout.
“Don’t look at me like that. You wanted this right? Take it. Just like that.” His voice was like silk against your ears. Your hand weakly grabbed onto his arm as you squirted with every thrust.
“Eliaaaassssss!”
“Mhmmm, give it to me. Give me all that shit. Nut all on your dick, baby.”
Your body shook and bent against him but he wouldn’t dare stop. You were nothing but gasps and whimpers, trying your best to come down from the intense high you just experienced.
Stack pressed your lips together again, tongue sneaking its way into your mouth. “Open.” He spit into your mouth the second you followed his order. Hips still digging into you.
He slowed down and shifted so that he’d be able to deepen his strokes. You sobbed into his neck, your French tips pressing crescent moons on his thigh. His other hand rubbed your small but plump belly. “Cum for me again. Do it. Let me see you break.”
Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as your juices sprayed out of you, another orgasm ripping through your body without permission.
“Drown me just like that. Keep going, don’t fucking stop.” His lips were right by your ear, you heard every small groan, every breath and whisper that he tried to hide.
“Okaaayyyy.” You whined, feeling completely out of your own body.
You couldn’t stop squirting, all you could was sob and try your hardest to gain some type of control of the situation but your body was overstimulated and done for. Stack didn’t care though, he kept going. Dick sliding in and out of you with a wet splat each time he went all the way in.
“Good girl, mama. You gon let me ruin you like this, huh?” His strokes slowed down, you felt each inch of his thick cock trying to tear you apart.
“I— I can’t.” Your tears fell in waterfalls, short breaths turned into gasps as he continued to abuse your already swollen folds.
“Yes you can. Come on, give me one more. You can do that for me, right?”
“I caaaannnt. Elias, I can’t, fuck. I can’t.” Your toes curled and your body hadn’t stopped trembling since he started. You cried out over and over again as you reached a state of what felt like hysteria. He felt so good but you could barely breathe and were practically drooling. Your eyes kept rolling to the back of your head and your juices drenched the mattress beneath you.
Stack reached his hand down and pressed a two fingers to your clit. Your jaw dropped, hand reaching back to lightly slap his chest over and over again, as he rubbed your nub in circles. Screams echoed throughout the room as your body practically convulsed.
“There she go. That’s exactly where I want you. Just like that, baby. Stay just like that while I ruin you.” Your walls fluttered around his length, another orgasm threatening to destroy you. “Breathe. Let me hear you.”
You took a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut while you sobbed. “I love your dick, daddy. I love it so much!” You cried out loud.
“Yea? This why yo ass pregnant now. Nasty ass girl.”
“Keep fucking me, please! You feel so good inside my pussy. Don’t stop. Don’t stop!”
He moaned against your ear, hips stuttering from trying to hold himself back. “Look at you. Dumb off of dick. They don’t even know how you get. Tryna act all innocent for them people—If only they fucking knew.” He sped up, hand lifting your leg higher to reach parts of you, you didn’t even know could be touched. “You love me, hm? Tell me you love me. Tell me I’m the only nigga that could ruin you like this.”
“I love you! I love you! I’m gonna cum. Fuck, I’m gonna fucking cum, Elias. Oh my god!” The hand on your clit sped up to match his thrusts.
“Say it. Tell me this mine. Tell me I own you.” His strokes were brutal, all that was heard was the slapping of his skin against yours and the mess you were currently making. “This my pussy, my body, my nut. All of it. Mine. You hear me? I own you, baby. All of you.”
“Yes! It’s yours. All yours! Fuck!” Your body snapped, shaking profusely as your cum flowed out of you. Stack whimpered, his thighs trembling as he filled you with his seed.
“Oh fucckkkk” he moaned against your shoulder, pressing kisses to your damp skin, trying his best to calm down. He slowed his movements, letting the both of you ride out the orgasm.
You twitched against him, slumped over in a state of absolute bliss. Stack kissed you all over, hands rubbing your sides to calm you down.
Your eyes opened slowly, looking around as if you couldn’t believe that just happened. It felt like you had an out of body experience.
The vanity that sat right in front you, had your phone propped up and facing the both of you. Your eyes widen as you gasp.
Stack followed your eyesight, he chuckled slightly before getting up. Grabbing your phone, he pointed it right at your exhausted figure.
“Thought I’d keep this for memory as a reminder of what happens when you try to play with me.” You bit your lip, stomach turning in a way that it shouldn’t have been after all that. But the thought of having a video of the two of you having sex, saved into your phone where you could watch whenever, caused a fire to burn deep within you.
“Come on, baby. Show the camera the mess we made.” A smirk played on your lips as you turn over. Back arched and chest pressed onto the bed, you reach back and open your folds with two fingers. Stack groans, moving the camera closer to catch the way his nut slides out of you.
“Perfect.” He moaned before turning it off and lightly spanked your ass.
“Let’s get you cleaned up before you get me started again.” You giggle as he picks you up bridal style and heads to the bathroom.
Summary: When the preacher’s wife starts protesting outside The Blackline, Stack Moore mocks her from the shadows—until her holy fire turns to something hotter. Plain and pious, Sister Marigold Baptiste hides a body made for sin, and Stack makes it his mission to break her righteousness down to the bone. Their hate burns into obsession, and soon she’s sneaking out in her Sunday whites to be devoured in the dark. He fucks the holy out of her and sends her home to her husband full of his cum, knowing she can’t bear children—but she can carry the weight of his sin.
I was holy once. But holiness never touched me the way he did…
The hallway pulsed like a drumline made of perfume and heat. Laughter spilled from behind the thick velvet curtain, mingling with the sound of Lucille Bogan’s last growl echoing through The Blackline like she left her spirit behind to fuck in her place.
Stack had his arm wrapped around Marigold’s waist, fingers splayed low and intentional across her hip. He walked slow, lazy, like a man drunk on good music and bad behavior, tugging her along like she was his prize and his possession all at once.
His lips were on her neck again, wet and hot, dragging up to the spot just under her jaw where she’d moaned his real name less than an hour ago.
“Lucille always did like a low room,” he whispered against her skin, “Say the air feel heavier, make her voice sit deeper in the cooch. Told me that once…after I poured her a drink in the back room, summer of ’28.” He grinned, nosing into her skin, “Kissed me soon as I brought her that drink. Slid her tongue in like she’d been waitin’ all night to spend it.”
Marigold’s heart pinched.
The hallway narrowed. Her robe clung damp to her thighs. She could still feel his tongue between her legs—the ache of it, the sweet bruised soreness he’d left inside her. But now he was talking about other mouths. Other women. Other nights.
His palm slid down. Grabbed a handful of her ass.
She gasped.
“I ain’t ever liked that woman in a dress, but damn she can sing,” he muttered low, right in her ear, “She sing like she fuck—loud, raw, full of teeth.”
Marigold’s stomach flipped. There was a tightness in her chest she didn’t recognize—sharp, hot, bitter at the edges. It sat just beneath her ribs, coiled like a belt pulled too tight.
Jealousy.
It wasn’t holy, but it was alive.
They entered the private lounge through a beaded curtain so thick it rattled like bones in a bag. The heat hit first—soft and thick, touched with sweat and rose oil. The room was velvet dark, lined in oxblood and plum. Satin couches curved around low tables stacked with half-melted candles, fruit trays, ashtrays, and bottles that dripped sweat down their necks. Lucille Bogan sat in the center like a queen who’d fucked her way to the throne. Her thighs were spread in a satin halter gown, glitter still clinging to her chest. She was drinking whiskey straight from the bottle and wearing a crooked grin that had broken a hundred men and at least two women that very week.
“Look who the dog done dragged up from between some thighs,” she crooned when she saw Stack. Her voice was smoke and dirty promise, dipped in molasses, “You still talkin’ sweet to ‘em, Mr. Magic Stick?”
Marigold stiffened.
Stack smirked.
Behind Lucille sprawled her girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona. All three were thick in the hips, tits spilling, eyes lined with kohl and lips painted dark like devils at a revival. Faye had one shoe off. Trixie was barefoot and flashing her pasties. Ramona had her leg slung over the arm of a velvet chair, her cleavage deep enough to drown in.
“Ooooh weee,” Ramona purred when she laid eyes on Stack. “Look at them lips. Got the kind of mouth make a girl see stars and the Lord.”
“I bet they soft too,” Trixie said, leaning forward, “Soft like silk on a sore tit.”
Faye laughed, drunk and delighted, “He got the kind of mouth make you forget what day it is. I wanna sit on it just to find out how deep it go.”
Lucille howled, “Y’all leave that boy alone! He just got done eatin’. Can’t you tell by the glow on his skin?”
Marigold froze.
Her glow.
Her cheeks burned. Her hands tightened around the wine glass that Peaches had handed her when they stepped in —unasked, unexpected, just thrust into her hand like she needed something to hold other than shame. She stood toward the back of the room, wrapped in Stack’s robe, her curls pinned up messily, damp with sweat and post-orgasm glow. Her lips were bare. Her feet were bare. She didn’t belong here, and everyone could feel it. She watched as Ramona straddled Stack’s thigh for a second, just being nasty, rolling her hips slow while Faye hooted and Trixie clapped.
Stack grinned. Didn’t stop her right away. That tightness in Marigold’s chest twisted again. He finally tapped Ramona’s thigh and leaned back, laughing.
“Y’all wild tonight,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle on the table.
“Wild?” Ramona licked her lips, “Baby, we just gettin’ started. You tryna start church or confession?”
That’s when Faye clocked Marigold.
“Who’s that?” she slurred, nodding toward the shadows, “You brought a lamb to the slaughter, Stack?”
Stack glanced back—spotted Marigold still hovering, stiff and quiet in her robe. He stood and said it calm. Straight.
“That’s Goldie.”
A pause.
Then Lula’s voice slid out from one of the corners like mischief in silk, “Y’all ain’t ready.” She grinned, tipping her wine glass, “That’s the preacher’s wife.”
Gasps. Whoops. Cackles.
Ramona’s mouth fell open.
Faye clutched her chest. Trixie screamed with laughter, “Well damn! Baby got saved and backslid in the same night!” Lucille sipped her drink and said, “Mmm. Praise be.” Marigold’s ears rang. The robe felt tighter. Her skin buzzed with humiliation. Stack moved back to her side. Slipped a hand around her waist. Spoke just to her now.
“They don’t mean no harm, baby.”
Marigold didn’t answer. She sipped her wine, jaw set, heat crawling up her neck like shame wrapped in silk.
Stack spoke low and hot against her jaw, “Mm. You jealous, church girl?”
She don’t answer—eyes cut away like she tryna pretend she ain’t, but that little pout say otherwise.
He chuckles, darker now, “Don’t do that…Don’t act like I ain’t just had you moanin’ through that pillow like it was gospel. Had you callin’ my name like it saved you.” He leans in, lips ghostin’ her ear, voice rich and mean-smooth, “Ain’t a damn thing Ramona could do for me. That lil’ loose beaver? That thing so stretched it don’t even blink no more.”
He grins when she stifles a gasp—embarrassed, maybe turned on. Both.
Stack whispers filthier, slow, “But you?” He hums, low and sinful, “You got that fat, tight coochie with the kind of grip that make a man rethink his whole lifestyle. Sweet… soft…messy.”
He licks his lips like he can still taste her, “Still got your scent on my mustache. Smell like sugar.” His hand brushed the hem of his robe on her thigh, “Could’ve stayed in that room all night, tongue deep in your pussy, suckin’ you ‘til you begged me to stop—then beggin’ me not to.”
He lets the words drip down her neck like honey, “Don’t stand here tryna act shy now. You ain’t just fucked me, baby. You fed me.” His tongue clicks, “Ain’t no bird in here ever gone do me like you did.”
Cordelia watched from a chaise—didn’t smile, didn’t laugh. Peaches clocked the whole thing, slow sippin’ her drink, quiet and knowing. And in the center of it all, Lucille raised her glass and purred.
“To the preacher’s wife.”
The girls howled.
Marigold didn’t raise her glass. Too shaky to hold it steady.
But Stack?
He kissed her temple, right there in front of everyone.
“To Goldie.”
The girls didn’t stop after the toast. If anything, Lucille’s declaration lit a new fire under their asses. Faye was already making a lap of the room with the whiskey bottle, pouring straight into mouths like communion. Ramona threw one leg over the arm of Stack’s chair again, this time leaning so close he could smell the peach liquor on her breath.
“So you really Mr. Magic Stick, huh?” she purred, eyes sliding down his frame, “That mean what I think it mean?”
Lucille barked out a laugh from her corner, “It mean that boy carryin’ a whole slab in them pants.” She looked Marigold dead in the eye, grinning crooked and filthy, “You felt it yet, baby? That beef?”
Marigold nearly choked on her wine. Her hand jerked slightly.
Lucille didn’t miss a beat.
“Or you still tight like a communion cup?”
Cackles. More laughing. Ramona practically doubled over.
Marigold’s face burned. Her thighs clamped together instinctively, but the ache between them betrayed her. Because she could still feel it. Stack’s thick fingers stretching her, curling up and stroking until she screamed his name like a psalm rewritten. She tried to look away. But Stack…he didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He reached for her again, real calm and pulled her back into his side.
“Chill out on Goldie,” he said, low and smooth, looking at Lucille, not angry, but serious enough that the air shifted.
The girls backed off just a little, not with guilt, but with the satisfaction of knowing they’d hit a nerve. But Stack…Stack turned back to Marigold like the room didn’t even exist.
His lips brushed her ear, “You okay?”
She nodded, stiff.
He stroked her waist with his thumb—slow, warm, grounding—then dipped his head to speak low, close, the rum in his breath licking her jaw.
“They don’t matter.” Another stroke, “Ain’t none of ‘em tasted you tonight.”
She shivered.
He chuckled under his breath. His hand moved lower. She felt it first at her hip. Then her thigh. Then…higher. His fingers crept beneath the hem of her robe, slow as sin. He watched her body while he did it. Watched the way she froze, the way her lips parted, the way her lashes trembled. His hand slipped between her legs. She gasped, soft and helpless. He found her still wet. Still open. Still aching.
“Mmm,” he whispered, tongue grazing her earlobe, “You feel that? That’s how good you taste. Still leakin’ for me.”
She pressed her thighs together, breath hitched, eyes flicking up to the room—terrified someone saw. But they hadn’t. Faye was now leaning against the piano, trying to light a cigarette upside down. Ramona had moved on to flirting with Cordelia, licking her lips and tracing a finger down her arm. Cordelia smirked slow, seductive, her lashes low, clearly entertained. But not untouched. Not untouched at all.
Peaches stood across the room, watching with a stillness too heavy for the wine in her hand. Her eyes lingered on Cordelia a second too long. And when Ramona whispered something in Cordelia’s ear and Cordelia laughed, tilting her head just enough to flirt back. Peaches looked down into her glass like it said something she didn’t want to read. And meanwhile, back in the chair, Marigold sat perched on the edge of sin and secrecy. Stack’s fingers were slow. Teasing. Just sliding along her slit, not pushing in, just petting. His voice was a dark lullaby in her ear.
“I could make you cum in this room, right now,” he whispered, “Wouldn’t even have to move my hand. Just let you ride my fingers till you soak this seat. Make you whimper all holy and hushlike, and they wouldn’t know whether to praise you or punish you.”
She trembled.
Her hand gripped his thigh hard and she felt it then.
His bulge.
Thick. Hard. Pressed against the inside of his slacks. She could feel it throbbing beneath her hand, begging for release.
And the best part?
She wanted it.
Even with Lucille laughing. Even with Faye drunk. Even with Ramona trying to seduce Cordelia and Peaches staring like she wanted to throw a drink. Marigold wanted him to pull her onto his lap and feed it to her like communion. She closed her eyes and prayed to a God to stop the pulse between her legs. Stack pulled her down without asking. One firm tug and Marigold was planted full in his lap, thighs parted around his, her robe still barely hiding anything from the rising temperature in the room. She let out the softest gasp, wine sloshing in her glass as her ass settled directly on top of his bulge.
Lord have mercy…
She could feel every inch of him. Hot. Heavy. Hard as a damn pipe beneath her. Her thighs instinctively clenched, but that only made it worse. Stack leaned back in the plush velvet chair, one arm draped low on her waist, the other nursing his drink—some deep brown rum with heat like woodsmoke. His breath smelled sweet and dangerous.
And he was drunk now.
Not slurring. Not stumbling. Just loose-limbed, voice thick, lips glossy, eyes heavy-lidded and full of sin. He pressed his mouth to her shoulder and hummed low, the sound vibrating against her collarbone.
“Mmm. That ass feel like a prayer answered, Goldie.” Another sip, “So damn soft…I swear I could die right here between your cheeks and not even ask why.”
She squirmed.
The fabric between them soaked with heat. His dick throbbed against her, and she gripped her glass tighter, trying to stay calm, to stay present, to not melt in front of all these people. Lucille’s girls—Trixie, Faye, and Ramona—had taken to the center of the room now, hips swaying, tipsy and barefoot, performing a slow, sensual dance to a new track Lucille had put on. The record crackled with low horns and thick bass—something slow and sticky that made folks clap and laugh and yell encouragement as they moved. The room had filled out more. High rollers now. A tall, dark-skinned man with diamond cufflinks and a silk scarf strolled in through the back curtain. He was flanked by two women—one of them none other than Odessa in a cream lace gown, lips painted like sin, cigarette in hand. She tossed her curls and smiled when she spotted Stack.
“You done turned this lounge into a juke brothel,” she teased.
The man behind her? That was Langston Duvall, one of the most infamous Black Stag film directors in the South. Folks said he could make anybody a star…if you were bold enough. But Marigold was too caught up in the man behind her. Stack nuzzled into her neck again, his voice dropping into a filthy hush only she could hear.
“You feel that?” He rocked his hips slow. Up. Just enough, “That’s all you. Got my dick hard and heavy and beggin’. You sittin’ on a problem, baby.”
She bit her lip, “Stop,” she whispered, heat flushing up her throat.
He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “You don’t want me to stop.”
His hand slid back down to her hip, strong fingers stroking slow circles into her side.
“How you think it’s gon feel once I slide up in you, Miss Goldie?”
Her breath hitched. He kissed her neck again, voice thick with liquor and filth.
“You think that sweet lil’ pussy can take all this dick?”
A pause.
“Or you think I’ma have to stuff it in slow…make you cry a lil’ bit…break you in proper?”
Marigold whimpered.
“Elias—” she whispered, scandalized.
He groaned softly at the sound of his real name coming from her mouth again.
“Say it again,” he rasped, grinding up once more.
She shook her head, curls falling loose from the combs. Her thighs trembled. Her robe loosened just slightly. Across the room, Ramona had slithered up next to Cordelia, whispering in her ear while tracing the line of her arm with a painted fingernail. Cordelia didn’t move—just tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowed, mouth twitching in a smirk that wasn’t quite rejection. But it wasn’t acceptance either. From across the room, Peaches watched. She didn’t say a word. She just sipped slow from her wine and looked at Cordelia like maybe, just maybe…
Marigold was trembling. Not from cold. Not from nerves. But from the weight of him pressed beneath her, from the slow, steady, merciless filth pouring from his mouth like it was scripture. Stack had her in his lap like she was built for it. His hand gripped her waist, guiding every subtle grind, every twitch of his hips, every bounce that made his hard length throb right against her bare center.
“You feel so fuckin’ good sittin’ on me like this,” he whispered, voice hoarse now, drunk and raw, lips dragging across her throat, “Soft ass…warm lil’ pussy. I swear I can feel the steam comin’ off you.”
Marigold bit her lip hard.
Her leg started bouncing—slow at first, then harder— as if her body was begging for a release her mind was too shy to name.
Stack noticed. Of course he did. He grinned against her skin.
“That leg don’t lie, baby.” He slid his palm down her thigh, then back up again, gripping the meat of it with one big hand, “That mean you ready for somethin’. Ready for me to lift this robe, spit on that lil’ clit, and eat you all over again.”
She whimpered.
Hands gripped the arms of the velvet chair like they were the only thing tethering her to Earth. And then—He adjusted himself. Slow. Deliberate. Tilted his hips up, ground his bulge against her with a soft hiss through his teeth.
“Fuck,” he groaned, “I’m so hard it hurt.” He rocked again, “You doin’ that. All that tight lil’ heat rubbin’ against me. Can’t stop thinkin’ ‘bout how you tasted.” He brought his hand to her jaw. Turned her face slightly, “Sweet and messy. Like rum and God’s mistake.”
Marigold couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t move.
Her breath came in shaky little pulls. Her lips were slick. Her skin was dewy. Her thighs were trembling so bad it felt like her bones might rattle.
Stack leaned in again, right against her ear now, “I can still taste you,” he growled, “On my tongue. In the rum. In the back of my throat. Pussy that good don’t disappear.”
She gasps. Bites her lip again. Shakes her head, mouthing stop even though she doesn’t want him to.
He laughs, low and lazy, “Mmm. You pretty when you beggin’ without beggin’.”
His hands slid lower again, and she could feel it—the way his dick twitched beneath her like it was ready to break out, demand entry, claim the rest of what he hadn’t already conquered. And then—He shifted again. His voice changed. Lower. More urgent.
“C’mon,” he said into her ear, like he was asking her to run off to war, “I need you in my mouth again.”
He stood up with her in his arms before she could answer. Cradled her like something soft and sinful. Walked straight past Lucille and her girls, past Cordelia, past Peaches, past the high rollers, past the eyes.
Didn’t explain.
Didn’t ask.
Just carried his preacher’s wife out the velvet lounge like a man who’d already been to heaven and wanted another bite.
They moved like smoke through silk.
Stack didn’t put her down—not once. His arms wrapped firm around Marigold’s waist, her thighs draped over his forearm, her robe hanging loose now, one comb slipping free from her curls with each step. The hallway behind the lounge narrowed into darkness and hush. No more music. No more laughter. Just the faint creak of wood beneath his boots and the way her breath caught every time he squeezed her tighter.
The walls changed here. No longer velvet red. Now black, with gold-painted edges and soft sconces that flickered like candlelight. It smelled like tobacco and perfume and pine floors. A hidden hallway inside the beating heart of The Blackline—one only certain girls and certain men had seen. And at the end of it, a single lacquered door.
Stack kicked it open.
Inside, it was warm, dim, private. A small room with no windows. A low couch. A velvet chaise. Hooks on the wall for hanging clothes and ropes. And at the center, a tall, wide chair—almost like a throne—carved from dark wood, plush and deep with an ottoman in front.
He called it the initiation room.
Because this is where he trained them. Broke them in. Showed them how to be touched right. How to be wanted. How to open without apology. He set her down slow, eyes already dark with liquor and lust, his slacks heavy at the groin, the outline of his dick thick, long, straining against the fabric. Marigold adjusted her robe on instinct, tugging it tighter across her chest. Stack watched her. Silent. Heat pouring from him in waves. Then—lazy, slouched—he took the center chair, legs wide, dick heavy between his thighs. His hand reached to stroke the thick length through his pants, slow.
“You know what this is, right?” he asked, voice low, smoky, “This where new girls get broken in.”
Marigold blinked at him, “What?”
“You a new girl tonight, ain’t you?” he said, grinning now, “Ain’t that how you actin’? All shy and sweet. All tight and unclaimed. That robe don’t fool me. That pussy still mine.”
She shifted in place, heart racing, thighs pressed together, “I—don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean…” he said, leaning forward, “tonight you just a little thing walkin’ in off the street. Lookin’ to be initiated. We don’t fuck on first meetin’. We just… introduce your pussy to my mouth.”
Marigold flushed hard.
She shook her head, took a step back, “Stack—”
He groaned loud, frustrated, hand still stroking his dick through the fabric.
“Lord, you still shy?” His hand gripped the arm of the chair. His jaw clenched, “You sittin’ on my face less than an hour ago, squirtin’ on my tongue and cryin’ my name like and now you actin’ brand new?”
Her eyes dropped to his lap—and froze.
The bulge in his pants was obscene. Long. Wide. So hard it curved slightly to the left beneath the fabric, pushing against the zipper like it wanted out. His thighs were spread just wide enough to make it worse,
Stack saw where she was lookin’. Smirked.
“Yeah. You lookin’ at it now.”
She flinched.
He stood up.
The room felt smaller suddenly. His height, his weight, the pressure of him. He curled two fingers, beckoning.
“C’mere.”
Marigold didn’t move.
He stepped forward.
“C’mere, Goldie.”
Still nothing. Then, in a flash, he grabbed her wrist and yanked her over his lap. She gasped, caught off guard, and suddenly she was bent over his knee, robe hiked, thighs bare, her ass warm in the low light.
“You wanna act like you ain’t hear me? Like you some brat?” he muttered, hand grazing her ass, “Then I’ma treat you like one.”
POP.
The first slap landed firm.
She yelped.
POP.
The second—harder.
“You don’t talk back.”
POP.
“You don’t tell me to stop talkin’ nasty when you like it.”
POP.
“You know how I know?” He slid his hand between her thighs, pressed two fingers to the mess between her legs, “’Cause this pussy still wet, still leakin’, still beggin’.”
She sobbed into her arm. Not from pain. But from overwhelm.
“Stack—please—”
He rubbed her clit once, slow, right over the hood. Then smacked her ass again.
“You wanna act like a hireling? Then obey.”
Her body arched. Her thighs trembled. She moaned, soft, high, like something sacred had come loose in her throat. He leaned down close, lips to her ear.
“You gon’ be a good girl for me now?”
She nodded, breathless.
He rubbed her again, slower this time. Warm circles. Fingers slick.
“Say it.”
“I’ll be good,” she whispered.
“Say you’ll obey.”
She swallowed. Gasped. Let out a shaky breath.
“I’ll obey.”
He kissed her spine. Smirked against her skin.
“That’s more like it.”
Marigold stood motionless, spine straight, heart slamming in her chest like it was trying to break free. Her robe clung to her skin, warm and damp from nerves and arousal, her lips parted in a soft pant. Behind her, Stack lit a match with one hand, cigar between his lips, watching her in silence through the flare of flame. The smoke curled slow.
“You nervous?” he asked low, voice rough like crushed velvet dragged over gravel.
Marigold nodded, throat tight.
Stack exhaled, slow and hot, “Good.”
He stepped closer, and the smell of him wrapped around her—rum, sweat, and whatever spell she was under that made her knees feel like sugar. His voice dropped again, almost tender, almost cruel, “Strip for me, baby.”
Her fingers trembled. But she obeyed.
The robe slid down her shoulders like a sigh. Stack watched her every move like he was starving. When she stood trembling and bare beneath the low light, he stepped forward again.
“Turn around,” he said, “Let me see what I came for.”
She turned, slow. Back to him. Bent over, shy. The curves of her ass framed the shadows like a painting. Thick. Plush. The kind of softness that promised comfort and ruin. The little thatch of hair between her thighs peeked out from behind, soft and natural, untouched. Even her ass had a dusting of hair—Stack’s eyes glazed, lips parted, dimples deepening with a twitch of awe.
“Goddamn…” he whispered, “That’s beautiful.”
She whimpered.
“Spread it.”
Her breath caught. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t bark. Just…asked. Smooth. Confident. Heavy. Her hand reached back, slow. Nervous. She spread one cheek. And Stack groaned. Low and filthy, one hand gripping the edge of the nearby vanity like he needed to brace himself.
“Look at that sweet little fuckin’ hole,” he said, voice thick, eyes glued to the split, “So soft…so warm…like it pulsin’ for me already.” He chuckled, “Look at you shakin’. You like that?”
She nodded.
“You need to hear how nasty I get when I’m in love with a pussy like yours?” His laugh was gravel, “Down,” he commanded gently. “On all fours. Spread wide.”
She moved—like a puppet string pulled her hips down. Elbows on the rug. Hips cocked. She arched. Obeyed. Her thighs shook as she parted them, wide and low, dripping and glistening. Stack dropped to his knees behind her with awe, cigar tossed aside, hands gripping her thighs just to feel how warm and soft her skin was. His head tilted, admiring the creamy slick gathering at the center of her pussy like dew. Her lips were puffy. Dark with blood flow. And wet—soaked.
“Look at this sweet fuckin’ thing. Leakin’ already, baby,” he whispered, almost like prayer, “She twitchin’. Can’t even wait her turn.”
He dragged one thumb through the slick, watching it glisten in the low light. Marigold whimpered. Her head dropped forward, face hot. She couldn’t meet his gaze if she tried—too undone already.
Stack leaned close, lips brushing her inner thigh, “You wet for me, pretty girl?”
She nodded. Weak.
“You creamy?” he asked, licking the crease slowly, “Mmm. You are.” He sucked on her inner thigh, hands spreading her wide, eyes locked on her dripping pussy like it held scripture. His voice rasped like sandpaper coated in syrup, “She openin’ up for me, sayin’ Stack come taste. Stack come break me off. Stack come ruin me slow.”
Marigold moaned. He didn’t touch her with his mouth yet. Just hovered. Breathed on her. Talked to it.
“Look at them lips. Soft little folds. All that pink under all that brown…fuck. That’s art. That’s heaven. I could tongue kiss you ‘til the sun burn out.”
He finally looked at her, eyes half-lidded, pupils dark, jaw flexing. His mouth glistened from the slick he’d smeared with his thumb across her skin. His hair was a little messy, that left side part falling forward now. His gold tooth flashed when he smirked.
“Don’t be scared,” he whispered, “You gon’ do just fine. I got you, girl.”
She trembled. He lowered again, hands gripping her ass like they belonged there, like he paid for them. He leaned in, lips parting, breath hot.
And when he finally licked—she nearly screamed.
He kissed her once. Just above the slit. Lips soft. Reverent. Then—One long lick. Thick tongue dragging slow and heavy up her folds like he was trying to taste her whole life. From her weeping entrance to the shy rise of her clit, Stack lapped like he was licking honey off his knuckles. Marigold gasped, full-body shiver rippling from her spine to her toes.
“Mmm.” Stack hummed.
Low. Deep. The sound vibrated right against her pussy like a second tongue.
He licked again, “Mmm.”
The hum came slower this time. A breath through his nose, an exhale through his throat, like he was worshipping. Like her pussy was something divine and he was singing to it.
Lick.
“Mmm.”
Every single stroke of his tongue left her wetter. Creamier. Shakier.
“Keep still,” he murmured against her folds, voice sticky and ruined, “You don’t run from what’s holy.”
Another lick. This one messier. Longer. His nose dragged through her curls, and his tongue stayed flat, savoring the way she leaked for him. Her thighs trembled.
“Mmm.”
Marigold moaned into the crook of her elbow, eyes glassy, face flushed. Her whole body was vibrating—hunger and fear and fire wrapped up in one trembling package of please don’t stop. She was slick down her thighs now. Her nipples stiffened so hard they ached. Her pussy pulsed and throbbed, twitching with each lick, each breath, each hum.
And then—he pulled back.
Stack sat up slow, like he was high off it. Eyes heavy-lidded. Lips glossy. Breath uneven. His big hand slid over his mouth but didn’t wipe anything away—he pressed that wet tongue to the corner of his mouth like he was tasting what lingered. He licked his lips, slow and wide, the kind of lick that started from the corner and dragged across—glossy, syrup-thick, leaving his lower lip shining. His tongue was big. Wide and full, pink and strong like it had been built to taste only pussy. It hung in the corner of his mouth for a moment, heavy with saliva, damn near dripping.
He looked wrecked.
“Fffuck, baby…” he breathed, sitting back on his heels, “Look at this. Just look.”
His hands slid to her ass, spreading her again. Tilting his head. His lip curled when he saw the fresh drip stringing from her slit to her inner thigh.
“She twitchin’. Look at that pretty lil hole flexin’ like she beggin’ me to come back.” He popped her ass once with a soft thud, “You missin’ me already?”
Another thump. Then a grip. Hard.
“Don’t run. You hear me?” His voice dropped to a ragged whisper. “You fuckin’ beautiful. Look at you. Back dimples, sweet fat lips, lil brown ring peekin’ out like a kiss. You made for this.”
She couldn’t answer. She was panting. Shaking. Her pussy so wet it squelched when she shifted slightly. Her elbows were trembling from holding herself up. Her chest was flushed, nipples taut, her mouth slack. She felt like she was outside herself—somewhere hovering, waiting to fall apart under his voice alone.
Stack stared like he was painting her in his mind.
His lip curled. He bit it. Grinned. Spanked her again just to watch the jiggle. His handprint bloomed hot and red across her ass. Then—He thumped her once more and sighed, eyes rolling back like a man on the edge.
“Go on,” he said, voice deep as thunder but velvet smooth, “Bend over the chaise.”
His tone changed.
Roleplay resumed.
Like he was the man in charge of breaking her in.
“Put them hands flat. Arch that back. Spread them legs. Don’t make me say it twice.”
She moved like a whisper. Silken, shy. The chaise groaned as she leaned over it, hands braced. Her thighs parted. Her pussy still slick. Still open. And Stack just stood behind her for a moment, rubbing his hand down his beard, that thick tongue peeking out again.
He wasn’t ready to stop admiring her. He smirked. Reached down. Spanked her again.
“Uh uh…” Stack rumbled, “Turn. I need them eyes.”
She started to move slow, hesitant, and that just made it sweeter. Hair wild again—those combs had long hit the floor—and her face, lawd…her face. Flushed and needy, trembling lip tucked between her teeth, lashes flutterin’ like she was scared to look too long or she’d come undone just off the eye contact.
Good.
He wanted her wrecked.
Marigold turned her head, just like he said. Cheek pressed to the chaise cushion, mouth parted, eyes locked on him like she ain’t even realize how desperate she looked. That moan-stuck expression. Pupils wide. Breath catching. Like he’d done laid her soul bare and she couldn’t gather it back fast enough.
Stack licked his lips again and sank down.
“I said legs wide,” he muttered, voice already thick, eyes dragging down her backside slow.
She parted them a little more.
He smirked.
“There she go.”
That fat little pussy was still leaking for him. All puffy and glistening, twitchin’ like it was waiting on him to come back and make it feel right. He leaned in. Didn’t rush it. Didn’t even breathe. Just let his nose brush her inner thigh first, lips ghosting the heat of her. She gasped. Tilted her head more. Neck long, soft and trembling.
And then—he dove in.
Thick tongue, open mouth, slurp first. Not no gentle lick. No soft taste. Stack feasted. Sucked the whole center of her into his mouth like he was tryna pull the moans straight from the source. His lips sealed around her like a man starvin’—chin buried in the crease, nose pressed firm against that brown ring while his tongue slid in deep, messy, wet.
“Mmmf,” he groaned, grinding his mouth into her, “Goddamn, baby…look at what you feedin’ me.”
He didn’t stop to let her speak. He wasn’t interested in words right now. Not hers. Just her moans. He dragged his tongue up again, wide and slow, then sucked her clit with a filthy, open-mouthed pop. She jerked. Thighs twitched.
“Ahn—Stack…” she whimpered, breath breaking.
“There she go,” he whispered, tongue flicking that button again, slow and heavy, lips swollen from how he’d been devouring, You hear yourself? That’s what this pussy need. Ain’t no prayer gon’ hush that.”
He kissed it. Like it was holy. Then licked it again. Long. Loud. Sloppy. Each lick came with sound—his moans, her gasps, the wet suction of his tongue against that creamy little hole. She was fuckin’ drippin’. Fat drops slid from her down to his beard and he let it coat him. Didn’t wipe a single drop.
He was talkin’ to it now. Real low. Filthy.
“You talk all that shit about sin,” he spoke against her folds, “and here you go…feedin’ a pimpin’ pussy so sweet. You should be ashamed, baby. That’s the Devil’s nectar, ain’t it?”
He kissed it again. Tongue swirling. He licked her open and watched the mess stick to his mouth like syrup.
“You moanin’ now instead of preachin’. Pussy preachin’ louder than you ever could.”
Marigold gasped. Her voice cracked—high, soft.
“Oh my goodness…ohhhh… Stack—please—”
He slurped.
Loud. Dirty. Intentional.
“Say it again,” he mumbled, licking right over her again and again, “Say my name like that. Don’t hold it in now. You already made the offering.”
Her face was a vision—eyes all glossy, lips glistening, jaw slack like her words got tangled up in sensation. She could barely keep her head up. Her body was trembling, her nipples stiff against the chaise, legs shaking from how wide he had her. She peeked at him through lashes, mouth still open, lower lip trembling like it didn’t know how to act.
He chuckled low.
“Look at you,” he whispered, “Look at me.”
She tried.
And what she saw?
His face drenched in her. Tongue peeking out again. Beard glistening. Eyes low and wild like a man mid-revival.
“I got you quiet now,” he said, licking her slow one more time, “That’s what you needed, huh? All that hollerin’ you was doin’? All that carryin’ on ‘bout righteousness?”
Spank.
“Let it go.”
Grip.
“Gon’ let Daddy rectify that shit.”
She whimpered. Her moans turned into pleas, head tilted like she ain’t had the strength no more to resist. Stack leaned in again. Mouth open, lips wrapped tight. He sucked. Sucked that clit until she squealed, until her hips tried to run, until her toes curled and she slapped the damn cushion.
“Stay still,” he growled.
Slap.
“Keep them legs open.”
Grip.
“Let me finish breakin’ you in.”
And then—he licked her again. Deeper. Sloppier. He groaned into it like her taste was a drug and he’d just hit the high.
And this time?
He didn’t stop.
She ain’t know what to do with herself. Still bent like a sinner in the pew when he grabbed her by the waist and flipped her over. Slow. Easy. The move made her tits bounce, her breath hitch, and that sweet lil’ gasp spill off her lips like a song she wasn’t ready to sing.
Now she was laid out.
Back on the chaise. Hair wild. Thighs open. That trembling, messy, perfect pussy glistening under the lamplight like a fresh anointing.
And Stack? He got low. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. Just hooked his hands behind her knees and pushed them up, spread her thighs wide until her heels balanced on the edge of the cushion. Pussy parted. Pouting. Still soaked from the last go.
He stared.
Smirked.
Then—
He feasted.
Tongue first. Flat. Firm. The first lick made her whole body jerk.
“Ahn—!”
Yeah. That’s what he wanted. He kissed it again, tongue deeper this time. Then again. Then again. Then he got mean with it—slurping, open-mouthed, noisy like he had no shame. Chin coated, lips soaked. He didn’t stop.
Not even when she tried to squirm.
Because now?
He could see her face.
And fuck, that face. Eyes wide and glassy, lips wet, parted in disbelief. Like she ain’t know whether to cry or cum. Every sound she made hit different now. No hiding in the crook of her elbow. No more pressed cheeks or shy gasps.
She had to feel it.
Had to watch it.
And that made her all the more wrecked. Her chest rose fast, her nipples hard, round tits bouncing slightly every time he sucked on that soft lil’ clit. His beard was slick with it now. Chin shining like he’d been baptized in her. Stack groaned low, tongue dipping again, mouth locking around her entrance with filthy precision.
And then—
He felt it.
That sweet little hand reaching out. Her fingers clawed into his scalp, tangled in the slick waves of his hair like she needed something to hold while she lost her mind.
That grip?
Whew.
That grip made his cock throb.
She was moaning now. Whimpering, whispering nonsense like she couldn’t even figure out what was happening to her body. Stack just kept working, tongue relentless, beard rubbing up against her like he was tryna rub the good girl off her skin.
And then he pulled back just a bit. Just enough to talk to it. He licked his lips slow and wide, left that bottom one shining again. Then leaned in so close her clit twitched from the heat of his breath.
“Say it,” he whispered, tongue flicking once, twice, licking the words into her. “Repeat after me, baby.”
She blinked. Lips trembled. Stack lifted his head just enough to look her dead in the eyes, still holding her thighs open wide.
“Say—Daddy eat this pussy up.”
She hesitated. Gasped.
Bit her lip.
“I—I…” Her voice was soft. Barely breath. “Daddy eat this…pussy up…”
That shy little whisper?
That did him in. He growled and went right back in. Lips locking tight. Tongue moving like he had something to prove now. Every flick, every slurp, every suck was rougher. Deeper. Slower. Purposeful.
She screamed.
“Stack! Oh my—Stack!”
Her hand fisted tighter in his hair and he let her pull. Let her grind. Let her moan till she sobbed, pussy squelching and shining with each new suck.
He came up for air once—just once—to whisper.
“Yeah you do. You need this. This what that sweet pussy been waitin’ on.”
And then he dove back in like he was tryna take her whole soul with his mouth.
She was done. Wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful.
And he wasn’t fuckin’ stopping.
She said it.
Whispered it like a secret.
Like a confession.
“Daddy eat this pussy up…”
He damn near came just hearing that come out her mouth.
Sweet. Shy. Sin-drunk.
“Yeah…” he growled against her folds, tongue sliding low, slow, deep, “You got damn right.”
Stack buried his face in her pussy like he planned to never come up again. Hands firm under her thighs, holding her wide, beard soaked, tongue moving like scripture on a Sunday mornin’.
But this?
This was filthy.
“Talkin’ to me now, huh?” he muttered right against her entrance, licking in slow, pulsing circles, “Mouth was runnin’ all that righteous shit and now look at you—slobberin’ all on my fuckin’ tongue.”
Marigold whimpered. Full-body shiver. Hips arched up like her pussy was trying to meet his mouth halfway.
“Nah, baby,” Stack chuckled, licking long and firm up her crease, “Lay back. I got you.”
Then he leaned in real close and did it—
He started talkin’ to the pussy. Low. Wet. Groaned like he was talkin’ to a woman he was tryna tame.
“There she go…lil twitchin’ thing. You like Daddy talkin’ to you, huh?” He slurped her clit like he was sucking mango juice from a split fruit, “That lil’ thump I feel? That heartbeat in this pussy? Mmm. She close.”
Stack flattened his tongue and dragged it up again. Her thighs shook. He licked her hard and slow, then sucked her clit deep between his lips with a pop that made her whole body spasm.
“Oh—oh my God—Stack—yesss—uhnnnnnn—”Her voice broke. One leg kicked. She was there.
He didn’t stop.
He locked on and kept goin’. Slurping. Sucking.
Worshipping.
He growled into her folds.
“C’mon then. Let it out. Don’t fight it. Let Daddy taste it.”
He licked in tighter circles now. Deep, rhythmic, slow-fast-slow again. Tongue drawing patterns like he was writing his fuckin’ name.
Her breath caught. Hips bucked. Hand still fisted in his hair, dragging, holding on like she was falling through the damn earth.
And then—
He spoke again.
“You gon’ cum for me, ain’t you? That lil’ pussy need it bad, huh? C’mon, mama. Let Daddy make her cry. Let me hear her talk back.”
Body curling, legs trembling, her pussy gushing against his mouth. That creamy release rushed out warm, thick, sweet, and he caught every fuckin’ drop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t let go.
He groaned like it fed him.
“Nnnhh…there she is,” he moaned into it, “That’s my good girl.”
He kissed her through it. Licked her clean. Sucked her clit until her thighs twitched again. Until she sobbed his name, broken and beautiful, body limp with relief and ruin.
And when he finally pulled back? His face was drenched. Beard glistening. Lips shining. Eyes dark. He licked his bottom lip slow, savoring it like honey.
“Taste like redemption,” he muttered, grinning crooked, “Told you I’d get that pussy.”
And she was still spread. Still trembling. Still breathless.
Half-lidded. Fucked-out. Blessed.
Stack wasn’t finished. Not even close. He stood. And the moment he did, her breath hitched.
Stack loomed above her, thick muscle and confidence wrapped in dark wool and sinful intent. And there it was—pressing against the front of his slacks like it had a pulse of its own. A thick, twitching outline that made her mouth go dry. She couldn’t stop staring. Her knees pressed together on reflex, thighs clenching tight like they could hush the throb blooming between them.
Then came his voice—low, teasing, so deep it seemed to vibrate inside her.
“You wanna free it, baby?”
Her eyes snapped up, wide and nervous. She didn’t answer at first. Just blinked. Like she didn’t know if he was serious. Like she didn’t trust herself to touch what was clearly dangerous.
“Hesitatin’?” he goaded, cocking a brow, “That don’t sound like a woman ready to get her guts rearranged.”
She bit her bottom lip. Hard.
And then…she nodded. Barely. But he caught it. He reached down, unfastening the top of his slacks, unzipping slow, and then stepped closer. He didn’t pull himself out—not yet.
“Do it,” he said, “You brought all this shy heat in here… now act like you want me.”
Her hand trembled as she lifted it, fingers brushing against the warm fabric of his briefs beneath. The heat coming off him was obscene. She could already feel the throb through the cotton. Her hand paused there—just resting—until he spoke again.
“Mmh… go ‘head. Bring me out.”
Swallowing hard, she slipped her fingers beneath the waistband and eased it down. It sprung out.
God.
Her whole face flushed hot. It was so much. Long and heavy and thick, the color deep and rich and angry-looking. Veins snaked the shaft like roots, pulsing just beneath the skin. It twitched in the air like it had a heartbeat—like it knew it was being looked at. Already slick at the tip, glistening.
She gasped. Actually gasped.
Stack just stood there biting his lip, watching her watch him like it was a damn show. His chest rose slow. Eyes hooded. Lips parted.
“Well?” he drawled, “You gon’ hold it or just stare like it’s the second coming?”
She reached for it.
Her fingers wrapped around him, and even that felt shocking. Heavy in her hand. Warm. Smooth but ridged. He hissed through his teeth the moment she gripped it, and her thighs squeezed tighter at the sound.
“Mmm,” he moaned, “Thaaaat’s it…How that feel, baby?”
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her mouth was parted, her breath uneven. She was too busy staring at how her hand barely wrapped around it. He reached for her other hand and slid it beneath. Brought it to his balls.
“Both hands,” he whispered, “Yeah…warm lil’ hands. You feel how heavy them nuts is? That’s full, baby. That’s a whole baptism waitin’ to happen.”
She whimpered. Actually whimpered.
Because the weight of it in her palms—the twitch of his length, the scent of skin and musk and heat—was too much. She started stroking, slow and unsure. He made a sound deep in his throat, head tipping back, hips shifting just enough to push into her grasp.
“You see how big it is?” he grunted, “You really think you ready for this in them holy holes of yours?”
She couldn’t speak. She just nodded again, helplessly. He took over then—guiding her stroke. Fisting himself with her hands still wrapped there. Making it glide slick and smooth between her palms. She watched as he played with his own tip, thumbing the slick bead leaking out. He brought it to her lips without a word. She opened her mouth without thinking. He smeared it across her tongue. Let her taste it. She blinked up at him—ashamed, stunned, starving. Stack smirked. His dimple carved deep like it knew what kind of devil he was.
Then he swung his length in her face.
Not playfully.
Like a warning.
Like a threat.
It slapped her cheek with a soft, wet smack, the weight of it making her shiver. She gasped again, frozen, lips parted.
“Stroke it,” he ordered, “Nice and slow.”
She did. She obeyed. And he just watched her, biting his lip again, his chest rising, his hand guiding hers, until his hips started to roll with it—gently at first, then a little deeper.
“You see what you do to me?” he asked, voice rasped, “Look how hard I get for you. You gon’ keep playin’ with it or you gon’ put it where it belong?”
Her breath hitched, “It’s…warm.”
He laughed. Quiet and rough, “Course it is. It’s waitin’ on you.”
She swallowed again. Her eyes trailed down. She already knew where it belonged. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she continued stroking him, his tip gliding in her hand, slick and messy. Her thighs wouldn’t stop clenching. She could feel her own slick now, sticky, heat pooling in her belly like something unholy.
And still—he kept watching.
Waiting.
Ready to ruin her.
“Nah,” he muttered, shaking his head slowly, eyes trailing down to her lips, “You ain’t ready for this in your mouth.”
The words hit her like a palm to the chest. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed. Ashamed. Aching. Her lips were parted, trembling a little. She didn’t even realize she’d started leaning forward, mouth open like she was gonna beg. But Stack saw it. Saw all of it.
“Look at you,” he spoke, voice low, amused, wrecked. “So hungry, and still ain’t earned your supper.”
She swallowed thickly, face burning. His dick bobbed in her hand—heavy, twitching, leaking like it was aware of every sinful thing passing between them. Her palm was slick from stroking him, fingers wet with that glossy mess from his tip.
“You still got work to do, baby. But I’ma show you.”
He slid a hand along his own length while she held it, guiding the pressure. He gripped the base and slapped the tip across her cheek again—wet, slow, a soft pap that made her flinch and whimper. It swayed afterward like it was alive, twitching with every beat of his heart. He stepped back, breathing heavy, and dropped into the nearby chaise like a man needing to sit. His thighs parted, one arm thrown over the back lazily while the other gestured for her to follow.
“C’mere. On your knees, right there.”
She crawled forward, still holding him. She felt delirious—like she’d been drugged by desire. Her whole body flushed, nipples tight, core pulsing, her pussy sticky from how worked up she was just from looking at it and the way he ate her up. He leaned back, eyes dark, and his lips gleamed with pussy juice and spit. Half-lidded now. Ravished.
“Pump it slow, baby. Like I showed you.”
She wrapped her hand back around him, and he hissed loud through his teeth.
“Thaaaat’s it. Mmm. Just like that…”
Her hand moved, gentle but firm, up and down. She watched how his length looked in her hand—too big, too thick, veiny and proud and angry-looking. The tip had a deep flush, and it kept drooling like it couldn’t hold back. His skin was satin-warm, but there was a steel weight underneath. Her hand trembled as she stroked—her thumb catching the sensitive underside every time she came up.
“Good girl. That’s how you stroke me.”
Then he started talking filthy.
“Mmm, you feel that weight? That’s a whole Sunday’s worth of sin sittin’ in your hand right now. You strokein’ it like a good little convert…You tryna be saved by the stick, huh?”
Her throat tightened. Her breath came faster.
“Mmph—ahhh…fuuuuck…” His moan broke loose like it slipped past his teeth on accident. Long. Raw. Guttural,“Hhhahhhh—shhhhit…” He bit his bottom lip hard, nostrils flaring. His hips flexed once. His abs tightened. He growled something deep and Southern under his breath, voice low and rough, “Just like that, baby… fuuuuck, yeah…”
She could hear how wet the sounds were now—her hand moving through all that slickness. The mess was obscene. His tip kept swelling, his balls drawn tight now in her other hand. He pulsed so violently in her grip it made her tremble.
“Faster now. That’s it—tighten that grip. Lemme fuck your fist for a second—mmmghh—fuck.” He threw his head back, “Nnnngh—shit. That’s it. That’s it. Keep goin’. Don’t stop now, girl—fuck—”
The sound of her name half-escaped his mouth but died on a moan so raw it made her thighs clench again. His voice cracked with it. Her name had turned into just a sound:
“Mmm—Marigo—fuck—gold—uhhhhhh…”
She’d never heard a man sound like this. Like he was unraveling at the seams. He started breathing through his teeth, fast and sharp. His thighs tensed, the muscles twitching. His chest lifted and fell with every stroke of her hand. Sweat gathered at his collarbone. His lips parted, and he looked down at her like he was ruined.
“You gon’ make me cum, baby…You gon’ make me spill all this in them pretty hands…You gon’ keep pumpin’ like a good girl, or you gon’ stop now and disobey?”
Her hands didn’t stop. Her mouth opened in a shaky gasp. She wanted it. Wanted to see what he looked like when he let go for her.
And she was about to find out.
It happened fast.
One moment, she was stroking him like he taught her—watching the way his body tensed, listening to the filthy praises falling from his lips like gospel—and the next, his whole frame snapped.
He gripped the back of the chaise like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth, his arms stretching wide, every muscle flexing like a cord drawn taut. His back arched. Hips jolted. His thighs trembled as he spilled with a broken, desperate groan.
“UHHHH—shhhhit—Marigold—fuck, baby girl—”
She gasped.
Her hand flew to her mouth in pure, wide-eyed shock. It was spurting. Thick and hot. Rope after rope spilling over her fist and wrist. Her skin was painted in it. The first shot startled her—it hit her thumb, thick and sticky. The next slid down between her fingers, warm like molten honey. The way it pulsed out of him, kept pulsing…it was unreal. Her hand never stopped moving, instinctively now, as if guided by his need.
He was twitching. Moaning through it. Loud.
Not quiet grunts, not polite sounds.
“Ahhh—ahhhnn—fuckfuckfuck—mmmghhh—look what you do to me…you see this mess you made?”
His head tipped back. Then it dropped forward again as if the weight of release was too much. His eyes squeezed shut. His brow wrinkled in the middle, lips falling open in a moan so raw it sounded like prayer. He was panting. Rattled. Ripped apart.
She had never seen a man come before.
Not like this.
She’d heard whispered things from the church wives, veiled confessions in kitchens and back pews. But nothing prepared her for this. The way his body moved…the tremble of his thighs, the way his abs clenched, the way his dick jerked in her slick palm, spurting more than she thought possible. The veins down his shaft bulged. His tip flushed nearly purple. It just…kept coming.
She was soaked in him.
His moans…
They weren’t just noises.
They were unholy.
“Uhhhhhh—mmmhh, shit—so warm—that’s it, that’s it—you made me bust like that…like a nasty fuckin’ addict. You feel that mess? That’s from you, girl. Thinkin’ ‘bout that sweet lil’ mouth. That tight lil’ hole. You did that to me…”
She was shaking.
Knees pressing together, breath ragged. Her heart thumped like a drum in a revival tent. Her thighs were soaked now—not with him, but with herself. She was leaking, pulsing around nothing. Vibrating from the inside out.
She kept staring at her hand.
It was coated.
Sticky, messy, oozing down her palm and wrist in strands. Creamy and warm. Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t dare move.
Stack opened his eyes.
They were wrecked. Heavy-lidded. Glazed over like he was still coming down. His voice was hoarse but deep when he spoke again.
“You wanna taste?”
Her eyes jerked up to his. She froze.
She didn’t answer.
“Go on. Just a lil’ taste. You earned it.”
She looked back down. Swallowed hard. The heat between her legs pulsed again. Her face was burning. But her hand lifted.
Slow.
Uncertain.
She brought two fingers to her mouth, lips trembling. Her tongue darted out… just a flick. Just enough to sample what was still slick and warm on her skin.
The taste was…startling.
Raw. Salty. Heavy. Not sweet, not bitter—just masculine. Musky. Like the scent of his skin, but deeper. Something earthy and thick. Her eyes fluttered closed for a split second as she took it in.
Stack was watching her.
His mouth twitched into a slow, sinful smirk.
“Mmm…taste good? That’s that stuff that fill your lil’ hole up like a cream fillin’. That’s what you make me do when I think ‘bout you. When I picture you sittin’ on that church bench all high and mighty. That tight dress. That mouth runnin’. You know what I wanna do?” He leaned forward now, breathing still uneven, “I wanna stuff that mouth full so you hum when you pray. Wanna bust again in that sweet lil’ pussy. Feel it spill deep inside. Warm you up from the inside out. Don’t worry… you gon’ feel it soon. In your mouth. In that holy lil’ puss.”
She whimpered. Her thighs squeezed together again. Her stomach turned in knots. She was damn near vibrating—with shock, with shame, with overwhelming desire.
She wanted it.
Wanted him.
All of it.
Even the parts that made her feel like she’d never be clean again. She licked her fingers again—slower this time.
And Stack groaned.
Low. Long. Possessive.
The robe slid soft over her shoulders.
Stack’s fingers tucked it closed with care. One hand lingered at her waist while the other rose to cradle her cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Marigold was still trembling a little—body flushed and spent, lips kiss-worn, thighs sticky with arousal and ache.
“You did good f’me tonight,” Stack spoke softly, voice low and warm against the curve of her jaw, “Better than good. You was beautiful.”
She swallowed hard. Couldn’t quite look him in the eye yet.
Stack’s lips brushed her temple, “I know that was a lot. Intense. But you made it through. And you gon’ keep makin’ it through.”
A beat.
“Long as you listen.”
Marigold nodded, shy. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Stack kissed her there—soft and slow—before pulling back and adjusting the robe again like she was something precious. Then he ran a hand down her back, giving her a little pat on the behind.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He opened the door.
And there she was.
Mirabel.
Perched near the end of the hallway, leaning casual against the wall like she’d been waiting to catch him. The lighting cast her face in partial shadow, but not enough to hide the spark of jealousy in her eyes. Her gaze dropped to Marigold—robe-wrapped, cheeks flushed, collarbone still damp with sweat—and then it snapped back to Stack.
She smiled. Tight. Slow.
“Evenin’, Stack,” she said cool, but her eyes were daggers.
“Evenin’,” Stack tossed back just as calm, guiding Marigold past with his hand firm at her waist. He didn’t stop walking. Marigold’s heart pounded harder as they passed, but Stack just leaned down toward her ear once they were beyond reach.
“She mad,” he whispered with a smirk, “Let her be.”
The bathroom was one the girls used—a big space with soft yellow light, lace curtains, and a clawfoot tub full of steaming water already drawn and waiting. Someone must’ve prepared it during the performance. Maybe Cordelia. Maybe Peaches. Stack guided her to the edge of the tub and helped untie her robe, laying it across the bench before helping her in like she was something breakable. The warm water hit her skin, and she gasped softly. Stack knelt beside the tub, sleeves rolled, one hand lazily skimming the water near her knee.
“I’m gon’ keep takin’ care of you,” he said softly, “Long as you let me.”
Marigold blinked at him, still trying to find footing in her own body. He picked up the soap and a washcloth, worked up a gentle lather, and began to clean her—slow and thorough. Between her breasts. Under her arms. Between her thighs. He never rushed. His hands were skilled, but his touch was almost devotional. And then, just as he was wringing out the cloth, he spoke again.
“You goin’ to church tomorrow?”
She nodded.
Stack leaned in closer. His voice dropped like honey over fire, “Then go with your collar loose.”
Her brows knit.
“No gloves, neither.”
“But—”
“Uh-uh,” he cut in softly, “You wanna wear them stockings, fine. But leave that stiff little jacket off. Let ‘em see you. Let ‘em see that skin glowin’.”
She looked down into the water, heat creeping up her throat. Stack grinned, brushing a kiss to her shoulder.
“Let it be known you ain’t hidin’ no more. Not from me. Not from them. Not from yourself.”
A pause.
“Wear somethin’ with some movement,” he added, “Somethin’ that feel good on your skin. Not just somethin’ to be good in.”
Marigold stared into the rippling water, the heat curling between her ribs and down between her legs all over again.
Stack stood and wiped his hands, “I’ll see you in a couple days. Finish soakin’”
He left her with that—wet, warm, soaking in his scent and his commandments, her fingers brushing the steam off her thighs and her heart pounding like a hymn.
The bathwater had gone lukewarm.
Marigold sat still in it, her knees tucked close now, the steam gone but the heat still lingering—beneath her skin, between her legs, in the deep places where Stack’s voice still echoed like a pulse. She didn’t even realize he’d returned to the doorway until she heard the gentle click of the door shutting again. He carried a fresh towel, big, soft, still warm from the line, and he knelt beside the tub without a word.
“Come on, sugar,” he said gently, “Let me get you out this water.”
She stood, legs wobbly, heart even worse. The air felt too cool against her flushed skin. Stack didn’t leer. Didn’t smirk. He just wrapped her up and held her there for a moment, hands rubbing slow over her back, the towel soaking in the water beading off her thighs.
“Still tremblin’,” he murmured, “You somethin’ else.”
He dried her in silence—slow, sure strokes. No rush. No shame. He was still half-drunk, but his hands were steady now. Every time she flinched or tried to cover herself, he just shook his head and pulled her hands away.
“You got no reason to hide from me, Miss Goldie.”
Once she was dry, he crossed the room and returned with the same church clothes she’d arrived in—folded neat, the little pearl buttons glinting in the bathroom light.
“Put your arms up,” he said.
She did. Stack dressed her like she was a doll—patient, careful, brushing her curls back from her face once he was done, fastening the buttons she was too dazed to handle herself. He stepped back to look at her once it was all done, nodding slow with his arms crossed like he was admiring something he built with his own two hands.
“You came in lookin’ like the preacher’s wife.” His smile deepened, “Now you look like mine.”
She didn’t know what to say. So she didn’t say anything.
He held out his hand. She took it.
The walk to the kitchen was quiet. The Blackline had quieted some, the pulse of the music fading into background laughter and the clink of glasses being washed. Late-night was creeping in now. But there was still that magic in the air, that slow drag of honeyed sin and soft perfume. Aunt Pearl stood at the big wooden counter, wiping down mugs. Stack kissed her on the cheek.
“Need a favor, Auntie.”
Pearl glanced between them—between Marigold’s glassy eyes and Stack’s possessive hand at the small of her back—and smiled slow.
“Let me guess. She need a ride?”
“If you don’t mind takin’ her home the long way, quiet-like. Don’t want no preacher poppin’ up with holy water at the back door.”
Pearl smirked, “Ain’t no problem, baby.”
Stack turned to Marigold and took her face in both hands. His thumb stroked just under her lip.
“I got some things comin’ up later in the week,” he spoke, close enough that she felt the rum still warm on his breath, “My lil cousin Sammie comin’ in town from Clarksdale. Throwin’ a lil event here for him. Lot to plan.”
She nodded, trying not to show the disappointment that fluttered through her chest.
“But I can’t wait to see you again.”
He kissed her. Tongue slow, soft, just enough to make her knees buckle again. Just enough to make her whimper and press closer.
He broke it with a soft growl and a smile.
“I’ll have Auntie come get you next time. Make it easy. Safe. That alright?”
She nodded again, more grateful than she could say, “Yes, thank you.”
“Good girl.” He kissed her one more time. Slower this time. Possessive. Sweet, “Get home safe.”
She was still floating when Pearl led her out the back. Still tasting him on her lips. Still flushed beneath her clothes. The robe, the bathwater, the whisper of his mouth between her thighs—every part of it clung to her like perfume. She stepped out into the cool night air with a full moon overhead and a feeling she couldn’t name blooming wild behind her ribs.
She had just been claimed. And she didn’t know what would come next…but she knew she wanted more.
The road was quiet at that hour. Streetlamps cast long amber streaks across the windshield of Aunt Pearl’s old Ford, the soft rattle of the engine humming beneath them like a low lullaby. Marigold sat in the passenger seat wrapped in her robe and freshly buttoned-up clothes, thighs still tingling beneath the hem of her skirt, fingers nervously fidgeting in her lap. The scent of cinnamon oil and sweet tobacco clung to the air—Aunt Pearl’s scent. It felt like a balm. For a while, neither of them spoke. The tires hummed beneath them. Houses passed like slow-moving ghosts.
Then Pearl said softly, without even looking, “You alright, baby?”
Marigold blinked. “I…I think so.”
A pause.
Pearl’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, knuckles catching the orange glow of the dashboard, “First time a man look at you like you ain’t never been seen before… whew. That’ll rock your world.”
Marigold’s face flushed, but she smiled. She turned to the window, a quiet laugh caught behind her hand. Pearl gave her a look from the corner of her eye.
“Don’t be shy with me. I know that look. Your lips all bitten, eyes got that glossy glaze to ‘em, cheeks hot as the back of a cast iron stove.”
Marigold let out a bashful giggle.
Pearl softened.
“Let me tell you somethin’, baby girl. I was married once. Long time ago. Thought I had it all. A husband who wore a suit to church and shined his shoes every Sunday. But you know what else he did?”
Marigold glanced over, brows lifting.
“He made me feel small. Like I was too much and not enough all at the same time. Said my laugh was too loud. My hips too wide. My needs…‘unholy.’”
Pearl gave a scoff that turned into a hum.
“Let that man convince me I was a sin for wantin’ to be touched soft. For wantin’ more. Took me years to shake that lie off.” She looked over now, her eyes steady on Marigold’s, “So let me be clear with you, sugar. You a woman. You got blood in your veins and fire in your belly. Don’t you ever let anybody—preacher or not—make you feel bad for wantin’ to be seen, touched, loved. That don’t make you sinful. That makes you alive.”
Marigold’s eyes stung, her throat catching with something deeper than gratitude. She reached across the seat and took Pearl’s hand, squeezing it tight.
Pearl gave her a wink.
“And while you at it…get that head, let him spoil you, and have yourself a time, baby!”
Marigold burst into laughter, covering her face, shoulders shaking, her heart suddenly light. The car slowed at the curb outside her home. The laughter faded. The quiet crept back in. Marigold stepped out of the car slowly. The night air was still warm, but it carried a different weight now. A solemn hush. The kind that curled around old houses and old habits.
She leaned in the window before Pearl could drive off and whispered, “Thank you.”
Pearl nodded, “Go on, Sister Goldie. Be soft with yourself.”
With one final squeeze of her hand, Pearl drove off into the dark, her red taillights disappearing like slow-dragging fireflies into the quiet night.
Marigold turned to face her house.
The porch was dark. The windows stared back like judgmental eyes. She stepped onto the walkway, every footfall heavy. Each one peeling a layer off. The robe felt tighter now. Her dress stiff. As the front door opened and she stepped inside, the warmth of The Blackline seemed to slip right off her skin. Her church clothes became a yoke again. The buttons became a seal.
Goldie slipped away…and Sister Marigold Baptiste took her place once more. The silence inside her home wasn’t gentle. It was cold and holy and hollow. She walked past the mirror in the hall without looking. Somewhere in the quiet, in the hush between then and now, a line was typed on paper—faint, soft, but resolute.
He didn’t save me. He saw me. And that was enough…
Thursday Morning—Loosened
Marigold stood barefoot on the worn floorboards of her bedroom, toes curling against the rug, a slip clinging to her skin like a hush. The morning sun spilled through the lace curtains in fractured gold, catching dust and memory in its beams. The house was still. Too still. She stood in front of her wardrobe, staring. Her usual church uniforms hung in a neat row—high collars, long sleeves, skirts that swept to the ankle, gloves folded into little nests in their matching hats. Obadiah liked her polished. Liked her dressed like the wife of a man of God should be.
Stiff. Lacquered in piety. Unreachable.
Her fingers drifted toward her usual dress—the navy one with the pearl buttons. But they stopped.
Go to church tomorrow with your collar loose.
Don’t wear gloves.
Stack’s voice, still hoarse with liquor and lust, wrapped around her spine like a binding spell.
She exhaled. Slowly. Deeply.
Her thighs still trembled with aftershocks. Her hips ached faintly from how wide he’d spread her. Her pussy twitched at the memory of his mouth—hot, open, devouring. The sound he made when he came. That growl. That filthy, guttural praise as he spilled thick and heavy into her hand. She stared at her palm like it had been marked. It wasn’t just the touch. It was the way he made her feel—worshipped and ruined at the same time. Her lips parted, breath catching. She squeezed her legs together. She still couldn’t believe she had let that man—that gangster—do all that to her. That she had gasped, moaned, begged for more. She, Sister Marigold Baptiste, had opened her legs for Elias Moore and nearly drowned in her own pleasure.
What am I becoming?
The robe slipped off her shoulders. She caught her reflection in the full-length mirror.
Skin flushed. Nipples still taut.
She never thought about sex. Never allowed herself to. Not like this. Obadiah had never undressed her slowly. Never kissed her thighs. Never praised her wetness. Never even called her pretty during the act. Sex was a duty. A quiet, rushed thing. A groan in the dark. He barely removed his shirt. She had seen his penis—briefly. Small, and already soft when he rolled off of her. She had never felt a man hard in her hands. Had never stroked one.
And then Stack…
Lord.
The weight of it. The way it twitched, leaked, pulsed. Veiny. Warm. So long she couldn’t close her fingers around it fully. So thick she had no idea how it would fit inside her. She could still feel it against her stomach, taste the salt of it on her lip from when she brought her fingers to her tongue to taste.
She trembled.
Her heart beat between her legs.
She reached for a blouse. One without the stiff high collar. She left the top few buttons undone. Her neckline open just enough for a breeze. Just enough to feel free.
No gloves.
Her hands were bare. Feminine. Exposed. She pinned her hair up soft instead of slicked back tight. Let a few curls hang. Her lips looked fuller today. Her cheeks glowed. When she looked in the mirror this time…
She saw her.
Goldie.
Not fully, but there. Blooming beneath the layers of shame and satin. Marigold touched the edge of her blouse, breathing deep.
Was it wrong? To feel this good?
Was it unholy to want?
She didn’t have the answer. But her body had already made the choice. She closed her eyes for a moment and whispered a quiet prayer—half apology, half thanks.Then she stepped into her shoes and walked toward the door.
One button looser than she used to.
No gloves.
The church was near-empty. Sunlight filtered through the high windows in dusty shafts, slanting across wooden pews and catching on the glint of polished brass. It was the middle of the week—too quiet for comfort, too sacred for secrets. Marigold stepped inside, her gloves absent, collar loose at the throat. She hadn’t dared to add rouge, but her skin still held that post-bath glow, a hush of warmth left behind by hands that had no business touching her. The heels of her shoes clicked against the worn tile floor as she made her way past the vestibule.
“Sister Baptiste,” came a voice—crisp, sweet, and dipped in Southern varnish. She turned to see Sister Bernadine rising from a side pew, wiping her palms down the front of her skirt, “You just missed Reverend Obadiah. He arrived early this morning, before sun-up. Said he wanted to have a word with you after his meeting.” Bernadine gave her a curious glance, “Said to tell you personally.”
Marigold’s heart stuttered. A small, polite smile curled on her lips, “Of course. Thank you, Sister.”
She turned toward his office, trying to still her breath.
He knows.
He had to.
The door was slightly ajar, just enough for sound to bleed through.
“…it’s already begun,” a deep male voice was saying.
Another voice: “The signs are here, same as the others.”
Marigold’s hand paused on the door. Her stomach turned, bile rising to her tongue. She knocked once, just hard enough to interrupt.
Obadiah called, “Come.”
She entered. The room smelled of sandalwood, ink, and something like musty linen. Four men were present— Deacon Braith, Deacon Ellison, Deacon Ross, and Deacon Wells. Their eyes flicked toward her without warmth. On Obadiah’s desk lay an aged black book with a cracked leather spine. Its pages were stained in sepia and shadow, the title embossed faintly in gold. The Book of Pruning. The deacons excused themselves with short nods, brushing past her like a chilling fog. Obadiah did not move. He watched her with his chin propped on one hand, fingers tapping at his mouth.
When the door clicked shut behind the last man, he rose.
“Marigold.” His voice was smooth, but cool, “Come sit.”
She obeyed.
“You’ve had a busy week, I assume?”
She nodded gently, folding her hands in her lap, “Yes, Reverend. I’ve made sure the Wednesday scripture pamphlets were printed and the children’s corner in the chapel was dusted—”
He cut her off, “I wasn’t asking about pamphlets.”
She stiffened.
“I’ve been made aware of a few matters during my absence,” he continued, walking slowly around the desk, eyes never leaving her, “Namely, Evangeline. Her mother and father came to me concerned. Said she’s been slipping in her study, missing youth devotion. Said she’s…distracted.”
Marigold’s throat dried.
“You were entrusted to oversee the young women’s ministry,” he said, now standing just beside her, “It is your duty, as First Lady, to guard their gates. Their minds. Their bodies.”
“Yes, Reverend,” she murmured.
“Tell me, why wasn’t your focus where it should’ve been?”
She opened her mouth—to lie, maybe. To give some excuse. But nothing came out. Just the sound of her own guilt, ticking like a metronome inside her skull. Obadiah turned his back briefly, adjusted the placement of a hymn book on the shelf. Then, as if it were an afterthought, said:
“You won’t be attending the leadership banquet tomorrow.”
Marigold blinked. “But Obadi—Reverend…the event was reserved for First Ladies—”
“It is,” he said, without turning.
Her voice dropped. “Then why—?”
“I’ve extended the invitation to Sister Lillian instead.”
The name cut like glass.
Obadiah turned slowly now, walking back toward her, gaze sharp, “Because your attention is better spent here, at this church. On the youth. On prayer. On watching.” He leaned closer, voice almost tender, “You do believe in purity…don’t you?”
Marigold nodded, but her throat burned. Her blouse collar felt suddenly too loose, like a noose hanging slack. Obadiah’s fingers reached forward, too soft, and buttoned the top of her blouse himself. His thumb brushed the hollow of her throat. She flinched.
“You rushed from your bed, I imagine?” he asked quietly, “You’re exposed. Immodest.”
She dropped her gaze.
He let out a slow breath, “I’ll let it pass. You’re tired. But we must be careful with tiredness, Marigold. The devil moves fastest through women who are weary.”
His words hung heavy.
And yet, underneath his cold poise, she could see something twitching beneath the surface. A restlessness in the way he adjusted his cuffs. A fire behind his eyes. He was looking at her too long. His nostrils flared slightly, as though searching for scent. She felt like an open book. One he was preparing to underline in red.
“I’ll pray for your clarity,” he said.
Marigold stood heart racing, “Yes, Reverend.”
She left the office with her head down, but her fists clenched. Something inside her was beginning to burn. And far behind her, unseen, Obadiah reached back and laid a hand on The Book of Pruning. His fingers tightened.
The porch creaked beneath Marigold’s heels.
Afternoon light lay heavy across the crooked planks, and the rusted screen door swayed just slightly with the breeze. Paint peeled from the siding in long, flaking strips, and a row of flower pots sat cracked and bone-dry along the railing. The yard hadn’t been trimmed in weeks. She adjusted her gloves, hesitated, then knocked. It was Ruth Monroe who answered—thin-lipped and graying, her face drawn tight like the line of her apron. A streak of flour dusted her cheek, and her hands were stiff with age and labor. She blinked once, slowly, before recognition set in.
“First Lady Baptiste,” she said, voice clipped, “Didn’t expect no company.”
“I was hopin’ to speak with Evangeline, if she’s home.”
Ruth’s eyes flicked down the road before settling back on Marigold. A pause. Then a stiff nod, “She in her room. Supposed to be readin’ scripture. I won’t stop you.”
The house was dim and quiet. The smell of old starch and yesterday’s cooking clung to the air. Crosses lined the hallway—some metal, some wood, one with a cracked porcelain Jesus. Marigold’s shoes made soft taps on the floor as she passed.
Ruth didn’t follow.
Evangeline’s door was cracked just enough to let the breeze curl in from the open window. Lace curtains danced slow, and somewhere beyond, a mockingbird sang. The scent of faint smoke lingered, tucked behind the sweetness of youth and dust. Marigold knocked gently before pushing the door open. Evangeline sat on the floor, cross-legged, in a faded cotton slip. Her Bible was open in her lap—but a carved-out hollow in the center held a pouch of weed. Her eyes were sharp as glass when she looked up, wide-set and dark like stormwater.
She didn’t rise.
“Didn’t know we had surprise inspections now,” she said dryly.
Marigold stepped inside, softening her voice, “Ain’t here to scold. Just checkin’ on you.”
Evangeline leaned back against the wall, “Sure you are.”
Marigold’s gaze drifted to the bruise on the girl’s arm. Faint, blooming purple beneath warm brown skin. It looked like a grip. Marigold said nothing, but the chill moved through her.
“You’ve been missed,” she offered, “The studies ain’t the same.”
“They never were,” Evangeline said, “Naomi knew that. That’s why she left.”
Marigold stiffened, “You’ve spoken to her?”
Evangeline tilted her head, “Maybe I have. Maybe I ain’t. What difference it make?”
There was something older than eighteen in her tone. A tiredness that hadn’t been earned fairly.
“You should come back,” Marigold said, “Even if it’s just to talk.”
Evangeline smiled bitter, “Talk to who? The sisters who whisper about my skirt length? Or the elders who think weed’s worse than bein’ touched up by your own blood?”
Marigold’s stomach twisted, “That bruise—”
“Don’t worry yourself.”
“I am worried.”
Evangeline held her gaze a second longer, then looked out the window.
“I don’t need pity,” she said, “You ain’t gotta pretend.”
“I’m not pretending. I just…I want to help.”
The silence between them crackled.
Finally, Marigold said, quieter, “If you ever need to talk—my door’s open. You know where I stay.”
She turned to go.
“Hey,” Evangeline called out.
Marigold paused.
“Tell the church ladies I’m doin’ just fine,” she said with a crooked smile, “Tell Obadiah too.”
Marigold nodded, but her heart felt like glass cracking. She stepped back into the hallway, past the stiff furniture and the quiet disapproval in Ruth’s eyes.
Door on the knob, Ruth’s voice cut through.
“Tea?”
The teacups trembled slightly in their saucers as Ruth returned with the tray. She set it down on the table with care, though her hands betrayed her—fingers stiff, nerves frayed at the edges.
“Chamomile,” she said quietly, “Calms the heart.”
Marigold nodded, her hands folded politely in her lap. “Thank you, Sister Ruth.”
They sat across from each other, the tea untouched at first. Ruth stared into her cup as if it held answers she didn’t want to name.
“I worry ‘bout my baby,” she said finally, voice catching in her throat.
Marigold glanced toward the hall, “She’s still young. Young women…they test boundaries.”
Ruth’s hand came to her mouth, “Last week, I caught her with a boy. In her room. Pants down. The devil in both their eyes. I—I ain’t never seen her like that.” Her voice broke, “I raised her better.”
Marigold’s expression softened. She reached into her purse and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, embroidered with a tiny cross in the corner. She placed it gently in Ruth’s hand.
Ruth took it with a whispered thank-you, dabbing her eyes, “I told her daddy. He ain’t say nothin’. Just got quiet. That quiet he get when he ready to act.”
Marigold’s brows lifted, concern blooming, “He put his hands on her?”
Ruth didn’t answer directly. She looked away, swallowing hard, “He say he takin’ it to Obadiah. That’s what he said. Said the church gon’ fix her.”
The words sank into the room like wet cement. Marigold kept her posture composed, but her knuckles were white around the teacup.
“I’ve tried, Sister Marigold. God knows I have. I’ve prayed. Fasted. Tried to bring her back to the Word. She used to be so close with Naomi. I don’t know what changed.”
The shift in Ruth’s voice was subtle, but sharp. A buried grudge resurfacing.
Marigold straightened, “Naomi was a good girl. Spirited, yes. But kind. And smart.”
Ruth’s mouth tightened, “Spirited is one word for it. Wild’s another.”
Marigold blinked, the sting immediate.
Ruth sipped her tea, then sighed, “I’m sorry, but…Naomi was already walkin’ a dangerous path when she left. And your sister—Esther—Lord knows she had her own darkness to wrestle with. That blood runs hot, Sister Marigold. Always has. And now my child’s caught up in it.”
Marigold rose from her chair slowly, “That blood is my blood, Sister Ruth.”
Ruth flinched, but didn’t apologize.
Marigold’s voice was quiet but firm, “Esther may be in a home now, but she is still my sister. And Naomi is still my niece. She stayed with me after everything. When no one else would take her in.”
“She ran off again, didn’t she?” Ruth asked, “Left you, too.”
“That’s between me and God,” Marigold said.
A beat passed. Ruth’s expression faltered.
“I–I’m sorry,” she stuttered. “I—I’m just scared, is all.”
Marigold nodded, brushing invisible dust from her gloves, “We all are.” She reached for her purse and paused before leaving, “If Evangeline ever wants to talk…she can come to my home. No judgments. No rules.”
Ruth looked up, eyes shining, “Thank you.”
With a polite nod, Marigold turned to go, her shoes tapping lightly against the wood floor. But something about her posture had changed—shoulders set a little firmer, gaze a little deeper. She was beginning to see it now. The cracks. The blame. The way righteousness could be twisted into something cruel.
The hallway is dim, lit only by the last stretch of sunlight clawing its way through the lace curtains. Shadows stretch across the walls like reaching fingers. A faint tick-tick of the old clock chimes from the mantel in the front parlor, counting down a moment she’s already decided on. Evangeline moves quietly, barefoot on the worn wood floors. Her room door closes behind her with a soundless pull. She’s changed out of her at-home dress into something a little looser, a little freer—soft cotton skirt, button-up shirt tied at the waist, and a pair of borrowed saddle shoes. Lips glossed. Hair fluffed. Her eyes flicker like they’ve been holding back a storm.
She steps carefully past the kitchen doorway.
Inside, Ruth Monroe, hunched at the table, her back to her daughter, a teacup forgotten in her hand. She’s holding something in her other hand—a photograph. The edges are curled from years of drawer dust and sunlight. The image: a toddler in frilly white socks with a wide, gummy smile. Baby Evangeline. Ruth stares at it, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Evangeline stops in the hallway—just for a breath. Her eyes soften, guilt threatening to root her feet in place. But she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t step in.
She moves on.
Out the back and into night fall.
The screen door creaks, the sound swallowed by the rising hum of crickets and distant dogs barking in the dark. The porch light flickers once, then steadies. Down the gravel driveway, headlights flash twice.
A car waits at the corner.
Behind the wheel is a broad-shouldered boy with slicked-back hair and a look that says he knows how to lie for fun. In the passenger seat is a girl, maybe twenty, sharp-lined eyeliner and bubblegum lips, smacking gum with the window half-down. She waves Evangeline over like she owns the night. Evangeline grins—crooked, excited, a little scared—and runs. She climbs into the back seat, sliding in with practiced ease, the leather hot against her thighs.
The girl up front twists in her seat, “Took you long enough.”
“Had a visitor,” Evangeline says, breathless.
“You good?”
“Always.”
The car rolls forward slow at first, wheels crunching gravel as it pulls away from the Monroe house. In the rearview mirror, Evangeline sees the porch light still on. Her mother still inside. Her past still burning quietly behind her. Then the car turns the corner. The house disappears. The road stretches on. The music comes up low and dirty—something bluesy and grown. And Evangeline leans back, wind slipping through the open window, eyes wide and wild with the freedom of a girl who knows the night belongs to her.
The back office of The Blackline was dim-lit, heavy with cigar smoke and the faint sound of Ella Fitzgerald humming low from the gramophone in the corner. Stack stood by the mirror, brushing the dust from his shoulders, a half-buttoned shirt hanging open over his chest. His gold toothpick glinted as he adjusted the tilt of his fedora. Behind him, Smoke sat in the old leather chair, one leg draped over the other, wrist resting on his knee. He looked tired. The kind of tired that clung behind the eyes even when the body sat still. His undershirt was damp with the heat of the day and he was nursing the stub of a cigar that had long gone out.
Stack caught his twin’s reflection.
“You look like you been rode hard and put up crooked,” he muttered with a grin.
Smoke smirked, slow, “Ain’t slept much.”
Stack glanced over, “Everything straight?”
Smoke nodded once, eyes sharp even in fatigue, “Goods came in this morning. Delia counted it out. Runners are loading the dry cellar now. I’ll handle the rest ‘fore sundown.”
A beat passed.
Then Smoke added, like an afterthought, “Thank God for Aunt Pearl and Minnie. They been holdin’ it down.”
Stack caught that—the weight in his voice. But he didn’t press. Not yet. Instead, he moved to the small liquor cart and poured himself a splash of bourbon.
Stack chuckled, “Feels like yesterday he was cryin’ ‘cause we wouldn’t let him hold the shotgun.”
Smoke’s mouth twitched. Then, like a shift in the wind, he asked, “You been seein’ her lately, huh?”
Stack’s hand stilled on the glass, “Who?”
“Don’t play dumb wit’ me.” Smoke tilted his head, “That preacher’s wife.”
Stack leaned back on the desk, licking the bourbon from his bottom lip. His face didn’t give much away—but his voice softened, “Names Marigold.”
Smoke raised a brow, “You helpin’ her or huntin’ her?”
Stack gave a long pause. Then said, “She don’t even know what she is, man.”
Smoke narrowed his eyes slightly, waiting.
“All her life she been told she was a lamb. Quiet. Meek. Somethin’ to protect. Somethin’ to keep holy. But she ain’t just that.” Stack swirled the liquor in his glass, “She a woman. And ain’t nothin’ shameful about that.”
Smoke let the words hang, chewing on them like tobacco, “You like her.”
Stack didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile either.
“Ain’t got a name for it yet.” He looked toward the half-cracked window where the sunlight broke in like gold ribbon, “But when she talk, I listen. When she cry, I feel it. When she’s quiet…I still hear her.”
Smoke whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep for you.”
“She different.”
A silence settled between them.
Smoke leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tension in his shoulders never left, “You sure you know what you doin’? Messin’ wit’ a church woman. You don’t think she’ll break the moment she sees all this?” He gestured around to the room, to the whole world they’d built.
Stack shook his head slowly, “She already cracked, Smoke. I’m just showin’ her what’s on the other side of it.”
Smoke blew out a breath, finally standing. He grabbed his coat from the hook and tossed it over one shoulder.
“Just don’t fall too hard, Stack. Been through enough trouble.”
“Too late.”
Smoke stopped in the doorway and looked back, lips parting like he might say something more—something truer. But instead, he clapped his brother on the back once and said, “Go get the boy. I’ll have the drinks cold and the girls ready.”
Stack grinned.
“You better. He ain’t never had his dick wet or his soul stirred.”
Smoke chuckled, shaking his head as he walked off, “Lord help him.”
And just like that, the office went quiet again except for the soft scratch of Ella on the record player, and the faint echo of two lives breaking in ways neither of them could name yet.
Stack stepped out of his office like a sermon in silk.
Midnight-blue three-piece suit hugging him just right, pocket square crisp, gold rings glinting with every flick of his fingers. His toothpick shifted as he adjusted the collar of his shirt—an ivory number with subtle embroidery so fine you’d have to squint to catch it. His shoes? Black leather gators. He walked like they knew how much they cost. On his way out, he caught sight of Violet at the end of the hall—pressed sweet against Smoke, who was acting downright boyish for a man with a .38 tucked beneath his waistband. Smoke had her giggling in a soft dress, hands roaming her hips, his voice low and teasing in her ear. He cupped her ass like it was his second home.
Stack paused with a smirk.
“Lord, y’all actin’ like I ain’t got places to be.”
Violet laughed, bashful, swatting Smoke’s hand away.
Smoke just grinned, eyes never leaving her.
“And you actin’ like you ain’t jealous.”
Stack strolled closer, leaned in, and pressed a kiss to Violet’s forehead.
“Nah, I’m proud. She finally got him to smile like he ain’t made of brick and bourbon.”
Smoke snorted. Violet blushed deeper.
Stack adjusted his cuffs and headed into the main lounge.
The Blackline—Main Floor
The air was velvet-thick with cigarette haze and the scent of clove oil and red lipstick.
Cordelia, draped in deep plum and dark pearls, stood near the bar snapping orders with a voice that cracked like a whip.
“Move them tables. No, not there—by the stage. Odessa! If that hem ain’t fixed by showtime I swear—”
Stack passed her with a grin and a low whistle.
“Don’t work too hard, Boss Lady.”
“Don’t flirt too loud, Player.”
He blew her a kiss. She caught it midair and slapped it into her bra with a wink. Near the front, Liza June sat cross-legged on the velvet fainting couch, her eyes deep in a tarot spread laid across the lap of Clarissa. The air around them shimmered with mystery and slow jazz.
Stack gave Liza a nod.
She nodded back without looking up.
“You walkin’ into somethin’ new today.”
“Ain’t I always?” Stack replied, slipping on his overcoat.
West Ninth Street—“Little Harlem”
Early evening. Golden hour. A Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, glides through the bustle like a crown through a crowd. Stack’s hand rests out the window, rings catching light. Street corners hum with life—boys shining shoes, girls laughing in curls and cotton, a brass band warming up down the block.
West Ninth is pulsing.
Men in brimmed hats gather outside the barbershop, talking baseball and bootleg money. Church mothers step out of bakeries clutching warm pies and giving Stack a knowing side-eye. Teenage boys pause their dice game to admire his car. Stack pulls up outside a Black-owned shoe shop—Thompson & Sons Fine Footwear—where the windows glisten with patent leathers and hand-stitched brogues. A wooden sign out front reads:
EST. 1917 – STYLE THAT SPEAKS
He steps out slow, coat sliding off one shoulder, giving the full view of his suit. The wind catches the edge of his jacket. A girl walking by mutters:
“Mmm, that man look like trouble in cologne.”
Inside, the shop smells like cedar, leather polish, and confidence. Mr. Thompson, an elder with sharp eyes and a sharper press, greets him:
“Moore.”
“Thompson.”
Stack tries on a pair of custom blood-red two-tone lace-ups, alligator trim. He lifts his leg, admires the gleam.
“You makin’ devils dance in these, old man. Only the bold can wear red without bleedin’ in it.”
Stack pays in full. No haggling. He tips extra for the young boy who buffs the heel until it gleams like a moonlit spill. Outside again, he slides into the driver’s seat, lets the door thud shut, and lights a cigar. His reflection smirks at him in the rearview.
The man’s ready. He ain’t just Stack. He’s legacy. Swagger. Lust in linen. Blues in human form.
And tonight?
He’s got Preacher Boy Sammie to pick up.
Union Station—Little Rock, Arkansas—4:16 PM
The train hissed into the station with a long, dusty breath, its steel spine gleaming beneath the fall sun. Smoke curled up from the engine stack like an omen softened by rhythm and routine. A gust of wind kicked through the terminal, lifting loose flyers from the bulletin board and tousling the feather in Stack’s wide-brimmed hat.
Elias “Stack” Moore leaned against his Cadillac LaSalle, black with whitewall tires, immaculate as always. The paint caught the light like obsidian, fresh from a hand-rubbed polish. His shoes—custom-made from stingray leather, jet-black with a silver tip—gleamed as he crossed one ankle over the other. He flicked open his pocket watch, adjusted his cufflinks, and waited with a crooked grin, knowing he looked like sin with credit.
And then he saw him.
Sammie Moore.
Twenty years old and walking like the world had finally called him by name. Fresh off the train in a three-piece tan suit—clean, but not flashy—with a golden pocket square folded just right and a worn leather guitar case slung over his shoulder like a badge of freedom. His hair was brushed back in smooth waves, sides taper-clean. His eyes, wide and alert, took in the city like a hymn he’d only ever heard about.
Sammie Moore was Delta-born, raised in the tight drawl of wooden churches and crooked porch swings, but he carried the sharp edge of something bigger now. A college man. A first-generation miracle.
He stepped down onto the platform, his gold fraternity pin shining on his lapel: Alpha Phi Alpha—the first of its kind, newly founded by Black scholars hungry for more. And Sammie? He was studying Education and Black History, determined to uplift what his people had been taught to forget. His scholarship came from a local Black benevolent society—one his mother petitioned after his father refused to sign the papers.
He spotted Stack instantly.
“Cousin Stack!” Sammie grinned, wide and sunlit.
“Preacher Boy!” Stack stepped forward, his voice slick and gravel-laced. “Look at you, all grown and full of scholar. What they feedin’ y’all in them lecture halls? Confidence?”
They embraced hard and quick, two firm slaps on the back, the kind that say I see you, I’m proud, I got you always.
“You look like Harlem itself,” Sammie said, eyeing Stack’s tailored fit and toothpick grin.
Stack cocked a brow. “And you look like you just graduated from Sunday school for grown men. C’mon, lemme show you what Little Harlem got cookin’.”
They walked toward the Cadillac, Sammie whistling low. “This yours?”
“She purrs when I talk sweet and bite back when I don’t. Just how I like ’em.”
Sammie chuckled as they slid into the car. The doors shut with a deep, luxurious clunk. Windows down, wind in their collars, blues on the radio—somewhere between Bessie Smith and the devil humming in a bottle.
As they eased into traffic, Sammie caught the glint of sunlight off glass across the street. He turned to look.
There she was.
Evangeline Monroe.
Standing just outside a beauty supply shop, laughing with two other girls. Her dress was butter-yellow with white gloves and shiny black oxfords. Hair done in a neat bob, curls perfect. Her profile hit like a note not written down—delicate, sharp, unforgettable.
“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes tracking her every movement, “Who that sweet thing?”
Stack didn’t look. Just kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift like a preacher who knew exactly when to pause before the punchline.
“There’s plenty of sweet at the House,” Stack said, “You’ll see.”
Sammie glanced once more, then leaned back into the seat, guitar case pressed against his knee. But the look on his face stayed soft. Curious. Marked.
Stack didn’t say more.
And somewhere behind them, Evangeline turned—as if she’d felt eyes on her—but the car was already gone.
The front doors of The Blackline eased open with a slow, sensual creak—like even the hinges knew how to tease—and the air inside wrapped around Sammie like velvet dipped in molasses and smoke.
He stepped inside behind Stack, and the world bloomed.
The camera didn’t cut. It glided. Swooped. Curved around their shoulders and swept left, past the smoky lamps and satin-draped booths, past the heavy perfume of sin and sugar, and the sound of laughter layered like jazz chords—sharp, low, then rising.
Stack paused in the doorway, Sammie just a step behind him, holding tight to that leather-strapped guitar.
The scene was alive.
🎺 Cue jazz horns and shuffling feet 🎺
Liza June was halfway through a Tarot reading near the fireplace—her golden curls bouncing as she laid a card down with a hiss of silk and whispered, “Ooh baby, Death reversed. That mean change is comin’.” The woman across from her gasped like she’d caught the Holy Ghost. Someone refilled their glasses with blackberry wine.
The camera panned right.
Cordelia, decked in a sheer black robe with nothing underneath but thigh straps and a mouth full of threat, barked orders to a new girl about fixing her eyeliner, then turned, heels clicking, and caught sight of the boys.
“Well well well,” she drawled, one brow cocked, “The Moore boys walkin’ in like Sunday salvation. And who’s the cutie?”
Sammie blushed under the lights. His tie already felt too tight.
Cordelia sauntered up and cupped his face gently with one manicured hand. “Ain’t you handsome. You legal, baby?”
“Just turned,” Sammie mumbled.
“Mm. That’s the best flavor.” She winked and moved on, hips rolling like music.
The camera kept moving. Girls passed by—some half-dressed in beaded bustiers and garter belts, others wrapped in lace robes or chemises that barely skimmed their thighs. A group of them waved from a nearby booth, one licking whipped cream off her finger.
“Happy birthday, sugar!” one called.
“Damn,” Sammie whispered, eyes darting, lips parted, “This place real?”
Stack just grinned, proud and unbothered, an arm slung heavy across his cousin’s shoulders, “You in The Blackline now,” he said, “I built it from sin and good taste. You see liquor, you drink it. You see sugar, you taste it. You see pussy, you praise it.”
They passed a hallway where flickering wall lamps threw long shadows. The camera dipped low as someone dashed past in stockings and laughter. Somewhere deep in the back, the slow clatter of dice and the moan of a piano spilled through a cracked door.
From the kitchen, the smell hit like a memory Sammie hadn’t earned—fried catfish, hot water cornbread, sweet peach glaze, and something that smelled like his mama’s poundcake but naughtier.
He inhaled sharply, “Goddamn.”
Stack chuckled, “That be Aunt Pearl. Don’t let her fool you—she got more spice in that pot than Jesus had disciples.”
And then—
Violet.
A burst of soft curls. A squeal of joy.
“Sammie!” she called out, hurrying over in a warm, wine-colored dress that hugged her soft curves. She wrapped him up in a hug that was all hips and sunshine.
Sammie grinned wide, surprised but clearly overjoyed.
“I ain’t seen you in—”
“Too long,” Violet finished. “Look at you! Little cousin all grown up and dressed better than a Pullman porter.”
“Look at you! You jumped wit’ Ghost and got fine doing it.”
She laughed, and Stack tilted his head, “Don’t give him all your sugar, Vi. Leave some for Smoke.”
She smacked his arm.
Stack turned to Sammie again, clapping a hand on his back, “I brought you here for a reason,” he said, his voice lowering just a touch, like a promise being carved. “We gon’ celebrate your transition. Blues, bourbon, and if you play your cards right…” He smirked, “You gon’ get your tip wet for the first time.”
Sammie blinked. “I—wait, what?”
“Don’t act brand new.” Stack leaned in, voice thick with mischief. “You grown now. I’m givin’ you the keys to the kingdom.”
The camera followed as they crossed through the den, past sultry shadows and swaying silhouettes. Upstairs, Stack showed him a room set aside—modest, but nice. Clean sheets. A basin. A mirror edged in gold. Sammie dropped his duffel on the bed but kept the guitar slung over his shoulder like it was part of his ribs.
“You still playin’?” Stack asked.
Sammie nodded, stroking the neck gently. “Every damn day.”
Stack gave a small nod, respect in his eyes, “You should. That axe got blood on it.”
Sammie looked down at the guitar—the one he and Smoke had passed to him when he was just thirteen. Their father’s.
He swallowed hard.
Stack tapped the doorframe.
“Come on, Preacher Boy. Night’s young. Let’s get you blessed proper.”
And as they stepped out, the camera stayed behind for just a moment, lingering on the guitar’s worn fretboard.
The hallway behind the bar was narrow, lined with old liquor crates and dusty red curtains that swayed for no reason at all. Just past a locked door—key slid from Stack’s boot—was The Secret Room. The one with no windows. The air changed when they stepped inside. It smelled like old velvet, aged whiskey, tobacco, and secrets. Thick crimson drapes hung heavy over the walls. A pull-down screen waited, curled like a tongue. In the corner, the projector sat humming quietly like it had a memory of its own. Stack lit a cigar and let the door click shut behind them. Sammie followed, carrying his guitar case, eyes darting across the room like he’d stumbled into a place grown folks didn’t talk about out loud. He tried to play it cool—but he was twenty. Curious. Alert.
And perched in the far armchair, legs spread and boots dusty, sat Rattlesnake Joe—grinning like a man who knew too much.
“Evenin’, Pretty-Slick,” Joe said with a gold-toothed grin, lifting a brown burlap sack from beside him, “Brought you some heat. And a lil’ moon blessin’ for them tender girls o’ yours.”
Stack took the sack. Set it on the sideboard beside a bottle of Bama bourbon and a stack of steel canisters.
“Let’s see what you got,” he said, voice smooth but watchful.
Joe leaned back, tipping his hat toward Sammie, “You the one he was talkin’ about? Birthday boy?”
Sammie gave a polite nod, “Yessir.”
“Well, well,” Joe chuckled, “You in for one hell of a sanctified education, son.”
Sammie squinted, “What’s a stag film anyway?”
Stack turned slowly, lips twitching around his cigar. He walked over, draped one arm around Sammie’s shoulder, and pulled him in, “It’s like church,” he said low. “Only instead o’ shoutin’, they screamin’ your name.”
Joe hooted.
“Shit, that’s good! Write that down, Pretty-Slick!”
Stack ignored him, lifting a canister off the stack. He showed it to Sammie—Reel #14: Pussy on the Phonograph—smudged label, faint red kiss mark near the edge.
“This here?” he said, handing it to Sammie like it was scripture, “A woman touchin’ herself while her own blues record spins. You ever seen a woman make herself cry with her own voice?”
Sammie flushed. Swallowed, “No sir.”
Stack smiled faintly, then clicked the projector into place.
The machine began to whir.
Joe tossed over a leather pouch of herbs—“that’s for Cordelia’s tea, and the girls’ knees,” he muttered—and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Stack watched the reel come to life, light flickering on the screen as grainy, black-and-white heat filled the room.
The figure on screen moaned. Slowly. With rhythm.
Sammie’s mouth parted. He leaned forward, guitar case still between his legs.
Joe lit up, “See that right there? That ain’t no actress. That’s a real woman. She ain’t performin’. She rememberin’. That’s what make the reel worth a damn.”
Stack nodded, still watching.
“You listen to the breath. That lil’ hitch when her fingers dip lower? That ain’t no script. That’s memory. That’s ache.”
He looked at Sammie.
“You ever had a girl touch herself to you before?”
Sammie blinked. Eyes flicked back to the screen.
Stack laughed soft, low, “Didn’t think so. But you will. Maybe sooner than you think.”
The moaning on screen grew louder. The woman’s thighs trembled. The record player needle skipped.
Joe wiped his eyes with a kerchief, “Goddamn that’s art,” he whispered.
Sammie shifted in his seat, “So…these get shown here?”
“Only for folk who know the password,” Stack said, reaching for another reel, “We call it Midnight Sermon. You sit in one of these velvet chairs, light a cigar, and let truth flicker ‘til it stick to your ribs.”
Joe pulled a flask from his boot. “I ever tell y’all about the cursed reel I found down in Plaquemine? Swear to God, the folk on it kept lookin’ at the camera like they was watchin’ me—”
“Tell it later, Joe,” Stack muttered, “Let the boy finish his first viewing.”
The screen glowed.
The moans got real.
And Sammie, breath caught in his chest, clutched the neck of the old Moore guitar—the one Smoke and Stack had given him years ago, their father’s—like it was the only holy thing left in the room.
West Ninth Street, Little Rock
The sun glared low, syrup-thick and lazy, as Stack’s flashy green and cream roadster rolled smooth down West Ninth. The chrome caught the day just right—gleaming like fresh silver, purring like a panther. Folks on the sidewalk turned to look. They always did when Elias “Stack” Moore pulled up. He parked clean in front of Del’s Shine Parlor, one hand on the wheel, the other adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. His suit was pressed to perfection, tie knotted sharp at the throat. A gold toothpick rode lazy in the corner of his mouth. He turned his head just enough to speak.
“Stay here, lil cousin. I’m just makin’ a drop. Won’t be long.”
Sammie, sitting passenger, nodded, his fingers absently tracing the neck of the old guitar that lay in the backseat, strapped in like a relic. Stack stepped out and closed the door with the kind of swagger that didn’t need announcing. He moved like he owned the whole block. The gold handle of the Shine Parlor door caught the sun just before it swung closed behind him. Inside, Del’s was dim and cool, smelling of leather polish, cigar smoke, and the faintest trace of musk perfume. Delphina—the owner—sat behind the long, high counter, legs crossed, counting bills in a ruby-red slip and silk robe. Brass spit buckets glinted near old barber chairs. A phonograph spun a scratchy jazz tune in the corner. And in the back, behind a velvet curtain, murmurs from the men laying bets rolled low like thunder.
Stack tipped his hat, “Got somethin’ warm for your drop box.”
Del didn’t look up, “You always do.”
Outside, Sammie cracked the window and leaned back, watching the bustle on West Ninth through dark lashes.
Then he saw her.
Again.
Evangeline Monroe.
Same girl from earlier. Same dress—butter-yellow, soft and spring-sweet, like pound cake cooling on the sill. White gloves tugged tight to the wrist. Shiny black oxfords catching light with every step. Her hair was a flawless bob, curled under like she’d just come from the beauty parlor. She walked with two other girls, laughing about something only they knew—but when she paused to lick at the edge of a vanilla cone, Sammie forgot to breathe.
She hadn’t seen him yet.
He climbed out of the car, smoothing his slacks with one hand and checking his breath with the other. The collar of his dress shirt was popped open, no tie, sleeves rolled. His fraternity pin gleamed at his lapel—Kappa Alpha Psi, recently founded, and he wore it proud. Sammie adjusted his stance, made sure his posture said: charming, not desperate.
“Miss?”
Evangeline turned. Lips still close to that ice cream. Eyes sliding over him, then back down the cone. No smile yet. Just that curious arch in her brow.
“Twice in one day?” she said coolly, “You followin’ me now?”
Sammie chuckled, a low, warm sound, “I think it’s the other way around. You keep appearing like sunshine.”
That got the ghost of a grin. She licked slow, once, eyes on his face, “You a poet or just full of it?”
He stepped closer, “Little bit of both.”
Evangeline didn’t move. Her two friends stood off to the side, whispering, giggling behind cupped hands. One elbowed the other and whispered he’s cute, but Evangeline ignored them.
Sammie glanced down, bashful but still bold, “You from around here?”
“Born and half-raised.”
“You ever heard of The Blackline?”
That name made her eyes flicker. Not wide-eyed, not shocked—just…knowing. Like she’d heard stories behind closed doors. She leaned on one hip.
“Maybe. Depends who’s askin’.”
“I’m Sammie Moore.” He held out a hand, “Stack’s blood. Smoke’s too. I just got in.”
Evangeline didn’t take his hand. She licked the ice cream again, then said, “You a Moore? That explains the mouth.”
He laughed, “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s a dangerous thing,” she said, one brow lifted.
“Well…maybe you like a little danger.”
“You maybe ain’t as smooth as you think.”
He leaned close enough for her to catch a breath of his cologne—citrus, vanilla, something boyish and clean. A college man’s scent.
Then he whispered, low like temptation, like something you weren’t supposed to repeat unless you meant it, “Three slow. Two fast. Then say: Velvet Devotion.”
That made her pause. The corner of her lip twitched, “Velvet Devotion, huh?”
Sammie nodded once, “Gets you through the front. Tomorrow. What happens after…depends on how bold you feel.”
Evangeline’s lips curved slow, “You got the tongue for a preacher.”
Sammie grinned, “Maybe I just been sinnin’ better.”
Her friends hooted behind her. One of them asked, “You gon’ invite us too, Vangie?”
Evangeline glanced back at them, then looked Sammie up and down.
“If I come…I bringin’ company.”
Sammie nodded, “Long as y’all come lookin’ this good, I ain’t got no complaints.”
She tilted her head, “What if we don’t come lookin’ good? What if we come lookin’ dangerous?”
He smirked, “Then you’ll fit right in.”
From the parlor door, Stack stepped out just in time to see the last of that smile exchanged. He raised a brow but said nothing—just tapped the side of his pocket where his cigar case sat and headed back to the car.
“C’mon, Romeo. Time to get you ready for your rites.”
Sammie nodded at Evangeline, tipped an imaginary hat, “I’ll see you soon.”
She turned without answering, hips swaying like she knew she had him.
Because she did.
THE BLACKLINE – NIGHT – WEST NINTH STREET
The night air hung low, sweet with magnolia and sin.
Stack Moore leaned against his coupe, slow-smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. He looked sharp as a straight razor—slacks pressed, suspenders hugging his shoulders, white tank gleaming under the streetlight. His hat sat tilted just enough to show off the glint in his eye. A quiet smirk curled the corner of his mouth like he was always halfway to trouble. Behind him, The Blackline was alive, low brass and blues seeping through the walls, laughter floating past velvet curtains. A shadow moved across the stained-glass window just as Sammie disappeared inside, guitar case in hand, wide-eyed and grinning.
Stack took a drag.
Then he heard it.
Polished footsteps.
Church leather.
Turning his head just slightly, Stack watched as a black Studebaker slid to a clean stop across the street, engine purring like judgment withheld.
The driver’s door creaked open.
Out stepped Reverend Obadiah Baptiste, tall and rigid in his navy wool suit. Crisp. Sanctified. A silver pocket watch chain glinted against his vest. He adjusted his cufflinks, smoothed a nonexistent wrinkle, then shut the door like it had sinned. Sister Lillian exited next, already halfway up the church steps, her Bible pressed tight to her chest. She didn’t look back. Obadiah paused to speak with an older Deacon Josiah at the gate—just murmured blessings and leadership pleasantries—but his eyes…his eyes were locked on Stack.
Stack didn’t move.
Just blew a stream of smoke toward the stars.
Then, with a cocky flick of his chin and a smile that could skin a preacher alive, he spoke, “Evenin’, Rev.”
Obadiah’s jaw twitched.
He offered a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes, nodding once like a man humoring a snake.
“Mr. Moore. How you be?”
They stood there in silence for half a breath too long. The street hummed. A dog barked somewhere in the distance. The lights from The Blackline pulsed behind Stack like a neon halo of temptation. Stack tilted his head, studying Obadiah like a man sizing up an old rival at a poker table.
“Can’t complain. Got a full house tonight. Blues, bourbon, and bad intentions.”
He grinned, “Gearing up for a weekend of sinnin’, you could say.”
Obadiah’s smile flattened. His hands folded at his waist, the way one might withhold a curse behind a hymn.
“The women in my congregation…they don’t protest no more.” He paused,“Figured there ain’t no use preaching to a hell den.”
A quiet laugh rumbled from Stack’s chest—genuine, easy, but edged like a switchblade.
“That’s real kind of you, Reverend. Makin’ room for the damned.”
Obadiah’s smirk returned, but now it was bitter. He turned as if to leave, but Stack’s voice cut the silence like a crack of gunfire in an old Western.
“How’s your preacher wife doing? What’s her name…uhh…” He tapped a finger to his temple, mocking thought, “Slippin’ my mind.”
Obadiah froze. His jaw clenched tight enough to crack a tooth, “Marigold.”
“Ahh, yeah.” Stack snaps fingers, “Marigold. First Lady.” Stack leaned off the car now, real casual. Took another puff. Let the smoke drift slow from his nostrils as he stepped closer, boots clicking like spurs on sacred ground. He tilted his head slightly, “That ain’t who you showed up with though.”
Obadiah stiffened.
Stack could see the vein twitch in his temple. Could feel the fury coiling beneath that collar like a serpent under holy linen. But Obadiah’s voice came calm, trained, weaponized.
“My wife is a busy woman. Teaches purity. Leads young girls to righteousness. She’s an example…of what a Lady of God ought to be.”
Stack just smiled.
He didn’t say a word about how Marigold moaned when he tongued her from behind, face buried deep, nose pressed to her crack like he was trying to breathe in her sin. Didn’t mention how she trembled when he bent her over and spread her knees wide, pussy glistening and twitching like it was begging to be fed on. Didn’t speak on how her breath hitched when he whispered “Good girl” against her throat, voice thick and hungry, or how she begged—begged—for him to spank the holy right outta her, crying out every time his palm met her ass, soaking his lap like a filthy little church slut.
Nope.
Stack didn’t say a word.
He just flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it beneath a polished heel, and turned back toward The Blackline, “You have a good night now, Reverend.” He paused, smirking over his shoulder, “Oh—and can you keep that bell tolling to a minimum? You spookin’ my girls.”
Obadiah’s jaw clenched so tight it looked like he might bite through scripture. But Stack was already walking away, hands in his pockets, humming a slow Delta tune—something about sin and salvation sitting on the same pew. The saloon doors of The Blackline swung open as he entered—blues wailing from the stage, women laughing in silk and perfume, and the smell of smoke, sex, and fried catfish waiting like the arms of a devil that welcomed you by name.
summary: the smokestack twins left mississippi for bigger and better things, they were big fishes in a small pond, but that doesn't negate the sting you felt when stack, your boyfriend, left town without a uttering a word about it to you. not even call nor a letter to let you know he was safe in the big city of chicago. rumors on the streets about the twins return bubbled over - they were hosting a cookout and the whole neighborhood was invited - including you.
word count: 8k
warnings: smut, oral sex (f!receiving), unprotected sex, slight mentions of cheating, slight toxic dynamics, slight mentions of drugs, set in the 90s, light mary slander (lmaoo)
author's note: ahahaa i had a lot of fun writing this ya'll omg, this one is pretty long i just couldn't help myself!! thanks for reading ya'll much appreciated <3
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The faint sounds of Saturday morning cartoons muffled within the background of your room; it was hot today - unbearably so, and it killed you that the AC in your bedroom was busted. Your grandpa said he'd get it fix, urging you not to waste your money on a new one. One thing about your grandad - he was a staunch penny pincher - always claiming he could fix something. Stating that your generation couldn't keep money in their pockets if their life depended on it. Always splurging on unnecessary 'foolishness'. But it seemed like every time he would tinker with your AC the worse it got.
You were gonna go out and buy one today, preparing for a long winded lecture - but you'd rather hear his complaints than sitting in a hot ass house. Your niece, who was only eight years old, sat on the floor at the foot of your bed. Her brown eyes watched the cartoon in front of her intensely, Tom and Jerry was her favorite - and the only cartoon you'd tolerate watching with her. You just got done doing her hair, the twist were held in place with pink Bobos with white and pink butterfly barrettes at end of the twist.
You were glad to be done with her hair - the girl was tender headed and it felt like you were entering a boxing match every time you attempted to comb and brush through her thick tresses. You hunched over on the bed, painting your toe nails with your favorite red nail polish from your local beauty supply and your head rested on the phone that was between your shoulder and ear - listening to your best friend, Pearline, on the other side of the phone.
She wanted you to go to a kickback with her; she was messing with Sammie aka Preacher Boy who lived around the block from you. She would gush about him saying that he was the sweetest man she'd ever been with - not to mention he had the best head - telling you stories about how good he would eat her out. You would spit out a: "Girl!" every time she would share a little too much, but you were happy for her - maybe a tad bit jealous too.
You didn't want Sammie - he was like a little brother to you; it was his older cousin that made your heart race. You and Stack had a thing in the past, the relationship was heavy, intense, and passionate. You genuinely thought that he could be the one, but out of the blue he left Mississippi - with his twin brother in tow - without uttering a word about it to you. And to makes matters worse the week that he up and ghosted you found out he was fucking another girl on the side.
Mary.
You were heart broken, blowing up his pager in hopes to get some sort of answers from him - but he ignored you like the plague. Which meant you two were done.
"Who all gone be there?" You asked Pearline, careful hands slowly painted your big toe with cherry nail polish.
"Everybody, that's why you should come - it'll be fun!" She replied, you could tell she was hiding something from you.
"Who is everybody?"
A pause lingered onto the conversation, which earned an eye roll from you.
Of course...He'd be there.
News spread like wild fire around the neighborhood about the twins coming back home; you couldn't avoid the whispers about them. You were cool with Smoke - even though he kept to himself and was hard to read, but you knew he was a genuine man that held good morals within his heart.
But Stack?
He was a trifling ass man who only looked out for himself - though you did admire his fierce loyalty he had for his brother and little cousin, Sammie. But you wished that his loyalty extended towards you.
"I'm not goin', sorry sis. You have fun, though." You said cutting through the tension between you and Pearline - which made her sigh in annoyance.
"You not even gonna see him, I doubt he'd be there."
"Isn't the party at Smoke's place? You think his twin brother ain't gonna be there? Please, Stack follows Smoke around like his damn shadow." You shot back in a matter of fact tone. She couldn't argue against you about it - you were right.
If you saw one twin, the other was close by.
"Please, please come with me! I know you're still raw about it--"
"You goddamn right I'm still raw. Pearline, he left me without giving me the courtesy of tellin' me and on top of that, after everything I did for his sorry ass, he went and fucked that bitch Mary!" You shouted, cutting your friend off in the middle of her sentence.
"Swear words." Your baby niece chimed in, ear hustling the conversation you had on the phone, she couldn't understand what you were talking about due to her age, but you gave her a light mean mug - not serious enough to hurt her feelings.
"You stay outta grown folks business, watch the show or Imma kick you out my room." You reprimanded which made the girl turn her attention back onto the cartoon. A chuckle hit your ear again, Pearline's light laughter made you playfully roll your eyes.
"Look, sis. I get it - I do. But I know you don't wanna be sittin' in that hot ass house sad all night. Come out with me! Enjoy some good food, music, 'allat stuff. Fuck him, don't let him ruin your mood," she then paused as and you could tell she was smiling from ear to ear. "And some fine ass men will be there - single. It's about time you broke that dry spell."
You thought about the words she said and you thought about the pros and cons of going to the party. The pros: free booze, free bud, good music, great food, seeing friends, and potentially getting flattered by some fine ass dudes.
Cons: Elias "Stack" Moore.
"If I come you better make sure you keep him away from me." You whispered out, closing the nail polish and placing it on your wooden end table, a high pitch static scream of excitement pierced your ear through the phone - a smile clinging to your face.
"Ah! Of course! I'll come over at three - I need you to fix my hair; this girl I went to fucked me up."
"I told you! You should've just waited for me to do it."
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If it was hot inside - it was scorching outside. Sweat already formed on your body as you and Pearline walked side by side towards Smoke's home - the sound of music blast through the speakers and the smell of barbeque floated within the air made your mouth slightly water. You were ready to dance and eat. Tucking your braids behind your ear, you Pearline towards the backyard were the party resided. Opening the chain linked gate - her eyes lit up as she saw Sammie walking towards her.
"Hey, baby," He said, planting a tender kiss on her lips, holding her close towards his body. His brown irises then landed on you, giving you a warm smile. "Whatssup?" Sammie greeted you and you gave him a quick hello.
"I didn't think you was coming." Sammie chuckled out as his arm wrapped around Pearline's shoulders, lovingly leaning his weight slightly on her smaller frame.
"I wasn't - but your lil' girlfriend forced me." You jested back, which made Pearline dramatically gasp, her hand playfully slapping the warm skin on your arm.
"Sounds like her, c'mon, it's hot out here, I know you ladies could use a cold drink." Sammie tilted his head back towards the crowd that danced in the large backyard, signaling for you to follow him. The thumping of music reverberated through your body as you followed behind the couple, passing the speakers and towards the multiple coolers, 'hellos' rolling off of your lips as you briefly greeted familiar faces you saw around the neighborhood. Pearline was right - everyone was here.
"Water, beer, soda, or juice?" Sammie asked.
"Water, please." Pearline spoke as she rubbed Sammie's back, her giddy smile never fading.
"Ugh, ya'll don't got liquor?" You asked, trying your best to mask your slightly annoyed face - but Sammie could tell you weren't feeling the options he gave. With a chuckle, handing Pearline a water bottle he spoke: "We don't, technically. It's bring your own booze - but since we know you; ask Smoke, he got some stashed away, only for family."
"And I'm guessing that's the same for bud, too?" You asked with crossed arms, and Sammie nodded.
"Yea', but you're a girl, I doubt you have trouble findin' somebody who let you face a blunt or two." Sammie shrugged, which earned a jab to the side from Pearline, he quickly reassured he was only kidding.
But you knew there was some truth to within his joke. You're a pretty girl - and most of these men at the party were thirsty just to be in your presence.
"Well I ain't gonna hover over ya'll all night, I'm gonna find Smoke - I need a shot," you said but before you left you took one last gaze at Pearline, her brown eyes gazing back at you knowingly. "Make sure he don't come nowhere near me - let me know if you see him..."
"Mhm, don't worry about it." She replied.
Pushing through the crowd your eyes scanned multiple faces, trying to find the older twin within all the commotion. Couples grind against each other, oldheads getting drunk off of beers, and multiple friend groups huddled up. Some playing cards while others shared neighborhood gossip. The backyard was packed and you were thankful that there were trees around, creating multiple shady spots to cool off when needed. Noticing a familiar face leaning against a tree you slyly walked over towards him, a soft smile clinging onto your plump lips.
"Ah! If it isn't lil' big brother!" You shouted slightly over the blaring music, making Smoke snap his head towards you. Chewing on a toothpick that rested in his mouth he dipped his head towards you in respect. Smoke looked so different than the last time you saw him, he was taller and he had a stronger built. Smoke was never a scrawny man - but you could tell that he's been in the gym as his thick biceps flex with each movements of his arms.
"Whatssup," Smoke said as a sliver of a smile danced on his lips. He gave you a side hug, squeezing your shoulder slightly before letting go of you. "How you been?"
"Been better, hangin' in there, you know how it is. But whatssup with you? The big city got too small for ya'll?" You asked, you were nosy and you were unsuccessfully dry begging some information on Stack - and it seemed like Smoke could tell your intentions. Yes, you didn't want to be around Stack - and yes, you despise that man. But you also still have some love for him, even if it pained you to admit that. He held you down through some of your darkest hours; during those days were you didn't have the strength to get out of bed. Sticking to guy code and loyalty to his little brother, Smoke wouldn't spill anything to you and he shrugged his shoulders.
"Somethin' like that." He muttered as his brown eyes flicked towards the crowd quickly, making sure that people wouldn't get too rowdy in his backyard.
"Mhm, still tightlipped as ever," you sighed, resting your hands on your hips. "Sammie told me to talk to you about getting some liquor - ya'll got tequila?"
"Light or dark?"
"Dark - you already know I don't drink that light shit." You answered. Smoke tilted his head towards his home, pulling the toothpick out of his mouth as he muttered - he didn't want the party patrons getting the idea of raiding his liquor cabinet. Or worse; pestering him to spare a bottle or two.
"Inside, pass the kitchen, turn on your left. Should see a cabinet with what you lookin for." Smoke quickly replied, his deep southern accent cutting through the loud bass of the music playing.
"Thanks, Smoke."
"Don't let nobody know where you got it from and keep them outta my house. Bad enough these folks trashin' my backyard."
You gave Smoke a wide and toothy smile - some of your teeth were covered in gold caps, they weren't permanents like Smoke's or Stack's - but you would always wear them when 'special' occasions happened. And besides Stack gifted them to you on your birthday; one of the gems that adorned your gold teeth was your birthstone.
Weaving through the dancing crowd your shoulders brushing against distant relatives and strangers you would see around the neighborhood. The sweet barbeque smoke curled into the thick summer air - the smell of cooked meat, spices, and vegetables cutting through the scent of sweat, weed smoke, and spilled beer. Passing through a group that huddled around a small folding table the sound of glass bottles clinking against each other and cheers made you smile.
Today was a good day, you loved being around such good vibrations.
Stepping up onto the cracked slab of the concrete patio, your hands yanked open the sticky glass sliding door that separated the backyard chaos and the calm empty house. The air inside of the home was cooler - quieter, and the shadows from the sun setting crept across the wooden floors. With a grunt you slide the door closed and the muffling bass of the music was still heard through the thick walls. Smoke's home smelled like strong incense, lemon scented cleaner, sage, and fresh linen.
Annie had definitely been here prior.
Moving with purpose now, the sound of your sneakers squeaking against the wooden floor revibrated through you and your eyes scanned for the liquor cabinet - following the directions Smoke gave you. Turning the corner your irises were met with a large brown cabinet that was filled to the brim with all sorts of spirits and drinks. Making a brisk track towards it your hand ghosted over the handle, pulling open the glass door and reaching in to grab the bottle of tequila. Reposado - your favorite.
The bottle was full and the glass was slightly cold under your warm hands, with a sigh of victory you turned on your heel to make your way back outside. But then you paused. Standing in the small hallway of the home your eyes lingered on the golden sunrays that pooled onto the floor, the front door of the home was open, only the thin mesh of the screen door was holding back the bugs and summer air from entering. You knew Smoke wouldn't be the type to just let his front door wide open - even if him and half of the men in this party weren't lacking any 'peacekeepers', you're sure it would bother him if someone he didn't know would stumble into his home causing trouble.
Walking towards the open door in an attempt to close it shut, your legs turned into jelly and your heart raced as if you just got done running a marathon. Across the small stretch of dead grass on the front lawn and cracked pavement on the side walk, your irises lingered onto him.
Stack.
He sat lazily in the diver seat of the light brown lowrider, it's rims obnoxiously gaudy, they were gold and it seemed like wheels could barely fit the body of the car. The engine was off but he sat with the car door wide open, surrounded by some guys you met in passing through the neighborhood - his friends. Laughing too loud their words exchanged between each other were sharp and quick witted, yet long and casual like summer itself.
Stack was shining in gold like always, but now you've noticed he adorned more accessories than the last time you saw him. Multiple golden chains rested around his neck, gold glistening from the sunlight as he adjusted his watch that wrapped around his wrist, and the bright red color gem stones shined within the rings that he wore.
Smoke wore some jewelry too. Three chains - one of them was a Jesus piece - a watch and golden teeth just on the side of his mouth. His jewelry wasn't extravagant but anyone with a good eye could tell it was expensive. But Stack? He looked as if he was a pharaoh - the he himself was made out of gold.
A red tee balled up in Stack's lap, revealing his strong biceps and arms, the white tank top clung onto his skin and the soft cotton only accentuated his muscles even more. You remember those long winter nights of running your hands over his hard chest, feeling each and ever dip and valley of the muscles on his body. How your lips would kiss his abs, trailing down lower and lower...
He looked good.
All you could do was just watch and stare, the tequila bottle hanging loosely in your hands, dangerously close to dropping the glass bottle. Your reservations about seeing him melted away, you wanted to open the door and call out his name - to see if he still felt the same way about you. But then the memories of him ghosting you, ignoring any and all attempts of you reaching out to him; and the fact that he had another girl on the side made the butterflies in your stomach turn sickening.
With a bitter chuckle to yourself, you turned on your heel and made your way back towards the party.
This night will interesting to say the least.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
A few hours passed and the sky melted into a deep burnt orange color as the sun dipped behind the multiple rooftops, disappearing from the sky in due time. The orange and scorching glow washed over the multiple brown bodies that danced on the makeshift dancefloor, red plastic cups and sweat-slicked skin shined brightly within the summer afternoon.
The party didn't slow though - it only grew louder, brighter, more alive as more people showed up. You were feeling good - no, you were feeling great. The multiple shots of tequila you shared with Pearline pushed away all the negative emotions you felt hours prior, not to mention the sun that nipped at your skin made you a little bit sun-drunk. The burn of the liquor grounded you - and you were laughing again - joking with Pearline as you both swatting away dudes who couldn't get the hint that ya'll weren't interested.
You told Pearline that you saw Stack earlier and she asked if you wanted to leave - she reassured that she'd leave with you without complaints - but you told her it was fine, as long as Stack kept his distance you'd gladly stay.
"He's not gonna mess with you, sis. I got you" Pearline whispered in your ear with a supportive smile dancing on her lips. You nodded your head as you reached for the juice - using it as a chaser to kill the bite from the tequila shots. Both of you sat side by side on cheap plastic chairs, your knees touching against hers. Sammie who was once standing besides Pearline now stood in front of the patio, he was DJing now and your eyes would flick between Pearline and Sammie as she shouted cheers.
They were cute together, like lovesick school kids.
Sammie was in the zone, his head nodding with the thunderous beat and skillful fingers glide across the board, and the bass from the chopped and screwed beat rippled through the joyous crowd. Your smile widen now, showing of the golden grills that adorn your teeth, and your body relaxed into the rhythm and for a moment you almost forgot about Stack.
Almost.
Your eyes noticed the backdoor sliding open and there he was in all of his glory.
Stack.
He was wearing that same balled up red Nike shirt from earlier, shielding the white cotton tank, but you could see the soft fabric peaking through the collar and under the chains around his neck. He moved with purpose as he stepped down the concrete slab; making his way towards the party. That same easy going smile that you use to worship danced across his handsome face, gold teeth catching the light of the ember sunset. He dapped up Sammie, whispering something in the younger cousin's ear, which made him shake his head with a small laughter escaping his lips. And his focus was placed on the DJ board again.
Stack dapped up the people who were brave enough to say hello, he was like a magnet that pulled people's attention towards him without even trying. And even though the sun heat rays beat down on you - an oppressive chill ran cold through your body as he went deeper into the party - towards you.
The tequila and juice twisted within your stomach and your breathing became rapid - you weren't the type of get sick off of liquor - you can handle your drink. But seeing Stack, the heat, and the unfortunate decision of taking a few shots without eating first made you dizzy. Pearline noticed your once mellow mood turning sour and without a word she placed a calming touch on your thigh. Your eyes met with hers briefly and she whispered affirmations in your ear - telling you to take a deep breath and that you both could leave now.
You told her it was okay between long breathes, but your jaw was clenched tight and your hands gripped onto the plastic arm rest of the chair, your leg bouncing with rapid successions. Her hand didn't leave your skin as she handed you a cold bottle of water - and you chugged the bottle as if you've haven't drank anything in days.
Brown familiar irises flicked towards you and your eyes widen like saucers, as if you saw a ghost. Stack noticed you; of course he did. He could pick you out any crowd like it was nothing - like it was second nature to him. His smile curled up in a mischievous grin, but that smile wasn't full of an apology nor regret of hurting you so bad - but instead his golden grin was laced with nothing but cockiness that use to send butterflies to your core, making your heart race with desire and need.
It still did.
With a tilt of his head, Stack signaled you to come over to him, as if nothing problematic happened between the two of you - as if he never left you high and dry. You didn't move, you barely even flinched and you broke eye contact with him, your gaze lingering on the card game that was happening behind you. Slim was chattering away about how folks just don't know how to play the game. The biting warmth of the tequila was now replaced with a cold sting in your heart, you hope that Stack would cut his losses and leave you alone.
But that wasn't him, he never gave up.
Leaning off of the wooden fence he casual shuffled through the dancing crowd, people stepped out of his way without him even uttering a single word while his eyes were still trained on you. He reached you and Pearline within seconds.
She stood up from the chair, her hands resting on her hips as she spoke: "Uh, uh. Not tonight, boy."
But Stack was barely moved by her warning as his smirk only grew. Raising his hands up in a playful display of innocence his dark eyes flicked between you and Pearline who shielded you from his sultry gaze.
"Relax," Stack casually said as he placed his hands to sides, his head lulling back to see your expressions at hearing his voice. "I ain't here to start no drama. This a party, I just wanted to know if ya'll enjoyin' it, that's all."
But he was only met with silence from you and Pearline. You were still sitting in the plastic chair, your arms crossed over your chest as Stack's intense gaze never left your body. You wore a baby blue color tube top with dark acid washed shorts that stopped just above the curve of your ass, and your white Nike cortez with blue accents kicked at the small patch of dirt.
Your eyes refuse to even look at him.
"Damn, baby. You still mad at me?" Stack chuckled out with a knowing glint in his eyes - he was loving the tension between the two of you, even as toxic as it sounded - he liked when you were pissed off, it made him feel wanted and desired. It also didn't hurt that the make up sex would be more tender the angrier he made you.
You replied with a short irritated grunt and leered at him, giving off the vibe of 'don't test me', and your body stayed stock still in the chair. A small laugh escaped Stack's plump lips, he knew he was getting under your skin - and he soaked up each and every annoyed sigh you sent his way.
Stack's intense gaze pulled away from you and landed on Slim who slammed down a playing card on the plastic table. The older man was complaining about the new age music that was popular today.
"Slim, whatssup with you, unc?" Stack called out, which made Slim's face lit up. They both dapped each other up as the older man reclaimed his seat.
"Nothin' much, just tellin' these cats about some real music. None of that 'bitches and hoes' nonsense ya'll be listing to," Slim then took a sip from his flask, his face twisting at the bitter taste of liquor hitting his lips. "What happen to lovin' a woman, cherishin' her - takin' her out and bein' tender on her. Nowadays I wonder if ya'll actually love these queens."
"Look man; I ain't got love for these hoes, the only thing I love is pussy and money - ain't nobody tryna hear all that mushy shit tonight." Stack laughed, which earn a roar of chuckles from the men that were playing cards with Slim - some of them even dapped up Stack at his statement. Slim shook his head and waved his hand towards Stack, as if shooing him away.
But his harsh words stung at your heart and the burning sensations of tears nipped at your eyes, Pearline noticed this but before she could comfort you - you pushed yourself out of the chair, the legs of it scrapped against the concrete, silencing the laughter between the men. You raced towards the crowd as you made your way to Smoke's house. Multiple eyes followed you pushing through the dancefloor. Pearline glared at Stack and something within the man tinged with remorse.
He finally realized that you were hurt and that this wasn't a game anymore.
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
The house was empty and the tequila in your veins burned with heartbreak and rage. Your legs rushed down the hallway and with hasty movements you flung open the bathroom door, slamming it loudly behind you. Cold tile met the burning skin of your back as your hands shielded your face, your breath hitching within your throat until it finally snapped like a rubber band.
Tears spilled freely from your eyes, slipping pass the cracks between your fingers as your body shook with each wail. With trembling lips your mind raced. You thought that you could handle it, that seeing him wouldn't wound you. But hearing Stack talk as if nothing mattered, as if he wasn't even affected by your presence made you feel hollow inside. He didn't just leave - he thrown you away. And that shit cuts deep, it felt like a knife hit your gut from his casual actions towards you.
A knock cut through your cries as your head throb with an ache, inhaling the sharp cold bathroom air your fingers wiped away the smeared makeup on your face due to the tears.
"Yea', you can come in." You whispered out, you assumed that Pearline was on the other side of the door - it made sense because only close friends of the twins were allowed to enter the vacant house. The sound of the door creaking open sent a wave of embarrassment through you.
But it wasn't Pearline your eyes were meet with.
It was Stack.
Stepping inside of the small bathroom he quietly closed the door behind him. His expression was different from the charming smile he wore prior to making you cry, all the jokes and cocky aura melted away like ice under the heat of the Mississippi sun. Guilt tugged Stack's face as he looked over your tear stained cheeks, your mascara running and your cherry red lipgloss slightly smeared from your hands pressing closely to your face.
"I-I didn't know you were cryin'." Stack muttered softly, his body leaning on the door and his brown eyes refusing to leave your shaking form. You didn't reply to him and you bit your lip, the gold teeth in your mouth slightly jabbing against the plump skin on your bottom lip. Glaring at Stack through glossy eyes you shook your head - you were growing tired of his antics.
"Hey, I didn't come in here to hurt you I just--"
"But you did hurt me, Stack! You did!" You shouted, cutting him off from his rambling. Your arms were crossed around yourself in an attempt to self soothe the anxiety that was threatening to spill over. Silence fell over the two of you and his eyes soften at your words.
"You left me like I wasn't shit. No goodbyes, not even a fuckin' breakup call! A-And then I find out you cheated on me with some bitch who lives in the suburbs," you shook your head as a pained smile danced across your lips, and with teary eyes you continued. "And now you show up and act like nothin' happened between us - you're such a joke, Stack."
Stack looked down as his hands rested in the pockets of his pants, guilt crashing into him like waves in a tsunami. He felt like shit hearing those words escape from your mouth - but those words were the truth - the bitter truth. He wasn't a good boyfriend to you; yes he took care of you, he praised you, and he adored you - but good to you? That wasn't the case. He treated you like a random fling even though the feelings he felt about you were so much more intense.
"I'm a coward," Stack mumbled. "I-I just didn't know how to be with you and still become the man I wanted to be."
"Oh, boo-hoo! You ain't even try!" You snapped as your voice cracked with each word you cried out, you hated how hurt you sounded and how raw you felt. Stack didn't flinch at your words and with a roll of his shoulders he spoke again, his southern accent curling around your ears like music.
"I was scared, I thought if I left without tellin', you'd realize that I'm no good - that you'll move on to someone better," he stepped closer towards you and the feeling of his shirt lightly grazing the exposed skin of your crossed arms. "But when I came back in town; I asked about you, and I was happy to know that you were still here - that maybe I could start over and fix this shit."
The air between you two were thicker now, more intense, and you couldn't take your eyes off of Stack.
You didn't want to.
"I never stopped thinkin' about you," he whispered low. "Even when I tried to, you were always on my mind when I left, I damn near felt lost without you."
"Then why you actin' like I never meant anything to you?"
Stack's lips twitched and his expression looked like he was scanning his scattered thoughts, as if trying to find the right words to say. His large and calloused hand reached out slowly, hovering over your arms, unsure if he could touch you without you swatting his hand away.
"Because if I admit to myself just how much you mean to me; then I woulda had to realize that I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me too..."
A tight lump formed in your throat at his words, you wanted to scream in his face, to push him out the bathroom and tell him to leave you alone - forever.
But you didn't.
You just stared at him as your chest heaved with shallow breaths. You hated him, you loved him, you missed him, and you never wanted to see him again. Your hands moved as if they had a mind of their own and you rested them on his broad shoulders, the feeling of the soft fabric under your fingers sent shockwaves and aching desire towards your core. Stack was the man that ruined you - but he was also the same one who built you up when no one would have.
Stack shuttered out a sigh of relief under your touch, as if feeling your hand press against his tense muscles was all he needed. His strong arms wrapped around your waist tightly, pulling your frame towards his, and his forehead rested on your bare shoulder. The party that was just outside of the door was muffled by the heavy breathing that escaped both of your lungs.
Leaving his head from the crook of your neck - both of your eyes clashed with each other - neither one of you breaking the intense gaze. And with a passing second your lips met his, the kiss was soft as if your bodies were trying to get reacquainted with each other, and his strong hands raced over your backside - clinging onto you as if you'd disappear from his touch.
The once soft kiss grew deeper - more hungry. And your fingers interlocked behind his head, the cold feeling of the multiple chains he wore grazed your knuckles. Tears still clung onto your long lashes as Stack cupped your face in his hand, both of your tongues fighting and dancing against each other. The taste of weed and alcohol filled your mouth as his bit your lip, begging you if he could go further pass just kissing.
You knew that you shouldn't do this; he hadn't earn to touch you like this again, he hadn't fix the broken heart that he shattered brutally, and he hadn't changed enough to re-enter your life as if he never left. But your heart, so tender and pure, still remembered those nights were he held you close. Making love to you and touching you places where only he knew that made you shiver in ecstasy.
"This doesn't mean I forgive you, Stack."
"I know, baby. But lemme show you how much I missed you."
──⭒─⭑─⭒────⭒─⭑─⭒──
You and Stack slipped through the dark and quiet home like ghosts, his strong hands held your waist flush against his body as he guided you through the dark hallways of his older brother's house. The wooden floorboards creaked and groan beneath your feet with each step you both took. Stack's lips brushed the soft skin of your shoulder, placing tender kisses up your neck - just stopping below your ear.
You could feel his growing bulge pressing against your ass as his steady and firm hands grasp at your waist, a shiver of delight rushed through your body as memories of him fucking you made the ache between your thighs grow in anticipation. You grinded your self onto Stack which only made him quicken the pace through the house.
Your pulsed quicken under his open mouth and you could feel him smiling against your skin, cutting through the neat living room, you and Stack reached the guest bedroom. With careful hands he slowly turned the knob and his head lulling back to make sure no one saw the two of you sneaking inside of the bedroom. When the coast was clear - you both shuffled into the room. His arm still wrapped around your waist and quiet click was heard, he locked the door making sure no one would interrupt the two of you.
The once burnt orange of the evening sunset had faded away; now the blue shadows of nighttime crept into the dark room, the silver moonlight pooling across the empty bed and you turned on your heel, crashing your lips against his and his hands squeezing your ass. You gasp at the feeling of his ring slightly scraping against the skin of your ass, which made him deepen the kiss again. Your hands tightly gripped his shirt within your fist, pulling him closer until the back of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
Stack adjusted his body weight as he hovered over you, making sure that he wouldn't crush you underneath him, and the sound of his jewelry clinking against each other made your head spin. You bit his lip as he pulled away from the kiss, which earned a low hiss from him. You smiled lazily as his knowing hands traced over the hem of your shorts, his fingers tracing small shapes over the denim pockets until they landed on the button.
You began to kick your shoes off as Stack unbutton your shorts, your lip tugged between your teeth as you watched his movements. The sound of the zipper becoming undone made a wave of arousal clung at your already soaking pussy and your hips slightly bucked forward as Stack slowly pulled your shorts off, leaning on your forearms you raised your hips - helping him slip off the denim on your body.
All you wore now was your tube top, cotton panties with a small bow at the waistband, and white cotton socks. He reached for your shirt but you swatted his hands away from the thin fabric.
"If I take a piece of clothing off it's only fair that you do too." You whispered, showing off the golden grills that Stack gifted you years ago. Seeing your already beautiful smile made his heart flutter - but the sight of you with golden capped teeth made his already stiffening member grow even harder - the man was straining against his pants.
With nimble fingers Stack pulled off his shirt along with the tight beater that clung onto his hard muscles, he was shirtless now and his multiple chains glistened under the moonlight - the diamonds danced against his brown skin and it looked as if he himself was glowing. Laying on his back you straddled him and your hands steered his towards your top, his chestnut colored irises lit up when he felt your breast through your shirt.
"When you get your titties pierced?" He asked as he pinched the sensitive buds on your chest, making you grind your soaking core against his jeans, you could feel his dick twitch within his pants as you continue to rock your hips.
"A couple of weeks after you left; I wanted somethin' different."
"Fuck, baby. Lemme see 'em." Stack requested as both of your hands slipped off the blue top over your head. A small giggle escaped your lips at the sight of his face; his mouth went slack and his eyes were glued to your half nude body. His calloused hands raced across your skin and the sound of him kicking off his sneakers made you look back and with strong arms he pulled himself towards the headboard of the bed with you still sitting on his lap.
Once situated his hands cupped your breast and his thumbs slowly rolled over the pierced buds, slightly pressing down on the silver jewelry that adorn your chest, a shiver ran up your spine as you moaned out his name. You nipples were already sensitive, but after getting them pierced that sensitivity doubled, and you were practically shaking within Stack's arms.
With one hand he pinched your nipple, the sharp yet pleasurable sensation zapped through your body and straight to your aching pussy, his free hand held onto your hip as he lowered his head and latched his mouth onto your breast. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked your nipple, his teeth slightly pulling at the jewelry. Your nails dug into his strong shoulders as you threw your head back, encouraging words fell from your lips as you begged him to keep going and how good you were already feeling.
Stack hummed against your chest and your hand lovely stroked his hair carefully as to not mess up his waves. His tongue swirled your nipple as he helped you grind yourself on his hard dick, he still had his pants on as his hips bucked into you. With a wet pop, he release your breast from his mouth, biting his lip when your eyes connected again.
"You're too damn sexy, baby. I need to taste her. It's been too long and I know she misses me..." Stack whispered against your chest. He would always refer to your pussy as 'she' or 'her' when he got in this mood.
And you loved it.
"Feel how much she missed you, baby." You said into his open mouth as your hand guided his towards your wet sex, you still wore your panties but that didn't stop Stack from rubbing small circles on your clothed clit while his ring finger pressed against your entrance through the thin fabric. You humped against his hand which made a chuckle fall from his hips, his eyes trained on the movements of your hips against hand.
"Take these off, they gettin' in the way." He stated, which you gladly did, listening to his demand without a second thought. Leaning on his back against the soft blanket of the bed your breast pressed firmly onto his hard and well trained muscles on his chest. Your hips rising off of his body as you slide your panties off, kicking the soaked fabric off of your legs.
With a quick peck on the lips, Stack guided you to climb higher, your exposed pussy now in view as your hands rested on the headboard. Stack rested his head on the many pillows within the bed and his warm breath against your thigh made you tremble in anticipation. Lowering your hips with his hands, you were now sitting on his face, and his tongue flatten against your clit. Rolling your hips you began to ride his face, his tongue lazily yet full of expertise swiped across your aching entrance.
The tip of his tongue circled your clit and the rough feeling of his grills rubbing against the sensitive bud as he raced his tongue across your sex made you shiver. Stack's strong hands held onto your hips as he guided them against the movements of his tongue, with a vice grip you held onto the wooden headboard, and your eyes gazed down at the man. His brown eyes looked up at you, soaking up all of the curves on your body and the sweet taste of your pussy that danced on his tongue made him roll his eyes back in pleasure.
"Ugh, fuck!" You groaned out as your hips bucked against his face. Stack's lips wrapped around your clit, sucking on the sensitive bud and the overbearing sensation made you lean forward; resting your cheek on the headboard. You chanted out Stack's name - his actual name - as if it was a holy hymn. Hearing his name roll sweetly off of your tongue made Stack's head spin, and with strong arms he held onto your waist, leaning himself over.
You let out a small yelp in surprise as your once steady grip on the headboard disappeared - now replaced with soft bedsheets. Your body weight rested on your shoulders and your legs were up in the air, Stack's arms were wrapped around your torso, pulling you close to his muscular chest. Working over your core Stack slowly slipped his middle finger inside you and the feeling of his rings grazing your clit earned a giggle of pleasure from you.
With precise movements Stack moved his hand, pressing his finger in and out of your pussy as his lips kissed your inner thigh, and the feeling of his mustache tickled at your skin. Your hands rested on the bedsheets, gripping the fabric within your fist. Stack added another finger in, the wet sounds of your pussy echoed through the room, and the slick sounds only made him speed up his movements.
Stack's fingers were now fully inside of you, his ring and middle finger filling you up as they skillfully worked over your core. High pitched moans fell from your lips as your feet fluttered from the pleasure, and the familiar intense feeling swarmed towards your core. Stack pulled his mouth away from your pussy as his fingers began fucking into you. He whispered promises to you that you know he'd never keep, but in this moment you believed every word he spoke - lapping up those lies as if they were dipped in honey.
Within an instant a wave of euphoria crashed into you and a loud cry of pleasure escaped your lungs. Your body trembled within his vice grip, trying it's best to regulate itself from experiencing coming so hard on his thick fingers.
"Mhm, just like that, baby." Stack praised with a cocky smile plastered on his handsome face, his fingers continued to thrust into your sensitive core, which earned a cry from overstimulation from you. Your hands clung onto his forearms in an attempt to slow the pace of his fingers, taking the hint he slowly pulled them out of you, and with a playful slap against your pussy - he released you from his tight grasp - your body laying limp on the bed as he stood up.
Catching your breath your eyes danced over Stack's toned body, his hands unbuckling his belt, slipping off his jeans and boxers in one swift movement freeing himself. Stack was big, and each time he would fuck you after a fight, you'd walk with a limp the next day. His thick and heavy member twitched with anticipation of fucking you again after all these years. Stack's mind would wonder towards your body when he would touch himself or decided to fuck some random woman he would entertain during those grueling years in Chicago.
But his hands weren't yours and those women weren't you.
Pumping himself with his hand Stack flipped you over onto your stomach, pulling you close to him so your lower half dangled off the edge of the bed. You looked over your shoulder as you watched Stack's face twist with pleasure as he slowly entered you.
"Fuck..." He groaned out as his hands held onto your hips. The feeling of your pussy squeezing around him almost made him come right then and there, he was convinced that you both were made for each other - you were the only woman who could have that kind of effect on his body by just entering. Pushing himself all the way in, he paused his hips, savoring the feeling of you, and also helping you adjust yourself to him. You were so tight and so wet, he could stay in your pussy for hours if you let him.
"C'mon, Elias..." You begged as you began rocking your hips, urging the man to fuck you, which he gladly did. High pitched grunts fell from your lips with each thrust he made and the arch in your back became to much to support by yourself, his strong arms pushed you flush against the bed while holding your waist to keep your back arched against his powerful thrust of his hips. Your legs turned into jelly as they shook underneath you and your feet barely touched the ground - you were practically standing on the tips of your toes.
"Keep fucking me, keep fucking me!" You begged out between moans, Stack was rendered to only grunts and groans, but that didn't stop him from replying to you - in his own way of course. With a swift smack he landed a sharp slap against the plush skin of your ass, making you hiss out in a mixture of pleasure and pain. He continued fucking into you, smacking your ass, and holding your waist in a vice grip.
You sure you'll have bruises later.
Leaning upwards you turned your head with your mouth open, signaling to him that you wanted a kiss. Stack's needy lips crashed into yours as your tongue danced across his, you could taste how sweet you truly were on his lips and mustache. Your golden grills bumped into his in the passionate make-out session and his heavy body was leaning flush against your sweaty back. His chest heaved shallow breaths as his hips sporadically bucked into you - feeling his hard cock inside of you twitch you knew he was close.
And so you were.
Pulling away from the sloppy kiss, the string of saliva that connected between both of your bottom lips snapped, and Stack rested his head onto your shoulder. The same familiar feeling of overbearing pleasure that needed to be alleviated came back within your abdomen, and with a loud cry you came on Stack's dick. Your eyes rolled back as your fist gripped the bedsheets below you.
"Damn, baby. W-Where you want it?"
"Inside me, baby."
And without missing a beat Stack came too, a guttural groan reverberated through his body and crashed into you. The feeling of his hard jewelry pressing into your back grounded you as you catch your breathe, and the warm feeling of his come filling you up made you smile in relief. You both paused your movements and Stack was still inside of you, rolling his shoulders he slowly pulled out of you - which made you groan from the sensation. You rested your sore body onto the bed and your cheek rested on a soft pillow. Stack smiled as he playfully patted your ass.
"Good shit, baby." He smiled which made you roll your eyes, turning your head to look away from him, trying your best to kind the lopsided smile that clung onto your lips.
"You're so annoy--" but before you could finish your statement a sharp knock was heard on the door, the handle violently jiggling between each knock.
"Stack? I know ya'll ain't in there doin' what I think ya'll doin'!" The voice of Smoke shouted behind the lock door. Stack spat out a 'shit' and quickly sat up from the bed, putting on his boxers as he wiped his face with the back of his hand that was covered in your juices. You sat up and your eyes widen in alarm as you reached for your clothes, but Stacked waved at you to stop your movements.
Unlocking the door Stack's body stood in front of the small crack, hiding your naked form. Hushed whispers were shared between the twins and you assumed that Stack was getting cursed out by his older brother and with a sharp: "Clean that fuckin' room before ya'll leave." Smoke slipped away from the door, which made Stack shout back in his usual playful tone.
"I was already gon' do that!" And he closed the door behind him, sucking his teeth as he threw himself onto the bed next to you, making you bounce a bit from his added weight on the mattress. Brown eyes stared into each other as silence now fell over the two of you. Leaning in to close the space between each other Stack ran his fingers through your hair, tucking the braid behind your ear, and the sound of his chains clinking against each other made you ease under his touch.
"I'm so tender on you, girl...I promise I'll do right by you; just give me another chance." Stack whispered, his eyes training on your features as you bit your lip. You were terrified of being hurt by him again, but you were also scared living the rest of your days without feeling his touch too. Reaching for his shoulder you pulled him closer towards you - your lips ghosting over his and you finally gave him your answer.
The back room of the church smelled like polished wood and fresh lilies from the bouquets with a faint trace of cologne hanging in the air. Stack stood in front of the borrowed full-length mirror tugging at the lapels of his suit for the third time in two minutes. The tie was crooked again. He had loosened and retied it twice but it still looked off.
Smoke leaned against the wall by the door arms crossed watching his twin with that look he always had when he knew Stack was spiraling. Sammie sat on a folding chair in the corner scrolling his phone occasionally glancing up. Cornbread paced near the window, Delta Slim sat on the edge of a table sipping water, and Bo Chow stood off to the side fiddling with his cufflinks.
Stack let out a long breath through his nose staring at his reflection.
“I look like I’m about to throw up” he said.
Cornbread stopped pacing and grinned. “You right. You look terrible. Relax man. Candice already said yes.”
Stack shot him a look. “Man shut up.”
Cornbread raised his hands. “I’m just sayin’ if you do puke aim for the flowers. They already look half-dead.”
Sammie snorted without looking up from his phone. Delta Slim coughed into his fist hiding a laugh and Bo Chow shook his head smiling.
Stack rubbed a hand over his face. “I ain’t nervous about her sayin’ no. I’m nervous about trippin’ on the way down the aisle or forgetting my vows lookin’ stupid in front of everybody.”
Cornbread walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “You already look stupid. That’s why she loves you.”
The room broke into a laughter. Stack shook his head but a small smile tugged at his mouth. The tension in his shoulders eased a little.
Smoke pushed off the wall still quiet and still watching.
“Y’all give us a minute.”
Cornbread nodded. “Say less. We’ll be outside.”
The others filed out door clicking shut behind them. The room felt smaller without the noise.
Smoke stepped up to Stack reaching for the bow tie that had gone crooked again. He straightened it with careful fingers smoothing the knot tugging the collar just right.
Stack watched his brother’s hands then met his eyes in the mirror.
“I’m good,” Stack said but it came out like a question.
Smoke didn’t answer right away. He finished the tie then rested both hands on Stack’s shoulders turning him so they were face-to-face.
“You nervous?” Smoke asked.
Stack swallowed. “Yeah. Not about her. Just everything else. The room full of people. The vows. Tryin’ not to cry like a baby in front of everybody.”
Smoke nodded slow. “I was the same way. Day I married Annie? Thought I was gonna pass out before I even got to the altar. Hands shakin’ so bad I almost dropped the ring when the pastor asked for it.”
Stack raised an eyebrow. “You? Mr. Cool-and-Collected?”
“Me,” Smoke said small smile tugging at his mouth. “I kept lookin’ at the doors like I might bolt. But then the music started and Annie walked in. And man… soon as I saw her face everything just settled. Like the whole world narrowed down to her. All the noise in my head went quiet. I didn’t care who was watchin’ what I looked like none of it. Just her.”
He squeezed Stack’s shoulders once firm.
“That’s gonna happen for you too. Soon as you see Candice walk down that aisle all this jittery energy is gonna disappear. You’ll just be lookin’ at your woman. Your future wife. And you’ll know deep down this is the best decision you ever made.”
Stack’s throat tightened. He nodded once slow.
Smoke pulled him into a quick hug, then stepped back fixing Stack’s collar one more time.
“You got this” Smoke said. “She’s already yours. Today’s just makin’ it official.”
Stack exhaled shoulders finally loosening for real. “Thanks man.”
Smoke gave him one last proud look, then nodded toward the door.
“Come on. Let’s go get you married.”
They stepped out into the hallway together the sound of soft music already drifting from the sanctuary. Stack straightened his tie one last time took a deep breath and smiled small but real.
He was ready.
——————————————
The organist let the last notes of the prelude fade and the room hushed. Stack stood at the head of the aisle shoulders squared, suit crisp, and tie finally straight thanks to Smoke. The soft opening chords of Brandy’s “He Is” began floating through the church, her voice filling the space.
He took the first step.
The aisle wasn’t long but it felt endless. Rows of familiar faces turned toward him smiling, some teary-eyed already. Candice’s close friends sat near the front and as he passed they started a quiet wave of encouragement. He lifted a hand in acknowledgment waving and smiling through the nerves that still buzzed under his skin.
He reached the altar steps and greeted the preacher with a firm handshake and a quick nod. The older man smiled warmly patted his arm and murmured “She’s blessed to have you, son.”
“Nah, I’m blessed to have her,” Stack replied making the preacher smile at his response.
Stack turned to take his place and that’s when he saw it.
A single chair had been reserved in the front row on the groom’s side. A framed photo of his mother rested on the seat surrounded by a small halo of white roses and baby breath. Her smile in the picture was the same one she used to give him when he was little. A red ribbon was tied around the frame with a tiny note tucked into it that read in Candice’s neat handwriting.
Saving this seat for the woman who raised the love of my life.
He hadn’t known.
His throat tightened instantly. His eyes suddenly started to sting . He blinked hard, looked away, then looked back like maybe it would disappear if he stared long enough. It didn’t.
Candice.
Of course it was her idea.
He pressed two fingers to his lips and touched them to the frame like a kiss. He wished she was here more than he could say. Wished she could see this.
Wished she could squeeze his hand and tell him he was doing good like she always did.
But the empty chair. the roses, and the note were close enough. She was here in the way that mattered.
He took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and turned to face the doors just as they began to open.
His niece stepped through first basket in hand dropping rose petals in careful handfuls. She was six wearing a cream dress with tiny flowers in her hair and the most serious expression she could manage. When she looked up and saw him her face split into a huge grin. She hurried the rest of the way down the aisle petals fluttering behind her as reached him and tilted her head up for a kiss.
Stack crouched and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “You did good baby girl” he whispered. She beamed then went to her spot on the opposite side standing tall like she had been practicing.
The bridal party came next. The music shifted to a softer R&B groove.
Smoke walked in first with arm linked with Annie. She looked beautiful in a deep burgundy gown smiling at Stack like she already knew he was fighting tears. Smoke gave him a small nod, his eyes expressing how proud he was of his brother.
Bo Chow followed arm in arm with his wife Lisa both of them grinning wide. Delta Slim came next with one of Candice’s closest friend, the two of them laughing quietly about something only they knew. Cornbread walked with another of Candice’s girls trying and failing to keep a straight face. Sammie came last arm linked with Pearline.
Then the music changed.
The opening notes of Beyoncé’s “Die With You” drifted through the church. Everyone stood.
The doors opened again.
Candice stepped into view on her father’s arm.
Stack’s breath left him quickly.
She was breathtaking.
Her dress was ivory lace, off-the-shoulder sleeves hugging her arms, the bodice fitted close before flowing into a soft mermaid skirt that trailed lightly behind her. Her curls were swept into an elegant updo with a few loose curls framing her face, a simple crystal headpiece catching the light. Her makeup was natural but glowing. She carried herself with the confidence he loved, but her eyes were filled with tears, her smile wide and genuine.
Stack’s vision blurred immediately. Tears welled up spilling over without warning. He wiped at them roughly, but they kept coming. Smoke stepped closer, hand landing firm on his shoulder, squeezing once.
“Breathe, bro,” Smoke whispered. “She’s got you.”
Stack nodded, couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away. Candice’s dad walked her slowly down the aisle, every petal under her feet like a quiet path leading straight to him. When they reached the front, her dad lifted her veil, kissed her cheek, then placed her hand in Stack’s.
Stack’s fingers closed around hers, trembling. She squeezed back.
The preacher smiled, stepping forward as everyone sat.
“Dearly beloved,” the Pastor began, voice filling the small sanctuary. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God, and in the presence of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony. Marriage is a sacred covenant, instituted by God, a union of two souls becoming one. It is not to be entered into lightly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly, and in the fear of God. Into this holy estate these two persons come now to be joined.”
He paused, looking between them with a kind smile. “Elias and Candice have chosen to commit their lives to each other today, surrounded by the love of family and friends. We’ve all seen how they’ve grown together. Their love is a testament to patience, to kindness, to the kind of faith that moves mountains. As we witness their vows, let us remember that love is not just a feeling, but a choice. A daily promise to cherish, to support, to forgive. Elias and Candice, as you step into this new chapter, may your home be filled with peace, your days with joy, and your nights with the quiet comfort of knowing you are loved beyond measure.”
The preacher turned to Stack first. “Elias, do you take Candice to be your wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Stack’s voice came out filled thick with emotion. “I do.”
“And Candice, do you take Elias to be your wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”
Candice’s voice was soft, but clear. “I do.”
The preacher nodded. “Elias and Candice have chosen to exchange personal vows. Elias, you may begin.”
Stack took a breath, eyes never leaving Candice’s. The preacher nodded for him to begin, and the sanctuary went still, everyone leaning in just a little.
“Candice… I ain’t the type to stand up and talk pretty. You know that better than anybody. I’ve spent weeks tryin’ to write these vows, scratchin’ stuff out, startin’ over, because nothin’ felt big enough to say what I need you to know. So I’m just gonna say it plain, the way you always let me be with you.
You came into my life when I wasn’t lookin’ for anybody. I thought I had it all figured out. Then you showed up, laughin’ at my dumb jokes, callin’ me out when I was wrong, holdin’ my hand when the days got heavy. You didn’t just make things easier, you made me want more. You made me want to be better. To show up. To build somethin’ real.
I’ve seen you at your lowest and I still looked at you and still thought you are my person. You’ve seen me at mine and you stayed. You chose me anyway. That kind of love? I didn’t know it existed until you.
So here’s what I promise you. I promise to listen even when I’m mad. To hold you when you need it, even if I don’t know what to say. To fight for us when things get hard, and to celebrate every little win like it’s the biggest thing that ever happened. I promise to be patient when I’m not feelin’ patient, to be honest even when it’s messy, to keep choosin’ you every single day no matter what life throws at us. I promise to make you laugh, to make you feel safe, to make sure you never doubt you’re loved. I love you, Candice. Not just today, not just when it’s easy, but every day, in every way I know how. And I’m gonna spend the rest of my life provin’ it.”
His voice cracked on the last sentence. He swallowed hard, tears shining in his eyes, but he didn’t look away.
The preacher turned to Candice, giving her a gentle nod.
She took a shaky breath, squeezed Stack’s hands tighter, and started.
“Elias… you are the most hard-headed, ridiculous, beautiful man I’ve ever met. And I mean that in every good way. You made me feel seen when I felt invisible. You made me feel safe when the world felt loud. You made me believe in forever when I wasn’t sure it existed.
You’ve held me through panic attacks and bad days and moments when I didn’t like myself very much. You’ve celebrated me when I didn’t think I deserved it. You’ve fought for us when I was too tired to fight. You’ve loved me at my worst, and you’ve never once made me feel like I had to be anything other than who I am.
I promise to be your soft place when the world is hard. To laugh with you until we can’t breathe, to cry with you when things hurt, to dance with you in the kitchen at 2 a.m. I promise to choose you every day. I promise to build a life with you. I love you, Elias Moore. With everything I’ve got. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life being your wife.”
Tears streamed down her face freely now, but she was smiling. Stack’s own tears fell openly. He didn’t bother wiping them away this time.
The preacher stepped forward.
“Elias and Candice have declared their love and commitment before God and this community. By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
Stack cupped her face with both hands, thumbs brushing away her tears, and kissed her. She kissed him back, hands on his chest, fingers curling into his suit. The room erupted in cheers, claps, whistles. Smoke was whooping loudest, Cornbread yelling something that got lost in the noise, their friends and family on their feet.
They pulled back, foreheads touching, both laughing through tears.
The preacher turned them to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. and Mrs. Moore!”
The recessional music swelled, and they walked back down the aisle hand in hand, faces beaming, and the cheers following them out into the sunlight.
—————————————————————-
The reception hall glowed under strings of warm bulbs draped across the ceiling like stars. Long tables were covered in cream linens with low centerpieces of white roses and eucalyptus. The DJ booth sat in the corner playing low R&B as guests found their seats and started on the family-style dinner. Laughter and silverware clinked everywhere. It felt like home.
Stack and Candice made their entrance to cheers and whistles hand in hand. She was still in her lace dress veil removed but the crystal comb sparkling in her curls. He kept his arm around her waist the whole way to the head table thumb rubbing small circles just above her hip. Every time someone stopped them for a hug or a photo his fingers dipped a little lower brushing the top of her ass through the fabric. She shot him a look and he just grinned playful as ever like he knew exactly what he was doing.
They sat at the head table with the bridal party. Smoke and Annie were to Stack’s right already laughing about something. Cornbread was across from them already telling a story too loud. Sammie sat next to Pearline stealing glances at her every few seconds. Delta Slim and Bo Chow were at the end both relaxed but watching the room like they were still on duty.
Dinner passed in a blur of plates being passed toasts and easy conversation. Candice’s friends kept pulling her up for quick hugs and photos. Every time Candice leaned over to talk to someone Stack’s hand would slide higher on her thigh under the tablecloth fingers tracing the edge of her garter. She squeezed her legs together once trapping his hand. He just smirked and squeezed back.
Cornbread leaned across the table pointing his fork at Stack. “Man look at you over there grinnin’ like you won the lottery. Candice got you actin’ right for once. I remember when you used to trip over your own feet tryna talk to girls. Now look at you, married and still trippin’ just in a suit this time.”
Stack laughed shaking his head. “Man you never let nothin’ go do you?”
“Nope” Cornbread said popping the ‘p’. “That’s my job. Keep you humble. Can’t have you walkin’ around thinkin’ you the man just ‘cause you got a ring now.”
Candice leaned in smiling. “He’s always been the man Cornbread. Just took him a minute to find the right woman to prove it to.”
Cornbread clutched his chest. “Ooh she got jokes too. Y’all perfect for each other. Dangerous.”
The toasts started after dessert. Candice’s maid of honor went first telling funny stories from their college days. Laughter rolled through the room. Then it was Smoke’s turn as best man.
Smoke stood mic in hand clearing his throat. He was the serious one, so when he smiled it carried weight.
“Alright y’all” Smoke began. “For those who don’t know me I’m Elijah, Elias’s twin his older brother by three minutes and apparently the only one who can keep him out of trouble… most of the time.”
Light laughter rippled.
“I’ve known this man my whole life. We came into this world together grew up sharing everything. But today I get to stand here and say I’ve never been prouder of my brother. Stack’s always been the playful one. But he’s also the one who shows up when it counts. Steady. Loyal. Heart bigger than he lets on.”
Smoke paused eyes flicking to the reserved chair with their mom’s photo. His voice softened.
“Mom would’ve loved this. Loved Candice. She always said Stack needed someone who could match his heart. Candice that’s you. She would’ve been sitting right there cryin’ happy tears tellin’ everybody how her boys finally got it right. She’s watchin’ bro. Proud as hell. We all are.”
The room went quiet for a second. Stack’s eyes glistened as he blinked hard nodding once. Candice squeezed his hand under the table her own tears welling up. Smoke raised his glass.
“To Stack and Candice, may your love stay as strong as your stubborn streaks. May your house always be loud with laughter your bed always warm and your arguments always end in make-up sex.”
Laughter broke the silence, glasses clinking. “Cheers!”
The DJ transitioned into the first dance the opening notes of PJ Morton’s “First Began” filling the space. Stack stood offering his hand to Candice with a small playful grin.
“Mrs. Moore?”
She took it letting him lead her to the center. Guests quieted phones out as he pulled her close, one hand low on her back the other laced with hers against his chest. They swayed gently at first her head resting on his shoulder his chin tucked against her hair.
“You look beautiful” he whispered lips brushing her ear. His hand on her back dipped lower fingers splaying just above the curve of her ass pulling her tighter so their bodies pressed together. She could feel him half-hard through his slacks.
She tilted her head up lips grazing his jaw. “You clean up nice yourself husband.” Her free hand slid up his chest fingers toying with his chain under the collar tugging it lightly. He groaned low hips shifting forward just enough to grind against her.
“Keep that up and we’re sneakin’ out early” he murmured. His thumb traced the edge of her spine dipping lower still brushing the top of her ass through the lace. “Can’t stop thinkin’ about gettin’ this dress off you… bendin’ you over the hotel bed… fuckin’ my wife the way you want.”
Candice shivered pressing closer her thigh slotting between his so she could feel him fully. “Promise?” she whispered back nipping at his earlobe. “I’ve been wet since this morning.”
He sucked in a breath hand tightening on her hip. “Fuck baby… you tryin’ to kill me out here?”
They kept swaying but the dance turned spicier, subtle grinds when the lights dimmed his lips brushing her neck when he thought no one was looking her fingers slipping under his jacket to trace his abs. By the time the song faded they were both breathing harder eyes locked with that shared tension.
Smoke and Annie approached from the side moving through the crowd. Annie carried two fresh champagne glasses, Smoke trailing behind with his usual calm stride. They stopped in front of the newlyweds.
“Y’all already look like you’re halfway to the honeymoon” Annie teased handing Candice one of the glasses.
Candice laughed sitting up a little straighter. “Feels like it.”
Stack took the other glass from Smoke with a nod. “Thanks man.”
Smoke pulled out the empty chair next to Stack and sat Annie perching on the armrest beside him. He leaned in slightly voice low so only the four of them could hear over the music.
“We got somethin’ for y’all” Smoke said reaching into his jacket pocket and sliding a slim white envelope across the table. “Our wedding gift.”
Candice glanced at Stack curious then picked it up. She opened the flap and pulled out two plane tickets and a printed confirmation for a resort. Her eyes widened as she read the destination.
“Turks and Caicos?” she breathed.
Stack leaned over to look brows lifting. “Y’all serious?”
Smoke shrugged like it was nothing. “All-inclusive. Seven days. Private villa on the beach. Flights out Saturday morning. Annie and I figured y’all deserved to disappear for a week after all this.”
Annie smiled resting her hand on Smoke’s shoulder. “We booked it months ago. Wanted to surprise you. Just the two of you, sand, sun and whatever trouble you get into.”
Candice’s eyes shimmered hand flying to her mouth. “Y’all… this is too much. We can’t—”
“You can and you will” Smoke cut in gently. “You’ve been holdin’ it down for everybody else long enough. Go be newlyweds. That’s the only rule.”
Stack stared at the tickets for a long second then looked up at his brother. His voice came out quieter than usual. “Man… thank you. For real.”
Smoke just nodded the serious look in his eyes softening. “You deserve it bro.”
Annie leaned forward playful glint in her eye. “And when you come back we expect results.”
Candice laughed wiping at her eyes. “Results?”
Smoke smirked finally letting a little playfulness show. “Yeah. We want a niece or nephew runnin’ around by next summer. Don’t come back empty-handed.”
Stack barked a laugh shaking his head. “Man you wild.”
Annie swatted Smoke’s arm lightly. “What he means is… we’re ready to be the fun aunt and uncle. No pressure.” She winked. “But seriously no pressure.”
Candice leaned into Stack her head on his shoulder again. “We’ll see what happens” she said softly smiling up at him. “But I like the sound of that.”
Stack kissed the top of her head arm tightening around her. “Yeah. Me too.”
Smoke stood pulling Annie up with him. “Enjoy the rest of the night. We’ll handle the send-off. Y’all just focus on gettin’ out of here without Cornbread yellin’ somethin’ stupid.”
They walked off leaving the envelope on the table like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Candice turned the tickets over in her hands eyes shining. “Turks and Caicos. A whole week. Just us.”
Stack pulled her closer lips brushing her ear. “No interruptions. No clothes half the time. Just you me and a bed with ocean view.”
She shivered turning to kiss him right there at the table not caring who saw.
“Best gift ever” she whispered against his mouth.
He grinned playful spark back in his eyes. “Wait till you see what I got planned for night one.”
She laughed swatting his chest lightly. “Behave. We still got cake to cut.”
He pulled her up with him hand low on her back again. “Cake first. Then we disappear.”
The DJ called for the cake cutting next. Stack and Candice stood side by side at the small round table the crowd gathering around with phones out. He cut the first slice fed her a careful bite then smeared a little frosting on her bottom lip. She raised an eyebrow. He leaned in slow and licked it off in front of everybody tongue dragging just long enough to make her breath hitch. Guests cheered and whistled.
Candice laughed wiping her mouth with a napkin. “You’re gonna pay for that later.”
Stack just grinned wider. “Lookin’ forward to it.”
She returned the favor a second later. She fed him a bite then licked frosting off his finger slowly with her eyes locked on his. His jaw tightened, hand flexing on her hip. She whispered so only he could hear, “That’s just a preview, baby.”
The DJ’s voice cut through the music.
“Alright y’all it’s that time! Bouquet toss comin’ up then the garter toss right after. Ladies, single ladies, get to the floor. Groomsmen you know what’s next for the fellas.”
A ripple of excited chatter spread through the room. Candice laughed squeezing Stack’s hand. “Guess that’s my cue.”
He pulled her close for a quick kiss before letting her go. “Go show ‘em how it’s done, baby.”
She walked to the center of the dance floor bouquet in hand. The single women gathered behind her laughing and jostling for position. Pearline stood near the back arms crossed pretending she wasn’t really trying.
Candice turned her back to the group counted down loud enough for everyone to hear, “One… two… three!”
She tossed the bouquet high over her shoulder with a little spin for flair. The flowers arced through the air petals fluttering and the women surged forward with their arms up squealing. Pearline who had been half-paying attention instinctively reached up when the bouquet sailed right toward her. It landed perfectly in her hands. She froze for a second staring at the roses.
The room exploded with cheers, whistles, and laughter.
Cornbread yelled from the side “Pearline catchin’ the bouquet? Oh we got a wedding next year!”
Pearline’s laughed holding the bouquet up like a trophy while her friends swarmed her with hugs.
Candice turned back around grinning wide. She caught Stack’s eye across the room. He was already smirking arms crossed looking way too pleased with how things were going.
The DJ kept the momentum going. “Alright fellas time for the garter toss! Groom you know what to do.”
Stack stood playful grin spreading across his face. He walked over to Candice who was already laughing and shaking her head. The DJ dropped a slow sexy beat to set the mood.
Stack crouched down in front of her hands sliding up her calves first. The room hooted and whistled. Candice bit her lip trying to keep a straight face but her eyes were locked on his.
He pushed the hem of her dress up inch by inch revealing her legs the lace garter hugging her thigh. His fingers traced the edge of it lingering just long enough to make her breath hitch.
The crowd was loud with cheers and Cornbread yelling “Take your time nephew!”
He hooked his fingers under the garter eyes never leaving hers and slowly dragged it down her leg. His thumb brushed the inside of her thigh as he went and she had to grip his shoulders to steady herself.
When the garter finally slid off her ankle he stood twirling it around his finger like a prize. Candice leaned in quick whispering against his ear so only he could hear, “You’re in so much trouble later.”
He grinned and kissed her hard right there in front of everybody. The room went wild again.
Stack turned to the group of single guys gathered on the dance floor. He crouched back to them and tossed the garter high over his shoulder. It sailed through the air and landed right in Sammie’s hands. The kid looked stunned for half a second then broke into a huge grin holding it up like he had just won a championship belt.
Cornbread yelled from the side “Sammie catchin’ the garter? Boy you next! Pearline already got the bouquet, y’all better start plannin’!”
Stack walked back to Candice pulling her close again hand low on her back. “Told you tonight was gonna be fun” he murmured against her ear.
She laughed softly pressing against him. “You’re not done yet.”
He kissed her neck quick voice dropping. “Not even close.”
————————————————————
The drive from the reception to the hotel was a blur of city lights streaking past tinted windows, the back seat thick with the scent of fragrances still clinging to their clothes and the faint champagne on their breath. Stack kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting high on Candice’s thigh. His fingers flexed every few minutes like he was reminding himself she was real, that the ring on her finger was real, that she had said “I do” in front of everyone they loved.
Candice leaned her head against his shoulder, left hand resting on his thigh, thumb brushing over the fabric of his slacks. She kept lifting her hand to look at the diamond again, turning it slowly so it caught the passing streetlights.
“I still can’t believe it,” she whispered, voice soft and a little awed. “We’re married.”
Stack glanced at her, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Believe it, baby. You’re stuck with me now.”
She laughed quietly, squeezing his thigh. “Good thing I like being stuck.”
They pulled up to the hotel, same one they had booked for the night before the wedding, now their official first night as husband and wife. The valet took the keys and they walked inside hand in hand, her dress swishing softly, his suit jacket slung over one shoulder.
The elevator ride was quiet. His arm around her waist, her head on his chest, both of them breathing in the moment. When the doors opened on their floor, he scooped her up bridal style without warning, making her squeal and laugh.
“Tradition,” he said, grinning as he carried her down the hallway.
“Put me down before you drop me,” she teased, but her arms looped around his neck anyway.
He kissed her quick. “Never droppin’ you.”
At the door he managed the keycard one-handed, kicked it open, and stepped inside.
The room took their breath away.
Roses were scattered across every surface. Petals trailed from the door to the king bed, where more roses formed a heart shape on the white duvet. Candles flickered on the nightstands, the dresser, the small table by the window. The curtains were open, city lights sparkling beyond the glass. A bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket. On the dresser sat a small tray with chocolate-covered strawberries, and note that read simply
To Mr. & Mrs. Moore,
Enjoy your first night as husband and wife. Love, Annie & Smoke.
Candice’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God…”
Stack set her down gently, still holding her waist, both of them staring.
“They did this?” she asked.
“Had to be them,” he said. “Smoke said he’d handle the send-off… guess this is what he meant.”
Candice walked forward slowly, fingers trailing over the rose petals on the bed. She picked one up, twirling it between her fingers, then turned back to him with shining eyes.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “They’re beautiful.”
Stack closed the distance, pulling her into his arms. “You’re beautiful.”
He kissed her. No rush. Just lips moving together, hands roaming like they were rediscovering each other. His hands slid up her back, finding the zipper of her dress and tugging it down slowly.
The lace fell to the floor. She stepped out of it in just her strapless bra, panties, and garter belt. He stepped back for a second, eyes raking over her slowly.
“God…” he breathed, voice cracking just a little. “That dress was beautiful on you. But it looks even better off.”
Candice’s breath hitched, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I want you to see all of me. Take the rest of my clothes off.”
He did slowly, like he was unwrapping something precious. The lace bra fell away, exposing her breasts. He palmed them gently, thumbs brushing over the peaks, making her gasp softly.
“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmured. “These breast… perfect. Always loved how they feel in my hands. How they look when you’re ridin’ me, bouncin’ on me.”
He leaned down, taking one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the bud. Candice’s head tipped back, fingers gripping the back of his head holding him there. He switched to the other giving it the same attention, his teeth grazing just enough to make her whimper.
“Love your skin,” he said against her, kissing down her stomach, dropping to his knees. “So soft… so warm… tastes like heaven.” His hands slid to her hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of her panties. He tugged them down slowly, letting them pool at her ankles. She stepped out, spreading her legs a little wider when he looked up at her.
He kissed her inner thigh. “This pussy…” he said. “Been thinkin’ about tastin’ it all night. My wife’s pussy. All mine now.”
Candice shivered, one hand bracing on his shoulder. “Then taste it,” she whispered.
He rose up just enough to guide her backward toward the bed. His hands firm on her hips, walking her until the backs of her knees hit the mattress. She sat then laid back slowly, propped on her elbows at first. Stack reached over carefully moving the small platter of chocolate-covered strawberries and the scattered roses out of the way pushing them to the far side of the nightstand so the petals wouldn’t stick to her skin or get crushed under them. He swept a few stray petals off the duvet with his palm, clearing a space for her, then eased her down fully onto her back.
The roses around the heart shape pressed softly against her shoulders and hips as she settled, a few petals clinging to her skin. He knelt between her spread thighs again, looking down at her.
“Look at you,” he said quietly. “Laid out like this… all mine.”
He leaned in, kissing the soft skin just above her mound, then lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses along her inner thighs. His hands slid under her ass lifting her hips slightly so he could get the angle he wanted. He kissed her folds first, then dragged his tongue slow and flat from her entrance to her clit, collecting her juices on his tongue. She moaned softly, hips twitching up toward his mouth. He groaned against her, the vibration making her gasp.
“Fuck… taste so good,” he murmured, lips brushing her folds. “Sweet. Wet. All for me.”
He dove in properly. His lips sealed around her clit, sucking gently at first and his tongue flicking the swollen bud in slow strokes. He took his time alternating between soft sucks and broad flat licks that covered her entire slit before circling back to her clit. Candice’s breathing turned shallow, hips shifting restlessly against his mouth.
He slid one finger inside her curling it gently against that spot on her front wall. He didn’t pump fast. He stroked slow letting her feel every inch as he added a second finger. The wet sounds were quiet at first, just soft slick glides, but they grew louder as he worked her open and as she got wetter.
“Elias…” she whispered, voice trembling a little. “That feels…”
He hummed against her clit in response, the vibration making her thighs tense. He kept the pace steady. Every time her hips tried to buck faster, he pressed his free hand to her lower stomach holding her still.
“Easy, baby,” he said against her, lips brushing her skin. “Let me take my time with you. We got all night.”
She whimpered, one hand flying to his waves, fingers tracing the patterns. Her other hand gripped the edge of the duvet. The slow build was torture. He knew her body too well. Every time she got close he eased off switching to soft broad licks, fingers slowing to shallow strokes until she was panting
“Please,” she gasped after what felt like forever. “Elias… please let me come.”
He looked up at her “Not yet,” he said softly. “I want to enjoy my meal a little longer.”
He went back to work sucking her clit harder now, tongue flicking faster, fingers curling deeper pressing harder against that spot. The wet sounds grew louder. He hummed against her again, the vibration constant now.
Her thighs started trembling, muscles jumping under his grip. “Baby….oh God… I’m close… I’m so close…”
He didn’t let up. She was dripping down his goatee, her juices coating his hand and the sheets beneath her.
“Give it to me, baby,” he murmured against her, words muffled. “Let go for your husband. Cum all over my tongue.”
That did it. Her back arched off the bed and thighs clamped around his ears with a broken sob tearing from her throat as she came hard. Her juices flooded his mouth. He licked her through , drawing out every aftershock until she was trembling.
Stack eased her down onto the bed, careful not to crush the roses scattered across the duvet. A few petals clung to her back and thighs as she settled, the soft red and white blooms pressing into her skin like tiny kisses. He stood at the edge of the mattress for a moment, just looking at her taking in every inch of her bare body in the candlelight.
“Stay right there,” he said. “Don’t move. I want you to watch me.”
Candice propped herself up on her elbows, lips parted She nodded, eyes already heavy with want.
He started slow, like he was putting on a private show just for her. First the suit jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders and letting it drop to the floor with a soft thud. Then he pulled his tie free in one smooth tug, letting the silk slide through his fingers before tossing it aside. His shirt came next. He unbuttoned it slowly, one button at a time, eyes never leaving hers. When the last one gave way, he shrugged it off, letting it fall behind him.
He kicked off his shoes, then unbuckled his belt. The zipper came down next, loud in the quiet room. He pushed his slacks down his thighs and stepped out of them, leaving him in just black boxer briefs that did nothing to hide how hard he was. The outline of his dick was straining against the fabric, a dark wet spot already blooming at the tip.
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband, pausing to let her look. “You want this?” he asked. “Want to see what you do to me?”
Candice bit her lip, nodding. “Show me.”
He pushed the briefs down slow until his dick sprang free. Thick, flushed dark, veins standing out, the head slick and shining with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped slowly down the shaft. It swung heavy between his legs as he stepped out of the briefs completely, bobbing slightly with his heartbeat.
Stack wrapped his hand around the base, giving himself one slow stroke, thumb swiping over the head to spread the pre-cum. He groaned low, eyes locked on hers.
“Touch yourself,” he said. “Let me see you play with that pretty pussy while I stroke my dick for you.”
Candice’s breath caught. She slid one hand down her stomach, fingers dipping between her thighs. She circled her clit slowly, moaning softly as she watched him stroke himself.
“Look at you,” he murmured, stepping closer. “So wet for me. Spread those legs wider, baby. Let me see.”
Her knees fell open, fingers sliding down to part her folds so he could see everything. Her swollen clit, glistening entrance, the way her pussy clenched around nothing.
“Fuck,” he groaned, stroking faster. “That’s it. Play with that clit. Imagine it’s my tongue.”
She whimpered, fingers moving faster, hips rolling up into her own touch. “Elias… want you inside me…”
He climbed onto the bed, settling between her thighs. His dick brushed her inner thigh, leaving a wet streak of pre-cum. He leaned down, kissing her while he lined himself up. The head nudged her entrance, rubbing through her juices.
He hovered above her for a moment, arms braced on either side of her head, just looking. His chain dangled between them, cool metal brushing her chest with every slow breath he took.
“Ready?” he whispered against her lips.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Please…”
He pushed in slow letting her feel his thickness stretching her open again. The head popped past her entrance, then the shaft followed, dragging against her walls until he was buried deep. A guttural groan rumbled from his chest as he bottomed out.
He stayed still for a long moment, forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard through his nose. His chain rested heavy between her breasts, cool metal warming slowly from their skin.
She whimpered softly, legs wrapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to pull him even closer.
He started moving pulling out almost all the way letting her feel the drag of every vein before sinking back in deep, grinding at the end so her clit pressed hard against his pelvis.
Every downstroke made her gasp. She couldn’t talk. Couldn’t string words together. Just soft, trembling moans and whimpers, hips lifting instinctively to meet him, thighs trembling against his sides.
Stack groaned low every time he sank in. The wet claps of their bodies filled the room mixed with the creak of the bed and the rustle of sheets twisting around their legs. Rose petals shifted and stuck to their damp skin with every movement.
He kissed her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below her ear. A broken moan escaped him when she clenched around him, walls fluttering hard.
“Fuck…” he groaned against her skin. “So tight… feels so good…”
Another deep roll caused her to whimper louder, nails digging into his shoulders. He answered with a rough groan, hips stuttering for a second before he pushed back in even deeper.
Their breathing grew heavier, more uneven. Candice’s walls started fluttering harder around him, that familiar tightening making his groans turn deeper, more desperate. She was close, again, and he could feel it in the way her thighs trembled against his sides, the way her fingers clutched his shoulders, the way her moans turned higher.
“Elias…” she managed, voice cracking into a whine.
He pressed his forehead to hers, eyes locked, breathing hard. A low groan tore from his throat as she clenched around him again.
“Fuck… baby…” he panted, hips rolling deeper, grinding harder. “Gonna cum… feel you squeezin’ me…”
She clenched harder at his words, hips lifting to meet his thrusts, chasing it.
He thrust once, twice more and she broke. Her back arched off the bed, thighs clamping tight around his waist, a broken cry tearing from her throat as she came hard. Walls pulsing, fluttering, milking him in rhythmic waves. Juices gushed around him soaking them both and dripping down onto the sheets beneath them.
The feeling of her coming undone pushed him over. He buried himself deep, hips grinding tight against her as he came with a groan. “Fuck—” he panted, voice breaking. “Yes… take all this nut…”
Hot pulses spilled inside her, and his body shuddered through every wave. He groaned again as he emptied everything, still rocking gently to ride it out.
He stayed buried inside her for a long minute, rocking slowly through the aftershocks, kissing her softly. When he finally eased out, their mixed juices trickled down her thigh. He reached down, fingers sliding through it, pushing it back inside her gently.
“Keep that in there,” he murmured, voice hoarse and soft. “Want you full of me all night.”
She shivered, pulling him down for another kiss. “Then don’t stop,” she whispered against his mouth. “I want more of you. All night.”
He grinned against her lips, already hardening again inside her. “All night it is, baby.
Imagine Stack or Smoke taking a shy thick girl’s virginity!
how about... smoke and stack? 😼
cw : oral sex, fingering, taking turns, unprotected (he pulled out), it's painfully obvious how much I need them both-, spit play (stack loves spit play its canon), not proofread, english isn't my first language
"so... how is this even going to work..?" you questioned. and honestly, reasonable. because seeing the two twins walk towards you on the bed, one loosening his tie while the other was already working on his belt, is something worth questioning.
smoke held an arm out to stop stack—who had been rushing to fasten his belt— in his tracks. "don't get ahead of yourself," smoke ordered and stack groaned, letting out a low, honey-coated laugh. "we're here to fuck her, yeah? why you stoppin' me?" "It's her first time. we can't rush it." you squeezed your thighs together at the interaction, whining.
their attention turned back to you as smoke made his way to you, finally kissing you into the pillow your head was resting on.
he leaned in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your lips. his hand brushes your jaw, gentle at first, then firmer, anchoring you to the moment. your heart stumbles as his mouth meets yours—slow, searching, then deeper, urgent. his lips taste like heat and want, and when he presses closer, it's as if the rest of the world falls away.
you respond without thinking, your fingers clutching his shirt, needing him nearer. the kiss burns—soft and rough all at once—leaving you breathless, undone beneath his touch.
as if on cue, while smoke kissed you, stack made his way to between your legs that he peeled open softly while gripping the flesh of your thighs for underneath your skirt. he hiked it up and kissed his way up your inner thigh, the proximity to his goal arousing him.
smoke pulled away, his hand snaking to underneath your top as he massaged your breast, his hand following your chests up-and-down movement. before you knew it, stack had pulled your underwear to the side, and you jumped when you felt his tongue lick a long, teasing stripe up your slit.
"o-oh my- what are you-!?" your cheeks heated up when you felt him smile against your cunt. you could not see him, as he was underneath your skirt, but the sensation of his warm breath on your now exposed skin had you throbbing. "you better not be messin' around under there, stack." smoke warned, which earned him another chuckle from the twin. "you'd be surprised."
smoke went back to distracting you from the overwhelming sensation of stack eating you out, pulling top down your shoulder to expose your breasts more. he leaned in once more, "may I?" and you nodded, before his lips landed on your nipple while the other one was being rolled between his finger tips.
"oh lord- my gosh! shit-" you kept cutting yourself off with your own moans, each sensation one upping the other. the feeling of smoke's warm tongue against your nipple had your back arching, aching for more.
but what you really felt was stack's eager tongue on your cunt. he was licking up and down, the tip of his tongue bumping against your clit which had your hips bucking slightly. he kissed the bud softly before diving in completely, sucking on it harshly which had you whining. then, he angled his head lower, and his tongue penetrated you slowly. you gasped, not used to the feeling of penetration.
smoke took advantage of your opened mouth and plunged two rough fingers inside it, pressing against your tongue as you instinctively sucked on them. "you feel that? you feel him making you feel good, sweetheart?" he began and you clenched around stack's tongue, making him grin.
"look at you, baby. we just began and you're already whining." he leans in to kiss your cheek, "ain't you lucky that we're the ones taking care of a sweet girl like you? huh?" you nodded eagerly, moaning around his wet fingers when you felt stack's tongue curve onto itself, grazing a spongey spot with its tip that had your eyes rolling back.
"you got a finger in?" smoke turned to stack, who pulled away from your cunt to hike your skirt up higher, completely exposing your lower body. he was sweating, you noticed. "nah, just my tongue. I'm about to put one in, though." smoke nodded, turning back to you, only to see that your eyes have already rolled back again—stack put a long finger inside, and he was unforgiving. his pace was relentless, quick and easy, slamming his palm onto your clit.
"go easy on her, yeah?" smoke instructed as he took your top off completely, exposing your chest and tummy. "just what I wanted to see..."
"it's so good! oh my- fuck, I'm-" he did not slow down one bit, even slightly speeding up just to pull more of those pretty sounds from your mouth. he felt your walls clamp down on his fingers and nodded to smoke who kissed you again, distracting all your senses.
you felt overwhelmed in the best way possible, and it's the moment you realize that, that you feel your first orgasm washing over you. it's felt intense, every muscle in your body tensing up as your mouth went slack, barely having the spirit to kiss smoke back. "thats it baby, youre doing perfect." he egged you on as your velvety walls clenched around stack's digits, coating them with cream.
your thighs, trembling, clenched around his hips, caging him in.
he kept pumping, getting progressively slower, letting you ride out your orgasm, before stopping completely when you go limp. he didn't want to overestimate you on your first time... not yet.
he allowed you to catch your breath, using that time to take your skirt off completely. you were now completely bare in front of two men who looked at you like you were the first meal they had on their table for years.
"that wasn't so bad now, was it?" stack looked at you, chuckling. you nodded sheepishly, "y-yeah.."
suddenly, smoke left your side, quickly getting replaced by stack. "here it comes, sugar." he smirked while watching his brother undo his belt, letting his pants drop. he pulled his cock out, rubbing it along your slick folds making you jump slightly. "she's so fucking wet..." he commented also absentmindedly, which had you clenching.
"you ready?" smoke asked you, and you nodded. you felt embarrassed, flustered, but you couldn't take you eyes off of the man that was about to take your virginity.
the push of his cock against your entrance knocked the wind out of you, and before you could recover, you felt two moist fingers tap against your cheek. you looked up to stack, "wanna taste yourself, baby?" you furrowed your eyebrows, "huh?" your voice being barely above a whisper. his thumb landed on your bottom lip, pulling it open softly and your followed, opening your mouth as clear saliva dripped down his mouth into yours.
the moment the drop of spit landed on your tongue, smoke had bottomed out, his tip bumping into your cervix which made you cry out. "you fully in?" stack question and smoke, lost in bliss, nodded eagerly while closing his eyes, throwing his head back. "holy fuck-" he couldn't help the buck of his hips as he grabbed onto yours, using his knees to dig into the fat of your thighs and pry them slightly more open.
"p-please-" that was the only confirmation he needed to start moving. he went back and forth, relishing in the feeling of your warm untouched walls around him. stack walked up to him and set a hand on your tower tummy, pressing down to heighten the sensation of smoke's dick inside you. you cried both of their names out, your body squirming uncontrollably.
stack other hand landed on your pussy, fingers immediately looking for your clit, rubbing it quickly when he found it. "r-right there! yes-!" you whined, as smoke's tip bumped into that one spot again.
"there?" his voice, baritone, bubbled from his chest as his body ran on pure instinct, angling your hips in a way that made him ram into your g-spot with every other thrust. you nodded, your voice simply dying down as you ran out of breath with all the moaning and whining.
stack pressed down a bit harder on your tummy, his hand making a wave motion to even out the sensation. "you like that, sugar?" "fuck- yes! I'm- I'm close- gonna-" and you barely got the opportunity to warn them before you creamed on smoke's cock again, squeezing down on his so hard he had trouble moving again. the view and sensation of you orgasming had him nearing his own high.
you whine when he pulled out of you to fist his dick, stroking himself fast enough to cum all over your tummy with some of it landing on stack's hand, squeezing around the base to ride out his high with a hiss. he moaned your name before tumbling back and plopping down onto the bed.
"s-shit... that was-" "smoke are serious right now? learn how to aim, man." he peaked at stack who was shaking his hand in the air, "some of it got on my hand! fuck," he walked out the room to grab a tissue.
smoke's arm wrapped around you as you were still catching your breath, mind still hazy from the orgasm.
"that was... amazing..." you managed to admit between breaths and he smiled.
‘ AT THE SAME DAMN TIME, chap 1, chap two, chap three, chap four, chap five.
synopsis; After a messy, short-lived situationship with Stack—reckless, flirtatious, and all the wrong kinds of possessive—you swear you’re done with hood boys who can’t keep up. But when you drop something off at his mother’s store and find both Stack and his older twin brother Smoke inside, something shifts.
The heat outside was disrespectful. Sun glaring off the concrete, your thighs sticking to the driver’s seat, and not a single breeze in sight. Still, you parked outside Lo’s Beauty Supply—their mama’s shop—with a brown paper bag in your lap and sweat beading at your collarbone.
The bag was nothing major. Just some coconut oil their mama had asked for from your auntie’s store across town. Said she liked your family’s blend better than what she had. You told her you’d swing by and drop it off. Easy. Casual. No problem. What you didn’t expect was for both Stack and Smoke to be inside when you walked through that door.
The bell above the entrance gave a lazy jingle, announcing you before your presence could.“Be right wit’chu,” called a voice from the back—Ms. Moore, no doubt, still doing somebody’s scalp in the back room like she always did.
Your eyes adjusted from the sunlight to the store’s warm haze, and that’s when you saw them. Stack, posted up on the edge of the checkout counter, legs spread, head tilted back, puffing on a cigar like he had zero business being fine and full of himself.
And Smoke, leaned back in the folding chair just behind him, tapping ash into a red Solo cup. One foot propped against the wall. His eyes already on you.
The smell of burning tobacco, hair grease, and old incense hit you in the chest. Thick, nostalgic, weighted. This place always felt like somebody’s house and a little bit like a trap spot. Especially when the boys were there.
You stood in the doorway for a half-second longer than you meant to, blinking—and that was enough.
Stack’s mouth curved.
“Ain’t you look like you tryna be seen today,” he drawled, eyes skating from the band of your crop top down to the stretch of your brown thighs. “You knew I was gon’ be here, huh?”
You didn’t answer that.
Instead, you walked forward, hips loose, chin high, the brown paper bag crinkling in your hand. You placed it on the counter between them—right where Stack was leaned, and right across from Smoke’s shadow.
“This what your mama asked for. Tell her I dropped it off.” Smoke hadn’t said a word yet. But his gaze lingered like a hot palm on your skin.
He wasn’t disrespectful like Stack was. He didn’t flirt with words. But his eyes? His whole presence? That was a different type of heat. Where Stack looked at you like he remembered what your moans sounded like, Smoke looked at you like he was imagining them.
Slowly. Without apology. You felt it. The flicker in your stomach. The ache in your thighs you couldn’t chalk up to the weather.
You turned slightly, letting the breeze from the weak AC hit the side of your neck. Your baby hairs were already curling from the sweat, your lip gloss sticking sweet to the corner of your mouth.
“Tell her I’ll be back later in the week. She said she wanted more but I ain’t have enough on me.”Stack chuckled under his breath, lighting his cigar again like he needed something to distract himself.
“You always comin’ ‘round with not enough,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Shit, you did that with me too, huh?” That made Smoke lift his head—not fully, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he wasn’t even tryna get involved. But his eyes were still on you.
“I had enough for who needed it,” you replied sweetly, not even turning around. “Wasn’t my fault you ain’t know how to keep your hands to yourself.”
That earned a short, cold laugh from the corner.
Stack sucked his teeth, but you didn’t stay long enough for him to talk back. You turned, braid swinging over your shoulder, and gave a little wave toward the back room.
“Tell Ms. Moore I said ill be back.”
And just as you hit the door, your hand barely grazing the cool metal handle, Smoke finally spoke. “I will,” he said. Voice deep like gravel. Heavy. Final.
Then quieter: “And next time, don’t rush out. You stay longer.” The door creaked behind you, but you caught the way Stack looked at him. Tight-lipped. Sharp. Like this was the first time it happened, but maybe not the last. Outside, the sun didn’t feel as hot.
But something in you was burning. You weren’t supposed to like the way he said that. You weren’t supposed to think about him watching you from that chair. And you sure as hell weren’t supposed to want to test how far Smoke would let this go.
But you did.
And deep down?
You hoped next time, he’d make you stay.
@cursed-carmine for the dividers.
i legit don’t know how the hell i keep writing these back to back like this.. but chapter two should be coming soon.
Mr. Smoke’s & Mr. Stack’s Doll: A Little Bunny Rabbit
Author’s Note: It’s Gemini season! Everyone go say Happy Day Of Birth to my sister @theethighpriestess aka Bunny 🐰
Warnings: +18 | Dom!Smoke | Dom!Stack | Smoke x Stack x OC | Plus Size OC | MFM | Angst (if you squint and do a backflip) | Fluff (if you squint and do three pushups) Oral Sex | Anal Sex | Edging | Coochie Drilled To Smithereens | Overstimulation | Double Penetration | Creampie | Dollification | They… They aren’t mean in this chapter… have I found God?
The room smelled like a cheap pomade and even cheaper whiskey.
Bunny had caught the scent the moment she pushed open the door to room number seven. There was a stale and sour stench lingering in the air that clung to a drunken man that was expected to be her next client. She stood in the doorway for a half second, shoulders squared beneath the ivory negligee she had been assigned for the evening, her red painted toes just crossing the threshold, and she told herself it was nothing. Men came in here smelling like all manner of sin. Whiskey and cheap pomade was the least offensive of them.
The man waiting for her was a heavyset thing. Pale as uncooked dough, with a collar loosened down to his second button and cufflinks that didn't match. His eyes swam when they found her. This wasn’t the ordinary tipsy swim of a man who had had two drinks to get his nerves up before visiting a house like this. No, this was the kind of swim that came from the bottom of a bottle, from a man who had been drinking since before supper and hadn't stopped for reasons that had nothing to do with enjoying the taste.
His mouth curved into something that was meant to be a smile but landed somewhere closer to a sneer. "There she is," he said, his words running together at the edges like watercolors left out in the rain. "Took ya’ long enough."
Bunny let the door shut behind her with a quiet click. She pulled up the smile she had spent years perfecting, the one that reached her eyes just far enough to be convincing without costing her anything real, and she moved toward the vanity to set down her small kit. "Evenin', sir," she replied, voice sweet as honeysuckle draped over a fence post in July. "You get yourself settled alright?"
"Settled?" He laughed, the sound was disgustingly wet and blunt. "I been waitin' damn near twenty minutes."
"I apologize for that, sir." She turned subtly, sizing the client up again in the mirror's reflection while she appeared to be checking her hair. She took notice of the way his body tilted just slightly to the left when he tried to sit straighter. The way his hand reached for the bedpost to steady himself without seeming to realize he had done it. The glassy, navigating-through-fog quality of his stare. Bunny had been in this business long enough to know that a drunk man in a room with a woman he had paid for was a man operating without a leash, and a man without a leash was a dangerous creature.
She angled herself toward the door by a few degrees. Just enough to escape if needed. "Sir," she said, keeping her voice sweet and calm, "I just want to make sure you feelin' alright before we get started. You seem like you might've had yourself a full night already and I wouldn't want—"
The remainder of her sentence was cut off because the drunken man moved without warning. He lurched to his feet, knocking the small side table with his hip and sending its single glass of water spinning off the edge to shatter against the floor. His face had turned a particular shade of red that lived between embarrassment and fury, and his jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter before he could get the words out.
"Useless bitch," he spat. The syllables fell out of him ugly and hard. "Think I paid to have some whore tell me I done had too much to drink? Think I need you lookin' down at me? I'll kill you, you hear me?!? I'll put my hands ‘round ya' neck and I'll—"
His arm swung mid rant, but Bunny was already moving.
She dropped her chin to her chest and turned her body so the arc of his open palm caught nothing but air, and in the same motion her right hand went up to her hair. The blade she kept there was small, barely two inches of steel with a handle thin enough to disappear between two curling papers. It was something she had carried since she was nineteen years old and had learned in the most painful way possible that a pretty face and a small curvy frame were not assets in every room. Her fingers found it without hesitation, but with the calm surety of someone who had practiced the motion until it lived in her muscles instead of her mind.
She drew it in the same breath she stepped to his left side, and when she came back up, she sliced him across the cheekbone in one clean swipe.
The sound he made wasn’t quite a scream and not quite a word. It lived somewhere between the two, high and stunned. The moment he was sliced, his hand flew to his face as the blood welled immediately, vivid and dark, running between his fingers and dripping onto the collar he had loosened two buttons down. He staggered back into the bedpost as his eyes went wide, and suddenly he was brutally sober.
"Help!" The plea tore out of him then, ragged and furious. "HELP! She cut me! This wicked bitch cut my damn FACE!"
Bunny stood quietly like a marble statue with the blade still in her hand. Her chest moved in controlled, shallow breaths as her heartbeat threw itself against her ribs like a prisoner testing the walls, but her face… her face was completely still. Still like a woman who had survived more than enough dangerous rooms, and this was no different. She didn’t bother running or crying, instead she watched the blood run down his cheek and she waited.
Two seconds passed and the door swung open before the echo of his second shout had finished bouncing off the walls.
They filled the frame the way they always filled every frame they walked through, shoulder to shoulder, the both of them constructed from the same Mississippi clay and hardened by the same Jim Crow fire. Stack came through first, his jacket slightly disheveled as if he was in the middle of something… or someone, signature gold tooth catching the lamplight as his coffee brown eyes swept the room in three seconds flat. Smoke followed a half step behind, and his gaze went to the blood first, then to Bunny, then to the blade still loose in her fingers, and in that order he read the whole story without a single word being spoken.
The two of them looked at each other and it lasted less than a millisecond. They shared a sacred twin language, and there was no need to speak out loud when they could discuss everything necessary through a simple glance. There was no need for none of the vowels and consonants that other men required. Stack's chin lifted two degrees. Smoke's jaw shifted once to the right. That was all.
Smoke marched over to the bleeding man and grabbed him by the back of the collar with one hand. The client sputtered, grabbing at Smoke's wrist, voice rising again into something wheedling and enraged all at once, but Smoke wasn't listening. He was already moving, already dragging the man toward the door with that flat, unblinking quiet that was a hundred times more frightening than any raised voice.
Stack waited until the door swung shut behind his brother and then he turned to Bunny. He looked at her the way he looked at a ledger he needed to balance, thorough, patient, and giving nothing away in his expression. His hands found his jacket pockets and he stood with the loose posture of a man who had all the time left in the world. "Tell me what happened," he said.
Bunny's fingers curled tighter around the blade before she caught herself and lowered it. "He was drunk when I walked in," she explained, and her voice came out steadier than she had expected, considering. "Not just a couple of drinks. He was drownin’ in it. I called it out because I wasn't about to start a session with a man who could barely hold his head upright and when I did…" She nodded toward the door. "He called me out my name, said he was gonna kill me, and he swung. I moved… And I cut him."
Stack said nothing for a moment as his tongue rolled against the inside of his cheek. He looked at the blood on the floor where the man had been standing, then at the broken water glass, then at Bunny's face. "You ain't in trouble," he said finally, his Mississippi drawl coating every syllable like a second skin. "But I need you to hear me on this." He pulled one hand from his pocket and pointed a single finger at her. "Next time a client get rowdy, stupid, or liquored past the point of sense, you don't reach for that blade. You call for one of us. That's what we here for. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
He held her gaze a moment longer, making sure the instruction had gone somewhere it would stay, and then he nodded once. "Go on, wash up an get you some rest." He turned for the door, then paused with his hand on the frame, not looking back. "You did real good, not fallin' apart. Just... next time… let us handle the mess."
The door closed again, and Bunny stood alone in the room with the broken glass and the ruined sheets and the small blade still warm from her grip, and she exhaled for what felt like the first time in several minutes.
Out behind the brothel, the alley smelled of ash cans and summer.
Smoke walked the man through the rear exit with the same grip he used to drag him out of the room. He deposited him against the back wall, the man's knees finally gave out forcing him to slide down the brick and land in a graceless heap on the ground, one hand still pressed to his sliced cheek, blood threading between his fingers and dripping off his chin.
Smoke stood over him. His hands went to his jacket, straightening it once, and then settled at his sides. He looked down at the man like he was a disgruntled God figuring out what type of punishment to inflict.
The man looked up at him and found whatever he needed in Smoke's expression to start talking. "She attacked me," his drunkenness slipping out of his voice now that fear had come in to replace it. "That bitch came in there and she just… she had a knife. She cut my face. You need to do somethin’ about that. I paid good money for a civil hour and instead I get—"
"You said… you was gon' kill her."
The man blinked. "I was angry, I didn't—"
"Called her out her name twice in my presence."
The man's mouth opened and closed.
Smoke crouched down until his eyes were level with the man's, and in that position he looked less like a man and more like a demon ready to indulge in his bloodlust. His voice hadn't changed. It never changed. It held that same smooth, unshifted cadence through every conversation regardless of what the conversation was about. "Ion’ know exactly what went on in that room yet," he said. "But I want you to understand somethin'. That part don't fuckin’ matter to me. What matter to me is that you walked into my house, disrespected somethin' that belong to me, an then you done put ya' voice on her in a way that reminded her she needed a blade." He paused, letting that sit. "I don't take kindly to that."
His hand moved to his jacket, fingers parting the lapel, and the grip of his pistol caught the thin light of the alley moon.
The man's eyes went very wide. His injured hand came up, palm out, his whole body pressing back against the brick like he could dissolve into it. "Wait, wait, wait, I'll pay double, I'll pay whatever you—"
The hammer drew back with a soft, final click that cut the man's sentence clean off.
Smoke looked at him with those coal-flat eyes and the man fell silent as a stone thrown into deep water. No more words. Just the ragged labor of his own breathing and the thin, continuous sound of his blood hitting the ground.
Footsteps came down the alley behind Smoke and he didn’t bother turning around because he didn't need to. There was only one set of feet in the world that sounded like that.
Stack came up beside him, his hands loose at his sides, gold tooth catching the moon when he tilted his head down at the man on the ground. He took in the full picture. The gun. The blood. The look on Smoke's face. Then he took in a breath, slow and satisfied, and began to speak.
He told Smoke everything. The condition the man had come in. The things he had said when Bunny called it out. The swing that didn't land. The blade that did. When he finished, Stack was quiet for a moment, and then he reached into the interior pocket of his jacket and produced a knife with a blade four times the size of whatever Bunny had been carrying. He turned it once in his fingers, the steel catching and releasing the light in alternating flashes, and he smiled. It was the crooked smile, the one that reached his eyes and meant he was genuinely pleased about something.
"Lemme’ talk to him first," Stack said. "I ain't had a good conversation in a minute."
Smoke looked at his brother and then he looked at the man on the ground, who was now visibly shaking, tears cutting through the blood on his cheek without any prompting at all. Smoke stood from his crouch, straightened his jacket once more, and stepped to the side. He put his pistol back without a word, folded his hands behind his back, and watched.
Stack crouched in his place, knife resting easy between two fingers, his face open and joyful in the particular way that meant the worst thing imaginable was coming next. "How you doin', friend?" he asked, accent thick as summer mud, voice warm as a lit match. "Tell me somethin'. You ever have somebody look after you real good, put you somewhere soft an warm an safe, an you go an spit in they face for it? You ever do that?"
The man couldn’t answer.
Stack tilted his head and grinned like a Cheshire Cat. "Naw, naw, take ya' time. I got all night."
The alley didn’t hear from that man again after that. Not in any language that would've made sense to a person passing on the street.
A month passed by and it had the audacity to feel like three.
Bunny sat on the edge of her bed in the room the twins had given her and pulled a brush through her texturized hair for the fourth time that evening. She counted the strokes the way she had been taught to count them since childhood, one and two and three and four, because there was nothing else to count and the act of counting kept her hands busy and her hands being busy kept her from acknowledging a particular restlessness that had been living under her skin for the better part of two weeks.
The room she was stationed in was nice. That was the first thing she had thought when Stack walked her to it, one week after the incident, with his hand at the small of her back and a short instruction to make herself comfortable. She had expected a small, utilitarian thing, the kind of space a working doll got assigned on the upper floor with a shared bath down the hall and a window that faced the brick wall of the building next door. What she got was a room with curtains. Actual curtains, silk ones that pooled at the floor and caught the last of the day's light in a way that turned the whole space the color of a candle flame. A vanity with a proper oval mirror. A wardrobe that had been stocked before she arrived with dresses and wrappers and nightgowns of a quality that made her catch her breath the first time she opened its doors, fabrics so fine they slipped through her fingers like water. On the small table beside her bed, a covered dish of food arrived three times a day whether she asked for it or not. Things she hadn't tasted since she was a little girl sitting in her grandmother's kitchen, sweet potato pie with a crust that shattered her taste buds like stained glass, braised oxtail over white rice, pound cake soaked in lemon syrup that left a sweetness on the roof of her mouth for hours.
She was being treated like a woman of some standing… And it was driving her absolutely out of her mind.
Bunny set the hairbrush down and looked at herself in the vanity mirror with an assessing expression she reserved for private moments like these. She was thirty-four years old. She had curves that grown men wrote embarrassing letters about and women studied with something too complicated to be called jealousy and too honest to be called admiration. She had hands that knew how to work, thighs that knew how to hold, a mouth that had never once left a client feeling cheated, and a reputation in three separate cities that had always, always been built by her own effort, her own body, her own particular genius for the kind of pleasure that made a man feel like he was the most important thing in the room. She hadn’t come to this brothel to be kept like a flower in a glass case. She had come because she heard that the Moore twins ran the most lucrative operation north of the Mason Dixon and she wanted in on it. She wanted to work.
The bath she had taken earlier still clung to her skin in the form of the vanilla oil she had worked into her arms and her neck, and the nightgown the wardrobe had produced tonight was deep gold that made her brown skin glow like something lit from within. She looked breathtakingly beautiful, yet she felt like a caged thing in beautiful wrappings.
After looking herself over one more time in the mirror, she stood and made a silent decision as she made her way to the kitchen.
The brothel at midnight had a particular quality to it, a quietness that fell somewhere between a sleeping house and a thinking one. The downstairs jazz had stopped three hours ago. The girls were either asleep or occupied, and the hallways that had been warm and perfumed with commerce earlier in the evening were now cool and dim, lit by the occasional wall sconce that’s wick had been turned down low. Bunny moved through the brothel on her bare feet, the gold nightgown sighing against her legs with every step, and she told herself she was just going for a peach before confronting the twins. There was always a bowl of peaches in the kitchen. She had discovered this on her second day and found it oddly comforting that someone in this house thought fresh fruit was important enough to replenish daily.
She pushed open the kitchen door and the room was drenched in darkness. That was the first thing. The second thing was that it wasn’t empty.
As Bunny's eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, eventually she was able to see there was a woman sitting at the long kitchen table in the dark eating cornbread.
Bunny stood in the doorway with her hand still on the door and looked at the mystery woman as she took her in piece by piece. Height first, even sitting, the woman had somewhat of a long-limbed frame that telegraphed itself. Bunny guessed that she was maybe five foot eight or nine if she stood. Her skin was deep, even brown like good molasses in a jar, paired with hair that fell straight and unadorned down past her shoulders, jet black, the color of ink before it dries. And to finish it off, she had a face that did a thing Bunny had only seen faces do in paintings, not the kind hung in houses like this one, but the kind in old churches where the artists tried to put something holy and something frightening in the same expression at the same time. The mystery woman looked young feature wise as if she hadn’t yet turned twenty-two, but her eyes… her eyes were something else entirely.
Bunny wasn’t a woman who was scared easily. She had lived too much, seen too much, and cut too many men across the face to give fear the kind of real estate it wanted in her mind. But those violet eyes made something ancient crawl up the back of her neck, not unpleasant, just… aware. Like stepping into a room and understanding that whatever was in it had been there since before the house was built.
The woman looked up from her cornbread and regarded Bunny with an expression of complete composure, as though being found eating cold food alone in a dark kitchen of a brothel in the middle of the night was exactly where she was expected to be.
"You Rosalie," the woman said. It wasn't a question.
Bunny blinked. "How'd you—"
"You look like a Rosalie." She broke off another piece of cornbread, unhurried about it. "I'm Josephine. Everybody an they mama call me Josie."
Bunny stepped into the kitchen and let the door drift shut behind her. "I go by Bunny," she said, and then, because she couldn't help herself, "why are you sittin' in the dark?"
Josie ignored the question with such thoroughness that it was almost artful. She tilted her head at Bunny and asked, "They call you Bunny 'cause you can bounce on a dick 'til a man start beggin' for his mama?"
The initial response that leaped to Bunny's lips was something ladylike and deflective. What came out instead was a flustered, sputtering exhale, as her cheeks went warm and her hand raised halfway to her mouth before she caught it. She cleared her throat. "That's… yes," she admitted. "That's… um… exactly why."
The corner of Josie's mouth moved in something that could've been a smile if it committed to itself. She pushed the plate of cornbread forward by an inch, the gesture of a woman sharing without making much of it. "Have some."
Bunny looked at the cornbread. It was ice cold and hard as a rock. She could see the waxy surface on it that cornbread got when it had been sitting awhile. She was fond of cornbread. She was not fond of that. She moved instead to the bowl on the counter and lifted a peach, testing its weight in her palm before biting into it, and she hummed as the juice ran down her chin warm and sweet.
She stood there eating the peach and watching Josie, and Josie let herself be watched for a time, eating her cold cornbread with equanimity, apparently perfectly at peace with the scrutiny. But Bunny was staring and she knew it and the reason she was staring was the thing she couldn't pin down, the thing that sat off-center about this woman the way a picture sits off-center on a wall. She wasn’t dressed like any of the other dolls Bunny had met in the past month. No lace, no slip, nothing that mirrored the nature of this house and its business. She wore a plain white blouse tucked into a flowy dark skirt with her feet bare on the kitchen floor. She looked like a woman who had stepped in from another dimension entirely and simply hadn't gotten around to leaving.
Bunny had met all the other dolls in the house during her first week. She was certain of that. This woman had not been among them.
Josie took another bite of her cornbread and looked at Bunny the way Bunny had been looking at her, with that clear, still assessment that took nothing personally and missed nothing either. "How you likin' it here?" she asked. "Smoke and Stack pretty decent owners, far as that kind of thing go."
The word owners sat in Bunny's mouth for a moment before she swallowed it. "I wouldn't know yet," she reluctantly admitted. "I had one client, one incident, and since then they've had me locked up in a room like I'm made of porcelain and they're afraid I'll chip." She took another bite of peach. "I haven't worked a single real night. I came here to make money. Instead I've been eatin' pie and watchin' the curtains move."
Josie's eyes sharpened the way a fire sharpens when you give it more air. "Which one claimed you?" she quipped.
Bunny frowned her brows in confusion. "I'm sorry?"
"Which twin? Smoke or Stack? Elijah or Elias? Which one claimed you as his doll?"
The frown deepened. "Neither of them," Bunny said slowly, like she was working out whether that was the right answer even as she gave it. "When I arrived they walked me through the rules, explained how the percentages worked, showed me the floor. Neither of them said anything about… claiming."
Now it was Josie’s turn to be confused as she stopped eating and placed her cornbread very gently on the plate in front of her. She looked at Bunny with the full force of those ancient alien lavender eyes and she was quiet for a stretched-out moment that had weight to it. Then she leaned forward and without a word of warning she took Bunny's face between both her hands and squeezed her cheeks together, compressing Bunny's lips into a surprised, rounded 'O'.
"You are thee cutest thing," Josie cooed, with the slightly awed sincerity of someone who had just found a very small, very charming animal in an unexpected location.
Bunny's eyes went wide above her squished cheeks. She made a sound that was supposed to be a protest and emerged as something closer to a muffled quack.
Josie released her with an unrushed giggle and settled back in her chair as though that had been a perfectly reasonable thing to do. "Alright," she said. "Let me explain how this house works."
Bunny smoothed her cheeks with her palms and fixed Josie with a look that she reserved for people who had just done something she didn't have the vocabulary to address properly. Then she sighed, finished the peach, and sat down.
Josie explained the rules of the house with a questionable amount of knowledge that Bunny would inquire about later. When a doll went through something the way Bunny had gone through something, they were taken off the floor. Not longer than a week, typically. No clients, no housework, just time to let the body and the mind settle back into themselves without being asked to perform. After that period, whichever twin had claimed that particular doll would take her through a retraining week. A proper retraining. Not punishment, not because she had done something wrong, but because the mind needed to be walked back through safety the same way the body needed to be walked back through strength after a sickness. The twins were a great many things, Josie explained, and some of those things weren’t things that would be listed in a church bulletin, but they weren’t complete monsters and wouldn't send a shaken woman back to work before she was ready. That wasn’t morality for morality's sake. It was also just bad business, and they were nothing if not precise businessmen.
Bunny absorbed this. Processed it. Turned it over. And then arrived at the part that had been sitting sideways in her chest since the question first got asked.
"It's been a month," she said.
Josie looked at her dumbfounded like she didn’t hear her correctly.
"It's been a month," Bunny said again. "The incident was a month ago. Nobody took me through any retraining. Nobody said anythin’ about when I'd go back to work. And you're telling me that the reason for that is…"
She could see it in Josie's expression before she said it, like she was about to deliver news that amused her to the highest degree.
"Either you one of the special ones," Josie said, the childish grin breaking through now, unconstrained, like a schoolgirl who had been holding it in for the last five minutes, "or you somehow so boring that both of them forgot you exist entirely."
Bunny straightened up in her chair. "I am not boring," she said.
"I didn't say you were."
"You implied it."
"I offered it as a possibility."
"It is not a fuckin’ possibility." Bunny's chin came up and her voice took on the tone of a woman defending something she had built with a considerable effort over many years. Before she had walked through the Moore brothers' doors she had left three separate establishments because she had outgrown them. She had a clientele that wrote letters to find out where she had gone. She had a reputation that didn’t include the word boring in any language. "I done made grown ass men cry," she said. "Not from pain… From gratitude."
Josie held up one hand in a gesture of peace, her playful grin not moving an inch. "Alright, alright. I believe you. I apologize." She folded her hands on the table. "The other explanation, then, is that they both want to claim you and neither one of them know how to go about it without steppin’ on the other's toes."
Bunny's chair scraped back half an inch. "Both of them?"
"It's rare," Josie whispered, as if she was saying too much too soon. "In the whole time this house been runnin’ there've only been two dolls that both of them claimed at once. Just two. The second one is named Buttercup. She handles their books and investments. She’s been both of theirs for many moons." A pause, thoughtful and private. "The first one…" She picked up her cornbread again and looked at it, not at Bunny. "Well..."
The silence that lingered behind that one word forced Bunny to really look at Josie's profile. She took in the serenity of it, the complete and settled comfort with which this woman occupied any space she entered, including dark kitchens in the middle of the night. The way she didn't need to finish the sentence because the sentence was already obvious to anyone paying attention.
"Hypothetically," Bunny said carefully.
Josie's mouth curved with mischief. "Hypothetically..."
"If a woman found herself in that position. Both of them. At once. How would she… manage that?"
Josie was quiet for a moment, chewing her cornbread, looking somewhere past Bunny's shoulder as though consulting a memory that lived in the middle distance. "Hypothetically," she repeated, "such a woman would need to learn how not to get frostbitten by an avalanche of coldness." A pause. "While also not burnin’ up in a lake of uncontrolled fire." Another pause, this one carrying a slightly different weight, the weight of something remembered in the body as much as the mind. "And on top of all that, she would need to learn how to take two men at the same time without tearin’ in half."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"That's… useful information," Bunny said finally.
"I thought you'd think so."
They sat for another minute, the two of them, in the warm dark kitchen with the peach bowl on the counter and the plate of cold cornbread between them, and something passed between them that couldn’t be labeled as friendship yet but was the thing that comes just before it, a recognition, a sense of shared understanding arrived at by different roads.
A few more comforting minutes passed and then Bunny stood. She pulled the gold nightgown straight across her hips and ran one hand through the freshly brushed waterfall of her hair and looked at Josie with the expression of a woman who had made up her mind about something and had no further interest in deliberating. "Hypothetically, if I wanted to speak with them tonight... you know where they are?"
"Their office," Josie said. "End of the hall. Door on the left." She reached for the last piece of frosty cornbread. "Knock four times when you get there. Even count, same rhythm. That's how they know it's a doll behind the door and not somebody they need to put a bullet in."
Bunny's eyes widened slightly. "Good to know."
"One more thing," Josie said, without looking up, the words landing easy as a stone dropped into still water, "whoever open that door? Look him dead in the eye when you tell him what you want. Don't let him take the silence from you first. They'll stand in a quiet room and wait you out 'til you forget what you came for. Don't let him." She broke off a bite of cornbread. "Now go."
The hallway to their office was dim and long as the floorboards under her bare feet held the warmth of the day's heat, soaked up and slowly releasing into the night. She walked it with her chin level and her footsteps quiet, the vanilla oil on her skin mixing with the faint residual perfume that lived in all the walls of this house. At the far end of the hall, beneath the last sconce, a door sat closed and faintly rimmed with the amber line of lamplight from beneath it.
She stopped in front of it. Pressed her palm flat against the wood for one second. Then she knocked. Four times. Even. The same rhythm. Just as Josie had instructed.
On the other side of the door, the office breathed with the quietness of two men working in a comfortable parallel. The desk was spread with ledgers and cash in organized columns, the ashtray on its corner nursed a half-finished cigarette that had gone cold, and the lamp threw a yellow circle of warmth across the arithmetic of their operations. Stack stood at the desk's far edge, jacket off, suspenders down, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, one hand moving down a column of figures with the end of a pencil. Smoke sat on the lounge couch along the near wall, his own jacket folded beside him, a glass of brown liquor balanced on the arm of the cushion, his eyes moving across a folded sheet of paper he had been reading for the third time.
Four knocks came through the door.
Even. Measured.
Both men went still.
Stack's pencil stopped and his eyes lifted from the ledger to find his brother's face across the room. Smoke had already set the paper down. His hand had already moved to the glass, lifting it, not drinking from it, just holding it in the idle way of a man whose other hand needed to be free. His eyes were steady on the door.
The four-count knock meant a doll. Both of them knew that. The problem was that only two dolls in their entire operation knew that particular code, and neither of those two women were supposed to be within three city blocks of this brothel for another three days.
Smoke set the glass down very carefully on the side table before standing and crossing the room to the door. His shoulder holster rode against his undershirt as he pulled his pistol free in one clean motion before turning the knob and pulling the office door open.
Bunny stood in the hallway nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. The lamplight from inside the office hit her caramel brown skin from the side and the effect of this wasn't something Smoke had originally budgeted for. She was soft, luminous, small, and entirely the kind of woman that a man had to consciously remind himself to look away from, all of that deep-curved, warm-skinned, doe-eyed beauty arranged in the specific way that made the gold fabric laced over her body look like it had been commissioned for her personally. She blinked up at him. Her eyes were the color of good rum and they caught the light and held it, and for one unguarded half second the hardness in his face did something complicated before it arranged itself back into its usual flat composure.
Smoke held the pistol at his side. His face settled back into the expression of a man who was conducting business regardless of the hour. His eyes moved over her once, the way he surveyed any situation that required assessment before a response. "Why," he said, voice smooth and level as a road built to last, his Mississippi roots dragging slow and warm beneath every word, "is you at my door knockin' four times?"
Bunny didn’t flinch as she looked him in the eye exactly as Josie had instructed and she held the look steady. "Because," she said, "I am tired of being treated like I'm made of glass." She let a breath pass as she remembered who she was speaking to. "... Sir."
Smoke looked at her for a long minute. He ran his mind back, sorting through the preceding month like how a man sorts through a drawer looking for something he put down without thinking. The girl on the floor. The drunk client. The blade. Stack handling her, him handling the client. The decision to move her to the room across from theirs. Then the weeks had continued to happen, the operation had continued to require their attention, and somewhere in the middle of all of that, the particular task of walking her back through had gotten caught in the gap between what he assumed Stack had handled and what Stack apparently assumed he had handled.
He let the exhale come through his nose, small and contained. Then he stepped back from the door and nodded once towards the interior of the room. "Come in."
Bunny wasn’t a woman that needed to be instructed twice as she came in.
Smoke shut the door behind her and walked back to the couch, settling into it with the glass of liquor retrieved from the side table. His eyes stayed on her as she took in the office, the desk and its columns, Stack still standing at the far edge of it now with his arms folded. Smoke's gaze moved from her face to his brother's and he said, with the absolute calm of a man stating a mathematical fact, "You done forgot to recommission ya' doll."
Stack's expression moved toward as expression of confusion that was also slightly offended at the framing. "Fuck you mean my doll?" he quipped. "Thought she was yours."
"I moved her to the room 'cross the hall," Smoke said. "I was leavin' the rest to you."
"Nobody told me that."
"I ain't gotta tell you everythin’, Elias. Use ya' brain."
Stack unfolded his arms and planted both hands flat on the desk. "My brain was operatin' under the assumption that the woman sittin' over in that room with the good curtains was your doll that you was handlin' in ya' own time, Elijah. Had I known she was mine to recommission I would've had her back on the floor four weeks ago."
"She been over there four an a half weeks."
"Four an a half weeks then. My point stands, muthafucka."
"Ya' point is that you wasn't payin' attention—"
"My point is that you could've opened ya' mouth like a grown ass man an said the words 'Elias, go handle Bunny' an I would've gone an handled Bunny, but instead you sittin’ over there on that couch drinkin' ya' liquor an assumin' I was gon' read ya' mind—"
"I don't need you readin' my mind, I need you payin' attention to what's happenin' in this house—"
"Stupid bitch, I pay more attention to what happens in this house than you do, I just ain't also expected to be a fuckin' mind reader on top of everythin’ else—"
"Language, Elias.” Smoke said.
"Now I need to read ya' mind an watch my mouth?"
"We got a doll present. Tighten up." Smoke's eyes cut to Bunny for one brief moment that carried the tiniest edge of an apology.
Bunny had been watching this exchange with the expression of a woman who was simultaneously relieved that Josie was right and also annoyed that Josie was right. She looked at the ceiling for one moment, gathering something, and then she looked at Stack directly.
"I didn't come here to listen to y'all argue about whose doll I am," she cut in. The words came out clean and direct, and beneath them ran a current of something real, something stored up across four weeks in a pretty room with silk curtains and three meals a day that she hadn’t earned. "I came here because I am a woman who been working since I was old enough to understand that money you make yourself is the only kind that belongs to you in full." She let that settle for a moment.
Before she had walked through their door she had left three establishments because she outgrew them. Before that, back when she was Rosalie and not Bunny, she hadn't been permitted to own so much as the dress on her back. That life was behind her and it would stay behind her as long as she had a body to work with and the sense God gave her to use it. "I appreciate the food," she said. "I appreciate the nightgowns and the curtains and the sweetness. I do. But I am not a woman who takes without giving back, and I am not going to sit in that room one more week eating indulging in things I ain't earn. I want to work."
The office held the sound of that for a brief second.
Stack analyzed her from top to bottom. The annoyance from the argument with his twin had drained off his face entirely, replaced by something more attentive and interesting. He possessed the look of a man who had been watching something he wanted for some time and had just been reminded of it. His gaze moved down the gold nightgown with the focused assessment of a man reviewing an investment he had forgotten to manage and was now reconsidering with renewed and comprehensive interest.
He came around the desk, crossed the office floor, and closed the distance between them until his chest was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. His hands came up. His fingers settled first at the hollow of her throat, light and acquainting themselves with the shape of her, feeling the small flutter there she couldn't suppress, feeling the way she swallowed. Then they traveled with thorough patience across her collarbones, over the generous swell of her chest through the nightgown's thin fabric. She was built lavishly, heavy and warm everywhere in a way that made his hands slow down and pay attention, and he let them linger there, cataloguing her, until her breathing changed and she tried to hide the change but couldn't.
His hands continued their inventory, moving down the soft plush landscape of her stomach, the deep inward curve of her waist, spreading wide across the full round geography of her hips. He took his time with her hips. He spent what felt like an extended amount of time mapping them, as though committing their particular architecture to some private record he intended to revisit at a later date. Then one hand swept low and around, and he brought his palm down hard and flat across the full magnificent curve of her backside with a crack that split the quiet of the office like a starting pistol.
The sound rang off the walls, the bookcase, the glass in the lamp, everything. Bunny's gasp tore out of her before she had the opportunity to make any decisions about it, sharp and bright, her body moving without consulting her brain, tilting forward into the impact and then backward away from it, settling finally against Stack's chest in a way that was involuntary enough to be entirely honest.
Stack felt her melt against him and his exhale came out long and satisfied. His arm wrapped around her from behind, pulling her flush against the front of him, and he bent his mouth to the curve of her ear. "I'm gon’ be the one runnin' ya' retrainin' tonight." He pressed his mouth closer to her ear, words dropping to a rough near-whisper. "An dependin' on how that go… I might need to keep you locked away from everybody else for another month… Really take my time so ya' body don't ever forget who it belong to."
The sound Bunny made was small, strangled, and entirely against her will.
He reached for the thin strap at her shoulder and slid it down. The other strap followed. He peeled the gold nightgown from her slowly, letting it whisper down her curves until it pooled at her feet in a gilded ring, and what was left standing in the middle of their office was every generous, luminous, full inch of Bunny without a single layer between her skin and the lamplight. The lamp threw amber across the swell of her hips, the deep curve of her waist, the heavy softness of her breasts, the deep brown warmth of her, and the office became immediately a different kind of room.
Stack stepped back and bit down on his bottom lip as he took in her goddess figure. Then, with the easy authority of a man in his own house, he waltzed over to the couch where Smoke sat and dropped down beside his brother. He plucked the liquor glass from Smoke's hand, drained what remained, and reached for the refill trolley at the couch's edge. Smoke didn’t argue with his twin. He simply shifted his weight to accommodate Stack’s presence and locked his eyes on Bunny.
Two men on the same couch. Side by side. Undershirts and slacks, loafers, the warm lamplight running along the defined lines of their arms where the fabric ended, the undeniable press of their interest visible in the material of their trousers. Stack poured a fresh glass and settled into the cushion. Smoke took Bunny in from head to foot with that flat, complete attention that gave nothing away and missed nothing. The air in the room had changed and pressed heavily on all their shoulders.
Stack leaned forward, elbows to his knees, glass hanging loose in his fingers. "Show me," he said, "why you worth the trouble of retrainin' when you already cost me a dead white man, two dry cleaning bills, a shovel we had to replace after breakin' it diggin' that peckerwoods grave, plus four an a half weeks of room an board an meals that even my top earners don't see on a regular Tuesday." He settled back into the cushion. "All that, an you ain't brought us a single dollar. So show me what you got, Bunny."
Bunny stood naked in the center of their office and looked at both of them. She took one breath. Then she walked to Smoke.
She came to stand directly before him and held his gaze and placed one knee on the cushion beside his thigh and then the other, straddling his lap with the practiced ease of a woman who had made herself at home in more difficult situations than this. She could feel him beneath her already, the dense, insistent hardness of him through his slacks, and the discovery sent something bold climbing up her spine and into her shoulders. She rolled her hips, one slow and complete rotation, felt him twitch beneath her, and did it again. She leaned forward and put her mouth to the side of his neck, the warm brown skin above his collar, and kissed him there. Felt his jaw tighten. Kissed across his collarbone, the gap where his undershirt opened at the throat. She found his earlobe with her teeth, caught it just barely, and felt the exhale that came out of him, contained and controlled, the only version of a sound he was willing to give her yet.
She pulled back and looked at Stack over her shoulder. "I can't promise I won't cause more trouble with your clients," she said, her hips still moving against Smoke's in that slow, measured grind. "That ain’t a promise I can keep. But I am an investment." She felt Smoke's hand settle on her hip, heavy and certain, the grip of a man who was claiming something without announcing he's done it. "And you'd be foolish men to let me go."
Then she climbed off Smoke's lap and moved to Stack.
She settled herself across his thighs before he had quite finished processing the intention, and his hands came up instinctively, finding her hips, and she moved against him the way she had moved against his brother, with that same frank, unhurried competence, rolling her hips in grinding rolls that had him fully hard inside his slacks under a minute. She kissed along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, found his throat and bit softly at it and felt him grip her harder. She turned her mouth to his ear. "Well?" she said quietly.
Stack's answer was both hands sliding down to fill themselves with the full, heavy weight of her backside, squeezing with the proprietary thoroughness of a man claiming something he had decided belongs to him and only him.
From the other side of couch, Smoke reached forward and caught the back of her hair in his fist. Not rough, not gentle, just completely unambiguous, pulling her head back until she was looking up at him from Stack's lap with her neck at a stretched and exposed angle. Smoke looked down at her, his eyes never leaving her face. "Who," he said, each word its own complete and unhurried thing, "taught you that knock?"
"Josie," Bunny replied quickly.
The quality of the silence that followed was specific. She felt Stack go still beneath her. She saw something shift in Smoke's expression, not much, just a recalibration of a single degree. "Josie," he repeated. Flat.
"She was in the kitchen," Bunny continued. "Just now. I spoke with her before I came down here."
Smoke's eyes moved to Stack's face. Stack's eyes moved back. That language again, the one that needed no words. Whatever moved between them in that half second was mutual and resolved by the time it was done.
Smoke released her hair. He stood, adjusted the set of his shoulder holster with one practiced motion, and looked at Bunny. "Come," he said.
Stack stood from the couch with Bunny still in his arms, lifting her from his lap without any apparent effort, her weight absorbed into his frame as a matter of course. He carried her out of the office. Smoke walked ahead through the dim corridor, his footsteps quiet on the floorboards, and they moved as a unit through the darkness of the second floor until they reached the kitchen.
Smoke pushed the door open.
Bunny looked into the kitchen from over Stack's shoulder.
The room was empty.
The room wasn't just vacant as if someone had just stepped out, the room was suddenly empty in a way that was wrong. Profoundly, specifically wrong. The chair at the table sat at the exact angle it had been in when she first sat down across from Josie, as though no one had adjusted it at all, as though no one had ever pulled it out to sit in it. The plate of cornbread was gone without a trace, not in the washtub, not on the counter, not anywhere. Simply absent from the room as if it was never there. The peach bowl sat exactly where it always sat. The lamplight came through the window at its usual angle and landed on a kitchen that offered no evidence whatsoever that a woman with ancient eyes had been sitting in it not even twenty minutes ago.
Bunny stared. The hair on her arms rose.
"She was right there," she said, and her voice had climbed half a register before she noticed. "She was sittin' right there at that table. She had cornbread on a plate, cold cornbread, she had it on a plate right there in front that chair, she offered some to me and I took a peach instead. She squeezed my cheeks." Bunny's hand rose and touched her own face at the memory of it, the very real and physical memory of Josie's palms pressing her cheeks together. "She was a real person who was in this room. She had feet. I heard her feet on the floor when she shifted her chair. That ain't somethin' I imagined." She heard her own voice rising once more and made herself stop. Swallowed down her confusion and looked from the empty table, to the empty chair, to the empty counter where a plate had been sitting less than a few minutes ago. The wrongness of the empty kitchen pressed against her like a cold hand.
"Where'd she go," she whispered, and this time her voice came out quieter, stripped of its former certainty, with something underneath it that was very close to fear. "The hallway is one hallway. I walked the whole length of it to get to your office. I would have seen her. I would have passed her. Where'd she—"
"I believe you."
Smoke's voice arrived quietly and cut through everything else like a lamp lit in a dark room. He stepped next to Stack and reached out, taking her chin between his fingers, tilting her face toward him with a gentleness that wasn’t his usual mode and was therefore more effective than almost anything else he could’ve done. His eyes moved across her face, reading whatever he found there with that same thorough attention, and then he said it again without elaboration or apology. "I believe you. You saw her. You spoke to her. It's 'ight." He held her gaze until the climbing quality went out of her breathing, until her eyes settled from startled back to present. His thumb moved once along her jaw, the lightest possible contact, and then he released her chin and looked at Stack over her head.
The look between them lasted one second and carried something private in it, something that had history in it, some understanding of Josie that they shared between themselves and weren’t presently sharing with Bunny. "Need to put a leash on that woman," Smoke grumbled, with the flat certainty of someone adding an item to a list.
"You an me both, nigga," Stack said, quietly.
Smoke turned from the kitchen. He didn’t go back towards their office, instead he went the other direction, toward the room at the far end of the hall, and Stack followed with Bunny still in his arms, carrying her away from the empty kitchen and the empty chair and the cold and inexplicable absence of a woman who had been sitting in it minutes ago eating cold cornbread like she owned the place.
The room at the end of the hall was broad and purposeful. A wide bed sat at its center on a dark mahogany frame, the headboard tall and unadorned. White linens, clean. A single lamp burning low in the corner, its flame turned down until the light came out warm and intimate. This was a simple room designed for one thing and one thing only, retraining a doll that didn’t need to be disciplined.
Stack deposited Bunny in the center of the bed with more chivalry than intended. He straightened up and looked at her sprawled across the white linens, her moisturized brown skin drinking the lamplight the way it was built to, every curve of her catching and holding the warmth of it. He let out a small satisfied grunt before rolling his shoulders once and then bending down to kiss the inside of her knee.
The sound Bunny made started in her throat and got halfway out before she caught it, her thigh twitching under his mouth. Stack felt the twitch and registered it with the calmness of a man who had spent a considerable amount of time studying the language of women's bodies, then he returned and pressed his lips to her inner knee again.
One kiss… two kiss… three kiss… four… Stack continued his playful worship before moving lower, or rather higher towards Bunny’s inner thigh. He was greeted with the soft warm skin there as his mouth opened against it, tongue dragging along the crease where her thigh met nothing and then meeting the next crease. He was learning the deep inner geography of her, building the path inward with a patience that was intentionally designed to make her lose her mind before he arrived at his final destination.
Her scent hit him before his mouth did and he let out a low sound against her skin that was pure appreciation. "Four an a half weeks," he said, lips moving against her inner thigh, his breath warming the space he hadn't touched yet. "You been sittin' in that pretty room unfucked all this time, huh, lil’ bunny rabbit?"
Bunny responded vocally with something that was technically a word, or at least she thought she did.
Stack chuckled to himself and then his mouth immediately found her aching bundle of nerves. He worked her the way a classically trained musician works an instrument he knows intimately. He didn’t rush his performance but instead attended to the specific truth of her responses with the kind of focused and intelligent attention that made up the difference between a man who was present and a man who was going through the motions. He learned her in the first thirty seconds, learned the particular way her hips moved when he pressed the flat of his tongue against her center, the way her thighs tried to close around his head and then caught themselves and spread wider, the way the sound she made climbed an entire octave when he tended to her clit and circled it with skilled precision.
He effortlessly brought her to the edge in under four minutes.
He knew when she was there. He had been watching for it, feeling for it in the tightening of her thighs and the change in her breathing, the way her hands had found the back of his head and were pressing down with that desperate and gnawing pressure that meant she was right there, right on the rim of it, one more motion and she would go over. He could feel her gathering herself, the coil of it pulling tight in her body and her hips tilting up to meet him.
But, because Stack was Stack, he couldn’t help himself as he pulled back and denied Bunny instant relief. She wasn’t a doll that needed to be punished, but she was still a doll under control of her master. He didn’t pull away far, just enough for his mouth to leave her core and rest against the inside of her thigh instead. He looked utterly composed as he breathed against her soaked, twitching heat while she fell apart beneath him in a different way than she had intended.
"Stack," she breathlessly whined, the word arriving with a thicker desperation than she had planned.
"Mm," he said, mouth still against her thigh.
"Please… Don't do that."
"Do what? " he asked pleasantly.
She made a frustrated sound and whined again before Stack returned to his honeysuckle feast.
He took his time getting there, moving up through the wet of her with his tongue like he was reading something he found interesting, and then he was back at her clit and the sounds coming out of her rebuilt themselves immediately, climbing again, her hips rolling, her fingers curling into the sheets. He gave her forty-five seconds this time before the edge showed up again in the ragged pacing of her breathing, and he pulled back once more. Pressed his mouth to her inner thigh. Breathed. And let her curse at him out.
"You raggedy ass nigga," she managed.
His laugh came out against her skin, warm and genuinely amused. "I done been called worse, babydoll."
At the head of the bed the mattress dipped. Bunny's eyes reopened, head turning, and Smoke leaned above her, and the sight of him was enough to make every other thought in her head exit quickly. He had shedded everything. His undershirt, slacks, holster, all of it was gone, and what was left was all of him, broad and carved and rich dark brown skin. His body looked like the map of a man who had moved through the world with physical force for a long time and had the evidence of that written in muscle and old scars. He was hard, entirely and obviously, and looking at her with those flat obsidian eyes that gave nothing away.
Smoke said nothing as he reached for the small table at the bed's edge and a cigarette appeared between his fingers, a match scratched against the bedframe with a brief bright leap of flame before it found its target. He took the first pull, held it, let the clouds of tobacco climb toward the ceiling in a long and perfectly controlled column. And then he looked down at her, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, his eyes traveling across her face with the calm, weighing assessment of a man reviewing something he may or may not be satisfied with.
"Who," he said, voice low and quiet and warm as the smoking end of something burning, "you think you talkin’ to like that in my house?"
Between her thighs, Stack's mouth had found the soft heat of her again, and the sound that tried to escape Bunny's throat was intercepted by her own determination not to give Smoke the satisfaction of an incoherent answer before she had the chance to give him a real one. "I-I didn’t mean none by it… I-I wasn’t givin’ orders," she managed.
"Mm." Smoke's eyes dropped from her face to the space just below them, where his erection jumped and throbbed directly above her, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, and then his eyes came back up to hers. "You came to my office," he continued as he lazily gripped his manhood before taking another puff. "Told me what you was tired of. Told me what you wanted. Got yaself’ naked in front my brother an I, then sat in both our laps like you had the right." He exhaled smoke from the side of his mouth, away from her face. "That sound like a doll who know her place to you?"
Before she could respond, Stack's tongue distracted her by circling her clit with renewed and specific intention, as one finger pressed into her slowly, testing the heat of her… the tight grip of her. She was utterly soaked and already shaking in a finely controlled way, like how a bow shakes just before the arrow is released.
Smoke watched her face with the careful attention of a man reading a weather report. "A doll," he said, voice quieter, the edge in it sharpening enough to send shivers down her spine, "asks. She don't tell. She don't march down a hallway an knock on my door like she owed somethin'. She asks her owner. She say please. She waits." His thumb brushed her jaw, the touch light and intentional, as his eyes dropped to her mouth and then came back up. "You still ain’t proved you worth the trouble."
It didn't take much for Bunny to read between the lines as her right hand moved from the sheet and gripped Smoke’s precum dripping length. She felt the substantial weight of him against her palm and heard the slight controlled catch of his inhale as she felt him twitch against her hand. He filled her hand, dense and hot, and she stroked him from base to crown once with a grip that was firm.
She angled her head against the pillow, opened her mouth, and drew him in.
His size settled against her tongue, thick and dense, and she worked her lips around him with the exploring attention of a woman who had been told her whole career that her mouth was something extraordinary and had spent years proving it right. She hollowed her cheeks and sucked on him with an unhurried suction, her tongue mapping the underside of him on each pull, tracing the swollen vein that ran along his length, lapping at the crown when she came up before gobbling him back down again. Her free hand wrapped around his base and worked in a measured counterpoint. The combination of hand and mouth coordinated with the easy confidence of someone who had been doing this long enough that it lived in her body the way playing an instrument lives in a musician's hands had Smoke internally losing his mind.
Smoke's own hand found her hair, fingers settling among her now sweated out tresses without pressing, without directing, just resting there with a weight that communicated his full attention. The quality of his breathing changed almost immediately, each exhale coming a degree longer than it should have, each inhale a degree more controlled than usual. He brought the cigarette to his lips with his free hand and took a pull, held it, let the tobacco clouds go from the side of his mouth. The image of him above her doing that while she worked him below was the most Elijah “Smoke” Moore thing she could imagine, controlling himself with a lit cigarette while she did her damnedest to remove that control from him entirely.
For a long minute, Bunny genuinely believed she was finally in control, but then, the devious twin still situated between her thick thighs added a second finger inside her and she gasped. It only lasted a split second as her eyes almost rolled to the back of her head while she momentarily let the pleasure consume her, but that was short lived with a slight tug to her hair.
"Look at me," Smoke demanded.
She didn’t need to be told twice as she retrained her eyes back onto the owner that was in front of her.
"Mmm… good… you capable of suckin’ dick an followin’ instructions," he said softly, in a voice that had dropped below the level where it was meant to sound gentle and instead sounded much more intimate and a whole lot more dangerous. "You got somethin' to say?"
Bunny, whose mouth was still full of raw meat, slightly shook her head ‘no’ and continued servicing Smoke’s dick. Her tongue continued working the underside of him in the way that she had been complimented on in cities that were miles away from this one. She went down until the back of her throat met him and held there, breathing through her nose, feeling his fingers tighten in her hair by one degree, and then she came back up and did it again.
Smoke's exhale was long and relaxed. "Mm," he said, and it was the most honest amount of praise he had given Bunny all night.
Stack had brought her to the edge twice more in the interim, each time withdrawing with the particular cruelty of a man who is enjoying the architecture of her desperation more than he would enjoy its resolution, and she was by now a tightly wounded and thoroughly soaked little doll. Her body was operating at a level of need that had begun to make her cry a little. Not from pain or unhappiness, just from the relentless accumulation of pleasure with nowhere to go.
"Stack… Sir…" she managed, pulling off Smoke for a breath.
"Still here," Stack said, against her thigh.
"Please." The word came out stripped of all pretense. Just the word. Just the need in it, raw and uncomplicated.
Stack looked up at her along the length of her body. His mouth was wet, his eyes were bright, and he looked like a man who had been given an exceptional gift that was in no hurry to unwrap it fully. "Please what?" he asked rhetorically already knowing the answer to the question.
"Please… l-let me finish."
"Let you finish?" His voice carried genuine amusement. "Babydoll, I barley scratched the surface."
Smoke looked at the tears streaming from Bunny’s eyes. Something moved across his face, an emotion too foreign for anyone to decipher. He pulled free of her mouth with a soft sound and moved, climbing off the mattress and coming around the foot of the bed, and the sight of him moving toward Stack's position made Stack lift his head.
Smoke looked at his brother. Then he looked at the place between Bunny's thighs, the glistening, swollen, and desperately twitching evidence of the last fifteen minutes, and he looked back at Stack with an expression that was entirely final.
"Move," he said.
Stack sat up and squinted his eyes in disbelief. "S’cuse you, nigga?"
"Move," Smoke said again.
Stack's eyes narrowed. "She's my doll, Elijah."
"Yeah… well… she’s also mine," Smoke said. "I just decided."
Stack stared at him. The look on his face was the look of a mannish boy who didn’t like having to share his toys. "You can't just decide that," he complained. "That ain't how this works. You can't crawl over here in the middle of my session an claim a whole woman like you can’t go pick another damn doll—"
"Elias."
"What?!”
"I been watchin' her for a month," Smoke said, with the patience of someone explaining something obvious. "She in the room ‘cross the hall from ours. I been the one who had her moved there. I been the one who made sure her meals was right. Made sure her room was right an made sure nobody bothered her." A pause. "She mine. She also yours. Move."
Stack's jaw tightened. He looked at Bunny. Bunny looked back at him from the mattress with wide eyes, her lips still swollen, her thighs still trembling, and her expression carrying the cocky confusion of a woman who had just been claimed by two men simultaneously while lying naked in their bed and was still in the early stages of processing this information. Stack pointed at Smoke. "You owe me," he said. "You owe me big time, nigga."
"Mhm. Add it to the list," Smoke said.
Stack moved, climbing up toward the headboard with a muttered stream of commentary, and Smoke took his place between Bunny's thighs before lowering his head. He wasted no time as his mouth found her center without preamble, his tongue worked her with the focused of a man who went through life either doing something well or not at all. The sound Bunny made was enormous and immediate, her hands flying out to grip the sheets.
Smoke was vastly different from Stack in how he devoured Bunny’s pussy. Stack built her pleasure up as if he was an architect with a boundless amount of patience. Whereas Smoke treated her pleasure like a man reading a language only he knew. Every response she gave him, he immediately incorporated it into what he did next, adjusting, refining, arriving at the exact pressure and rhythm that made her thighs lock around his head and her back clear off the mattress as every coherent thought she had exited the premises.
He didn’t bother edging her since he had already clearly read what the edging had done to her. He could read the accumulated tension in every line of her body. Instead, he drove her straight to the finish line without stopping. The orgasm that finally rippled through her felt spiritual as if her soul was raptured out of her body. Her voice tore out of her open and honest, her hips grinding against his mouth as he worked her through every wave of it, his hands locked on her hips to keep her from pitching away from him.
Stack sat at the headboard watching all of this with his arms folded like a sulking child. When Smoke finally lifted his head, Stack uncrossed his arms and pointed at his brother with one finger. "My turn," he said.
"She sensitive," Smoke said, sitting back on his heels.
"I know she sensitive. That's the point."
Smoke moved aside without any urgency, and Stack replaced him between Bunny's thighs with the eagerness of a man who had been waiting for his turn at something exceptional. He looked at the convulsing center of her for a beat with something purely acquisitive in his expression, and then he put his skilled mouth back on her.
Bunny's entire body jerked backwards. The sound she made this time was considerably more desperate than the last, her hips trying to back away from the overstimulation and Stack's hands locking around them before she got anywhere.
"Stay," he murmured against her, voice vibrating right against her hypersensitive clit.
"Stack I can't, it's too much—"
"You can," he growled, and meant it, and went back to work.
Smoke let his twin have his fun as he situated himself on Bunny’s left side, and his mouth found her breast. His lips closed around her nipple and sucked on the coco nub with an intensity that sent a euphoric sensation shooting directly down her spine. His other hand flattened on her ribs, feeling the heave of her breathing, the rapid and helpless rise and fall of her chest. He worked across to her other breast with the same thorough attention, his teeth grazing just lightly enough to make her gasp, and then moan, and then grip the back of his head.
Meanwhile, Stack feasted like a starving madman. His tongue worked her pulsing and overstimulated pussy with an almost vindictive thoroughness, licking into her and circling her clit with alternating attention, building the sensation higher than it had any right to go given that she had just come apart under his brother's mouth not two minutes ago. He watched her face when he could, watched the progression of it, the way her mouth fell open, how her brows drew together, and when the tears started again fresh from the corners of her eyes, overstimulation and pleasure braided together until she couldn't separate one from the other.
When she came the second time it was different in character, wilder, less controlled, her body arching and convulsing with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, and the flood of her against Stack's mouth was audible in the quiet room. He drank her juices down with a delighted groan while his jaw still worked her through every aftershock, refusing to stop until her thighs had gone from locked to trembling to limp and her voice had dropped from cries to the soft and utterly wrecked sound of a woman who has nothing left to give.
Thirty seconds of blissful torture occurred until Stack finally sat back. He looked at the evidence of what he had done to her with profound satisfaction, wiping his jaw with the back of his hand. He looked at Smoke. "She ready," he said.
"She definitely ready," Smoke agreed.
Smoke laid down on his back on the mattress beside Bunny, his nine inches pointing toward the ceiling. He turned his head and looked at her where she lay against the linens, trembling and thoroughly undone. His voice, when it came, was dominate and certain. "Show me," he said, "how you got ya' name, bunny rabbit. Show me why you worth the trouble."
The second Bunny heard Smoke’s request, she sat up on trembling arms. She looked at him stretched out beside her, at the full dark length of him, at the patient flatness of his expression, at the way he was simply waiting with the absolute confidence of a man who knew what was coming and secretly couldn’t wait.
She was still a little loopy from her prior orgasms but gathered up enough strength and swung her leg over him. She positioned herself above him and reached down to guide him to her entrance before sinking onto him with a long, controlled descent that pulled a sound from the back of her throat and a sound from the back of his. Both of them couldn’t help themselves responding to the stretch, the heat, and the fullness of her pussy wrapping around his length as she settled herself completely onto him. She stayed there for a second, adjusting, letting her body accommodate the considerable size of him and feeling him everywhere at once before beginning to move.
It only took three bounces for Bunny to prove to Smoke why she had earned her name. She wasn’t just a lady of the night who knew how to ride a dick until sunrise. No. She had spent years refining a specific combination of bouncing, grinding, and rolling that made men weep, beg, and reach for her like she was the only water in a desert. She worked him with her hips, rising and falling in the deep rolling motion that used every muscle she had, the sound of their bodies meeting building in the lamp-warm room, her succulent breasts moving with every stroke, her hands braced on his chest for leverage, her thighs flexing and releasing with each downward drive.
Smoke looked up at her and something happened in his face, some arrangement of his features that wasn’t quite expressionless in the way he usually was, instead something behind his eyes showed a genuine side of him that wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His hands came to rest on her thighs, not to direct or control the pace, just to hold her, to feel what she was doing from the closest possible position.
He let her have it. He laid there beneath her and he absorbed every stroke with the stillness of a man receiving something with his full attention. His only movements were the tightening of his hands on her thighs, the slight flare of his nostrils, and the slight clenching of his jaw that betrayed how thoroughly he was feeling everything she was giving him. "That's it," he groaned, voice rough and lower than usual. "Keep goin'. Show me everythin’."
And indeed she showed him everything. She rolled her hips in her signature deep figure-eight that made her thighs burn and made men forget what city they were in. She let out a needy whine when she felt him twitch hard inside her, felt his fingers dig into her thighs and felt the sound he made rumble up from somewhere below the place where he usually kept his inner desires.
"Goddamn," Stack praised from somewhere behind her.
Bunny had nearly forgotten, in the consuming present-tense occupation of riding Smoke, that Stack was still in the room with them. She remembered now. She remembered specifically when she felt his hand press warm and flat against the small of her back, pushing her forward just slightly, changing the angle, and she felt the presence of him settling in behind her, the specific warmth of a second body entering the space, and something in her belly turned over at the knowing of what was coming next.
"Don't stop movin'," Smoke growled below her, his voice steady and laced with something that wasn’t quite command and not quite warning, something between the two that communicated that her motion was the thing keeping him from losing his composure. "Keep ya pretty eyes right here."
It was difficult, but she kept her eyes on him. She kept moving, slower now, the rhythm becoming something more rocking and less bouncing as Stack's hand remained at the small of her back and his other hand reached for something on the side table. The sound of a bottle. The sensation of something cool worked at the back entrance she hadn't been using, Stack's fingers pressed and circled with a careful, methodical preparation of a man who knew exactly how to stretch a doll without tearing her. He worked her chocolate starfish open with practiced patience, each circle and press accompanied by Smoke's hands on her hips maintaining their slow rhythm and his voice occasional and low.
"Breathe," Smoke said, one hand traveling from her hip to her stomach, palm flat and warm against her skin. "Stay with me. Just breathe."
She breathed. She kept her eyes on his and kept rolling her hips over him and breathed through Stack's fingers working behind her, opening her gradually, each moment of it accompanied by Smoke's voice and Smoke's hands and Smoke's eyes holding her in place in every sense.
After a minute of probing and preparing, Stack withdrew his fingers. The blunt pressure that replaced them was broader, and it pressed forward with the slow and inexorable patience of a man who had done this enough times to know that patience here was not optional. Bunny's motion over Smoke stuttered as the pressure built and Stack worked his way inside her. He knew better than to rush or force his way inside, instead he continued steadily forward until the stretch had gone from too much, to full, to something that rewired every nerve ending she had at the same moment and left her gripping Smoke's chest with both hands and pressing her face into his shoulder.
"There it is," Stack said from behind her, voice strained as he relished in the tightness of her asshole. "You got all of it, babydoll. You got it."
This wasn’t the first time Bunny participated in anal sex, but it was the first time she had both of her holes filled to the brim. She took both of them, fully, completely, in the most total sense of that word, and the feeling of it wasn’t something she could’ve prepared herself for no matter how plainly Josie had described it. Her body had become an instrument of pure sensation, attended to from both directions at once, filled past the point where she could distinguish between the fullness and herself.
"Move with me," Smoke ordered, and began to rock his hips upward in a slow, careful rhythm.
Stack matched it from behind, withdrawing just barely and pressing back in on the same count, the two of them falling into sync with the ease of people who have shared a frequency their entire lives. Bunny gripped Smoke's chest and held on.
Smoke's hands ran up from her hips to her waist to the curve of her sides, mapping her as she moved, grounding her with the weight and warmth of his hands when the sensation from everywhere else threatened to become too much. "Look at me," he said.
She looked at him.
"You ours," he continued. Not a question, just a statement of something that had apparently been decided and was now being confirmed. "You understand that."
"Yes," she breathed.
"Say it."
"I-I-I'm yours," she whined, and her voice cracked on the last word because Stack had adjusted behind her and found the angle that turned her thoughts entirely to static.
"Fuck," Stack hissed through his teeth. "Keep squeezin’ me like you finna cum an I'm gon' embarrass myself."
Smoke's jaw ticked. He drove his hips up sharper than he had been, once, and her forehead dropped to his chest. "Hold it," he said, one hand traveling up her spine, settling between her shoulder blades. "Don't finish yet."
Like a good little doll, Bunny obeyed even if withholding her orgasm was one of the hardest things for her to do. She held it through the next several minutes of the two of them working her from both sides with building and competing intensity. Stack's hips found a rhythm behind her that grew less restrained with each stroke, his hands gripping her waist with the force of a man holding onto something he didn’t intend to lose. Meanwhile, Smoke drove up into her pussy with a calculated and precise force that hit the same place every time and built the pressure in her body to a pitch that had no precedent in her experience.
She held back her orgasm with her fingernails deep in Smoke's bare chest and tears running freely down her face from the sheer accumulated pressure of pleasure with nowhere to go. Her body shook uncontrollably between them in continuous tremors.
"Hold it," Smoke said again, quieter this time, his hand moving from between her shoulder blades to the back of her neck, his thumb pressing at the base of her skull with a firmness that was grounding. "Hold it for me. Just a little longer."
She felt like an overfilled waterballoon on the verge of popping but she held it a little longer.
"Now," he said.
The second Smoke gave the command, Bunny let go. This orgasm made her entire body convulse between them, and the viper grip of her fluttering holes around both of them became violent and involuntary, her voice tearing out in a sound that came from a place so primal and ancient it didn’t have a name. Stack grunted hard behind her, the sound losing its edges, his rhythm breaking apart, his hips pressing deep and going still as her body worked around him without any input from her at all. Smoke's hands locked on her hips and held her through every spasm, his breath coming in controlled pulls through his nose, his jaw set, his eyes on her face.
She was still a shaking mess when they moved her.
Stack withdrew and the absence of him was its own overwhelming sensation as they repositioned her between them with fluid and efficient coordination, guiding her body into the new arrangement before she could fully process that things were changing. Her hands and knees were positioned on the mattress with Smoke now behind her. Stack was in front of her, already at the edge of the bed, his hand finding her hair, his thumb tilting her chin upward.
"Open," Stack said, his voice dragged rough by the effort of the last several minutes.
She opened. He slid into her mouth and she wrapped her thick lips around him and worked him with the full attention of a woman who had made sucking dick into an art form, her tongue pressing along his length, her cheeks hollowing with each pull. Behind her Smoke gripped her hips with both hands and pressed into her pussy from behind with a force that had nothing of restraint left in it, each thrust was deep and drove her forward into Stack so that the two of them worked her from both ends in a rhythm that had its own crude, overwhelming music.
Smoke's hand came down on the curve of her backside, a sharp slap that made Stack look over her head at his brother with raised brows.
Smoke looked back at him with an expression that communicated absolutely nothing except his full awareness of what he had just done. "She a doll. She our whore," he said casually between thrusts.
Stack's grin broke across his face, gold tooth and all. "Mm hm." His hand joined Smoke's sentiment, fisting tighter in her curls, working himself into her mouth with an authority that matched his brother's behind her. "Take it," he said, "just like that. All of it."
She took it. She took all of it, from both of them, from behind and in front. Her tears ran freely down her face again, dripped off her chin, and ran down Stack's length where he fucked into her throat. She felt another climax building from somewhere deeper than the previous ones had come from, further down, more structural, and her body told her it was coming whether she was ready or not.
Stack felt it in the change of her mouth around him. Smoke felt it in the change of her hypersensitive pussy around him. Both of them drove harder at the same time as Smoke's hand came to her hip and gripped it with the force of a man who wanted to feel the final round tightness squeeze around him. "Give it," Smoke said, rough against her.
Bunny’s body clenched and released in a rolling sequence that started at her core and moved outward, her voice was muffled around Stack’s twitching length and her thighs shook against Smoke's grip. Everything in her narrowed down to the specific and enormous fact of coming apart between these two men who had decided, right then and there, that she was theirs. Stack's hips completely lost their rhythm entirely and he groaned from deep in his chest, his hot sticky release filling her throat in long, heavy pulses, his hand in her hair tightening as he worked through every second of it. Behind her Smoke thrusted into her through the spasms of her climax with a final series of strokes that cost him the last of his control as his hips pressed flush against hers and stayed there while he finished inside her, the sound that came out of him brief and real.
The room after was silent except for breathing.
Three people in various states of collapse across the ruined white linens, the lamp still burning in the corner, the amber light still doing its only job. Bunny was laying face down in the center of the bed with no intention of moving for the foreseeable future. Stack was somewhere to her left, his hand resting on the mattress near her shoulder. Smoke stood after a moment, crossed to the washstand, and returned with a warm cloth. He cleaned her with that same focused efficiency she had heard other dolls gossip about but never experienced, his hands moved over her with the attention of a man who considered this part of the task just as important as any other.
It was Stack’s turn to move from his spot on the bed, as he waltzed over to a nearby drink cart and poured himself a fresh glass of whiskey glass, took a long sip, and exhaled with the deep satisfaction of a man at genuine peace with every decision he had made in the last several hours. He looked at Bunny where she laid against the linens, a beautiful and thoroughly claimed wreck of a woman. Then he turned to look at his brother across the room.
"She can't go back on the floor," he said.
Smoke wrung the cloth out over the basin. "Mm?"
"I'm serious, Eli. Her talent is undeniable. That thang she did with them hips is somethin' I intend to study at length for the next several weeks of my life." He took another sip. "But her control? Her control is nonexistent. She finished too many damn times in one session. You put her in a room with a payin' client who came here expectin' an hour an she gon' be done in two minutes. That man gon' feel robbed an robbed men talk… an talkin' men bad for business." He set the glass down and crossed his arms over his chest like a man presenting a logical conclusion. "Two more weeks. Minimum. We retrain her every night ‘til she can hold back a nut the way a real doll ‘posed to."
Smoke stayed quiet as he came back to the bed, sat at its edge and looked at his twin with the knowing expression he wore when Stack was making an argument he wanted to put an immediate end to. "Elias," he said.
Stack looked at him.
"Drink ya' whiskey an shut the fuck up."
Stack sucked his teeth but he kept his eyes on Bunny.
Bunny turned her face against the pillow and looked at both of them from the comfortable horizontal vantage point of a woman who had been thoroughly wrecked. Smoke, quiet at the bed's edge, let his hand come to rest at her ankle. Stack, whiskey back in hand and gold tooth gleaming was already building his next argument with the enthusiasm of a man who was looking forward to the next two weeks considerably more than he is letting on.
"Two weeks," she mumbled underneath her breath, to the ceiling.
Stack pointed at her with excitement. "See! She gets it. That’s a good lil’ bunny rabbit."
"But the food stays the same," she added.
The room went quiet for a moment.
Then Stack started laughing, full and genuine, the sound rolling through the room and finding all the corners. This time he pointed at Smoke with the glass. "Eli," he said, "I like her."
"I know," Smoke replied as he kept his hand on her ankle. “I know…”
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Author’s Note: Wowzers! See I ammmmm capable of writing the twins as civilized deviants… *cough* So… um… how about that Josie?? 😏