Ya know, if you aren’t toooo busy —
Hear me out: Smoke having to deal with his girl while she ovulating? I feel like it would be so funny to see mister big scary man a liiiitle afraid of his honey cause it’s ovulation week 😂. I had the thought cause of course I was ovulating and it damn near felt primal lmaoooo. Plus it kinda gives us an insight to sub Smoke. I love your writing booskiiiii ❤️
He Knew What Week It Was
Pairing: Smoke x Charlie (OC)
Summary: It’s ovulation week, and Charlie’s hungry in every sense. Smoke might be built like a country mechanic and talk like he’s got better things to do, but when his woman starts stalking him through the house with nothing but heat in her eyes and slick between her thighs, he knows what time it is. He tries to escape, but she’s faster. Hungrier. And once she’s got him? It’s over.
Warnings: 18+ / Explicit sexual content / Submissive male lead / Dominant female lead / Ovulation kink / Breeding kink / Pussy worship / Face sitting / Oral (f receiving) / Cowgirl & doggystyle / Cumplay / Humor mixed with filth / Southern Black characters / Domestic intimacy / Aftercare
The screen door creaked open, and Smoke stepped inside, wiping the back of his neck with the towel slung over his shoulder. The heat clung to him, thick and humid, even inside. But something else hung in the air—something sweeter. Warmer. Thicker. It wrapped around him before it even hit his nose, made his chest tighten, and his throat catch. There was only one thing it could be.
He sniffed once. Paused. Blinked. "Charlie ovulatin'." It wasn’t even a question. Just fact. Said flat and low like a weather warning. Like a man who knew his time had come. He stood still, boots planted, eyes narrowing like the scent had a shape and weight to it. Heavy. Dangerous. His hand dropped from his neck, that towel forgotten, like his life might be too if he didn’t tread careful.
From down the hallway, soft as molasses and twice as dangerous, came Charlie’s voice, thick with mischief and heat. "Hey, baby." The words rolled out like a slow pour of honey, and Smoke turned his head with caution, already bracing for what he knew he’d see. Charlie stood halfway down the hall, barefoot and dangerous in that short robe with the tie barely holding on, like even the fabric knew resistance was useless.
The evening light poured over her like gold, making her skin gleam—warm, bronzed, kissed by sweat or maybe intention, he couldn’t tell. Her hair was pulled up, but soft curls had fallen loose around her cheeks, framing that sly little smile she wore like a weapon. She moved one thigh forward, the robe parting just enough to flash the full curve of it, thick and glistening. The move wasn’t an accident.
Charlie’s smile spread slow, all teeth and invitation, eyes narrowed like she was hunting something. Or someone. Her gaze locked onto him with an intensity that made his spine twitch, not a lick of hesitation behind it. He swore her pupils dilated like she could smell the heat coming off his skin. She didn’t blink. Just stood there, dripping threat and promise all at once, the low hum of want vibrating off her like a storm rolling in.
It didn’t matter what he said or did. Charlie had already decided. And the way she looked at him right then, like he was her favorite meal and she hadn’t eaten in days, Smoke knew he wasn’t making it out of that hallway untouched.
He blinked once. Then backed up like Charlie had a weapon. "Nah," he muttered.
He turned smooth and quiet, like a man trying not to wake a sleeping lion. He made it to the kitchen before Charlie called again, voice all honey and trap. "Where you goin'? I just wanna talk."
Smoke didn’t answer. He opened the fridge, staring into the cold like it might bless him. Really, he was just trying to breathe something other than Charlie. But Charlie scent was already in him, in his lungs, down in his bloodstream, pulling at something primal. The cold air wasn’t helping. His dick was already stirring like it knew the assignment.
When the fridge didn’t work, he made for the kitchen island. Charlie appeared on the other side just as he reached it, slow walk, robe slipping off one shoulder now. Her eyes dared him to move. "You thirsty, baby?"
He sidestepped. Smooth. Charlie followed, steps in sync. He spun around the island and slipped out the back door like a ghost, barely breathing.
From the porch, he exhaled hard and leaned on the railing. His eyes squinted at the sky like it owed him mercy. "This some bullshit," he muttered.
Inside, he heard Charlie humming. Low and sweet. The kind of hum that sounded like it should come with claws. The screen door creaked again, and he didn’t wait to see.
He ducked into the laundry room and closed the door slow, heart kicking up in his chest. Stood there, back against the washer, towel still in hand like it could defend him. He waited.
Then footsteps. Charlie passed the door. Didn’t see him.
He opened it just as quiet, slid back into the hallway like a damn thief in his own house, and made for the bedroom. If he could just get to the bathroom—
Charlie was there.
"Goddamn," he muttered, stopping mid-step.
Charlie smiled wide, arms stretched against the doorframe like a cat blocking a mousehole. "You been runnin’ from me, daddy?"
"I’m tryin’ to live."
He turned to double back, but Charlie lunged. He juked, barely slipping away, and rushed toward the living room, catching the edge of the couch like it owed him rent. His heart was thudding now, half adrenaline, half arousal. He was sweating more than the heat justified.
Breathing heavy now, he stood there, hands on his hips, staring down the hallway like it personally betrayed him. The house was too small. The air too thick. His girl too fine.
Charlie came up behind him slow. Quiet. Then pounced.
He stumbled, half laughing, half groaning as Charlie straddled him right there on the couch, the weight of her thighs pressing down, firm and intentional. The robe slipped open like velvet curtains rising on a performance. Smoke had no choice but to watch. Her skin brushed his, soft and hot, her scent rising between them like steam. She moved with confidence, grinding her hips down in slow, deliberate circles that made him tense and twitch beneath her. The warmth of her soaked through the thin fabric of his clothes, and all that slick heat felt like it was dragging him under.
She leaned into him, her breasts pressing against his chest, the robe falling completely to the sides now, forgotten. Her fingers slipped into his hair, nails dragging gently against his scalp, and his breath hitched. He reached up instinctively, grabbing at her hips like he needed something to anchor him to reality, but even that wasn’t enough. Every move she made dragged him deeper into her rhythm, every grind of her body pulling a soft curse from his throat. She was too close, too hot, too everything, and Smoke couldn’t catch his breath if he tried.
Charlie rocked against him, slow and relentless, and he could feel her getting wetter by the second. Her lips brushed against his jawline, warm breath teasing the shell of his ear as she whispered something low and filthy, her voice vibrating straight through his spine. He groaned again, not even sure if he was laughing, panicking, or begging. He just knew she had him, and he was gone.
Smoke laid back, arms out like a man giving up to gravity, face unreadable except for the tight line of his jaw, the flare in his nostrils. He looked like he was about to be sacrificed.
Charlie leaned down, lips brushing his ear, voice a whisper soaked in heat. "You done runnin' now?"
He exhaled slow, eyes fluttering to the ceiling like he was sending up a prayer. "Lord Jesus."
The couch didn’t creak—it groaned beneath the weight of them, like even the furniture could feel the shift. Charlie didn’t rush. She sat there on top of him, letting the moment stretch long and slow, like taffy pulled between hot hands. Her body was heavy in the best way, soft curves settling into his lap, her heat seeping through his jeans, making him throb harder with every second that passed. Her robe had fallen open completely now, bare skin pressing into his clothed chest, and she still wasn’t moving beyond that subtle grind that had his pulse ticking wild. Every inch of her was deliberate, a steady burn against the kindling of his restraint.
Smoke’s hands stayed at her hips, firm and unmoving, like if he held her still, he could hold himself together. But Charlie wasn’t letting him get away with that. She leaned in closer, her chest brushing his, her lips ghosting over the curve of his jaw, not kissing, just tasting the tension. She breathed him in like he was made of heat and salt, and he could feel the way her body trembled from holding back, from the weight of her own hunger.
“You breathing kinda heavy,” she murmured, voice low and syrupy, sweet enough to drown in. “I ain’t even do nothin’ yet.”
Smoke’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The look in his eyes was glassy, heat-struck. That silent, stubborn kind of arousal that made his throat tighten and his eyes darken, but still kept him rooted in place like he wasn’t about to break. His chest rose slow and hard under her palms, like each breath cost him something. He stared at her like he was trying not to flinch from a fire.
Charlie licked her lips, slow and deliberate, and rolled her hips again, dragging her center over the thick outline of his dick. She hummed, pleased at the way his breath caught. Her hands slid up under his shirt, palms dragging over the thick chest and broad stomach he carried like a man who worked with his hands every day. He didn’t have gym-cut lines or photo-ready definition. He had that country-boy build—solid, heavy, warm. Muscles layered under softness, strength wrapped in comfort. The kind of body made for holding, for carrying weight, for pressing a woman flat to the mattress and keeping her there.
Charlie let her fingers explore slowly, appreciating the way his skin was smooth over bulk, how his flesh responded to her touch with little twitches and tight inhales. She leaned in further, her lips brushing the edge of his ear, breath hot and voice dripping with that same teasing hunger. “You gon’ be good for me?”
Smoke tilted his head back against the couch, exhaling through his nose like he was praying for mercy. “You don’t fight fair.”
“I don’t have to. I already won.”
He looked back down at her, eyes low and tight. “You proud of that?”
Charlie smiled, leaned in close to whisper against his lips. “You damn right I am.”
Then she kissed him. Not hard. Not fast. Just deep. Slow. Her tongue slid past his lips and coaxed a sound out of him he didn’t mean to make. One of those low, gravelly groans that came from the chest, like it had been pulled out of him against his will. His hands tightened at her waist. Not to stop her. Just to hold on. His fingers dug into her hips like she was the only thing anchoring him to the world.
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes, and her voice came out as a soft command. “Take it off.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your shirt. I want you naked under me, Smoke. Now.”
His breath shuddered. He hesitated—but only for a second. Then his hands lifted slowly, dragging the fabric over his head, every motion unhurried, like he knew how vulnerable it was to give her that. The moment his skin hit the air, Charlie let out a little moan that felt too raw to be casual. Her hands roamed immediately, palms gliding over his chest, his stomach, the hard planes of him that she knew by heart but never got tired of worshipping. Her fingertips traced the lines of his tattoos, dipped into the grooves between muscles, and lingered at the thick veins along his arms.
She leaned down and kissed the center of his chest, then lower, just above his navel, her lips dragging slow, her breath hot. Her teeth grazed his skin, and Smoke’s stomach clenched hard beneath her mouth. She looked up at him through thick lashes, eyes shining with mischief and intention. “Look at you,” she murmured, “all this strength, all this quiet… and I got you sittin’ here like you don’t know what to do with yourself.”
Smoke didn’t speak. His mouth was open, his breathing ragged, his body locked in that quiet war between resistance and surrender. His dick strained hard against the denim, twitching at the sound of her voice, the feel of her mouth, the weight of her sitting there like he was furniture built just for her.
He still wasn’t saying much, but his eyes were begging now. And Charlie? Charlie was just getting started.
Charlie pulled back from his lap slowly, her hips lifting with a teasing drag that made Smoke hiss through his teeth. She didn’t say a word. Just slid off him, the hem of her robe brushing his thighs, and stepped back toward the coffee table like she was floating. Her body gleamed under the soft light, skin kissed with heat, every curve flushed with that ripe, needy glow. Each step was purposeful, hips rolling in that slow, southern sway that always made Smoke's breath hitch. Her thighs glistened where the heat of her arousal clung to them, and she moved like she had all the time in the world to wreck him.
She didn’t sit delicately. She claimed that table like a throne, planting herself down with her legs spread wide, the robe falling open and back, forgotten. Her fingers moved immediately, parting her folds and showing off just how wet she already was. It glistened in the low light, sticky strings catching on her fingertips, her slick shining between her thighs like honey in the sun. She wasn’t shy. She leaned back, one arm behind her for balance, the other working between her legs, circling, dipping, spreading herself open for him like an offering too good to ignore.
Smoke stared. Didn’t blink. His hands were on his thighs, jaw tight, eyes locked between her legs like they held answers to every question he never asked. The muscles in his neck twitched, jaw flexing harder with each wet sound she made. He looked like he was about to say something, then swallowed it back, letting his gaze roam from her dripping center up to the curve of her belly, the arch of her chest, the fire in her eyes.
Charlie dipped two fingers inside herself, slow and messy, her back arching slightly as her body welcomed the stretch. Her moan came high and soft at first, a low whimper that caught in her throat before spilling out again, longer and louder. She rolled her head back, mouth open, eyes fluttering. Her free hand moved to her chest, pinching her nipple, tugging and rolling it between her fingers in rhythm with her strokes. The sound of her wetness echoed through the room, slick, sloppy, filthy—and her moans built into breathy cries, drawn from the center of her chest.
Then she looked at him again, lids heavy, mouth slick and smirking. "You gon’ just sit there or talk to me?"
Smoke leaned back slightly, resting one arm on the couch, the other cupping his own bulge through his jeans. He watched her with that same dry, heavy-lidded stare, but his voice was low and sharp. "You really sittin’ there playin’ with that pussy like I ain’t right here?"
Charlie sucked her teeth and circled her clit, slow and deliberate. "I ain't playin'. I'm showin’ you."
He grunted, shaking his head. "Mouthy. You always got somethin’ to say when you know you smell like sweet trouble. Drippin’ all over my damn furniture like you ain't got no home training. Look at this pussy. So wet you leakin’ down to the table."
She moaned louder, fingers working faster, hips rocking now, all control thrown to the fire. Her breath hitched every time she caught that sweet spot, and she stared him down through it all, daring him to move. "Then come shut me up."
Smoke was off that couch in one motion, dropping to his knees like gravity yanked him. He crawled forward on all fours, slow and steady like a panther in heat, eyes never leaving the mess between her legs. His palms hit the floor, shoulders broad and moving with each stride as he closed the distance like a man possessed. When he reached her, he grabbed the back of her thighs and spread her wider, almost roughly, but reverently. His nose brushed her folds, and he inhaled deep, dragging the sound out like a curse.
"This what you wanted, huh? This sweet, sticky shit got my name all over it. You want me to clean it up, baby?"
Before Charlie could answer, his mouth was on her. Tongue flat, slow, wide at first, licking up everything she'd given him. Then he locked in, lips sealing over her clit, tongue working with precision that had her whole body jerking. Her thighs clamped around his head, but he didn’t budge. His hands gripped under her knees, locking her open as he feasted like it was his only purpose. The wet sounds filled the room, obscene and slick, as he mouthed her pussy like she was his whole salvation.
He moaned into her, loud and hungry, like she tasted better than anything he’d ever had in his life. His tongue worked her in patterns, switching up pressure, speed, sucking her clit until she was panting, fingers digging into the edge of the table to stay grounded. Her other hand found his head, gripping the back of his skull, not to guide him, but to hold on. She whimpered his name like a plea, and the next sound was a deeper cry, breath catching every time he curled his tongue just right. Her voice broke on a moan, high and guttural, her hand flying back to her chest to pinch her nipples harder, adding to the overload.
Smoke didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He kissed her pussy like it was holy, tongue-fucking her until she cried out his name. His beard was wet with her, his chin shiny, and he kept going, humming low into her until her legs trembled. He pulled back just enough to let a line of spit connect him to her, lips glistening, voice low and guttural.
“Please,” he whispered, voice rough but low, his eyes locked on hers and shining with hunger. "Keep goin’, baby. Let me taste you fall apart. I need it—need you to cum on my tongue, give me all that sweet mess. I’ll take every drop. I swear I will."
Then he dove back in, tongue ruthless, lips hungry. Charlie’s whole body seized with the force of it. Her back arched, thighs quaking around his head, hands flying to his shoulders as the orgasm ripped through her. She came hard, loud, body rolling, hips grinding against his face as if trying to fuse with him. The table rocked beneath her. Her breath shattered. Her voice cracked. And Smoke didn’t come up for air until she was limp, trembling, and soaked.
He licked her one last time, slow and savoring, then kissed the inside of her thigh, still panting like he'd run miles to earn it. Charlie stared down at him, dazed, glistening, legs still twitching. And Smoke? He looked drunk off her, eyes half-lidded and wet with worship.
Charlie was still trembling, her chest heaving as she came down from the high he’d dragged out of her. Her legs were weak, slick clinging to the inside of her thighs, but her eyes? Her eyes were locked on him, sharp and dark with something that looked an awful lot like hunger still left unsatisfied. Smoke knelt there, chest rising and falling, beard drenched in her, his lips parted like he was waiting for more. He looked up at her like he was still caught in that moment—wanting to be told what to do next, needing it even if he didn’t say a word.
Charlie leaned forward, reached for his belt with fingers that curled slow and deliberate around the thick leather. Her touch was light but commanding, and when she pulled, Smoke followed without resistance. He stood up like he was under a spell, his big body towering, but everything in his posture bowed to her now. His eyes didn’t leave hers, not once, and the corner of his mouth twitched like he wanted to say something slick but knew better.
She led him through the house with the belt still in her hand, guiding him like she owned every breath in his lungs. And in that moment, she did. The sunroom was soaked in soft, golden light, the kind that dipped low across the floor like liquid heat. Every wall was made of glass from ceiling to floor, and the roof above let in the last stretch of sunset—burnt orange bleeding into purple, clouds rolling like slow waves overhead. The light danced across the hardwood, casting long shadows and amber glows across the thick rugs and the two of them as they stepped inside.
The loveseat in the corner sat like a throne waiting to be claimed. Charlie turned, pressing her palm flat against his chest. "Strip," she said, her voice low and steady, no question in it.
He obeyed, fingers moving to undo his buttons, slow and hesitant. Charlie watched his hands, then his face. Her eyes didn’t flinch. Every inch he revealed, she claimed with her gaze, his thick arms, that wide chest with soft edges, the curve of his belly, the heavy trail of hair leading down. Her mouth parted slightly when his pants dropped, revealing how hard and needy he already was, his dick curved up, thick and glistening at the tip. He kicked his pants off and stood there, naked and tense, like his body had been waiting for her since she cornered him in the living room.
Charlie stepped in close, letting her fingers trail down his stomach, feather-light and possessive. She took her time, her nails grazing his sides, lips parted just enough to let out a quiet hum of approval. "You always get this hard for me? Or just when I’m smellin’ like I need it deep?"
Smoke’s breath caught, throat working. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. She could see it in the twitch of his dick, in the way his lips parted just slightly. When she reached down and gave the thick shaft a firm squeeze, his hips jerked forward, a deep grunt rumbling from his chest like it had been dragged out of him. His breath hitched again when she slid her palm up to the tip, fingers teasing around the swollen head before giving it another tight pulse. Smoke bit his bottom lip hard, eyes fluttering closed for a second, overwhelmed by the sensation. He looked wrecked already, like the waiting was eating him alive, like her touch alone was unraveling every bit of his control.
She grinned. "That’s what I thought."
Then she gave him a gentle push, and he dropped onto the loveseat with a grunt, wide legs open, hands resting on his thighs like he didn’t know what else to do with them. His eyes never left her. Charlie let her robe slide off her shoulders, falling in a soft puddle on the floor, leaving her bare and radiant in the sunlit glass room. Her body glowed, sweat still dewy on her skin, thighs slick, nipples peaked and flushed from heat and hunger.
She climbed into his lap, not soft, not slow—just need. Her body met his with a slick heat, skin to skin, and when she lowered herself onto him, it was one smooth, hungry motion that knocked the air out of both of them. He gasped like her pussy punched the breath from his lungs.
Charlie didn’t ease into it. She dropped her weight onto his dick, burying him to the hilt with a sound that split the air, her moan raw and heavy. Her hips rolled once, twice, then picked up into a relentless grind that shook through both of them. Her hands braced on his shoulders, nails biting into skin as she rode him as if her life depended on it. There was no slow rhythm. No tenderness. Just the raw drag of wet heat and the loud slap of flesh meeting flesh.
Smoke whimpered under her, his head falling back, hands gripping her waist like he didn’t know if he wanted to slow her down or beg her to go faster. His chest was rising fast, mouth open, eyes wild. Charlie leaned in, chest brushing his, lips near his ear.
"You feel that? That’s what you been runnin’ from all day. My pussy stay ready for you. You gonna give it to me, baby? Gonna fill me up till I can’t hold none of it in?"
He nodded, desperate, but his voice came through this time, low, heavy, thick with pleading. "Let me, baby. Please let me take care of you. You need it deep, I know you do. Let me give it to you right."
His hips bucked beneath her, trying to match her brutal rhythm, but she pushed his chest back with one hand, keeping control. He gritted his teeth, groaning, the frustration and the need twisting together in his eyes. “C’mon, mama. Let me fuck you how you need. Let me put it right where it’s s’posed to go. I’ll give it to you. I swear I will.”
Charlie stared down at him, lips parted, eyes flickering with that same hunger she’d had all day. Then she gave him a sharp nod, panting through her grin. "Alright then. Show me."
Smoke didn’t waste a second. He lifted her by the hips, strong arms flexing as he pulled free and stood, dick glistening, throbbing with restraint. He moved her with purpose, leading her across the sunroom to the ottoman in the center of the floor, the one bathed in dying gold light. He bent her over it, hands splayed on her back, pressing her down until her ass was high, her face against the cushion.
She was already moaning before he even touched her again.
"Look at you," he muttered, running a palm over the curve of her ass, watching her thighs twitch. "So ready for it. So wet it’s drippin’ down your damn legs."
Charlie arched her back more, wiggling her hips. "Then stop talkin’ and fuck me."
And he did.
He slid in slow, all the way to the hilt, groaning deep in his chest as her walls gripped him like she didn’t want to let go. He stayed buried there for a moment, his hands gripping her hips hard, eyes fluttering as the heat of her wrapped around him. He let out another low, guttural sound, almost reverent, his breath shaky with the effort it took not to lose it right then and there. Then he started moving. Hard. Deep. No hesitation. Each thrust was a heavy snap of his hips, slapping loud and filthy against her ass, the sound echoing off the glass walls. Her pussy welcomed him back with every stroke, slick and warm and gripping him tight like it was made to hold him there.
He leaned over her, one hand sliding up her back while the other held firm at her waist, guiding her onto his dick with that desperate, precise rhythm that made her moan into the cushion. His dick dragged against every needy, swollen part of her, her walls fluttering around him as he drove into her again and again. Her gasps turned into cries, her nails digging into the cushion as he hit that spot inside her that made her whole body jolt. She pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with the same frantic hunger he gave her. Their bodies clashed and moved like they’d been waiting for this all day, and they had.
"This what you needed? Huh? This how you want me to fuck you? Like a bitch in heat beggin’ to be bred?"
"Yes!" she cried, voice breaking. "Just like that! Don’t stop, Smoke—don’t fucking stop."
He didn’t. He gripped her hips tighter, his strokes getting rougher, deeper, more desperate. His breath hitched every time he bottomed out, and she kept pushing back against him, matching every thrust.
The glass room fogged from their heat, the sky darkening above them. Outside, anyone could look in and see—see the way he fucked her, the way she took it, the way they both chased that breaking point.
"I’m close," Smoke groaned, voice cracking. "I’m—fuck, Charlie—I’m gonna—"
"Do it," she moaned. "Cum in me. Fill me up. I want all of it."
With a broken cry, he slammed deep and stayed there, his dick pulsing hard as thick, hot cum spilled deep inside her. It was endless, messy, and loud. Her pussy clenched down around him with each twitch, milking his release like it was all she’d wanted. The heat of it made her shudder, eyes rolling back as another orgasm crashed over her, ripping a scream from her throat. Her legs gave out, collapsing beneath her, her body quaking as she felt every last drop shoot up into her, slick dripping down her thighs before he’d even pulled out. She could feel it soaking her, warm and heavy, and it made her moan louder, her back arching, begging for more even as he gasped above her, spent and overwhelmed.
Smoke pulled out slowly, breath ragged, and watched his cum drip from her, thick and slow, coating her thighs and glistening on the cushion below. He reached down, running his fingers through the mess, spreading it over her folds before pushing a bit back inside with his thumb, watching her twitch.
"That’s right," he whispered, voice reverent. "Stay full for me. Let ‘em see what I gave you."
Charlie moaned, face still buried in the cushion, her body trembling, her pussy dripping with everything she’d begged for—and more.
The sunroom was damn near silent now, save for the soft whir of the ceiling fan and the labored breaths coming from the tangled mess of limbs on the floor. The sky outside had gone full indigo, stars starting to poke through the glass ceiling above them, and inside, Charlie and Smoke looked like they’d just survived something holy and unholy all at once—bare, sweaty, and barely coherent, like two sinners laid out in confession.
Charlie was sprawled on her stomach, ass still glistening with the mess he’d left inside her, a lazy, wrecked smile curling her lips even though her face was buried in the throw pillow. Her thighs were trembling slightly, muscles twitching like they still remembered the rhythm he gave her. Her legs refused to move. Hell, she didn’t even know if she wanted them to. Every inch of her body felt used in the most delicious way—stretched, filled, and wrung dry like a dish rag.
Smoke was flat on his back next to her, one arm flung over his eyes like the moonlight was too much. His chest rose slowly, like it took effort just to breathe. His beard still glistened with her, lips parted, neck damp with sweat. He looked like a man who’d gone through spiritual warfare with pussy and lost gladly. His other hand reached out blindly, found her thigh, and just rested there, thumb drawing lazy circles just above the bend of her knee, like he needed to keep touching her to believe he’d survived.
"So…" Charlie croaked, voice hoarse but laced in that syrupy teasing tone she always had when she was smug. "Still think I was bein’ dramatic ‘bout ovulation week?"
Smoke didn’t answer right away. He let out a long, low groan that rumbled deep from his chest, somewhere between a laugh and a cry for help. "I ain’t never been hunted through a house like that. You damn near tackled me in the pantry."
Charlie laughed into the pillow, muffled but bright. "You was actin’ like I was gon’ eat you."
He finally turned his head, peeking out from under his arm to glare at her. "You said verbatim that you was gon’ drain my soul. With intention. With God watchin’."
She rolled onto her side with a hiss, her body still aching, and reached over to tap his soft stomach. "Mmmhmm. And yet here you lay. Full of sin and nut."
Smoke smirked, his voice rough but filled with something close to awe. "You ain’t leave me much choice. You had that look in your eye. Like I was the only thing standin’ between you and salvation."
"You were. And you did a good job too. Might have to keep you ‘round every time I start feelin’ like this."
"Keep me?" he scoffed, dropping his arm completely and giving her a sideways stare. "Charlie, I’m ruined. You broke me in at least three different places. My dick twitched when you rolled over. I might cry if you sneeze too loud."
She giggled and leaned in to kiss his chest, her tongue dragging slow and lazy over his nipple just to hear him hiss and flinch. "You’ll be alright. I’ll make you a sandwich in a lil bit."
"A sandwich ain’t gon’ fix what you did to me. I need holy water. I need my mama to pray over me."
"Well, maybe you shouldn’t have been so fine in that white tank. Out here lookin’ like a mechanic from a nasty dream."
Smoke chuckled low, the sound warm and worn. "You were ovulatin’, not possessed."
"Same difference," she mumbled, snuggling closer and letting her leg drape over his. She didn’t even bother with the mess between her thighs, didn’t care that his cum was still slowly leaking out of her, soaking into the rug. She liked it. Loved the warmth, the stickiness, the way it felt like she was still full of him. Like he was still part of her.
Smoke turned his head toward her again, expression gentling as he looked at her. "You good?"
She nodded, cheek pressed to his chest. "More than good. You?"
"I’m… yeah," he sighed, arm wrapping around her shoulder to hold her close. "Just remind me next time to start stretchin’ three days ahead. Maybe pop some ibuprofen."
Charlie laughed again, breathless and bright. "You talk all that shit ‘bout bein’ built different, but let a lil fertile pussy test your stamina, and suddenly you need Bengay and a heating pad."
He smacked her thigh, grinning. "You knew what week it was. That’s on you."
"That ain’t the week that scared you," she whispered, smiling against his skin. "It’s me."
Smoke closed his eyes and nodded slow. "Damn right."
They laid there in the aftermath, bathed in moonlight, draped in the scent of sex and sweat and laughter. The house had finally gone quiet—but they both knew it wouldn’t stay that way for long. Not with her next cycle only twenty-something days away.
And from the look on Charlie’s face… she was already counting down.
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