emmy

est 2002. | black american hottie. | she/her.

[theblacklewinsky]

EMMY’s LIST <3

chronic fics about your favs dropping to their knees for you!

Terry Richmond.

Jaded. [ Pt. 1, Pt. 2 & Pt. 3]

Perfect Gentleman.

Bunny & Her Man. [ Pt. 1 & Pt. 2]

Helpful Neighbors. Taken Care Of.

more to come soon.. <3

[theblacklewinsky]

Working on this Creasy fic and I don't know if I like it 🫣

[ruthiepenn]

And every single Met I’ll remind you all of the late Chadwick Boseman’s look.

[lovergirlcinema]

till this day, I believe this was the best men’s outfit that we ever got at a Met Gala! Forever missing Chadwick🥺♥️

[blackboysrock]

insta • unkwnzj

[misskiki90]

Sooooo can we get some fanfiction stories of John Creasy aka Yahya plzzz? 👀👀👀👀

#yahyaabdulmateen #yahyaabdulmateenII #manonfire #johncreasy #justfine

[theblacklewinsky]

so, I'm bout to write.

[theblacklewinsky]

Note: cause I finished watching sinners the other day 😮‍💨 I'm overly going for smoke.

STRESS RELIEVER. | MBJ

MBJ! Smoke x Black! Female Reader.

Warnings: MDNI!! this story is 18+ with depictions of but not limited to; sexual content ( oral sex, (f receiving) unprotected sex (u betta wrap it up!) extreme language (cursing, use of n-word,) choking, talking you through it. Not proof read.

Summary: you're a stressed single mom, but Smoke can help you with that.

when i'm taking sips,

from your tasty lips,

the honey fairly drips.

Circa 1947.

Clarksdale, MS.

"Lyle!" You called out for your ten year old son, hands vigorously tossing and scrubbing the fabric of one of his t shirts together in your wooden wash tub. You had sent that boy off thirty minutes ago with your spare wash tub, and he still hadn't made it back yet. The lord said be fruitful, but here you were struggling with your one, not to mention your niece. "Lyle Jr!" You called out again, eyes flickering into the wooded area behind your small home. No Lyle.

You huffed drying your hands on your dress, eyes darting over the vicinity. You spotted one of Lyle's friends, James, holding some goods walking down the road, Edith's son from down the road.

"James, you seen Lyle at that river?" You asked squinting, using your right hand as visor against the sun, looking at the younger boy slow to a stop in front of you. His lips parted and his eyes got shifty, he ain't wanna tell on his buddy. "Boy if you fixin' to lie for 'em don't even, he already in a world of trouble."

James sighed, "I seen him in town at Mr Al's sto' a few minutes ago."

You kissed your teeth, "I figured. Gone get home, boy." You mumbled eyes following the child until he was at the end of the road. You sighed, turning around and pulling the shirt out of the wash tub and wringing it out. Now here you had to go, stopping your washing to go and get that hardheaded child out of town. You planned on being done with this just in time for dinner, but like always Lyle found a way to turn a simple instruction, into complete chaos. But, he was your baby.

Lyle was just like his father—wild, active and barely attentive. Splitting image of him too. He had nearly every trait from him except his nose and that curly hair—both traits straight from you. Those gray eyes, flat lips, and freckles peppered across his nose was nothing other than Lyle Sr. It didn't take a rocket scientist to see that your son was half white, and apparently it didn't take them Klansman long to see it either. They seen you and Lj playing in the yard earlier that day, and wanted to see the nigger lover that got you pregnant. Their words.

He had just come home from the war only an hour before, Lj never got the chance to see his daddy the next morning. They snatched him right out of your house, and two days later your uncle found him dangling from the limb of a tree. You told Lj he died in Japan, that he died a hero.

"Elaine!" You called out toward the cracked front door of your home, where inside Elaine should've been shelling peas. You shuffled over the lawn to your clothes line, grabbing a clip and clipping the wet shirt to the line.

"Yes, auntie?" Elaine peeked her head out of the door, brown eyes looking at you expectantly.

"Do me a favor and get started on dinner, baby. I gotta go get Lj from town," you sighed.

"Yes ma'am," she mumbled heading back inside. You started across the grass, hands shielding the sun from your squinted eyes as you seen the nice Lincoln Continental rounding the dirt road quickly. Ain't no cars that nice ever pass through your side of town, the Klansman ain't even got cars that nice.

You watched, and it was nice, real nice until you seen your boy in the passengers seat, with a complete damn stranger. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes and said a silent prayer to the lord. By the time that nice Lincoln stopped in front of your lawn, your eyes were open and narrowed. You could feel the hesitance from Lyle as he slowly opened the car door.

"Hey mama," he fidgeted nervously with that same boyish smile his father used to do, guilt all in his expression, "I filled yo' wash tub up!" He quickly gestured to the wooden tub sitting half full in the backseat.

The man driving exited the car. Tall, brown, handsome, in a fine Irish suit, and brown leather Johnston's & Murphy. But what the hell was your son doing in the passenger seat? You'd seen this man in your life, and you knew for a fact Lyle hadn't either. A short surge of panic coursed through you.

"Lj, where the hell were you?! I told you to go fill my washtub and I see yo ass roundin' the corner with a complete stranger?" You scolded. "Get my washtub out that backseat and get yo behind up in thar house, before you don't have a behind to sit on later." You gritted, eyes on him as he deflated, slowly pulling the back door open.

"I caught him at Al sto' in town," the man started, southern drawl slow and accent as thick as it could be, leaning on the hood of his car ever so casually, watching Lyle grab the half full washtub from the backseat, "Al caught him stealin' a few things and was fixin' to get rough wit'em—”

Your eyes widened at the mention, as they darted back to your son. "Stealing?! Lj—”

"But I took him, we had a talk about stealin' didn't we?" The man arched a brow at him.

"Yeah, ma," Lyle grunted sitting the wooden tub on the lawn, before reaching to the pocket of his pants and pulling out 80 cents and holding it out you, "Smoke gave me twenty cents a minute to watch his car! And all I had to do, was hold the horn if somebody got close—and then these two men got too close so Smoke came out and—”

"Boy, shut yo mouth and take yo ass in that house like yo mama told you," Smoke cut him off, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his suit pocket, he took one, and held it between his lips before holding the pack out to you.

Any other time you would've cursed somebody out for talking to your child crazy, but that was the first time since your husband died that Lj just listened. No excuses, no kickback. And you were silently grateful for that. He slowly trudged toward the house.

"No thank you," you replied in response to the offer of the cigarette, your skeptical gaze on the man on your property, "thank you for bringin' my child home, but I can take it from here. My husband'll be home shortly."

Lyle paused at the step, confusion creasing his forehead. "But mama, daddy died in Japan—"

You closed your eyes tightly, clenching your teeth. "Lj, ain't I said get in that house?!" You raised your voice, tone stern and heavy. Your boy. You heard quick shuffling up the stairs and the side of your front door being gently closed.

You heard the flicker of a lighter as you lowered yourself onto a nearby stool, dragging your freshly filled wash tub toward you. The faint smell of cigarette smoke lingered.

"I fought in that same war," Smoke recalled as he took a long drag from his cigarette, "seen some of the worst shit you could ever imagine."

You sighed, stuffing one of your nieces dresses into the tub and started to vigorously clean it. "Yeah, you, my husband and plenty others...” you mumbled eyes glancing up at him quickly with little interest before you focused your attention back on your busied hands. "...thank you for service."

Smoke ain't reply for a moment just observed. The tension in your shoulders, the stoic expression of your face, to the irritation in your tone. You were beyond stressed. "What you doin' tonight?"

Your movements stilled almost immediately. Your eyes slowly trailed up from the brown leather shoes he wore, to the very expensive Irish suit that adorned his body, your nose scrunched in mix of disgust and heavy irritation. "Excuse me?"

A ghost of a smirk fell across his lips, the sun gleaming off the gold caps he had on his teeth. "You look like you need a break, shit. You out here in 90 degree weather scrubbin' shirts and shit like the stains pissed in yo coffee this mornin'."

"Me and my brother Stack got a juke bar openin' up tonight right down the road."

You let out a half hearted laugh and continued scrubbing. "Boy, do it look like I got time for a juke bar? I got two kids up in that house." You mumbled. You couldn't remember the last time you went to a party. Maybe 17? You got married at 19 and had Lyle at 20. As soon as you got married, had a kid, there were no more parties for you. And when your sister passed and you took in Elaine—it got even more serious. All your focus tuned in to giving those kids the very best life, and that's why you left Texas two years ago. They deserved a fresh start.

"I wish yall the best, but I ain't got nobody to watch my kids." You mumbled. "Good luck on yall openin'."

Smoke flicked his cigarette, "damn shame," he muttered, "cause I was show'll hopin' to see more of you."

You quietly kissed your teeth, your movements slightly slowing. You kept your eyes down and lips sealed until that Lincoln pulled off. Who the hell was Smoke?

You hummed softly taking a sip of water from your glass as you looked over at your niece across from you. Spooning over the side of black-eyed peas on her plate.

"Girl," you side-eyed her, taking a bite out of the dinner roll, "you better not be over there' wastin' food."

Elaine's eyes darted over to you immediately, "I'm not auntie, I'm just thinkin'... you never go out and have fun, and I heard that man out there invitin' you to the juke bar, and everybody goin! I heard Mary's mama and Mrs. Edith talkin' about it earlier too."

"I can take care of Lj and me, he won't be no problem." She affirmed.

You thought over it for a moment, your eyes flickering over to Lj who was already shaking head. "I'll be good mama, I swear."

You rolled your eyes sighing heavily over the rim over your glass. "Mm, I'll go. Only for a lil bit though, cause I don't want yall alone for too long." Why'd you raise your kids to be so damn sweet?

You looked around the jukebox bar, already apparently in full action before you and Edith had even arrived. You looked absolutely gorgeous, the many compliments you received from friends and neighbors in passing as soon as you walked in—even the sweet compliments from your kids. You looked almost rich, a red and white plaid halter swing dress, a white shawl over your shoulders, the fanciest red pumps you owned, a single baby's breath flower in your bouncy, brushed out roller set, and a bold red lip to pull it all together. You looked great. But you felt so out of place.

"Girl, this is a lot," you mumbled to your friend quietly as she edged you both closer to the bar, "I feel so out of place—I think I need to go home and check on my kids!" Anxiety started to creep in as you began to turn on your heels but felt the soft pull of Edith's hands in your wrist.

"Girl, relax," she frowned a little, dropping her hand from your wrist and dusted off the skirt of your dress, "the kids are fine and you know that. You need a break, and a drink! You tense all in the shoulders, honey." She waved a hand over your upper body with a look of disdain.

"I am not tense!" You defended. You were.

"You are," she retorted, "and you makin' me nervous! You don't hear Slim singin' up there?" Her light brown eyes followed yours to the stage. You side-eyed her as she proofed her hair and shot you a quick glance. "You reckon he'll notice me tonight?"

You contained your poker face, even though you wanted to display the shock you felt internally. You didn't know much about Slim, other than he was known in the area for playing at a local blues club, and the fact he had a better relationship with alcohol than people it seemed. He didn't seem to be a bad man though. "...I hope so." You mumbled eyes darting all over the floor of people.

"Well," she hummed with a smile, "ima increase my chances by standin' closer to the stage," she gently guided you to an open stool at the bar, "you, need to stay here and get a drink. It's on me!"

You shot her a glare before rolling your eyes and letting off a soft sigh as she squeezed your hand before heading off, disappearing into the sea of bodies on the floor. You looked around the wooden interior what had appeared to be an old ranch, or barn, but the decorations had made it look up to par.

"What can I get you?"

Your eyes averted over to the pretty Chinese woman behind the bar in front of you. Your eyes scanned the shelf for a brief moment. "Y'all got gin?" You asked scrunching your nose at the selection that was presented.

She nodded, turning around to grab a bottle from the counter and a clean glass, pouring a generous amount in before presenting it to you. "That'll be fifty cent."

You went to open the white clutch in your lap to fetch your change.

"Gon' and put that one on the house, Grace," Smoke's voice sounded off behind you, he was close. Grace simply nodded and headed off to tend to another customer.

"Thank you," you mumbled, slowly closing your clutch and keeping your eyes straight ahead, grabbing your glass and taking a sip of tb win

"Thank you," he reiterated to you, slipping into the limited space between you and the other seated patron, slightly leaning on the bar, "for comin. I ain't think you was gon show up."

You glanced at him briefly, his brown irises staring directly at you. You crossed your legs tighter, and averted your eyes elsewhere. You couldn't explain it, but he was staring at you like he was studying you. "Yeah, y'all got a lot of people here. That's good, right?" You responded dodging the last party of his statement, hell, after this drink you were still thinking about bolting. And maybe he knew that.

He finally took his eyes off of you, briefly looking over the over building. "Yeah. Stack handled business on that front." His eyes looked over your seated frame once more. "You look good."

You took another sip of gin. "Thank you," you mumbled softly eyes darting over the interior of the club once again. Looking for any change in conversation, any minor detail you could point out. Anything that could stop this gin from making you cave into whatever temptation this man was dangling over your head.

"This a big place." You chirped out, eyes loping everywhere but him.

"You want me to show you around?"

You blinked. The party was right here. Be damned it was probably nothing but empty storage rooms on that second level. But why not? Edith left you to go source out the opportunity that Slim would notice her, and right now you wasn't feeling much like mingling.

"Can I bring my drank?"

Upstairs was exactly how you pictured it; a mix of empty rooms. Smoke apparently bad vision for all of them. He showed you a spacious room, one that he sought out to be his office, a small one he wanted to make storage, and a moderate sized one for a break room of some sorts.

Inside the fourth and final room you were greeted with a desk of some sorts, a bunch of wooden boxes filled with alcohol, and a glowing jukebox in the corner. The door seemed to fall shut behind you as you followed smoke in, glass still half full with the gin as you took a seat atop the desk.

"Shouldn't that be downstairs?" You half chuckled gesturing to the jukebox he was now fiddling with.

"What you wanna hear?" He asked you, shooting you a half glance as he reached inside his pocket and pulled out a quarter, popping it into the machine.

"You don't hear that music downstairs?" You watched your eyebrow, looking at him over the rim of your glass.

"I ain't asked you none about the music downstairs. I asked what you wanna hear." He reaffirmed, eyes settled on you. Your gaze met his for a moment before you set the glass beside you on the desk, and carefully slid off. You met him at the jukebox, eyes skimming over your limited options, before you settled on Honeysuckle Rose by Fats Waller.

The soft and familiar jazz tune filled the air as you took your seat back at the desk, Smoke staying stationed where he was. Comfortably leaned up against the jukebox. For a second nothing was said, only the smooth low instrumental of the beginning of the song played.

Smoke's eyes lazily trailed over your figure and you could feel his heated glaze, even when you acted as if you were fixated on the wallpaper, or the gin in your glass.

"What you do for work?" He spoke up. And you were grateful for the break in silence, the air in the room felt thick with something you ain't felt in a real long time.

"I make clothes, I sell vegetables from my garden sometimes," you shrugged, "I make do."

"You need a man."

You blinked, before a scoff followed by a half-hearted laugh escaped your mouth. "I don't need no man to help me pay the bills."

"Nah, but you do need a man for all that stress you got." His voice was even, but his stare was heavy. You shifted on the desk, throat dry. But the seat of your panties wasn't.

You were a widowed, single mama, and a woman with respect and morals. How would you look having casual sex with a man you just met earlier in the day? Please.

You shuffled to your feet from the desk and headed toward the door, mumbling a fast and quiet 'I gotta go.' He was quick to meet you before your hand hit that doorknob. Hands placed firmly on your hips, your back pressed all up against that pristine Irish suit he wore. His lips found your neck in feather light, searing kisses. "There you go," he mumbled in between kisses to your heated flesh, "worryin' and stressin'. You ain't got nowhere to be right now, but right here lettin' me take care of you."

You sucked your bottom lip in, eyes fluttering closed followed by a heavy inhale. If you had any will at all it'd already escaped with that first kiss. "We don't even know each other," you tried to reason, voice coming out strained and breathy.

"I ain't gotta know you to help you wit' this," his hands gently squeezing your hips through your dress, dragging up until they reached your shoulders, that he gently massaged before running them down your arms, kissing your right shoulder gently, his lips leaving heat behind.

"Besides," he mumbled against the fabric of your shawl, until his lips found the exposed skin of your neck again, he left one soft peck, "we bout to be well acquainted after this."

He proved to at least know your body well. He made good use of that desk, to have you seated there, legs rested against his shoulders and the skirt of your dress hiked over your waist. His eyes made full contact with yours, as he sucked on your swollen clit. His soft hums on your sensitive bud, had your lips parted, breathing uneven and eyes lazy. "Ooh, fuck!" You hummed a soft moan, eyes boring into his as he pulled back before pulling your clit in between his lips in a series of sloppy sucks, a string of your wetness and his spit dripping from his goatee onto the hardwoods flooring beneath you, his knees planted firmly on the ground.

"Just like that, Smoke," you nodded vigorously, still maintaining the lazy eye contact with him until your thighs trembled and your eyes shut involuntarily. Your hands raised in an abrupt attempt to find something to grip onto, in the midst your hand knocking the glass half full with the gin to the hardwood flooring. Smoke seemed undeterred by the glass clobbering to the floor, his tongue tracing big lazy circles around your swollen bud, the soft hums and moans emanating from his throat sending small jolts of vibrations through you. Your breath hitched, eyes lazily opening to give him still watching you. Tongue slipping in and out of you, with a vengeance damn near. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into the thrusts of his tongue like he was tryna collect whatever you'd give him.

"Shiiiiit," you slurred through a moan, eyes fluttering closed again voice raspy with need, "I'm finna cum!" You squeaked, thighs squeezing around his head.

"Mmh, mmh," he hummed against your pussy before pushing your thighs apart and pulling back, face messy, his hand slapped your exposed ass cheek, taking a needy moan from you, "wanna feel you cummin' on this dick soon as I slide it in." He mumbled hoarsely, his eyes trained on you lowly while his fingers busied themselves with undoing his belt. Your thighs squeezed close at his lewd words as your eyes connected with the bulge he was pulling from his pants. So pretty—and dicks usually weren't. Veiny, and two toned.

He pushed your thighs apart gently and leaned down, kissing you with you all over his lips. The way he kissed you was soft and hungry, like he wasn't rushing but enjoying. His teeth caught your bottom lip as you moaned, feeling him gently slap the tip of his dick against your throbbing clit, rubbing it all over your sloppy wetness, before carefully pushing into you.

A gasp left your lips as soon as you felt him stretch you open, his girth mixed with your long run of celibacy filled you with a slight sting and feeling slightly uncomfortable, but Smoke didn't give you a minute to react, his lips meeting yours, fingers softly grazing your clit as he eased into you. He pulled back to mumble a throaty, "Fuck," against your lips when he filled you to the hilt. A heavy breath slipped past your lips as your brows furrowed, eyes dropping down to where you two met.

He proved to know you even better then. Slipping in and out of you with slow precision at first. His fingers rubbing slow teasing circles against your clit. Bottom lip between your teeth, eyes fluttered closed as he peppered kisses along your jawline and chin. "You feel so fuckin' good," he mumbled voice raspy and muffled against your jaw. Your voice hadn't caught up to you yet, and your breaths were too quick and erratic, yet, you felt the most relaxed you felt in a long time.

Slow precision turned into deep hard strokes. You coated him in creamy white, one hand wrapped around your neck, the other gripping the front of your dress for leverage to keep working inside of you. His forehead dampened with sweat, pressed against yours as he stared into your lazy brown irises. "Look at that shit," he grunted, pulling back slightly, eyes falling to where you connected, slowing his strokes to show how well you had him covered, "you needed this shit so bad," he affirmed. You mustered enough breath to produce a broken squeal, your eyes shutting closed tight. The only sounds filling the essence of the room was the sound of your skin hastily making contact with his, and the sound of your wetness clashing with him.

"Yea," he mumbled pulling away, hand squeezing tighter around your neck, just enough to barely construct your breathing, "that pussy talkin' to me. Pussy thankin' me baby?" He quizzed, heavy breathing shadowing his question.

"Yessss," you whined out, thighs trembling as you opened your eyes, only for them to roll back a second later. He knew exactly where to hit. It was like he find your spot, and stroked with a vigor. The legs of the desk screeching against the hardwood flooring, made ugly sounds followed by the lewd sounds the both of you produced. "Oh my god," you huffed, a sense of pleasurable urgency in your voice, "I'm bout to cum, baby!" You rushed out, stars blurred your vision and it seemed like your breathing stopped for a moment. The only thing that filled your ears was your sticky wetness, the sound of the desk screeching across the floor, and the violent slams of your body crashing into each other.

It was like you couldn't produce sound even when you came. The way your body stiffened and your legs trembled, how your hands instantly reached to push at his torso and chest as he fucked you through it. Only a loud cry followed after, and even then it seemed as if the stars continued to swim behind your eyelids. You went into a period of overstimulation, where your body couldn't comprehend the pleasure he was giving you, if anything you were completely dazed. Your breathing only returned when he finally slipped out of you. He didn't give you time to catch your breath as he met your lips with his, before trailing them down to your neck. "Ain't you glad you came?"

hope you enjoyed xo 🩷

[brainsanalysis-deactivated20210]

Hello please reblog this if you’re okay with people sending you random asks to get to know you better

[husssel]

Me in route to take your man

[theblacklewinsky]

Note: Hey y'all! I hope y'all enjoy, the next one might be submissive Terry idkidk 🫣 kinda hate this one.

Perfect Gentleman. | Aaron Pierre.

Gentle!Terry Richmond x Black!Female Reader

Warnings: MNDI!! this story is 18+ with depictions but not limited to; sexual content ( penetrat!on, oral s3x ( m receiving), extreme language (cursing, sexual references) established relationship, slight daddy kink if you squint. Not proofread!

Summary: terry's been the perfect gentleman, maybe a little too gentle.

swear you can have me, you really one-of-one.

how you so nasty? you really one-of-one.

You eagerly scratched the itch away in your bitten up ankles. The mosquitoes out here in the Black Bayou had torn your exposed ankles up—and this was why camping wasn't your thing. You'd never complain though, any excuse to be with Terry was a good one.

"I told you to wear long socks," he chuckled looking back you and at how you'd scratched the skin on your ankles red, "all that gardenin' you do and you out here with no socks on," he softly lectured as you watched him pitch the tent, at his demand. He was such a gentleman.

You'd been dating Terry for over four months, you've both went on a plethora of dates, had the steamy first kiss, and even spent a night at each others apartment, but you still hadn't fucked yet. Was it you? You knew you had an Oscar worthy performance of your coy-innocent act that Terry ate up all of the time, but you weren't a prude. You couldn't count how many times you'd hinted, and seduced only to be met with more gentleness.

And you loved how patient, protective, and gentle he was with you. He was everything you'd practically asked for when you started dating. A nice man, a sweet man—and you got it, a full blown golden retriever boyfriend. He had so many amazing qualities, he was always on time arriving fifteen minutes early. Something he said was one of the most useful things he learned from his time in the Marine Corps. He was a full blown de-escalator, he never wanted to argue with you, always communicating as calmly as he could before coming to an understanding with you. He was gentle. But maybe he was too gentle? You wanted Terry in the worst ways. It didn't help that he stayed in good shape, gym four times a week, and his infinite morning runs kept him in tip-top shape.

You pouted, squinting your eyes as you looked at Terry from underneath the brim of the Nike bucket hat you'd retrieved from him. Although he was pitching the tent and the sun was currently beating down on him, he decided that, you, sitting in the shade doing nothing, needed the hat more. Such a man.

"You said come comfortable, and I garden in my crocs—that's what I came in!" You defended your reasoning for not wearing the socks that he did tell you to pack last night over a quick FaceTime call, but he did say come comfortable in the same sentence. "These mosquitos are relentless, baby, look at my ankles!" You frowned looking at how red and irritated the skin has gotten there even on your deep brown skin.

Of course Terry stopped his meddling with the tent and came over to assess your so badly injured ankles. He tsk'd softly his big hands cradling both of your ankles gently. Now push them behind my head! you eagerly thought feeling him touch you at all always sent shocks and shivers through your body.

"They eatin' my baby up," he somberly acknowledged rubbing his thumbs where the bites were firmly, "you put bug spray on like I told you?"

You nodded. "Yeah, just go and finish the tent," you dramatically sighed waiting to eagerly scratch at the bites, "I'll just be sitting over here, itchy, getting ate up." At least something was eating you up.

He brought your left ankle up to his lips casually, placing a soft kiss there before setting the both of them back down carefully. You almost moaned, it had been way too long. "stop scratchin' at em, you makin' em worse."

You looked at him, batting your eyelashes at him a dazed nod following right behind. He was so gorgeous, and it didn't help that he was so sweet and treated you like the absolute brat you were. He continued on with his quick work with the tent and you continued on with your sneaky scratching. After it was perfectly pitched, he got you inside as soon as it was done to rub a bit of alcohol on your itchy ankles and making you put on a pair of his socks that were way too big for you.

You frowned looking down at your legs later that night as you both set around the campfire, that you had gotten started. You hadn't forgotten all the survival tips your father had shown you. Terry focused on cooking the fish he and you caught earlier from the pier. He'd cleaned it and dissembled it himself. "These are puttin' a damper on my outfit, so not cute."

Terry chuckled, quickly flipping the searing fish over in the pan. Your eyes flickered over to him. "What?"

"You so country," he commented through a light chuckle, "damper?"

"That's not country!" You defended through a smile. "Everybody says damper!"

"Nobody says damper,"

"Does too!"

"Why you gotta be such a brat? Why you act like that?" He teased playfully, holding his hand out to you only to pull you up from your chair and into his lap. "Hm?" He hummed nuzzling his faced into your neck where he playfully nipped at the skin on your neck, knowing the ticklish effect it had on you.

You laughed hunching your shoulder up to push him away from the area, "stop!" The assault lasted a few more minutes before he reluctantly stopped, only when he seen the tears from your nonstop laughter, and how you cradled your aching stomach when you laughed.

"Brat," he mumbled in between persisting kisses to your lips. You happily returned each one, who were you to deny the brat allegations. They were very true. "Always gotta have yo way."

"You love how bratty I am," you retorted, trailing your own lingering kisses from his lips, to his jaw, to his neck.

"I do," he mumbled out an agreement making you laugh against his neck before continuing on, and you thought maybe, as his hands kneaded the back of your thighs and the undersides of your ass. But all that came undone when he urgently removed you from his lap in light hysterics about almost burning the fish.

The fish.

How could he even think about fish when he had your throbbing pussy in his lap, was he really blind to all this shit? Or was he just not sexually attracted to you? Or was he fucking celibate? The questions brought on a lingering insecurity. The rest of the night you were more distant, quiet, the situation left you a little embarrassed and salty. You'd never had a man be so indifferent to your advances. Or did he even see them as advances? Hell, you didn't know anymore.

Your distance and quiet demeanor didn't go unnoticed either Terry, who constantly made it his mission to see if you were okay and enjoying yourself. You answered the same all the time, yes, which did very little to comfort him—but he also didn't wanna push you into irritation.

"You sure you good, baby?" He asked later that night as you both settled into the cozy tent. You made sure to nestle yourself into your cute, pinky, sleeping bag. It was so you.

"Yeah." You simply answered with a nod, forcing the weak smile. Such a liar. But you weren't gonna admit that the situation left you feeling a little salty. You didn't wanna bring the situation up at all, you'd much rather forget it.

"You sure? You not actin' like yourself, baby. You want me to take you home?" There he went. Being so him. Always being so caring.

"No, I'm fine. It's nothing really, im just..itchy still." You seamlessly lied. Or maybe not. You were still itchy.

Terry decided not to press the issue instead making sure he got as close as possible to you, something he always did when you slept together, he loved being right up under you—you didn't contest to it. Ever. You both gave your good nights, and Terry made sure to turn off the LED lantern lamp you both had in the tent. A soft and easy silence falling over the both of you. Terry's soft breathing, body heat, chirping crickets and the pitch black were enough to lull you to sleep. And they almost did, but damn, you were still itchy.

You brought your knees to your chest, hastily scratching at your extremely itchy ankles, a heavy, draws out sigh from the temporary but almost euphoric relief skipped past your lips.

"Stop scratchin'." Terry's deep voice but through the silence, the raspiness on the edge of his voice attributed to the sleep that had took him in quick. The words halted your actions quickly as you tried to quietly morph into a comfortable position.

"I'm not," you spoke quietly.

"But you were."

His damn hearing. He heard everything.

"Well I wouldn't have been if I was doing something else." Your tone snappy but the suggestiveness fore fronted the sassiness.

"Somethin' else like what?" Terry questioned.

You huffed immediately, sitting up abruptly from your sleeping bag and flickering the lantern on. "Are you really that clueless?" You exclaimed almost, looking at his ever so lost expression. "Terry, are not you sexually attracted to me?"

Terry looked at you as if you'd grown two heads. Like he couldn't understand why you'd ask him such a question, like you didn't know he was a full blown raging man. "Why would you even ask me that, of course im sexually attracted to you, baby."

"You don't act like it," you quietly murmured, "it's like every time I try, you pull back. What is it? I really thought I was obvious enough with everything."

And you were. Terry wasn't ignorant to your advances. But he also wasn't ignorant to your past relationships and the men that you dealt with. Full blown sex addicts a few of them seemed to be, and some of them seemed unable to form a real bond with you without sex. He wanted to prove to you that he actually liked you, that he wanted to get to know you past sex. That he wanted this to last. It'd taken copious amounts of restraint for him to slyly deter away from the advances. Copious amounts.

He wasn't exactly sure how he made it to four months himself, without caving in. Maybe it was his serious he'd gotten about your relationship, maybe it was genuine like for you that made it somewhat easy. He was still a man though, taking care of himself when he was finally away from you.

He said your name slowly, sitting up himself, "im utterly, completely, and deeply sexually attracted to you. But I wanna show you that when it comes to keeping this together, sex is indifferent to me. I don't want you to think we need that shit to connect. I genuinely like you, alot."

"I like you too, but I already knew that Terry," he softly laughed, the weight of the insecurities dropping off your shoulders. You couldn't believe that once again, all this time, the lack of sex was catered to his feelings about you. You were gonna fuck this man so good. So good. "I knew that at the end of the first date when you didn't try to kiss me when you dropped me off." You giggled at the recanting of the memory.

"I wanted you to feel it though."

"And I do feel it," you slinked even closer to him, hand trailing up his thigh, "I feel it so much." You looked up at him, batting your long lashes.

Terry sat there slack mouthed, brows furrowed, his stormy eyes looking down at you with bursting pleasure and astonishment as he watched you suck him down. How the fuck did you get so good at this shit? You'd completely covered his shaft in your saliva, you were loud and sloppy. Just how he liked it. Throat so tight around him, every time you nuzzled him in. You were dazed yourself, tasting him, having him in the back of your throat where you craved him so many times before. You were savoring all of this.

Your hands wrapped themselves around his girthy length, stroking them at a brisk pace, your wet mouth guiding them in their dizzying up and down movements. His grunts and groans of approval only furthered you to please him more. You looked up at him, eyes watery, and soft as you took him down, spit bubbles formed around him, as you nuzzled him in deeper into your mouth. Removing a spit soaked hand, you nuzzled that into your soaked panties, pleasing him, pleased you.

"Sss-shitttt," he drug out through a groan, his strong hand grasping the back of your neck, as he bucked himself up into your mouth, relentlessly fucking your throat. You shut your watery, burning eyes letting him use you how he wanted. "Fuck, eat that dick up baby. You do that shit so good," he slurred through his persisting moans.

That only furthered your arousal, which furthered your efforts. The rough gags and choking from you was almost enough to send him over the edge. Almost. You finally pulled back, giving him a chance to recover and giving yourself a chance to catch your ailing breathing.

You stroke him off, spitting down on his shaft in your hands, eagerly stroking the lubrication in, leaning your head down to suck one of his balls into your mouth; gently. You knew too much. How did you know so much?

"Why you so nasty?" He mumbled grabbing your chin once you were done tending to his balls. "Hm?" He hummed before pressing your wet lips to his own. His kiss rushed, sloppy, and deep. His tongue searched every inch of your mouth, his lips sucking your own into his mouth.

Oh he was nasty like that?

"Move," he knocked your hands away from his still hardened dick, "take that shit off." He comments taking heed to the articles of clothing you still had on, his own hands slithering under the oversized shirt you'd put on for bed.

"But I wanted to make you cum—" you started, wiping your wet mouth with the back of your hand once he eagerly pulled your t-shirt off, nipples immediately pebbling due to the exposure of the cool night air in the tent. You didn't get to finish your sentence before Terry's lips were already latched onto the flesh on your neck, creating red blemishes as he cascaded down your body skillfully.

"You bout to," he mumbled attaching his lips to yours once again, "open up," he tapped your jaw firmly, "lemme see." The firm taps to your jaw ignited the fire and aching need in your belly, a moan slipped past your lips as you opened like he asked.

You watched, dazed, as he spat down into your mouth. Oh, he was nasty.

It was like yin and yang to you. This couldn't be your Terry. Not the Terry that bought you flowers every Sunday and never let you lift a finger Terry. This was a different Terry, nasty Terry. Impatient Terry. Demanding Terry. Just what you wanted.

"Oh my god-uhhhh!" You slurred out through a moan. Terry's vice grip on your locs matched the same vice grip you currently had him in right now. He had you positioned on all fours, one hand on your hip to steady his hard, dizzying strokes. He was fucking you hard, too hard. Too good. Your thighs trembled beneath you, knees threatening to buckle as he slammed into your heated core repeatedly. It's like he knew exactly where that spot was located. "Right there, daddy! Right fucking there," you whimpered, face pressed pathetically on the pallet beneath you.

"I know, i feel that shit," he groaned, sending another hard smack to your ass cheek, the recoil from his pelvis constantly slamming into your ass had him in a complete daze. Four months he kept himself from this, restrained himself from what he knew had to be good. But he didn't expect it feel like this. "Wettin' me right the fuck up—mm mm, keep that shit right there, you better not fuckin' lay down, keep that shit open just like that." He mumbled out into the tent, taking into head your trembling legs. The lewd sounds of your sopping wet pussy, followed by the loud slapping of your skin together filled your tent and your empty head.

"Fuckkkk," you groaned out, managing to sit up in your elbows, acrylics clawing at the covers beneath you, your eyes crossed as you felt his tip kissing a little too deep, "so deep, baby."

"Mhm," he hummed pulling your head back with his tight grip on your hair, his lust filled glare looking right down into your own crossed eyes, "right where i should be. Look at you, takin' this dick like a good girl. This what you wanted right?"

"Yesssss," you managed to fully get out, a series of breath taking moans following. He was giving you exactly what you wanted; hard, rough shit. He was fucking you like he hated you, like he had a point to prove. This shit was only making you delusional did he not understand the type of you he would get now?

"Yeah? Wanted daddy to dig yo' shit out just like this, huh?" He nodded watching you nod in response, your breaths coming out in a series of heavy puffs. "I know you did, can tell by the way you creamin' on my dick."

"Shittt!" You gasped out the exploitive, planting your hands flat against the ground, mustering yo whatever weak energy you had to fuck yourself back against him, working toward your own impending orgasm. "I'm finna cum!" You rushed out.

Terry pulled you back toward his chest, your small frame engulfed in his as you sat promptly in his lap getting impaled in the most delicious way possible. You felt lightheaded, high, and perfect all at once. "Babyyyy, im cummin'!" You whined out.

"Keep tellin' me, do that shit. Lemme feel you cum on my dick," he grunted, the lewd works making you clench around him as they clearly sent you tumbling over the edge. Terry mocking your long, loud and drawn out moans with his own. His lips attacking wherever they could on your exposed neck. His impaling strokes never stopped, even when it was clear you'd completely rode it out. He kept fucking you, sending you into a deep place of overstimulation. When was he ever planning to cum?

"Look at you," he mumbled a smug smirk on his lips, hand firmly holding your slacked jaw in his hand, "dick got you dumb—breathe through that shit, baby." He tapped your jaw, repeatedly. The sight of you alone, plus the constant contracting of your walls around him had earned you a deliciously sounding groan. You hadn't even realized you were holding your breath until he spoke up.

Everything was too much. It was too much to focus on. The pleasure, his voice, his kisses. Forgetting to breathe in the middle of your overstimulation was warranted.

Your breaths cane tumbling back to you fast, hard and quick you panted. Body trembling in Terrys grasp, as dared to lean forward feeling another orgasm approaching, but this one felt harder. Body-shattering. It hurt and felt so good at the same time.

"Fuck, ima nut baby," Terry grunted in your ear. "Pussy so good, why yo shit so good like this?" Finally.

"Cum in my pussy, please daddy," was the first and only thing you could get out, not even warning him about your oncoming orgasm. This one cramped everything, the tightness in your stomach didn't subside but seemed to get tighter. Your thighs were numb, but your legs ached. The squeal you let out left your throat raw, and that's why you didn't hear Terry when he finally announced that he was cumming, but you felt him for sure, right where you told him to.

You felt Terry's lips against your jaw, kissing you repeatedly. Telling you how well you did for him, how he couldn't believe he kept himself away from that for four months. How good it was. These were finally the words that lulled you off to a blissful sleep, you'd finally got what you wanted. There you were, fucked out In a tent, with cum leaking out of you. Such a whore. A happy whore.

-

still no tag list! 😭 hope you enjoy this little filler! 💕

[theblacklewinsky]

Note: back with our favorite boo, Terry. It's my birthday, but I guess I can gift y'all with something lol! ❤️

Helpful Neighbors. | Aaron Pierre.

Toxic!Neighbor Terry Richmond x Black!Female Reader.

Warnings: MNDI!! this story is 18+ with depictions but not limited to; sexual content ( penetrat!on. toy play, water sports), extreme language (cursing, use of b-word and others.) slight daddy kink if you squint.

Summary: You confront your noisy neighbor about his loud late night company, he allows you to retaliate.

you fucking nasty,

first you cum and then you wipe it on my ass cheeks.

There wasn't much that you knew about your neighbor Terry. You knew he was generally friendly, you bringing him a small housewarming gift of a bath and bodywork's candle when he'd first moved in months prior. You knew he was a vet based on the marines sticker on the bumper of his pick up. You knew he was active, you often seen him heading out for camping trips, often seeing him in the apartments shared gym area when you'd take time out of your busy schedule to get a short work out in. You knew he was gorgeous, anybody could attest to that.

And he was loud. Very fucking loud.

And if you didn't know anything else, you knew that for sure.

The noise varied. Most nights he was particularly quiet, you wouldn't even have noticed anybody lived there if you hadn't seen him before. But some nights, he was a little loud. Metal music from an 80's band bled through the apartment walls, straight into your bedroom, you actually didn't mind it—being an exhausted charge nurse, the metal music did something for you, calming you in a strange way. Him seemingly fixing something, sometimes in the latest hours, drilling, hammering.

But it wasn't any of that. There wasn't any metal music. But he was sure drilling or hammering somebody. And she was extensively louder than anything you'd heard from Terry's apartment. You had to quickly grab your remote, muting your comfort show on your television to make sure she wasn't screaming blood murder.

It wasn't bloody murder, but she was screaming alright. You sighed, it was your first off day in two weeks of working straight in the trauma unit of the local hospital. It'd been a viscous stomach bug going around, and with the big panic from the prior pandemic, the hospital wasn't risking another one slipping up—so work was rough, and long.

But maybe you were bitter? It'd been way too long since you'd properly got your rocks off—not anything involving your beloved rose. So maybe you were just a bit bitter that at least somebody was getting theirs. Good for him! Just not on tonight. Not this night. You'd planned to crawl in bed, eat the most unhealthiest snacks in your cabinet and watch your comfort show, and maybe weep the prior two weeks out onto your pillow, you deserved a good cry after all, girl.

You sighed heavily, placing the pillow over your head letting out a groan. You'd definitely have to catch him in the morning and talk about this, cause this was outrageous.

Maybe sleep was out of the equation, but you'd definitely moved on to weeping.

The morning sprung and you jumped into action. Due to working 7AM to 7PM, you left out for work around the same time as a Terry did his morning runs. 6AM.

You woke up at 5:30 on a mission, brushing your teeth and doing your skincare and putting on your biggest t-shirt, sweatpants to match, oh you meant business.

You caught him as soon as he'd left his door, jogging the opposite way of your apartment toward the elevators before you called out to him. He turned confused at first until he noticed you, giving a lazy morning smile as he did. Black compression shirt, with the pair of black basketball shorts to match. He had no business being so damn fine. But you weren't deterred by that, last night was fucking atrocious.

"Goodmornin', beautiful," he smoothly recited like he did every morning. He was just nice like that. He said it every morning without fail, he always found something to compliment you on. New color of scrubs, how you decided to get your hair, even sweeter when he sees you out of your deliciously fitting scrubs.

"Good morning Terry," you smiled weakly, "I don't mean to disturb your routine, but can we talk for a minute?" You uneasily shifted your weight. You weren't good with confrontation, it just wasn't in your nature, but you didn't play about your sleep.

He nodded and you walked inside still holding the door open for him to signal him to follow you. He did, his smile faltering a bit once he came inside, you could tell he was confused a little thrown off.

You closed the door behind y'all, moving into your large kitchen area to pour yourself a mug of coffee. "Want some?" You politely asked him to which he politely rejected holding up his thermal water bottle.

You added your usual fixings to your coffee, taking a cautious sip, cradling your mug in your hand before you continued. "I don't mean to be confrontational when I say this," you walked around him heading into the living area, plopping on your newly purchased gray plush sectional, " but you were very ...loud last night." You chose your words, nicely.

He featured you a puzzling look, his finger gesturing to the comfortable chair adjacent to you, "of course." You quickly obliged before he took a seat, uneasily continuing. "Your lady...company, I meant." Sex talk wasn't your thing. Sex was sacred to talk about for you—and you didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable at all.

"Oh shit," he softly cursed, his expression filled with slight concern, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were bein' so loud, I hope we ain't keep you up."

"Oh, it's not a big deal," you quickly intercepted not wanting him to feel any type of way, "it's just my first day off in a couple of weeks so I just wanted to wind down with some quiet time and you guys were very...vocal," you chuckled to diffuse the awkwardness of the conversation, to which he added a light chuckle of his own, "at least somebodies getting their rocks off around here." You said jokingly before taking a sip of coffee. You hoped that didn't sound suggestive.

A short moment of silence followed your statement before you recognized Terry's eyes locked on something behind you for responding, "I see I ain't the only one gettin' mine," you furrowed your brows slowly turning your attention to where he was previously locked on. Your rose, sitting cleaned and comfortably on your end table.

You really had to learn to start putting shit back. 

Or maybe not.

Somehow you found yourself on your back, pinned to the couch, Terry folding you up in missionary, knees to your chest, rose to your clit as he gave you long, deep, torturing strokes. You couldn't even remember the quick and somehow satisfying foreplay you'd taken to get here—and you didn't even care anymore. You could feel the fat tip of his dick kissing your cervix, and as if you weren't loud enough, you got louder. How ironic? You could barely hear yourself think, or were you thinking at all?

"Mhm," he hummed, his face composed, nothing but his teeth lightly sunken into his bottom teeth as he drilled you in, finger tips of his thumb and pointer finger giving your right nipple light squeezes and tugs, he kept his eyes on you, even when they rolled back, quickly turning up the vibrator, "look at you, mama. Why you bein' so vocal? Why you bein' so fuckin' loud, baby?" He taunted.

"My god, Terry," you whined, breathless, he kept up, dick hitting that spot that made your toes curl. How was he so good at this shit? You understood her completely. It wasn't atrocious at all. Very understandable. Very justified.

"Yeah, baby?" He quirked his brow up, his own soft groans almost mocking yours. "You want her to hear you? She still next door, wake her ass up mama. She kept you up all night didn't she?" He asked tearing his fingers away from your nipples to slap firmly against your cheek prompting an answer from you.

"Yessss," you slurred out, throat raw from moaning and groaning. You'd say yes to anything he asked you in this moment. You'd adopt six German kids and live on a farm with him if he requested you to do so in this moment, the world was his oyster. He was digging you out so good, so deliciously good. He was getting more than your rocks off and you knew that when the pressure in the pit of your tummy came weighing down on your bladder. "Ooouuu fuck! Fuck I'm gonna—"

"Yeah," he chuckled, evil all evident in his tone, all in his smile as he glanced down to the mess unfolding between y'all, "wet this dick up baby, I feel that shit." He groaned, eyes zoning in on the creamy ring you were leaving around him. "Wet me up, and you better wake her ass up when you do."

"Cumming!" You abruptly announced nearly cutting him off from his lewd rant, the sounds of your own arousal clashing with his dick sent you tumbling over the edge, clear juices spurting out of you with so much force it ejected him out as well. It only prompted a more lazy laugh out of him, shaking the suction of the rose on your clit even faster. Trembling underneath him, your breath hitched in your throat as he sent you into complete overdrive, your voice was hoarse once a moan came tumbling out of you loud and broken. Why did you cum so hard from knowing that she was next door, possibly hearing you get your nut off with him?

"I like that shit, mama," he mumbled to you, turning the rose off slapping his free hand down on your clit, watching your body jerk in response. He said nothing dipping his body down momentarily to give your soft, sensitive nub three sloppy, mind numbing sucks. He was so loud and lewd with it, smacks loud, tongue slurping loudly. You were too turned on, too sensitive, but too fucked out to even object given how sensitive you were. He stood up on his knee once again, other floor planted flat on the ground. "Sticking up so pretty f'me and shit," he hummed, "put that ass in the air, I'm finna give her some more."

You whined, you were too tired to move. If this was sex? What the fuck were you having before? And he seemed to insatiable, how was he asking you for more when you already so tattered from your last orgasm?

"Can't," you weakly managed to get out.

He took the initiative to help you, his hands firmly grasping your hips and flipping you over roughly, bringing your hips up into the air, spreading out so nicely for him. He moaned in response, looking at how both your holes seemed to open for him. He slapped his massive hand against your ass cheek, the loud sound seemingly filling your quiet apartment, a high wince following behind it, his dick twitching at the recoil. "You gon be a good girl for daddy and hold this shit on your clit while I take care of you back here?" He asked you the dominating reference only furthering the throbbing in your pussy, one hand softly kneading the sting out from his slap. You could hear the quiet buzzing from behind you, head nodding eagerly as your hand reached from under you, making grabby motions for the toy.

Once it was in your possession, you placed it where he asked you, body lightly trembling since your clit hadn't had a moment long enough without stimulation. Both his large hands had been planted on your ass cheeks, spreading you apart for him. He groaned in response, spitting down onto your second hole winking for him so sweetly, you moaned in response to his lewd action. "Fuck yeah," he muttered sending another lighter slap to your ass. No further words were spoken as he grabbed his girthy member in his hands, fat tip rubbing softly against your slit before he stretched you open once again around him.

A loud whine erupted from you as soon as you felt him sliding into you, stretching you, the light sting providing the perfect pain to compliment the pleasure of him literally stuffing you. It was mind numbing for him, feeling you stretch and clench around him so perfectly, gummy, wet walls feeling so warm and snug around him. "Pussy so fuckin' good," he muttered not sure to who, you or him.

His strokes had already started off staggering; hard and deep. Pelvis slamming into your ass with loud, rippling sounds through your apartment, the force literally nudging your couch across the floor. You couldn't care about the scratches you knew were now engrained in your hardwood flooring, everything was so good. Too good.

"Fuckkkk!" You slurred out, eyes fluttering closed, face pressed against the plush cushions beneath you. Brainless wasn't the word for you. You were hyper focused on the pleasure you were receiving, the vibrations from the toy, Terry's back breaking strokes, and the sounds of your arousal around him didn't help the diagnosis. Your free hand held onto the top of the couch for a sense of stability. "Why—why you fuckin' me like this?!" You stammered out through a moan, voice hoarse and broken.

"What you mean, mama?" He asked through a groan, sending another rough slap to your ass. "You such a good girl, you deserve this dick. Workin' all hard and shit, always lookin' so fuckin' good." He grunted, working himself inside of you. Thumb tracing your asshole teasingly. "You deserve some good dick, baby."

The praise only heightened your moans, encouraging you to slam your ass back on him until you felt your own orgasm once again lurking around the corner.

"Show the fuck out, then, baby," he said breathlessly, stilling his own movements as he watched as you fucked yourself on his dick, ass slamming back onto his pelvis with dizzying recoil.

"Shiiiit! I'm finna cummmm!" You moaned out, your movements only increasing in pace, using him for your own pleasure now. And he ate that shit up.

"That's right, get that nut mama. Get yo' shit, fuck me," he affirmed through a series of groans accentuating your own, "fuck, I feel all that shit. Nasty ass bitch, get that nut." His dirty words filling your ears as you released around him, halting your movements. Squirting for the second time, the orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks literally. This one cramped your muscles as it temporarily paralyzed you, huge steaks of pleasure coursing through you. Terry didn't give you a moment to recover, his own climax brewing in the background. He resumed his strokes as if he never stopped, powerful, fast and hard. The rose clobbered to the floor with a hard thud, still buzzing away as your body flattened into the couch, Terry using his upper body strength to drop dick in you.

"You runnin?" He asked breathlessly through a series of overstimulating strokes to your pussy. "Why you runnin? Daddy, let you get yours right? Let daddy get his." He hummed to you.

You couldn't tell him you were overstimulated. Could you talk at all? Were you even breathing? What the fuck even was this?

"Dick got you goin' stupid, look at you," he groaned, dick hitting that spot again, and again. You came again, with announcement. You hadn't even known you were that close again. "Fuck, you keep cummin' on my dick."

Your voice came back to you in little squeals, nodding in agreement to his last statement.

"Pussy so good—I'm finna nut baby," his voice rushed and panicked as he kept up his strokes, "fuck I'm finna nut—shit!" He hurriedly pulled out of you, groans and grunts spilling from him earnestly as warm, ropes of cum painted your ass.

That was so unreal.

You focused on steadying yourself as you heard Terrys whispered curses behind you. It wasn't long before you heard his lazy chuckle, soft lips kissing down your spine causing a small chill to sneak through you. "You good?"

"Yes? I dunno," you answered bleakly, voice rasped out. Terry laughed gently, hands rubbing some warmth into your thighs and midsection.

"You enjoyed yourself?" He asked softly, kissing up to your neck, and shoulder tenderly. You nodded eagerly to his question, earning another chuckle for him. He sounded so good. "I'm glad, where towels at pretty girl. Lemme clean you up."

"Bathroom closet," you jammed your finger in the direction of the closet. You were halfway into a slumber when Terry came back with a warm towel, cleaning you up gently.

You knew for a fact it was gonna be a lot of noise coming from the both of your apartments.

-

still don't have a tag list together but I hope y'all enjoyed another toxic Terry fic 🫡 my favorite Terry after all! Happy Friday! 💗

[theblacklewinsky]

coming out of my college induced hiatus and wanting to write about yahya as creasy 😩

[brownlyfe]

Naughty or Nice

masterlist

pairing: smoke x annie cw: smut, roleplaying, fluff summary: christmas is always a favorite Moore family holiday. kids running around, adults laughing, gifts opening. but what annie loves the most is this is the chance for her to show out in all ways. from how she dresses to the decorations. and this christmas is no different.

notes: so this was supposed to be out for christmas but ya girl been sick since monday and it’s messed up everything. also i tried writing my smut a little differently this time. lmk what yall think. merry christmas! happy holidays!

December 23rd always arrived like the perfect storm in their town. The air was sharper, the lights brighter, the anticipation hummed beneath everything. Snow clung stubbornly to the edges of the sidewalks and rooftops, refusing to melt, as if even it understood the importance of staying put this close to Christmas.

Annie’s car turned onto their street just as dusk began to settle, the sky bruised purple and blue. Their brownstone stood out even among the already festive row of homes. They had warm light spilling from the windows, garlands thick with pine and ribbon draped along the iron railings, wreaths layered so full they looked like they might breathe. She slowed as she pulled into the driveway, headlights washing over the garage door, then eased inside, the door rolling shut behind her.

Every part of the car was filled with bags. The trunk was full. The backseat was full. Even the passenger-side floor was crowded with bags.

She sat there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, smiling to herself.

She’d been shopping for weeks telling herself each new ornament or strand of lights was the last. It never was. But today was about finishing touches. The things people didn’t consciously notice but she did. Like the extra ribbon, new ornaments for the front tree, and a ridiculous, oversized nutcracker she’d sworn she didn’t need and bought anyway.

The door from the house opened before she even reached for her purse.

Smoke stepped into the garage, already pulling on a jacket, his breath fogging faintly in the colder air. He took one look at the car, then at the mountain of bags visible through the windows, and let his head fall back with a groan that echoed off the concrete.

“Annie,” he said, dragging her name out like a warning and a plea all at once.

She let out an unapologetic and light laugh then stepped out into the garage. She wore a long coat cinched at the waist and a scarf tucked just right. When she turned toward him, her eyes were bright, almost mischievous.

“Don’t start Mr. Moore,” she said sweetly, already reaching back into the car for her purse.

He walked closer, hands braced on his hips, peering inside like the bags might multiply if he looked too long. “You said this was supposed to be a quick run. And you were only grabbin’ a few things,” he muttered.

“I did,” she replied easily. 

He straightened and looked at her then, really looked at her. The way she stood there smiling, completely unbothered, practically glowing in a way he hadn’t seen before. There was something about her energy lately. She was lighter and more playful. It was completely dangerous for his patience.

She stepped into his space, fingers sliding up the front of his jacket, smoothing it like she’d done it a thousand times before.

He tried to hold onto his annoyance, really he did, but she tipped her chin up and kissed him before he could say another word. Her mouth warm against his in a way that made the garage and the bags and the groaning fade into the background. When she pulled back, she was still smiling, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Go inside,” he said finally, his voice lower now. “I’ll get the bags.”

She hummed in victory, pressing another quick kiss to his lips before stepping past him. “Thank you, baby.”

She slung her purse over her shoulder and headed toward the door, heels clicking softly against the concrete, already thinking about where she was going to put everything. The house smelled like pine and cinnamon when she stepped inside, warmth wrapping around her instantly.

Behind her, Smoke let out another long sigh as he turned back to the car, already bracing himself for what he knew was going to take multiple trips.

She moved through the house with purpose, shedding her coat as she went, the deep burgundy and wine-red tones of their décor wrapping around her. The garlands along the stair rail were thick with navy ribbon, lights woven carefully through the greenery so they glowed warm instead of bright. The tree in the front room stood tall and full, decorated in the same rich palette just like everything else in the house.

She headed straight for the kitchen.

Baking always grounded her, especially this time of year. She washed her hands, tied her hair back, and started pulling things from the cabinets laying them out neatly on the marble counter. The music playing low in the background blended with the quiet hum of the house, and for a moment, everything felt exactly as it should.

Behind her, the garage door opened and closed. Then again.

Smoke moved back and forth, arms loaded with bags and boxes, setting them down with soft thuds that carried through the house. Each trip seemed heavier than the last, and by the third one, she caught the sound of him exhaling slowly, like he was trying not to say something.

By the time he returned again, she was already mixing dough, hips shifting slightly as she worked. The faint irritation he’d carried in with him faded almost immediately. There was something infectious about her mood tonight, something light and warm that made it hard to stay annoyed for long.

She started talking without really meaning to.

“I think Stack’s kids are gonna like what I got them,” she said, scooping dough onto a baking sheet. “I tried not to overdo it, but I don’t know. Marcus is still really into those dinosaur things, and Natalie’s been obsessed with drawing lately.”

Smoke leaned against the counter, listening. “And Joseph?”

She smiled at that. “I got some books, and that jacket he wanted. He’s trying hard to act grown, but he’s still a kid, ya know?”

He nodded slowly, watching her move around the kitchen like the space was built around her.

She kept going almost absentminded. “I wrapped theirs in the navy paper. I thought it looked better with the ribbon.”

“You already wrapped them?” he asked.

“Most of them,” she said. “I wanted it done before tomorrow.”

He took another look around the house, at the careful way everything tied together. He’d teased her about the decorations, about the shopping, but the truth was he loved this part of her. The way she poured herself into things. The way she gave without hesitation.

She slid the baking sheet into the oven and closed the door, brushing her hands together lightly. When she turned back toward him, she was smiling again, softer this time.

“Christmas Eve’s gonna be fun,” she said.

He watched her for a beat longer than necessary, something thoughtful settling behind his eyes. She wasn’t anxious. She wasn’t distracted. She was genuinely happy, and she hadn’t been this talkative in a long time.

Whatever had shifted in her, whatever had her buzzing with quiet excitement, he felt it too. And instead of questioning it out loud, he let himself lean into it, letting the warmth of the season fill the space between them.

Annie wiped her hands on a towel and immediately started on another batch, moving with the easy confidence of someone who had done this dozens of times before. She reached for another bowl, already mentally counting how many trays she could fit in the oven at once.

Smoke hovered for a moment, pretending to inspect the bags he’d brought in, but his attention was clearly elsewhere.

“You look good,” he said like it had just occurred to him.

She smiled without looking up, the corners of her mouth lifting as she poured flour into the bowl. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just being honest,” he replied, stepping closer.

She felt his body behind her, the warmth of him cutting through the cool air that crept in every time the garage door opened. His hands slid along her arms, slow and deliberate, palms warm against her skin as he moved them up and down like he was grounding himself there.

She leaned into it just a little, smiling to herself, but kept stirring. “You’re gonna mess me up.”

“I’m not touching anything important,” his voice low now.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye clearly amused, and went right back to talking, picking up exactly where she’d left off about how many kids usually came through on Christmas Eve and whether she should make another batch with chocolate chunks instead of chips.

He kissed her cheek, soft and unhurried. Then her neck. Then her shoulder, lips lingering just long enough to make her pause before she forced herself to keep going. She shifted slightly, but didn’t turn around.

“You’re distracting me,” she said, still stirring.

He didn’t answer. Instead, his hands slid around her waist, thumbs brushing the bare skin where her shirt lifted when she moved. He traced the curve of her hips, slow, familiar, then let his hands drift lower, resting briefly at her thighs.

She laughed under her breath and finally looked back at him. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” he said simply.

She rolled her eyes, but there was no real irritation in it. “If you want to help, you can cut the cookies.”

He ignored that completely.

“You really are glowing,” he said instead, like the thought had been sitting on his tongue for a while. 

She paused, then shook her head lightly, smiling despite herself. “Thank you. But I know when you’re trying to butter me up.”

He leaned in again, lips brushing her jaw. “I’m just trying to make cookies.”

His hands were still there, and she was suddenly very aware of how much skin she was giving him access to without meaning to. She shifted again, intending to step away, but he followed easily, closing the space without effort.

“I think,” he murmured, half-teasing, “you’re gonna need a little more cream to finish this batch.”

That did it.

She laughed, a soft sound that slipped out before she could stop it, shaking her head as she set the spoon down. “Elijah.”

“Am I wrong?”

She turned then, fully facing him, still smiling, still trying to pretend she wasn’t affected.

The kiss started slow, but it didn’t stay that way for long. Somewhere between the second and third kiss, the kitchen faded into the background. The oven timer went ignored. The cookies sat forgotten on the counter as they got lost in each other, hands finding places they’d found a thousand times before.

Christmas Eve morning arrived quietly. The street wrapped in that early hush that only existed before families woke up and traffic remembered itself. Snow dusted the sidewalks in a thin, untouched layer.

Annie padded downstairs wrapped in her oversized faux-fur robe, the hem brushing the floor with every step. It was heavy and indulgent. She’d bought it because it made her feel decadent even before she’d had her coffee. Beneath it, she wore nothing meant for outside, but she wasn’t planning to be out long.

She grabbed the bags of decorations she’d set aside the night before and pushed open the front door. Cold air rushed in immediately. The brownstone looked good already, but Annie wasn’t finished yet.

She stepped onto the front stoop and surveyed her work with a critical eye.

The garlands were lush and dark, layered with burgundy berries and navy ribbon and lights woven carefully. The wreaths were full and undeniably rich. Still, Annie had woken up knowing something was missing.

She set the ladder up near the railing and started adding the new pieces. Heavier ornaments for the front greenery, another strand of lights tucked beneath the garland instead of laid on top, deep wine-colored bows placed just far enough apart to feel balanced. She worked thoughtfully, breath fogging as she reached overhead, the robe shifting around her legs.

That was when she heard a sharp, dismissive, unmistakably judgmental sound. And she froze mid-reach

Across the street, her neighbor stepped out, wrapped up in a coat. They locked eyes almost immediately. The neighbor’s gaze slid past Annie’s face and straight to the decorations, her mouth tightening just a fraction too late to pretend it hadn’t happened.

She let out another small sound that was more of a scoff, and turned, deliberately, to look at her own house.

Her decorations were fine but predictable. The lights were placed safely, garlands thin but neat, wreaths modest.

The comparison was unkind.

Annie watched the assessment happen in real time, irritation blooming hot in her chest. She climbed down the ladder slowly, hands gripping the sides, then turned fully toward the street.

“Did you say something?” she asked, voice calm but edged.

The neighbor glanced back, startled just enough to be telling. “No,” she replied, a beat too quick. Then, after another look at Annie’s house, she added, “Your decorations just look…interesting.”

Annie’s lips pressed together for half a second before she smiled sweetly yet absolutely unamused.

“Interesting how?” she asked, adjusting the belt of her robe, letting it fall just a little more open than necessary.

The neighbor shrugged, eyes flicking back to the garlands. “They’re just a lot.”

Annie tilted her head, gaze sweeping deliberately across the street, taking in the thinner ribbons, the sparse lights, the lack of depth. “I guess it depends on what you’re used to.”

Silence stretched between them, cold and brittle.

“Well,” the neighbor trailed off, forcing a thin smile,

Annie smiled wider. “Well is right.”

She turned back to her ladder without waiting for a response, climbed up, and added another ornament with pointed care. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the neighbor hesitate, then retreat back inside, the door closing just a little harder than necessary.

Annie exhaled softly, satisfied, and went back to work.

After a few minutes of decorating, she heard the same door open again.

Her neighbor’s husband stepped out onto the front walkway, coffee mug in hand, still half-dressed. Annie felt his eyes settling on her. But she simply stayed focused on what she was doing.

Reaching up, she adjusted a strand of lights along the garland, the robe shifting as she stretched, faux fur brushing the steps of the ladder.

“Morning,” he said after a moment. His voice sounding far too casual, like he hadn’t been staring for far too long already.

“Morning,” Annie replied, not turning around yet.

She could practically hear the way his gaze traveled up her body. He took a sip from his mug, eyes still on her.

“Looks like you’re adding more,” he said, nodding toward the decorations. “I didn’t think you had room left.”

She glanced back over her shoulder then, just briefly, meeting his eyes with a polite smile. “Yes, well, you can always make room for the right things.”

That earned her a look that lingered a second too long before he masked it with a grin.

“Guess that’s true,” he said.

He stepped closer to the edge of his walkway, still keeping a respectful distance. Annie continued working, letting the silence stretch just enough to be uncomfortable. She could feel the irritation it would spark once his wife realized where his attention had gone.

And yes, she was doing it on purpose.

“You must get tired of all this,” he added. “Most people would’ve stopped decorating days ago.”

Annie climbed down the ladder and reached for another ornament, fingers brushing over the deep wine-colored ribbon. “I don’t get tired of things I enjoy doing.”

She caught his reflection in the window. His mouth curved and he straightened up a bit.

“I bet,” he said quietly.

She turned toward him fully this time, robe shifting as she moved, expression open and pleasant. “Your house looks nice too.”

It was a lie and he knew it.

He followed her gaze back toward his own decorations, then laughed under his breath. “Yeah, we did what we could.”

Annie tilted her head, eyes warm. “And that’s all that matters.”

Across the street, curtains shifted.

She saw it. He didn’t, or at least pretended not to.

He took another step. “You always make the block look better.”

“That’s the idea,” she replied smoothly, already turning back to her ladder.

She could feel him watching her again as she climbed, the robe parting slightly at the back, the movement slow and unhurried. When she reached the top, she paused just long enough to adjust the garland with exaggerated care.

“You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “if you ever need help with this stuff–”

“I’m good,” Annie interrupted lightly. “But thank you.”

She didn’t look at him when she said it, and somehow that made it worse.

He lingered a moment longer, like he was deciding whether to push his luck, then finally stepped back toward his house. “Well. Merry Christmas, Annie.”

“Merry Christmas,” she replied.

She didn’t turn around until she heard his door close.

Annie went right on back to decorating.

At least until another door opened, but this time it was theirs. Smoke walked out, the air somehow got cooler with him there. He stared at her with concern as she balanced on the ladder.

“Alright,” he said from behind her, voice calm but firm. “That’s enough.”

She turned slightly on the ladder, one hand still gripping the side rail. Smoke stood at the bottom, arms crossed, eyes already tracking how high up she was instead of what she was doing.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I’ve done this a hundred times.”

“I know,” he replied. “But you know how I feel about you doing this.”

He stepped closer, one hand coming up instinctively like he was already prepared to catch her if she slipped. Annie looked down at him, the robe pooling around her ankles, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“You don’t trust me,” she teased.

“I don’t trust the ladders,” he said. “And I definitely don’t trust them when you’re on them without me out here.”

She sighed dramatically, but she smiled as she climbed down anyway, letting him steady her when her feet hit the ground. He didn’t let go right away, his hands warm at her waist.

“Go on and stand over there,” he said, nodding toward the front door. “I’ll finish it.”

She opened her mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Instead, she stepped aside and watched him climb up, immediately more careful than she’d been, adjusting the last of the decorations with methodical focus.

“Don’t forget the bow on the left,” she called up. “It needs to be centered.”

“I see it,” he muttered.

He shook his head but fixed it anyway.

They fell into an easy rhythm after that with her calling out small instructions and him pretending not to need them. The house looked even better when he was done.

When he climbed down, she looked up at the front of the brownstone with clear satisfaction.

“That’s perfect,” she said.

Smoke followed her gaze, then looked back at her.

She bumped her shoulder into his as they stood there, then immediately launched into something else, words tumbling out of her like she’d been holding them in all morning.

“I can’t wait for tonight,” she said. “Your outfit is going to look so good with the lights. Especially the coat. And the gloves.”

He grimaced. “I already told you I’m not wearing that.”

She turned to him slowly. “You are.”

“I’m really not.”

She folded her arms, faux fur shifting dramatically. “Then I guess you don’t want any more of my cookies.”

He stared at her, the metaphor hitting him immediately. “That ain’t fair.”

“It’s extremely fair.”

He dragged a hand down his face, already defeated. “You really gonna hold my shit hostage?”

“Yes,” she said immediately.

He let out a low grumble. “Fine. I’ll wear it. But I’m not gonna be happy about it.”

She smiled victoriously, stepping closer to straighten his jacket. “You don’t have to be happy about it,” she said. “But you are gonna look good.”

He looked down at her, expression softening despite himself. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

She kissed his cheek, quick and sweet. “It’s Christmas.”

It was already edging toward evening by the time everything was set up, that in-between hour where the sky hadn’t decided whether it wanted to go dark yet. The lights strung along the front of the brownstone had come alive one by one, reflecting off the snow that had been tracked thin across the sidewalk. Music played softly from a speaker tucked near the door. And their tables were full.

Stacks of neatly wrapped gifts sat arranged by size, bright paper and thick ribbon catching the glow of the lights. Steam rose continuously from the insulated hot-chocolate dispensers, the scent rich and sweet, blending with the smell of fresh cookies Annie had baked. Plates were replenished almost as quickly as they emptied.

They hadn’t even been outside long, and already people were lining up.

Annie stood near the front, wrapped in red and white, her Mrs. Claus–inspired dress impossibly festive and undeniably eye-catching. The faux fur trimmed the neckline generously, the skirt flaring out just enough to feel playful, cinched at the waist with a wide black belt that pulled everything together. On anyone else, it might’ve looked cute. On Annie, it read differently and not because she meant it to, but because her body refused to be subtle. Her cleavage was full and unapologetic, the dress riding just low enough to make the look feel far naughtier than intended. And her black heeled boots just completed the fantasy.

Smoke stood beside her, solid and striking in his red suit. The coat fit him perfectly, dark accents breaking up the red, gloves tucked into his pocket when he wasn’t handing out gifts.

Kids gravitated toward Annie almost immediately.

They crowded close, eyes wide, tugging gently at her sleeves as they talked over one another. She bent down without hesitation, lowering herself to their level, listening intently like every word mattered. She laughed easily, reacted big, remembered names after hearing them once. She made them feel excited.

Parents watched with fond smiles as their kids clung to her, some snapping photos, others just letting the moment happen.

And Smoke noticed everything.

He handed out toys, exchanged greetings, nodded along to conversations, but his eyes kept drifting back to her. The way she knelt and leaned in close when a child whispered something. The way her laughter carried cutting through the cold.

But the kids weren’t the only ones drawn to her.

Fathers lingered longer than necessary, men found reasons to ask questions, and Annie met all of it with the same easy charm. She was friendly, gracious, never crossing a line, but not dulling herself down either. She was radiant and glowing with the kind of happiness that invited attention without asking for it.

Smoke caught a few of the looks that lasted too long. He felt the possessiveness low in his chest. Still, he stayed where he was, close enough that anyone paying attention could see exactly who she belonged to.

And Annie, blissfully occupied, kept going.

She poured hot chocolate, passed out cookies, and knelt again and again without complaint. She hugged children who asked, laughed when they showed her their mittens, listened as they explained what they hoped to find under the tree. She was glowing from the inside out.

The line ebbed and flowed naturally, people coming in clusters, laughing, lingering, stepping aside to let others through. And eventually, the supply bins started looking thin.

Smoke leaned in toward Annie, speaking close to her ear so only she could hear him over the music and chatter. “We’re gonna run out if I don’t grab more.”

She nodded immediately. “There’s more in the hall closet. And there’s a big box in the dining room.”

“I’ll be right back,” he said, already stepping away.

She reached out without thinking, fingers brushing his sleeve briefly as he passed. “Okay.”

He disappeared inside the brownstone, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Annie alone out front for the first time that evening.

She started to rearrange the remaining toys on the table when a man approached with two children. They bounced with contained excitement, tugging at their father’s hands as they came closer.

Annie’s face lit up instantly.

“Hi,” she said warmly, crouching down to their level. “Are you two ready for Christmas?”

The kids nodded enthusiastically, talking over each other, words tumbling out too fast to fully catch. Annie laughed, fully engaged, asking them questions, reacting with exaggerated surprise at their answers. She held their attention effortlessly, the way she always did.

Their father stood just behind them. And from the moment he stopped, his attention was no longer on his kids.

Annie leaned forward slightly as she spoke, hands resting on her knees, the neckline of her dress shifting with the movement. The faux fur framing her chest did nothing to hide the fullness there. If anything, it drew the eye straight to it.

The man’s gaze dropped. He swallowed, lips pressing together before he bit down on them absently. His eyes traced a slow path downward, entirely unconcerned with discretion. When he realized he’d been staring too long, he licked his lips, a nervous, reflexive gesture that only made it worse.

But, of course, Annie didn’t notice.

She handed each child a gift, their faces lighting up instantly. “Merry Christmas,” she said softly. “Don’t open it yet. Save it for tomorrow, okay?”

They nodded again, clutching their packages tightly.

Annie rose back to her feet then, brushing her hands together lightly as she turned her attention to their father. “Did you want some hot chocolate too?”

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He just stared at her.

Up close, she was even more striking. The dress hugged her perfectly, the contrast of red and white against her skin impossible to ignore.

“Uh,” he said finally, clearing his throat. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great.”

She reached for a cup, pouring carefully, steam curling up between them. She handed it to him with a polite smile, already starting to step back.

But he didn’t take the hint.

“So you do this every year?” he asked, voice a little too smooth.

“We do,” she replied easily. “It’s one of our favorite traditions.”

“That’s really generous,” he said, eyes drifting again despite himself. “Not a lot of people would do all this.”

She smiled, practiced and kind, but her body language stayed neutral. “We’re happy to.”

He shifted his weight, glancing briefly at his kids before looking back at her. “Your husband’s lucky,” he added, tone casual but loaded. “The whole town’s lucky, really.”

Annie tilted her head slightly, still pleasant. “That’s nice of you to say.”

There was a beat where he clearly considered pushing further.

“So,” he began, leaning in just a fraction, “you always look this–”

The front door opened behind her.

Annie didn’t turn right away, but she felt the change in energy. Smoke stepped out onto the stoop carrying two boxes, his eyes sweeping the scene instinctively: the man standing too close, the way he was angled toward Annie, the way Annie’s posture had subtly shifted into polite deflection.

He cleared his throat as he crossed the short distance from the door to the table, setting the extra boxes down where they belonged. He moved unhurriedly, but there was a quiet precision to everything he did now. He simply made his presence unavoidable.

When he reached Annie, he slid his arm around her waist in a way that looked casual to anyone watching. His hand rested against her side, thumb pressing lightly as if to anchor her there.

Annie leaned into him without thinking.

She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing his chest, her body aligning with his. She didn’t look at him right away, still focused on the family in front of her, but Smoke felt the way she relaxed just slightly once he was there.

The man did not.

Smoke watched him closely now, watching the way his gaze barely flicked up to acknowledge Smoke’s arm around her, how it didn’t register as a warning or a deterrent. The man’s eyes shamelessly dipped again, following the line of Annie’s neckline like Smoke wasn’t even part of the picture.

The man asked another question to keep her attention, and Smoke felt a slow, steady heat settle in his chest.

Another family just so happen to approach, their excitement evident even from a distance. Smoke glanced at them, then leaned down slightly toward Annie.

“Go help them,” he murmured quietly, voice calm but firm.

He gave her waist a gentle series of taps, a silent nudge that carried meaning only she would recognize.

Annie nodded, immediately turning her attention toward the newcomers. She slipped out from under his arm easily, already smiling and shifting into that welcoming presence that drew people in so effortlessly.

“Hey,” she said brightly, stepping toward the new family. “Come on up.”

As she walked away, Smoke stayed exactly where he was.

He didn’t need to look to know what the man was doing. But he did anyway.

The man’s eyes followed Annie as she moved. He tracked the sway of her walk, lingering as she bent slightly to reach for the new supply of gifts. His focus narrowed, expression tightening with something like fixation.

Annie leaned forward, reaching toward the box.

Before the man could lean with her, Smoke shifted just enough to block his view completely. His body a solid wall between the man and Annie. He turned his head slightly, finally giving the man his full attention, his expression neutral but unreadable.

“You get everything you needed?” Smoke asked.

The man blinked, clearly startled, eyes snapping up too late. He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

Smoke held his gaze for a second longer than necessary. “Alright then. Merry Christmas.”

There was no smile in it.

The man muttered something in return, shifting his weight awkwardly before calling to his kids. He ushered them away quickly, shoulders tense as he disappeared back into the crowd.

Smoke waited until they were gone before turning back toward Annie.

She was still focused on the family she was helping, completely unaware of how close the moment had come to turning sour. Smoke stayed close after that, positioning himself subtly at her side.

The rest of their time out there went on the same way.

By the time the last family drifted away and the street finally quieted, the cold had finally settled deep into Annie’s bones.

The music was turned off. The tables stood mostly empty now, crumbs scattered across disposable plates, lids half-loosened on the hot chocolate containers. The lights on the brownstone still glowed warmly, but the energy that had carried them all evening had faded.

Smoke was already moving boxes inside. He hadn’t said much since they came in to start putting things away, and when he did, it was clipped. 

Annie moved around him, gathering ribbons and unused wrapping paper, brushing snow from the edges of bins before bringing them inside. She talked as she worked, but Smoke only responded with brief sounds that barely counted as answers.

Eventually, she stopped pretending not to notice.

“Okay, what’s wrong, huh?” she asked while setting a box down near the door. 

Smoke didn’t look at her right away. He adjusted the lid on one of the containers, fingers pressing harder than necessary. “I’m just tired.”

Annie studied him for a moment, arms folding loosely over her chest. “Tired my ass, spit it out.”

That made him pause.

He straightened slowly, finally turning to face her. The entry hall light caught the sharp line of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there earlier.

“Why’d you wear that tonight?” he asked.

The question landed wrong immediately.

Annie blinked. “What?”

“That outfit,” he clarified, voice steady but tight. “Why that one.”

Confusion and agitation flickered across her face before she could control herself. “Because it’s Christmas Eve?”

“That’s not an answer.”

Her brows drew together. “It is an answer.”

Smoke exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. “You knew how it looked.”

Annie’s posture stiffened instantly. “Looked how?”

“You were practically spilling out of it.” he said, finally saying it outright.

Her head tilted back slightly, incredulous. “Are you serious right now?”

“I’m serious,” he replied. “You had men staring at you all night.”

She let out a short laugh that held no humor. “That’s not my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault,” he shot back.

“You implied it,” she said quickly. “You asked why I wore it like I did something wrong.”

Smoke’s jaw tightened. “I didn’t like it.”

Annie stepped closer, her voice lowering but growing firmer. “I can’t help how my body looks in clothes. I wore a Christmas dress. That’s it.”

“You knew how it looked on you and to anyone else” he said. 

“And?” she asked. “I’m not allowed to feel good about myself?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But that’s what it sounds like,” she replied, frustration rising. “I was out there doing what we always do.”

Smoke’s hands clenched at his sides. “And I had to stand there watching men look at you like you were something they could have.”

“That’s their problem,” she snapped. “Not mine.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable.

She shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “I’m not dressing for them. I dressed for me.”

Smoke looked at her, eyes dark with something complicated. “Well, I ain’t like it.”

Annie crossed her arms tighter now. “So what, you want me to wear something just so you don’t have to feel uncomfortable?”

“That’s not what I’m asking,” he said, frustration creeping back into his voice. “I just wanted you to think about it.”

“I did think about it,” she replied. 

Smoke looked away, jaw working, clearly holding back. Annie watched him, chest rising and falling, equally wound up.

The tension hung between them like a wire pulled too tight. Then his shoulders dropped, just slightly, like something inside him finally gave way.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

Annie didn’t look at him at first. She was straightening one of the boxes near the wall, like she needed something to do with her hands. 

Smoke watched her for a moment, really watching how the soft white trim of the dress framed her collarbones, how the red fabric hugged her just right, how she still carried that warmth even when she was upset.

“I was wrong,” he said.

She paused, then slowly turned to face him. “Wrong how?”

“I came at you too hard,” Smoke admitted. His voice was lower now, stripped of the edge it had earlier. “That wasn’t fair to you.”

Annie searched his face, guarded. He took a step closer.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he continued. “You ain’t do anything wrong.”

He hesitated, then let out a breath that almost sounded like a reluctant smile. “Truth is I actually love that outfit. I guess I was just projecting.”

Annie scoffed and rolled her eyes.

“That don’t mean that I liked all them no good men looking at you,” he added quickly. “But that’s something I gotta deal with, not you.”

He closed the distance between them then, hands coming to rest at her waist, thumbs brushing the fabric. Annie inhaled, instinctively leaning into him even as she tried not to.

“I shouldn’t have made you feel like you did something wrong just by being you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Before she could respond, he leaned down and kissed her.

Annie stiffened for half a second, still holding onto her frustration, but then his mouth softened against hers and she melted, hands coming up to grip his jacket.

He kissed her again. And again. Along her jaw, her cheek, the corner of her mouth, little apologies scattered in every touch.

“Elijah,” she murmured, breathless, even as she tilted her head to give him better access. “I’m still a little mad.”

“I can tell,” he said, kissing her anyway. 

She huffed out a quiet laugh despite herself. “You think kissing me is just gonna fix everything?”

“I’m hoping it helps,” he said, lips brushing her skin. “At least a little.”

She sighed, shoulders finally relaxing as she gave in and wrapped her arms around his neck. “It does. But I’m not letting you off that easy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied.

He kissed her again, slower this time, deeper, until she forgot what she’d been annoyed about for a split second. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers.

“So,” he murmured, voice low and playful now, “how do I make it up to you?”

Annie shrugged, deliberately casual, though the corners of her mouth twitched. “I don’t know.”

Smoke chuckled softly and kissed her again, lingering. 

Then he pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark but warm. “I’ll admit something else,” he said quietly. “I’m still a little mad too.”

She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Mhm,” he said, kissing her once more, slower, like he was savoring it. “I know you really only wore this to get some attention from me.”

She leaned in close, voice teasing. “Guess I’ve been a little naughty then.”

Smoke’s lips curved against hers.

She laughed softly. “Guess that means I won’t get my gifts this year.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, hands still firm on her waist. His expression shifted into something unmistakably smug.

“Oh, you’re getting a gift,” he said.

Annie’s eyes flicked up to his, curious. “Just one?”

He smiled. “Santa got you a big one.”

Smoke didn’t give her time to overthink it. His mouth was back on hers with a kind of kiss that made the rest of the room disappear. His hands traced along her sides like he was relearning every curve he already knew by heart. Annie let out a soft sound against his lips, fingers fisting in the fabric of his jacket as she tried to pull him closer.

The kiss grew heavier, the air between them charged. Annie shifted into him, hands roaming, clearly intending to return the favor, but Smoke caught her wrists mid-movement and guided them gently but firmly behind her back.

Annie tilted her head back slightly, eyes half-lidded, a slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“So,” she murmured, voice smooth and teasing, “what do I gotta do to get back on the nice list?”

Smoke’s lips curved as he pulled back just enough to look at her. His gaze was dark. “You gotta be a good girl,” he said calmly.

Annie didn’t argue. She just nodded.

“That easy?” he asked.

“Mhm,” she hummed.

He leaned in again, kissing her slow and deep, like he was rewarding the answer. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against hers.

“Naughty girls don’t stay that way if they really try.” he murmured

She leaned into him again, completely willing and ready to prove just how good she could be.

Whatever tension had been hanging between them earlier had melted into something warmer, darker, playful.

“I don’t have to be naughty,” she said softly. “I can be a good girl.”

Smoke’s brow lifted slightly, amused, intrigued. He didn’t interrupt her, just watched.

She took a small step back, smoothing her hands over the front of her robe, her voice dropping into something sweeter. “I can be good for you, Santa”

A low sound left Smoke’s chest before he could stop it. “Oh?” he murmured. “Is that so?”

Annie nodded, eyes bright, stepping closer again. “Mhm. I’ve been waiting all year.”

She let herself sink down slowly, gracefully, until she was kneeling in front of him. Her hands settled on his thighs, thumbs brushing small, absentminded circles on the fabric.

Smoke exhaled sharply, head tipping back for just a second before he looked down at her again. “You know what you look like doing this, right?” he said, voice roughening.

She smiled up at him, lashes fluttering. “I’ve just been waiting for Santa to come by.”

A mix of humor and heat flickered across his face as he played along. “And where’s your husband, huh?” he asked. “I can’t imagine he’d be too happy coming home to find you like this.”

Annie’s smile faltered just enough to sell it. She shrugged lightly, hands still moving against his legs. “He doesn’t care about me. At least not like Santa does,” she said.

Smoke swallowed, gaze dropping briefly to her hands before meeting her eyes again. “Even so,” he said, quieter now, “letting Santa touch you however he wants still makes you a naughty girl.”

Annie bit her lip, eyes never leaving his. “Maybe,” she whispered. “But I told you I’ll be good.”

Smoke watched her from above, the sight of Annie on her knees staring back at him hit him like a freight train. Her red dress hugged every curve, the soft glow of the Christmas lights casting shadows that made her skin look like it was lit from within. Her hands on his thighs were rubbing slow circles that sent heat radiating up his legs. He could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his body betrayed him even as he tried to hold onto the last thread of control.

“Annie,” he said, voice gravelly, but she didn't stop. 

Her fingers trailed higher, slipping past the waistband of his pants. She tugged them down just enough, freeing him from the confines of his underwear. His dick sprang free, thick and heavy, already straining toward her in the cool air of the room. The sudden exposure made him hiss through his teeth, every nerve ending alive and begging.

She paused there, eyes dropping to take him in fully. He was rigid and pulsing slightly with his heartbeat. Her gaze lingered, appreciative, hungry, before flicking back up to meet his. Those eyes of hers were locked onto his with a promise that made his stomach tighten. 

Her hand wrapped around him, fingers curling firm and warm around his shaft. She stroked him slowly at first, base to tip, thumb swirling over the head where a bead of precum had already gathered. Smoke's breath caught, hips twitching forward involuntarily as she worked him with that perfect rhythm, like she'd mapped every inch of him a thousand times over. The friction was exquisite, building pressure low in his gut.

Leaning in closer, her tongue darted out, licking a long stripe from the base all the way up, swirling around the sensitive underside before flicking over the tip. The wet heat of her mouth nearly undid him right there, a low groan ripping from his throat as his hand found her hair, fingers threading through the soft strands without pulling.

“I'll show you how good I can be,” she murmured against his skin, lips brushing him with every word. The vibration of it sent a jolt straight through him.

Before he could respond, her mouth closed around him. She took him in deep, lips stretching around his girth as her tongue pressed flat against the underside, sucking with a slow, rhythmic pull that made stars burst behind his eyelids. 

Smoke's head fell back for a second, a ragged curse escaping him as she set a pace, bobbing her head, and hollowing her cheeks with one hand stroking what her mouth couldn't reach while the other cupped him lower, rolling gently.

The room narrowed to just the wet sounds of her mouth working him, the obscene slide of her lips, the way her free hand gripped his thigh for leverage. He couldn't look away from the sight of her like that. Her eyes stayed on his when she could, watering slightly at the edges but never breaking contact, challenging him silently to let go.

Pleasure built like a relentless storm. His grip tightened in her hair, guiding her now, hips rocking shallowly into the heaven of her mouth. She took it all, humming around him, the vibration pushing him closer to the edge. His balls drew up tight, breath coming in sharp pants as the tension snapped.

"Fuck– Annie–" He came hard, pulsing in waves. 

The first thick spurt hit the back of her throat, and she swallowed greedily, milking him with her mouth. But he pulled back just enough on the second surge, ropes of hot release spilling across her lips, dripping down her chin onto the swell of her breasts. The sight of it prolonged the high, drawing a final shudder from him.

She pulled off slowly, tongue swiping her lower lip to catch what lingered, eyes still locked on his as she sat back on her heels. Her chest heaved, breasts heaving with the evidence of him streaked across them, a satisfied, wicked smile curving her mouth. 

The sight of her kneeling there, unashamed, eyes locked on his with that wicked spark snapped something primal loose inside him. He reached down, fingers curling under her chin to tilt her face up fully, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where a trace of him lingered.

"Up," he said, voice gravel-rough, pulling her to her feet with a firm grip.

Annie rose gracefully, her body brushing against his in the process, the heat of her skin radiating through the fabric of her dress. She swayed just a touch, lips parted, but he didn't give her a moment to catch her breath. His hand slid to the small of her back, guiding her toward the stairs. 

They moved together in the dim hallway, the pieces of the evening's chaos scattered around them. As they passed the pile of unpacked decorations near the base of the stairs, Smoke's gaze snagged on a length of extra garland. He snatched it up without breaking stride, the needles rustling softly in his fist. Annie glanced back at him, curiosity flickering in her eyes, but she said nothing, her heels clicking up the steps ahead of him.

The bedroom door creaked open under his push, the room bathed in the warm flicker of a single bedside lamp and the multicolored spill from the string lights draped over the headboard. The bed dominated the space, sheets already rumpled from earlier that morning. Smoke kicked the door shut behind them, the sound sharp in the quiet.

He turned to her then, garland dangling from one hand, the other reaching out to trace the curve of her jaw. His eyes bored into hers, dark and commanding. 

“Would you do anything for Santa?” he asked, his voice low, threaded with challenge.

Annie held his gaze, her chest rising and falling quicker now. A slow, defiant smile curved her lips.

“Yes,” she breathed.

That was all he needed.

Smoke moved like a storm breaking, hands gripping her hips as he practically hurled her onto the bed. She landed with a soft gasp, bouncing once on the mattress before he was on her, his weight pressing her down just long enough to flip her over onto her stomach. The sheets tangled beneath her, cool against her heated skin, her dress riding up to expose the smooth expanse of her thighs and the swell of her ass.

“Arms,” he commanded, kneeling behind her, voice steady but edged with hunger. He shook out the garland, the ribbon whispering as it uncoiled.

Annie twisted her head to glance back at him over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with a mix of mischief and heat. She didn't move, didn't offer them up. Instead, she arched her back just a fraction, testing him, her body a deliberate provocation.

Smoke's hand came down without hesitation, palm connecting with the curve of her ass in a sharp, resounding smack. The sound cracked through the room. 

Annie whimpered, the sound high and needy, her body jolting forward on the bed, thighs pressing together instinctively.

“Arms,” he repeated, firmer this time, his free hand already soothing the spot he'd struck with a slow, circling rub.

She shivered, breath hitching, but complied this time. Reaching her arms back toward him, wrists crossing obediently at the small of her back. 

“Good girl,” Smoke murmured, approval rough in his throat. 

He looped the garland around her wrists, the greenery cool and prickly against her skin, the ribbon pulling taut as he knotted it secure. Not too tight to bruise, but firm enough to hold her exactly where he wanted. He tested the hold with a tug, watching her body respond, the way her hips shifted against the mattress, seeking friction.

Annie tugged lightly against the tie, a soft moan escaping as she settled fully onto her stomach, cheek pressed to the pillow, ass lifted. 

The room pulsed with their shared rhythm now, Christmas lights casting festive shadows over her restrained form, turning the moment into something sacred and sinful all at once.

Smoke's hands moved with purpose, he yanked downward on her dress in one swift motion, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip that echoed in the quiet room. Her breasts spilled free, swaying slightly as she shifted on the bed, the cool air pebbling her skin instantly.

He palmed them from behind, his large hands cupping the soft weight, thumbs circling her nipples with slow, deliberate pressure. Annie had been so sensitive lately, and now it hit her full force. A deep, throaty moan escaped her lips, her back arching into his touch, body trembling as sparks of pleasure shot straight to her core. 

“Elijah…” she gasped, the sound raw and needy, her bound arms flexing uselessly against the garland.

His other hand trailed lower, sliding over the curve of her ass still hugged by the ruined dress bunched at her waist. He swiped upward along the seat of her panties, fingers pressing firmly against the damp lace, feeling the heat radiating from her. She was soaked already.

Annie gasped sharply, her hips bucking involuntarily, wiggling her ass back against his hand in a instinctive plea for more. The movement was playful, desperate, her black heeled boots scraping lightly against the bedspread as her legs parted just a fraction.

His palm came down on her ass again, sharper this time, the sting blooming hot across her skin. She made a sound that made his dick twitch against her thigh.

“Be nice for Santa, Annie,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “Don't make me have to punish you.”

She whimpered, her body stilling. He could see the way her thighs pressed together, the way her breath hitched in her chest.

He slid his hand between her legs again. She gasped, her body jerking, her hips moving instinctively, seeking more friction. He could feel her getting wetter, her body responding to his touch, to the slight edge of pain from the garland.

He slipped a finger under the hem of her panties, brushing against her bare skin, and she moaned, a sound that went straight to his dick. He could feel her getting wetter, her body responding to his touch, to the slight edge of pain from the garland.

He slid a finger inside her, her wetness coating him instantly. She was tight, her body clenching around him as he started to move, his thumb finding her clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles.

She moaned again, her hips moving in time with his hand, her body writhing under his touch. He could feel her getting close, her body tensing, her breath coming in short gasps.

But he wasn't ready for her to come yet. He wanted to draw this out, to make her beg, to make her plead for release.

"You come when I say you can. You hear me?" he said, his voice low and commanding.

She nodded, her body stilling, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He could see the way her hands fisted in the garland, the way her eyes fluttered closed, her lashes dark against her cheeks.

He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. "Good girl," he murmured. "Now let's see how long you can hold out for Santa."

Smoke pulled his fingers free from between her legs, slick and glistening with her arousal. Annie's body trembled beneath him, her bound wrists twisting slightly against the garland as she pressed her cheek into the mattress, breath ragged. 

"Taste yourself, Annie," he said, his voice low and commanding. "See how good you can be for Santa."

He brought those fingers to her mouth without warning, tracing her parted lips before sliding them inside.

She didn't hesitate. Her tongue swirled around them eagerly, lips closing tight as she sucked, hollowing her cheeks with a hunger that mimicked how she'd taken him downstairs. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, lost in the act, treating his fingers like they were him–lapping at the salty tang of herself on his skin, moaning softly around the intrusion.

Smoke pushed deeper, testing her, curling them against the back of her throat until her body jerked, a soft gag bubbling up from her chest. Her eyes watered, lashes clumping, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she relaxed into it, throat working to take more, her whimpers vibrating along his knuckles. The sound went straight through him, heat pooling low in his gut.

He withdrew slowly, strings of saliva connecting her lips to his fingers for a lingering second before snapping free. Annie gasped, licking her lips instinctively, her chest heaving as she looked back at him over her shoulder.

His palm came down on her ass again, lighter this time but sharp enough to sting, leaving another faint red bloom across her skin. She yelped, hips bucking involuntarily, the black heeled boots still strapped to her feet scraping softly against the sheets.

"Stay still," he murmured, voice rough, but his gaze dropped lower, fixed on the soaked center of her panties. 

The thin black fabric clung to her folds, the wetness seeping through in a dark, obscene patch that made his mouth water. He licked his lips slowly, savoring the sight of her like this. Mrs. Claus undone, dress torn open, breasts swaying heavy and free beneath her, ass arched high and marked by his hand.

Annie couldn't help herself. Her bound arms strained behind her back, shoulders flexing as she pushed her ass up higher, practically begging without words. She was a vision of impatience, every wiggle an invitation, her soaked panties shifting with the movement to reveal more of her glistening heat.

Smoke bent down behind her, his breath hot against the slick folds of her exposed center, the scent of her arousal filling his senses like the sweetest temptation. He gripped her thighs firmly, spreading them wider, and dragged his tongue along her length in one slow stroke from her clit to her entrance and back again. 

Annie shattered instantly. Her body bucked against the mattress, heels of her black boots digging into the sheets for purchase.

"Oh God," she gasped, her voice muffled against the bedding as he dove in deeper. 

His tongue circled her clit with firm, insistent pressure, then plunged inside her, tasting the flood of her wetness, lapping at her like he was starving. She moaned loud and broken. Her bound hands flexing uselessly behind her back, fingers curling into fists as she strained against the garland, aching to tangle in his hair, to pull him closer, to do anything but submit.

Her body betrayed her further, rocking subtly back and forth, trying to set the pace, to grind against his mouth for that perfect friction she craved. Smoke felt the greedy little movements, and growled low against her skin, the vibration making her cry out sharper. He gripped her thighs harder, nails digging into the soft flesh just enough to sting, yanking her back onto his tongue one last time before pulling away entirely.

She collapsed forward with a whine, trembling, her ass still raised high, glistening and begging.

"Since you wanna be such a naughty girl," he said, voice rough and commanding as he straightened up, wiping his mouth, "why don't you ride me until I say so."

Annie twisted her head to look back at him, eyes hazy with need, cheeks flushed, lips parted on a breathless plea, but he was already moving. He sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide. He patted his thigh once, sharp and expectantly.

She didn't need more invitation than that.

Smoke watched Annie straddle him, her body sinking down onto his length with a slow roll of her hips that made his breath hitch. Her hands were still bound behind her back with the garland, forcing her chest forward, her torn dress hanging open so her breasts swayed freely with every movement. The black heeled boots she still wore dug into the mattress on either side of him, giving her leverage as she started to ride him, her thighs flexing, her body already slick and hot around him.

She knew exactly what she was doing. 

Annie leaned in close, her breath hot against his ear, moaning low and throaty, the exact sound she knew unraveled him every time. 

"It feels so good," she gasped, her voice breaking just right. 

Her hips circled first, grinding deep in that teasing rhythm he loved. The one that dragged her inner walls along every inch of him, before she picked up speed, bouncing rough and fast, chasing her release with shameless abandon.

He gripped her thighs hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh, but she didn't stop. She rode him like she owned him, her moans turning sharper, more desperate, her body clenching tighter around his cock as she hurtled toward the edge. Sweat glistened on her skin, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, nipples peaked and begging for attention. She was a vision–Mrs. Claus turned wild.

But Smoke saw it coming. 

The way her breaths stuttered, her eyes fluttering half-shut, her rhythm faltering as her orgasm built too close, too fast. He wouldn't let her have it, not yet. His hands clamped down on her hips like iron, yanking her flush against him, forcing her to sit fully impaled on his lap. 

She was buried to the hilt, he was throbbing deep inside her, but she couldn't move, couldn't grind or bounce. She groaned, entirely frustrated. Her bound hands flexing uselessly behind her as she tried to rock against him anyway.

"Uh-uh," he murmured, one hand sliding up to cup her breast, thumb flicking her nipple just to watch her squirm. "Look at you, squirming on Santa's lap." 

His other hand stayed firm on her hip, holding her still while her body trembled around him, so close to shattering but denied. He licked his lips, eyes dark as he drank in the sight of her. 

"What would you like for Christmas, Annie? Tell Santa what you want."

She bit her lip, eyes glassy with desperation, hips twitching under his grip. "To come," she breathed, voice raw and pleading. "Please, Santa, let me come."

He chuckled low, the sound rumbling through his chest as he thrust up once, shallow and teasing, making her gasp. 

"Only good girls get that gift," he said, his thumb circling her nipple again, slowly and torturously. "And you're still on the naughty list, aren't you? Gotta earn it first." 

Annie's head fell back with a frustrated whine, her body clenching around him in silent protest, but she didn't fight it. Not yet. She was his to toy with, and they both knew it.

Smoke released his grip on her hips, and Annie surged forward immediately, her body taking over with a desperate rhythm. She rode him hard, hips slamming down and her chest bouncing with every thrust. 

Her full, heavy breasts swayed hypnotically in the dim glow of the room. Her black heeled boots dug into the mattress on either side of him, giving her leverage, the sharp clicks echoing faintly as she chased what he wouldn't yet give.

His gaze locked on her breasts, mesmerized by their movement. They seemed bigger than usual, fuller, spilling forward with a weight that drew his eyes like magnets. He reached up slowly, palms cupping them with care, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks. 

And as he squeezed gently, rolling her nipples between his fingers, Annie's moan ripped from her throat. She tilted her head back, throat exposed. Her body shuddered under the heightened sensitivity that made every touch electric.

"Fuck," she gasped, her voice breaking as she yanked hard at the garland. Her arms flexed, muscles taut, but the ties held firm. "Please, I wanna touch you. Let me–"

"No," he cut her off, voice gravelly and unyielding, his hands still kneading her breasts, thumbs circling relentlessly to draw out those delicious whimpers. "Hands stay tied. You ride Santa like this, or not at all."

She whined in frustration again. Her hips stuttering for a beat before picking up speed again, grinding down deeper, her inner walls clenching around him in protest and plea. Sweat glistened on her skin, but she didn't stop. Couldn't stop.

Smoke pulled out of her abruptly then, his dick slick and throbbing, denying them both the release that hovered so close. 

Annie sighed, her body clenching around nothing, but before she could protest, he gripped her hips and shoved her back onto the bed. She landed on her back with a soft thud, the mattress dipping under her weight, her legs splaying open.

He took her in, chest heaving, eyes raking over the beautiful mess she'd become. The red fabric was yanked down to her waist, her full breasts spilling free, nipples peaked and flushed from his earlier attention. Her hair, once neatly pinned for the holiday, now stuck to her sweat-dampened forehead in dark curls, strands clinging to her neck and cheeks. Black heeled boots still hugged her calves, scuffed from the night's chaos, adding a wicked contrast to her vulnerability. She looked wrecked.

Smoke climbed over her in one fluid motion, caging her bound body with his knees bracketing her hips. He crashed his mouth down on hers, the kiss filthy, all tongue. He sucked her lower lip hard enough to sting, then plunged his tongue deep, mimicking what he wanted to do to her core, sloppy and possessive. Saliva slicked their chins as he angled his head, growling low into her mouth.

Annie arched up into him, her tied wrists flexing uselessly behind her back, and wrapped her thighs tight around his waist, heels digging into his ass through her boots. She pulled him down harder, her body grinding against his length where it pressed hot and heavy between them. Her moan vibrated into their kiss.

Smoke flipped Annie over with a firm hand on her hip, guiding her body into position. He brought her knees up under her, pressing her chest down into the mattress, her bound wrists pulling taut against the garland as her cheek pressed into the sheets. Her ass lifted high, presented to him.

He positioned himself behind her, gripping himself and running the thick length up and down her slick slit, coating himself in her arousal. The heat of her pulsed against him, her folds swollen and dripping, begging without words. Annie whimpered, her hips twitching back instinctively, chasing the contact.

"Not yet," he murmured, voice gravelly with restraint. 

He teased her clit with the head of his dick, circling it slowly, pressing just enough to make her gasp and shudder, her thighs quivering. Once, twice, three times. He dragged it out, watching her body tense, her breath hitch into needy little sobs.

Then, with a low groan, he thrust into her, burying himself deep in one smooth motion. She was tight, clenching around him, her wetness easing the way as her walls fluttered in response.

"Put in some work, Annie," he commanded, his hands settling on her hips. "Show Santa you're worth it."

She obeyed instantly, pushing back against him, her ass bouncing off his pelvis with each roll of her hips. The rhythm built quickly, skin slapping skin, as she worked herself on him. 

Smoke watched, transfixed by the jiggle of her flesh. He brought his palm down on her ass leaving stinging smacks that rippled the plump skin. She groaned with each one, but it only made her grind harder.

"Faster," he growled, smacking her again. "You need to make Santa come. Do it right, and maybe you'll earn your way off that naughty list."

Annie's response was instant. 

She pushed back faster, harder, chasing that edge even as she focused on him. Sweat slicked her skin, her hair sticking to her neck, breaths coming in ragged pants. 

Smoke gripped her hips bruisingly tight, his fingers digging into soft flesh as he took over. He met her every movement, pounding into her with controlled power, the bed creaking under them, the room filled with the wet sounds of their bodies and her escalating cries.

He could feel his release building, the coil tightening low in his gut. She was milking him with every plunge. Of course, she was close too, but he held the reins, driving them both toward the brink without mercy.

Smoke pounded into her harder, the bed creaking under the force of his thrusts, his hips slamming against her ass. Her wetness slicked every stroke, her body pulling him deeper despite her bound hands. 

"You don't come until I say so," he growled, voice rough and commanding, sweat beading on his brow as he watched her back arch, her thick thighs trembling. "Hold it, Annie. Be good for Santa."

She was a wreck beneath him, moans spilling from her lips in broken gasps, her fingers twisting desperately into the garland binding her wrists. The rough greenery bit into her skin just enough to heighten every sensation, her body rocking back to meet him even as she fought the building wave inside her. She gripped the ties tighter, playing with the ends, tugging futilely while her hips stuttered, chasing what she couldn't have.

"Please," she whimpered, voice hoarse and needy, turning her head just enough to reach out with one straining hand. "Hold my hand. Please."

He grunted, a low rumble from deep in his chest, his rhythm faltering for half a heartbeat. Part of him wanted to deny her, to keep her fully at his mercy, but the plea in her voice cracked something in him. 

He laced his fingers through hers, squeezing hard, anchoring her as he drove into her with punishing force. Her palm was hot and slick against his, her grip tightening like a lifeline.

The connection pushed him over the edge. Heat coiled tight in his gut, exploding as he thrust deep one final time, spilling into her with a guttural groan. Her walls fluttered wildly around him, so close to shattering, but he pulled out quickly leaving her empty and gasping. Her body shuddered on the brink without release. 

Thick ropes of his come painted her thighs and ass, marking her as his, while she collapsed forward, chest heaving, a frustrated whine escaping her throat.

He released her hand slowly, breathing ragged, his eyes dark with satisfaction as he took in the sight of her, still tied and denied. 

"Not yet," he said, trailing a hand down her spine. "Remember naughty girls have to wait their turn."

Annie clenched on nothing. Her inner walls fluttered in desperate need, wetness dripping down her thighs in a glistening trail. Her body trembled. 

He looked down at her, chest heaving, a rare softness breaking through the dark intensity in his eyes. 

"I guess since you've been so good for Santa," he murmured, voice rough but warm. "I'll allow you one gift. What do you want?"

She swallowed hard, her gaze locking onto his. "Untie me," she whispered, voice shaky with pent-up longing. "Please."

He nodded once, reaching for the garland twisted around her wrists. His fingers worked quickly but carefully, loosening the rough green strands until they fell away, leaving faint marks on her skin that he traced with his thumb. 

"There you go," he said softly. 

Annie pushed herself up on shaky arms, her muscles quivering from the strain and denial. Her pussy throbbed, slick and empty, the cool air teasing her overheated folds. She turned to him, eyes shining, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him into a deep, hungry kiss. Her tongue sought his immediately.

Smoke groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her as he pushed forward. His strong hands gripped her shoulders, guiding them both back until she lay flat on her back, the mattress dipping under their weight. 

Her legs hooked around his waist instinctively, thighs clamping tight, heels digging into the small of his back. Her arms stayed locked around his neck, fingers threading into his hair, holding him close as their kiss turned messy, tongues sliding wet and deep.

He settled between her legs, his hard length pressing against her slick core but not entering, just teasing with the heat of him. Annie arched up, moaning into the kiss, her body finally free to cling and writhe against his. 

Smoke broke away just enough to nip at her lower lip, his forehead resting against hers, eyes dark with promise.  His hands gripped her thick thighs, his fingers sinking into the soft, plush flesh with a possessive squeeze that made her gasp into his mouth. 

"Hold them open for me," he commanded, voice a low rumble against her lips, guiding her hands to the backs of her knees. 

She obeyed instantly, her shaky arms pulling her legs wide, black heels pointed toward the ceiling, exposing her completely. Her pussy glistening, swollen and clenching in desperate invitation.

He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head of his tip pressing against her slick folds. With a slow, deliberate push, he sank into her, stretching her inch by inch. Annie moaned out loud, the sound raw and broken, her head tipping back into the pillows as her walls fluttered around him. 

Missionary always unraveled her like nothing else; they avoided it for that very reason. But here, pinned beneath him, it hit different. Smoke always went impossibly deep, his girth filling her to the brink, every ridge and vein dragging against her sensitive inner walls until she could only take so much before her breath stuttered.

"Fuck, Annie," he groaned, bottoming out with a roll of his hips that ground him against her deepest spot, sparks exploding behind her eyes. She whimpered, her body arching off the bed, thighs trembling in her own grip as he set a rhythm of long, powerful strokes that claimed her over and over.

He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit, swollen and slick under his touch. He rubbed firm circles, matching the pace of his thrusts, the dual sensation ripping a storm of moans from her throat. 

"Smoke. Oh God, Smoke," she cried, her voice pitching higher with each snap of his hips, the wet sounds of their bodies colliding filling the room.

He picked up speed, power building in every thrust. His pelvis slammed against hers with bruising force. His muscles flexed under the strain, eyes locked on her face as she shattered beneath him. 

Her thighs slipped from her grasp, quivering too hard to hold, and she clawed at the sheets instead, twisting the fabric as her moans turned into breathless sobs of pleasure. Her pussy clenched rhythmically around him, pulling him in, teetering right on the edge.

Smoke grunted with every powerful thrust. The raw, guttural sounds ripped from his chest as he drove into Annie's clenching heat. Annie was lost beneath him, her moans fracturing into desperate pleas, her voice hoarse and breaking. 

“Please, Smoke…let me come. I need to come so bad.”

He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a bruising kiss, swallowing her cries as his hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt. When he pulled back, a smirk tugged at his lips, dark and knowing. 

"I'll let you come, Annie," he rasped, voice gravel over steel. "If you promise to give Santa one thing."

She bucked wildly under him, thighs quaking around his waist. “What?” she moaned out, the word half-sob, half-gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders.

Smoke kissed her again as he ground his hips in a slow, devastating circle that made her vision spark. Then he pulled back just enough, eyes locking on hers, and thrust in hard, digging so deep she felt him in her core, rearranging her from the inside. 

"Have my baby," he growled, the words punched out with the force of his body claiming hers.

Annie's breath seized, her fingers clutching the sheets for dear life as she held on through the onslaught. Each plunge stretched her limits. He was hitting that spot that turned her mind to static. She couldn't focus, couldn't form words, only fragmented whimpers.

"Have my baby, Annie," he repeated, voice low and insistent, slowing his rhythm just enough to pin her gaze with his own. He stared down at her, unblinking, hips rolling deep and waiting.

Her eyes widened, hazy with lust but sharpening as she met his stare. The weight of it sinking in. She paused, then nodded frantically, a small jerk of her head. Her body screamed it even if her voice couldn't.

Smoke thrust again, harder, splitting her open with a single, punishing stroke that arched her spine. "Say it," he demanded, breath hot against her ear. "I need to hear you say it."

"Yes," she gasped, the word tumbling out in a rush. "Yes, I’ll have your baby. Now let me come!"

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her as he nipped her jaw. "Don't be rude, baby." His thumb circled her clit again, relentless, while his dick throbbed inside her. "Say please."

"Please," she begged instantly, voice cracking, body wound so tight she was trembling. "Please let me come."

That did it. 

"Come for me," he commanded, thrusting one final time.

Her release exploded through her like a dam breaking. Her eyes rolled back in her head, mouth falling open in a silent scream that shattered into a wail. Her body arched off the bed, pussy spasming wildly around him, gushing wetness that soaked his thighs. Waves of ecstasy ripped through her, toes curling in her boots, every muscle seizing in bliss as she shattered completely.

Smoke groaned, the sight and feel of her undoing pushing him over. He thrust through her climax three more times, hips grinding until he buried himself flush against her cervix and came. He collapsed over her, both of them panting, bodies locked together in the aftershocks, the Christmas lights casting a soft glow over their tangled, spent forms.

It was still early enough that the sky outside carried that glow that made the house feel hushed and unreal, like it was holding its breath. Annie woke up smiling. Her body felt warm, loose, pleasantly tired, and her mind felt light. Everything about the morning felt right. She stretched beneath the covers, hair a mess, skin still warm from sleep.

She didn’t think much of anything as she slid out of bed. She reached for her robe and slipped it over bare skin without a second thought. The fabric brushed against her calves and pooled around her feet as she tied it loosely at the waist. She padded out of the bedroom humming softly, already thinking about coffee and cinnamon rolls. Completely forgetting about anything else.

The brownstone looked even more magical in the morning light. The garlands and lights from the night before still glowed softly. The Christmas tree stood proudly in the living room, branches heavy with ornaments and lights, gifts packed so tightly underneath that some had been stacked against the wall. The whole house smelled like sugar cookies and pine. It was all warm and familiard

Annie walked straight into the kitchen without looking up, already reaching for the coffee pot.

“Morning,” a familiar voice said.

She froze.

Slowly, Annie lifted her head.

Smoke was sitting at the kitchen table cup of coffee in his hand. Across from him was Stack, leaned back in his chair with a grin that stretched way too wide.

Annie’s eyes widened. “Oh my–”

“Damn,” Stack looked her up and down, amusement lighting his face. “Merry Christmas to me.”

Smoke shot him a look without even turning his head. “Relax.”

Annie let out a startled laugh, instantly tugging the robe tighter around herself even though it already covered everything it needed to. “Why are you here?” she asked Stack, half-laughing, half-mortified.

He shrugged. “You said be here early. I just didn’t know how early.” His eyes flicked to her robe again. “Or that it was gonna be this kind of party.”

“Don’t start,” she warned, already backing toward the stairs. 

Stack just laughed.

Annie turned quickly, intent on making a clean escape upstairs before this could get worse, but she barely made it two steps before the sound of excited footsteps thundered through the house.

“TT!”

Her niece and nephews came barreling in like a holiday tornado, socks sliding on the floor, voices overlapping, arms already reaching for her. Before she could even protest, they were on her—hugging her legs, clinging to her robe, talking all at once.

“You’re up!”

“Did Santa come?”

“Can we open presents yet?”

Annie laughed despite herself, the sound bright and full, her embarrassment melting away under the sheer force of their excitement. She bent down instinctively, wrapping her arms around them, pressing kisses into curls and foreheads.

“Hey, ” she said warmly. “Good morning to you too.”

Smoke watched from the table, lips curved into a fond smile, coffee forgotten for the moment. Stack leaned back again, shaking his head.

The kids finally loosened their grip enough for her to stand properly, though one still clung to her leg like a koala. Annie adjusted her robe again, cheeks warm but eyes bright, the glow still unmistakably there.

Smoke stepped in smoothly, clapping his hands once to get their attention. “Alright, alright,” he said, voice warm but firm. “TT’s gotta go finish getting ready.”

A chorus of protests immediately followed.

“But Uncle Smoke–”

“We wanna open presents now!”

“Just one!”

He laughed, bending down as he spoke, scooping his niece up and settling her on his hip. “Not yet,” he said gently. “Everybody has to be here first. That’s the rule.”

As if on cue, his nephews latched onto his legs, one on each side, clinging like they had no intention of letting him go anywhere without them. Smoke barely flinched. He adjusted his stance automatically like this was second nature.

Annie lingered for a second, watching the scene unfold. Something unspoken passed between them. Smoke caught her eye and nodded his head toward the stairs, silently telling her he had it handled.

She smiled back at him, before turning and heading upstairs.

As Smoke led them back into the living room. He loved this part of the holidays. He loved the noise, the mess, the way the house felt too small and somehow still perfect. But moments like this always carried an ache with them too. Everywhere he looked, there were kids with little hands, big questions, and endless energy. Everyone around him had built this life naturally. And he and Annie wanted it just as badly.

He shook the thought away before it could take root too deeply.

“Alright,” he said, lowering himself onto the couch with a dramatic groan, his niece immediately curling into his side while the boys sprawled across the floor at his feet. “Movie time.”

He put on a holiday movie, the room filling with bright colors and cheerful music. His niece leaned closer, legs tucked under her, already deep in conversation.

“Uncle Smoke,” she said, tugging on his sleeve. “At daycare we learned about reindeer. Did you know–”

He smiled, nodding along as she spoke, responding at the right moments, even as his eyes drifted to the Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner. The presents underneath it waited patiently, ribbons crisp, tags carefully written in Annie’s handwriting.

The doorbell rang once, then again.

Sammie arrived with Pearline right behind him and their baby bundled up against her chest. The baby let out a tiny yawn that instantly drew everyone’s attention.

Soon after, more voices filled the space. Annie’s cousins, aunts, uncles, came in. Kids were shedding coats and shoes as fast as possible, laughter bouncing off the walls. Bags of food were set down. Hugs were exchanged. The living room grew fuller, warmer, louder.

And then her grandmother arrived.

The energy softening around her presence. Smoke stood to greet her, respectful and affectionate, leaning down to hug her carefully.

“Morning, baby,” she said warmly, patting his cheek. “The house looks beautiful.”

He smiled. “Annie did good this year”

“Of course she did,” her grandmother replied knowingly.

By the time Annie came back downstairs, properly dressed now, the house was alive. Kids ran back and forth, voices overlapping. Music played softly in the background.

Smoke watched Annie step into the room, the way her face lit up as she took it all in. Their eyes met again across the space, and this time the look they shared was full of love, pride, longing, and gratitude all tangled together.

Annie naturally slipped into motion like she always did. Hosting came as easily to her as breathing. She clapped her hands lightly to get everyone’s attention, smiling wide as she scanned the room, already mentally organizing people into groups.

“Okay,” she said brightly, voice carrying without effort. “Kids first. Everybody grab a spot near the tree.”

The children practically tripped over one another rushing toward the living room, socks sliding on the floor, laughter and squeals filling the air. Annie laughed along with them, gently guiding the smallest ones forward, reminding them not to push and to wait their turn.

She passed out gifts one by one, reading names aloud, handing boxes into eager hands. The reactions were instant and loud with gasps and happy screams.

“You remembered!”

“This is the one I wanted!”

“Thank you, TT!”

Once the kids were fully occupied, Annie shifted her attention to the adults. 

“Alright,” she said, waving them closer. “Adults turn.”

Groans and laughs followed, but everyone moved in anyway. Gifts were passed around, teased over, shaken jokingly before being opened. Wine glasses clinked softly as wrapping paper piled up again.

There were smiles, surprised laughs, appreciative murmurs.

Eventually, Smoke stood and cleared his throat slightly. “Alright,” he said, stepping closer to her. “I got something for you too.”

Annie turned to him, eyebrows lifting in surprise even though she knew it was coming. He handed her the first box. She opened it carefully, and froze.

“Wow,” she breathed.

It was the purse she wanted. The one she’d stopped to admire more than once, pretending she didn’t want it that badly. 

He handed her the second box. When she opened it, her eyes widened again, laughter bubbling up as she lifted up a pair of designer heels. “You are not serious.”

“You deserve it,” he said.

Annie hugged him this time, arms wrapping around his neck. “Thank you, baby,” she murmured.

When it was time for Smoke’s gifts, Annie handed him the first one easily. He opened it to reveal a cologne, lifting the bottle with a thoughtful nod. 

“I already know this smells good,” he said.

She smiled knowingly.

Then she passed him the second gift. 

“This one,” she said softly, leaning in just enough for only him to hear, “you don’t open until we’re alone.”

Smoke looked at the box, then back at her, curiosity immediately sparking in his eyes. “That so?”

She nodded once, lips curling into a small, secretive smile. “Just trust me.”

He didn’t push it. His gaze lingering on her a second longer than necessary, something unspoken passing between them as the room buzzed on around them.

The rest of the day unfolded slowly. The house stayed full, every room occupied by some version of joy. Wrapping paper never quite made it to the trash, abandoned toys scattered across the floor as kids moved from one thing to the next, showing off their favorites, trading pieces, arguing briefly and then laughing just as fast.

Cards came out at the dining table, voices rising with every win and loss. Someone turned the music up just a little louder. Glasses clinked as drinks were poured, conversations overlapping in that familiar way that only happened when everyone felt comfortable enough to talk at once. And the kitchen stayed busy.

Annie eventually settled herself on the edge of Smoke’s chair, perched sideways with one leg draped comfortably over his knee. A mug of hot chocolate warmed her hands, steam curling up toward her face as she sipped it slowly. Smoke’s hands rested on her automatically, one at her hip, the other steady at her thigh, holding her in place like it was the most natural thing in the world. Every now and then his thumb traced small, absentminded circles, grounding and affectionate.

She leaned back into him without thinking, her shoulder brushing his chest. He adjusted instantly, shifting just enough to support her weight.

Across the room, one of Annie’s cousins stood rocking her baby gently, dark circles under her eyes but a smile on her face. 

“Hey,” she said after a moment, nodding toward Annie. “You wanna hold her for a bit?”

Annie’s face lit up immediately. “Yes, absolutely.”

She carefully passed her mug off, already standing, arms reaching out with instinctive ease. The baby was placed into them. Annie adjusted her hold gently, tucking the baby closer against her chest, rocking just slightly.

Smoke watched closely, his hands never leaving her even as she shifted. One slid to the small of her back, steadying her as she settled again, the other resting over her hip protectively. He leaned in just enough to look down at the baby too.

Annie swayed gently, humming without realizing she was doing it. The baby’s movements slowed, little fingers curling into the fabric of Annie’s sweater. Within minutes, her breathing evened out, head tucked comfortably beneath Annie’s chin.

For a moment, everything felt suspended.

Smoke tightened his hold just a little, and she leaned into him, eyes still on the sleeping baby, heart full in a way that was both beautiful and bittersweet.

After a while, the family started to clear out. 

Coats were being pulled on and keys searched for. Then the last few kids were herded out, half-asleep, clutching new toys under their arms. Voices faded down the front steps, laughter dissolving into the cold night air. Eventually, the door closed for the final time, the lock clicking into place with a soft, definitive sound.

Annie leaned her forehead briefly against the door and let out a long breath.

“I’m exhausted,” she said, voice warm but worn, turning slowly to face the living room.

The house looked beautifully lived in. 

Empty mugs on side tables. A deck of cards abandoned mid-game. Wrapping paper still peeking out from the trash. The Christmas tree continued to glow, steady and patient, lights reflecting off the ornaments and the deep burgundy ribbons Annie had tied herself.

Smoke stood nearby, watching her. He looked relaxed on the surface, but she could feel the tension on him even from across the room. He’d been quietly wound all evening, eyes flicking to where she’d tucked his second gift away.

“Go sit,” she told him gently, nodding toward the couch. “I’ll be right there.”

He didn’t argue. He dropped onto the couch and leaned back, elbows resting on his knees as he watched her cross the room. Annie moved slower now, her energy finally catching up to her. She picked up the small box from where she’d hidden it earlier, fingers lingering around it for a moment before she turned back to him.

Smoke straightened when he saw it in her hands.

She walked over and didn’t stop until she was right in front of him. Without a word, he opened his arms, palms up in invitation. Annie smiled softly and climbed into his lap, settling herself comfortably astride him. His hands came to her hips immediately as she adjusted.

She held the box between them, resting it lightly against his chest.

“I know it’s small,” she said quietly.

Smoke frowned slightly, eyes flicking from the box to her face. “Annie–”

“But it’s the only thing you really wanted for Christmas,” she continued, voice steady but emotional, biting her lip as she watched him. “The one thing we’ve been praying for.”

Confusion flickered across his face as he took the box from her hands. He turned it over once, then twice, brow furrowing deeper. Slowly, carefully, he peeled the paper away. When he opened it and pulled out what was inside, his entire expression shifted.

In his palm sat a tiny red and white pacifier.

For a second, Smoke didn’t move. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. His eyes lifted to Annie’s face, searching, disbelieving.

Annie swallowed, nerves finally catching up to her. She nodded once, lips trembling into a smile. “I was trying so hard not to tell you last night when you asked,” she admitted softly.

His breath left him in a rush. “Wait, are you–?” His voice cracked. “Annie?”

She nodded again, this time more firmly. “I’m pregnant.”

Shock gave way to pure, unfiltered joy crashing through him all at once. His hands tightened on her hips instinctively. 

“How far?” he asked quickly, already smiling, eyes shining.

“Almost ten weeks.”

Smoke blinked, his mind racing. He did the math without even meaning to, his thoughts jumping back to the little trip they’d taken in October where they refused to leave the bed unless absolutely necessary. The memory hit him like a wave, and his smile widened until it felt like his face might split.

“October,” he murmured, half to himself, half to her.

Annie laughed softly, nodding. “Yeah.”

Smoke pulled her into him suddenly, arms wrapping tight around her, holding her like he was afraid she might disappear. Annie laughed into his shoulder, clinging back just as hard, her face tucked against his neck.

“This–” he said, voice thick, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes wet but glowing, “this is the best Christmas present you could’ve ever given me.”

She smiled through it, brushing her nose against his. “I figured.”

He kissed her then with everything they’d been carrying for years. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, hands still firm and protective at her back.

“Mr. and Mrs. Claus,” he murmured with a soft laugh. “Looks like we’re finally getting our miracle.”

Annie closed her eyes, smiling, the Christmas lights glowing around them as the house settled into a quiet that felt full instead of empty.

-

-

-

taglist: @shamansha, @rkiiives, @d1gitalb4rbie, @numb1smokeanniestan, @caramelplug @margepimpson @underated345-blog @tnychellee @loveabledovee @kkbeauty86 @syko-jpg @thegreatlibraryofalex @cardi-bre91 @hotebonynearby @shereeluvssinners  @transparentphantomface @imqueenmelanin @dollys-world224 @storiesbyasl @blue4everrsworld @katezy2x @og-goddesstrill @cocoagadgetsworld

[iam-whoyouwantmetobe]

Time To Learn

Synopsis: When Tasha gets sent to the twins residence to house sit, she learns very quickly that their rules are meant to be followed.

Warnings: Mental health issues, angst, crying, Age gap, heavy smut, degrading, use of toys, DP, domxsub relationship, polyamorous, use of drugs.

Part 1

-

“I don’t understand why you have to leave for 4 months and why I can’t stay here.” Tasha argued for the 30th time this week.

Her mom, Loraine, rolled her eyes. “I told you, you need to learn what it’s like to have a real job and not just rely on my own money. You’re 23 now, Tasha. You’re not a kid anymore. It’s time you learn some responsibility.” She continued to grab clothes from her walk in closet, neatly folding them and placing them in her suitcase.

“Why do I need to have a real job when we’re rich?” Tasha sat the edge of her mothers bed, frustration written all over her face.

“Because you’re a spoiled brat who thinks everything needs to be handed to her, plus this is your punishment for crashing your third car.”

Tasha is a prodigy of music, a grade A college student that’s on the deans list, president of the mathletes club, captain of the majorette team AND three time champion of the national chess tournament.

There was no doubt that she was talented and incredibly smart but Tasha had a side to her that her mother couldn’t tame. Two summers spent in rehab, several drunk driving accidents, multiple trips to the hospital when Tasha would be too inebriated to even open her eyes. Her mother lived in constant fear and yet Tasha never failed to keep her grades up, to uphold that pretty and pristine imagine she showcased at school, in front of other family members and even her closest friends. No one really saw her for who she truly was except for her parents. It’s the reason her mother couldn’t be too hard on her, one part afraid Tasha would one day snap and do something irreversible, other part being the fact that despite it all, she still remained the perfect imagine of who her daughter should be…

The night of the incident, Tasha had relapsed. The drugs entered her system the way a man does, fast and brutal. She didn’t mean to, hadn’t even planned on being outside that night but her thoughts got too loud and so she followed the silence. Her body had shut down way before got in her car, she didn’t even remember it swerving and hitting a pole.

Her mother worried more about having to pay people off to keep this off the news, than she did about her daughter’s concussion and drug abuse problems. Singer, author and entrepreneur, Loraine Brown, refused to let anyone look at her or her family in a bad light. She didn’t care how much money she had to pay.

“How could you possibly punish a 23 year old? I’m a grown woman.”

“Girl, long as you live under my roof, you follow my rules. Okay? If you don’t like it, move out.”

“Great. Give me the money and I will.”

Loraine scoffed. “You’re unbelievable. You lucky I’m not my mother or I would’ve beat your ass for talking back to me.”

“I’m not talking back. We’re having a conversation.” Tasha shrugged as if it the was simplest answer she could give.

“Giiirrrrl—” Loraine let out a humorless laugh. “Tasha, stop tryna be smart with me before I do sum to you.” Her dad walked in the room, eyes pointed at his daughter indicating he heard the whole ordeal.

“Dad, you have nothing to say about her sending me off to live with some random strangers for four months? Are you not concerned for my safety?” She gave him puppy eyes, bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

“They’re not strangers. Your mother has know them since they was kids. I’ve met them plenty of times. I trust them, you’ll be fine.” He waved her off as he grabbed his suitcase from the closet, lining it up at the door to take downstairs.

“They’re like family Tash, stop being so dramatic. Plus you don’t have to live there, you could always drive back.”

“It’s like a 2 hour drive, Ma! Who is doing that shit everyday?!” Tasha stood up as if it’ll help get her point across. “This is just crazy. I’d rather you take away my car than have to sit here and act like a maid to two grown ass men”

Loraine sucked her teeth. “Tasha, please? You’re not about to be nobody’s maid, you just have to handle their household duties while they’re gone.”

“Plus, you’re about to be spending two months in a big ass mansion with a huge infinity pool, a game and movie theater room. This ain’t even a punishment, it sounds like a fucking vacation.”

Tasha sighed loudly. “Whatever.” She moved away from her mother and walked out the room. To say she was upset was an understatement. Her mother was backpacking through Europe and didn’t trust her enough to leave her in the house all alone while she was gone, so when the twins called asking if she knew of anyone she trusted enough to watch their house while they ran business, she immediately volunteered her daughter.

-

Tasha wasn’t much help and the twins quickly noticed. She’d wake up at whatever time, leave dishes in the sink, talk too loudly on the phone and stink up the house with weed. It had been about two weeks of the same bullshit.

From the moment she had arrived, Tasha greeted them with nothing but attitude and a scowl on her face. She rolled her eyes at every little thing and ignored any instructions given to her. The first few days she lazily tended to her tasks. She’d take the dogs out for only 10 minutes instead of the 30 that they needed. Packages were left outside and sometimes ruined from the rain. And most of the time, she’d be asleep and miss the maintenance crew when they would show up to do their job.

-

“Tasha, can you explain to me why I found dog shit in my office?” Smoke looked at the woman that lay sprawled out on the couch.

“Do I look like your dogs for you to be asking me that?”

Smoke sighed heavily. “Our dogs don’t shit in the house unless someone forgot to take them out, specially not in my damn office that’s supposed to be locked.”

“I took them out and they didn’t do anything. Not my fault I can’t control their bowl movements.” She popped her gum at him before turning her attention back to the TV.

-

Tasha did just the bare minimum and yet even that wasn’t done properly. The boys tried their hardest to be patient, understanding that she was just doing this to get a rise out of them and her mother. They realized that the young woman had never known what it was like to be disciplined or to be punished for her actions. Tasha’s mother was many things but a firm parent wasn’t one of them. It’s the reason Tasha walked around like nothing could hurt her, like her actions had no effect on anyone or anything.

Day in and day out, Tasha tested the waters with the twins. They tried to be respectful, talk to her like the grown woman that she was but she shrugged it off, laughed in their faces and went about doing whatever she wanted. Smoke’s anger was slowly boiling over and Stack no longer found her funny. Her mother warned them, told them that Tasha wasn’t easy to manage but that she didn’t know what to do anymore and hoped that a few weeks with them, and some responsibility, would help shape her.

But no.

Tasha was just impossible to deal with and tonight the twins finally snapped.

Long flight and an even longer drive home had Smoke and Stack practically seeing double from the exhaustion. Their bodies stiffly walked up to the front door, unlocked it and stepped inside.

The first thing they noticed, well heard, was the music blasting through the surround sound system, then the smell of weed and food.

Stacks jaw tightened, the two exchanging a look before walking to the kitchen to find Tasha in nothing but a white tank top and red panties. She was dancing, completely oblivious to the two men watching her.

She sang along to the words, arms flailing in the air and hips moving side to side. The twins tried their best to keep their eyes at an appropriate level but they slowly trailed down the second her ass moved to the beat of the song.

Smoke cleared his throat, walking to the counter where her phone sat and clicked to turn off the music. Tasha jumped in surprise, her eyes widening as she placed a hand to her chest to calm her beating heart.

“Fuck, yall scared the shit outta me.” She laughed the fear off before digging into the container of fries she had on the kitchen counter. “Yall back early. Had fun?”

Stack raised an eyebrow, taking a deep breath before daring to open his mouth. “Tasha… why tf the house look like this?”

She looked around, having the nerve to be confused. “Like what?”

“You blind?” Smoke scrunched his face up, before walking past her and towards the sink that had a pile of dishes. “We got a fucking dishwasher. There should be no reason these shits sittin here like this.”

Stack looked down at the floor, staring at the smudges and dark marks. “Look at this floor, fuck was you doing? Eating on it?”

Smoke sniffed the air. “And I told yo ass stop fucking smoking in our house. Take that shit outside.”

Tasha looked between the two before rolling her eyes. “Yall are so dramatic. I’ll clean it up tomorrow.” She grabbed her phone and her fries then walked out of the kitchen, leaving the twins standing there brewing.

“Tasha!” Smoke yelled out. “I know you heard us talking to you!”

“Get ya ass back over here!” Stack followed after the woman who sighed loud enough for the neighbors to hear.

“Whaaaaat?? Ya just got back and already bothering me.”

“Bothering you? You got me fucked up.” Stack looked at her with pure bewilderment.

“No YOU got me fucked up. Yall practically been gone for the whole three weeks I’ve been here and have left me to pick up after yall stinky ass dogs and them nasty ass maintenance men who come in here tracking dirt and shit. I ain’t no damn maid.”

“You so damn dramatic. You barely gotta do anything and yet you still complaining. The dogs stink cause YOU have to bathe them.”

“Why don’t YOU do it before leaving to do whatever bullshit it is that yall do all day.”

Stack pinched in nose in annoyance, a humorless chuckle slipping past his lips. “Tasha. Just clean the house before I loose my mind.”

“Boy I ain’t scared of you. It’ll get done tomorrow, like I said.” She rolled her eyes, placing one hand on her hip.

Smoke walked up to Tasha before Stack could interfere. He backed her up onto the wall, body towering over her like a shadow. “Clean my fucking house up before I make you, Tasha.”

Tasha’s heart skipped a beat, her breathing got caught in her throat and for the time in two weeks she felt small.

Tasha was used to being able to walk all over her parents, though they tried to be harsh on her, it never worked.

But Smoke wasn’t having that and something deep inside of Tasha stirred dangerously.

Smoke caught it, the glint in her eyes and the way they almost glossed over. How her chest stuttered and her breathing deepened. He arched an eyebrow, half in curiosity, other half in knowing. Stack caught it too, the two exchanged a look that Tasha didn’t have time to process. “Did I stutter? Clean my fucking house, Tasha. Now.”

The bass in his tone rattled Tasha’s bones enough to get her legs moving. “Okay.” She mumbled before she walked around him and headed to the kitchen where she figured she’d start. Her heart raced in a way that felt too familiar and yet strange. It was addicting.

-

By the time the sun shined through her curtains, Tasha had already been wide awake. Better yet, she had barely slept.

Her body was humming loudly and so she spent the night tossing and turning around. She chucked it up to being sore from all the cleaning but she knew better.

Tasha grabbed the comforter, pulling it up and covering her head, hoping that she could get at least 30 minutes of shut eye. But before she could even close her eyes, Stack knocked on her door.

“Get up. We got shit to do.”

“Go away. I’m tired!”

“I don’t give a fuck if you’re tired. Get the fuck up, Tasha.” Stack yelled, banging on the door 1 time as a warning sign before he walked off.

She groaned loudly, kicking her legs like a child before getting up and heading to the bathroom.

The kitchen smelled of bacon, eggs and waffles. Tasha watched the muscles of Smoke’s back move as he plated the food. She felt her mouth water in a way she knew wasn’t aimed towards the food. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. She’d never looked at the twins as nothing more than two grown man trying to act like they had any authority over her. To her, they were a joke.

But the way Smoke raised his voice peaked an interest in her she had yet to discover.

“Nice of you to join us. Good morning.” He spoke without turning around.

“Morning. Don’t you think it’s too early for you and the other stooge to be bothering me?” She sat on the kitchen counter, crossing her long brown legs that were freshly moisturized with shea butter. The pink cotton romper she wore hugged her curves a bit tighter than usual.

“It’s 9am. That’s the time normal people wake up and get their day started.” Smoke turned around, handing her a plate and a fork. His eyes roamed her body without permission. He hadn’t bothered looking at her before, not really, not until last night and those red panties that cupped her ass like hands and the look in her eyes when he put her in her place.

Smoke knew what it meant and he felt the need to scratch that itch that was slowly forming but Stack kept trying to convince him it wouldn’t be a good idea.

That turning their friend’s daughter into their perfect little submissive would end up with somebody getting hurt.

“That’s old people shit. Normal people stay in bed till 12pm.” Tasha mumbled with a mouthful of food.

“You’re just lazy and chew before you open ya mouth.” Stack walked in, hoodie on and bad mood written all over his face.

“The hell wrong with you?” Tasha commented, mugging him as she continued to devour her plate. It had been her first real taste of a home cooked meal in almost 3 weeks.

Stack watched her, took in her big doe eyes that clocked his every move, the curly puff sitting perfectly on top of her head and the curve of her neck that was almost inviting him to wrap his hand around it. He sighed deeply, his mind had been running rampant since last night.

Him and Smoke stayed up most of the night, talking about possibilities that were impossible.

They’ve had submissives before, a lifestyle that they left behind years ago when their business started getting too serious to keep extra bodies around. But they missed it and Tasha’s bratty behavior had awaken that dormant feeling.

Smoke was all for it, he wanted to start off slow and see how far they could get but Stack knew better. It was surprising to see how the roles were reversed, Smoke usually being the more logical one, but he had been frustrated beyond belief and was desperately seeking some relief.

“You know what? Maybe yall need to get laid. I could imagine you two losers don’t get much play walking around like the damn grinch— have yall tried smiling once in a while?” Tasha smirked, lightly chuckling at her own joke.

“Have you tried shutting tf up once in a while?” Smoke watched his brother, who looked like he was two seconds away from throwing a tantrum. His lips twitched, trying to hold back the laugh that was crawling up his throat. He knew that Stack wanted nothing more to than to follow through on all the fantasies that played in his head all night long.

That look, that innocent little look that she gave Smoke completely changed the way they perceived her.

That was all it took.

There was no doubt that Tasha was sexy. She was thick, brown skinned with a head full of tight curls. Smart mouth and intelligent when she felt like it. A tease without meaning to be and soft in ways she didn’t notice.

But they tried their best to be reverent. To keep their comments, their thoughts and perversions to themselves but now. Now things were different.

Now they knew what she wanted even if Tasha didn’t know herself.

“Did somebody crawl up your ass and die this morning, Stackypooh?” She poked her bottom lip out in a fake pout.

“Wished it was you.”

Tasha snickered. “Oh I’m sure you do. So you can actually know what it feels like to be touched by a woman?”

Stacks jaw tightened. “You consider yourself a woman? You’re a little ass girl.”

“And yet here you are going back and forth with a ‘little ass girl’ what does that say about you Stackypooh?”

“You know what. I should b—”

“Aight now. Y’all done ?” Smoke cut in, sending a look to his brother before turning back to Tasha. “We going grocery shopping. Go get dressed.”

“I’m already dressed.” Tasha stands up, motioning her hands down her body.

The twins look her up and down, taking in the way the fabric of the romper wrapped tightly around her thighs and ass. The way her pierced nipples pressed softly against the cotton and yet you could still see the print of them.

Smoke took a deep breath and Stack rubbed his jaw. “You call that an outfit?”

Tasha raised her eyebrow at Smoke, looking down at herself before looking back up. “Yes? Do you have a problem with that?”

“No. Let’s go.”

“Yes sir.” Tasha replied with a roll of her eyes.

The twins stop in their tracks. Smoke as he grabbed the car keys and Stack as he picked up his phone. Their eyes meet Tasha’s back as she walked out of the kitchen to head back up to her room and grab her shoes.

Stack groans in frustration before heading out the door and towards the garage.

-

“Ooouu can we get some hot Cheetos?” Tasha grabbed the big family sized bag of chips and held it up.

“No. You gotta stop eating that nasty shit.” Smoke commented as he walked past her.

“It’s not nasty.” She followed after him. “Please?”

The twins ignored her, walking to the next aisle while she slowly trailed behind them.

Her hand wrapped around Stacks biceps, his eyes met hers and the small pout that sat on her face. “Pleaseeeeeeeee.” She whined.

Stack had to bite his tongue to keep the fire that had just been lit, from burning the both of them in the middle of the supermarket.

“Just put it in the cart and let’s go.” Tasha squealed happily, placing the giant bag in the cart and smirking at Smoke who grilled her.

By the time they got home, Tasha was practically sprinting out of the car and heading to her room to grab her blunt and lighter.

The twins headed to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

“Yo thoughts too damn loud.” Smoke commented.

“So stop listening.” Stack added on.

“I can’t. Not when we on the same page.”

Stack shook his head. “We gotta stop. We can’t drag her into that shit.”

“We do it different this time. Not like how we used to. We take a different approach.”

Tasha’s footsteps echoed throughout the house. They listened to the sound of the front door open and close.

“We test it out first. See how she reacts to certain shit and go from there. You saw how she looked at me. We know that reaction all too well. It’s something there waiting to be let out. You know that.” Smoke continued.

Stack nodded. “We test it out.”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

-

Tag List

Please let me know if I’m missing anyone.

Also very rough part 1. I really just wanted to hurry up and get this out so I can continue the other parts 🤣

-

@daughterofapollo-7 @heartgirllover @biancalhurtt @monstaxmomma0 @novablan290 @kiabialia @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast @lixii00 @storiesbyasl @underated345-blog @imqueenmelanin @hotcommodityyy @lifeainteasy-browneyedgirl @spicypiscesssss

[blowmymbackout]

please add me to your tag list

[iamquiantrelle]

BLOOD OATH (chapter 2) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @simplyyalika @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @nichmeddar @ggaslyp1 @henneseyhoe @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @iamryanl @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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Your father's study was prepared for the occasion, the good whiskey displayed on the sideboard, legal documents arranged with careful precision on his desk. Uncle Paolo stood by the window, while your mother sat in one of the leather chairs, her posture perfect as always.

Hamilton—Lewis—crossed the threshold with the confidence of a man entering territory that was already half his. The shift in power dynamics was subtle but unmistakable. This was no longer an audition but a partnership being formalized.

"Mr. Hamilton," your father greeted him, extending his hand. "I trust my daughter has addressed her... concerns?"

"She has," Lewis replied, his tone revealing nothing of your private conversation. "We've reached an understanding."

Your father's eyes flickered to you for confirmation. You nodded once, maintaining the composed expression expected of a Ricci daughter in business situations.

"Excellent," your father said, gesturing to the seats arranged before his desk. "Then we can proceed with finalizing the arrangements."

As Lewis sat beside you, you noticed the careful distance he maintained—close enough to indicate unity but not so close as to suggest possession. Every movement calculated for the message it would send.

"Before we begin," Lewis said, his voice carrying easily in the quiet room, "I'd like to clarify something."

Your father's eyebrow raised slightly. "Yes?"

"In our preliminary discussions, we covered the business aspects of this alliance thoroughly," Lewis began, his tone measured. "But I want to be clear that my marriage to your daughter represents more than just a merger of operations. It's a commitment I take seriously, beyond the strategic advantages."

The statement caught everyone by surprise—most of all you. This hadn't been part of your conversation in the garden.

"Of course," your father replied, clearly unsure where this was heading. "Family is... important."

"Precisely," Lewis agreed. "Which is why I'd like to properly acknowledge the personal aspect of this arrangement, not just the business side."

Before anyone could respond, he turned to face you directly, reaching into his jacket pocket to withdraw a small velvet box. Your breath caught as he rose from his chair and, in a move that seemed completely at odds with his controlled persona, lowered himself to one knee before you.

The room went absolutely silent. This was wildly off-script for a mafia arrangement marriage.

"What the fuck," Uncle Paolo muttered under his breath, voicing what everyone was thinking.

Lewis ignored him completely, his dark eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made the rest of the room seem to fade away.

"I know this arrangement began as strategy," he said, his voice pitched for your ears despite the audience. "But I believe in doing things properly. So..." He opened the box, revealing a ring that made your mother gasp audibly.

The diamond was enormous—emerald cut, flanked by smaller stones set in what appeared to be platinum. Not gaudy despite its size, but undeniably spectacular and obviously worth a small fortune.

"Will you marry me?" Lewis asked, the formality of the question almost absurd given the circumstances, yet somehow perfect in its traditionalism.

For a moment, you couldn't speak, caught off guard by this unexpected adherence to normal courtship rituals. This man who dealt in guns and laundered money was following a script from an entirely different world—one where proposals meant choices and rings symbolized love rather than ownership.

"Yes," you finally managed, aware of your family watching this performance with varying degrees of shock and approval.

Lewis's expression remained controlled, but something flickered in his eyes—satisfaction, perhaps, or something warmer. He removed the ring from its velvet nest and took your left hand, sliding the diamond onto your finger with careful precision. It was slightly loose, but not enough to fall off.

"We'll have it sized properly," he murmured as he rose to his feet, still holding your hand.

Your father cleared his throat loudly, clearly thrown by the deviation from protocol but unwilling to object to something that, while unconventional, only strengthened the alliance.

"Well," he said, reaching for the whiskey. "I believe a toast is in order."

As your father poured drinks, you studied the ring on your finger—the weight of it, the way it caught the light. No one had expected this gesture, least of all you. Mafia arrangements were usually handled with legal documents and handshakes, not proposals and engagement rings.

"To family," your father offered once everyone held a glass. "And new alliances."

"To family," the room echoed, though your mother's eyes remained fixed on you, a question in their depths that you couldn't quite decipher.

Lewis's glass touched yours with a delicate clink. "To new beginnings," he added quietly, for your ears only.

The formal discussion that followed was almost anticlimactic after the surprise proposal. Details of the wedding were confirmed—three weeks from now, a small ceremony at the family's private chapel followed by a reception that would serve as both celebration and strategic networking opportunity. You would leave for London the following day, with most of your belongings shipped ahead.

Throughout the discussion, you remained acutely aware of the ring on your finger, its unfamiliar weight a constant reminder of the bargain you'd struck. Lewis occasionally glanced at your hand, something like satisfaction crossing his features when he noted you adjusting to the feel of it.

"There's one more thing," your father said as the meeting concluded. "A small dinner tomorrow night. Family only, to formally introduce you and officially announce the engagement."

You'd almost forgotten about your sisters in the whirlwind of negotiations. Sophia would be thrilled—she'd been fascinated by the mysterious British suitor from the start. Maria and Gabriella, at twenty-two and nineteen respectively, would have their own opinions, no doubt.

"Of course," Lewis agreed smoothly. "I look forward to meeting the rest of the family."

As if on cue, there was a commotion outside the study door—hushed giggles and shushing sounds that could only be your sisters attempting to eavesdrop. Your father's expression darkened.

"Girls!" he called sharply. "Either come in properly or go to your rooms!"

After a moment of whispered debate, the door opened to reveal all three of your sisters, attempting and failing to look innocent.

"We just wanted to meet him," Sophia explained, her eyes immediately going to Lewis with undisguised curiosity. "Since he's going to be our brother-in-law and everything."

Your father sighed deeply, but your mother smiled indulgently. "Come in then, but behave yourselves."

Lewis rose as they entered, that perfect British politeness on display. "Lewis Hamilton," he introduced himself, extending his hand to each sister in turn.

"I'm Sophia," your youngest sister said, shaking his hand with enthusiasm. "Did you really just propose? With a ring and everything? That's so not how these things usually go."

"Sophia," your father warned, but Lewis just smiled—a real one that transformed his severe features.

"Some traditions are worth maintaining," he replied, "even in unconventional circumstances."

"It's beautiful," Maria said, eyeing your ring with clear envy. "Harry Winston?"

"Custom design," Lewis corrected. "Though they did source the center stone."

Gabriella, always the most reserved of your sisters, studied Lewis with careful assessment. "You're better looking than the others," she noted.

"Gabriella!" your mother admonished, though you caught the hint of amusement in her tone.

"Just stating facts," Gabriella shrugged. "Though the tattoos are unexpected."

Lewis's lips twitched slightly. "I find that unexpected can be advantageous in my line of work."

"What exactly is your line of work?" Sophia asked bluntly. "Besides the obvious."

"Sophia!" your father snapped. "That's enough."

"It's alright," Lewis assured him. "Curiosity is natural." He turned to your sister. "Import-export, primarily. Specialized logistics. Investment in emerging technologies. Various legitimate enterprises that support other... interests."

"Guns and money," Sophia translated with a grin. "Got it."

Despite the tension, you found yourself fighting a smile. Trust Sophia to cut through the euphemisms directly to the point.

"Among other things," Lewis agreed, unbothered by her directness. "Your sister and I were just discussing her interest in digital currencies and their applications."

The easy way he included you in the conversation, referencing your ideas rather than talking around you, didn't go unnoticed by your sisters. Maria's eyebrows rose slightly, while Gabriella's assessment shifted from skeptical to cautiously approving.

"Well, we just wanted to say congratulations," Maria said, her eyes moving between you and Lewis as if trying to make sense of the pairing. "And to see what all the fuss was about."

"The fuss?" Lewis inquired.

"Papa's been locked in meetings for days," Sophia explained. "Uncle Paolo kept saying the British guy was trouble, but Mama said you were exactly what the family needed."

You shot your mother a questioning look. She hadn't shared that particular opinion with you.

"Perhaps we can continue this conversation tomorrow at dinner," your father interjected, his patience clearly wearing thin. "When everyone has had time to prepare appropriate topics of discussion."

The dismissal was clear. Your sisters offered final congratulations—Sophia hugging you impulsively while whispering "Holy shit, he's hot" in your ear—before filing out of the study, already whispering among themselves.

"You'll have to forgive their enthusiasm," your mother said once they'd gone. "This is the first engagement in the family."

"No forgiveness necessary," Lewis assured her. "Family dynamics are important to understand."

The meeting concluded shortly after, with handshakes for the men and a formal kiss on each cheek for your mother. When Lewis turned to you, there was a moment of uncertainty—what was the appropriate farewell for a newly engaged couple in this bizarre circumstance?

He solved the dilemma by taking your hand and raising it to his lips, brushing a kiss across your knuckles just above the ring. "Until tomorrow," he said, his eyes holding yours with that same intense focus that made everything else seem to recede.

"Tomorrow," you echoed, finding your voice less steady than you'd like.

As Marco escorted Lewis out, your family turned to you with varying expressions—your father's satisfaction, your mother's cautious approval, Uncle Paolo's lingering skepticism.

"Well," your father said, returning to his desk. "That's settled then."

But nothing felt settled. If anything, Lewis Hamilton's unexpected proposal and the weight of the ring on your finger only underscored how uncharted this territory was. You'd agreed to marry a man who remained largely a mystery, whose calculated control occasionally revealed glimpses of something more complicated beneath.

"May I be excused?" you asked, suddenly needing space to process everything that had happened.

Your father waved his permission, already turning to other business now that your future was secured. Your mother squeezed your hand as you passed, her eyes communicating a mixture of sympathy and encouragement.

"We'll talk later," she promised quietly. "There's more to prepare than just a wedding."

You nodded, grateful for her understanding, and made your way upstairs to the sanctuary of your room. As soon as the door closed behind you, you leaned against it, finally allowing the mask of composure to drop.

"Holy fuck," you whispered to the empty room, staring at the diamond glittering on your finger.

Three weeks. In three weeks you would be Mrs. Lewis Hamilton, relocating to London and beginning a life bound to a man you barely knew beyond his business reputation and the careful image he projected.

A soft knock interrupted your thoughts. You opened the door to find all three of your sisters crowded in the hallway, barely containing their excitement.

"Spill everything," Sophia demanded, pushing past you into the room. "And I mean everything."

Maria and Gabriella followed, closing the door behind them. All pretense of decorum vanished as they gathered on your bed like you were teenagers again, sharing secrets after lights out.

"Is he always that intense?" Maria asked, her eyes wide. "The way he looks at you is... a lot."

"And that ring," Gabriella added. "Let me see it properly."

You extended your hand, allowing them to examine the diamond that now marked you as claimed. "It's a bit loose," you said, trying to sound nonchalant about the small fortune on your finger.

"We can fix that tomorrow," Maria said dismissively. "But seriously, what's he like when Papa's not around? Is he always so... controlled?"

You thought about your dinner conversation, the brief glimpses of genuine personality beneath his disciplined exterior. "Mostly," you admitted. "But there's more to him than just the business façade."

"Obviously," Sophia grinned. "Those tattoos aren't exactly old-school mafia style. And did you see his hands? Those are not just paper-pushing hands."

"Sophia!" Gabriella scolded, though she looked equally curious. "But really, are you okay with all this? It's happening so fast."

The question was surprisingly sincere. Despite the teasing and excitement, your sisters were genuinely concerned about your feelings. It was touching, though you weren't sure how to answer.

"I'm... adjusting," you said finally. "He's not what I expected."

"Better or worse?" Maria pressed.

You considered this carefully. "Different. He sees me as more than just a connection to Papa. He actually listened when I talked about business ideas."

"Wow," Gabriella said, only half-joking. "The bar is literally on the floor."

You couldn't help laughing at that. "True. But compared to Lorenzo Bianchi or Raúl Suarez? Lewis is practically a feminist."

"Sexy accent too," Sophia added with a smirk. "And that mouth... bet he knows how to use it."

"Oh my god, stop," you groaned, shoving her playfully. "I'm still processing the fact that I'll be married in three weeks. I haven't gotten to... that part yet."

But of course you had thought about it. The physical aspects of marriage to Lewis Hamilton were impossible to ignore, especially after your frank discussion in the garden. His preference for control, his emphasis on clear boundaries and communication... it was both intimidating and intriguing in ways you weren't ready to examine too closely.

"Are you scared?" Maria asked more seriously, picking up on your discomfort.

"Not exactly," you replied honestly. "I'm... curious. Cautious. This isn't how I imagined my life would go, but given the options..."

"He seems to actually respect you," Gabriella observed. "That's more than most arrangements offer."

It was a sobering reminder of the reality you all faced as Ricci daughters. Eventually, each of your sisters would likely face a similar negotiation, their futures decided by the family's strategic needs rather than their own desires.

"At least he's hot," Sophia repeated, breaking the tension. "And rich. And not a complete asshole, which is basically winning the mafia husband lottery."

You couldn't help smiling at her determined optimism. "I guess we'll see."

"Promise you'll tell us everything," Maria insisted. "Once you're in London. What it's like, who his people are, what he's like when no one's watching."

"And what he's like in bed," Sophia added with a wicked grin. "I want details."

"Absolutely not," you laughed, throwing a pillow at her. "Some things are going to remain private, thank you very much."

As your sisters continued their teasing interrogation, you found yourself genuinely smiling for the first time since this whole process began. Despite the strangeness of your situation, their normalcy grounded you, reminded you that not everything would change with your marriage.

Later, alone again, you twisted the ring on your finger, watching how the diamond caught the light from different angles. The gesture had been unexpected—performative, certainly, but also strangely genuine in its execution. Lewis continued to defy easy categorization, remaining a puzzle you couldn't quite solve.

In three weeks, you'd be his wife. In three weeks and one day, you'd be in London, beginning a new life far from everything familiar. The thought should have terrified you, but instead you felt a strange, cautious anticipation building beneath the anxiety.

This wasn't the future you'd imagined for yourself, but perhaps it wasn't the prison sentence you'd feared either. Perhaps, just perhaps, Lewis Hamilton represented something you'd never dared hope for in your position: a partnership that might, in time, evolve into something genuine.

It was a dangerous hope, but as you drifted toward sleep, the weight of the ring a constant reminder on your finger, you allowed yourself to indulge in it, just for tonight.

***********************************************************

The next evening arrived with the heightened security that had become standard at the estate. Additional men patrolled the perimeter, their weapons no longer discreetly concealed but worn openly—a clear message to anyone considering interference. Your father wasn't taking chances with tonight's family dinner, not with the official announcement of your engagement making its way through the appropriate channels.

"The Bianchis have been unusually quiet today," your father commented as you helped your mother review the dinner arrangements. "Paolo's contacts say they're planning something."

"Lorenzo wouldn't be stupid enough to make a move against us directly," your mother replied, her tone calm though her eyes betrayed concern. "Not with our alliances."

"Young men with wounded pride make stupid decisions every day," your father countered. "Double the security at the gates. And make sure the girls stay inside until Hamilton arrives."

You'd been half-listening to this exchange while adjusting a flower arrangement, but the mention of potential danger sharpened your attention. "Has there been a specific threat?"

Your father hesitated, then apparently decided you deserved to know. "Lorenzo Bianchi has been making noise in certain circles. Saying Hamilton stole what was rightfully his. That the engagement is an insult to the Sicilian families."

"I'm not property to be stolen," you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice.

"Of course not, cara," your father agreed, though his tone suggested this was merely semantics. "But perception matters in our world. The Bianchi family feels slighted. The Cuban cartel has expressed similar... disappointment."

"Raúl Suarez sent another message this morning," your mother added quietly. "Your father thought it best not to show you."

A chill ran through you at the mention of Suarez. While Lorenzo Bianchi was volatile and potentially dangerous, Raúl Suarez's reputation for calculated cruelty made him the more concerning threat.

"What kind of message?" you pressed.

Your parents exchanged a look before your father sighed. "A photograph. Of you. From yesterday, in the garden with Hamilton."

The implication settled heavily in your stomach. Someone had been watching your private conversation with Lewis, close enough to photograph it despite the estate's security measures.

"Have you told Hamilton?" you asked, wondering how your fiancé—the word still felt strange even in your thoughts—would respond to this surveillance.

"His people have been informed," your father confirmed. "They're coordinating with our security team."

The doorbell interrupted further discussion. Marco's voice came through on the intercom: "Mr. Hamilton has arrived, sir."

"Perfect timing," your mother said, her social mask sliding seamlessly back into place. "Let's not allow these concerns to overshadow tonight's celebration."

You followed your parents to the foyer, where Lewis was handing his coat to a waiting staff member. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit with a deep burgundy tie that somehow complemented the subtle geometric patterns of the tattoos visible at his wrists and neck. His hair was freshly done, the braids impeccable, the faded sides precisely lined.

His eyes found yours immediately, that focused intensity now familiar though no less powerful. "Ms. Ricci," he greeted you formally, then added with the ghost of a smile, "Or should I say fiancée?"

"Either works for now," you replied, extending your hand.

Instead of the expected handshake, he drew you slightly closer, leaning in to brush a kiss against your cheek—a calculated gesture for your parents' benefit, establishing the appearance of growing intimacy without overstepping bounds. The brief contact sent an unexpected warmth through you.

"You look lovely," he said, his eyes making a quick but appreciative assessment of your burgundy dress—a coincidental match to his tie that wouldn't go unnoticed by your observant family.

"Thank you," you replied, suddenly aware of the diamond still glittering on your finger. You'd had it adjusted that morning, a jeweler summoned to the house to ensure it wouldn't slip off. "Shall we join the others? My sisters have been talking about nothing else all day."

As if on cue, Sophia appeared at the top of the stairs, having clearly been waiting for Lewis's arrival. She descended with Maria and Gabriella following more sedately, all three dressed with careful attention to detail.

"Mr. Hamilton," Sophia greeted him with barely contained excitement. "Welcome to family dinner."

"Please, call me Lewis," he replied smoothly. "We're to be family, after all."

The simple statement seemed to delight your sisters, who exchanged meaningful glances as you all moved toward the formal dining room. Your mother had arranged the seating strategically—you and Lewis side by side, with your parents at the ends of the table and your sisters across from you.

Dinner began with the expected formalities, staff serving the first course while your father made pointed small talk about neutral topics. Only when the main course arrived and the servants had withdrawn did the conversation shift to more relevant matters.

"We've received confirmation from Father Donato," your father announced. "The chapel is prepared for three weeks from Saturday. Your mother has arranged for the necessary adjustments to the timeline."

You nodded, aware that "necessary adjustments" meant significant strings pulled and substantial donations made to ensure the church would accommodate a wedding on such short notice.

"I've taken the liberty of making certain arrangements as well," Lewis added, his attention moving smoothly between your parents. "Security protocols for the event itself, transportation details for our departure, preparations at the London residence."

"Our departure?" you questioned, noting the possessive pronoun.

Lewis turned to you, something almost apologetic crossing his features. "I should have mentioned—I've had to adjust the timeline slightly. Business in Geneva requires my attention immediately after the wedding. I thought we might combine necessity with pleasure. Switzerland in autumn is quite beautiful."

The casual revelation that your honeymoon destination had been decided without your input shouldn't have surprised you, yet somehow it did. Perhaps Lewis had noticed your reaction, because he added, "Unless you have other preferences? This is certainly negotiable."

The qualification—that simple acknowledgment of your right to an opinion—was so unexpected that it momentarily disarmed your irritation.

"Switzerland is fine," you conceded. "Though I would appreciate being included in these decisions going forward."

A flash of something that might have been approval crossed his face. "Of course. My apologies for the oversight."

Your father looked vaguely surprised at this exchange—at both your boldness in questioning the arrangement and Lewis's easy acceptance of your point. Traditional men in your world rarely bothered with such consultations.

"Speaking of arrangements," your mother interjected smoothly, "have you given thought to where you'll ultimately settle? London initially, you mentioned, but longer term?"

"I maintain residences in several locations," Lewis replied. "London serves as primary base for now, but I've recently acquired property in New York as well. I thought perhaps splitting time between the two might be ideal, given family connections."

This was news to you—another detail decided without your input, though the consideration for your family ties was unexpected and not unwelcome.

"New York would be perfect," Sophia chimed in. "Then we could visit all the time!"

"That's rather the point," Lewis agreed, his tone warming slightly when addressing your youngest sister. "Family connections should be maintained."

The conversation continued in this vein, discussing logistics and plans with occasional input from your sisters, who seemed determined to extract as many details as possible about their future brother-in-law. Lewis answered their questions with surprising patience, revealing carefully selected personal details that gave the impression of openness while actually disclosing very little of substance.

It was a masterful performance, you realized—giving everyone exactly what they needed to feel comfortable with the arrangement while maintaining the essential privacy that seemed central to his nature.

The sound of your father's phone interrupted dessert. He frowned at the screen before excusing himself abruptly. Uncle Paolo, who had been largely silent throughout dinner, followed him out, a significant look passing between them.

An uncomfortable silence fell over the table until your mother stepped in with practiced grace. "Perhaps we should move to the sitting room for coffee."

As you all stood to relocate, Lewis placed a light hand at the small of your back, leaning close to murmur, "Something's happening. Your father's security detail just doubled outside."

The observation confirmed what you'd already suspected—Lewis missed nothing, not even the subtle shift in the guards visible through the dining room windows.

In the sitting room, the pretense of normal family dinner continued, though tension had crept into the atmosphere. Your mother directed conversation with determined brightness, while your sisters picked up on the change but followed her lead.

When your father finally returned twenty minutes later, his expression was carefully neutral, but the tightness around his eyes told you everything you needed to know.

"Apologies for the interruption," he said smoothly. "Business matters."

"Anything that concerns our arrangements?" Lewis asked directly, cutting through the pretense.

Your father assessed him for a moment before apparently deciding transparency was the better approach. "The Bianchi family has made their position clear regarding our alliance. Lorenzo is particularly... vocal about his disappointment."

"Vocal how?" you pressed, tired of being shielded from information that directly concerned you.

"He's made certain threats," your father admitted reluctantly. "Nothing we can't handle."

"Specifically?" Lewis's tone had shifted subtly, the polite dinner guest replaced by the calculating strategist.

Your father hesitated, glancing at your sisters. "Perhaps we should discuss this privately."

"If it concerns the safety of this family, everyone should be aware," Lewis countered, surprising you with his inclusion of your sisters in matters your father typically shielded them from. "Informed caution is always preferable to ignorant vulnerability."

It was precisely the right approach to take with your father, appealing to his strategic mind rather than challenging his authority directly. After a moment's consideration, he nodded.

"Lorenzo Bianchi was seen meeting with Raúl Suarez this afternoon," he revealed. "An unusual alliance, given their territories rarely overlap. Their combined resources could present... complications."

"They're working together because they both got rejected," Sophia translated bluntly. "Wounded male ego is a dangerous thing."

"Sophia," your mother warned, though not sharply.

"She's not wrong," Lewis said, earning a surprised look from everyone. "Pride is often more dangerous than practical concerns. Men like Bianchi and Suarez define themselves by what they can acquire and control. Being denied something they wanted—" his eyes flickered briefly to you, "—represents more than just a failed business move. It's a personal slight they feel compelled to address."

"What exactly have they threatened?" you asked, returning to the central issue.

Your father's jaw tightened. "Disruption of the wedding. Potential interference with certain business operations. Vague but pointed references to making Hamilton 'regret' his expansion into their territory."

"Standard intimidation tactics," Lewis assessed, seemingly unconcerned. "Though the alliance between them is worth noting."

"We've increased security accordingly," your father assured him. "Both here and at the chapel. All arrangements will proceed as planned."

Lewis nodded, but something in his posture had changed—a subtle shift from relaxed dinner companion to the dangerous man whose reputation had preceded him. "I appreciate the information. I'll make some adjustments to my own security protocols as well."

The conversation gradually returned to safer topics, but the undercurrent of tension remained. Your sisters, to their credit, adapted quickly, maintaining the appearance of a normal family dinner while processing the potential threat.

As the evening drew to a close, Lewis caught your eye. "Perhaps a moment alone before I leave? There are some details about London I'd like to discuss."

Your father nodded permission without hesitation—a small but significant indicator of how fully he'd accepted Lewis's place in the family hierarchy already. You led the way to the small library off the main hall, a room private enough for conversation but public enough to maintain propriety.

Once the door closed behind you, Lewis's demeanor shifted again, the social mask dropping away to reveal focused intensity. "Your father is downplaying the threat," he said without preamble. "Bianchi and Suarez together represent a significant concern."

"I gathered that," you replied, appreciating his directness. "How worried should I be?"

"Concerned, but not frightened," he assessed carefully. "My security team is... exceptionally thorough. But I'd prefer to take additional precautions where you're concerned."

"What kind of precautions?"

"I'd like to station two of my people here at the estate until the wedding," he said. "Working alongside your father's security but with specific responsibility for your safety."

The request was unusual—essentially asking to place his men inside your father's territory, a level of trust rarely extended even in alliances. "My father won't like that."

"Your father will agree when I explain my reasoning," Lewis countered with quiet confidence. "These aren't ordinary bodyguards. They're specialists in certain types of threats."

Something in his tone made you wonder exactly what kind of "specialists" he employed, but you decided not to press for details you might prefer not to know.

"There's something else," he continued. "The threats against me are to be expected. I've dealt with similar situations before. But I won't allow you to become collateral damage in what is essentially a business conflict."

"I'm hardly helpless," you reminded him. "I've grown up in this world."

"I'm well aware," he acknowledged. "But Bianchi and Suarez are unpredictable together, feeding each other's grievances. The wedding creates a vulnerability they may try to exploit."

"Are you suggesting we change the plans?" The thought of delaying sent an unexpected pang of disappointment through you.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm suggesting we accelerate them."

"Accelerate? How?"

"Move the legal paperwork forward immediately. Complete the civil ceremony this week, quietly. The church wedding can proceed as planned for appearances and family tradition, but the legal binding would already be in place."

The proposal caught you off guard. "You want to marry me twice? Once in secret and once for show?"

"I want to establish the legal framework of our union before Bianchi and Suarez have time to formulate a significant response," Lewis clarified. "A practical precaution, nothing more."

But it wasn't nothing, and you both knew it. Legally binding yourself to Lewis days from now rather than weeks represented a significant acceleration of what was already a rushed timeline.

"This isn't just about security," you observed, studying his expression carefully. "You're staking your claim more firmly. Making it harder for them to interfere."

Something like respect flickered in his eyes at your assessment. "Yes. From a strategic perspective, it's more difficult to prevent a marriage than to dissolve one that's already occurred. Particularly given the families involved."

It was ruthlessly practical, exactly the kind of strategic thinking that had apparently built Lewis's empire from nothing. You considered the proposal from all angles, weighing the protection it offered against the reduced timeline for mental preparation.

"And if I asked for more time instead? If I wanted to slow this down rather than speed it up?"

It was a test, and you both knew it—a direct challenge to his repeated assertions about respecting your choices.

Lewis considered you for a long moment, that intense focus making you feel like the only person in his universe. "Then we would find alternative security solutions," he finally said. "I meant what I said about consent being essential to our arrangement. I won't force an acceleration if you're genuinely opposed."

The sincerity in his voice seemed real, though with a man as controlled as Lewis Hamilton, it was difficult to be certain of anything.

"Let me think about it," you decided. "I'll give you an answer tomorrow."

He nodded, accepting this without argument. "Fair enough." He glanced at his watch. "I should go. I have a video conference with associates in Tokyo in an hour."

As you walked him back to the foyer where Marco waited to escort him out, you were acutely aware of the additional security personnel now visible throughout the house. Your father wasn't taking the Bianchi-Suarez threat lightly, despite his reassurances.

At the door, Lewis surprised you by taking both your hands in his, an unexpectedly intimate gesture for a man who maintained such careful physical boundaries.

"Think carefully about the accelerated timeline," he said, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "But please understand it comes from practical concern, not a desire to rush you into something you're not ready for."

You nodded, oddly touched by his consideration despite the clinical framing. "I understand. I'll call you tomorrow."

He hesitated, then leaned in to brush another kiss against your cheek, closer to the corner of your mouth than before—still appropriate for observers but with a hint of something more personal.

"Goodnight," he murmured against your skin before pulling away, the brief warmth of his breath sending an involuntary shiver through you.

"Goodnight... Lewis," you replied, the use of his first name still feeling strangely intimate.

You watched from the doorway as he walked to his car, the streetlights illuminating his tall figure. Just as he reached the vehicle, another car slowly passed the house—a black sedan with tinted windows that lingered just long enough to make its surveillance obvious.

Lewis noted it without reacting visibly, his posture relaxed despite the clear provocation. Only when the sedan finally moved on did he enter his own car, nodding once in your direction before pulling away from the curb.

Marco closed the door firmly, engaging additional security locks. "Bianchi's men," he confirmed, noticing your questioning look. "They've been driving past every hour since noon."

"Just watching? Or should we be concerned about more?"

Marco's expression was grim. "With the Bianchis, watching is just the beginning. They want us to know they're out there. It's what they're planning that we can't see that worries me."

You nodded, processing this as you headed back toward the family rooms. The weight of the ring on your finger felt heavier now, a symbol not just of your engagement but of the target it potentially placed on your back.

Lewis's suggestion of accelerating the timeline suddenly seemed less like possessiveness and more like practical protection. If Bianchi and Suarez were already making such public displays of their displeasure, what might they attempt as the wedding approached?

In your room, you removed the ring to prepare for bed, placing it carefully in the velvet box Lewis had presented it in. As you closed the lid, you noticed something you'd missed before—a small card tucked into the lid's lining.

Curious, you removed it, finding just three words written in precise handwriting:

Your choice matters.

The simple message struck deeper than any flowery sentiment could have. In your world, choice was rarely offered, particularly to daughters. Yet here was Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and controlling in so many ways, explicitly acknowledging your agency in this arrangement.

As you prepared for sleep, your mind turned over the accelerated timeline he'd proposed. Marriage within days rather than weeks. Becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife in truth before the public ceremony even took place.

The practical advantages were clear. The legal protection would be immediately established. The alliance would be harder to disrupt. Your safety would be more definitively secured.

But beneath those rational calculations, something else nagged at you—a realization that part of you wanted to say yes for reasons that had nothing to do with security protocols or strategic advantages. Part of you was curious about what life with Lewis would actually be like, outside the formal negotiations and family performances.

That curiosity was dangerous, potentially clouding your judgment with emotional considerations when clear-headed assessment was essential. Yet as you drifted toward sleep, the memory of his brief kiss against your cheek lingered.

Tomorrow you would give him your answer about accelerating the timeline. Tomorrow you would take another step toward the future that had been arranged for you, yet somehow still felt like a choice you were actively making.

For better or worse, Lewis Hamilton was becoming more than just a strategic alliance. The question that followed you into dreams was whether that evolution represented an unexpected opportunity or a vulnerability you couldn't afford.

"Pull!"

The clay pigeon arced through the late afternoon sky, a bright orange disk against endless blue. You tracked it with practiced precision, the Beretta 686 Silver Pigeon an extension of your arm more than a separate object. Breath in, focus, slight lead—

The shotgun kicked against your shoulder as you squeezed the trigger. The target shattered, orange fragments raining down over the manicured back lawn of the estate.

"Nice shot," Uncle Paolo commented from where he lounged in a nearby garden chair, nursing a tumbler of scotch despite the early hour. "Though your follow-through needs work."

You lowered the gun, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. Uncle Paolo had opinions about everything, especially activities traditionally reserved for the men of the family. That you could consistently outshoot both him and your father was a fact carefully unacknowledged at family gatherings.

"Again," you instructed the groundskeeper manning the trap. He nodded, loading another clay pigeon into the machine.

Skeet shooting had been your release valve since your father first taught you at fourteen—ostensibly for self-defense, though you'd recognized even then that it was really his way of bonding with a daughter when he'd expected a son. The rhythm of it calmed you, the focus required pushing all other thoughts temporarily aside.

Today, you needed that mental quiet more than usual. Three days had passed since Lewis had proposed accelerating your marriage timeline. Three days of weighing options, considering implications, delaying the decision he'd requested "tomorrow."

"Pull!"

Another target, another clean shot. Your shoulder was starting to ache pleasantly, the kind of discomfort that grounded you in your physical body when your mind threatened to spiral.

"Your fiancé called again this morning," Uncle Paolo mentioned casually, ice clinking in his glass. "Your father thinks you're being rude, making him wait for an answer."

You broke open the shotgun, ejecting the spent shells with perhaps more force than necessary. "My fiancé can learn a little patience."

"Not a quality men in our world typically cultivate," your uncle observed, a hint of warning in his tone. "Especially not men like Hamilton."

You began reloading, the familiar motions practiced and smooth. "If Lewis wants a docile wife who jumps at his every instruction, he's got the wrong Ricci daughter."

Uncle Paolo smiled thinly, though his eyes remained serious. "Testing boundaries already? The marriage contract isn't even signed."

"Just establishing the framework of the relationship," you replied, using the same clinical language Lewis favored. "Making sure expectations are aligned."

Your uncle's laugh was genuine this time. "You sound like him. All that strategic bullshit disguising what's really a power play."

You raised the shotgun again, settling it against your shoulder. "It's not a power play to want time to consider a major life decision."

"Perhaps not," he conceded. "But three days of silence sends a message of its own. And messages can be misinterpreted."

The warning was clear—you were potentially offending your future husband, a dangerous man to disappoint. The fact that your father had sent Uncle Paolo to deliver this reminder rather than speaking to you himself indicated his growing impatience as well.

"Pull!"

This shot went wide, the clay pigeon continuing its arc unharmed before disappearing into the trees at the edge of the property. You swore under your breath.

"Loss of focus," Uncle Paolo observed unnecessarily. "The very thing shooting is supposed to help with."

You lowered the gun, suddenly tired of both the activity and the conversation. "I'll call him today."

"Good girl," your uncle said, the patronizing praise making your teeth clench. "The sooner this arrangement is formalized, the better. Bianchi's men have expanded their surveillance. Three cars rotating shifts now."

This was news to you. "Has there been any direct contact?"

"Nothing actionable." Uncle Paolo drained his scotch. "Just watching, waiting. Building their nerve, maybe."

"Or gathering intelligence for something more significant," you suggested, breaking down the shotgun and placing it carefully in its case. "Which actually supports taking more time, not less. We don't want to appear reactive."

Your uncle's expression hardened slightly. "This isn't a negotiation strategy. It's a security concern. Hamilton's right to want to accelerate."

"Then let him make that case directly," you replied, snapping the gun case closed with finality. "Instead of sending family members to pressure me."

"He's been trying," Uncle Paolo pointed out. "You're the one dodging his calls."

He had you there. You had been avoiding Lewis—not out of uncertainty about your answer but because of what that answer would mean. Saying yes to the accelerated timeline would eliminate the buffer you'd been counting on, the brief window of remaining independence before your life changed irrevocably.

"I'll call him," you repeated more firmly. "Today."

Uncle Paolo nodded, apparently satisfied with extracting this commitment. "Good. He'll be at Vesuvio tonight. Private room in the back, eight o'clock. Your father thought a neutral location might be preferable for the discussion."

The fact that this meeting had already been arranged without your knowledge or input made your blood boil, but you kept your expression neutral. "How considerate of everyone to plan my schedule."

"This is bigger than your pride," your uncle said, rising from his chair. "The Bianchi situation is escalating. Raúl Suarez has been making inquiries about your daily movements. This isn't a game."

The mention of Suarez sent an involuntary chill through you. While Lorenzo Bianchi was dangerous in the hotheaded way of entitled men accustomed to getting what they wanted, Suarez's particular brand of calculated cruelty was something else entirely.

"Fine. Vesuvio at eight." You signaled to the groundskeeper that you were finished, handing him the gun case to return to the secure room in the east wing. "Is Antonio driving?"

"Hamilton's sending a car," your uncle replied. "His people have better countermeasures for potential trackers."

The implication that you might be followed was sobering. Perhaps everyone's concern wasn't just about rushing you into marriage but genuine worry about your safety.

"I should get ready then," you said, although it was barely past noon. "Apparently I have a date."

Your room had become something of a sanctuary over the past few days—the one place where the weight of expectations temporarily lifted. You'd spent hours here contemplating your rapidly approaching future, turning the engagement ring on your finger as if it might reveal new insights with each rotation.

The decision about accelerating the timeline wasn't really about the timing itself. It was about acknowledging the reality that this was happening. That in a matter of weeks—or perhaps days—you would be bound permanently to Lewis Hamilton. No more theoretical discussions or hypothetical scenarios. The actual, irreversible step of becoming his wife.

You sat at your vanity, staring at your reflection as if it might offer guidance. The woman looking back at you seemed collected, composed, every inch the mafia princess raised to navigate treacherous waters. Only you knew the doubts swirling beneath that carefully maintained exterior.

A knock at your door interrupted this unproductive self-examination. "Come in," you called, expecting one of your sisters.

Instead, your mother entered, closing the door softly behind her. Her expression was reserved, but her eyes held concern.

"Your uncle said you've agreed to meet with Lewis tonight," she began without preamble.

"Was I supposed to refuse?" you asked dryly. "Apparently it's already arranged."

Your mother sighed, coming to sit on the edge of your bed. "The men can be... presumptuous. But in this case, there are legitimate concerns driving their urgency."

"So I've been told. Repeatedly." You swiveled to face her directly. "Is it really that serious? Or is everyone just impatient to seal the deal before I change my mind?"

"It's serious," your mother confirmed, her usual diplomatic filter notably absent. "Lorenzo Bianchi is unstable at the best of times. Combined with Suarez's resources and contacts..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "There have been specific threats. Against both you and Lewis."

This was more detail than anyone had shared previously. "What kind of threats?"

"The kind your father doesn't want you to know about." She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her skirt. "But which I think you deserve to hear, given that it's your life at stake."

The unusual directness from your normally circumspect mother sent a fresh wave of unease through you. "Tell me."

"Suarez has put out feelers to certain professionals. The kind who specialize in making accidents happen." Her eyes met yours steadily. "And Bianchi has been explicitly vocal about ensuring Hamilton doesn't get to 'claim' you before they can intervene."

The crude implication was clear, sending a surge of both fear and fury through you. The idea that these men viewed you as territory to be claimed, a prize to be stolen before a competitor could secure you, was infuriating—but not surprising.

"Hamilton's security concerns are valid," your mother continued. "The accelerated timeline isn't just a power play. It's a practical response to an immediate threat."

You absorbed this, turning the additional context over in your mind. "Why didn't Lewis just tell me this directly? Why the vague references to 'security concerns' without specifics?"

"Perhaps he was trying to spare you the more disturbing details," your mother suggested. "Or perhaps he assumed your father would share the full picture."

"Men," you muttered in exasperation. "Always deciding what information women can handle."

A small smile touched your mother's lips. "A universal trait, regardless of cultural background or criminal connections."

You couldn't help returning her smile briefly before sobering. "So you think I should agree to the accelerated timeline."

"I think you should have all the relevant information before deciding," she corrected. "Including the fact that these threats are credible and immediate."

You nodded, appreciating her approach even as the reality of the situation settled heavily on your shoulders. "Thank you for telling me."

"There's something else," your mother added, a hint of hesitation in her voice. "Something about Lewis that might influence your decision."

Your attention sharpened. "What about him?"

"I have a friend in London. Someone connected but removed enough from direct operations to speak freely." She paused. "She says Hamilton is feared, certainly, but also respected in a way unusual for our world. He keeps his word. Honors agreements. Protects his people."

"That matches his reputation here," you acknowledged, uncertain of her point.

"The unusual part," your mother continued, "is how he treats women in his organization. They hold actual positions of authority. Make decisions. Control territory." Her eyes held yours meaningfully. "This isn't common, as you well know."

Indeed you did. Most mafia organizations, including your father's, kept women firmly in supportive roles—wives, daughters, sisters who influenced from the shadows but never held official power.

"You're saying he might actually mean it when he talks about partnership," you translated. "Not just as a negotiating tactic."

"I'm saying it's possible," your mother clarified. "Which is more than can be said for most men in his position."

The information settled alongside everything else you knew about Lewis Hamilton—the controlled exterior, the glimpses of genuine consideration, the note hidden in the ring box. Your choice matters.

"I appreciate the insight," you said finally. "It helps."

Your mother rose gracefully, smoothing her skirt. "Vesuvio at eight, then? I'll help you select something appropriate."

You nodded, mind already racing ahead to the conversation with Lewis. "Something that doesn't look like I'm trying too hard, but still makes an impression."

"The forest green Valentino," your mother suggested immediately. "Authority without aggression. And it brings out your eyes."

Trust your mother to have the perfect strategic wardrobe selection already in mind. "Green it is."

As she turned to leave, you called after her: "Mama?"

She paused, hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"Are you worried? About all of this?" The question was more vulnerable than you typically allowed yourself to be, even with her.

Your mother considered this carefully before answering. "I worry about the threats, yes. But about your marriage to Lewis?" She shook her head slightly. "No. I think you may have drawn the better hand than any of us expected."

With that cryptic assessment, she left you to prepare for the evening ahead—an evening that would likely determine the exact timeline of your transformation from Ricci daughter to Hamilton wife.

**********************************************

Vesuvio sat nestled in the heart of Little Italy, a restaurant that had served as neutral ground for business discussions for three generations. Your father had been bringing you here since childhood, a strategic choice to ensure the owners and staff recognized you as under Ricci protection. Everyone from the valet to the maître d' greeted you by name as Lewis's sleek black car deposited you at the entrance precisely at eight.

The driver—a silent, watchful man who'd introduced himself only as Kai—escorted you inside with the hypervigilance of someone expecting trouble. His eyes continuously scanned your surroundings, one hand always near the slight bulge under his impeccably tailored jacket.

"Mr. Hamilton is already seated," the maître d' informed you, leading the way toward the private rooms in the back. "Security protocols have been observed."

You nodded your understanding. In establishments like Vesuvio, "security protocols" meant the room had been swept for listening devices, the staff vetted, and arrangements made to ensure privacy for whatever business was being conducted.

Kai remained at your side until you reached the private dining room, where he performed a final visual assessment before stepping aside to let you enter. "I'll be right outside, Ms. Ricci," he stated quietly. "Should you need anything."

The formality of the security arrangements added weight to what your mother had shared about the seriousness of the current threats. This wasn't just standard protection; this was the heightened vigilance of people expecting genuine danger.

The private dining room was intimate but not cramped, a single table set for two with the understated elegance Vesuvio was known for. Lewis rose as you entered, his expression revealing nothing of whatever thoughts might be circulating behind those dark, assessing eyes.

"Thank you for coming," he said, his British accent somehow more pronounced in the Italian restaurant setting. "I was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

"I was," you admitted frankly, seeing no point in pretending otherwise. "I needed time to think."

Something like approval flickered across his features at your honesty. "Fair enough. Though a text saying as much would have been appreciated."

You accepted this mild rebuke with a nod as he pulled out your chair. "You're right. That was inconsiderate."

He settled across from you, his tailored charcoal suit emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. The restaurant lighting softened the severe lines of his face, caught the subtle gleam of his nose piercings, highlighted the tattoos visible at his wrists and neck.

"You look lovely," he observed, his eyes taking in the forest green dress with quiet appreciation. "That color suits you."

"Thank you." You placed your napkin in your lap, using the small ritual to gather your thoughts. "I understand the threats have escalated."

Lewis's eyebrow raised slightly. "Your father shared the details?"

"My mother did." You met his gaze directly. "She thought I deserved to know exactly what we're facing, given that it's my life at risk alongside yours."

He nodded, something like respect crossing his features. "She's right. I should have been more explicit about the nature of the threats rather than couching them in vague security concerns."

The straightforward acknowledgment caught you off guard. Men in your world rarely admitted to miscalculations so directly.

"Bianchi and Suarez make an unusual but potentially dangerous alliance," Lewis continued, signaling to the waiter who had appeared discreetly at the door. "Wine?"

"Please." You welcomed the brief interruption as the waiter approached with a bottle of red already selected and opened for breathing.

Once your glasses were filled and you were alone again, Lewis continued. "Bianchi brings volatility and foot soldiers. Suarez contributes calculation and specific expertise. Together, they present a more significant threat than either would alone."

"My mother mentioned professionals. Specialists in accidents."

Lewis's expression hardened slightly. "Yes. Suarez has connections to certain contractors who specialize in eliminating problems while maintaining plausible deniability." He took a measured sip of wine. "Not particularly creative, but effective when employed correctly."

The clinical assessment of potential assassination methods should have been terrifying, but you'd grown up in this world. Threats were evaluated based on credibility and approach, not emotional impact.

"And Bianchi's explicit threats regarding claiming me before you can?" You kept your tone even despite the fury the concept ignited.

Something dangerous flashed in Lewis's eyes—a glimpse of the capacity for violence that underpinned his controlled exterior. "Bianchi's specific comments don't bear repeating. But they've been noted and will be addressed appropriately."

The quiet certainty in his voice left little doubt about the eventual fate of Lorenzo Bianchi should he continue down his current path.

"So the accelerated timeline..." you began.

"Is a practical response to an immediate threat," Lewis confirmed. "Not an attempt to rush you, though I understand it might feel that way."

You considered this, turning your wine glass slowly between your fingers. "The legal marriage now, church ceremony as planned."

"Yes. The paperwork can be handled quietly, without announcement. The formal wedding proceeds on schedule, maintaining appearances while the legal protections are already in place."

"And those protections matter how, exactly?" you asked, though you had suspicions. "Beyond the symbolic joining of families."

Lewis's gaze was direct, unflinching. "As my wife, you'd fall under certain specific legal and operational protections that fiancée status doesn't provide. International travel becomes simpler. Security protocols more comprehensive. And—" he paused briefly, "—Bianchi and Suarez would be sending a message to the entire underworld by targeting a Hamilton rather than just a Ricci daughter. The calculation changes."

The strategic assessment made perfect sense, fitting with everything you knew about how power worked in your world. Marriage wasn't just about family alliances; it was about territory, protection, claiming.

"There's something else," Lewis added, his tone shifting slightly. "Something I should have emphasized in our initial discussion."

You waited, curious about what additional factor he might introduce.

"This acceleration changes nothing about our other agreements," he stated firmly. "The discussion of boundaries, expectations, your involvement in operations—all of that remains as we discussed. This is purely a security measure, not an attempt to alter the fundamental framework we've established."

The reassurance was unexpectedly important to you, addressing concerns you hadn't fully articulated even to yourself.

"I've been thinking about your request," you said finally. "Considering the implications from multiple angles."

"And your conclusion?" Lewis asked, his composure perfect though you sensed tension beneath the surface.

You met his gaze steadily. "I'll agree to the accelerated timeline, with two conditions."

If he was surprised by the negotiation attempt, he didn't show it. "Go on."

"First, complete transparency going forward. No more filtered information or vague references to security concerns. If there are threats, I want to know exactly what they are and how they're being addressed."

Lewis nodded without hesitation. "Agreed. And the second condition?"

You took a breath, formulating the request that had been taking shape in your mind over the past three days. "I want your commitment that once we're married, I'll have a formal role in the organization. Not just informal input or consulting on specific projects. Actual authority in areas where I can contribute meaningfully."

This request was significantly more substantial than the first, challenging traditional structures in a way that could potentially create complications with both your father and Lewis's existing operation.

Lewis studied you with that intense focus that made everything else seem to recede. "You understand this would represent a significant departure from how things are typically structured."

"I do," you confirmed. "But you've already departed from tradition in multiple ways. This would be consistent with the partnership approach you've referenced in our discussions."

A hint of something that might have been admiration crossed his features. "You've given this considerable thought."

"Three days' worth," you replied with the ghost of a smile. "Since you're getting an accelerated timeline, it seemed fair to accelerate other aspects of our arrangement as well."

Lewis took a deliberate sip of wine, his eyes never leaving yours. "What specific areas of the operation interest you most?"

The question itself was promising—focusing on implementation rather than rejecting the concept outright. "Financial systems initially. Digital currency integration, legitimate business expansion. Areas where my education and skills align with operational needs."

He nodded slowly, considering. "It would need to be implemented carefully. Your father might resist. Some of my people would certainly question it."

"I'm aware," you acknowledged. "But your reputation suggests you make decisions based on strategic value, not tradition or others' expectations."

Lewis set down his glass, his expression thoughtful. "A formal role would need to be earned through demonstrated competence, not simply granted by virtue of our marriage."

"I wouldn't want it any other way," you assured him. "I'm not asking for a ceremonial title. I want meaningful work with real responsibility."

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "In that case, I agree to your second condition as well. With the understanding that you'll need to prove yourself just as anyone else would in my organization."

Relief and a strange excitement flooded through you. You'd been prepared for resistance, negotiation, perhaps even refusal. His straightforward acceptance suggested your mother's information about how Lewis structured his organization might indeed be accurate.

"Then we have an agreement," you said, extending your hand across the table in a deliberately business-like gesture. "The accelerated timeline with my conditions."

Lewis took your hand, his grip firm but not dominating. "Agreed. I'll have a private civil ceremony arranged for tomorrow with the necessary paperwork, if that timing works for you."

The sudden reality of it—marriage in just one day—sent a jolt through you that you hoped didn't show on your face. "That's acceptable."

Lewis held your hand a moment longer than necessary, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles in a gesture that seemed almost unconscious. "Thank you for considering the security concerns seriously. I realize this isn't how most women envision their path to marriage."

The unexpected acknowledgment of the strangeness of your situation caught you off guard. "I stopped expecting a conventional path a long time ago," you replied honestly. "The Ricci name comes with certain realities attached."

"As does the Hamilton name," he said, finally releasing your hand. "Though perhaps together we can reshape some of those realities to better serve our interests."

The sentiment was unexpectedly aligned with your own unspoken hopes—not eliminating the underworld elements entirely, but modernizing, adapting, creating something that allowed for more autonomy than the traditional structures your father maintained.

The waiter appeared again, this time to take your dinner orders. The conversation shifted to lighter topics as the meal progressed—Lewis's London residence where you'd be living initially, the security protocols you'd need to adapt to, practical considerations about what belongings to prioritize for the immediate move versus what could follow later.

Throughout the discussion, you found yourself studying Lewis with new attention—the precise way he cut his food, the careful attention he paid when you were speaking, the subtle shift in his expression when topics moved from business to more personal matters. He remained controlled, certainly, but you were beginning to recognize nuances in that control, variations that conveyed more than his words sometimes did.

"You're watching me quite intently," he observed as dessert was served. "Cataloging observations?"

The accuracy of his assessment made you smile slightly. "Professional habit. Understanding people's patterns helps predict their behavior."

"And what patterns have you observed in me?" The question held genuine curiosity rather than challenge.

You considered how to answer honestly without revealing too much of your own analytical process. "Precision. Consistency. A preference for understated quality over flash. Careful attention to detail, especially regarding security. And..." you paused, deciding whether to voice the last observation.

"And?" he prompted, leaning forward slightly.

"And a tendency to reveal more through small physical cues than through words," you finished. "Your control is impressive, but not absolute."

Something like surprise flickered in his eyes before he masked it. "Most people find me difficult to read."

"I'm not most people," you reminded him. "And I've had considerable practice observing men who prefer not to be read too easily."

"A valuable skill in our world," he acknowledged. "Though potentially uncomfortable for the one being observed."

"Does it make you uncomfortable?" you asked, curious about his reaction.

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "Not uncomfortable, exactly. Unaccustomed, perhaps. I'm usually the one doing the observing."

The admission felt like a small victory—an acknowledgment that the dynamic between you wasn't entirely one-sided despite the obvious power imbalance inherent in your arrangement.

As the meal concluded and the waiter cleared the last plates, Lewis checked his watch. "We should leave separately. My driver will take you home first, then double back for me once you're safely inside the estate."

The return to security protocols was a stark reminder of the threats hanging over both of you. "The sooner we handle the paperwork, the better," you agreed, your decision now firmly cemented by the evening's discussion.

Lewis nodded, rising to pull out your chair. "I'll call tomorrow with the arrangements. The civil ceremony will be handled discreetly—just the necessary officials, your parents if they wish to attend, my security officer as witness."

The simplicity of the description belied the magnitude of what it represented—your legal binding to Lewis Hamilton, the irrevocable step that would transform you from Ricci daughter to Hamilton wife.

"I'll be ready," you assured him, gathering your clutch as you stood.

In the small space between table and chair, you found yourself closer to Lewis than you'd been before, near enough to catch the subtle scent of his cologne, to notice the precise trimming of his beard, to see the faint scar near his temple partially hidden by his hairline.

His eyes held yours, something shifting in their depths. "May I?" he asked quietly, his intention clear though unspecified.

The request for permission—for a gesture you both knew was largely for appearance's sake—was characteristic of the careful boundaries he maintained. You nodded once, curious despite yourself about what a deliberately initiated touch from Lewis might feel like.

His hand came up to cup your cheek, the contact warm and unexpectedly gentle for someone with his reputation for controlled strength. He leaned in slowly, giving you ample time to pull away if desired, before pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that started soft but deepened slightly when you didn't withdraw.

It was brief—just enough to establish the appearance of genuine affection for any watching eyes—but the controlled precision of it sent an unexpected warmth through you. When he pulled back, his expression revealed nothing of whether the contact had affected him similarly.

"For appearances," he said quietly, though something in his tone suggested there might be more to it than mere performance.

"Of course," you agreed, your voice steadier than you'd expected given the sudden acceleration of your pulse. "Maintaining the narrative."

His eyes held yours a moment longer, something unspoken passing between you, before he stepped back to a more appropriate distance. "Kai will escort you to the car. I'll follow in fifteen minutes."

You nodded, professional mask sliding back into place despite the lingering sensation of his lips against yours. "Until tomorrow, then."

"Until tomorrow," he echoed, something like anticipation in his voice. "Mrs. Hamilton."

The name—your future identity—sent a shiver through you that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the irrevocable change now just two days away.

As Kai escorted you from the restaurant, you were acutely aware of the diamond still glittering on your finger and the phantom pressure of Lewis's kiss still lingering on your lips. For better or worse, you had committed to the accelerated timeline, to becoming Lewis Hamilton's wife in truth before the week was out.

The question that followed you into the waiting car was whether the reality of marriage to such a man would align with the carefully negotiated terms you'd established—or whether the controlled, dangerous person you'd glimpsed beneath the business façade would prove to be something else entirely once you were legally bound.

The car ride home was silent save for the occasional crackle of Kai's radio as he communicated with other security personnel in a code you couldn't quite decipher. His vigilance was both reassuring and unsettling—evidence of how seriously Lewis's organization was taking the threats against you both.

Your mind continued to replay the dinner conversation, particularly the moment when Lewis had agreed to your conditions without the extended negotiation you'd expected. The promise of a formal role in his organization represented more opportunity than your father had ever considered offering, despite your education and demonstrated aptitude for the business side of family operations.

When the car pulled through the estate gates, you noted the increased security presence—additional men patrolling the perimeter, new surveillance equipment installed since you'd left for dinner. Your father was clearly taking the Bianchi-Suarez threat as seriously as Lewis was.

"I'll escort you to the door, Ms. Ricci," Kai said, his first words since leaving the restaurant.

"That's not necessary," you replied automatically. "We're inside the gates."

"Mr. Hamilton's instructions were clear," Kai stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Door to door service."

You recognized the futility of arguing with a man who was simply following orders from his boss. "Fine."

As Kai accompanied you to the front entrance, you noticed his eyes continuously scanning the surroundings, one hand always near his concealed weapon. At the door, he waited until Marco had confirmed your identity through the security camera before finally stepping back.

"Mr. Hamilton will be in touch tomorrow regarding the arrangements," he said formally.

"Thank you, Kai," you replied, finding his serious dedication to your safety oddly endearing despite its restrictiveness. "Please drive safely on your return."

A flicker of surprise crossed his stoic features at your personal concern before he nodded once and returned to the car.

Inside, the house was quiet despite the early hour. You found your father in his study, as expected, going through what appeared to be security reports with Uncle Paolo and two of his capos.

"You're back early," your father observed as you appeared in the doorway. "How was dinner?"

"Productive," you replied, deciding direct was best. "We've agreed to accelerate the timeline. The civil ceremony will be tomorrow, with the church wedding proceeding as planned for appearances."

Your father's expression showed clear approval. "Good. That's the sensible choice given the circumstances." His eyes narrowed slightly. "Any conditions to your agreement?"

Of course he would expect you to have negotiated something in return. "Complete transparency regarding security threats going forward, and a formal role in Hamilton's organization after the marriage."

Uncle Paolo's eyebrows shot up. "A formal role? In what capacity?"

"Financial systems initially. Digital currency integration, legitimate business expansion." You kept your tone matter-of-fact, as if this were a standard arrangement rather than a significant departure from tradition.

Your father leaned back in his chair, studying you with new assessment. "Hamilton agreed to this?"

"He did," you confirmed. "With the understanding that I'll need to prove myself through demonstrated competence, not simply by virtue of being his wife."

A complex series of emotions crossed your father's face—surprise, consideration, and something that might have been reluctant respect. "Interesting. Not how I would structure things, but Hamilton's operation has always been... unconventional."

"Progressive, some might say," you suggested mildly.

Your father snorted. "Progressive is just another word for untested. But it's his organization to run as he sees fit." He waved a hand dismissively. "The important thing is that the timeline is accelerated. The legal protections will be in place sooner."

"Hamilton will handle the paperwork," you informed him. "He'll call tomorrow with the details."

Your father nodded, already turning his attention back to the security reports. "Good. Paolo will coordinate with Hamilton's people on arrangements. Your mother can help you prepare whatever you need for the immediate move."

The dismissal was clear—now that you'd made the "right" decision, your father had more pressing matters to attend to. You turned to leave, then paused.

"Has there been any specific activity from Bianchi or Suarez tonight?" you asked, remembering Lewis's agreement to transparency about threats.

Your father's eyes narrowed at your direct question about business matters. "Nothing beyond the usual surveillance. Why?"

"Just implementing my new transparency agreement," you replied evenly. "Goodnight, Papa."

As you headed upstairs, you heard Uncle Paolo's low mutter: "Hamilton's going to have his hands full with that one."

Your father's response was too quiet to catch, but the low chuckle that followed suggested he wasn't entirely displeased by your assertiveness. Perhaps he recognized that the qualities that made you challenging as a daughter might prove valuable as an asset in a strategic alliance.

In your room, you shed the forest green dress and carefully removed your makeup, mind still processing the evening's developments. Legal marriage tomorrow. London shortly after. A completely new life beginning before you'd fully prepared yourself for the current one to end.

Your phone buzzed with a text as you were wrapping your hair:

Home safely? - Lewis.

The simple inquiry was unexpected. You hesitated before typing back:

Yes. Additional security noted at the estate. All quiet otherwise.

His response came quickly:

Good. Civil ceremony will be ready tomorrow, 2pm. Church wedding in two weeks. Acceptable?

The brisk efficiency was pure Lewis—no wasted words, everything arranged with maximum practicality. You found yourself smiling slightly as you replied:

Acceptable. What should I wear to become Mrs. Hamilton?

A longer pause followed, enough that you thought perhaps he wouldn't respond to the slightly teasing question. Finally:

Whatever makes you feel confident. Though I admit a preference for the green from tonight.

The personal admission—small as it was—felt significant from someone as controlled as Lewis. You were still formulating a response when another text appeared:

My security will collect you at 1:00 tomorrow for the paperwork. I'll see you then. Rest well.

Before you could reply, a final message:

And thank you. For agreeing to the timeline adjustment despite the rush. I recognize it's not ideal.

The acknowledgment of the imposition touched you unexpectedly. You wrote back:

Practical solutions to legitimate threats. Very on-brand for both of us. Goodnight, Lewis.

You set the phone aside, warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. There was something both disconcerting and exhilarating about the rapid progression of events—from strategic arrangement to accelerated marriage to the subtle shift in your text exchanges. Something that felt dangerously close to genuine connection forming beneath the calculated exterior of your relationship.

Sleep came easier than you'd expected, your mind finally settling after days of deliberation. The decision was made. The path forward clear, even if the destination remained uncertain.

************************************************

The next day passed in a blur of practical arrangements. Your mother, ever efficient, helped you select and pack the essentials for your immediate relocation to London. Clothing, jewelry, personal items that couldn't be easily replaced—all sorted, cataloged, and prepared for transport.

"Lewis's people will handle the shipping," she explained as you deliberated over which books to include in the initial move. "The rest can follow once you're settled."

There was something surreal about packing your life into carefully labeled boxes, deciding which pieces of yourself were essential and which could wait. Like performing the physical manifestation of the mental sorting you'd been doing since Lewis Hamilton first appeared in your father's study.

At precisely 1:00, Marco announced the arrival of Lewis's security team. Kai was there again, accompanied by a woman you hadn't met before—tall, athletic, close-cropped hair, dark skin, and watchful eyes that missed nothing.

"Ms. Ricci," Kai greeted you formally. "This is Naomi. She'll be your primary security detail after the marriage."

The woman nodded once, her assessment of you professional but not cold. "Ms. Ricci. Mr. Hamilton thought you might prefer a female detail for certain situations. I'll be accompanying you to the paperwork signing today as well."

The consideration was unexpected but welcome—another small indication that Lewis gave thought to details many men in his position would overlook.

Your mother appeared with a garment bag containing the outfit you'd selected for the signing—a cream-colored pantsuit that projected both authority and sophistication.

"I'll see you back here afterward?" she asked, a rare hint of uncertainty in her voice.

"Yes," you assured her. "Just signing today."

She nodded, smoothing your collar in a gesture reminiscent of your childhood. "It's happening quickly," she observed. "Are you ready?"

"Does it matter?" you asked with a small smile to soften the words.

"It always matters," she replied seriously. "Even when we don't have perfect choices."

You hugged her briefly, an unusual display of affection given your family's typically reserved nature. "I'm as ready as I can be," you said honestly. "And Lewis is... not what I expected."

Your mother's smile held a hint of knowing. "The best ones never are."

The car ride into the city was significantly different with Naomi's presence. Where Kai remained stoically silent unless directly addressed, she maintained a professional but conversational approach.

"Mr. Hamilton thought you might have questions about London," she offered as you navigated through midday traffic. "About the residence, security protocols, practical matters."

"Have you worked for Lewis long?" you asked, curious about the inner workings of his organization.

"Five years," she replied. "Since he expanded operations from purely London-based to international."

"And your role is security only, or more than that?"

A slight smile crossed her features. "Officially, personal security. In practice, Mr. Hamilton utilizes people's full skill sets. I handle certain sensitive communications as well."

The implication that Lewis recognized and employed talents beyond traditional role boundaries aligned with what your mother had told you about his organization structure.

"How many women are in leadership positions in his organization?" you asked directly.

If Naomi was surprised by the question, she didn't show it. "Four on the executive team, including the head of legitimate business operations and the chief financial officer. Several more in territorial management positions."

The numbers were unprecedented compared to traditional family structures like your father's, where women wielded influence solely through family connections rather than official positions.

"And how has that been received by the more traditional elements of your world?" you pressed, genuinely curious about the practical implications of such a structure.

"With initial skepticism, then reluctant acceptance as results proved the approach effective," Naomi replied. "Mr. Hamilton is more concerned with capability than convention."

This aligned with your own observations of Lewis—his focus on practical outcomes rather than traditional methods. It was both reassuring and slightly intimidating to consider how your own capabilities might be evaluated once you were officially part of his organization.

The car pulled up to a nondescript office building in Midtown, the kind that housed lawyers, accountants, and other professional services. Naomi exited first, performing a quick security assessment before opening your door.

"Fifteenth floor," she directed, guiding you inside with Kai following closely behind. "Mr. Hamilton is already here with the necessary parties."

The elevator ride was silent, tension building in your chest with each ascending floor. The actual marriage certificate was a formality compared to the agreements already in place between families, but it represented a finality that couldn't be ignored. After today, the legal framework for your binding to Lewis Hamilton would be established. In a couple weeks would simply be the formal execution of what these papers initiated.

When the elevator doors opened, Lewis was waiting in the hallway, his expression revealing nothing of whatever thoughts might be circulating behind those dark, focused eyes. He wore a perfectly tailored navy suit that somehow made his tattoos and piercings look deliberately coordinated rather than rebellious.

"You came," he said simply, something like approval in his tone.

"Did you think I wouldn't?" you asked, genuinely curious about his uncertainty.

"I've learned not to take anything for granted," he replied, offering his arm in a formal gesture. "The paperwork is ready. Just the official aspects today—names, declarations, signatures. The legal minimum."

You placed your hand on his arm, the contact sending a small, involuntary thrill through you that you carefully masked. "Let's get it done, then."

The attorney's office was bland and functional, with none of the ceremony typically associated with marriage. A judge waited alongside a court clerk and the attorney who had apparently prepared the documents. Your father was there as well, his presence unexpected but not unwelcome.

"Hamilton thought I should witness," he explained when you raised an eyebrow in question. "Considering the circumstances."

The "circumstances" being the accelerated timeline and security concerns, you assumed. Lewis's inclusion of your father was both respectful of tradition and strategically sound, ensuring the Ricci family felt appropriately acknowledged even in this expedited process.

The actual signing took less than fifteen minutes—forms reviewed, declarations made, signatures applied to the appropriate lines. No vows, no rings exchanged, nothing to suggest this was anything more than a business transaction being finalized.

Yet as the judge pronounced you legally married and you signed your new name for the first time—your Ricci identity legally merged with Hamilton—the weight of the moment settled over you. This was real. Done. Official.

You were now, in the eyes of the law, Mrs. Hamilton.

Lewis's expression remained controlled throughout, though you caught a brief moment of something like satisfaction when the final document was signed. His hand brushed yours as he took the pen, the contact brief but deliberate.

"Congratulations to you both," the judge offered perfunctorily, clearly familiar with these expedited arrangements in your world. "The certificate will be processed immediately given the... special circumstances."

Those "special circumstances" being the substantial payment Lewis had undoubtedly made to expedite what would normally take weeks to process. Money smoothed all paths in your world, including legal ones.

Your father shook Lewis's hand formally, the gesture sealing the alliance that was now legally established between families. "Take care of her," he said, the simple statement carrying layers of meaning in your world.

"She's family now," Lewis replied, the only acknowledgment needed between men who understood that family was protected at all costs.

With the formalities concluded, you found yourself standing in the hallway outside the attorney's office, officially married to a man you'd known for less than a month. The surreal quality of the moment wasn't lost on you.

"Well," you said, uncertain what the appropriate comment might be for such an unusual situation. "That was efficient."

Lewis's mouth quirked slightly. "Efficiency has its place. Though the ceremony will include more of the traditional elements, I promise."

"Will there be cake?" you asked with deliberate lightness, trying to balance the strange tension of the moment. "A marriage isn't official without cake, legal documents notwithstanding."

This time his smile was genuine, transforming his severe features momentarily. "There will be cake," he confirmed. "And whatever other traditions you consider essential."

Your father cleared his throat, breaking the small moment of connection. "The car will take you home to finish your preparations," he said, all business now that the legal aspect was complete. "Hamilton's people have coordinated with Marco on security."

The reminder of the continuing threat cast a shadow over the moment. Despite the legal marriage now established, the danger from Bianchi and Suarez remained until you were safely away from New York and established within Lewis's territory.

"I'll see you soon," Lewis said, his eyes meeting yours with that focused intensity that still caught you off guard. "Next Thursday at ten o'clock."

"Ten o'clock," you confirmed. "Should I bring anything specific?"

"Just yourself," he replied. "Everything else is arranged."

As you left with Naomi and Kai flanking you like protective shadows, you caught your father and Lewis falling into conversation, heads bent together in the particular way of men discussing security matters they deemed too concerning for female ears.

In the elevator, you found yourself staring at your reflection in the mirrored walls, searching for any visible change now that you were officially Lewis Hamilton's wife. The woman looking back appeared unchanged—composed, controlled, every inch the mafia princess you'd been raised to be.

But the legal reality had shifted beneath that unchanged exterior. You were no longer simply a Ricci daughter. You were a Hamilton wife, with all the protections and obligations that entailed.

"Are you alright, Mrs. Hamilton?" Naomi asked quietly, the new form of address emphasizing the transformation.

"Fine," you replied automatically, then reconsidered. "Just adjusting to the new reality."

Naomi nodded, understanding in her eyes. "It gets easier. The transition."

You appreciated her attempt at reassurance, though you doubted her experience included arranged marriages to dangerous crime lords. Still, the sentiment was genuine, another indication that Lewis's people functioned differently than the soldiers in your father's organization.

The car ride back to the estate was silent, your mind processing the simple but significant ceremony that had just taken place. No flowers, no music, no witnesses beyond the necessary legal minimum. Just signatures on paper, establishing a bond that would reshape your entire existence.

Next Thursday would bring the more formal ceremony, the church blessing that would make your union official in the eyes of your world. Then London, a new home, a new role, a new life entirely.

You glanced down at your hand, noting the engagement ring still glittering on your finger. Soon it would be joined by a wedding band, another visible symbol of your new status. Another marker of the transition from Ricci to Hamilton.

The weight of it all pressed against your chest—not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but something in between. A recognition of threshold crossed, of possibilities both concerning and intriguing that waited on the other side.

Legally, you were already Mrs. Hamilton. Next Thursday would simply formalize what the law had already established. For better or worse, your fate was now bound to Lewis's—your safety, your future, your identity itself now inextricably linked with his.

The question that followed you back to the estate, that lingered as you prepared for your final night under your father's roof, was whether that binding represented constraint or liberation—a cage more gilded than the one you'd known, or the key to something resembling freedom within the confines of the world you'd been born into.

next week…

Thursday arrived too quickly, sunlight streaming through curtains you'd forgotten to close in your distracted state the night before. For a moment, you lay perfectly still, the weight of the day ahead settling over you like a physical presence. Your wedding day—though legally, you were already married, the certificate signed and filed with clinical efficiency last week.

A soft knock at your door interrupted this moment of quiet contemplation.

"Come in," you called, expecting your mother with last-minute instructions for the day.

Instead, the door burst open to reveal all three of your sisters, already dressed but carrying what appeared to be breakfast trays and—in Sophia's case—a bottle of champagne.

"Wedding day breakfast!" Sophia announced cheerfully, bouncing onto your bed with enough force to make you clutch the covers. "Though technically you're already married, which is weird. But still—tradition!"

Maria followed more sedately, setting down a tray laden with pastries and fruit. "Mama said to let you sleep, but Sophia insisted we do the sister breakfast thing."

"It's your last morning in this house," Gabriella added, her usual reserve softened by the significance of the occasion. "We couldn't let you spend it alone."

The gesture was so unexpectedly thoughtful that you felt a sudden tightness in your throat. For all the complexity of your family dynamics, your sisters had always been your constant—the ones who understood the particular pressures of being Ricci daughters in a world that valued sons.

"Thank you," you managed, sitting up as Sophia began pouring champagne into four juice glasses. "Though isn't nine a.m. a bit early for that?"

"It's a wedding day exception," Sophia declared, handing out the glasses. "And we're having mimosas technically, so it's practically breakfast."

"There's no orange juice in those," Maria pointed out dryly.

"Details," Sophia waved dismissively. "The point is, we're celebrating our sister's last morning of freedom!"

"I was hardly free before," you reminded her, accepting the glass anyway. "Just under a different management structure."

Gabriella snorted at your corporate phrasing. "Always the businesswoman. Even on your wedding day."

"Speaking of business," Maria said, settling cross-legged at the foot of your bed, "are you nervous about the London move? About working in Hamilton's organization?"

The question was typically direct from your most practical sister. "Not nervous, exactly," you replied, considering. "Cautiously optimistic, maybe. His structure is more... progressive than Papa's."

"Women in actual power positions," Sophia nodded, clearly having done her research. "Not just wives and daughters pulling strings behind the scenes."

"You've been investigating," you observed, surprised by her knowledge.

"Of course I have," she replied with an eye roll. "My big sister is marrying into this family. I needed to vet them."

The protectiveness behind the statement touched you unexpectedly. "And your assessment?"

"He's intimidating as all hell," Sophia admitted. "But legitimate from a business perspective. Built everything from scratch, which is impressive. And treats his people well, which is rare in our world."

"She's been obsessively reading everything she could find about him," Gabriella added. "It's been Hamilton this, Hamilton that for days."

"Just gathering intelligence," Sophia defended. "Especially since you've been so tight-lipped about the whole thing."

"There hasn't been much to say," you replied, though the statement wasn't entirely accurate. There had been plenty to process, just little you'd felt ready to share. "It's all happened so quickly."

"Too quickly," Maria murmured, concern evident in her expression. "Are you sure about this? About him?"

The direct question deserved a thoughtful answer. Your sisters were looking at you with varying degrees of worry, their excitement temporarily set aside in favor of genuine concern for your wellbeing.

"I'm as sure as I can be, given the circumstances," you said finally. "Lewis is... not what I expected, in mostly positive ways. He listens when I speak. Respects my intelligence. Agreed to my conditions regarding a formal role in the organization."

"But do you like him?" Sophia pressed, zeroing in on the personal rather than professional aspects. "As a person? As a man?"

The question caught you off guard, forcing you to confront feelings you'd been carefully setting aside in favor of strategic considerations. "I... find him interesting," you admitted carefully. "More complex than he first appears."

"That's not what I asked," Sophia persisted. "The kiss at the restaurant. Did it do anything for you?"

Heat crept up your neck at the memory—the surprisingly gentle press of his lips against yours, the controlled restraint that hinted at something more carefully held in check. "How did you know about that?"

"Javier was working the valet stand," Sophia grinned. "Nothing happens in Little Italy without someone in our circle seeing it."

"So?" Maria prompted, now equally curious. "Was there a spark? Chemistry? Anything to build on beyond the business arrangement?"

You took a sip of champagne, using the moment to gather your thoughts. "There's... something," you acknowledged finally. "I don't know if I'd call it chemistry exactly, but definitely interest. Curiosity, at least."

"Curiosity is a start," Gabriella nodded sagely. "And he's obviously attracted to you."

"How could you possibly know that?" you challenged.

"The way he watches you when he thinks no one's looking," she replied simply. "Like he's trying to solve a particularly complex equation."

"That doesn't sound like attraction," you pointed out. "That sounds like strategic assessment."

"For a man like Hamilton, they might be the same thing," Maria suggested. "He integrates everything into his calculations. Including personal feelings."

The assessment was surprisingly insightful and aligned with your own observations of Lewis's carefully controlled approach to all aspects of his life.

A knock at the door interrupted the conversation, your mother's voice calling through: "Girls? The hair and makeup team is here. We need to start preparations."

"Coming, Mama!" Sophia called back, then turned to you with suddenly damp eyes. "I can't believe you're really leaving today."

"I'll visit," you promised, touched by her emotion. "And you'll all come to London soon."

"It won't be the same," she said, throwing her arms around you in an impulsive hug. "But I'm happy for you. Even if it's weird and rushed and scary."

Maria and Gabriella joined the embrace, creating a tangle of sisterly affection that threatened to undo your carefully maintained composure. These women were your constants, your confidantes, the ones who understood your particular position in a way no one else could.

"I'm going to miss you all so much," you admitted, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability that you'd never show in front of your father or Lewis.

"Enough with the waterworks," Maria said briskly, though her own eyes were suspiciously bright. "We've got a wedding to prepare for. Can't have the bride looking puffy-eyed in the photos."

The next few hours passed in a whirlwind of activity—hair styled, makeup applied, final adjustments made to the dress you'd selected for the church ceremony. Unlike the cream pantsuit from the legal signing, today's outfit was a concession to tradition—an elegant ivory sheath with a lace overlay, modest enough for church but stylish enough to feel like your own choice rather than a costume.

Your mother supervised the preparations with her usual efficiency, ensuring every detail was perfect while simultaneously coordinating with security regarding the transportation arrangements to and from the church.

"Lewis's people will take primary position once you leave the church," she explained as she fastened your grandmother's pearls around your neck—something borrowed, something old all in one. "Until then, our security maintains lead."

The detailed coordination was a stark reminder of the continuing threat from Bianchi and Suarez, a shadow hanging over what should have been a day focused solely on the ceremonial aspects of your union.

"Has there been any specific activity this morning?" you asked, remembering Lewis's agreement to transparency regarding threats.

Your mother hesitated briefly before answering. "Two of Bianchi's cars have been circling the neighborhood. Nothing overt, just... present. Making sure we know they're watching."

The information should have been concerning, but you'd become almost numb to the constant surveillance over the past week. "And Suarez?"

"Quieter. Which in some ways is more worrying." She adjusted the pearls with careful precision. "But the wedding party will have armed escorts front and back. The route has been secured. The ceremony will be brief, the reception even more so."

The stripped-down arrangements were a far cry from the elaborate celebrations typical for families of your standing, but security concerns had necessitated a more streamlined approach. Close family only, minimal external guests, everything condensed into a tight timeline that minimized exposure.

"Lewis sent this for you," your mother added, handing you a small velvet box. "To wear today."

Curious, you opened it to find a delicate diamond bracelet, classic in design but with subtle modern elements that aligned perfectly with your personal taste. A small card accompanied it:

To new beginnings. - L

The simple sentiment combined with the carefully selected jewelry—elegant without being ostentatious, personal without being presumptuous—reflected an attention to detail that continued to surprise you about Lewis. This wasn't a generic gift selected by an assistant but something chosen with your preferences in mind.

"He has good taste," your mother observed, watching as you fastened the bracelet around your wrist. "And pays attention to what would suit you specifically."

"Yes," you agreed quietly. "He does."

A final glance in the mirror confirmed that preparations were complete. The woman reflected back was poised, elegant, every inch the mafia princess about to forge an alliance through marriage. Only you knew the complex mix of emotions churning beneath that composed exterior—anxiety, resignation, curiosity, and something dangerously close to anticipation.

Downstairs, your father waited in the foyer, dressed in his finest suit, his expression an unusual mix of pride and something that might have been regret. He'd never been demonstrative with his emotions, maintaining the stern façade expected of a man in his position, but today there was a softness around his eyes that caught you off guard.

"You look beautiful," he said simply as you descended the stairs. "Every bit a Ricci."

"You mean a Hamilton," you reminded him gently.

"You'll always be a Ricci," he countered, offering his arm with formal precision. "No matter whose name you carry."

The statement was both reassurance and reminder—you would always be connected to your family of birth, always carry their expectations and protection, regardless of your married status.

The journey to the church passed in tense silence, the convoy of vehicles maintaining tight formation through the city streets. Security teams communicated via radio, Marco's voice a constant low murmur from the front seat as he coordinated with other teams along the route.

St. Anthony's loomed ahead, its familiar stone façade a constant in your life from weekly masses to family celebrations and funerals. Today it would witness another milestone—your marriage blessing, the formal acknowledgment of the union already established by law.

As the car pulled to a stop at the church entrance, you took a steadying breath. "Ready?" your father asked, more solicitious than usual.

"As I'll ever be," you replied honestly.

The church interior was dimly lit, candles providing most of the illumination in deference to the security team's preference for controlled environments. No photographers, no videographers, nothing to document the ceremony beyond memory.

Your sisters waited inside, serving as your only attendants, while your mother was already seated in the front pew. The guest list was minimal—close family, a few key capos from your father's organization, no external connections that might complicate security arrangements.

And then you saw Lewis, standing at the altar alongside Father Donato. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, crisp white shirt, and subtle gray tie—formal without being showy, appropriate for the sacred setting while maintaining his distinctive style. His usual ear piercings replaced with more subtle versions in deference to the church environment.

As your father escorted you down the aisle, Lewis's eyes never left yours, that intense focus now familiar though no less powerful for its familiarity. Something shifted in his expression as you approached—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of his usual controlled mask.

The ceremony itself was brief but traditional, Father Donato guiding you through the familiar rhythms of the Catholic marriage rite. You'd been surprised to learn that Lewis was also Catholic, another piece of information you'd gleaned secondhand rather than directly from him.

"I, Lewis, take you to be my wife," he recited, his voice steady and clear in the hushed church. "I promise to be faithful to you, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love you and honor you all the days of my life."

The traditional vows acquired new weight when spoken by someone of Lewis's reputation—a man known for his absolute commitment to his word, for whom promises were not made lightly.

When your turn came, you repeated the familiar phrases with careful precision, aware of the multiple layers of meaning they carried in your particular circumstances. This wasn't just a religious ceremony but the formal sealing of a strategic alliance, the public declaration of what had already been legally established.

The ring Lewis placed on your finger was a simple platinum band that complemented your engagement ring without overshadowing it—again showing his attention to detail and understanding of your preferences for elegant restraint over flashy display.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," Father Donato declared finally. "What God has joined together, let no one put asunder."

Lewis leaned in for the traditional kiss, maintaining the appropriate restraint for a church setting while still allowing his hand to rest lightly at your waist—a gesture that felt protective rather than possessive, anchoring rather than restricting.

And then it was done. In the eyes of the church, the law, and your world, you were officially Mrs. Lewis Hamilton.

The small reception that followed was held in the church hall rather than at a separate venue, another concession to security concerns. Limited to just family and a few key associates, it had none of the elaborate celebration typical for weddings in your circle, but the streamlined approach felt appropriate given the circumstances.

Your sisters surrounded you immediately, offering congratulations and cheerful commentary on the ceremony, while Lewis was momentarily engaged with your father and uncle in what appeared to be a serious discussion near the door.

"He couldn't take his eyes off you," Sophia whispered excitedly. "Like, not even for a second during the whole ceremony."

"That's generally where the groom looks during a wedding," you pointed out dryly, though her observation had not escaped your notice.

"It was more than that," Maria insisted. "There was actual emotion there. From a man who looks like he calculates when to blink."

You couldn't help but laugh at the description, accurate as it was to Lewis's usual controlled demeanor. "He's less robotic than he appears initially," you defended. "Just... reserved."

"Well, he looks at you like you're a puzzle he's determined to solve," Gabriella offered. "Which, for a man like him, is probably the highest compliment."

Before you could respond, Lewis appeared at your side, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back—a gesture becoming familiar despite its newness.

"Your father has some business to discuss with the security team," he explained. "We have about thirty minutes before we need to depart."

Your sisters exchanged meaningful glances before making themselves scarce with suspicious synchronicity, leaving you momentarily alone with your new husband in the crowded room.

"You look beautiful," Lewis said quietly, his eyes making a deliberate assessment that sent an unexpected warmth through you. "The dress suits you perfectly."

"Thank you," you replied, gesturing to the bracelet at your wrist. "And thank you for this. It's lovely."

"I'm glad you like it." A small smile touched the corner of his mouth. "I thought it complemented your style without trying to remake it."

The comment revealed more understanding of your personal preferences than you'd realized he possessed. "You seem to know a lot about me," you observed. "While I know relatively little about you beyond your business reputation."

Lewis considered this, his expression thoughtful. "A valid observation. What would you like to know?"

The direct invitation to ask questions caught you slightly off guard. "I didn't even know you were Catholic until this morning," you admitted. "Something that seems relevant given today's ceremony."

"My mother's influence," he explained. "She's quite devout. Scottish Catholic, very traditional in some ways despite her... unconventional choice in husband."

"Scottish?" you repeated, realizing how little you knew about his background.

"My mother was from Glasgow originally," he confirmed. "My father from Grenada. They met in London in the 80s, caused quite the scandal in both their families at the time."

The revelation that Lewis was also mixed, like you, though with different backgrounds, was unexpected new information. "So you understand the complexity of straddling different cultural identities," you observed.

"To some extent," he acknowledged. "Though my experience was somewhat different from yours. London in the 90s had its own particular challenges for mixed children."

The personal disclosure felt significant coming from someone as private as Lewis. "What else should I know about my new husband?" you asked, genuinely curious now about the man beyond the business facade. "Before we start our life together in London."

Lewis seemed to consider the question carefully. "I'm an early riser. Five a.m. most days. I prefer coffee black, music loud when working alone, silence when concentrating on complex problems. I run daily regardless of weather or schedule. And I have a twelve-year-old English bulldog named Roscoe who doesn't travel much but who you'll meet soon enough."

The litany of personal details delivered in his usual precise manner made you smile despite yourself. "A dog person. I wouldn't have guessed that."

The corner of Lewis's mouth lifted slightly. "Roscoe has been with me through some significant transitions. He's practically part of the security team at this point, though considerably less efficient at patrol duties."

"I look forward to meeting him," you said, surprising yourself with the genuine sentiment.

"He'll be pleased to finally have a proper mummy around the house," Lewis replied, a hint of actual humor warming his tone. "He's been terribly spoiled as an only child."

The casual reference to family dynamics, to a shared household with domestic routines, suddenly made the reality of your situation more concrete than all the legal documents and ceremony combined. You were actually moving into this man's home, becoming part of his daily life, integrating into his existing routines and spaces.

"Are you alright?" Lewis asked, clearly noting the shift in your expression. "You went somewhere else for a moment."

"Just... processing," you admitted. "The reality of all this. Moving to London. Living together. Being married in truth rather than just on paper."

Lewis studied you with that intense focus that still caught you off guard. "It's a significant transition," he acknowledged. "And happening more rapidly than either of us initially planned. If you need time to adjust once we're in London, that can be arranged."

The consideration was unexpected but welcome. "Thank you," you said sincerely. "I may take you up on that."

Marco appeared at the edge of the room, making a subtle hand signal that indicated it was time to depart. Lewis nodded once in acknowledgment before turning back to you.

"The car is ready," he explained. "Security has cleared the route to the airport. The plane is fueled and waiting."

The reminder of your imminent departure sent a fresh wave of anxiety through you. This was really happening—leaving New York, leaving your family, beginning a new life in London as Mrs. Hamilton.

"I should say goodbye to my sisters," you said, suddenly realizing how final this moment was despite promises of visits and calls.

"Of course," Lewis agreed immediately. "Take whatever time you need. Security can adjust."

The consideration—putting your emotional needs above rigid scheduling—was another small indication that Lewis might be more adaptable than his controlled exterior suggested.

Your sisters engulfed you in a group embrace when you found them near the dessert table, Sophia already teary-eyed despite her earlier attempts at maintaining composure.

"Call us the second you land," she insisted, hugging you tightly. "And every day after that until we come visit."

"Which will be soon," Maria added firmly. "Very soon. Whether Hamilton's ready for a house full of Ricci women or not."

"He'll manage," you assured them, fighting your own unexpected emotion. "He has a dog, apparently. Roscoe. If he can handle a spoiled bulldog, he can handle you three."

"A dog?" Sophia perked up immediately. "That's weirdly humanizing. I would have bet money he had, like, a tank of sharks or something suitably villainous."

You couldn't help laughing at the absurd image, the moment of levity cutting through the heaviness of goodbye. "I'll send pictures when I meet him."

Final embraces with your sisters, your mother, even a rare moment of demonstrative affection from your father followed—all under the watchful eyes of security personnel who maintained their vigilance despite the emotional context.

And then it was time. Lewis appeared at your side, offering his arm with formal precision. "Ready?" he asked quietly.

You took a last look at your family gathered together, memorizing their faces in this moment. "Ready," you confirmed, though the word felt inadequate for the magnitude of the transition.

Outside, a sleek black car waited, the convoy of security vehicles arranged in tight formation before and after. Lewis helped you into the backseat before sliding in beside you, his presence solid and strangely reassuring as the door closed with finality.

As the car pulled away from the church, you resisted the urge to look back, instead focusing on the road ahead—both literally and figuratively. For better or worse, your path was now irreversibly linked with Lewis Hamilton's, your future shaped by the alliance formalized today.

"To London," you said quietly, as much to yourself as to him.

Lewis's hand covered yours briefly, a surprisingly gentle gesture from someone with his reputation for controlled strength. "To new beginnings," he replied, echoing the note from the bracelet.

New beginnings indeed—as a wife, as a Hamilton, as a woman stepping into uncharted territory with a dangerous, complex man who continued to reveal unexpected depths beneath his carefully maintained exterior.

************************************************

The airport security protocols were unlike anything you'd experienced before, even with your father's typically thorough arrangements. Lewis's team had effectively taken control of the private terminal, men with hard eyes and visible weapons conducting security sweeps that extended to every individual within proximity of your designated path.

"Is this standard procedure?" you asked Naomi as she escorted you through another checkpoint staffed by stone-faced personnel.

"For Mr. Hamilton, yes," she confirmed. "Though we've elevated measures given the current circumstances."

The "current circumstances" being Bianchi and Suarez's alliance against you both. Your father's world had always contained violence, but Lewis's approach was different—methodical, layered, utilizing technology in ways the traditional families rarely embraced.

Lewis stood ahead, conferring with a tall, severe man you hadn't been introduced to. Their conversation was too low to overhear, but your mother's lessons in reading body language told you everything you needed to know. The tension in Lewis's shoulders, the slight forward tilt of his stance—the threat assessment had escalated.

When you finally boarded the private jet, you found the interior arranged for both luxury and functionality. The main cabin featured comfortable seating that converted for sleeping, while a separate section appeared equipped for secure communications and operational needs.

"We'll be wheels up in ten minutes," Lewis informed you, settling into the seat across from yours. "The flight path has been cleared with priority routing. About seven hours to London."

You nodded, watching as the cabin door sealed. Every aspect of the operation reflected Lewis's personality—efficient, precise, leaving nothing to chance.

As the plane began taxiing, Lewis checked his phone one final time, his expression hardening briefly before wiping clean.

"Problem?" you asked, already recognizing his micro-tells after weeks of careful observation.

He glanced up, seeming to debate how much to share. "One of Bianchi's cars was intercepted near the airport perimeter. Nothing serious, just an attempt at intimidation."

The casual way he dismissed what was likely an armed confrontation was characteristic of your world—violence so normalized it barely warranted mention.

"And Suarez?" you pressed, remembering your mother's comment about his concerning silence.

"No direct activity today," Lewis replied, his tone measured. "But he's mobilized more resources that suggest planning rather than immediate action."

"What kind of resources?" You kept your voice steady despite the implication.

Lewis's gaze was direct, assessing your reaction. "The type we discussed. More specialists in making problems disappear. But their focus appears to be on disrupting business operations rather than personal targeting at this stage."

The plane accelerated down the runway, the powerful engines pushing you back against your seat as you lifted into the air. Within moments, New York was receding beneath you—your home, your family, everything familiar falling away as you ascended toward the cloud layer.

"Second thoughts?" Lewis asked quietly, noting your gaze fixed on the diminishing cityscape.

"Not second thoughts," you clarified, watching the landscape transform into an abstract pattern of lights and shadows. "Just... acknowledging the transition."

Lewis nodded, understanding in his expression. "The first major move is always the most significant. It rewrites your mental map of where 'home' exists."

The observation was unexpectedly insightful, suggesting Lewis had experienced similar transitions himself—perhaps in his rise from whatever circumstances had preceded his current position of power.

Once the plane reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant appeared with refreshments. Lewis requested sparkling water while you opted for white wine, the tension of the day's events finally beginning to ease as the immediate security concerns fell away with each mile between you and New York.

"We should use this time to align on what to expect in London," Lewis suggested as the attendant discreetly withdrew. "The immediate arrangements and security protocols."

"Give me the highlight reel," you requested, taking a sip of wine. "I've had enough briefings for one lifetime this week."

A ghost of a smile touched Lewis's mouth. "We'll land at a private airfield rather than Heathrow. Security transfer to the residence, which has been secured and prepared. Tomorrow will be a buffer day—adjustment, settling in. The day after, orientation to the London operation if you're ready."

"And the security protocols? I assume they'll be similar to New York."

"More comprehensive initially," Lewis acknowledged. "Until we've addressed the Bianchi-Suarez situation more definitively. Naomi will be your primary detail, but the team includes six rotating personnel, all with specialized training."

"That seems excessive," you observed, though not critically.

"Perhaps," Lewis conceded. "But I prefer thoroughness to recovering from preventable errors."

It was a philosophy that had clearly served him well in building his operation from nothing to international significance. The meticulous attention to detail, the preference for over-preparation rather than reaction—these were qualities that aligned with your own approach to complex situations.

"And my role in the organization?" you asked, returning to the condition you'd established for agreeing to the accelerated timeline. "When does that integration begin?"

"As soon as you're ready," Lewis replied without hesitation. "I've arranged initial briefings with our financial team whenever you feel prepared to engage. Claire, our CFO, is particularly interested in your perspective on digital currency applications."

The immediate follow-through on his promise was both surprising and reassuring—evidence that your negotiated condition hadn't been merely a concession to secure your agreement but an actual commitment he intended to honor.

"I'd like to start the day after tomorrow," you decided. "No point playing house when there's actual work to be done."

Lewis nodded, that hint of approval appearing again. "I'll arrange it."

A comfortable silence fell between you, the hum of the engines creating a cocoon of white noise that allowed for reflection. You studied Lewis as he reviewed something on his tablet—the precise movements, the focused attention, the contained energy that seemed to radiate from him even in stillness.

"You're watching me again," he observed without looking up, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"Just trying to figure you out still," you replied with more honesty than you'd intended.

This time he did look up, something like genuine amusement warming his usually guarded expression. "And did your earlier assessment change?"

You considered how to answer, remembering your mother's advice about strategic revelations—show enough insight to establish credibility without revealing the full extent of your observations.

"You're still exactly as controlled as your reputation suggests. Very calibrated."

Lewis set aside his tablet, giving you his full attention. "Most people interpret that calibration as emotional distance."

"Most people aren't trained to read between the lines," you pointed out. "In our world, understanding what isn't being said is often more important than the words themselves."

"Is this a skill your father cultivated in you deliberately, or one you developed out of necessity?" Lewis asked, the question surprisingly personal.

"Both," you admitted. "Though my mother was the one who taught me to read body language, microexpressions. How to gather information from what men don't say as much as what they do."

Lewis nodded, understanding evident in his expression. "Your father underestimates you. It's perhaps his most significant strategic error."

The assessment was both complimentary and slightly unsettling—a reminder that Lewis had been evaluating your family dynamics with the same careful attention you'd been applying to understanding him.

"He sees what he expects to see," you said, loyalty to your father tempering your response despite the accuracy of Lewis's observation. "Daughters are assets to be protected and strategically deployed, not operational partners."

"His loss," Lewis replied simply. "And potentially my gain, if you're as capable as I suspect in the financial arena."

The straightforward acknowledgment of your potential value beyond the family alliance was unexpectedly refreshing after years of having your abilities sidelined or minimized in your father's organization.

The flight attendant reappeared to inquire about dinner preferences, temporarily shifting the conversation to more mundane matters. As the meal was served—surprisingly excellent for airplane food—Lewis steered the discussion toward London itself, gauging your familiarity with the city and noting areas near the residence that might be of interest once security protocols allowed for more freedom of movement.

It was the most normal conversation you'd had with him—practical but not purely business-focused, personal without veering into uncomfortable intimacy. A glimpse, perhaps, of what day-to-day interactions might evolve into once the initial adjustment period passed.

After dinner and you finally changing out of your dress and into something more simple, the flight attendant converted several seats into a sleeping area, complete with privacy screens and surprisingly comfortable bedding. The arrangement created a clear delineation between your space and Lewis's—a respectful acknowledgment that despite your legal marriage, the personal aspects of your relationship remained in early, cautious stages.

"You should get some rest," Lewis suggested as the cabin lights dimmed. "Time change hits hard if you don't sleep on the flight."

"And you?" you asked, noting he had made no move toward his own sleeping area.

"Need to finish reviewing some things first," he replied, gesturing to his tablet. "I'll rest later."

The response was what you'd expected—Lewis Hamilton seemed unlikely to waste productive hours even on a transatlantic flight. His reputation for tireless work ethic was apparently well-earned.

As you settled into the makeshift bed, the events of the past couple of weeks—the legal ceremony, the church wedding, the rushed departure from everything familiar—finally caught up to you. Exhaustion descended like a physical weight, and despite the unfamiliar surroundings, sleep came surprisingly quickly.

You woke some indeterminate time later to the sound of quiet conversation from the rear cabin. Disoriented briefly, it took a moment to remember where you were—on a plane bound for London, married to Lewis Hamilton, leaving behind the only life you'd known for an uncertain future in a new city.

The voices were too low to distinguish words, but one was clearly Lewis's, his measured tones recognizable even in hushed conversation. Something about the tension in his voice suggested the discussion involved significant business rather than routine matters.

Curiosity warred with the etiquette of pretending not to overhear, but your entire upbringing had emphasized the value of information gathered through careful observation. You remained still, controlling your breathing to maintain the appearance of sleep while straining to catch fragments of the conversation.

"...confirmed movement in the eastern territory... necessary response measures... timeline for..."

The phrases were too disconnected for complete understanding, but the general thrust suggested operational issues requiring Lewis's attention—likely the same "resources" Suarez had mobilized that Lewis had mentioned before takeoff.

The conversation concluded shortly after, followed by the sound of someone returning to the main cabin. Through barely-opened eyes, you observed Lewis move to the window, his expression more openly troubled than you'd yet witnessed. For a brief moment, the carefully maintained mask slipped, revealing the weight of whatever concerns now occupied his thoughts.

Then, as if sensing observation, his features reset to the controlled neutrality you'd come to expect. He glanced in your direction, and you closed your eyes fully, maintaining the steady breathing of genuine sleep.

You must have drifted off again despite your intention to remain alert, because the next thing you registered was the gentle announcement that you'd begin descent to London within thirty minutes. Sunlight streamed through the partially opened window shades, indicating morning had arrived during your transatlantic journey.

Lewis was already awake—or perhaps had never actually slept—his appearance somehow immaculate despite the overnight flight. He acknowledged your waking with a simple nod, offering you a cup of coffee prepared exactly as you preferred it—a small but notable detail that suggested he'd been paying attention to your habits just as you'd been observing his.

"Sleep well?" he inquired, his voice carrying that particular early-morning quality that made it slightly deeper than usual.

"Well enough," you replied, accepting the coffee gratefully. "You?"

"I've managed on less," he said, the shadows under his eyes suggesting he'd worked through most of the night rather than utilizing the sleeping arrangements.

As the plane began its descent, London emerged from the morning haze below—a sprawling metropolis that would now be your home for the foreseeable future. The reality of it struck you anew—this wasn't a visit or temporary relocation but your new life, your new base of operations, your new identity as Mrs. Hamilton taking physical form in this unfamiliar city.

"Welcome to London," Lewis said quietly, noting your intense study of the cityscape below. "For what it's worth."

The small acknowledgment of the complicated nature of your arrival—not quite forced, not quite voluntary, somewhere in the ambiguous middle ground of strategic necessity—reflected an awareness of your perspective that you found unexpectedly considerate.

The landing proceeded with the same precise efficiency that characterized all of Lewis's operations. As the plane taxied to a private hangar, you could see the security detail already assembled on the tarmac—a carefully positioned formation designed for maximum protection during the vulnerable moments of transfer from plane to vehicles.

"The security chief will coordinate the transfer," Lewis explained as the plane came to a complete stop. "Naomi will remain with you throughout. I'll be in the lead vehicle."

The separation was clearly strategic rather than personal—dividing high-value targets to reduce vulnerability. It was standard procedure in your world, though rarely employed so systematically in your father's more traditional operation.

As predicted, the transfer from plane to waiting vehicles proceeded with military precision. Naomi remained at your side, her vigilance never wavering despite the controlled environment, while Lewis moved ahead with his security team, all scanning continuously for potential threats.

The convoy of sleek black vehicles pulled away from the private airfield, moving through London streets with the coordinated flow of a unit that had rehearsed this exact scenario multiple times. Through the bulletproof glass, you caught glimpses of the city that would now be your home—historic architecture alongside modern skyscrapers, the distinctive London landmarks you'd seen in photos but never visited in person.

Forty minutes later, the convoy turned through an inconspicuous gate set into a high stone wall, revealing a surprisingly secluded property given its location in central London. The residence itself was an elegant townhouse, its historical façade concealing what you suspected were significant modern security upgrades within.

"Your first impression?" Naomi asked as the car pulled to a stop in a courtyard shielded from street view by strategic landscaping.

"Impressive security integration," you noted, recognizing the subtle indicators of a property that had been fortified without compromising its aesthetic. "Almost invisible unless you know what to look for."

Naomi nodded, approval in her expression. "Mr. Hamilton believes security should be thorough without being obtrusive."

Lewis was waiting as security personnel opened your car door, offering his hand with formal courtesy as you emerged. "Welcome to Belgravia," he said simply. "This will be your primary residence while in London."

The "your" rather than "our" was a subtle but significant choice of words—establishing the space as territory that belonged to you as well, not merely his domain that you were being permitted to occupy. Another small indicator of the partnership approach he'd referenced in your previous discussions.

The interior of the townhouse revealed exactly what you'd expected—historical architectural elements preserved alongside state-of-the-art security and modern amenities. The aesthetic was sophisticated without being showy, the furnishings clearly selected for both function and refined taste rather than ostentatious display.

"Your things arrived yesterday," Lewis informed you as staff appeared to take the minimal luggage you'd brought on the plane. "The primary suite has been prepared, along with an adjoining room set up as your private office, as discussed."

The separate office space had been among your requests during one of your planning conversations—a territory that would be exclusively yours within the shared residence. Lewis's immediate implementation of this preference was another small but meaningful follow-through on his commitments.

"I'll show you the essential areas," he continued, leading you through the main floor with efficient precision. "Security briefing will follow once you've had time to settle in."

The tour was comprehensive but concise—living areas, kitchen, dining room, library, and a surprisingly lovely conservatory at the rear of the property that overlooked a small but immaculately maintained garden. Throughout, staff appeared briefly before dissolving back into the background, each clearly trained to maintain the delicate balance between availability and invisibility that characterized well-run households in your world.

As you ascended to the upper floors, Lewis pointed out his office—a space clearly designed for both business functions and security, with multiple screens and communications equipment visible through the partially open door. "My primary workspace," he explained. "Though I maintain separate offices for different aspects of the operation elsewhere in the city."

The division between residential and operational spaces was more defined than in your father's home, where business frequently spilled into family areas with little regard for boundaries. Lewis's approach seemed more compartmentalized—another reflection of his preference for precise delineation in all aspects of his life.

The primary suite occupied most of the top floor—a spacious bedroom with adjoining sitting area, a luxurious bathroom featuring both shower and soaking tub that immediately caught your attention, and extensive closet space where you noted your clothing had already been unpacked and organized with meticulous attention to detail.

"The office you requested," Lewis indicated, opening a door to reveal a beautifully appointed workspace clearly designed with your preferences in mind. The desk faced windows overlooking the garden rather than the street—maximizing natural light while minimizing exposure—and the technology appeared to be top-of-the-line without being ostentatious.

"This is... perfect," you acknowledged, genuinely impressed. "How did you know exactly what I'd want?"

"Your mother provided some insight," Lewis explained, noting your surprise. "And I made certain educated guesses based on observation."

The admission that he'd consulted your mother about your preferences was unexpected—another indication of the thoroughness of his approach to integrating you into his life and operations.

"Thank you," you said sincerely. "For the attention to detail. It's appreciated."

Lewis nodded, accepting the gratitude without unnecessary elaboration. "I'll leave you to settle in. Security briefing in an hour, if that timing works for you. Otherwise, we can reschedule for later today."

"An hour is fine," you confirmed, grateful for the opportunity to process your new surroundings without an audience, however considerate that audience might be.

As Lewis turned to leave, you found yourself asking a question that had been forming since you'd entered the residence: "Where do you sleep?"

He paused, something flickering briefly across his features before his expression returned to its usual controlled neutrality. "Adjacent suite, connected through the shared sitting room," he replied, gesturing to a door you hadn't noticed initially. "As discussed regarding appropriate boundaries during the adjustment period."

The arrangement aligned with your previous conversation about the personal aspects of your marriage developing at their own pace separate from the legal and business elements—another commitment Lewis had implemented exactly as agreed rather than attempting to renegotiate once the legal binding was complete.

"Of course," you nodded. "Thank you for clarifying."

Left alone to explore your new space, you found yourself drawn to the windows overlooking the garden below. London stretched beyond—a city you'd visited but never truly known, now your home by virtue of marriage to a man you were still in the early stages of understanding.

The magnitude of the transition settled over you anew—not just physical relocation but the complete reorientation of your identity, your daily existence, your place within the complex world you'd been born into. No longer primarily a Ricci daughter but a Hamilton wife, with all the responsibilities and opportunities that entailed.

A sound from the garden below caught your attention—a distinctive snuffling that could only come from one source. Looking down, you spotted what had to be Roscoe—the English bulldog Lewis had mentioned—waddling importantly across the grass, supervised by a staff member who watched with obvious affection as the dog investigated the perimeter with methodical determination.

The sight of the dog—so normal, so domestic amid the high-security environment and criminal enterprise underpinnings—made you smile despite the weightiness of your thoughts. There was something endearingly incongruous about Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and calculating crime lord, having a beloved bulldog who was clearly treated as family rather than mere pet.

As you turned from the window to begin preparing for the security briefing, your gaze fell on the wedding band now paired with your engagement ring—the visible symbol of the irrevocable step you'd taken. For better or worse, your fate was now bound to Lewis Hamilton's, your future shaped by the alliance formalized through both law and religion.

The question that had followed you from New York remained unanswered: whether that binding represented constraint or opportunity—a more sophisticated cage or a genuine partnership with potential for growth beyond the strategic arrangement that had initiated it.

Only time would reveal which possibility would materialize. For now, you had a security briefing to prepare for, an organization to integrate into, and a new life to begin navigating—one careful step at a time.

..........tbd

[astoldbyaja]

Unbowed - 51 (Sinners 2025)

There was no time to mourn the dead, they were already ashes blowing away with the cold wind. Chayton ordered everyone inside their homes for the day. I sat seated on his couch with some blankets over me. Isaac, Kene, Abigail, Talking Raven, and Marcus were with us. Chayton was on one knee before me, one hand holding mine and the other rubbing my stomach.

“They were able to run into the village without anyone sensing them.” Isaac said with a grave tone. Talking Raven nodded.

“Yes, which means the blood of the Africans holds more magic then we could ever know.” she said. Marcus looked toward the window with deep eyes.

“They will return.” he said. “I can feel it.”

“You think that Italian is going to send his army here in the day?” Kene asked. Chayton didn’t say anything, he just looked at me and my stomach, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over my knuckles and my swollen stomach.

“If he’s managed to feed an army of blood drinkers colored blood then they would have already come.” Isaac said looking down in thought. “No… night is still their best cover if they come, they will come tonight.”

I was listening to everyone’s words and finally another thought caught me. Annie. I leaned forward some making Chayton’s bod shift to hold me close.

“We have to go check on Annie… if they came here, they most likely have gone to our house first and saw we wasn’t there. Chayton, we have to go check on her, before the sun goes down.” I said. His eyes flickered with emotion as if he was finally snapped out of his thoughts and finally stood.

“We will check on Annie. Everyone stays in their homes and prepare for unholy threats to come for us tonight maybe even the next tight.” he said firmly. I looked up at him with a wince. I didn’t want to be without him.

“I want to go with you.” I said using my arms to push me from the couch. My weight was already bearing down on me as he gently, pushed my shoulders back down.

“You are in no condition to move right now. You will stay here.” he said. I shook my head gripping both his arms.

“I don’t want to be without you tonight.” I said my voice shaking. “That house is our home, and we have to protect it too.”

“We cannot afford to split ourselves up, not now.” Marcus warned. Chayton looked down in thought of our words and he looked at Marcus.

“I agree, but we need to check on Annie. We do everything before the sun goes down. Isaac, Kene go grab the others. You’ll be coming with me.” he said. Isaac and Kene nodded and moved firmly from the house. Talking Raven and Marcus moved beside me with Abigail as well.

“We will go with you. I want to speak with Annie about African blood if she knows anything that could help us vanquish these demons.” she said. Abigail nodded.

“Me too.” she replied. Chayton looked around and nodded.

“We move in thirty.” he said. Everyone nodded and began to move. Chayton took my hand and helped me up. “You stay at the house, no leaving for any reason after sundown.”

I nodded and he began to move from the house.

As we Chayton drove in his truck, Thomas and James were in the bed of the truck, guns out and ready. Everyone else was on horses leading the down the way to our home. The horses were for both riding and warning of intruders. I looked out at the trees as they passed by, my hands gently rubbing my stomach. I hoped Annie was okay. As much as I love that house, I was more worried for her. I feel Chayton’s calloused hand gently curl around my left hand and I looked at him, giving his hand a squeeze. He didn’t look at me, his eyes were hard and he was focused, but his hand in mine was what gave me my peace, that showed me he was with me.

Thirty-five minutes later, we were pulling up in front of the house. The sound of the horses was what made the front door open. Seeing Annie step out made me relieved as I stepped out of the truck.

“Annie, are you okay?” I asked as she stepped down off the porch looking at all of us confused.

“Yes, I’m fine. What’s going on?” she asked. Chayton stepped around the truck and over to me. Thomas and James were stepping out the truck and they were moving to bring the horses around to the back to give them water from the lake.

“Vampires attacked the tribe.” Chayton announced. Annie stiffened.

“Anyone hurt?” she asked.

“We lost a few people. They came in started biting people immediately to distract us as they came for Nysa.” he announced. Annie winced.

“Did you see anyone around the tree lines?” Talking Raven approached. Annie shook her head.

“No… They came during the day? Why would they be so bold?” she asked. Talking Raven looked at Chayton who looked at Annie.

“We have fire keepers in our tribe… the singing must have been too strong for the blood drinkers to stay away.” she explained. Annie winced.

“You all must have some strong magic in your music for even vampires to risk death to come to you in broad daylight what had colored blood in them.” she said.

“Let’s talk inside. My men will keep watch around the house.” Chayton ordered and the five of us went inside. We sat in the living room and Chayton explained everything that Alessio had said about believing my blood could let them permanently walk in the sun and how the vampires that attacked us earlier weren’t sensed at all.

“Have you any knowledge on colored blood having that type of power?” Talking Raven asked. Annie was slowly walking the living room thinking.

“African blood ain’t all the same, from tribe to tribe many believe different things- magic is different in those who use it.” she said and looked at Chayton. “And you said this vampire… this Alessio used magic to see into Miles Carrington to poison yo’ trackin’?”

Chayton nodded.

“Yes. He knew magic. He was able to see into Miles soul.” he said.

“He said something about me being the granddaughter of slaves- that my blood was of an ancient civilization.” I said rubbing my stomach in stress. Chayton’s hand rubbed over my stomach as well. Annie nodded.

“If this vampire knows about African bloodlines, he may have practiced what magic he knows from an African vampire older than most.” She said.

“So colored blood’s magic runs deep then.” Talking Raven said. Annie nodded slowly.

“Yes, and it seems it gives vampires ability to hide from Choctaw’s spiritual means. If this vampire believes Nysa’s blood is what can bring them into the sun forever then we must do something and soon because if they get her blood and walk in the sun, they could infect everyone faster than the bubonic plague ever could.” she said.

“We need to be ready.” Chayton said. “Stakes need to be made; medicine bags need to be around everyone’s necks.”

Suddenly, a sharp pain hits my stomach, and I cried out in pain and hunched over making Chayton’s eyes shoot to me and he was at my side again.

“Nysa what is it!” he asks quickly. My stomach was hurting so bad.

“I don’t know. But my stomach is killing me!” I moan out in pain.

“Quickly, let’s get her to bed. Annie, Abigail help me” Talking Raven says. Annie nodded.

“Of course.” Abigail says both of them moving about the house as Talking Raven instructs them. Chayton, in all his strength, swoops me off my feet like a bride and carries me down to the room. I cry out more as they all follow me. I’m lied down in the bed, Chayton gentle cradles my head as he laid me against the pillow.

“I’m here my heart.” he said gently. Talking Raven enters and moves to sit between my legs. She pulls up my dress a bit.

“There’s blood. All this happening could have stressed out her baby.” she informed. Chayton kept his hand in mine as I cried gently. Abigail came in with some towels.

“Annie’s boiling some water.” she said. I groan as I squeeze Chayton’s hands.

“Her water hasn’t broken… but there is no way to tell if she’ll go into labor early.” Talking Raven explained. I was afraid, more so for my baby than anything else. I hoped he or she was okay!

Normal POV

1 hour before sundown

Ambrose Meyers had his own problem to deal with, an all-white mob yelling and screaming in front of his jail. Three houses, three white family’s were butchered and torn apart. Well the whites of Coahoma County had enough. They were armed at the teeth, torches and hounds with them.

“Them injuns were killin’ niggers and now they’re comin’ after decent white folk!” one of them yelled. Everyone began to nod and shout in agreement,

“The hounds have been all up and down their land, who’s to say they ain’t what killed Butch too!” another shouted and everyone agreed.

“Ya’ll need to get on out the street now! We ain’t find no bodies on any land ya’ll was all there!” Ambrose yelled.

“Them dirty injuns probably chopped up Henry Shaw and the rest of ‘em and attacked the others in their own houses and slipped out before anyone seen ‘em!” a third yelled. Ambrose’ voice was drowned out by the fear, the anger, and the hatred.

“Let’s go get em’!” someone shouted and all the men’s and young boys nodded as they now turned and began to walk down the street from their town making their way to the reservation. Ambrose growled out in frustration before moving into his own truck and driving off he had to get to Chayton first.

Standing high in a tree behind the jail house was Alessio, eyes cold and dead as he watched the angry mob begin to move. A match has been lit tonight, and the fire will spread. Dante, the last remaining vampire and family stood on the branch next to him watching the mob move.

“If we allow them to make it to the reservation, they’ll kill them all and go after the colored neighborhood next. That blood will be wasted” His cousin growled. Alessio was quiet for a moment. He knew this, he always knew this. He was angry, angrier than he had ever felt in a very long time. His brother was gone. He was alone now.

“Let’s use this to our advantage. I need more puppets anyways.” he purred looking down at the ground as some of his own hive members, white men, began to slip into the mob and disappear. They won’t bite just yet; they’ll wait until they reach the forest. “We wear the Indians down… then you bring her to me. We kill everyone else.”

“Vendetta.” Dante hisses and nods. Alessio nodded slowly.

“Vendetta.” He replies.

Taglist

@unsatisfiedanddisappointed

@jamera-ash

@butterflyybabe

@jamaicanqueen007

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[myheartsaysyes]

Magnolias Don’t Bloom Quietly

The Remedy Series | a Modern AU Smoke x Annie

Summary: Love deepens, futures shift, and quiet choices collide beneath celebration—while unseen eyes finally decide to step out of the dark.

CW: Explicit sexual content, rough consensual sex, wall sex, oral sex (f receiving), squirting, overstimulation, creampie, unprotected sex, pregnant sex, praise, possessive dirty talk, light manhandling.

WC: 11k

When you get to the part the header: Magnolias and Music...play the song. 🥰

A few days had passed since Annie stared down at those two pink lines and felt the world tilt under her feet.

She still hadn’t told Elijah.

She didn’t know why — not really. She wasn’t afraid of him being angry. That much she was sure of. Elijah didn’t do anger where she was concerned. What she was afraid of was quieter. Slipperier.

They’d never talked about kids.

Not in the “we’re planning this” way. Not in the timeline and names and schools way. Annie had always imagined marriage first — vows, rings, a dress — before babies. And yet here she was, pregnant by a man who had already changed her entire understanding of safety and love.

And if she was honest?

Look at him, she thought, watching Elijah from across the room. I’d have fifty-eleven kids with this man. He’s... beautiful. So fuckin’ beautiful it should be illegal.

Today felt like the day. Or maybe she just couldn’t carry the secret anymore.

They were at his penthouse — the one he and Stack shared. They both agreed it was time to sell it. Elijah said he needed help deciding what to pack up and what to leave for staging. The space felt like a museum of his old life: clean lines, glass and steel, everything expensive and intentional and untouched.

Elijah paced the living room, gesturing toward the furniture like he was narrating a list he’d already memorized.

“I’m thinkin’ we include the sectional and the dining set,” he said, scratching his jaw. “Buyers like turnkey. But the art… I might pull the art. That shit personal.”

“Mm-hmm,” Annie murmured.

He stopped mid-sentence. Turned.

“Annie.”

She stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, hands resting lightly on the glass, the city stretched out below her in late-afternoon gold. Her reflection stared back — softer somehow. Different.

“Babe,” he said gently. “You hear a word I said?”

She smiled faintly. “Huh, what? Sorry.”

Something flickered across his face — concern, recognition. He’d noticed. He always noticed.

And just like that, a memory rose up uninvited.

Flashback

The first time he brought her here, months ago, Annie had stepped off the private elevator and just… stopped.

Marble floors. High ceilings. Glass everywhere. The city wrapped around the apartment like a crown.

“Oh hell nah,” she breathed. “You been all up in my tiny-ass apartment eatin’ takeout and you had this?”

Elijah leaned against the kitchen island, watching her with that unreadable calm of his. “I wasn’t hidin’ it.”

“You were absolutely hidin’ it,” she laughed, spinning slowly. “This place got echoes.”

He didn’t laugh back.

Instead, he said quietly, “I didn’t know if you’d feel comfortable here.”

That stopped her.

“Your place feels… lived in,” he continued. “Warm. Like people actually belong there. This?” He gestured around them. “It’s just where I slept. Where I waited. I didn’t want you thinkin’ this was who I was.”

She crossed the room in three steps and cupped his face.

“When I’m wit’ you,” she said, voice strong, “I feel at home. I don’t care where we are.”

His mouth found hers then — the kiss starting soft, slow, the kind that made her forget where she was. Heat built fast. His hands slid under her shirt, thumbs brushing skin like he was learning her all over again. She backed into the cool counter, laughed into his mouth when the contrast made her gasp.

Then—

Ding.

The elevator chimed.

“Yo, Smoke, you got that—”

Keys jingled. Footsteps.

“—shit.”

Stack froze in the doorway, eyes wide, then immediately lit up like Christmas morning.

“Well damn,” he said, grin spreading. “Look at you, breakin’ house rules. I ain’t never seen a female up in here unless I’m fuckin’ ’em—uh—”

Elijah straightened so fast Annie barely had time to breathe.

“Nigga…,” He warned, low and lethal.

“I mean—” Stack held up both hands, backing away. “I’m just sayin’, yo lil’ nurse—Annie—is somethin’ special. Got you actin’ brand new. Guess miracles do happen.”

Elijah took a step toward him. “Stack…”

Stack laughed, dodging instinctively. “Aight, aight! I’m gone. Don’t kill me in front of company.” He winked at Annie. “Nice seein’ you again, for real.”

When the elevator doors slid shut again, the penthouse fell quiet.

Elijah didn’t laugh.

He turned back to Annie, wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest like he needed to anchor himself there.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured against her hair.

She tilted her head up. “About what?”

“About not hiding’ this place from you,” he said. “About how I feel when I’m at your place. About you.”

His forehead rested against hers. No jokes. No bravado.

“I don’t bring people into my life unless they matter,” he said quietly. “And you matter.”

She believed him.

Present

“Annie.”

The sound of her own name pulled Annie out of the memory. The first time she’d seen the penthouse—the  “glass tower”, as she’d named it—the laughter, the way he’d held her like he meant it… all of it slipped back into the past, right where it belonged.

He crossed the room slowly, stopping a foot away. “You good?”

Then his scent hit her—clean, warm, familiar. That cologne she loved. The one that always made her stomach flip.

Her body reacted before her brain could catch up.

Oh my God, she thought distantly. This baby is making me feral.

“Elijah,” she breathed, stepping closer—and instead of explaining, she kissed him.

Not gentle or careful.

His hands came up instinctively, holding her. “Annie—”

“I want you,” she whispered fiercely, her voice raw with need. “Right now.”

He searched her face, concern cutting through desire. “Talk to me.”

But she couldn’t—not yet. Instead, she pressed closer, her hands roaming over his chest, fingers clawing at the buttons of his shirt with rough urgency. She tore it open, buttons scattering across the floor like forgotten secrets, exposing the hard planes of his torso.

Their mouths collided in a fierce, breathless kiss—lips bruising, tongues sliding hot and desperate against each other. Elijah groaned into her mouth, one hand fisting in her hair to tilt her head back while the other gripped her ass, hauling her flush against him. She grinded against him, moaning softly as his fingers dug into her flesh, kneading and pulling her even closer.

Her palms slid over his skin, warm and taut, tracing every ridge of muscle before dropping lower. With trembling, but determined hands, she unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and shoved them down just enough to free him. Her fingers wrapped around his hardening length, stroking firmly, while her other hand cupped his balls, massaging them with a possessive gentleness that bordered on wild.

Elijah sucked in a quick breath, abs flexing under the drag of her touch. “Jesus, Annie…” he rasped, voice already wrecked.

He groaned low in his throat, hips jerking forward into her grip. A shaky exhale escaped him—half laugh, half growl—as his head tipped back for a second before his dark gaze locked on her again. “What are you doing to me, woman,” he muttered, the words rough and care-filled.

Annie’s lips curved into a wicked little smile against his jaw. “Makin’ you feel how much I need you,” she breathed, eyes fierce and soft all at once. “Same thing you always do to me.”

Elijah groaned again, his hands slamming against the floor-to-ceiling windows on either side of her head, bracing himself as the city lights blurred beyond the glass. He undulated against her touch, hips rolling instinctively, his breath hot against her neck as their faces drew impossibly close. Their mouths crashed together in a deep, devouring kiss—tongues tangling, teeth grazing, the taste of him flooding her senses like wildfire.

He tried to pull back, to speak again, but the desire was too potent, a storm they both surrendered to. “Annie… fuck,” he murmured against her lips, his voice a low rumble of surrender.

“I need it, Elijah,” she whispered desperately, her hand tightening around him. “Can’t wait anymore.”

She didn’t stop though, pumping him harder, feeling him throb in her hand. But then his control snapped back—not to halt, but to claim. With a growl, he surged forward, pressing her back fully against the cool glass, his body caging hers as his hands yanked at her clothes. He stripped her bare in seconds: shirt tugged over her head, bra unclasped and discarded, pants and panties slid down her legs until she stood naked before him, the city a silent witness below.

His mouth began its descent—starting high while he was still standing, lips brushing her collarbone with intent-filled hunger, trailing fire down her sternum and across the swollen curves of her chest. He lingered on her sensitive breasts, swollen and aching from the pregnancy she hadn’t yet revealed. His mouth closed over one nipple, sucking gently at first, then harder, his tongue swirling in lazy circles that made her arch and moan. He switched to the other, hands kneading the soft flesh, praising her with soft words between licks. “God, you are so beautiful… so fuckin’ perfect like this.”

“Yes,” she moaned, arching into his mouth. “Just like that… don’t stop.”

Only as his kisses drifted lower—over the soft plane of her stomach—did he slowly sink to his knees, worshiping every inch on the way down. When his lips finally grazed the curve where her belly met her hips, he was fully on his knees before her, gazing up with dark, possessive adoration. Annie whimpered, a mix of pleasure and secret ache, knowing he was unknowingly kissing the life growing inside her—their baby, hidden just beneath his touch.

“Elijah…” she breathed, the single word trembling with everything she hadn’t yet said.

He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, exposing her completely. His kisses danced along her inner thigh, teasing, nipping, until he reached her core. Then he dove in, eating her out with insatiable fervor—his tongue flat and broad at first, lapping at her folds, then delving deeper, circling her clit with precise, relentless strokes. He sucked and flicked, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her still as she bucked against his face. “Taste so good, baby,” he murmured into her, the vibrations sending shocks through her. “Let me make you feel everything.”

“Oh God, your tongue…” she gasped, fingers tightening in his hair. “I’m close… please…”

Annie’s hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, while her other hand roamed to her breasts, pinching her nipples as waves of pleasure built. She was feral, grinding against his mouth, lost in the animalistic heat. 

“I’m comin’… fuck, Elijah!” she cried out, voice breaking.

When she came, it hit like a torrent—squirting against his tongue, her body shuddering as he kept going, licking her through it, cleaning every drop with greedy swipes until she was trembling and oversensitive.

He stood, eyes dark with lust, and lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping tight around his waist. With one brutal thrust, he rammed into her, pinning her hard against the window. The cold glass bit into her back, a shocking contrast to the thick heat of him stretching and filling her completely.

“Fuck,” she gasped, head falling back against the pane.

He didn’t give her time to adjust—just pulled back and slammed in again, deeper, harder, setting a punishing rhythm. Each stroke dragged a cry from her throat, her nails scoring down his shoulders and back. The city lights blurred behind her, the whole world reduced to the slick slide of him inside her and the raw sounds they made.

“That’s it, take me,” he groaned, voice rough with possession. “You’re mine, Annie… all fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” she cried out, raking her nails deeper. “Always yours… harder… please, Elijah, don’t stop—”

He drove into her even more fiercely, grinding against her clit with every thrust, pushing her toward the edge again. Her walls fluttered around him, still sensitive from her last orgasm, and she felt herself spiraling fast.

But he wasn’t ready to finish here.

With a guttural sound, he slowed just enough to grip her thighs tighter. “Need you on the bed,” he rasped against her lips. “Want to feel you deeper.”

Still buried deep, he turned and carried her toward the bedroom, each step jolting him inside her and drawing broken, breathless moans from them both. Her legs trembled around his waist, the overwhelming friction pushing her dangerously close to the edge again. 

Elijah didn’t let her mouth go far. He kissed her fiercely as he walked—hungry, open-mouthed kisses that swallowed every moan she made. His lips slanted over hers again and again, tongue stroking deep in time with the slow roll of his hips, tasting her desperation. When she gasped against him, he nipped her bottom lip, soothing it with a slower, softer kiss before claiming her mouth once more. One hand cradled the back of her head, keeping her exactly where he wanted her, while the other supported her thigh, fingers digging in possessively.

“Stay with me,” he murmured roughly between kisses, breath hot against her lips. “Feel every step… feel me.”

She could only whimper in answer, clinging tighter, kissing him back with the same frantic need as the hallway blurred around them.

With a low, reluctant growl he finally pulled out—slowly, dragging every inch against her sensitive walls until she whimpered at the loss—and lowered her onto the cool sheets.

She lay there, chest heaving, thighs still quivering, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. Elijah didn’t make her wait long. He climbed over her, nudging her legs apart with his knees until she was spread open beneath him, utterly exposed and helpless in the most delicious way. One strong hand hooked under her left knee and lifted it high, draping her calf over his shoulder; the other slid under her right thigh, opening her even wider. The position left her completely at his mercy, hips tilted up to meet him, every inch of her offered like a gift.

He paused for a heartbeat—just long enough for their eyes to lock. Hunger, wonder, and fierce love burned in his gaze, mirrored in hers.

Then he sank back into her in one slow, deliberate thrust, burying himself to the hilt. Annie’s back arched off the bed, a charged cry tearing from her throat at the deep, perfect angle.

“Elijah…”

He started to move—long, powerful strokes that dragged over every sensitive spot inside her, relentless and unhurried at once. Each time he pulled back, he almost left her completely before driving forward again, filling her so thoroughly she felt him everywhere. His hand tightened on the leg over his shoulder, holding her open as he leaned down, lips brushing the soft skin of her calf in worshipful, open-mouthed kisses.

“Look at me,” he whispered roughly, voice thick with emotion. “Want to see you when you come for me.”

Her hands fisted in the sheets, then reached for him—nails scraping down his arms, his back, anywhere she could reach. Their eyes stayed locked, the intimacy almost too much: raw desire, fierce possession, and something tender threading through every thrust.

“So beautiful like this,” he murmured against her skin, kissing higher along her calf, nipping lightly at the sensitive spot behind her knee. “Spread open for me… takin’ me so perfectly.”

She couldn’t form words anymore—just broken moans and gasps of his name. The angle let him grind against her clit with every roll of his hips, the pressure building fast and unbearable. Her walls fluttered around him, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, pace faltering as his own control slipped.

“Fill me up,” she finally managed, voice trembling, desperate. “Want all of you… please, Elijah…”

He drove into her harder, faster, the bed creaking beneath them. One hand slipped between their bodies to circle her clit in tight, slick strokes. “Come for me, baby,” he rasped, eyes never leaving hers. “Let me feel you.”

She shattered first—back bowing, a silent cry caught in her throat as pleasure crashed over her in waves, her body clenching around him in rhythmic pulses. The sight and feel of her coming undone dragged him right after her. With a guttural moan he buried himself deep and let go, hips jerking as he spilled inside her in hot, endless pulses—claiming her completely, leaving her feeling utterly full and cherished.

He stayed inside her long after, lowering her leg gently and collapsing forward to brace himself on his elbows, forehead pressed to hers. Their breaths mingled, hearts pounding in sync.

Later on, as they lay tangled in the sheets, time slowed down, as if the world was waiting to exhale.

Elijah lay on his back, chest rising and falling, one hand resting on her hip like an anchor. He studied her face—really looked this time.

“Not that I’m complain’, but what the fuck was that? That wasn’t just ‘I want you,’” he said quietly.

She swallowed.

“Elijah…”

She sat up, pulling the sheet around herself, nerves buzzing. “There’s somethin’ I need to tell you.”

He went still.

Not tense. Not angry.

Just… still.

She took a breath. “I’m pregnant.”

The room fell silent.

Elijah didn’t speak right away.

The silence stretched like a held breath, her heartbeat echoing louder in the void.

His eyes dropped to her stomach. Not disbelief, but calculation. Processing. Like a man taking in a truth and turning it over carefully, making sure he understood every edge.

She rushed on, words tumbling out before she could stop herself. “I know we’ve never talked about kids and I wasn’t sure how to say it and I didn’t want you to feel—”

“Hey.” He sat up, reaching for her hands. “Stop.”

She looked at him, heart hammering violently against her ribs.

He exhaled slowly. Then smiled—small at first. Real.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that.

Okay.

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I had a feelin’ somethin’ was up. Just didn’t wanna say it, be wrong, and then have you look at me crazy—thinkin’ I was callin’ you big or somethin’. I like livin’.”

Annie blinked, then laughed, pushing lightly at his chest. “Boy, what?”

“I’m serious,” he said, grinning now. “You know how that go. You ask the wrong question and suddenly you apologizin’ for two weeks.”

She laughed again, softer this time, then searched his face. “But for real… you okay with this?”

He stilled at that—not alarmed, not defensive—just in the moment. “Okay with what?”

“With us. With this.” Her voice dipped. “I don’t want you thinkin’ I’m tryin’ to trap you. Especially after everything that’s happened.”

He cut her off gently, palms coming up to cradle her face. “Baby. Stop.” His tone was firm but warm. “I’m here ‘cause I wanna be here. Ain’t nothin’ about you that feel like a cage to me. You ain’t gotta question somethin’ that belongs to both of us.”

She swallowed, looking down. “You sure?”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Annie. Look at me.”

She did.

“I choose you. Every day,” he said quietly. “A baby don’t change that. It just mean we get to build somethin’ bigger than we already are.”

Her eyes filled. “You’re really happy?”

His smile came slow and sure. “Yeah. I am.” Then, softer, almost reverent: “I can’t wait to do this with you.”

She exhaled, finally letting the fear slip loose. “Okay.”

He laughed under his breath, pulling her into his chest.

“Okay,” he echoed.

Then, brushing a kiss into her hair, he added lightly,

“And for the record?” he added, thumb brushing slow along her hip. “You been drivin’ me crazy the past couple weeks.”

She snorted, laughter breaking through the nerves. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “All distracted. Snappin’ at me one minute, tryin’ to jump me the next. I kept thinkin’—either I did somethin’ wrong…”

She swatted his shoulder. “You are ridiculous.”

“…or,” he continued, unfazed, smile widening, “somethin’ was very right.”

She paused, looking up at him now. “You always this dramatic?”

“I’m serious,” he said lightly. “Doctor Moore’s professional opinion.”

She arched a brow. “Oh? So you went to medical school now?”

He laughed, pulling her in closer, forehead resting against hers.

“Nah,” he said easily. “But I know my woman.”

Her breath hitched. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know when somethin’ not right. When it feel different. When it don't come loud—but comes real.”

His voice softened, wonder threading through it now.“And this?” he said quietly. “This feel like God tappin’ me on the shoulder sayin’, ‘Yeah. You on the right path.’”

Her heart skipped—because she knew he wasn’t just talking about the baby.

She breathed him in. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He smiled against her skin.

He tilted her chin up, slow and sure, and kissed her—unhurried, grounding.

They stayed there for a moment longer, breathing each other in.

Then Annie pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

“There’s…” she started, then paused, bracing herself. “There’s somethin’ else I gotta tell you.”

His expression shifted instantly to one of concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing like that,” she said quickly, smoothing a hand over his chest. “It’s about Monica,” she hesitated. “And your brother.”

Something dark and unreadable passed across Elijah’s face.

Not fear.

Recognition.

The kind that said some storms didn’t need explanation — you just felt them coming.

And somewhere, not far from this moment, a velvet box and a path of magnolias were already holding their breath.

In a dimly lit office buried deep inside the federal building, Agent Emelie Ward stood alone, staring at the corkboard that had become her quiet obsession.

Photos spanned years.

Two boys with guarded eyes and too-keen shoulders, caught on grainy street cameras when they were barely out of their teens.

Two men at Brewster Gaines’s funeral, dressed in black, faces unreadable as they lowered a man into the ground who had somehow managed to be both powerful and invisible at the same time.

Elijah Moore.

Elias Moore.

The Twins.

Red string stretched between pinned images and yellowed newspaper clippings—drug rings dismantled, money trails that evaporated mid-ledger, rivals who vanished without a trace. Every case closed just enough to satisfy a headline. Every investigation stopping one inch before it reached them.

Always one inch.

Ward exhaled slowly and rubbed at her temples, the ache there familiar. She’d been chasing this pattern for years now. Different cities. Different names. Same gravity.

They were never at the center of the blast radius.

But everything bent around them.

Witnesses dried up.

Informants recanted.

Men who talked didn’t stay talking long.

Not dead, she didn’t think. Just… gone.

She’d learned early not to expect clean endings when it came to the Moores. They were careful. Smarter than the men who came before them. Patient.

That patience irritated her most.

Ward reached for her phone and dialed a number she knew by heart. It rang once. Twice. Then slid, as it always did, into voicemail.

She didn’t hang up.

She waited for the tone.

“This is Agent Emelie Ward… again,” she said, voice measured, calm, the way it always was when she was close to something real. “We need to talk.”

She glanced back at the board, at the most recent photo—two figures caught at a distance, exiting a building at night. Blurry. Unusable. But unmistakably them, if you knew how to look.

“I know you’ve been watching,” she continued. “And I know you’re tired of carrying this alone.”

A beat.

“You are the only person who can help us finish this. Help us take them off the streets for good.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch.

“Please, call me back.”

The line clicked dead.

Ward lowered the phone slowly, her eyes never leaving the board. She didn’t feel defeated. She felt… close.

Too close to stop now.

Somewhere out there, someone was weighing their fear against their guilt.

And eventually—

Everyone would have to make a choice.

Elijah Moore had planned stakeouts and heists with military precision.

But this?

This had him pacing like a soldier before battle.

For weeks, he’d been a quiet storm—calling vendors from his office after closing hours, reviewing layouts between meetings, memorizing floor plans like they were blueprints for survival. Only this time, the thing he was building wasn’t an escape route.

It was a future.

The venue had taken him days to choose. He’d toured half the city—rooftops with skyline views, ballrooms that felt too stiff, restaurants that were beautiful but soulless. Then he found this one: an indoor–outdoor space tucked behind a wrought-iron gate, with candlelit pathways winding through magnolia trees, and soft water features that hummed beneath the flicker of string lights.

It was elegant. Warm. Intentional.

Annie.

He worked closely with the party planner—down to the flowers, the lighting, the exact timing of the music. Magnolia blossoms were non-negotiable. When the planner suggested roses instead, Elijah had shaken his head.

“She’s from Louisiana,” he’d said simply. “And magnolias don’t wilt easy.”

The arch at the end of the walkway was his idea too—white draping woven with magnolia leaves and tiny lights, a screen hidden behind it that would quietly cycle through moments of them: blurry phone pictures, screenshots of Facetimes, candid shots she didn’t even know existed. Nothing flashy. Just proof.

Proof that he’d been paying attention.

Monica was his inside man.

He called her so often she changed his name in her phone to Pest just so Annie wouldn’t catch on.

“Relax,” Monica laughed during one of their calls, flipping through RSVP confirmations. “I got this. Annie suspects everything, but she ain’t clocked this yet.”

“She ask too many fuckin’ questions,” Elijah muttered, laughing softly as he paced. “I gotta damn near start lyin’ just to keep a straight face.”

Monica chuckled on the other end, fingers tapping against her screen as she scrolled through confirmations.

“Mm-hmm. That sound just like Annie.”

There was a brief pause — not awkward, just long enough for something unspoken to hover.

“And before you even ask,” Monica added, a little too quickly, “no. Stack stays out of it. He don’t need to be involved.”

She went quieter then, more to herself than him.

“He’s done enough.”

Elijah stilled.

Not confused.

Not surprised.

Just quiet — the way he got when a truth slipped out sideways.

“Aight,” he said evenly. “That’s fine.”

He didn’t ask what she meant.

Didn’t ask how his brother had done enough.

But the weight behind her words settled low in his chest — heavy with things he already knew, and things she didn’t realize he knew yet.

Monica sold it easy.

“Girls’ night,” she said casually that afternoon. “Dinner. Dress up. Just us.”

Annie raised an eyebrow but agreed.

At Monica’s place, the air was thick. Perfume layered with steam, heat, and the clean sweetness of hair products. Makeup crowded every inch of counter space—lip glosses, brushes, compacts opened and abandoned mid-use.

Annie studied herself in the mirror.

The haint blue dress she chose hugged her differently than she expected. Her curves were softer than they had been weeks ago, and her breasts were even fuller. So full, it made her pause when she caught her reflection from the side. Not bad. Just… new.

“You sure this ain’t too much?” she asked, tugging the hem down a fraction, then smoothing her hands over her hips like she could convince the fabric to behave.

Monica glanced up briefly, then went back to lining her lips. “It’s fine,” she said easily. “You look good. Real good.”

Annie smiled, but it wavered.

“I just don’t wanna look like I’m tryin’,” she murmured. “This supposed to be chill.”

Monica capped her liner, finally meeting Annie’s eyes in the mirror. “You not tryin’. You just… showin’ up as yourself. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

That helped. A little.

Annie nodded once, her shoulders loosening a fraction as she let out a breath. Still, she lingered in the mirror a second longer—one hand resting unconsciously at her waist, her expression caught somewhere between excitement and something she couldn’t quite name yet.

Then her gaze flicked over to Monica. 

She didn’t just gaze—she watched.

The emerald green slip dress skimmed Monica’s curves beautifully, polished and elegant, disguising just how frayed she felt underneath.

She kept her eyes from meeting Annie’s. Too much trained on her own reflection. Too poised.

Her hands moved too fast—mascara wand hovering, lipstick capped, uncapped, capped again—like if she slowed down even a little, something might spill out she couldn’t shove back in. 

Annie clocked it all.

The silence.

The speed.

The way her eyes darted everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Annie shifted her weight, the silence stretching thin between them.

“So…” she started carefully. “How you feelin’? About… everything. Everything meaning—the pregnancy.”

Monica stiffened.

Not dramatically. Not enough for a stranger to clock it.

Just a slight hitch in her shoulders—before she smoothed it away like it never happened.

“What pregnancy?” she said lightly. Almost breezy. 

Then quietly, more rigid.

“I already made an appointment. Chicago. Next week.”

Annie turned fully toward her. “Monica—”

“I’m not you,” Monica cut in, eyes still glued to the mirror. “This ain’t you and Smoke. Stack and I ain’t shit to each other. I made a mistake. I’m wit’ Terrance.”

The words hit wrong.

Too neat. Too rehearsed.

Annie let out a short breath—half laugh, half disbelief.

“Girl, please stop wit’ the Terrance bullshit.”

Monica’s jaw clenched. “Don’t—”

“No,” Annie said, stepping closer now. “You don’t.”

Her voice wasn’t loud.

It was tired.

“I’m tired, Mo. I’m tired of you dismissin’ me every time I ask you somethin’ real—but you expect me to open my chest and hand you everything when I don’t feel right.”

That landed.

Monica finally looked at her.

Annie didn’t back down.

“You remember when I left for Louisiana… I told you I needed space?” Annie continued, quieter but firmer now. “I went to there tryin’ to get my head together—and you showed up anyway. With Smoke and Stack.”

Monica’s face flickered.

“I told you I needed time,” Annie said. “And you still did what you wanted. I didn’t blow up. I didn’t shut you out. I swallowed it because I love you.”

She paused, letting that truth sit.

“But now I can’t even ask how you feel without you snappin’ at me like I crossed some line? When you stay crossin’ mine.”

Monica swallowed.

“You can’t keep doin’ that,” Annie said, softer now. “You can’t ice me out, pretend you fine, then expect honesty from me like it don’t cost nothin’. That ain’t fair.”

The mascara wand trembled slightly.

“If you liked Terrance like that,” Annie went on, gentler but no less steady, “you wouldn’t have given Stack a second thought. Not even with the bullshit. Not even with the games. Just… just say you caught feelings.”

Silence.

Thick. Pressurized.

Monica capped the mascara slowly this time. Set it on the counter.

Her shoulders sagged—just a little.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said. No edge now. No armor.

“And I hate that I care. I hate that I still do.”

Annie felt her chest loosen—not relief, exactly. Recognition.

Monica shook her head, a humorless laugh slipping out. “And I really hate that you can see straight through me.”

Annie stepped closer. “I ain’t judgin’ you. I just want you to stop lyin’ to me. And to yourself.”

Monica dragged a hand down her face. “I’m scared, Annie.”

There it was.

Not defiance.

Not dismissal.

Just truth.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’,” Monica admitted. “I don’t know how to fix it. And I don’t wanna feel like I’m beggin’ someone to choose me.”

Annie reached out, resting her hand over Monica’s wrist. Grounding. Familiar.

“You ain’t beggin’,” she said quietly. “But you are hurt. And that deserve to be said out loud.”

Monica nodded once. Just once.

Then she straightened, picked up her clutch—mask sliding back into place, but softer now. Less brittle.

“Can we stop talkin’ ’bout this?” she asked quietly. “Not ’cause you wrong. But ’cause if we keep goin’… I might not be able to stop.”

Annie held her gaze a beat longer.

“…Okay.”

But this time, it didn’t feel like being shut out.

It felt like a pause.

And sometimes, that was the most honest thing you could get.

Magnolias and Music

The place was an upscale indoor-outdoor restaurant tucked behind wrought-iron gates and climbing ivy, the kind of space that felt hidden from the rest of the city—like it had been waiting just for them. Warm fairy lights stretched overhead like a low-hanging constellation, their golden glow reflecting off polished stone floors and rich dark wood tables. Potted jasmine bloomed thick and sweet along the edges, the scent wrapping around Annie the moment she opened the car door, heavy and intoxicating in the evening air.

But the air here was too quiet.

Too… perfect.

Annie’s eyes narrowed.

“Monica,” she asked suspiciously, “why are we here? This place look closed. And not nan’ one of us got ‘order water and regret it’ money for this place.”

Monica was already out of the car, standing at the edge of the path with her hands on her hips, posture easy, smile locked in place like nothing in the world could touch her.

“Relax,” she said. “I know the manager. Friends-and-family discount.”

Annie squinted at her through the dim light. “Now you know you lyin’. That don’t even sound right.”

“Get out the damn car,” Monica called back, laughing, “before I leave you standin’ here lookin’ stupid.”

Annie shook her head, grabbed her purse, and finally stepped out, the door shutting with a soft thud behind her. As she fell into step beside Monica, unease curled low in her stomach—not sharp, not panicked. Just a quiet warning. The kind her body gave before her mind caught up.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the heavy doors closing behind them with a gentle click, she felt it.

That hum beneath the quiet.

Anticipation.

Like the entire space was holding its breath.

Annie slowed on the cobblestone path, eyes narrowing as she took it in. Empty tables gleamed beneath warm lights. Chairs perfectly aligned. Glassware already polished and waiting. No clatter of silverware. No low murmur of conversation. No life.

Just the faint rustle of leaves overhead.

And the scent of jasmine, thick in the air, clinging to everything.

Her pulse kicked up.

“Monica…” Annie whispered, her voice barely carrying. “Why it feel like we trespassin’?”

“Trust me,” Monica said quickly, fingers threading through Annie’s. Her grip was tight. Certain. Reassuring in a way that only made Annie more nervous.

Soft music floated through the space—piano first, slow and intimate, wrapping around them like silk. Robert Glasper’s keys twinkling gently, building into Bilal’s voice, smooth and soul-deep.

Love of my life you are

Everything beautiful to me comes from you…

Annie stopped short.

Her breath caught painfully in her chest.

That song.

Her song.

She’d danced to it barefoot in her kitchen a few times, laughing and spinning while Elijah pretended not to know the words, then mumbled them wrong on purpose just to make her laugh harder. She’d told him it was one of her favorites. Told him it felt like love sounded—like warmth and safety and everything good finally arriving.

The maître d’ appeared from the shadows, polished and warm in his crisp suit, holding out a single magnolia bloom.

“For you, miss.”

Annie stared at it, fingers trembling as she accepted the flower. White petals, open and fragrant. Southern as hell, straight from home.

“What is happening?” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Monica didn’t answer. She squeezed Annie’s hand once—gentle, encouraging—and started forward.

They moved down the candle-lit corridor slowly, each step echoing softly. Flickering flames lined the path in glass holders, casting dancing shadows on the ivy-covered walls.

With every step, the song swelled—not loud, not showy. Just present. Intentional.

Elevate my senses with your touch

Cause when we make love I become something new like

Butterflies…

The first face she recognized made her gasp.

Stacy.

Beaming from ear to ear, eyes glassy with happy tears, holding out a magnolia like it was sacred. “Congratulations, honey.”

Mrs. Donna stood beside her, dabbing at her eyes with a linen napkin. “Baby, I been waitin’ on this day longer than you know.”

Annie’s hands shook harder as she took each flower, confusion giving way to something heavier. Bigger. Overwhelming.

Next, Annie saw Dr. Ramirez, her favorite physician at the hospital. She smiled warmly, her voice soft. “You deserve every bit of this, Annie. Every single bit.”

Her knees felt weak now, like they might give out any second.

“Monica…” Annie whispered again, pleading this time.

Still, Monica said nothing—wiping away her own tears with her other hand—just guided her forward with that same firm grip.

Professor Harlan from Mississippi State, his kind eyes crinkling at the corners. Ms. Evelyn, Annie’s high school teacher from Louisiana, smiling like she’d known this day would come since the first time Annie mentioned Elijah to her. Friends from back home. Friends from here. Coworkers. Mentors. Each one stepping forward from the soft glow, handing her a magnolia like a blessing, like a promise.

Then Annie saw them.

Her world narrowed to that moment.

Maman’s hands flew to her mouth, tears already streaming. Papaw stood tall beside her, stable as a lighthouse, his eyes shining with pride. Audrick grinned wide but his eyes shone wet. Saira elegant and glowing in her dress. Denise—chin lifted, proud, already crying openly.

And Stack.

Their eyes met.

Just for a second.

Something unspoken passed between them—acknowledgment, history, gratitude. A quiet nod that said you’re family now. For real. Always.

Annie’s breath shattered into a sob.

“Why y’all here?” she managed, voice breaking. “Maman? Papaw? Y’all came all this way?”

Papaw chuckled softly, voice thick with emotion. “A very special young man flew us up here. Said it was important. And he was right.”

Maman stepped forward, cupping Annie’s tear-streaked face in her warm hands, thumbs brushing away the tears like she’d done since Annie was small. First in English, soft and sure: “And we would never miss this, bébé. Not for anything in the world.”

Then she leaned closer, voice dropping to the familiar cadence of home, Louisiana Creole rolling gentle off her tongue.

“Ma fi, ma kè plen pou twa. Ou mérité tout sa ki bon. Tout.”

(My girl, my heart is full for you. You deserve all that is good. All of it.)

Annie let out a broken laugh-sob, pressing her forehead to Maman’s for a second, breathing in the scent of her perfume and the faint sweetness of magnolia still clinging to her own hands.

Audrick stepped up next, tall and grinning even through the shine in his eyes. He pulled Annie into a quick, fierce hug first—strong enough to lift her an inch off the ground like he used to when they were kids—then set her down and held her at arm’s length.

“Lil sis,” he started, voice thick, “you done went and made all of us cry in public. That’s a federal offense back home.”

Annie snorted through her tears. “Shut up, Audrick.”

He chuckled, then grew serious, eyes locking on hers.

“Listen. I been watchin’ you build your life out here, workin’ hard, lovin’ hard, stayin’ you through everythin’. And now this man…” He glanced toward Elijah waiting beneath the arch, respect clear in his nod. “…he see you the same way we always have. Like you the sun. I’m proud of you, Annie. Real proud. And I love you, cher.”

He tapped her chin lightly with his knuckles, the old sibling gesture that always meant I got you.

“Now go get your forever, yeah? We all here watchin’.”

Denise wiped her cheeks fiercely. “Go on, baby. He been waitin’ long enough.”

They parted slowly, deliberately—like the Red Sea—revealing him.

Elijah - POV

Elijah stood beneath the flower-draped arch at the end of the path, a single magnolia trembling slightly in his hand.

His heart had been hammering since the moment he heard her car pull up. He’d paced this spot a hundred times tonight, rehearsing words that suddenly felt too small.

And the second Annie came into full view, everything else disappeared.

The planner hovering discreetly in the back. The crowd of their people, faces he loved, watching with held breath. The nerves eating holes in his chest all evening.

All he saw was her.

Crying. Laughing. Still walking toward him like she always did—like she trusted him to catch her, no matter what.

God, he thought, look at her.

This woman had seen him at his worst—raw, guarded, broken in ways he hadn’t even admitted to himself. Had loved him anyway. Had softened places in him he didn’t even know existed until she touched them.

The song played on, wrapping around his words like it was meant to be there all along—Bilal and Jazmine Sullivan trading harmonies now.

You’re the air that I breathe, my universe

The one that I need…

Long as I live, I’ll put you first

You’re my everything, my everything…

“You did all this?” she whispered, voice thick with tears as she finally reached him.

“For you,” he said, tears in his eyes, voice rough, barely above the music. “Every bit. Every light. Every flower. Every person here tonight.”

He took her hands in his, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin, the slight tremble that matched his own. The magnolias she held brushed against his fingers—white and fragrant, symbols of home for both of them.

In his mind, the lyrics echoed what he felt, deeper than he could ever say.

Said I never believe I’d feel this way

Couldn’t conceive then come again

Love you until I fade away

You’re my everything, my everything…

“I spent most of my life thinkin’ I wasn’t built for this,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers. “Love. Peace. Family. The kind that lasts.”

His breath stuttered. He felt the weight of every eye on them, but it didn’t matter. Only she did.

“Then you walked into my life and didn’t try to change me. You just… stayed. Saw me—really saw me. Made me wanna be better just by bein’ you. By lovin’ me the way you do.”

He swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat.

Cause I’ll never find another like you

I would never even try to…

“You are my home, Annie,” he continued, voice breaking just a little more. “My safe place. My peace. My future. My everything.”

He dropped slowly to one knee, the magnolia still clutched in one hand as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket with the other.

The ring caught the fairy lights—simple, timeless. A single diamond set in rose gold, elegant and warm. Her.

The chorus swelled one last time, soft and perfect.

You’re my everything, my everything…

“Will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she cried instantly, the word bursting out on a sob. “Yes—oh my God, yes!”

He stood, sliding the ring onto her trembling finger with hands that shook just as badly. It fit perfectly. Of course it did.

Then he kissed her—like the world had narrowed down to this one truth. Like every promise he’d just made was sealed right there.

Her arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss as magnolias crushed gently between them, jasmine and candle wax and tears in the air.

Until—

“Aight, aight!” Stack hollered from the crowd, voice booming with joy. “That’s enough of that! Let the rest of us breathe!”

Laughter burst through the space like champagne. Monica laughed too loud, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “Okay! Okay! Celebrate! Let me see that ring, fiancée!”

Applause filled the air, warm and thunderous. Cheers. Whistles. Someone started clapping in rhythm.

Annie lifted her hand high, sobbing and laughing all at once, the ring sparkling under the lights.

And somewhere, unseen in the shadows—

A camera flashed. Then another.

Capturing it all forever.

The party swelled the way good nights do—slow at first, then all at once.

Champagne flutes chimed against each other, laughter lifting into the warm air beneath the strung lights. The garden glowed gold and soft, magnolia petals scattered along linen-covered tables like someone had shaken spring loose just for them. Music drifted low and smooth, the kind you feel more than hear.

Annie barely touched the drink in her hand. She was still floating, still touching the ring like it might disappear if she didn’t keep checking. People kept pulling her into hugs, congratulations pressed into her shoulders, her cheeks, her hair.

Denise kissed her forehead and whispered, “You did good, baby,” like Annie had passed some unseen test.

Mr. Landry (Papaw) shook Elijah’s hand, then pulled him into a hug that lingered a second longer than expected. “Take care of my girl,” he murmured into Elijah’s ear.

Audrick clapped Elijah on the back with a grin that carried both approval and warning. “Welcome to the family, brotha.”

And then Stack arrived.

He cut a familiar figure even dressed up—dark suit, no tie, confidence worn like muscle memory. On his arm was Lauren. Pretty. Beautiful, really. Loud in all the ways that translated well on camera. She had already spotted the lights, the flowers, the architecture.

Stack didn’t miss a beat. He stepped forward, smile genuine as he pulled Elijah into a hug. “Look at you, bruh. Engaged and shit. I knew it was comin’, just didn’t think you’d do it like this.”

Elijah smirked. “You proud of me or just shocked I pulled it off?”

“Both,” Stack said honestly. Then his gaze slid to Annie. “Congrats, sis. You stuck with him. That’s love.”

Annie smiled, soft but searching. Their eyes held for half a second longer than polite. There was history there now—family-shaped, complicated, but real.

Lauren chose that exact moment to slide in beside Stack, already angling her phone like instinct.

“Oh my God, this is everything,” she chirped. “Congrats, you two! This lighting is insane — I’m definitely grabbing a few shots.”

She leaned in to kiss Stack’s cheek, barely waiting for a response, then drifted off toward the garden, phone already lifted, narrating quietly to herself.

Before Annie could even process it, hands were touching her arm.

“Annie!”

“Girl, let me hug you.”

“Congratulations!”

Her coworkers and friends closed in gently, eager and smiling, each wanting a moment — a hug, a photo, a word. Annie glanced back at Elijah as she was pulled a few steps away, her fingers slipping from his.

He smiled at her — that calm, grounding smile — and nodded, like he was telling her go on, I’m right here.

As he watched her go, he then looked back at Stack. “Really, bruh?”

Stack huffed. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious,” Elijah said, lowering his voice. “Tonight? You couldn’t come alone?”

Stack shrugged, eyes flicking across the room — straight to where Monica stood laughing with her and Annie’s coworkers, her and Terrance holding hands. Something in Stack’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t snap. Not tonight.

“She wanted to come. I didn’t think it’d be a problem.”

Stack kept his gaze on Monica.

She stood near Annie now, Terrance still beside her, his hand resting comfortably—too comfortably—at her waist. Monica was smiling, laughing, but her eyes weren’t where her body was. They kept drifting back.

To Stack.

Elijah followed the look, then turned back to his brother. “I thought somethin’ was… happenin’ there.”

Stack went still.

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Then, quietly, “I fucked that up.”

Elijah didn’t interrupt.

“I ain’t built for relationships,” Stack continued, voice low, honest in a way it hadn’t always been. “You know that.”

He swallowed. “Don’t mean I don’t feel it. Just means I don’t know how to keep it.”

Elijah studied him. “You gonna keep runnin’?”

Stack looked back at Monica again. Terrance leaned in to say something in her ear. She laughed—but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“…I don’t know,” Stack admitted.

Across the garden, Annie was pretending not to notice any of the back and forth looks between Monica and Stack.

Terrance congratulated her again, polite and warm. “That ring is somethin’ serious,” he said, nodding toward Elijah. “He did good.”

“Thank you,” she said warmly.

Monica smiled too — but her eyes drifted past them, just for a second.

Her gaze drifted past Annie’s shoulder.

Stack.

Their eyes met.

The world seemed to narrow.

Monica’s smile faded just a touch. She exhaled, then stepped back. “I’m gonna hit the restroom real quick,” she said. “Be right back.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

Stack watched her go.

Then, without thinking too hard about it, followed.

The hallway inside was quieter, cooler. Marble floors. Soft lighting. The muffled thrum of the party behind them.

Monica didn’t even pretend she hadn’t noticed him.

She stopped just short of the mirrors, hands braced on the marble counter, shoulders squared like armor she’d learned to wear too well.

A beat passed.

Then—

“What you want, Stack?” she asked quietly.

He slowed behind her, footsteps soft now, like he didn’t trust the ground not to give him away. “I ain’t mean to corner you.”

She laughed under her breath. Not humor. Reflex. “Funny. That’s usually your specialty.”

He winced but didn’t retreat. That alone said more than an apology ever could.

“I shouldn’t have left like that,” he said. No jokes. No sideways grin. Just truth, bare and unguarded. “That night. I fucked up.”

Monica finally turned. Her eyes were intent, shining in that way that meant she was holding something back with both hands.

“You always do,” she said. Not loud. Worse. Tired.

Stack stepped closer—too close for safety, not close enough for comfort. “That don’t mean it didn’t matter to me.”

Silence stretched, thick and electric.

Her breath hitched despite herself. His chest rose and fell like he was bracing for impact.

For a half second, the space between them felt like a memory instead of a hallway.

His hand twitched, like it wanted to reach for her waist.

Hers lifted—then stilled.

This is where she almost told him.

This is where everything could’ve changed.

Then—

“Monica?”

Terrance’s voice carried down the hall—polite, but edged now—as he stepped into view.

His gaze flicked between them.

The space.

The pause.

The way neither Monica nor Stack moved fast enough to pretend this was nothing.

Something clicked.

“Oh,” Terrance said lightly, but his eyes sharpened. “Am I interruptin’?”

Monica straightened immediately, like a switch flipped. The softness drained from her face, the mask snapping back into place so clean it almost hurt to watch.

“Nope,” she said quick and breezy. “Just ran into Stack. I was congratulatin’ him on officially havin’ my best friend as a sister now.”

Deliberately casual, her fingers tightening around her clutch. “I’ll be right there.”

Terrance nodded slowly. He didn’t look convinced—but he was smart enough not to ask questions he already knew the answers to.

“Aight,” he said.

Stack didn’t look at him.

Didn’t want to.

Didn’t trust his face to stay neutral if he did.

As Monica passed, she slowed—just barely. Long enough for only him to hear.

“Not tonight,” she murmured.

Stack swallowed, throat tight. “Yeah.”

She walked away without looking back.

Stack stayed where he was, jaw tight, chest heavy—staring at the space she’d just left behind like it might still hold her shape if he waited long enough.

It didn’t.

Out in the garden, the crowd had thinned to pockets of laughter and low conversation. Fairy lights swayed overhead, petals scattered underfoot where heels had tracked them all evening. A few guests lingered near the bar, others hugged goodbye, promises of brunches and visits floating into the night.

Annie finally found her way back to Elijah.

He was leaning near the edge of the patio, jacket slung over one shoulder, talking quietly with Denise and Mr. and Mrs. Landry. The moment his eyes found her, his whole body softened—like the night had finally caught up to him and decided to be kind.

“There you are,” he said, stepping toward her.

She melted into his side, fitting like she always did, her head resting just under his collarbone. For the first time since she’d walked through that corridor of magnolias, she let out a long, shaky breath.

“You okay?” he asked softly, hand settling at her lower back. Not possessive. Protective. Familiar.

She nodded, then laughed quietly. “I think so. Just… overwhelmed. In the best way.”

He brushed his hand lightly along her stomach. “You been on your feet all night. You tired?”

“A little,” she admitted. Then, lowering her voice so only he could hear, “But we’re okay. Me and… us.”

Something warm and reverent passed over his face at that. He bent slightly, forehead touching hers. “Good,” he murmured. “I been checkin’ in all night without wantin’ to hover.”

She smiled up at him. “I noticed. You did good.”

“Did I?” he teased. “Because I was two seconds from tellin’ everybody to clear out so I could steal you back.”

She shook her head, still half-dazed. “I can’t believe you did all this. It feels like I’m gonna wake up any second.”

He leaned closer, voice low and certain. “You not dreamin’, baby. This is real. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life makin’ sure you never forget that.”

Her chest tightened. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes shining. “Since I’m not dreamin’… how about we wrap this party up and get outta here so I can thank you properly for night?”

His brows lifted. A slow grin spread across his face. “Just say the word and I’ll tell every muthafucka up in here to get the fuck on.”

She laughed, swatting lightly at his chest. “Boy, you so crazy.”

He dipped down, kissing her softly. “Crazy about you.”

Around them, the last of the music faded, voices drifted away, and the night settled into something quieter—something theirs.

Annie laced her fingers through his.

“Aight, I’m ready,” she said.

And Elijah, smiling like a man who finally knew exactly where he was meant to be, squeezed her hand and led her home.

A couple days later, Annie still felt like she was walking an inch above the floor.

Everywhere she went at the hospital, hands reached for hers—nurses squealing softly, aides gasping dramatically, patients smiling when they noticed the ring glinting beneath the fluorescent lights.

“About time,” one older woman told her as Annie checked her vitals.

“Let me see it again,” another nurse said for the third time that shift.

Annie didn’t mind. She lifted her hand every time, heart swelling anew, the weight of the ring grounding and surreal all at once.

On her break, she settled into a corner of the cafeteria with a tray she barely touched. Her phone lay open beside her, Pinterest boards multiplying—venues, flowers, magnolias, lace sleeves, outdoor vows. Wedding magazines fanned across the table, pages already dog-eared.

She was smiling to herself when a familiar presence slowed near her table.

“Mind if I sit?”

She looked up.

Darius stood there, tray in hand, hospital badge clipped neatly to his chest. Same calm energy. Same observant eyes. But now there was something gentler in his posture—more cautious.

“Sure,” Annie said easily, shifting her magazines to make space.

He sat, set his tray down, and almost immediately his gaze dipped to her left hand.

The ring caught the light.

He smiled—slow, genuine. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“It’s… him, right?” Darius asked after a beat. “The guy from the club. The one who interrupted us.”

She huffed a small laugh. “Yeah. That’s him.”

“Figures,” he said, nodding. “He looked like the type who wouldn’t let somethin’ good slip past him.”

Their eyes met.

Something flickered there—not longing exactly, but acknowledgment. The kind that comes when two people recognize a moment that could’ve been something else, in another life.

Annie was the first to look away.

Which surprised her.

Why am I even hesitating? she thought. I’m engaged. I’m happy. I love Elijah.

Darius cleared his throat, pushing his fork around his plate without really eating. “I hope this doesn’t come out wrong.”

She looked back at him, composed. “Okay.”

“I’m not tryin’ to cross no lines,” he said carefully. “But… do you ever think about that night? Wonder what might’ve happened if things went different?”

Annie inhaled slowly.

She didn’t rush her answer.

“Yes,” she said honestly. “I did. For a little while.”

His shoulders eased—not hope, but relief at the truth.

“But,” she continued, voice firm now, “I also know exactly why it didn’t. And I don’t question it anymore.”

Darius studied her face. “You sure?”

She smiled—small, peaceful, unwavering. “I am. Everything worked out the way it was supposed to. God had His hand in it, even when I didn’t see it yet.”

He nodded, accepting it fully. “That’s good. That’s… real.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the hum of the cafeteria filling the space.

Then he smiled again—warmer, lighter. “For what it’s worth? He’s a lucky man.”

Annie’s smile softened. “I think so too.”

Darius stood, lifting his tray. “I won’t keep you. Wedding planin’ looks… intense.”

She laughed. “You have no idea.”

As he walked away, Annie glanced down at her ring again—not to reassure herself, but because it still amazed her.

Some doors didn’t close because they were mistakes.

Some closed because they led exactly where you were meant to go.

And this—this—felt right.

They hadn’t told anyone yet.

Not Denise. 

Not her grandparents.

Not Audrick or Stack.

Just the two of them, holding the secret close while imagining a life that felt almost too good to say out loud.

Annie’s family stayed in town for several days after the engagement. Papaw and Maman lingered the longest, savoring slow mornings, café breakfasts, and dinners that stretched late into the evening. Audrick and Saira had to leave sooner — work pulling them back — but not before Audrick pulled Elijah aside the morning they were packing up.

He didn’t posture.

Didn’t threaten.

He just clapped a firm hand on Elijah’s shoulder.

“You take care of her,” he said.

It wasn’t a warning.

It was a responsibility.

“I will,” Elijah replied. And meant it.

They waited until that night — at Denise’s house — after everyone had eaten, after the dishes were cleared, after the house settled into that soft, familiar quiet — to tell them.

Together.

Elijah reached for Annie’s hand first. Grounding them both.

“There’s somethin’ we wanted to share wit’ y’all,” he said.

Annie took a breath. Felt the room hold it with her.

“I’m pregnant.”

For half a second, no one spoke.

Then Denise broke.

A sudden inhale.

A hand flying to her mouth.

Tears first — fast and unfiltered.

“Oh my God,” she laughed through them, standing so quickly her chair scraped the floor. “Oh, thank You, Lord.”

She hugged Annie.

Then Elijah.

Then both of them at once.

She laughed again, wiped her eyes, then folded her hands and started praying right there in the living room — gratitude spilling out between sniffles and laughter.

Maman was quieter.

She cupped Annie’s face in her palms, thumbs brushing her cheeks, and whispered blessings in Creole — soft, reverent words meant only for mothers and daughters and the lives they carry.

Papaw didn’t say much.

He just nodded.

Eyes shining.

Pride written plain on his face.

Stack didn’t say anything at first either.

He just stared at Annie. Then at Elijah.

Something unreadable crossed his face — surprise, pride, fear — all braided together.

Finally, he stepped forward and pulled Smoke into a hug, careful, solid.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

He nodded back. “Then I’m good.”

Later — after the hugs, after the congratulations, after the room had calmed — Audrick pulled Elijah aside again.

This time, his tone was different.

He looked at Annie across the room. Then back at Elijah.

“You take care of both of ’em,” he said.

Elijah met his gaze. Fixed. Certain.

“I will.”

And this time, there was no echo of doubt behind the words.

Only intention.

The penthouse sold faster than Smoke or Stack expected.

One showing. Two follow-up calls. An offer that didn’t blink at the price—or the furnishings.

Elijah stood in the empty living room a few days later, Annie beside him, the echo of their footsteps bouncing off bare marble. The art was gone. The leather couch. Even the faint scent of cologne that used to cling to the place felt like it had finally lifted.

“It don’t even feel like mine no more,” he said quietly.

Annie slipped her hand into his. “That’s okay,” she said. “It was never really you anyway.”

He smiled at that—soft, relieved. Outside the windows, the city moved like it always had. Inside, something closed cleanly. No regrets. Just release.

They spent the next few weeks driving through neighborhoods, house hunting. Tree-lined streets. Suburban houses and houses in the city limits with good bones. Yards big enough for Sunday cookouts and kids chasing each other barefoot. Annie saved listings on her phone, already imagining paint colors and where she’d put plants. Elijah watched her do it, chest warm in a way that still caught him off guard.

Denise came along on one of the house-hunting afternoons riding in the back seat and offering commentary like she was chairing the inspection committee.

“Mm-mm,” she said, peering out the window as Elijah pulled up in front of a narrow townhouse. “Them stairs already makin’ my knees hurt just lookin’ at ’em.”

Annie laughed. Elijah shook his head and said, “Ma, you ain’t even the one gonna livin’ here.”

Denise waved him off. “I don’t care. I gotta think about visitin’. And I ain’t climbin’ no Olympic staircase just to see my son and grandbaby.”

The night before Monica’s flight, Annie went over to her place.

No big speech. No dramatics. Just two women sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the TV muted, a half-packed suitcase open on the floor.

“You sure you don’t want me to come?” Annie asked gently. “I can take a couple days. Be there with you.”

Monica shook her head, fingers worrying the zipper. “No. I gotta do this on my own. Get it over wit’. I don’t want nobody lookin’ at me with sad eyes.”

Annie swallowed. “Mo…”

“I’m serious,” Monica said, finally meeting her gaze. “This ain’t some big emotional journey. It’s a mistake I’m cleanin’ up.”

“That’s not—” Annie stopped herself, choosing her words carefully. “It’s your body. I know that. But Stack got a right to know.”

Monica’s jaw tightened. “I’m not tellin’ him shit.”

“You didn’t make that baby by yourself.”

“I said what I said,” Monica snapped, then softened a fraction. “Annie… please. Don’t push me on this.”

Annie leaned back, frustrated and scared and helpless all at once. “I just don’t want you carryin’ this alone when you don’t have to.”

Monica’s voice dropped. “I want to carry it alone.”

Silence settled between them—thick, unresolved.

Before she left, Annie hugged her hard. “I love you,” she whispered. “No matter what.”

“I love you too,” Monica said. But the words sat heavy.

The next morning, Stack showed up at Annie’s apartment unannounced.

She knew something was wrong the second she opened the door.

He looked wound tight—jaw set, eyes restless, like he’d been pacing for hours with nowhere to put the energy. No grin. No smart remark. Just tension sitting heavy on his shoulders.

“Smoke here?” he asked.

“No,” Annie said carefully. “He’s over at y’all mama’s. What’s goin’ on, Stack?”

He hesitated, gaze sliding past her into the apartment like he was deciding whether to step inside or bolt.

“You got a minute?” he asked. “I need to talk to you. And… I ain’t wanna do this over the phone.”

That was all the explanation she needed.

She stepped aside. “Yeah. Come on.”

They sat at the kitchen table—same spot where Monica had laughed and cried and avoided the truth more than once. No small talk. The refrigerator hummed too loud in the silence between them.

Stack rested his forearms on the table, fingers laced, then unlaced, then laced again.

“I woke up this mornin’ feelin’ like somethin’ was off,” he said finally. “Couldn’t shake it. Tried to tell myself I was trippin’. But I kept seein’ her face… Monica’s.”

Annie folded her hands. Took a breath.

“Monica’s pregnant.”

He didn’t react right away.

Just blinked.

Once.

Then again.

“Mine?” he asked quietly—already knowing the answer, just needing to hear it.

“Yes.”

The air shifted. Like the room tilted a degree to the left and never quite righted itself.

Stack leaned back in his chair, breath leaving him slow and controlled. He stared up at the ceiling, jaw working like he was grinding something down inside himself.

“She told you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How long you know?”

“A little while.”

Another pause.

“My brother know too?”

Annie nodded. “I told him.”

Stack swallowed. Hard.

“And she ain’t say nothin’ to me,” he said. Not angry. Just stating a fact that hurt more than he expected.

“She wasn’t gonna,” Annie said gently. “She’s goin’ to Chicago. Today. She plans to terminate.”

That did it.

Stack bent forward, elbows on the table, one hand dragging down his face like he was trying to keep himself together by force alone.

“Today,” he repeated. “As in… today-today?”

Annie checked her phone. “Boarding in forty minutes.”

He stood so fast the chair scraped loud against the floor.

“What airport?”

“Midway.”

He was already reaching for his keys.

“Stack—” Annie said, standing too.

He turned, eyes red-rimmed now, wide open in a way she’d never seen from him before. No swagger. No shield.

“I ain’t come here to argue,” he said. “And I ain’t come to stop her from makin’ a choice. But I ain’t lettin’ her do this without knowin’—without hearin’—that I would’ve showed up.”

Annie nodded, emotion thick in her throat.

“I don’t know what she’s gonna say when you get there,” she said honestly. “And I don’t know if she’ll forgive you.”

He nodded once. Accepted that.

“I fucked this up,” he said quietly. “But I gotta try.”

He moved toward the door, then paused.

“Thank you,” he said, voice rough. “For tellin’ me. For not carryin’ this by yourself.”

Annie watched him leave, the door closing softly behind him.

She stood there for a long moment after, one hand drifting unconsciously to her stomach.

Everything was changing.

Some things breaking.

Some things being born.

And none of it neat.

The engagement photos hit the internet before the champagne had even gone flat.

Lauren posted them just after midnight—stories first, then a reel, then a carousel—each one more intimate than the last. Annie walking through the magnolia-lit corridor. Elijah on one knee, eyes glassy. The kiss. The ring flashing like a promise forged under open sky.

The caption read:

If he doesn’t ask me to marry him like this? I don’t want it. 💍✨

The algorithm did the rest.

By morning, the images were everywhere.

Millions of views.

Thousands of comments.

Women crying in bathroom stalls at work.

Screenshots sent with this or nothing energy.

TikToks stitched and restitched.

Blogs pulling stills and calling it “the proposal that broke the internet.”

Someone zoomed in on Elijah’s face and captioned it:

WHEN A MAN IS LOCKED IN.

They didn’t know his name yet.

But they would.

In a quiet house across town, someone sat alone in the glow of their phone.

The video replayed.

Again.

And again.

Annie’s smile—soft, unguarded, radiant—felt like a blade sliding between ribs.

Elijah’s hand at her waist—steady, claiming, familiar—felt like theft.

Their thumb hovered.

Zoomed in.

The ring.

The guests.

Denise’s face.

Stack in the background, laughing—unaware.

Recognition sparked.

Not surprise.

Not confusion.

Calculation.

A message request buzzed onto the screen.

Ignored.

Instead, they opened their contacts.

Scrolled.

Stopped.

The name sat there—unassuming.

Dangerous.

Pressed call.

It rang once.

Twice.

A woman answered. Calm. Measured. As if she’d been expecting it.

“Agent Ward.”

Silence stretched.

Then a voice—smooth, even, sharpened by restraint.

“I think you’ve been lookin’ for me.”

Another pause.

Ward’s tone shifted. Lower. Focused. “Where have you been?”

A soft exhale.

“Watchin’.”

“And now?”

The screen reflected magnolia petals falling. A ring catching light. A future unfolding without them.

“Now,” the voice said quietly, “I’m done watchin’.”

The call ended.

Outside, the city kept moving—unaware that something old and furious had just turned its attention back toward the light.

Somewhere else, Annie slept with Elijah’s arm heavy across her waist, his palm warm over her belly.

Unknowing.

Unprotected.

And deeply, dangerously loved.

THE END.

Final Author’s Note:

That’s all she wrote folks! DONT HATE MEEEE!!! 🥺🫣😬

Can you believe this story was born from a oneshot that I ONLY wrote to see if I could write smut! 🤭😂.

Thank you, thank you, thank YOU for trusting me with your time, your emotions, and your hearts as we followed these characters through love, loss, healing, and the dangerous beauty of choosing each other anyway.

The Remedy was never meant to be a simple love story—it was about what we reach for when we’re bleeding, what we cling to when the past won’t let go, and what it costs to believe that something good can still grow in damaged soil.

I wanted to close not with neat bows, but with truth: joy and threat can exist in the same breath, and love doesn’t stop the world from watching. I hope you felt every beat the way I did writing it. Thank you for staying with me to the very last sentence. 🥹💜

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