Exhale The Bullshit

Life is a bitch, but she mine

[wewantsumheaad]

Baby Boy

Chapter: I

Erik Killmonger x Reader

This chapter is lowkey boring.

"Fuuucckk daddy you hittin' my spot, don’t stop!" Malina moaned loud cumming for the second time while she gripped the silk sheets of Erik's bed. He grabbed a handful of herloose weave and pushed her face into the pillow. She was being a little too loud while he thrusted his hips deep into her dripping core. "Shut up bitch you finna wake my peoples up!" He said slapping her ass as his thrusts got sloppier and rougher which meant he was close to cumming.  

'Ayee they betta' call a paramedic in the street I got leverage in the street' played for the seventh time. Whoever the fuck that is gon' have to wait, fuck that. He said to himself trying to get his nut.  "Turn the fuck over bitch." Erik said as he pulled out of her then stroked himself. He watched her intensely with lust in his eyes as she got on her knees in front of him looking up at him with her mouth wide open. "mmm gimme that nut daddy." Malina said as she rubbed her wet and throbbing clit. Erik shoved his dick down her throat, thrusting into her mouth not giving her a chance to breathe before he released down her throat. Erik pulled out of her mouth and grabbed his phone that was blowing up non-stop. Malina got back onto his bed and started to fall asleep. He looked at the screen and it read eight missed calls from 'Baby Girl' with a picture of him, his son Sage and his on and off girlfriend Solana. 'Shit, she about to cuss my ass out.' Erik said to himself running his hand over his face. The phone began to ring in his hand, he answered immediately.  

"Wassuh?" He said catching his breath.

"Don’t wassuh me mothafucka'. Finally, you know how to answer the goddamn phone! Erik what the fuck was you doin'?!" Solana yelled over the phone as her Jamaican accent came out. It only came out when she was starting to get mad.

"First of all, you need to calm the fuck down and realize who the fuck you talkin' to. I ain't one of them weak ass niggas you used to fuck with. And secondly, I was working out in the garage, my phone was in my room." Erik said as he walked into his bathroom and ran the shower.

"Erik you see what time it is, you know I gotta be at work in 30 minutes and don’t forget you got Sage all day today nigga."  She said as she packed their son's lunch since he was going to be spending the day with his dad.

Erik put his hand on his face and sighed in frustration forgetting that today was Wednesday and she worked an early shift. "I aint forget. Im on the way right now man."

"Don't fuckin' make me late nigga! Don’t be making extra stops to your other baby mother's house in my car neither. Bye." Solana said hanging up the phone before he could say another word.

Erik put his phone on his Bluetooth speaker and hopped in the shower to wash up. After he washed up and got out of the shower, Erik put on a fresh pair of briefs and basketball shorts with an all-white t-shirt then put on his gold chain with his father's ring on it and a pair of red & black Air Jordan retro 1s. He sprayed Solana's favorite cologne she loved so much on him. He looked at his dreads that were all over his head making a mental note to have her braid his dreads back later. He walked back into his room and seen Malina knocked out and snoring on his bed. He shook his head then smacked her hard on her thigh to wake her up.

"Aye c'mon you gotta go, I got shit to do so hurry up." Erik said picking up her clothes and throwing them on her face.  

Malina rubbed her eyes and yawned while sitting up then began getting dressed. "Damn nigga why you so hostile, its 7 in the morning."  

Erik clenched his jaw annoyed as he stared at her. "Exactly bitch I got shit to do and you need to bounce."

"I need to call an Uber first, I'll wait here." She said rolling her eyes putting her shoes on.

"No, you not you can wait on the sidewalk or in the middle of the road I don’t give a fuck just not in here so c'mon." He said grabbing keys, phone, wallet and his gold 9. mm and tucking it in the front of his shorts and pulled his shirt down to cover it.

"Ooooo you fuckin' so rude." She said walking out of his room towards the front door. Erik began to walk out of his room behind her and lock his room. He had a lot of valuable things in his room and he didn’t trust anybody.

Malina walked to the other side of the street and took a seat on the cracked curb while calling an Uber. Erik Looked across the street at Malina and started laughing while he got into Solana's 2005 BMW M3 and drove to her Apartment. He blasted all the old Mac Dre classics while pulling up to her apartment. Erik grabbed his phone and called her.

"Hello?" Solana said looking out the window of her apartment watching him pull up.  

"Im here, come open the door." He said parking then turned off the car and walking up the stairs to her door.

"mmhm." She said hanging up and unlocking the door then looking up at him with a scold on her face, narrowing her big green eyes that he's been countlessly mesmerized by with her arms crossed together.

"Damn ma, good morning to you too. You gon' let a nigga in?" Erik said chuckling looking down at her 5'2 figure that was dressed in an all-black dress with a low-cut V and some black gladiator high thigh heels. He licked his lips looking at her up at down. When Solana seen the slight gold in the bottom row of his mouth peak out, she damn near lost it. Erik wrapped his big buff arms around her slim thick waist and started kissing and biting on her neck. Solana's guard started to drop as he kissed her spot on her neck. She let out a soft moan and closed her eyes while Erik walked them into her apartment and closing the door behind them. "Im still mad at you don’t think just because you wore my favorite cologne I was gon' forget, I hate when you don’t answer the phone I be thinkin' the worst when you don't." Solana said pulling away from him and looking up at his 6'3 figure. "Ain't nothin' about to happen to me mama, so stop worrying much." Erik said grinning then pecked her lips.  

"Daddy!" A little voice yelled coming from his son as he ran towards him.

"Wassuh pop?" Erik smiled wide as he crouched down on his knees and met his son with a hug. "You all packed up for the day?"

"Yeah, mommy said I can bring my basketball now we can go to the park and you can teach me how to play." Sage said smiling while still hugging his dad.  

"Sounds like a plan but we gotta go take mommy to work before we go to the park pop." Erik said standing straight up while holding him.  

"And mommy only has 15 minutes to get to work because Daddy likes to take forever and a day to get here." Solana said grabbing her bag of fashion designs and purse then rushing out the front door towards the car.

"Well Daddy had to take a shower, mommy hates when Daddy is all sweaty and what not so that's the shit that happens." Erik disputed back grabbing Sage's backpack and ball walking out the door and locking it. "Why you rushing like I can't get you there in 10 minutes?" He said walking down the stairs towards the car. "Erik, I got a big presentation today, if you would've been here on time I wouldn’t be doing all this." Solana said grabbing Sage from him, putting him in the backseat then buckling him up. As she was bent over buckling him up, Erik was standing behind her staring at her ass. 'Damn it's been a minute since I been in them guts, that’s probably why she acting like that. Her ass been dickless.' Erik took a step forward as Solana stood up and closed the car door. When she turned around she bumped into his hard rock chest. Erik wrapped his arm around her and grabbed a handful of her ass. "You need your issue ma?" He said with a deep low voice bending down to talk into her ear and bite her earlobe lightly and pull it. She felt her thong get damp and her breath began to cut short. "N-no im good E. Can you please take me to work so don’t be late?" She said with her eyes closed knowing she had not had dick in a good 2 weeks and her core was throbbing. Erik smirked knowing her too well and that she was feigning. "Right, I got you later ma. C'mon so you can do this little presentation." Erik said pulling away from her and walking around to the driver's side and getting in. Solana straightened herself out and got in the car and looked at her phone to go over her notes.  

10 minutes later

Erik pulled up at her job and parked right in front the entrance. "See I told yo' ass that you were gon' make it on time. Yellin' at me and shit over the phone like you lost your mind." He said looking over at her as she rolled her eyes. Solana looked in the backseat at her son and smiled at him. He was a split image of Erik except for his eyes, he took after her big green ones. "You gonna be a good boy for daddy today pop?" She said smiling. "Yes, mommy I promise to be good." Sage said smiling held his hand out as they did their hand shake.

She turned forward to look at Erik, "You be good too punk."

"Im always good mama." He said while smiling then leaning towards her.  

"Mhmm, don’t get beat up." She said leaning in to kiss his full lips. He started to suck on her bottom lip before slipping his tongue in between her lips. Their tongues fight for dominance but as always Erik gets the upper hand. She lets out a small moan. Their kiss gets cut short as Solana's coworkers clap and admire the sight of them kissing. "What the fuck is wrong with your coworkers babe?" Erik said shaking his head looking at them. Solana shrugs and begins to get out the car with her stuff. As Erik is looking at her coworkers, one of them is matching his stare and licking her lips at him. They have a little stare off as Erik looks at her up and down at her smooth legs in her short yellow dress with silver heels. Their stare down gets cut short when Solana grasps his attention again. "Don't forget 5:05 Erik, don’t be late pickin' me up either." She said getting out and walking towards the front door. "I know ma. Have a good day. Get in the front little man." He said looking back at his son. Sage climbed into the front and strapped up smiling. He pulled off and started driving to the park. When Erik began to play I Get Around by Tupac he started to nod his head and rap the lyrics to the song he looked over and Sage copying him and started laughing. "That’s yo shit baby boy! I see you noddin' yo head too!" He said laughing and dapping his son.

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[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

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Say My Name

Summary: He’s supposed to be laying low. A job overseas went bloody, and Erik Stevens—black ops mercenary, ghost of the U.S. government—needs time to go quiet. So he crashes at his little sister’s place near Howard. But when he arrives, there’s a surprise: she’s got a new roommate. Her best friend. She’s grown since he last saw her. Grown in all the ways that test a man’s discipline. But Erik? He’s never been good at following rules.

Warnings: Age Gap Romance/ Forbidden Attraction/ Explicit Sexual Content (strong smut, oral sex, size kink, erotic praise, power exchange)/Slow Burn to Filthy/Obsession & Possessiveness/Sexual Tension in Shared Spaces/Mutual Voyeurism/Sexting/Emotional Denial/Resistance/Breeding Talk/Male Dom / Female Sub Dynamic

Part Two

Sanaa woke before her alarm.

The soft rustle of sheets followed her as she turned over, arm sliding across the mattress toward the sunlight bleeding through her curtains. It was quiet. The kind of weekend quiet that felt like it should last forever. No buzzing phones, no class lectures playing from her laptop, no Aaliyah shuffling through the hallway on speakerphone. Just stillness.

Saturday.

She blinked once, twice, then stretched—arms over her head, spine long, body arching like a cat. A low hum left her throat as her legs slid out from under the blanket, her skin still warm from sleep. She reached for her phone and tapped the screen. Almost seven. Just enough time to get through her morning routine and make that early Pilates class. Her feet met the floor with a soft thud. The hallway was dim as she padded to the bathroom, adjusting the spaghetti strap of her tank. The apartment was still. The bathroom light hummed on as she shut the door behind her. She glanced at herself in the mirror. She pulled off her bonnet. A tangle of curls framed her face, sleep still clinging to the corners of her eyes. She leaned in close and got started.

Face wash first, her fingertips moving in slow, upward circles. Then the rinse. Cold water splashed against her skin and made her blink hard, gasping softly as she reached for the towel. She patted dry, then began layering serums and moisturizers with the kind of careful rhythm she’d built into muscle memory. Next came brushing her teeth. She moved slow again, taking her time, watching herself in the mirror as she tilted her head this way and that. The girl staring back at her looked soft. Full lips. Sloped cheekbones. Golden undertones warming her brown skin. Thick brows arched with just enough attitude to betray her quiet energy.

She reached for the edge brush.

Her curls had dried into soft, full coils overnight, just how she liked. She misted her edges, smoothed product along her hairline, and worked the brush with practiced ease, swooping delicate curls into clean shapes. With both hands, she raked her curls into a sleek low bun at the nape of her neck, secured it, and smoothed down any flyaways. She was just slipping her gold studded earrings  in when she heard it.

A knock. Firm. Quiet.

Her eyes lifted to the door. She opened it slowly.

And Erik was standing there.

No shirt.

Loose linen pants hanging low on his hips, slung so low she could see the deep cut of his v-line beneath the shadows of his abs. He was broad. Built like power. Shoulders cut and thick, chest heavy with solid muscle, dark brown skin smooth in places and rough in others —the raised texture of healed keloid scars that mapped his torso like battle lines. A small black crown sat inked over his heart, half-hidden by shadows. His locs were tucked under a large satin bonnet.

And his eyes were on hers.

“Almost done?” His voice was still thick from sleep, deep and low like gravel.

Sanaa blinked once. Swallowed. Her hand stayed on the doorknob. Her eyes slipped down before she could stop them—tracing the ink spiraling down his right arm, blackwork patterns cut clean across his bicep and deltoid, Adinkra symbols coiled inside sharp lines. The panther head hidden there, barely visible, but watching. She followed it down to the taper of his forearm, where the ink ended and the scars began.

And then she looked back up.

He hadn’t moved. Still watching her.

She nodded, soft, “Yeah. All yours.”

Her voice didn’t sound like hers. She stepped out slowly. Tried not to let her arm brush against him. Failed. Erik stayed still, only stepping aside enough to let her through. She caught the scent of his skin in the space between them—like sandalwood, leather, and something warm and faintly sharp, like cloves. He smelled expensive. Like whatever he put on his skin was picked out by hand. Like he could afford to smell that good without even trying.

And it didn’t help that he looked like that.

Even half-asleep, he was still fine. Too fine.

The kind of fine you don’t acknowledge in daylight because if you do, it becomes real. The kind of fine that made Sanaa want to look back once more just to see the way the muscles in his back flexed when he walked.

But she didn’t. She kept moving. Quiet. Still calm. She made it back to her room and shut the door gently. Only when it clicked closed did she let out the breath she’d been holding.

And smiled.

Because she knew damn well she wasn’t thinking about Pilates anymore.

Not with that in the hallway. Not with Erik Stevens, shirtless and half-awake, filling the apartment with that quiet weight of his.

She sat on the edge of her bed and pressed her thighs together. Tried to calm her nerves before she said fuck the whole class and stayed home on purpose.

Not too long after, Aaliyah breezed in like she owned the place, already dressed for class in a tight hot pink crop top and matching leggings that hugged her every curve. Her curls were piled high on her head, and her water bottle clanked as she tossed her gym bag onto Sanaa’s bed.

“That rum punch last night? Nah. Took me out,” she said with a groan, rubbing her eyes dramatically as she yawned, “Swear I woke up at three a.m. with cottonmouth like I just crossed the Sahara.”

Sanaa let out a soft laugh but didn’t turn. She was at her full-length mirror, adjusting the hem of her workout top and brushing invisible lint from her hips. The sunlight streaking through the curtains kissed the gold in her skin. Her bun sat low and sleek, every edge swooped to perfection, gold necklace gleaming against her neck. She did one last once-over, turning to the side and lifting her arm just enough to check how her sports bra shaped her chest.

“I slept like a baby,” Sanaa said, smoothing her hands down the front of her leggings.

Liar.

She hadn’t slept that good. Not with Erik in the next room. Not after seeing what she saw. 

Your fine ass big brother got me distracted in the worst way. 

But Aaliyah didn’t catch it. She was mid-rant, flopping backward onto the bed, legs in the air as she started digging through her purse.

“I still need to pack. This damn fellowship got me stressed. Jordan keep blowing up my DMs like I ain’t tell him I was done with his ass. Like…boy, you had all semester to get it right.” 

Sanaa smirked and tuned her out just a little. Because from her spot at the mirror, angled just so, she had a clear view into the hallway. And Erik was at the sink. Brushing his teeth. The linen pants hung just as low. The flex of his back, those shoulders…he moved slow and deliberate, brushing with one hand while the other rested on the counter. His bonnet still covered his locs, but the rest of him? All that thick, built muscle, the curve of his waist tapering into a v-cut you couldn’t unsee once you’d seen it? Right there.

And Sanaa was drinking in every inch of him like she was the one still tasting that rum punch. He bent forward, cupped his hands under the faucet, and rinsed. Then stood tall again, dragging a towel slowly over his face and neck. Sanaa’s thighs pressed together without her realizing. He didn’t even know he looked that good in the morning. Or maybe he did. That was the problem. He probably did know. And he carried it like he didn’t need to say a word. The kind of man who could ruin your whole day before breakfast just by walking past.

And that’s exactly what he did next.

He stepped out of the bathroom. Still shirtless. Still smelling like cologne and sleep. His eyes lifted and locked on hers.

And didn’t move.

Aaliyah didn’t notice. She sat up on the bed, flapping her mouth like it was any other day.

“Good morning, big bro!” she chirped, finally clocking him.

Erik gave her a nod, voice low, “Mornin’, Lil’ sis.” 

Then he reached up, peeled off the satin bonnet, and shook his locs loose. They fell around his face and shoulders, thick and dark.

Sanaa’s throat dried.

She kept still, but her eyes stayed locked on him through the mirror. He glanced at her one last time—something sharp behind that gaze, something quiet and knowing—then started down the hall.

“Where you headed?” Aaliyah called after him.

He paused, turned slightly, “Bout to hit the gym. Get this retwist.”

Sanaa’s eyes dropped to the crown inked over his heart, still visible when he turned. A small black symbol sitting just above the scar tissue. She shouldn’t be staring. But she was.

“Oh perfect!” Aaliyah said, springing off the bed like she’d had the idea of the year, “Can you drop us off at Pilates? Take your fancy-ass truck since we ain’t Lyfting.”

He sucked his teeth like he wasn’t even surprised, “Ared.” That Oakland tone slid right through the hallway, “Let me get my shit on,” Erik said, “I’ll take y’all.”

And then he was gone.

His voice, his walk, the weight of him, still hanging in the air like heat. Sanaa kept her face calm, fingers adjusting the strap on her shoulder as if she hadn’t just watched the man’s entire body with her eyes wide open.

“You good, sis?” Aaliyah asked, applying lip balm. 

Sanaa nodded slowly, “Yeah.”

But the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth told a different story.

The kitchen smelled like coconut water and ripe mango. Aaliyah leaned against the counter, smacking on a slice of pineapple while Sanaa moved soft behind her, digging through the fridge for the bag of strawberries she bought earlier that week. The morning light filled the space in streaks, golden and warm, and the girls moved around each other like they’d done a hundred times before.

“No way I’m workin’ out on an empty stomach,” Aaliyah said, popping another piece of pineapple into her mouth, “I almost fainted last week tryna be cute.”

“Because you drank tequila the night before,” Sanaa reminded, grabbing two bottles of water and sliding one over to her.

“And you was right there with me,” Aaliyah shot back, laughing.

Sanaa didn’t argue. Just smiled and perched herself on the edge of the counter, bare ankles crossed, a single strawberry pinched between her fingers. She wore her usual class fit—black leggings with that subtle sheen, a fitted workout tank. Clean, casual, soft but fine.

The air shifted before they even heard him. A quiet sort of shift. Like gravity leaned in.

Erik stepped into the kitchen.

Gym-ready. And fine as hell.

Black compression tee stretched across his chest like it had to fight to stay in place. His arms were too thick for the sleeves, the fabric hugging every line of muscle down to his triceps. He wore black athletic shorts, just long enough to hang low, but high enough to show the way his thighs curved thick and solid. His locs were pulled back now, jaw still sharp. Sanaa tried to act normal. She reached for another strawberry.

Erik opened the cabinet, grabbed a shaker bottle, and started scooping his pre-workout into it. His movements were quiet, smooth, like this wasn’t anything but a regular ass morning. Then came the Maca root capsules. He didn’t say a word while he took ‘em.

“Y’all ready?” he asked finally, voice low.

“Just about,” Aaliyah said, already headed to the living room to grab her sneakers.

As soon as she disappeared, Sanaa stayed right where she was.

Lingering.

Watching him.

Her eyes dropped to his arm, tracing the lines of his tattoo. The blackwork sleeve looked even more intense in daylight. Angular, geometric, wrapped around his muscle like it was carved there, not just inked. The pattern shifted slightly every time he moved, symbols tucked inside sharp lines, and somewhere near the curve of his bicep, that hidden panther head stared back.

Sanaa let her voice come quiet. Smooth.

“That sleeve look like it hurt.”

Erik’s brow lifted just a little, not even looking at her at first. He closed the shaker bottle, gave it two hard shakes, then glanced her way as he drank.

“I got scars all over my body,” he said simply, “A tattoo is light work.”

That made her pause. Her eyes slipped lower.

“…All over?”

It came out soft. Curious. More than curiosity though. There was a question under it she didn’t ask out loud.

Erik tilted his head just slightly.

Didn’t move at first.

Then he leaned a little to the side, just enough to glance down the hall—checked the corner near the entryway where Aaliyah’s voice was now muffled, singing along to something as she laced up her sneakers.

And then he looked back at Sanaa.

Down at her.

That quiet, heavy stare that made the kitchen feel too hot all of a sudden. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t have to.

“Watch how you talk to me.”

His words dropped low, quiet enough for her ears only. Her breath caught before she could help it. Her fingers went still on the strawberry.

And Erik? He turned back to the counter, as if nothing had passed between them. As if he hadn’t just pressed something invisible into the space between them. Sanaa slid off the counter slowly. Her heart was beating too fast for no reason. She could still feel the weight of his eyes even after he stopped looking. She grabbed her water bottle and walked out of the kitchen. Strawberry still in hand. Still sweet on her tongue.

And her thighs still tight.

Sanaa crouched near the entryway bench, one knee bent, fingers tugging at the laces of her black Adidas. She tried to focus. Tried to keep her hands steady. Tried not to let the way he said it echo so loud in her body.

Watch how you talk to me.

It wasn’t what he said. It was how.

That tone—deep, low, firm as concrete—had grabbed her by the spine. Pinned her in place. It wasn’t loud or flashy, but it didn’t need to be. It hit something raw. The look in his eyes? That slow tilt of his head, the way he scanned for Aaliyah, then set his gaze right back on her and didn’t blink?

That shit was dangerous.

It stirred something in her.

Heat. Low in her belly. A flutter, tight and trembling, pulsing like a warning. Her pussy clenched like it heard him. Like it understood better than her brain did. She crossed her legs at the ankle to calm it down.

Erik appeared in the hallway then. Black gym bag slung over one broad shoulder, his stride easy and slow like he was built from discipline. His shirt hugged his chest just enough to hint at what was underneath, and his shorts rode low again, teasing the cut of his hips.

But it was the way he looked at her.

Just her.

No words. Just that steady stare as he passed. It didn’t feel like checking in. It felt like checking her. Tension slid across the room behind him like smoke.

Aaliyah was already heading toward the door, tapping her phone, distracted,  “Let’s goooo. I booked the late spot so we got like fifteen minutes.”

Sanaa stood. Wiped her palms on her leggings. They filed out together,  Erik in front, the girls trailing behind. The air outside was brisk, cool on the skin but not enough to cut the heat still sitting on Sanaa’s chest. She could smell him again. Clean, sharp, masculine. They made it to the garage. His truck gleamed in the dim lighting—that murdered-out black, big body style. Clean as hell. You could tell he took care of it.

Aaliyah reached for the back door.

Sanaa didn’t hesitate.

She opened the front passenger door like it was the most natural thing in the world, and slid in, smooth and calm, like she belonged there.

She felt Erik glance over.

Didn’t look back.

Just clipped her seatbelt and let her body settle in.

He got in, started the engine with one hand, the other gripping the wheel. That one hand was thick, veined, scarred—strong enough to pull your whole life apart if he wanted. He didn’t speak. Neither did she. Aaliyah started talking from the back seat, something about class playlists, and whether she should switch to that yoga sculpt hybrid next week, but it was white noise to Sanaa. She could feel the weight of him next to her. Could feel her thighs pressed together, tight and clenched again, because her body wouldn’t stop remembering the sound of that voice and what it did to her.

Watch how you talk to me.

He drove with that slow, controlled rhythm—the kind of man who never jerked the wheel, never had to speed, because he knew wherever he was headed, he was getting there on his time. And Sanaa sat there quiet, soft, her hands folded in her lap like she wasn’t secretly unraveling beside him. They pulled up outside the Pilates studio. Glass windows, pastel signage, girls in leggings milling around with matcha cups and slicked-back ponytails.

Aaliyah popped her door open fast.

“Alright Bri, let’s get snatched.”

She hopped out and disappeared into the flow of women near the entrance.

Sanaa didn’t move.

She stayed turned slightly toward Erik, fingers resting lightly on her thigh.

“Hey…” she said softly. Almost too soft.

He looked over. Her voice barely above a whisper. Sweet. Like she hadn’t meant to ask that. Or maybe she did. Like she didn’t want to press where it hurt.

“I didn’t mean anything by that earlier,” she said, “Didn’t mean to be…outta pocket.”

She glanced at him, then looked down at her lap.

Erik didn’t answer right away. His hand stayed on the wheel. His jaw set. And then he looked at her—deep, low, deliberate.

“It’s cool, Nae Nae.”  he said.

Then came the faintest curl of his mouth. Not a smile. Not all the way. Just enough to show the dimple on his left side. Just enough to knock the breath out her lungs.

But the tension didn’t ease.

Not even close.

It was still heavy. Still thick between them. Still pressing on every part of her body that remembered how it felt when he stepped too close. When his voice dropped. When her pussy quivered just from the tone of him. Sanaa licked her lips, gave a little nod, and stepped out. But her heart was still pounding when the door shut behind her.

And Erik watched her walk away. Slow. Calm. Still not saying a word. Just gripping the wheel a little tighter. Like he was trying real hard not to circle the block.

Erik drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting heavy on his thigh. The windows were cracked just enough to let the cool in. His music wasn’t on, just the hum of the engine and the soft sound of city life sliding by as he moved through the streets. A stoplight hit red and his foot eased onto the brake, smooth, practiced.

And still—his jaw stayed locked.

His mind was on her.

“All over?”

The way she said it had been soft. Breathless. But it wasn’t innocent. Not really. There was heat tucked inside that voice. A little curiosity, yeah. But also a kind of quiet boldness that damn near made his dick jump. That “I know what I’m doing” edge. And coming from her? From Nae Nae? Erik let out a low breath, his chest rumbling with a sound that could’ve been a scoff. Could’ve been a laugh. He wasn’t even sure. Wasn’t the first time a woman asked him if the scars went deep. If they trailed lower. If they were still raised and textured down below his waistline. Plenty had. He remembered the usual questions. The slick attempts to act like they weren’t asking what they were really asking.

But this? This one hit different.

Because it came from her.

That quiet lil thing. The one who used to stutter when she said his name. The one who used to peek at him from behind her notebook when she thought he wasn’t lookin’. But now? Now she looked him dead in the eye and asked if his body was scarred everywhere. With that tilt in her head. That damn strawberry still in her hand. With her eyes tracing his tattoos like she was tryin’ to memorize the pattern with her mouth.

Erik chuckled low to himself. No teeth. Just that breathless half-laugh.

He shook his head once.

Yeah. He was in fuckin’ trouble.

Big trouble.

Because he knew what he looked like when he came out the bathroom. He knew the effect he had. Knew his body could start shit without him saying a word. But he hadn’t expected her to play back.

And she was playing.

Even if she didn’t say much, he could feel it. The way she lingered. The way she looked at him in that mirror. The way she slid into the front seat like she knew he wasn’t about to tell her to move. She didn’t ask for permission. Didn’t ask if it was cool. Just slipped in like the seat already belonged to her. He could still feel the ghost of her sitting there beside him. The press of her presence. The soft, sweet smell of whatever she put on her skin—coconut, vanilla, maybe something warmer underneath.

His fingers flexed on the wheel.

Because that voice? That mouth?

She wasn’t teasing him loud. Wasn’t doing the most. But she didn’t have to. That quiet boldness? The restraint? That was the shit that got him. And now? Now he couldn’t get her out of his head. The tension in the kitchen. The way her lips parted after he told her to watch her mouth. The way her body responded. Like she felt it. Deep. Like her thighs squeezed up and she got wet off his voice alone. Erik reached down and adjusted himself through his shorts, jaw flexing.

Yeah. He was in trouble.

Because if she said one more thing like that? Looked at him like that again?

He wasn’t gon’ be able to play cool. Wasn’t gon’ be able to just walk off. And the next time she asked about his scars? He just might show her.

Erik didn’t work out to look good.

He worked out to keep control.

By the time he hit the gym floor, his mind was already locked in. Focused. Every part of him operating like a machine programmed to burn through tension, sweat out impulse, and carve discipline where heat threatened to take over.

Especially today.

The weight of that morning still sat heavy in his chest. In his body. That voice. That question.

“All over?”

He was still carrying it.

The gym was quiet, early enough that only a few others were scattered across machines. Concrete walls, matte-black equipment, mirrors that stretched along the sides. Industrial. Minimal. Nothing fancy. Just metal, iron, rubber, and grind. He dropped his bag near the squat rack and rolled his shoulders back. Locs tied higher into a messy bun now, neck still damp with a sheen of sweat, his sleeveless hoodie already clinging to him at the chest. He slid it off slowly and draped it on the bench. The room caught the full sight of him. Tattooed, gleaming under the low light. Veins raised and pulsing down to his forearms. His chest thick, scars layered across skin like stories he never told. 

He chalked his hands. Cracked his knuckles.

Squats first.

Heavy. Five sets. Slow tempo.

He loaded the bar like ritual. Let the weight settle across his shoulders and locked it in tight. When he dipped into that first squat, he went deep—controlled—thighs parallel, ass damn near brushing the ground before he powered back up. Muscles tensed and released, glutes flexed, hamstrings tight.

Again.

And again.

Until the sweat slid down his back in slow rivers and his lungs pulled deeper with every rep. He wasn’t training for show. He trained like his life had once depended on it.

Because it had.

Deadlifts next.

Bar on the floor. Back flat. Core tight.

He hooked his grip and pulled. The bar left the ground like it owed him something. All legs and hips and back. Every repetition burned like penance, and he took it. Let it sting.

He wanted it to hurt.

He needed something else to ache more than the tension throbbing behind his shorts. Because he could still see the way she looked up at him when he said it. Could still feel the pull in his gut when he told her to watch how she talked.

And she liked it. He knew she did.

Erik dropped the bar hard, metal clanging, echoing through the space.

Bench press.

No spot. Just him.

He loaded three plates, laid back on the bench, set his feet flat. The bar came down slow to his chest. Heavy. Thick tension across his pecs, over his scars. Then the push. A clean, smooth press—controlled, steady, breathing through it with clenched teeth. By the third set, his arms were trembling. Sweat beading across his forehead, chest glistening, his jaw set like stone. But he didn’t stop. Not until his triceps locked and his shoulders begged for rest.

Pull-ups. Supersets. Cables. Abs.

Erik didn’t count minutes.

He worked until the rest of the world fell away. Until all he could feel was the burn. Until he could barely think about her. But not even that worked. When he stood at the mirror between sets, shirt off, sweat pouring, chest rising hard—he saw himself. And still thought about her. How her mouth parted. How her lashes lowered. How her fingers traced his tattoos like she was looking for something more than ink. He took one more pull of water from his bottle. Neck stretched, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then exhaled slow. He needed to calm the fuck down. Because if she looked at him like that again?

Erik already knew. He wasn’t gon’ walk away next time. He was gon’ show her. Every reason why that question wasn’t one she should be asking. Not unless she was ready to see for herself.

Why they nickname him Killmonger. 

The Pilates studio sat on the corner of a gentrified block, tucked between a minimalist juice bar and a boutique candle shop that always smelled like palo santo and privilege. But inside?

It felt like home.

Warm lighting glowed low overhead, sunlight pooling through the tall windows like honey. The floors were blonde wood, smooth and polished, with black reformer machines spaced in clean rows. A wall-length mirror reflected the class back at themselves: tight cores, glistening skin, slick buns and twisted coils pulled high. The scent in the air was soft—eucalyptus, fresh linen, and a whisper of sweat.

And it was all us.

Black women stretched and flexed in unison, their breath synced, moving to the rhythm of low, moody R&B playing from overhead speakers. Sade’s voice floated through the room, mingling with soft exhalations and creaking springs. The instructor, Tasha, stood at the front of the room in dusty rose leggings and a cropped sports bra, her voice a calm, grounded rhythm.

“Engage your core. Pull your bellybutton toward your spine. That’s it. Good. Stay with it.”

Sanaa was in the third row, mat centered. Hands gripping the reformer straps. Ankles trembling as she pushed and pulled, legs extended, glutes tight, abs shaking. Her breath came out steady, her lashes lowered in focus. But her mind? It wasn’t in the studio anymore. It was back in that bathroom. In that kitchen. In that truck.

It was with him.

Erik.

E.

The sound of his voice. That low, controlled rasp.

The way he looked at her when he said, “Watch how you talk to me.”

Her thighs clenched tighter on instinct.

“Keep your breath slow,” Tasha called out gently, “Don’t hold it, y’all.”

Sanaa inhaled sharp through her nose. Exhaled through parted lips. But her rhythm had slipped. Her knees wobbled. She adjusted, swallowing hard. Aaliyah was beside her, killing it as usual, brows knit in focus, edges still laid despite the sweat on her temples. Her bra top lifted with every inhale, her abs cutting deeper every time she pressed back.

Sanaa tried to stay with it. Tried to match pace.

But Erik’s face wouldn’t leave her.

The look in his eyes. The heaviness of his body. The scars across his chest. That tattoos. The way his biceps bulged under that black tee. The soft swing of his locs when he pulled his bonnet off. The way his voice curved around her name without even saying it.

Her pussy pulsed.

Right there. Mid-leg lift.

She dropped her gaze, focused on her core again, tried to shake it off.

This is not the time.

Get it together.

Focus.

But it was useless.

Because the more she tried not to think about him, the worse it got. She imagined his hands on her hips instead of the reformer straps. His breath on her neck instead of the studio fan. His body pressed behind her, his voice in her ear, telling her to stay still. Take it. Sanaa let her head dip for a moment, sweat trailing down the back of her neck. Her fingers curled tight around the straps, the reformer sliding with a soft creak beneath her.

She wanted him.

Bad.

Not just wanted—ached for him.

Every slow thrust of the machine made her think about how he’d move if he had her like that. The controlled rhythm of his hips. That same focus. That same quiet, deep intensity. She’d seen it when he drove. Bet he had it when he worked out. When he looked at her like she was next.

“Final ten seconds,” Tasha announced, counting them down.

Sanaa dug her heels in, pushed through, body trembling with effort. Her face stayed calm. But inside she was a mess of wet heat, messy thoughts, and one name on repeat.

Erik.

She didn’t know how much longer she could play cool. Because the burn in her thighs had nothing to do with the workout anymore. And everything to do with the man who told her to watch her mouth—and made her want to say even more.

To challenge him.  To see how far he’d go. 

After class, their bodies felt like soft clay—warm, stretched, molded from sweat and strain. They strolled two doors down to the little juice bar with the green tile walls and chalkboard menus. The place smelled like fresh ginger and mango pulp, buzzing with quiet conversation and blender motors. Ceiling fans hummed above their heads as they stood at the counter, reading off ingredients like it was scripture.

“Let me get the pineapple-mint with sea moss and ginger, no agave,” Aaliyah told the barista, pulling her phone from her crossbody, “Extra ice.”

Sanaa leaned in beside her, scanning the menu, still a little breathless from class, “I’ll do the papaya mango. Add flax. And oat milk.”

They dropped onto a bench near the window, sweatshirts tied around their waists, leggings clinging to their thighs. Sanaa unscrewed the top of her water bottle, sipping slow, trying to get her pulse down.

But Erik still sat heavy on her mind.

The grip of his voice. That look. She couldn’t shake it. She stirred her straw absentmindedly in her smoothie, lips slightly pursed.

“You quiet,” Aaliyah said, eyeing her, “Still thinkin’ ‘bout Pilates or somethin’ else?”

Sanaa gave her a look but didn’t answer.

Aaliyah snorted, “Anyway—you got a date this weekend, girl. Don’t go ghost!” 

Sanaa rolled her eyes with a soft smile, “I’m not—whatever. Shut up.”

“I’m just sayin’.” Aaliyah snatched Sanaa’s phone up and made her to her Bluesky. She swiped into her DMs and pulled up a picture, “Did you even look at his page? Girl he’s cute. Here.”

She turned the phone so Sanaa could see.

Nathan Blake.

27. Financial tech. Grew up in Bowie, lives in Adams Morgan.

Tall, light brown skin, low cut ceasar, thick beard, straight teeth. Clean fit. The kind of smile that knew it was photogenic. His latest pic showed him in a brown turtleneck and slacks at some rooftop brunch, a gold watch peeking out from under his sleeve. Confident but not too cocky.

Sanaa tilted her head, “He cute.”

“I know.” Aaliyah nodded, sipping her smoothie, “And tall. Got a decent job, can dress, so…”

Sanaa raised an eyebrow, “Oh yeah?”

“Swear on it,” Aaliyah said, “And he wanna take you to a real dinner. Like actual silverware and glass wine kinda date.”

Sanaa smiled behind her straw, “That might be a first.”

“Exactly. Might be different,” Aaliyah said, lifting her smoothie like a toast, “Might be the one.”

Sanaa clinked her cup against hers. But her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Because as fine as Nathan Blake was—clean, polished, emotionally available maybe—she was still thinking about someone else. Someone with scars and ink and a voice that lived in her body like it belonged there. Someone who drove with one hand on the wheel and looked at her like he knew everything. Someone with locs. Gold slugs. She took another sip. Let the sweetness sit on her tongue. But there was only one flavor she wanted right now.

And his name wasn’t Nathan.

Steam curled off Erik’s skin, slow and thick, trailing down the ridges of his back and shoulders as the hot water pounded over him.

Locs tied back. Head low.

The shower tiles were slick with heat and the smell of cedar soap. His body gleamed, dark and drenched, carved from every inch of discipline. Broad chest rising slow. Abs tight and cut deep, scars tracing the terrain like maps no one dared to read. Water ran through the tattoos on his right arm, the blackwork sleeve looking like it pulsed with life under the wet sheen. His muscles flexed as he rolled his neck, letting the water hit the base of his spine.

He didn’t rush. He never did.

Even when his mind was a little too busy.

Even when he kept replaying her face.

That voice.

That mouth.

After he rinsed clean, he stepped out slow. Grabbed a towel. Dried his chest, arms, and face before moving to the mirror.

His phone buzzed.

Aaliyah: You done? Can you come scoop us? We still at the juice spot.

Erik ran a palm down his face.

Erik: On my way.

He moved in rhythm. Hoodie over his tank. Joggers low. Cologne under the jawline. Watch. Chain. Wallet. Keys. Bag. No extra. By the time he pulled up to the curb near the juice bar, the sun had softened. That late afternoon gold hit just right. Windows down. Music low—a little Thundercat in the background, something bass-heavy and slow.

And then he saw them.

Aaliyah came first, laughing, hair piled high, her smoothie nearly empty as she yanked the door open and slid into the back.

Sanaa followed behind her.

Slower.

Sweaty. Glistening.

Her skin caught that sun like she was dipped in syrup. Espresso brown and glowing, sheen on her chest, edges still laid. She had her hoodie slung loose over one shoulder, the strap of her sports bra peeking out. Leggings hugging every curve. She opened the passenger side and slid in. Quiet. Calm. Looked at him for half a second.

And smiled.

Not big. Not flirtatious. Just soft. Knowing.

Then dipped her straw into her smoothie and sipped.

Erik didn’t say a word at first.

He just looked once.

Quick.

Then back to the road.

“Workout good?” he asked, voice even.

“Fire,” Aaliyah said, still animated in the back seat, “Pilates always gets me right.”

Sanaa nodded, legs crossed neatly in the front, “Yeah. Tasha had us doing slow holds today.”

Erik hummed low, “That’s that real burn.”

“Mmhmm.” Sanaa sipped again.

Then her phone buzzed. She peeked at Aaliyah. Grinned.

“Look who texting to confirm,” she sang, “Mr. Nathan Blake himself.”

Aaliyah poked her tongue out like Megan.

Erik didn’t react. Not out loud. But his grip on the wheel changed just a little. Hand shifted lower. Fingers flexed once. Sanaa showed Aaliyah the text.

“Oh he said he’ll pick you up?” Aaliyah laughed, “Not just meet you there? Girl, you might’ve found one with sense.”

“He seems nice,” Sanaa said lightly, not looking at either of them, “We’ll see.”

Erik didn’t speak.

Just kept driving.

But he was listening.

Real close.

Clocking the name. The tone. The little lilt in her voice when she said he seems nice. Like she was trying to stay neutral. Like she wasn’t sure.

He didn’t know why that irritated him.

But it did.

They pulled up outside the brownstone. Aaliyah unbuckled quick, already talking about her plans for the night. She pushed the door open and hopped out.

Sanaa lingered for just a beat longer.

Unbuckled. Reached for her smoothie. Opened the door slow.

Erik glanced at her once.

Her legs slid out. Her hand touched the frame.

And then she was gone.

No words.

Just a glance back over her shoulder before she followed Aaliyah up the steps.

Erik watched her ass all the way to the door.

Then exhaled. Deep.

Put the truck in drive.

And pulled off.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t call. Didn’t double back.

But his jaw stayed tight all the way to his retwist appointment.

The bell above the loc salon door gave a soft jingle as Erik stepped in, ducking his head slightly out of habit.

Inside was warm and low-lit, with sunlight filtering through gauzy amber curtains and the slow burn of incense riding the air. The scent was layered—lemongrass, castor oil, patchouli, and something faintly smoky, like cloves soaked in rum. The sound system played old-school Lovers Rock on low, the bass thick enough to feel in the bones but soft enough not to distract from the vibe.

The space was small but alive. Plants hung from ceiling hooks, vines trailing along the walls. Handwoven baskets sat under the windows. A painted portrait of Haile Selassie watched from behind the counter, framed in carved wood.

And in the center of it all stood Miss Marva.

Tall. Regal. Trinidadian to the bone.

Her locs were thick, silver-threaded, and so long they coiled like ropes around her bare feet. Dressed in a long linen tunic and deep green headwrap, gold bangles stacked up her arms, she carried the presence of someone who knew herself.

She looked up from her chair and smiled wide.

“Well well. Look who come crawlin’ back. Soldier Boy.”

Erik cracked a grin, stepped forward, “Had to come home.”

“Home is right. I was bout to file a missing client report.” She gave him a playful once-over, “Tinkin’ maybe you let some new gyal put her hands in yuh crown. You still my one dread, yes? Don’t be out here givin’ these pickney gyals free scalp massages.”

He shook his head slow, pulling off his hoodie, revealing the full length of his locs tied into a loose bun, “Ain’t nobody else touchin’ my shit but you.” 

Marva smirked, nodding approvingly, “Good. Else I’d haffi fight. Come bend yuh big Iron Back down so I can reach these roots, nah?”

She motioned for him to sit in the deep leather chair beneath the tall mirror, draped with a black cape already waiting for him. He sat, relaxed, his shoulders settling, legs stretched long in front of him. Miss Marva stepped behind him and pulled the tie from his bun, letting his locs tumble free down his back. She moved through them with practiced ease, parting, lifting, checking the roots with gentle but thorough fingers.

“Not bad, Erik,” she said, “Long time since your last retwist but you been takin’ care of it. No buildup. No breakage.”

He nodded, “Try to keep it clean.”

“And you did. Proud of yuh.” Her voice softened, “Your crown still strong, Big Man.”

Just then, a low, familiar voice rumbled from the back room.

“Who in here disrespectin’ the schedule?”

Erik glanced up to see Uncle Lennox step out, Miss Marva’s husband. A shorter, stockier man with salt-and-pepper dreads tied back and reading glasses hanging from his shirt collar. He wore a threadbare Bob Marley tee and house slippers.

The two men dapped each other up with a grin.

“Wha go on, soldier?”

“Coolin’,” Erik replied,“You?”

Lennox gave him a knowing look,“Can’t complain. Can’t retire neither.” He winked at Marva. “She don’t let me.”

“Yuh right I don’t,” she said, not even looking back. “Go fix up your station. He need a line-up when I done.”

They got to work.

First came the wash.

Miss Marva leaned him back into the ceramic basin. The water ran warm over his scalp, her fingers massaging deep, moving slow and sure. She used a handmade herbal shampoo—no heavy perfumes, just clean, plant-based lather that smelled like mint, basil, and a hint of ginger.

Erik exhaled as her fingers worked over his scalp.

Everything else faded. His shoulders softened. That tightness behind his temples melted away as the water poured and she washed with care.

“This ain’t just a service,” she said softly. “It’s a ritual.”

He didn’t speak. Just closed his eyes and let it be.

Then came the retwist.

She parted clean. Tight. Precise.

No heavy gels. Just rose water, aloe, and a little oil blend she made herself. Her hands moved with rhythm, tight enough to last, gentle enough to respect the roots. Every twist was neat. Uniform. She paused a few times to show him in the mirror.

“You see dis?” she said. “Still strong. Still thick. Still growin’. You doin’ good.”

Erik nodded, pleased. “Appreciate you.”

When she was done, she tied his locs back and stepped aside so Lennox could take over.

Lennox lined him up clean.

Clippers buzzed low. He faded the temples, touched up the nape. Razor along the edges. Gentle flicks and pressure.

“Still sharp,” Lennox said, nodding. “Don’t even look like you been stressin’.”

Erik didn’t answer that.

Because if Sanaa crossed his mind one more time, the stress was gon’ show all over again.

When the last hair was dusted, and the cape was off, Erik stood and looked in the mirror. His locs laid tight and fresh. The line-up crisp. The energy? Balanced.

He slipped his hoodie back on, thick fingers fishing out his wallet.

“How much?”

Marva waved her hand. “Yuh know the price.”

He handed her more than that.

Five folded bills. Quiet.

She raised a brow. “You always do dis.”

“You always deserve it.”

She smiled, lips pressed tight. “You a good man. Even when you brooding.”

He smirked.

“Tryin’.”

“Keep tryin’. But don’t let no woman twist you up worse than I twist yuh hair, hear?”

Erik chuckled low. He was just about to pull his hoodie over his fresh retwist when Miss Marva raised a hand, stopping him mid-motion.

“Wait, Big Man. Don’t run off so fast.”

She walked behind the counter, humming to herself— something old and melodic, maybe Dennis Brown—while her bangles clinked soft against each other. She bent down, opened a narrow drawer, and pulled out a tiny tin wrapped in banana leaf and twine.

Turned back to him with a little grin.

“Got a likkle somethin’ for yuh. Fresh batch.”

Erik arched a brow, “What’s this?”

“Lamb’s Bread.” She passed it to him gently, like a blessing, “Bright. Sticky. Pure from yard. Not that overbred nonsense. This the real ting. Rasta-grade.”

He opened the tin, leaned in, and let the scent hit him. It was pungent and sweet, with that citrusy, almost grassy sharpness that made his eyelids flutter low. Bright green buds, soft orange hairs. Sticky like resin between the fingers.

Miss Marva nodded at his expression, “Good, eh?”

He smirked, “Smell like clarity.”

“Exactly.” She stepped back and looked at him full on, “You carry too much weight in your chest, Mr. Silent Type. Let dis ease it.”

He slid the tin into his hoodie pocket with care, “Appreciate you.”

“And Erik?” she said, tone dipping low with meaning, “Don’t just burn it to burn. Let it center yuh. It open the mind. Calm the spirit. You understand?”

“Yes ma’am. I do,” he said quietly.

Lennox appeared in the doorway, still holding his clippers, “Aye, Marva givin’ out the righteous goods again?”

“She give it to who need it,” she shot back, not missing a beat, “And this one need it.”

Erik dapped him up once more, “I’m out. Tell y’all thank you again.”

“Always,” Lennox said, “Hold it steady, soldier.”

As Erik stepped outside, the scent of lemongrass and incense still clinging to his clothes. The tin tapped softly in his pocket, warm against his thigh. He slid into his truck, rolled his shoulders, and pulled his hood up over his fresh retwist.

But his mind wasn’t on the road yet.

It was still turning.

Still wound tight around the sound of her voice. The soft scent of coconut lotion and sweat. The way Sanaa looked in the passenger seat like she was born for it.

He didn’t light the Lamb’s Bread right then.

But he knew he would.

Maybe tonight.

When the house got too quiet. When that voice came back again. And he needed something to slow him down…before he did something reckless. That one woman that could make his crown feel heavy without ever laying a hand on it.

The sun had dipped low by the time Erik got back to the brownstone. Sky burnt gold at the edges. The kind of evening that made the city feel slow, thick with warmth and the hum of Saturday night getting ready to unfold. He parked, climbed the steps quiet, and unlocked the door slow and sure.

Soon as he stepped in, he could hear it.

Music floating from somewhere deeper in the apartment —soft, smooth, something with bass and intention. Sounded like Cleo Sol. One of those moody-ass tracks women played when they were mid-convo, curled up, talking just low enough to keep secrets.

He let the door close behind him.

The apartment smelled lived-in. Sage from earlier in the week, a whiff of edge control, and something sweet and tropical drifting from the diffuser Aaliyah always kept running. He dropped his gym bag by the coat rack and made a line straight for the kitchen. Pulled open the fridge and stood there for a second, letting the cold hit his chest. He spotted what he came for immediately—his leftover oxtail tucked behind a carton of oat milk. Rice and peas pressed firm against one side of the to-go container, cabbage still slick with flavor, and a few sweet plantains in the corner.

He smirked.

He pulled the container out, popped it open, and slid the plate into the microwave. While it heated, he turned and walked down the hall, socked feet making no noise on the hardwood. His room was dim, blinds still drawn. Cool air moved low through the space, curtains rustling like whispers. He opened the drawer in his nightstand and pulled out his rolling tray. Black tin. Clean grinder. A slim pack of organic papers tucked inside. He moved slow, unbothered, mechanical.

That’s when he heard it.

Giggling. Light.

Two voices.

Aaliyah and Sanaa, talking low in the other room. He couldn’t make out the words, just enough to know it was something private. A tone only women shared when they were talking about something sweet. Something interesting. He caught Sanaa’s laugh, soft and quick. Then the way Aaliyah said something like, “Girl, stop—” all fake scandal and excitement.

Erik’s jaw flexed.

He didn’t pause. Just walked back to the kitchen. The microwave beeped. Steam curling up through the door. He grabbed the plate, hot under his fingers, and sat down at the dining table in his usual spot—the one facing the hallway. Steam rolled off the oxtail, slick with gravy, bones peeking through tender meat. The rice was still fluffy, the cabbage soft. The plantain glistened like caramel around the edges.

Erik ate slow. Clean. No rush. Every bite grounded him. But behind his calm chewing, his mind turned.

What were they giggling about?

Was it that damn date again?

He didn’t know why that bothered him so much.

Didn’t even know the man.

But he knew Sanaa’s laugh.

Knew it too well now.

Knew what it sounded like when she meant it.

And he damn sure noticed that her voice had changed just now.

Softer. Warmer.

Like she was thinking about something she shouldn’t say out loud.

Erik scooped another forkful of rice, chewing slow, tongue running over his molars. His rolling tray sat on the table beside him. Waiting.

He’d eat first.

Then get into that Lamb’s Bread.

Erik rinsed his plate, wiped down the counter, and threw his paper towel in the bin with a lazy flick. Everything in him was calm on the outside—clean, smooth, low-energy.

But his mind? Still loud.

He scratched the back of his neck, muscles stretching tight under his hoodie, then headed down the hall to the bathroom. The door was cracked, light still on. He knocked once—old habit—then stepped in. Heat clung to the walls. Fresh steam fogged the top corner of the mirror. The scent hit him first—sweet, heady, fruity. Some kind of mango-something body wash mixed with scented edge gel, a touch of coconut oil, and whatever the hell kind of gloss was staining the sink. Hair products were scattered like breadcrumbs. Curl cream left open. Toothpaste cap missing. Foundation smudges on the counter. A lace edge scarf crumpled on the towel rack.

He scuffed quietly under his breath, “Damn.”

Still, he stepped in, shut the door behind him, and moved toward the toilet.

And that’s when he saw it. He Bright purple. Sitting pretty on the shower shelf.

A vibrator.

Still wet. Still glistening from the water droplets running down the tiles behind it. Next to it? A tiny bottle. Scented lube. The kind you don’t just pick up on accident.

His body froze for half a second.

Then he blinked hard and looked away.

Walked up to the toilet. Took a breath.

But his eyes kept drifting.

Back to that damn toy. The shape. The angle it was sitting. The fact that it had been used. Very recently.

His jaw tightened.

He did what he came to do. Hand braced on the wall, other gripping the base. But his mind wasn’t in the room anymore.

He could see it now.

Sanaa.

Hips propped in the steam. Back arched. Mouth parted. One hand steadying herself on the fogged-up tiles while the other—

Shit.

He grunted low, covered up, and turned to the sink fast, trying to get his mind back in line.

Water ran cold as he washed his hands. His shoulders still tense. His head ducked low. He stared at his reflection.

Told himself:

Shake that shit off, E.

Don’t get caught up.

It’s been a minute. So what?

This wasn’t supposed to get in his head. She wasn’t supposed to be in his head.

But she was.

That little purple thing?

It fucked him up.

Because now he knew what she liked. Knew she touched herself. Knew how recent. How wet. He dried his hands slow, tossing the towel to the side, and cut the light off with more force than needed.

Back in the hallway, he took a breath. Deep. Chest rising, eyes closing for a second longer than usual. His body was heating up. Not from anger. Not from frustration.

From restraint.

And restraint only worked for so long.

Erik was just stepping out of the hallway when he heard it—

Aaliyah’s voice echoing from the balcony, loud and playful, full of that extra energy she always had when her homegirls were feelin’ themselves.

“Hold on—WAIT. Damn, girl, give it to me again, leg out, chin up—yes ma’am!”

He raised a brow, rolling tray still waiting on the dining table. Curiosity pulled him toward the glass door. He moved quiet, socked feet brushing wood, and stopped just short of the threshold.

Then he saw her.

And it hit like a punch to the chest.

Sanaa.

Out on the balcony in the evening light, leaning back on a velvet chaise like she owned it. One leg crossed high over the other, her skin smooth and deep like brown sugar, thighs shining in the glow of dusk. That dress? Tight. Serpentine. Fitted like it had been made just for her body—soft curves, cinched waist, lace trim brushing the tops of her thighs. Her feet were slid into black Louboutins, glossy and dangerous, red bottoms flashing like sirens. Her curls were out, a fresh wash-n-go parted to the side, coils soft and defined, bouncing with every movement.

And her face?

Done.

Red lips. Lashes curled. Eyes smoky, low-lidded and locked into the lens like she knew what she was doing. She was made for the camera. And she looked dangerous.

Aaliyah was crouched in front of her with Sanaa’s phone held up like it was her full-time job.

“Hold still! Yesss, lean into it like that. That’s it. One more—hold it.”

Erik leaned in the doorway, arms folded, expression unreadable.

But his eyes?

They never left Sanaa.

He scanned everything. The way her dress hugged her thighs. The slight sheen on her legs. The bounce in her curls. The way the heels made her calves flex. The matte pop of her red lips. She looked…edible.

Sexy.

And she wasn’t dressed like that to sit on the damn balcony.

She was going somewhere.

His jaw tightened.

“Move back, you in my damn frame,” Aaliyah fussed without even turning, “You messin’ up the symmetry.”

She nudged him without looking—her elbow catching his side. Erik blinked and cracked the faintest grin. Then, with that big-hand calm, he mushed her head lightly, playful.

“Watch out,” he said, stepping back with a low chuckle.

Aaliyah groaned, “Ugh, you annoying.”

But he only moved far enough to give her a clear shot.

Didn’t take his eyes off her.

And Sanaa saw him.

Eyes locked from where she sat, lips parted just slightly, chin dipped low. There was something in her gaze—heat, challenge, softness. She didn’t look away. Didn’t break the moment.

That look said she knew.

Knew what she was doing. Knew what she looked like. Knew who was watching. And Erik stood there, still and slow-burning, every inch of him coiled tight beneath the surface.

The knock came sharp. Confident.

Three taps.

Erik barely looked up from where he stood near the kitchen, arms folded, back against the counter. The balcony light was still bleeding into the room. The memory of Sanaa in that damn dress still thick in his mind.

“E,” Aaliyah called from down the hall, grabbing a pair of earrings off the dresser, “Can you get the door real quick?”

He didn’t answer. Just pushed off the counter, slow.

His footsteps echoed through the brownstone as he moved to the front, cool and unbothered on the outside, but every step wound tighter.

He opened the door.

Nathan.

Tall. Light brown skin. Button-up shirt open at the collar, gold chain peeking through. Clean fade. Clean nails. Clean shoes. The kind of man who knew he looked good and carried it soft, easy.

Nathan took one look at Erik and paused—just half a second—but Erik clocked it.

That sizing up. The subtle flick of the eyes. The unspoken who the fuck is this hanging in the air.

Nathan gave a nod, stepping inside, “Peace. Uh…is Sanaa here?”

Before Erik could say anything, footsteps echoed behind them. Aaliyah came first, grinning, slipping her hoops in as she walked.

And then—

Sanaa.

She moved down the hall like time slowed just for her. Dress hugging her hips, heels clicking, curls bouncing. A glow across her skin that looked like candlelight kissed her collarbones. Her perfume drifted with her—sweet, musky, warm.

Nathan’s jaw damn near unhinged.

His eyes dragged down her body, shameless. Start at her face, down the arch of her neck, the swell of her chest, the lace-trimmed hem riding up her thigh. He blinked hard like he had to reset.

“Wow,” he breathed, “You look…beautiful.”

Sanaa smiled softly, “Thank you.”

Aaliyah looked between them like she was watching the season finale of her favorite show. Wide-eyed. Hands clasped in front of her mouth like don’t say nothing, just watch.

Erik shifted.

Didn’t say shit.

Just stood there with that still posture, arms folded again, expression locked down. Watching. Always watching.

Nathan stepped back toward the open door, the gentleman in him kicking in.

“Let me get that for you,” he said, holding it wide.

But his eyes stayed glued to Sanaa. His pupils blown, locked on her with a look that said if he could, he’d peel that dress off with his teeth.

Sanaa walked forward slowly.

Her heels clicked past the threshold. Her shoulder brushed Erik’s as she passed.

At the door, she turned back to Aaliyah, “I’ll see you later.” Then turned her eyes to Erik, “See you later, Erik.” 

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t flirtatious.

But it was intentional.

Like a spark dropped on dry wood.

Erik’s eyes flicked up to meet hers.

His voice was low. Even.

“Later.”

Then the door closed.

And he stood there, jaw tight, heart ticking slow behind his ribs.

The restaurant was nestled in a quiet corner of Georgetown—dimly lit, stone façade, all sleek wood paneling and warm lighting inside. No sign out front, just a carved emblem on the glass and the soft hiss of the hostess welcoming guests in that low-toned, reverent kind of voice reserved for places that didn’t need to advertise.

Velvet + Pearl.

Asian fusion. Bougie, but soulful. Every detail thoughtful.

Sanaa had never been, but the second she walked in, she understood why Nathan picked it.

Their table was set in a semi-private alcove, bamboo screens casting soft shadows over their corner. The music was moody—a mix of lo-fi jazz and neo-soul, barely above a murmur. The scent of lemongrass and grilled ginger floated through the space. Waitstaff moved like dancers, all black uniforms and clean hands, plates arriving with edible flowers and artistic drizzles.

Nathan had offered her the inside seat first.

Held her chair. Let her order first. Didn’t talk over her once.

And that—as small as it was—left an impression.

The wine was chilled. The sushi course came first, followed by honey-soy glazed short ribs, miso-marinated Chilean sea bass, and a black garlic fried rice that Sanaa swore she’d dream about later.

But the food, while incredible, wasn’t what had her leaning in.

It was the conversation.

Nathan sat across from her, arms rested on the table, his voice warm and easy.

“So tell me,” he said, halfway through their second glass, “what made you wanna study psych?”

Sanaa lifted her glass, rolled the stem between her fingers for a second before answering.

“I’ve always paid attention to how people move,” she said softly, “What they say. What they don’t say. How silence talks. I come from a place where mental health is treated like a luxury. Especially for us. Especially for women. And kids.”

Nathan nodded, his eyes holding hers with real interest.

“I’m pre-med,” she continued, “with a psych focus. Hoping to specialize in clinical therapy. I want to open a practice one day. Back home.”

“Back home where?”

“Oakland.”

He smiled, “That makes sense. You got that West Coast calm to you.”

She didn’t smile back, but her expression softened, “It’s in me. Even when I’m tired of it.”

“You don’t seem tired,” Nathan said, “You seem… focused. Collected.”

“I have to be.”

Her tone didn’t invite pity. Just truth.

Nathan sipped his wine, sat back a little, “So what made you say yes? To tonight.”

Sanaa didn’t answer right away. Her fingers tapped once against her glass, her eyes drifting slightly toward the candle on the table. The flame danced low. Steady.

“I wasn’t really looking for anything,” she said honestly, “Not dating. Not entertaining. Not hoping.”

“And now?”

“Now?” Her lips curved just a little, “I’m here. And I’m enjoying myself.”

Nathan nodded, “I’m glad you came.”

He was charming. Polished. Polite. He didn’t try to dominate the conversation or fill the silence with ego. He asked thoughtful questions. Laughed when he should. Complimented her without making it feel transactional.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, smiling, “You’re…I don’t know. You listen.”

Sanaa tilted her head, “Most people talk too much.”

“Not me,” he promised.

“I’ll let time tell.”

That made him laugh, low and rich.

Sanaa wasn’t trying to flirt hard. She didn’t lean forward unnecessarily, didn’t play with her hair or smile on cue. But her presence had weight. And Nathan felt it.And though she sat calmly, engaged, holding her wine with the grace of someone raised on quiet control—there was still a flicker in her chest. A beat skipping now and then.

Because a part of her was aware. That someone else might be thinking about her right now.

Someone who’d opened the door.

Watched her in that dress.

Said “later” like it meant more than see-you-soon.

She shook the thought off. Sipped.

The wine had settled warm in Sanaa’s chest by now — dry, bright, a little floral. Her glass rested loosely between her fingers, her body eased into the curve of the booth, legs crossed under the table. She wasn’t tipsy. Not quite. But she was comfortable.

And Nathan was still unfolding.

It was his turn to talk now.

His voice was smooth but grounded. A little deeper than it had been earlier. Less performative. The kind of voice a man slips into when he’s trying not to say too much, but still wants to be understood.

“I work in fintech,” he said, “I started as a developer, now I lead a team. We’re building out this app that helps Black-owned small businesses track generational wealth. Budgeting, investment education, legacy planning…All that.”

Sanaa nodded slowly, sipping her wine, “That’s dope.”

He gave a humble smile, “Trying, you know? My dad passed without a will. My mom had to fight for everything. I was twenty-three and clueless. So now I’m making sure folks don’t go through the same thing.”

He took a sip of his own, then leaned back.

“But outside of that?” He grinned, “I’m simple. I go to the gym, ride my bike on the weekends, I like my playlists loud and my whiskey dark. I’ve been on a whole journaling kick lately too.”

Sanaa’s brow lifted slightly, “You journal?”

Nathan chuckled, “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not. That’s rare.”

“I like how it makes me check in with myself. Like… alright, what’s real today? What’s performative? What’s ego? What’s fear?”

Sanaa tilted her head, the candlelight playing across her cheekbones, “That kind of self-awareness’s gonna scare the wrong people.”

He smiled at her, “I’m not looking for the wrong people.”

She let that sit between them.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t flirt back.

Just sipped her wine and watched him.

Quiet. Observant. Calm.

The kind of silence that made men wonder if they were being studied.

Because they were.

“I think more men should journal,” she said finally, “And go to therapy. Be soft somewhere.”

Nathan nodded, “That’s real.”

“You can only protect what you’ve processed.”

Their eyes met. She said it so matter-of-fact, so gently, but it landed. He looked at her a little differently after that.

She glanced down at her glass, and then back up, catching his stare.

“I like that,” he said, “You speak slow, but it cuts.”

Sanaa shrugged, voice soft, “I don’t like wasting words.”

The waiter arrived with the dessert menu. Nathan waved it off gently, placing his hand flat on the table.

“You full?”

Sanaa nodded once, “Yeah. But thank you. This was really nice.”

Nathan smiled at her again—warm, intentional, “Can’t lie. I’m glad you finally let me take you out.”

Sanaa’s lashes lowered. “I was tired of the same old thing. And I wasn’t in the mood to be disappointed.”

“You think I would’ve disappointed you?”

“I didn’t know. But I’m glad I came.”

Nathan leaned in slightly, not in a rush, not demanding. Just existing in her space with a quiet want.

“You ever surprise yourself?”

“All the time,” she said.

And in that moment, she meant it.Because she was surprised. By how much she liked him. By how much this felt easy. By how seen she felt 

But it still wasn’t the same.

Not heat. Not tension. Not that ache.

But it was good. It was promising.

It was peace.

And Sanaa wasn’t the type to throw peace away.

The city moved slow around them, headlights glowing soft through the windshield, reflections sliding across Sanaa’s skin like passing thoughts. She sat quiet in the passenger seat of Nathan’s car, curled slightly toward the window, her heels slipped off now, one hand resting gently on her bare thigh.

The ride home was calm.

The kind of quiet that comes when the evening’s gone well—no awkward pauses, no missteps. Just soft music playing low, a soulful instrumental track humming through the speakers. Nathan’s hand rested casually on the wheel, his posture relaxed.

Everything about him was…easy.

And still, her mind kept slipping sideways.

Back to Erik.

No matter how many times she tried to shake it.

She blinked slow, watching the blur of lights outside as the city gave way to familiar blocks. Her thoughts drifted through the night like vapor—wine, conversation, the restaurant’s golden lighting, Nathan’s smile, his compliments. He was sweet. Thoughtful. Smart. He asked good questions and didn’t talk too much. He made her feel like her words mattered.

And yet…

Her thoughts kept looping back to that look in Erik’s eyes. The way he watched her on the balcony. The brush of his body when she passed. That one word—later—still echoing low in her chest like a drumbeat.

She sighed lightly, legs shifting.

Maybe I’m tripping, she thought.

Maybe I’m wishing for something that’s not gon’ happen.

Maybe it’s just…proximity. A crush. That teenage thing that never went away.

But even then…that didn’t explain the way her whole body remembered him. Didn’t explain the pulse she felt when she walked past him in that dress. Didn’t explain the way her thighs clenched when he told her to watch her mouth.

She looked down at her lap and smoothed her dress.

Nathan turned to glance at her, catching the small movement. “You okay?”

She looked up and nodded, soft smile, “Yeah. Just had a long day. Wine has me sleepy.”

“Understandable,” he said, “You’ve been holding it down all night.”

She smiled again, this time a little more genuine, “It was a good night.”

“I agree.”

They pulled up to the brownstone. Nathan eased into a park spot just down the street. Killed the engine.

The quiet got thicker.

He walked her up the steps without hesitation. Gentleman to the core. His hand hovered low behind her back as they reached the door. Not touching. But there. When they stopped, he turned to face her. His eyes were soft, but there was something underneath. An expectation. A moment hanging between them, delicate and loaded.

Sanaa clocked it immediately.

The slight lean forward. The way his head tilted just slightly. The pause.

He’s hoping for a kiss.

She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t make it awkward.

She leaned in first. Kissed him on the cheek. Her lips soft, warm, intentional. Then she hugged him—slow, arms around his neck, just long enough to feel sincere.

When she pulled back, her voice stayed low, “I had a great time.”

Nathan smiled, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but no disappointment, “Me too.”

“I’d definitely do it again.”

That got a grin, “Good. I’d like that.”

She gave one last smile, then stepped back and opened the door, her curls catching in the breeze. She could feel his eyes still on her as she slipped inside.

But the second the door clicked shut?

Her smile faded.

Not because the night was bad.

But because it wasn’t him.

The sound of her keys dropping into the ceramic dish near the entry table echoed faintly through the brownstone’s quiet. The whole place felt still, settled—lamplight casting warm shadows on the walls, the faint hum of the fridge filling in the silence.

Sanaa sighed, sliding out of her heels with a little hiss, her toes grateful for release. She carried them in one hand, padding across the hardwood in slow, quiet steps. The house had that nighttime hush, the kind where every small movement seemed louder than it should be. She made her way down the hallway, toward the one door she couldn’t wait to crack open—Aaliyah’s. Sanaa smiled to herself, already anticipating the squeal, the questions, the *“Tell me everything,” from her best friend. She turned the knob gently, easing the door open with her nails pressed against the wood.

“Li…”

But the room was dark.

Aaliyah was curled up under her sheets, knocked out, bonnet on, one AirPod halfway falling out of her ear.

Out cold.

Sanaa sighed, her lips pulling to the side, “bitch,” she whispered, her voice half-pout, “You couldn’t even wait up for me?”

She let the door close slowly and padded back to her room, shoulders relaxing. Her fingers unzipped her dress at the side with a smooth slide, stepping out of it like silk slipping off a memory. She dropped it neatly onto the back of her chair, unclasped her bra, and reached for her go-to comfort: an old oversized T-shirt, soft and worn thin from years of wash cycles. She pulled it over her head, and the fabric fell over her like a second skin. It draped unevenly—loose around the waist, caught high on the curve of her ass. The neckline slipped off one shoulder without effort. Her dark skin peeked out in soft, warm stretches. The hem barely covered the swell of her backside, revealing quick flashes of her black thong when she moved. Her gold anklets, delicate and shimmering, chimed lightly every time she shifted her weight.

She was comfortable.

And fine without trying.

She grabbed a satin headband to pull her curls back and made her way down the hall to the bathroom, bare feet soundless against the floor. The light inside was already dim—she liked it that way. Calming. Ritualistic. Her fingers moved gently across her face, wiping away the layers she’d put on hours earlier. The gloss. The liner. The slight shimmer near her collarbones. All gone, leaving only her skin, still glowing. Still soft. She cleansed. Toned. Dabbed on her night serum. Lip balm. Pressed her palms to her cheeks like she always did at the end of her routine.

Back in her room, she exhaled and sat at her desk, her PC humming to life as she opened Sims 4.It was her quiet joy. Her wind-down. The thing she did when she didn’t want to think too hard, just needed to exist for a while in a world she controlled. But as her sim loaded and the background music kicked in, her eyes drifted toward the slightly cracked window… and her thoughts drifted again.

To him.

To Erik.

To the way his eyes felt like they were still on her, even now. Watching. Measuring. Waiting for something she hadn’t said. She shook her head and clicked into build mode. But her thighs pressed together again.

Because no matter how soft the night was…her body remembered heat.

Apartment Kitchen, 1:13AM

The apartment was quiet, the kind of stillness that only crept in after midnight. Streetlights bled in through the sheer curtains above the kitchen sink, casting long shadows across the tile. The hum of the fridge was the only sound until the soft squeak of the water filter echoed. Sanaa stood at the counter, barefoot, her toes curled slightly on the cool floor as she filled her water bottle. The bottle hissed and gurgled beneath the stream, and she held it loosely, one hand braced on the counter.  Her face was bare except for the little star-shaped pimple patches dotting her cheek and jaw, like constellations scattered across her warm skin. Her bonnet sat slightly askew, puffed in the back, a few strands of curly hair slipping from the edge. She had on her glasses, the ones she always wore late at night when nobody but Aaliyah was supposed to see her.

She thought she was alone.

Then she heard him.

The soft drag of a foot against the hallway floor.

Sanaa froze. Her heart jumped once, quick and tight. Then she swallowed and glanced toward the opening, still cradling the bottle.

Erik stepped into the kitchen like he belonged to the dark.

He was shirtless, his skin a warm bronze-brown that caught the soft glow of the overhead light. His locs were pulled back into a loose tie, thick and coiled at the nape of his neck. His torso was all carved muscle and history. Broad chest, sloped shoulders, arms thick enough that her throat went dry. The lines of his stomach were deep, more like stone than flesh, and the ball shorts he wore rode so low it felt disrespectful. A gold cuban chain hung heavy around his neck, catching the light as he moved toward the fridge.

He didn’t speak. Just opened the door, leaned in, and reached for the grapes on the top shelf.

Sanaa didn’t breathe.

She stared at his back—at the long trail of marks, the jagged pattern of scars cut and raised like a ritual in flesh against the expanse of skin. His back wasn’t smooth. It was brutal. Story-filled. Beautiful in a way that made her chest ache.

He looked like war turned to bone and muscle. Not soft. Not sweet. But gripping. Pulling. Drawing. Her eyes drifted over the width of him, the way his back tapered into a tight waist, the curve just above where the shorts barely sat. It was too much. Too intimate for this hour. For this silence.

She turned quickly, facing the kitchen island, trying to hide the rush of heat pulsing up her neck.

Behind her, Erik glanced over his shoulder.

His eyes slid down her back. He didn’t move at first. He just looked.

The shirt was thin enough to show the dip of her spine, the soft push of her ass. He caught a glimpse of the strap of her thong, high on her hip, barely hidden. The anklets around her ankles glimmered like they didn’t belong to a girl—they belonged to a woman who knew exactly what kind of heat she was waking up in the middle of the night.

His jaw clenched slightly. Then his gaze rose to the slope of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, the glimpse of skin where her shirt slipped low. She wasn’t doing anything. She was just standing there, back turned, body soft and warm, still half in her dreams.

But she looked like temptation dressed in cotton.

Sanaa cleared her throat, “It’s been a while,” she said softly, her voice low, trying to push past the tension. “Since I saw you last. Crazy how fast five years go by.”

Erik didn’t answer right away. He plucked a grape from the bunch, popped it in his mouth, and chewed slowly. The silence thickened again.

She glanced over her shoulder.

He was staring.

Not with surprise. Not with guilt. Just that deep, unreadable stare he always carried. The kind that made her legs tense without warning.

His eyes held hers.

He didn’t answer right away.

But his gaze dropped—to her thighs, the hem of her shirt, the outline of her breast as the fabric clung to her. Her nipples weren’t hard, but they were there. Bare. Soft. Natural. And he saw them. He didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” Erik finally said, voice deep and slow, “Been a minute.”

That was all.

He looked down at his grapes again, plucking another from the vine, but the moment had already folded in on them. Too quiet. Too thick.

Sanaa held her breath again, her body buzzing.

Erik bit down on another grape. His jaw moved slow.

Then—his voice, low and dry, “How was the date?”

Sanaa blinked. She hadn’t expected him to ask. She turned her face toward him, brows lifting slightly, water bottle still cradled in one hand.

“It was good,” she said softly, “He’s nice.”

Erik nodded once. Lazy. But not uninterested. Then—he squinted at her like he was reading something in her tone.

“But?”

She tilted her head, “There’s no but.”

He gave a slow grin. Not big. Just enough to show one dimple before he chuckled under his breath, low and rough like it came from somewhere deeper.

“If you say so.”

She shifted against the counter, lips twitching. Her voice stayed soft.

“You ask me questions about my date but won’t tell me what your scars mean.”

That made him pause. His fingers stilled on the grape bunch. His chest rose once, then held. He didn’t answer right away. Sanaa kept her gaze steady.

“Why you wanna know so bad?” he asked finally, his tone even but tight, like the question mattered more than he wanted to admit.

“Because I wanna know,” she said simply. She watched his face for a reaction. There wasn’t one, “I think they’re beautiful,” she added, voice lower now, “And they gotta mean something. The way they’re placed. How clean they are. Like…they were done on purpose.”

That made Erik’s eyes flick toward her, sharper now. Sanaa lifted one shoulder—the one that wasn’t already bare.

“My guess?” she said, not breaking the moment, “Something from your time in the Navy. Training. Maybe a ritual. Or punishment. I don’t know. But it’s not random.”

Erik looked at her like she’d opened a door she wasn’t supposed to find. His jaw flexed once. And then he went silent. The moment stretched long. Sanaa didn’t press. She didn’t fill the air with nervous energy. She just stood there, watching him, letting him sit in it. Her calm wasn’t bait. It was intentional. She was showing him she could handle the weight of whatever he might carry.

But Erik didn’t speak.

He just stood there, the chain on his chest rising and falling with each slow breath, his eyes locked somewhere just past her.

Sanaa’s voice softened even more, “You don’t gotta tell me now. Or ever.”She let the bottle tap softly against the counter, “But I don’t ask things I don’t mean.”

Another pause.

Erik’s gaze finally met hers.

There was something unreadable behind it now—tension, maybe. Or memory. Something older than the conversation. Something heavier than silence.

“Not Navy,” he said finally.

His voice was so quiet she almost missed it.

Sanaa leaned against the island now, the cool granite pressing into her thighs where the shirt had hiked up. Her bottle was capped, gripped loosely in one hand. She glanced at Erik again, that familiar curve creeping into her lips—half smile, half trouble.

“So what’s the story with this?” she asked, nodding her chin toward his arm, “That sleeve. You didn’t always have that.”

Erik rolled his shoulder once, slow, like the weight of it didn’t bother him, but the question made him shift slightly. He looked down at his inked arm, the black and gold patterns running along his bicep and coiling into the deeper creases of muscle.

“It’s old script,” he said simply, “West African. Nsibidi, some Adinkra. Symbols for protection, war, transformation. Shit that meant somethin’ when I got it done.”

Sanaa’s gaze flicked over it, her eyes trailing the details. The art was layered, beautifully so. Some parts looked geometric, others hand-drawn—lines like blades, others like waves. At the elbow, something bold cut through the center, the shape curling around the meat of his arm.

“You went deep with it,” she said.

He plucked another grape and popped it in his mouth. They held that moment a beat too long. Erik stayed close to the fridge, watching the way her shirt stretched when she reached.

That was when he saw it.

Just under the soft skin of her inner arm, near the crook of her elbow. A small tattoo in fine script.

soft

It was barely there. Not flashy. Not something someone got to show off. More like something meant to be known. Remembered.

He didn’t mean to stare, but he did. That mismatch caught him. Made him look twice. Made him wonder what else she’s hiding under that cool exterior.

That one word told on her.

And now he’s curious as hell.

And then he spoke, “Why that word?” he asked, voice low.

Sanaa paused, bottle in her hand, “Hm?”

“Your tattoo,” Erik said, still watching the letters, “It says soft.”

She lowered the glass to the counter and glanced at him over her shoulder, that smile playing again, “You squintin’ at me like I’m a poem,” she said, “Didn’t think you noticed stuff like that.”

He stepped closer, just a little. Not enough to crowd her, but enough that she could feel the shift in the air.

“I notice,” he said, “Especially when it don’t match.”

She turned, brow lifted, “Oh, so I don’t come off soft?”

Erik looked at her—really looked at her.

She stood barefoot in a loose shirt and tiny thong, glasses sliding down her nose, with her little stars glowing on her cheeks and her lips still pink from sleep. Anklets shining against brown skin. And that word written on her like a secret.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I ain’t sayin’ that,” he finally said, his voice rougher now, “I’m sayin’ it caught me.”

He’s not clowning her. He’s drawn in.

Sanaa blinked once, the smile fading just slightly, shifting into something quieter.

“It’s for me,” she said, “Not them.”

That made Erik nod once. Solid. Like he understood that too well.

“You got any?” she asked, pivoting the topic, lifting the hem of her shirt slightly in teasing gesture, though not enough to show anything more, “Hidden ones?”

“I got shit nobody sees,” he said, and his eyes dropped—just once—to the shadow between her thighs before dragging back up, “But they not hidden unless I want them to be.”

Sanaa rolled her eyes, scoffing, but her cheeks burned.

“See, that’s why you don’t get to hold the grapes,” she said, reaching to snatch the bowl from the counter.

He let her.

Let her walk away in that shirt that slid just enough when she turned, just enough to show a curve of waist, the top swell of her ass where it rose against the thin cotton. And when she passed by again, water bottle in one hand, grapes in the other, Erik’s eyes dropped to that tattoo once more.

Soft.

He started to wonder if softness was a choice she made. And if he was lucky enough to feel what it really meant.

Sanaa never rushed. Not even now.

She stepped out of the kitchen like time belonged to her, like it bent around her curves and rolled across the floor ahead of her bare feet. The water bottle was tucked against her side, and her other hand carried the grapes like they were hers now—because they were. Loose cotton shirt hanging off one shoulder. Bonnet crooked. Stars on her face. And that little twist in her walk? Yeah, that was there too.

Her hips rolled just enough.

The slight jiggle of her ass timed like rhythm.

Measured.

Natural.

Deadly.

Erik leaned against the counter, watching the entire exit, jaw locked and arms crossed. He didn’t follow right away. Just listened. The soft pat-pat of her bare feet faded into the carpet of the living room, followed by the click of the remote, then the hum of the TV. Some reality show. Voices bouncing, laughter cutting sharp through the still apartment.

Eventually, he came too.

Sanaa was already stretched across the sectional, half on her side, flipping through her phone like nothing mattered. The soft blue of the screen lit her face. The TV flickered on low. Love Island USA. She wasn’t watching it, not really. It was just noise. He sat down on the far end of the other sofa, one arm thrown along the back, legs spread like he needed the space.

“You sittin’ over there for what?” she asked without looking up, “You can’t even see the screen.”

“I don’t wanna watch that shit,” Erik said.

“So why you out here then?”

He didn’t answer that. Not with words.

Eventually, he just got up—slow, casual—and dropped down next to her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t shift or make room. Just let him sit close, close enough their thighs touched. The cotton of her shirt brushed his arm. Her leg was warm against his. She didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t even glance his way.

After a beat, she shifted again.

Stretched out a little. First a soft yawn, then a sigh. Then her legs eased across his lap, smooth and lazy, her skin cool from the air but soft against his thighs. She kept scrolling, nails tapping on glass, legs draped like she forgot where she put them.

Erik went still.

He stared down at her legs. Smooth, brown, shapely. Anklets glinting in the TV light. He cleared his throat.

“I ain’t no foot rest.”

She sucked her teeth, still looking at her phone, “It’s a habit.”

She said it like that, nonchalant, like this was nothing new. Smooth. Toned. Skin glowing under the flicker of the screen. The kind of softness you didn’t need to touch to feel—just looking was enough. Every curve was delicate but full. Her knees relaxed, one leg slightly bent, the dip of her thigh curving into the plump rise of her hip. Her skin was the kind of brown that shimmered—deep, rich, and warm like cocoa butter and honey mixed with moonlight.

But it was her feet that had Erik stuck.

They were small. Pretty. Delicate in that quiet, intentional way. Nails painted in a clean French tip—short, elegant, precise. White edges perfectly square. The kind of detail that told you she took care of herself even when nobody was watching. Her toes flexed slightly as she shifted, catching his attention again.

Two gold anklets circled her ankle—thin, glinting, stacked just enough to chime lightly when she moved. One was simple. Smooth gold links. The other had tiny charms: a star, a crescent moon, and one tiny heart that kept catching the light and throwing it across the room. The anklets sat against her skin like they’d been there forever. Like they belonged there. Like they knew her.

Erik’s eyes dropped lower again.

Her heels were soft. Arch high. The natural curve of her foot led to that perfect slope of her instep, then to her toes—dainty, aligned, beautiful. The way they moved when she flexed? He felt that shit deep.

He didn’t touch her.

Not yet.

But he looked.

Hard.

His hand rested just beside her shin. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off her, but not touching.

But she knew.

She always knew.

She knew exactly how her body curved when she leaned over the kitchen counter. She knew the dip in her waist pulled eyes like gravity when she reached for the remote. She knew her thigh pressing against his made it harder for him to breathe, and she still didn’t flinch.

That was her game.

And Erik was in it now.

The silence stretched a little. Not awkward. Just charged. She kept scrolling, switching apps, sipping her water like nothing about this moment meant anything.

Erik’s eyes dropped again, this time to the tattoo on her inner thigh.

Crave.

It was taunting now. Brazen. It lived in a spot that made him wonder if anyone else had kissed it. 

“You always act like you don’t notice me starin’ at you?” he asked.

Sanaa didn’t look up.

She smiled, just a little. That half-smile. The one that curved slow and smug and knew exactly what it was doing.

“Boy, I’m just mindin’ my business.”

She said it so smooth, so untouched.

Erik’s jaw ticked. He looked down at her legs—them thighs, that soft brown stretch of skin—and then back at her face. And when he spoke, his voice came low.

Firm.

Final.

“I ain’t no boy, little girl.”

She tilted her head, eyes calm, voice low, “Mm. So what are you then?”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Just let the question sit there between them—warm, sharp, and dangerous.

Then, like it was nothing, she lifted her arms over her head to adjust her bonnet. Her shirt lifted again. Just enough. Just barely. Erik saw a sliver of her waist, the tease of her thong, then the way her spine stretched before she relaxed again.

No apology. No correction. No tugging the shirt back down.

And when she leaned forward a minute later to grab her charger from the floor, ass lifting slightly from the couch, back arched just enough to burn into his memory, she still didn’t glance his way.

She didn’t have to.

She was in his head now.

The TV faded into background noise. The grapes were forgotten. The silence between them shifted into something slower. Heavier.

She teased by not teasing.

Sitting too close.

Letting her legs linger.

Flashing just enough skin to make him wonder what else she’d give if he asked the right way.

And if he did lean in? If he did reach?

She’d only look at him and say:

“You really think this is about you?”

And Erik knew she wasn’t done yet.

He glanced down at her legs again, then shook his head.

“If the nigga you talkin’ to knew how you be walkin’ around here…” he started, voice low, dragging just enough to make her look up, “puttin’ your legs on another nigga lap like it’s normal…he’d bitch.”

Sanaa’s lips twitched. She turned toward him slightly, one hand resting against her cheek.

“I ain’t got a man, Erik.”

That slow, sultry syrup still clung to her voice even though she was from Oakland. Sweet when she wanted. Sharp when she felt like cutting.

“And if I did,” she added, “so what? You E. I can do this.”

That hit different.

His brow ticked up, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Erik leaned in just enough to tilt his head, “What else can you do?”

Sanaa went still.

No flinch. Just silence. Eyes not moving. Lashes lowered, lips parted just slightly.

Erik smirked. Not the charming kind. The kind that curled at the corner like it held too much. Like it had patience.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dark and rough, “thought so.”

Sanaa’s jaw tightened. She sat up just a little, adjusting the way her legs rested across him, not pulling away. Just shifting. Her gaze flicked up to meet his.

“You got a girl?” she asked.

He didn’t hesitate, “No.”

She studied him, “Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t,” he said, like it was obvious, “Ain’t got time for relationships.”

Then he cut his eyes at her. That look that said more than he wanted to say.

Sanaa didn’t drop it, “Does that include sex?”

He tilted his head, slow, “Why you wanna know, Bri?”

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know what to say, but because her memory came before her words.

“I remember,” she started, “I almost walked in on you and some girl…the night of Aaliyah’s graduation party. On my way to the bathroom.”

Erik didn’t move, but something in his jaw shifted. Tension. Or maybe curiosity.

“You didn’t shut the door all the way,” she added, voice low.

He looked at her now. Really looked.

That party had been loud. Drinks flowing, people laughing, the house full of bodies moving in and out the rooms. He didn’t think anyone noticed. He barely remembered the girl’s name.

But she remembered.

“Why you bringin’ it up?” he asked, eyes locked on her face.

Sanaa smiled, slow and subtle, “Because I can.”

Erik’s chuckle was low, deep, almost like a warning, “You a trip,” he said.

“So are you,” she shot back.

He leaned a little closer, “That what you think?”

“That what I know.”

“You always talk back?”

“Only when I’m bored.”

Erik’s eyes dropped to her mouth, “You ain’t bored. You up here talkin’ like you tryna spark something.”

Sanaa raised a brow, “If I was, you wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

That made Erik laugh. For real this time.

It rumbled out of him, low and full, like he couldn’t help it.

“You sure about that?”

She shrugged, “I’m just mindin’ my business.”

He nodded once, slow. But his eyes never left her face.

“That’s the problem.”

And that silence came back. The kind that buzzed. Warm and dangerous.

It started as heat.

Low and dull, right between her hips. The kind that crept slow and settled in thick. Then came the pressure. A tight pulse behind her clit, so sudden she shifted her legs, just slightly, like movement might ease it. But it didn’t. It made it worse. Her thing was thin. The thong did nothing to stop the way her pussy lips swelled and pressed against the cotton, already damp.

Sanaa could feel the slick starting to spread.

Could feel the cling. The soft suction between her folds and the fabric. Could feel the throb. That low, heady throb that said: you need. And all she’d done was sit too close. Let her legs rest on his lap. Play a little too close to the edge.

She shouldn’t have teased him.

Because now her pussy was thinking ahead.

Her clit felt swollen. Heavy. Like it had its own heartbeat.

And if he touched her now—if he even grazed her?

She’d be a mess.

She kept her face neutral. Kept scrolling her phone like her body wasn’t slicking up just from the way his hand sat near her knee. But her thighs kept shifting. Not from discomfort. From the warmth between them. That sweet ache. The need for friction. Her breath was still steady, but her skin was warm, her nipples pressing faintly against the thin shirt. She crossed her ankles to distract herself.

Then—without warning—she reached up and pulled off her bonnet.

Her curls tumbled down. Soft and thick, falling in dark, glossy springs across her back and shoulders. The strands that had been peeking out before now fell free, some catching at her collarbone, others brushing her jaw. She ran her fingers over the roots, pushing it back once, revealing the full soft frame of her face.

Erik stared.

No shame in it. No hiding. His eyes traced every detail.

Sanaa caught him.

“What?” she asked, arching a brow, “What are you looking at?”

His voice came without hesitation.

“You.”

That one word hit harder than it should have.

She blinked. Just once.

And then, quieter, she asked, “Why?”

Erik shifted beneath her legs. Adjusted slightly. His thigh pressed harder against her ass now, and her stomach gave a small tug in response.

“‘Cause you Bri,” he said, “I can do that.”

She laughed, quiet but real. Her lips pressed together, nose scrunching, teeth flashing for just a second. That laugh—the one she used when she was trying not to be charmed. And Erik—he bit his bottom lip, dimples cutting deep, trying not to laugh back.

It caught them both off guard.

Then she rolled her eyes and muttered, “Jokes, okay… Killmonger.”

Everything stilled. Erik’s shoulders tensed, just slightly. His grin slipped back into something else. Something unreadable. Sanaa caught it. She tilted her head, eyes cutting sideways.

“That’s what they call you, right?” she said, pretending lightness, “Aaliyah mentioned it before. Wild nickname, if you ask me.”

The sound of it on her tongue—Killmonger—wasn’t harsh. It was sultry. Rolled out low, smooth, with a sassy little curl at the end like she didn’t really know what it meant but liked how it tasted.

It did something to him.

He didn’t even breathe for a second.

The name wasn’t just a name. It was weight. History. A title born from blood and war, sharpened in training, whispered by enemies and survivors alike. It wasn’t something said in daylight. Not in places like this. And definitely not by girls with anklets and pimple patches and soft little tattoos on the inside of their arm and thigh.

But hearing her say it?

With that teasing smile. That warm body resting soft across his lap. That hair spilling over her shoulders like silk swirls. That voice that could sound sweet and smart and sexy all at once.

It hit different.

It dropped into his chest like a trigger. Like instinct. Like an old self being called out of its cage.

His jaw ticked.

His tongue pressed behind his teeth.

He looked at her longer than he needed to.

Because the way she said it didn’t sound like fear. It sounded like a dare. Like she could say it and still be safe. Like she had no idea what that name had meant to other people. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the whole point.

And still—Still.

He liked the way it sounded coming from her mouth.

Too much.

Sanaa didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just lifted her brows at him.

“Did I say something?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her lips like he was wondering how they’d taste if they said it again.

“Don’t say it again.”

Sanaa’s lashes fluttered like she was processing, then—

“Okay, Killmonger.”

Erik exhaled through his nose, low and sharp. A dry huff that carried just enough warning to make the tension in the room stretch taut.

Sanaa smiled.

And then she shifted.

Her legs slid off his lap in one slow motion, her body twisting as she pulled her knees to her chest. The shirt rode high, and just for a split second, Erik got a full view—the curve of her ass, soft and high, swallowed by that barely-there black thong. Her skin looked smooth, her thighs warm and pressed close, a little gleam catching from the light above the TV.

Erik just stared.

Heat curled in his gut.

She knew exactly what she was doing. Holding his gaze for a beat too long, playful, cocky, like she wanted him to react. And then she looked away, tucking her chin to her knees like nothing happened.

“I’m going to bed,” he said finally, voice thick.

Sanaa shrugged, still smirking, “You should. You old.”

“You got studying to do, right? You should be sleep.”

She rolled her eyes, long and drawn out, “Boy, you don’t even know my schedule.”

Erik’s jaw ticked. 

He didn’t argue. Just grabbed the remote, pressed the power button, and the room fell quiet. Dark. 

No TV. No background noise. Just them.

He stood above her now.

Tall, broad, shirtless, blocking the soft hallway light.

And Sanaa was looking up at him, still curled on the couch.

Her eyes dragged slowly up his torso, over his chest, the gold glint of his chain, the sharp cut of his abs, the raised stories in his scars. Her breath felt tight in her chest. Her pussy pulsed again, hot and aching. Her thong was wet now—sticking to her, her lips swollen and slick.

The angle made it worse. Him looming. Her small in comparison. She clenched her thighs together, like it would do anything.

“Move,” she said, barely above a whisper, “Give me the remote.”

She reached up.

But Erik didn’t hand it to her.

He caught her wrist—gently, but firm—and in one smooth motion, pulled her off the couch like she weighed nothing.

Sanaa gasped, her bare feet hitting the floor as her body caught up.

“Damn,” she breathed.

Erik tilted his head down close to hers, lips brushing near her ear, voice barely above gravel.

“Bed. Now.”

That wasn’t a request.

Sanaa exhaled slowly, biting down on her bottom lip just enough for him to see. She gathered her water bottle, her phone, her charger. No sass this time. Just heat rising in her cheeks, chest tight, panties soaked.

She turned and walked toward the hallway, and Erik followed.

He didn’t touch her.

He didn’t have to.

The sound of his footsteps behind hers did enough. He stayed close—so close she could feel his body heat ghosting up her back. Her legs kept shifting. Her thighs slick. Every step a reminder of what she wasn’t getting yet.

At her door, she paused.

Aaliyah’s room sat quiet across the hall, lights off, door shut.

Sanaa stepped inside her own room, hand on the frame.

Erik didn’t enter.

He stood right at the threshold, staring down at her like he wasn’t done.

“Good night,” he said, low and gruff.

She didn’t move at first.

They stared at each other. A long, loaded silence. Her chest rising and falling faster now. His eyes stuck on her mouth.

Finally, she tilted her head, “You gonna close my door,” she said, “or no?”

Erik didn’t say another word.

Just reached in, long arm brushing past her, fingers curling around the doorknob. He shut it slow. Deliberate. His eyes never left hers—not once. Not even as the door clicked into place.

And just like that, he was gone.

Sanaa stood frozen for a beat, pulse thick in her throat.

When the door sealed shut, she exhaled. Loud. Needy. Like she’d been holding her breath since the kitchen.

Her knees wobbled. Her pussy throbbed.

She moved without thinking. Plugged in her phone. Let the screen light the room. The TV came on with low background noise—some drama she wasn’t watching—but it helped ease the silence. Made her feel less like she was unraveling. She stood near the edge of her bed, reached under her shirt, and pulled her thong down. Wet cotton peeled off sticky. Her breath caught when it passed over her swollen lips.

She looked down between her legs.

God.

Her pussy was soaked.

Her folds glistened, puffed and glistening, swollen from arousal. Her clit peeked out, heavy and stiff, throbbing with its own damn heartbeat.

Sanaa gasped as her fingers touched it—just once.

She staggered back onto the bed, legs still slick, thighs shining faintly under the TV light. She couldn’t wait. Couldn’t tease herself slow. The ache was too sharp. The tension had built up since the kitchen. Since the couch. Since he picked her up like she was his to move.

She laid back, shirt still on, but bunched around her waist. Her knees pulled up, legs parted wide. The scent of her own arousal hit her nose—warm, musky, sticky sweet. She touched herself again. Two fingers stroking circles over her clit, slow but firm.

“Fuuuck,” she whispered, head tipping back.

She was drenched. Playing in it made the slick noise rise between her thighs, soft and obscene.

All she could think about was him.

Erik, standing in her doorway. Shirtless. Chain swinging. Jaw tight. That low, commanding voice in her ear: Bed. Now.

Her hips arched off the sheets.

“Mmm—E,” she whispered, rubbing faster now. “Fuck, Erik…”

She let her fingers drift lower, gliding through her folds, spreading her mess. Then back up to rub circles on her clit again, slower, harder, chasing that edge.

She imagined him coming back. Quiet. That big frame filling her doorway again. Watching her with those eyes. Catching her in the act. Her legs wide. Her fingers slick. His name slipping from her lips like she couldn’t help it.

Sanaa gasped.

Her other hand grabbed her thigh firm, held it open. Biting down on her knees to stifle her moans. She was panting now, lips parted, hooded eyes watching her own movements. The sounds she was making weren’t cute. They were filthy. Raw. Honest. Hips rolling as she rubbed.

“Look what you do to me,” she whispered under her breath, chest rising fast, “Look how fuckin’ wet I am, Erik. Can’t sleep. Gotta cum. Thinkin’ bout you.”

She rubbed faster. Firmer. Sloppier.

Her legs tensed. Back arched. That pressure building again. Her clit was so sensitive now it hurt to stop. Her body locked up.

Then it hit her.

Sanaa cried out, thighs shaking, back bowed off the bed, eyes fluttering shut. Her fingers didn’t stop right away. She kept playing in it, slow, sloppy strokes, riding the wave down. The sheets beneath her damp. Her thighs trembling.

She lay there panting, legs still parted.

Her chest was hot.

Her mouth dry.

Her pussy? A mess.

Creamy. Warm. Still pulsing.

And Erik? Still in her head.

[iam-whoyouwantmetobe]

Wheewwwwwww

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

PART THREE WE GOING THERE!!!!!!

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Say My Name

Summary: He’s supposed to be laying low. A job overseas went bloody, and Erik Stevens—black ops mercenary, ghost of the U.S. government—needs time to go quiet. So he crashes at his little sister’s place near Howard. But when he arrives, there’s a surprise: she’s got a new roommate. Her best friend. She’s grown since he last saw her. Grown in all the ways that test a man’s discipline. But Erik? He’s never been good at following rules.

Warnings: Age Gap Romance/ Forbidden Attraction/ Explicit Sexual Content (strong smut, oral sex, size kink, erotic praise, power exchange)/Slow Burn to Filthy/Obsession & Possessiveness/Sexual Tension in Shared Spaces/Mutual Voyeurism/Sexting/Emotional Denial/Resistance/Breeding Talk/Male Dom / Female Sub Dynamic

Part One

Belo Horizonte, Brazil | March 2021 | 6:42 PM

The sun was still up, but barely. The sky stretched wide and low over the city like melted tangerine. Everything below it moved. Too loud, too close, too alive. Mopeds weaved through traffic without brakes or mercy. Women shouted in Portuguese across balconies, laundry lines swaying in the heat. Street kids dribbled flattened soccer balls through dust clouds. The scent of fried meat and engine oil lingered in the air, thick as sweat.

And cutting through all of it—a little boy.

Maybe ten.

Brown, barefoot, fast.

He darted up the sloped alley like he was being chased, threading between fruit crates and motorcycles, dodging dogs, almost slipping on a cracked beer bottle. One hand held a plastic bag tight to his chest. His T-shirt was damp, collar stretched, flip-flops smacking the concrete with every step.

Every breath. Every bounce. Every blur of the city behind him. He didn’t knock when he got to the third floor. Just tapped once with his knuckles on the warped door. Slid the bag to the floor. Turned his body sideways.

And waited.

A beat.

Then, a hundred-real bill slipped out through the narrow gap beneath the door. Crisp and folded. The boy snatched it up without a word, glanced once over his shoulder, and bolted back down the steps before the dogs came sniffing.

Inside? Quiet. Still. Hot.

The door creaked open after the boy had vanished. A hand reached out—big, brown, scarred—and pulled the bag inside.

No words. Just movement.

The flat was nothing.

Four walls and sweat.

The fan in the corner clicked with a limp rhythm, more noise than breeze. A bare bulb hummed overhead. The walls were the color of old smoke. Concrete floor. Iron-barred window. Nothing fancy. Nothing soft.

The food went straight to the table.

He moved like he’d done this a hundred times.

Erik Stevens.

Thirty-something.

Ex-black ops.

Ex-everything.

He wasn’t built for rest, but he knew when to vanish. He’d just finished a job on the coast—surveillance turned extraction, turned bloody cleanup. The money hit his burner laptop an hour ago. Enough for silence. Enough to wait. Now he was laying low. Eating slow. Watching the sky bleed orange through the bars.

His chest was bare. Tattooed. Marked. Carved.

Scars mapped across his skin like warnings, each one raised and deliberate, a keloid for every life he took. He’d stopped counting a long time ago, but the pattern kept going. Chest to ribs to shoulder. Sharp, neat, intentional. His arms flexed as he reached for the fork. Gold teeth caught the light when he chewed. His dreads were tied back, half-wet from the bucket shower he’d taken earlier. A black scarf still hung around his neck. His lower jaw ticked while he read through the file again on his phone —encrypted, disappearing text, sent from a contact he didn’t trust but couldn’t ignore.

Another job was coming.

But not yet.

He leaned back in the chair, let the sweat bead down his chest, tapped the edge of his empty glass. His hand drifted toward the burner phone on the table.

Black. Old. Untraceable. Only one number saved. Only one voice worth hearing.

He unlocked it. Dialed. The screen on the phone flickered to life, low brightness, no name. Just a number, one he knew by muscle memory. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, phone pressed to his ear.

Two rings.

Then her voice hit him like light cracking through brick.

“Damn, you finally callin’ like a normal human being.”

He didn’t say anything right away. Just breathed, slow and steady.

“You straight?” he asked, voice thick, low, “School good?”

Her laughter was immediate—light, sharp, familiar. It filled up the space around him, even from continents away. He didn’t smile, not really. But his eyes eased. His jaw unclenched. His shoulders dropped a little.

“School good,” she said, stretching it out with that Oaktown bounce in her voice, “Stressful, annoying, dumb as hell sometimes, but good. You still sound like you in a bunker. You sleepin’ in a damn cave, Erik?”

He grunted, barely amused, “Nah.”

“You always be on that Jason Bourne shit,” she teased.

He looked at the half-eaten food in front of him. Fan still ticking in the background, “Something like that.”

“Mmhmm.” She clicked her tongue, “Anyway, guess what? I got the fellowship in Atlanta.”

His eyes lifted, just slightly, “Yeah?”

“Yeah! I leave in two weeks. I’m lit. I told Bri to stay at the apartment while I’m gone—so the plants don’t die.”

He leaned back in the chair again, eyes narrowing just a little, “Bri?”

“Sanaa, E. Bri. You know I’m the only one that call her that.”

He was quiet for a beat, “I know.”

Aaliyah didn’t catch the shift in his tone. She was too busy running her mouth, “She got finals and shit anyway. If you’re coming in town she’ll be there. Just don’t be actin’ all scary and big brother-y. She grown now, for real.”

He dragged a hand down his face, stared out the window at the sun dipping low behind concrete and wire. Her words sat heavy in the space.

He cleared his throat, glanced back at the folder he’d closed earlier, “Proud of you. Keep your head down.”

“I always do, old man. When you flying in?”

“End of the week.”

She let out a satisfied breath, “Good. I miss you, even though you get on my nerves.”

He said nothing, but stayed on the line for a few seconds longer than needed. Listening to her move around. Her voice in the distance. It reminded him why he did what he did.

Then he ended the call, slow.

Phone dropped back on the table.

Sun gone now.

And in the back of his mind…

Sanaa.

Washington, D.C. | Howard University | March 2021 | 6:17 PM

Golden hour hit different in D.C.

It slipped between the buildings soft and syrupy, making everything look like a slow-motion music video. The sidewalk glowed warm under acrylics and ankle socks. Students drifted out of Douglass Hall in small clusters—arguing, flirting, passing vapes and group chat tea.

But the one who caught eyes every damn time?

Aaliyah Stevens.

Five-foot-three, thighs soft, hips poking out of that black mini skirt, cropped Howard hoodie barely meeting her waistline. A slick low bun pulled her baby hairs into crisp formation. Nose highlight glowing. Lip gloss fat. AirPods in. Megan Thee Stallion blasting.

Her walk?

Rude.

Every step said “I know I’m fine.”

Booty swayed like it was timed to the beat. She pulled her phone up, camera flipped. Checked her reflection quick. Flash of lashes, edge check, lip bite.

Perfect.

Then she cut across the street, stepping over a pothole like it offended her, and dipped down a quieter block toward the apartment. They stayed in a brownstone walk-up just a few minutes off-campus. Black-owned building. Third floor. The kind of spot that didn’t look like much on the outside. But inside?

All her.

She unlocked the door with a twist of her hips, nails clacking against her keychain, and stepped inside with her usual announcement.

“I’m home! Don’t be in here naked, bitch—Hope you got the snacks!”

No response. She figured Sanaa wasn’t back yet. But she always said it, just in case. The apartment was warm and lived in—walls a soft beige, one accent wall painted burnt orange. Plants crowded the window sill like a green auntie army. A chunky rust-colored sectional took up most of the living room, covered in African print throw pillows and one very well-loved faux fur blanket. The coffee table was Black as hell. Stack of Essence magazines. Ashtray with a half-burnt incense stick. A pink lighter. Remote. Glass tray full of rings, bobby pins, and unopened lip gloss tubes. A tray of crystals that did not work but looked cute.

On the walls?

Black art only.

Thick girls in line drawings. A stretched canvas of a Black girl with gold grills and Bantu knots. Another of Assata Shakur in bold red paint. She dropped her tote on the floor, kicked off her sneakers, and headed to the kitchen, gold anklet flashing with every step. The open layout let her keep one eye on the front door. In the kitchen, open shelving with jars of jasmine rice, brown sugar, instant grits. Fridge covered in affirmations, memes, takeout menus.

And a handwritten note taped up that said:

Keep that ass moisturized and that GPA up!!!

Aaliyah

She poured herself half a glass of mango juice, popped open a fresh pack of peach rings, and turned up her music before heading down the hall. She didn’t bother glancing at Erik’s door. It stayed closed. Instead, she passed it and slipped into her own room—still mid-rap, still chewing, still fine as hell.

Aaliyah dropped onto her chair like it owed her something. Her room was still warm from the sun, golden light spilling over her mirror and glinting off her makeup collection. Her LED lights were off, but the vibe was still full-blown Black Girl Deluxe.

On her desk her laptop already open, three tabs deep into a media theory paper A spiral notebook half-full of bullet points and highlighter marks A lavender candle burned low beside an open pack of gum One lash sitting lonely on top of her mousepad like it died in battle. She pulled her legs up into the chair and sat cross-legged, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.For the next few minutes, she was focused—tapping keys, scrolling through readings, chewing on her pen cap like it might feed her answers.

But then, her phone buzzed. Twice. Not her regular account.

The other one.

She side-eyed it, popped the peach ring in her mouth, and reached for her iPad instead.

Face ID unlocked it quick.

She opened her favorite banking app—the one that didn’t send push notifications, the one linked to a routing number that didn’t have her name on it. And just like that, there it was:

$10,000.00 | Incoming Transfer | “Stay ahead.”

Her lips curled slow. Not surprised. Just confirmed.

“Okay, baller…”

No rent. No bills. No stress.

Her tuition had been handled before the semester even started. The apartment? Erik paid for it in full, in his name. No landlord, no questions. All she had to do was show up to class and get that degree. He made sure of that. He didn’t call it love. Didn’t say it much. But this? This was it.

Then she shot him a quick text.

Thanks Bro! Love you! 

No emoji.

He probably wouldn’t respond. But she knew he read every word.

After a while, Aaliyah flopped back onto her bed, satin bonnet slipping slightly sideways, AirPods still in. She was half-grinning at her phone screen before she even hit the FaceTime button.

Bri 💅🏾

The contact popped up with a photo from their last girls’ night—Sanaa in a tube top, biting her straw, eyes low, looking like the baddie she is. 

Two rings.

Then that soft-ass voice picked up, “What’s up, ho?”

Aaliyah cackled immediately, “You lucky I love you. Don’t be answering the phone like you got hands.”

Sanaa was on the other end, walking down Georgia Ave, curly hair pulled into a loose bun, gold hoops catching the last of the sun. Her lips were glossy. Her eyes looked tired but warm.

“You get outta class already?” Aaliyah asked, flipping onto her stomach and kicking her feet up behind her.

“Yeah, just now. Professor Hill talkin’ like she wasn’t tryna dismiss us early. Like ma’am, wrap it up, I’m hungry.”

“You always hungry,” Aaliyah teased, “You ate before class.”

“That was five hours ago and it was a granola bar. Be serious.”

“You a granola bar.”

Sanaa just rolled her eyes and kept walking, “You home?”

“Been home. You the one takin’ the scenic route.”

“I’m literally five minutes away.”

“Uh huh. That’s what you said last time and showed up with Cold Stone and a man’s hoodie.”

Sanaa smirked, “And I ain’t share either.”

Aaliyah narrowed her eyes playfully, “Bitch, I will fight you.”

They laughed together, easy and unbothered, the kind of laughter that came from years of knowing each other’s tells. Sanaa paused to dig in her purse, then slid her phone into her back pocket so the camera showed nothing but sidewalk and her shadow. She grabbed for it again, holding her phone in one hand while she applied clear Fenty gloss with the other. 

 “You went to the store and didn’t ask me if I wanted nothin’? That’s fake.”

Sanaa smirked, “Girl, relax. I already grabbed your spicy plantain chips. Gold bag. I got you.”

Aaliyah grinned, “See? That’s why you my bitch. You always know.”

“Exactly.”

Aaliyah paused, then lowered her voice, teasing, “You wearin’ that little black set? The one with the thin-ass straps?”

Sanaa didn’t respond right away.

Which was its own answer.

Aaliyah grinned, “I knew it. I ain’t even mad at you. It’s hot as hell and you got hips. Let ‘em breathe.”

Sanaa giggled under her breath, “You got class tomorrow?”

“Unfortunately. Nine a.m. I’m about to act like I’m going.”

“You not.”

“You right.”

Sanaa’s voice went soft, almost lazy, “Alright, I’m walkin’ up now.”

“Door’s unlocked. Don’t let no ghosts in behind you.”

“You stupid.”

They hung up.

Washington, D.C. | Howard University Apartment | 7:47 PM

The door clicked open slow. No rush.

Sanaa stepped inside like she’d always lived there, because truthfully, it felt like she had. Her keys jingled once before she dropped them in the little ceramic tray by the door, next to Aaliyah’s tangled keychain and a half-burnt scented candle. Her sandals slid off smooth, toe rings flashing as she stepped onto the cool wood floors.

Soft light from the living room window stretched across her skin, warm and golden. The kind of light that didn’t ask for attention but gave it anyway. She smelled like vanilla and coconut, with a little spice clinging to the crook of her neck. Her curls were pulled up into a loose bun, a few strands falling by her cheek. Flannel shirt in black and white. A black spaghetti strap tank hugged her chest. Her shorts were high and small, just enough fabric to keep the peace, but not enough to stop a man from thinking.

She walked through the living room, bag of snacks under one arm, the soft pad of her bare feet almost silent. The apartment was quiet now. Megan’s voice had faded. Sanaa didn’t call out. She didn’t need to. They always gave each other space when it was this close to nightfall. After long classes. After D.C. heat and campus noise. The silence was part of their rhythm. She paused near the hallway, glanced toward Aaliyah’s door, heard faint movement behind it—soft music, maybe the sound of nails tapping a screen. Then her eyes slid to the one door that stayed closed.

Then she turned and headed toward her own room.

Warm tones. Vanilla candles. Her desk stacked with textbooks and highlighters. Her silk robe draped over her desk chair. Her bed made, but not tight. Just the way she left it—half-inviting, like she planned to crawl back in. She set the bag down on the dresser. Opened it. Pulled out Aaliyah’s spicy plantain chips and her own bottle of mango juice. And then she sat at the edge of the bed, crossed one leg over the other, and exhaled.

For a moment, it was just her and the silence again. The weight of the day slipping off her shoulders. The faint hum of the city beyond the window. Her candle flickering, the air sweet. She leaned back on her hands, let her head tip slightly to the side, eyes scanning her bedroom like she was checking herself into calm. There was nowhere else she needed to be. No one demanding her attention. Just a warm space, good light, and peace she’d earned. But something about the quiet still made her heart feel a little too aware.

Like it knew something she didn’t.

Like it was waiting for the air to change.

The knock on her door wasn’t really a knock. More like a “bop-bop” with nails, followed by it swinging open without waiting for a response. Aaliyah leaned in, bonnet already slightly shifted to the side, Fenty gloss worn off her lips but confidence still strong.

“You eatin’ without me?”

Sanaa blinked slow, “figured you were busy studying.”

Aaliyah stepped in with no hesitation, snatched the gold bag off the dresser, and flopped right down on the bed like she paid rent in the room too.

“You be so fake sometimes,” she said, mouth full, plantain chips crunching, “I literally just told you I was hungry.”

“And I literally already bought you the chips.”

“Still fake.”

Sanaa smiled but didn’t say much. She leaned back on her elbow, sipping her mango juice, eyes half-lidded while Aaliyah tore into the bag like it owed her.

“I blocked Jordan today.”

Sanaa raised a brow but didn’t interrupt, “Like—blocked blocked.”

“I’m not going back. I don’t care if he send flowers, food, or money.” 

Sanaa nodded slow, amused, “You gon’ unblock him next week.”

“I won’t. I swear on Beyoncé.”

“You swore on Beyoncé last time.”

“This time I mean it.”

They laughed. The kind that lived in the throat, not loud, just warm. Aaliyah sat criss-cross near the edge of the bed, licking salt off her fingers, eyes cutting to Sanaa like she was already planning her next topic.

“Oh—don’t forget, you got that lil date this weekend.”

Sanaa didn’t react.

Aaliyah tilted her head, “You still goin’?”

Sanaa gave a small shrug, pulled her shirt over her shoulder and started twisting the end of a stray curl between her fingers, “I don’t know. Probably not.”

“Why not?”

“I’m just tired,” Sanaa said softly, “Like, niggas don’t be offering shit but recycled game and headaches.”

“Whew. Say that.”

“They all talkin’ the same, dressin’ the same, tryin’ to fuck the same. I’m over it.”

Aaliyah stared at her like she’d heard that same tone too many times, “You need to get laid.”

“I need to be left alone.”

They both fell quiet for a second. Not awkward just understood. Sanaa leaned her head back against the headboard, voice low.

“It’s not even that I don’t want it. I just…want something that don’t feel like I’ve done it ten times already, you know?”

Aaliyah sighed and reached for another chip, “I do.”

The moment settled between them. Comfortable. Easy. Safe. Neither of them knew that by the next day, the energy in that apartment was gonna shift completely. And neither of them was ready for who would walk through that door next.

Belo Horizonte, Brazil | March 2021 | 1:13 AM

The street was quiet.

Too quiet.

Even for this side of the city.

Erik knew the rhythm of the neighborhood by now, the way the dogs barked when the clubs let out, how the stray motorcycle sounds usually died down after midnight, how the old man next door always slammed his shutters right before bed.

But tonight?

Nothing.

He stood shirtless by the window, gold-rimmed glasses glinting as he watched the alley below. The fan behind him clicked on low, soft hum breaking through the thick, humid air. Sweat rolled slow down his spine. His burner phone was off. His laptop closed. His gear already packed. He was leaving at sunrise. Or at least that was the plan.

Then came the flicker.

A shadow moved wrong in the alley. No rhythm to it. Too still between steps.

Erik didn’t move.

Another form appeared, posted across the street like a man waiting on a cigarette that never came. A third leaned against the wall outside the downstairs bakery—too clean, too stiff, too white to blend.

They weren’t Brazilian. And they weren’t local.

Erik moved quiet.

He grabbed the 9mm from beneath his bedframe, checked the mag, and slid a blade into his waistband just behind his back. His shirt stayed off. No need. His body was already marked like war paint. The moment his door handle creaked, he was already behind it.

The first one in? Didn’t even get a name.

Erik caught him by the neck, slammed his head into the edge of the table, and dragged the body backward like he was taking out trash. No noise. Just weight.

Second one came in hotter.

Gun drawn. Mouth open.

Erik dropped low and sliced him from ankle to thigh, kicked his knee sideways, and used the man’s own body to shield himself as bullets tore into the far wall. The safe house lit up, muzzle flashes painting the concrete orange and red. Erik pushed forward. Knife buried in flesh. Pulled the pistol off the downed man’s hip and returned fire.

One in the doorway tried to backpedal, but Erik was already there.

Three shots.

All chest.

No hesitation.

Blood soaked into the fan’s breeze.

Boots slipped on broken tile.

His breath stayed steady.

He moved like someone who’d done this a hundred times and didn’t lose sleep over the first. Four men down. All foreign. Tactical boots. Military gear. Matching patches covered in black sharpie.

One still breathing.

Erik dragged him by the collar into the kitchen and pressed a boot to his chest and gun to his throat.

“Who sent you?”

The man spat blood. Smiled, “Didn’t think you’d still be alive after Kandahar.”

Erik’s jaw clenched.

Old ghosts.

They weren’t here on a mission. They were here on vengeance. Ex-black ops turned freelancers—washed out, pissed off, still sore about how shit ended overseas.

“Just us?” Erik asked.

The man didn’t answer. Erik pulled the trigger once. No ceremony. When it was done, he sat on the edge of the bed. Breathing slow, covered in someone else’s blood, staring at nothing. His body buzzed with adrenaline. But his mind was already three steps ahead.

How’d they find him?

They weren’t local. They weren’t smart. Which meant someone had to give them a trail. Someone who did know where he was. Erik stood up. Washed his hands in the rusted sink. Packed the last of his things. Burned the SIM card. Left the bodies where they dropped.

He needed to get the fuck out of Brazil.

And he needed to disappear long enough to find the source. He only knew one place quiet enough. Safe enough to stay ghosted for a while.

Erik stared at the last body for a second longer than necessary, then snapped out of it. He wiped his hands on a rag, snatched his backpack, and zipped it smooth and quiet. Inside: a second burner phone, emergency documents, foreign cash, a hard drive with names that could set countries on fire, and a clean black tee.

He didn’t bother changing. He’d leave a trail.

No prints. No trace.

He moved fast.

Down the back stairwell, barefoot at first to quiet his steps. His boots dangled from one hand. In the other— his blade and pistol.

No words. No panic.

Just math.

How long before someone realized they were dead? How long before the bodies bled through the floorboards?

Not long enough.

Ten minutes later, he was crouched in the shadow of an alley, behind a shuttered repair shop near the edge of town. The streetlight overhead flickered, washing him in yellow every few seconds like a strobe. His back pressed to the wall, sweat drying cold on his chest.

He pulled out the second burner. One bar of signal. That’s all he needed. He scrolled past a list of dead numbers until he hit the one marked with a single dot. No name. No tag.

Just a dot.

He pressed CALL.

It rang twice. Then clicked.

A man’s voice answered. Thick African accent, low and alert.

“…You alive?”

Erik didn’t waste time, “Need an exfil. Quiet. No questions.”

There was silence on the other end. Then a breath.

“Fucking hell, Stevens. I thought you were buried in the Gulf.”

“Almost was.”

“You hot?”

“Four bodies in a safe house.”

“Shit.”

A brief rustling, followed by the sound of keys typing. Then the voice came back.

“Alright. I can get you out. Not from there. Too close to the city. You need to move. I’ll ping a drop zone—helicopter, military grade, discreet. But I can’t wait long. Be there by dawn or you’re on your own.”

Erik nodded once, “Copy.”

“One more thing…”

“What?”

“If they found you there, they’ll find you here. You know that, right?”

“I ain’t staying.”

Click.

By the time Erik slipped into the backseat of the beat-up SUV parked two blocks over, he’d already wiped down the phone and tossed it in a sewer drain. The driver didn’t speak. Erik handed him a small envelope. That was enough.

They drove with the headlights off.

Out of the city. Past the favelas. Into the hills where the air got thicker and the roads turned to dirt. A goat wandered across the road and the driver didn’t even flinch. Neither did Erik. He sat in the dark, eyes scanning every tree line, pistol resting on his thigh.

At dawn, the helicopter would be there.

He’d be gone.

And whoever leaked his location? He’d find them. But first, he needed to disappear. And if there was one place that could hold him quiet, keep him off-grid, and offer just enough peace to plan his next move, it was the apartment in D.C.

Aaliyah didn’t need to know what he’d just crawled out of.

All she needed to know was he was coming.

Mountains Outside Belo Horizonte | March 2021 | 4:57 AM

The helicopter came low and quiet over the hills, no lights, no sound but a distant chop that blended into the wind. Industrial gray, military-grade, black rotor blades slicing through the sky. Not a government model. Something dirtier. Paid for in favors.

Erik stood still in the clearing.

Boots laced. Bag on his back. Blood washed off, but his knuckles still raw. The SUV driver had dropped him a mile down, never looking back. As the chopper touched down, dust kicked up around him. He covered his face with his scarf and moved, fast but controlled. The side door slid open before he reached it. A masked man inside nodded once. No words.

Erik climbed in.

The door shut.

They lifted off before his boots even settled. They flew low. Over slums, rivers, fields split by train tracks and rusted freight cars. He didn’t speak. Just watched the land shift from jungle to mountain to mist. Forty-seven minutes later, they touched down in the outskirts of a mining town long abandoned. No city noise. No eyes. Just one rusting compound half-buried behind overgrowth.

The Safe Zone.

Old hideout from a job years ago. Owned by no one. Wired by him.

Erik stepped out before the rotors stopped, ducked into the building’s side entrance, and locked the door behind him. Inside: dust, concrete, faint generator hum.

But it had what he needed.

A stash box with clean clothes.

A loaded Glock and spare mags.

Burner passports. 

A mirror.

A sat phone.

He peeled off his sweat-stuck tee, wiping the side of his face. The scars on his chest rose in the low light like topography—old pain carved into habit. He pulled on a fresh black shirt. Slid the Glock into the shoulder holster. Washed his face in a metal basin. Dried it with a rag from the crate. Then he sat down on a metal crate, opened the sat phone, and scrolled to a name.

Call sign: Wolf 7.

He pressed CALL.

Didn’t wait long.

“Stevens.”

A sharp voice. Clean English. Female.

“I got hit in Brazil.”

Static, then silence.

“You alive?” she asked.

“Barely.”

“How many?”

“Four. Military-trained. Not locals.”

“Fuck.”

Erik exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing, “Somebody gave them my location.”

“Could’ve been a pattern leak. Your routes, your reload pings—”

“I don’t move sloppy.”

Another pause.

“You think it’s internal?”

“I think it’s someone who knows how I think.”

She didn’t argue. Didn’t deny.

“Do you need pullback?”

“I need answers.”

“Then you better disappear for real this time. Keep your face out of every camera. Don’t use your real name, don’t use any contact unless it’s me.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, “I’m flying out in six. To lay low.”

“You sure?”

“I got a place.”

“Where?”

He didn’t answer.

Click.

Erik tossed the sat phone into the crate, grabbed his travel bag, and checked the Glock one more time. He was already halfway out the door when he stopped and looked back. The place was stripped now. No traces. No fingerprints. The bodies in Brazil would be found soon. And whoever sent those men? They’d learn quick that Erik Stevens don’t just survive.

He comes back swinging.

D.C. Apartment | March 2021 | 9:14 PM

The dining room smelled like burning amber and garlic butter. The pizza box was open on the table between them, crusts bitten off and tossed back in the box like wrappers. A bottle of wine sat on the kitchen island—half-drunk, cheap, and sweet as hell. The kind of bottle you didn’t need a reason to open.

Sanaa sat cross-legged in her spaghetti strap top and those little grey shorts that always rode up. Aaliyah was sprawled sideways on the chair, bonnet lopsided, leggings on, her bare foot digging into the throw carpet like she was nesting.

Music played low from the speaker—SZA. Something with a bassline that made your bones feel soft.

And in the middle of it all?

Legos.

Not a big set. Just a tiny pastel house kit Aaliyah grabbed for $12 at Target “for mental health reasons.” They built slow between bites and sips, fingers brushing as they passed pieces. No rush.

Sanaa sipped from her glass, eyes half-lidded, “This door don’t make no damn sense.”

“It’s upside down, genius.”

“No, it’s artistic.”

“You just wrong.”

They laughed again—soft, full, tipsy. The incense curled behind them in the window draft. Aaliyah set down her wine, stretched her arms over her head, then let them flop across the table. Her voice dropped to that dreamy, content tone she got after food and wine.

“You know I leave for Atlanta in two weeks.”

Sanaa blinked, “Damn. Already?”

“Yep. Fellowship starts in three weeks. They covering my stay and everything.”

Sanaa smiled, small and real, “I’m proud of you, girl. For real.”

Aaliyah rolled over on her stomach, chin on her forearms, “I’ma miss this though. Us. This vibe. Wine and legos and fake-deep convos at 2 a.m.”

“Girl, we gon’ FaceTime every night. You not escaping me.”

They clinked glasses.

A moment passed—just the music and the incense and the comfort of being fed, warm, and unbothered.

Then Aaliyah grinned, “Guess who called me today?”

Sanaa reached for another slice, “Who? An old fling from back home tryna slide again?”

They both laughed loud, wine glasses tipping.

Aaliyah shook her head. “No, bitch. Erik.”

Sanaa’s hand paused mid-air. A single blue Lego brick hovered between her fingers.

“…Erik?”

Aaliyah nodded like it was casual, “Mhm. My brother.”

Sanaa’s eyes flicked toward the pizza, then back to her friend. She forced a little laugh, “Damn. He still alive?”

“Barely. He sound tired as hell. Called from some weird-ass number like always, like he sittin’ in a cave or a villain lair or some shit.”

Sanaa let out another laugh, smaller this time, “He always been mysterious.”

Aaliyah stretched again, giggling, “He work too much. Never comes around, but he make sure I’m good. Sends money, paid for this whole place…I ain’t gotta worry about nothin’ except getting that degree.”

Sanaa swirled what was left of her wine, “That’s love.”

“It is,” Aaliyah said softly, “He quiet about it, but he be watching. Always tapped in.” Then she grinned again, playful, “I wonder if he remembers you.”

Sanaa snorted, “Girl, stop.”

“I’m just sayin’. You was always hangin’ around back then.”

“That was forever ago.”

“You had the biggest crush.”

“I did not.”

“You used to get real quiet when he came in the room.”

Sanaa threw a Lego at her. Aaliyah ducked, still laughing.

“I’m just playin’,” she said, “He probably don’t remember.”

“Probably not,” Sanaa echoed, biting into her pizza again.

But her mind wasn’t on crust.

She hadn’t seen Erik in years. Not since high school graduation. Five whole years. He’d been older, quiet, always in the background—but something about him had always made her pulse slow. He wasn’t like the other guys. He didn’t try to impress. He watched.

She reached for their wine glasses, “Want a refill?”

“Duh.”

Sanaa stood, smoothed her shorts, and walked toward the kitchen. From the sink, she called back, casual.

“He probably changed a lot over the years, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” Aaliyah called, “He bulked up. Got even quieter. He don’t even post.”

“No pictures?”

“I got one from like a year ago. Hold on.”

Sanaa poured wine with one hand, her ears tuned fully to the sound of the phone unlocking behind her.

“I mean…just curious. I barely remember what he even looks like.”

“Sure,” Aaliyah teased.

Sanaa rolled her eyes and returned to the table. Aaliyah turned the phone screen toward her.

It was a selfie. From a year ago.

Erik was wearing a black hoodie. Shades on. Gold caps barely visible between his lips. His locs were pulled back. His expression? Blank. Controlled. You couldn’t see much. But you could see enough.

He was fine as hell.

Sanaa sipped her wine slow. Eyes on the screen. She said nothing. Just handed the phone back.

But her stomach was warm now.

And it wasn’t just the wine.

The apartment was quiet now.

Aaliyah had gone back to her room, mumbling something about watching Insecure for the tenth time while finishing off the last of the wine. Sanaa cleaned up the snack wrappers, turned the incense down to a nub, and padded barefoot back to her room.

The lights were off.

Only her bedside lamp burned low, warm against the shadows. She peeled out of her tank, tossed it in the hamper, and pulled on one of her oversized tees. The soft kind. No bra. No makeup. Just her. She slipped into bed, pulled the covers up to her waist, and lay on her back—phone in hand, scrolling through nothing. Her screen dimmed once, twice, before she finally tossed it on the pillow beside her.

But sleep didn’t come.

Her thoughts drifted backward.

Past D.C. Past Howard. Back to Oakland.

Oakland, California | Sanaa, Age 17

The house had been full that day—one of those loud, summer-afternoon cookouts that rolled over into the night. The grill smoke had already stained the curtains. Somebody’s auntie was dancing in the living room. Babies crawling. Uncles arguing dominoes in the back. Scraper bikes riding slow down the block. Frankie Beverly playing low under the chaos.

And Erik had walked in.

Fresh off the flight from Boston.

Hair bigger than before—a thick, curly fro with faded temples that sat proud and full. Gold-rimmed glasses perched on his nose like always. No hoodie that time. Just a white tee clinging to his chest, chain tucked underneath.

He looked older.

Sharper.

Smarter.

He was tall already, but the way he carried himself was new. Like he knew something they didn’t.

Everyone had swarmed him.

“Boy, look at you!”

“You got big!”

“MIT? God is good!”

“Your daddy would be proud…”

Sanaa had stayed quiet, posted near the hallway wall, sipping on her soda, pretending not to stare.

But she saw it.

The flicker.

The second someone mentioned his father, something shifted behind his eyes. A quick shadow. He covered it fast with a head nod and a tight grin. Said something smooth to shift the attention, and it worked.

Later that night, the music had died down. Aaliyah was in her room running her mouth on the phone, and Sanaa had slipped out to the kitchen for a refill.

That’s when she saw him.

Erik.

Shirtless.

He was standing by the sink, back to her, muscles carved like truth. A tattoo in calligraphic or spiritual script resting between his shoulder blades. His chain glinting against his skin. 

He turned when he heard her. Calm, low-voiced.

“What’s good?”

She froze, “Just gettin’ a drink.”

He nodded once, “How you been?”

Her voice was small, “Good.”

He watched her for a moment, then looked down at the cap before speaking again.

“I’m headin’ out next month.”

She paused with her hand on the fridge handle, “Yeah?”

“Navy.”

There was something flat in the way he said it. No excitement. No pride. Just fact.

Her eyes flicked to his face, then away, “Congrats. That’s major.”

He gave a small nod, “Appreciate it.”

Silence settled between them. Not awkward—but something unsaid hung low in the room. Like she wanted to ask more but didn’t know how. Like he was used to not explaining. He finished the rest of his drink, dropped the cap in the trash, and pushed off the counter.

“Good to see you, Nae Nae”

She looked up, startled he said that nickname.

He didn’t say much. And he never said it before.

“You too.”

Then he turned and walked out—bare feet silent on the tile, body disappearing down the hall into the dark. She stood there gripping her cup, not blinking. Her heart tapping too fast against her ribs. She stared after him long after he was gone, her breath catching in her throat.

In that moment, she didn’t want to be seventeen.

She wanted to be grown.

Old enough.

Brave enough.

She wanted to kiss him.

To touch him.

To say something that would make him stop and look at her like she wasn’t just the girl always hanging in his little sister’s room.

She knew it would never happen.

But that didn’t stop the want.

Present Day

Sanaa rolled onto her side, tugging the sheet higher up her body. Her room was quiet now, the lamp still on. Her glass of mango juice untouched. She stared at the candle flame on her nightstand.

Erik.

She hadn’t thought about him like that in years. Or maybe she had. Maybe he just stayed tucked in that dusty corner of her mind reserved for old crushes and impossible daydreams. But now she was older. Twenty-two. Living with his sister. And he was probably somewhere across the world, giving all that quiet, heavy energy to some woman who actually matched him. A woman who didn’t flinch when he asked what was good. A woman who knew what to do with a man like that.

Not her.

Not Sanaa.

If he ever showed up now, she told herself, he wouldn’t look twice at her.

She was still Aaliyah’s best friend. 

Still off-limits.

She turned her head into the pillow, sighing, then cut off the lamp. But even in the dark, her mind stayed lit with that image—him in that hoodie. In those shades. In that body. And it wouldn’t be the last time she thought about him like that.

Washington, D.C. | Ronald Reagan National Airport | March 2021 | 11:08 PM  | Next Evening

The plane touched down with a hiss of tires and a subtle lurch that made the windowpanes tremble. Most of the cabin stayed asleep, neck pillows tilted, shoes off, unaware.

Erik wasn’t one of them.

He hadn’t slept once.

He sat in seat 3C, shoulders back, knees wide, eyes forward the entire flight. He didn’t speak. Didn’t eat. Didn’t even take his hoodie off.

When the plane taxied toward the gate, he finally shifted in his seat, only to reach down and secure his duffel. The bag never left his side. That was rule number one. By the time he stepped through the terminal, the airport had that late-night quiet. Not silent, but drained. Just floor polishers, two TSA agents, and a few stragglers waiting on late flights. He moved like a shadow—black hoodie over his head, drawstrings pulled just enough. A long, black duffel over one shoulder. Fitted black cargos. Heavy-soled boots. No logos. No color.

His hoodie was thick and clean, zipped three-quarters up. Underneath, a tight thermal hugged his chest. His black gloves were still tucked into his back pocket, and his locs were pulled back into a short, no-nonsense tie. Only the glint of his gold-rimmed glasses and the faintest flash of gold caps when he clenched his jaw gave any hint of shine. Otherwise, he was shadowwork. He walked with purpose, but not speed. Eyes sharp. Head on a slow swivel. He didn’t flinch, but he tracked every janitor, every motion sensor, every phone raised too long.

Hyper-vigilant.

Like something was still on his tail.

Because something always was.

Outside, Erik walked past the lines of rideshare pickups and tourists fumbling with luggage. He bypassed all that. Slipped into the lot where his rental waited—black SUV, tinted. Booked under a dummy name. Keys picked up without conversation. He threw the duffel in the back, got in the front seat, and sat for a moment with the engine off. The glow of the dash lights flickered against his skin. He didn’t move. Then he leaned over and pulled out a manila envelope. Inside: printouts of surveillance logs, satellite images, and one folded page with red markings. The names. The location where the hit was made. The theory.

Someone had leaked his location.

Still no proof.

But his instincts were screaming.

He tucked the folder away, started the engine, and pulled out slow.

He didn’t take the direct road.

He looped. Changed lanes. Cut through quiet streets in Southeast. Passed up his own turn just to double back. Every red light, he scanned both mirrors. Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind the apartment building. Same walk-up Aaliyah had been in for almost a year. Erik hadn’t been here since he handed over the down payment. He parked in the back corner where the security camera didn’t reach. Killed the lights.

Then sat still again.

He could see the glow from the third-floor window.

Not Aaliyah’s room. The other one.

Someone was still awake.

He tapped his fingers against the wheel, slow and even. Erik pulled his hoodie tighter. Checked his Glock in the glove compartment, then stepped out into the night.

Boots hit pavement. Quiet. Certain.

He didn’t knock.

Just walked toward the back entrance with his key in hand, his shoulders broad and posture calm—but every cell in his body still humming like he hadn’t left Brazil at all. He was home. But only technically.

And Erik Stevens didn’t let his guard down for anyone.

Washington, D.C. | The Apartment | March 2021 | 12:12 AM

The front door clicked shut with barely a sound. Erik stood in the dim entryway, letting his eyes adjust. A hallway stretched out ahead of him—closed doors on either side, one faint lamp glowing near the living room. Quiet. Clean. Feminine touches everywhere. Shoes lined up neat by the wall. A throw blanket tossed across the sectional. Candles on the console table that smelled like something warm—vanilla, maybe brown sugar. His nose flared once, catching something sweeter underneath. Peach and incense smoke and woman.

He shook it off.

Stepped forward. Boots silent on the hardwood. He passed the kitchen, noting the empty wine glasses in the sink. The apartment felt lived-in, soft around the edges. A far cry from the dusty safehouses and cement flats he’d been moving through the past year. He didn’t linger. His room was at the end of the hall. Still untouched.  He opened the door and stepped in. It smelled like dry wood, fresh paint, and the faintest trace of cedar from a block he’d tucked in one of the drawers when he first paid for the place.

Simple layout.

A king-sized bed against the wall, dark frame, gray sheets.

One dresser.

One heavy-duty black trunk at the foot of the bed.

A freestanding wardrobe Erik had assembled himself the last time he came through.

No clutter. No photos. Just function.

The walls were bare. The blackout curtains pulled.

But he walked to the window anyway, peeled one side open, and looked out. D.C. glowed soft beneath the clouds—streetlights buzzing, cars humming past in the distance. Not home. But not foreign.

He stood there for a long second, jaw tight, letting his body slowly ease out of alert mode. It never truly stopped but it slowed, just enough to think.

Then he moved.

Unzipped the duffel.

Laid out his weapons first—one black matte Glock, two folding knives, a burner phone, a watch, a few USBs wrapped in tape. He tucked them into the locked drawer of the dresser. Then came the clothes—black cargos, black thermals, tanks, rolled socks, one soft hoodie he didn’t remember packing. He folded them into the dresser drawers with exact precision. Finally, he grabbed a fresh towel, a clean pair of black briefs, and a bottle of Dr. Bronner’s peppermint soap. His travel shampoo was already in the side pouch. He checked the hallway, then stepped out. The hall light buzzed faintly overhead as he turned the knob and entered the bathroom.

It was warm. Humid. Somebody had just been in here.

The softest traces of shea butter still clung to the air. The mirror was fogged around the edges. There were two bonnets hanging off the towel rack. A pink satin robe tossed over the back of the door. Three bottles lined the edge of the tub—honey almond conditioner, something labeled “Mango & Hibiscus,” and a hair detangler with a cartoon Black girl on the label.

His brow twitched but he didn’t pause. Just stepped in, locked the door, and turned the shower on hot.

Steam swallowed the room quick. Erik peeled off his hoodie, shirt, and pants, dropping them in a neat pile near the sink. He stepped under the stream. Let it rush over his skin, head tilted back, eyes closed. First came the soap—lathered into his palms, slicked over his chest, arms, shoulders, stomach. He scrubbed everywhere. Rinsed. Did it again. Couldn’t stand the smell of foreign bodies or sweat lingering on him. That was rule number two. He grabbed the shampoo, squeezed a line into his palm, and rubbed it through his locs. Took his time. Fingertips dug into his scalp slow, methodical. He rinsed twice, made sure every drop of dirt and memory of jungle heat was gone. When he was done, he stood under the water one more minute.

Let it burn. Let it clean. Let it quiet his mind.

Then he stepped out.

He dried off just enough to keep water from dripping all over the floor. Tied the towel low on his waist. His skin steamed. He left his dirty clothes in the hamper and opened the bathroom door, still toweling at his locs. Barefoot. Chest out. Arms cut and soaked. Gold glinting faint behind his damp glasses.

That’s when he heard it.

A soft laugh.

High. Sweet. Familiar.

He paused.

Turned toward the source—a cracked bedroom door halfway down the hall. A warm lamp glow spilled through the crack. He moved without sound, every step practiced.

Another giggle. Low and throaty.

He narrowed his eyes.

Didn’t move closer. Didn’t breathe too loud.

Just listened.

That wasn’t a stranger. He hadn’t heard that laugh in five years.

Erik moved—fluid and quiet—until he stood in front of the partially cracked door. The light spilling through was low and golden, lamp-warm, flickering shadows from a strand of fairy lights pinned across the top of the room. Soft music hummed under it all, something mellow with bass, the kind of track that sat deep in your chest.

He leaned in, just enough to glimpse what had stopped him.

There she was.

Sanaa.

She sat sideways on the bed, one knee tucked under her, one bare foot dangling off the side as she talked on the phone, her voice soft, animated, laughing at something unheard. She hadn’t seen him. Didn’t know he was there. The glow from her screen lit up one side of her face, warm against her cheekbones and the line of her jaw. 

That glossy, espresso-brown skin shimmered with softness, her curly hair sweeping over one shoulder. Gold hoops winked beneath the halo of her hair. A fitted mocha-colored tank hugged her figure, shoulders bare, waist snatched, soft black shorts clinging to full hips. Legs stretched long and toned, crossed loosely at the ankle.

Erik blinked, once. Jaw flexing just slightly.

Still soft-spoken. Still that unreadable gaze—though right now it was on her phone screen, smiling at whoever was on the other end. Her laugh was light, casual, like she was on FaceTime with one of her girls. He couldn’t make out the words.

Didn’t need to.

He lingered one more second. Just one.

Then backed away without a sound. Like he hadn’t been there at all.

In his room, Erik shut the door and leaned against it for a beat. Took a breath through his nose, slow. Rolled his shoulders back like he was brushing it off.

Then he moved.

Tossed the towel over the chair. Changed into a plain black tee and fitted sweats. His body still carried that edge from Brazil—coiled tight, veins raised, the fresh scars on his knuckles pulling as he flexed his hands. He could still smell her room on him—burnt sage, hair oil, something sweet and spiced. Leftover heat clinging to his skin from the shower.

He sat at the edge of the bed, and that’s when he heard it.

Footsteps again. A softer rhythm on the hardwood. Then a quiet shuffle. Fabric brushing. The soft clink of a glass. Movement out in the hallway.

Erik moved toward the door, quiet. Not all the way to open it—just to listen. He didn’t have to wonder long.

A shadow passed under the crack of light.

And then, a figure. 

She walked by without glancing his way. A casual sway to her hips, still barefoot, hoodie thrown on now over whatever she’d been wearing earlier. Phone in hand. She paused for a second in the kitchen—pouring water, maybe—then disappeared around the corner again.

No words.

No eye contact.

Just presence.

Erik waited a beat. Then turned back inside.

Didn’t think too hard about it.

But he noticed.

The apartment door creaked open just past six.

Aaliyah stumbled in first, balancing her messenger bag on one shoulder and a leftover lunch container in her hand. Behind her, Sanaa stepped through the threshold with her own bags, her jet black curls pulled up in a messy puff that had started out cute but now sagged with the weight of the day. She kicked off her shoes with a sigh that emptied her whole chest.

“Remind me why I thought back-to-back labs and a 300-level seminar on a Friday was a good idea?” Sanaa dropped her tote bag by the entryway.

“You were trying to prove you could do it all,” Aaliyah replied, tossing her keys on the counter, “Superwoman. Remember?”

Sanaa rolled her eyes, dragging her feet toward the kitchen.

They stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder in front of the open fridge, both blinking into the fluorescent light as if expecting a miracle to reveal itself between a bottle of oat milk and a box of leftovers neither of them wanted.

“I say we order,” Sanaa offered.

“I second that motion.” Aaliyah shut the fridge, “I gotta text Erik. He said he was coming.”

Sanaa’s head tilted, “So, he is staying?”

“He should already be here.” Aaliyah checked her phone, “His flight got in last night. Oh, he said he went to the gym.”

A small knot of nerves stirred low in Sanaa’s belly. 

“Let me freshen up,” Sanaa said, suddenly aware of how sweaty her thighs felt, “I feel gross.”

“Same,” Aaliyah said, “I’ll find something to order while you shower.”

Sanaa darted to the hallway bathroom, stripped quickly, and stood under the spray longer than she should’ve. She used her good body wash. The one with the vanilla undertones and that little citrus kick that made her skin feel expensive. Afterward, she dried off, slipped on a cropped tee and a pair of ribbed shorts that hugged her hips. She didn’t think twice about it.

Until she heard his voice.

It was low. A deep baritone in the kitchen—steadier now than it used to be. Still quiet, but firm. She caught the soft cadence of Aaliyah replying, then a laugh. Sanaa froze at the edge of the hallway. She heard the hum of the fridge door, the clink of a glass being set down.

Then she turned the corner and saw him.

Erik.

Leaning against the kitchen island, arm flexed on the counter. Hair longer now, locs thick and dark, pulled into a half-tied bun that showed off the slope of his jaw. He wore a black athletic tee, sleeves hugging the round of his biceps, the fabric darkened with sweat at the collarbone and leaving nothing to the imagination. Not even the keloid scars meticulously placed. Up and down his arms. Visible through his sweat-drenched shirt. Joggers hung low on his hips, drawstring loose, his legs parted slightly as he reached for a bottle of water. His skin was deeper now. Like it had soaked in sun and held onto it. And he had filled out. Solid chest. Wide back. Forearms marked with faint veins and scars Sanaa couldn’t stop admiring from where she stood. Inked. 

He looked up.

Their eyes met.

Sanaa’s breath caught.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just studied her with that same unreadable expression from when they were younger. No smile. No reaction. Just the weight of his gaze flicking from her face down the length of her and back up again. She wished she had put on a bra. Or longer shorts. Or anything that didn’t make her feel like her nipples were pointing out directions.

Aaliyah noticed the silence and broke it with a grin, “E, you remember Bri, right?”

Erik’s head nodded once, “Yeah.”

Sanaa smiled, a little awkward,  “Hey, stranger.” 

“Hey,” he echoed.

They moved in for a hug. It was stiff. Her arms brushed his damp shirt. He was warm and solid and smelled like cologne layered over sweat. Clean but raw. Something primal stirred in her gut. She hoped her face didn’t show it. He didn’t linger. Just one arm, a quick pull, then he backed away.

Aaliyah teased, “Y’all definitely look like strangers.”

Erik reached for the water again, “Been a minute.”

“Five years,” Sanaa said before she could stop herself.

He glanced at her again, eyes unreadable. That was all.

Aaliyah spoke, “Anyway—food. Sanaa, check the app. I’m starving.”

She moved around them and out of the kitchen, leaving Sanaa in Erik’s orbit. The air felt thick. Too quiet. She could still feel the heat from his body like he’d left something behind on her skin. Erik walked to the living room and dropped onto the couch. Remote in hand, TV on mute. He didn’t flip channels. Just let the images play, his eyes barely on them. Sanaa leaned against the wall, arms crossed, pretending to scroll her phone. But she was watching him.

His legs were wide. Joggers slouched, the fabric soft at the thigh. His hand rested near his knee—long fingers, clean, blunt-cut nails and faint calluses that suggested he lifted things heavier than dumbbells. His tee had shifted slightly as he leaned back, revealing the curve of his waist and a sliver of raised scars trailing below his shirt.

Sanaa’s thighs clenched.

She swallowed.

He scratched the edge of his jaw, then reached up to adjust his locs. That movement—slow, deliberate—made her feel like she was intruding on something private.

Still the same Erik. Quiet. Intense. Like he kept most of himself tucked behind a wall and only let a sliver show.

Only now…he wasn’t just mysterious.

He was dangerous.

She didn’t even realize Aaliyah was calling her name until she flinched.

“Girl—what’s up with you?” Aaliyah stood at the far end of the kitchen, “I asked if you want Thai or Caribbean.”

“Oh. Uh—Caribbean’s fine.”

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Sanaa said quickly, pushing off the wall and heading toward the kitchen, “Just tired.”

She didn’t look back at him.

But she felt it—like his attention hadn’t left her, even if he never once said a word to make her sure of it.

Aaliyah turned from the counter and called out toward the living room. “E, that okay with you? Caribbean?”

Erik shifted where he sat, his arm draped along the back of the couch. The light from the TV cast a faint blue across the side of his jaw. He looked over toward the kitchen slowly, eyes moving past the counter, past Aaliyah—landing on Sanaa for a heartbeat too long.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice had that unbothered, low drawl. Not rushed. Not eager. Just settled, “That’s cool. I’ll order. Just let me know what y’all want.”

Aaliyah nodded and leaned against the island, “Same as always for me. Jerk chicken, rice and peas, plantains, cabbage if they got it.” Then she glanced toward Sanaa, “Bri?”

Sanaa met Erik’s eyes again. His stare wasn’t harsh, but it held weight. The kind that pressed against her chest without touching her. She tucked a curl behind her ear and cleared her throat lightly.

“Uh…brown stew chicken,” she said, “Extra gravy. White rice. And—”

“Plantains?” Aaliyah chimed in.

Sanaa gave a sheepish smile, “Yeah.”

Erik nodded once, “Got it.”

He reached for his phone and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. That posture made his back stretch the cotton of his shirt tight. The muscles underneath moved slow, like shifting ground. Sanaa forced her eyes away.

“I’m gonna go freshen up,” Aaliyah said, already walking down the hall, “Don’t steal none of my food, either of y’all.”

Sanaa laughed under her breath, but her body tensed the moment Aaliyah disappeared around the corner. The hallway light clicked on. Water started running. And just like that, the apartment dipped into something quieter.

She turned to face the kitchen sink and leaned forward to rinse out her cup—buying time, pretending she wasn’t aware of the way the air had changed.

Behind her, she could feel him. Not in a mystical sense. Just in the way stillness takes up space. Like a shift in pressure when a storm’s coming and the trees hush for it.

Erik didn’t speak. The only sound was the faint swiping of his fingers across the phone screen, probably locking in the order. She thought about turning on the radio or asking if he wanted something to drink, but neither of those thoughts made it out of her mouth.

She was too aware of her own body. The hem of her shorts creeping higher every time she moved. The chill of the kitchen floor curling up her bare legs. The way her shirt clung just a little too soft against her chest. She wrapped her arms across herself and glanced over her shoulder.

He was still looking at the screen.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

She couldn’t tell.

She turned back to the sink and gripped the edge of the counter, heart ticking a little faster.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did she.

But she knew this part of the story would be replayed later. In her head. In a quiet room. She’d remember how small she felt in those few minutes. How loud her body felt inside the silence.

And how Erik, with his long limbs, his gym-worn calm, and that gaze that didn’t give anything away, had already unsettled her without lifting a single finger.

She heard the soft shift of fabric before she saw him.

Erik stood from the couch right as Sanaa turned from the sink. It caught her off guard—the quiet of his movements, how such a large man could move with barely a sound. His phone was in one hand, thumb still resting against the side like he hadn’t quite let go of the last thing he touched. He towered, shoulders squared, back straight, not crowding her but definitely there. Present in a way that made the space feel smaller.

They faced each other at the mouth of the hallway.

She hadn’t meant to block the way. She stepped slightly to the side, motioning with a soft “Sorry,” and tried to pass him.

But he shifted too—just a beat behind her—and then paused.

“You good?” he asked.

His voice didn’t rise, didn’t carry. Just floated between them with a quiet pull.

She glanced up, “Yeah, all good.”

For half a second, neither moved.

Then Erik stepped aside, letting her pass first.

Sanaa walked ahead of him, suddenly too aware of every part of her body—the roll of her hips, the sway of her thighs, the way her bare skin prickled under the hallway light. She didn’t dare look back, but she could feel the way his gaze might have followed. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was just the heat of the moment playing tricks on her. But something about his stillness—his deliberate calm—made her pulse flicker behind her ribs.

When she reached her bedroom door, she hesitated with her hand on the knob.

Behind her, Erik’s footsteps were just beginning to move. Slow. Unhurried.

She opened the door and stepped inside without another glance.

But she felt it—the slight burn behind her ears, the ache low in her belly. Just something waiting. Something strange and unfamiliar.

She shut the door softly.

And on the other side of the hallway, Erik walked past—silent again, unreadable, carrying something in his silence that Sanaa was already struggling to ignore. The click of the latch was soft, but it echoed louder in her head. No TV. No conversation. Just silence. Thick and close, like her room had swallowed her whole.

She breathed in. Then let it out slow.

The first time she sees Erik—really sees him—it’s like her whole body goes still.

Not scared.

Not awkward.

But shaken.

She hadn’t been expecting him to be there already. Hadn’t been expecting him to be the one in the kitchen. And she sure as hell hadn’t been expecting him to look like that.

Big. Broad. Calm.

That shirt looked like it was stitched just to fall off his frame a certain way. Jaw carved deeper than she remembered. Locs longer, thicker, tied back with a casual knot that still looked deliberate. His shoulders looked heavier like they’d been carrying something more than just weight. And she’d walked in like it was just any other night. Little shorts, no bra under her tank. Gloss on her lips. Hair still a little damp from her quick shower. Comfortable. Until she wasn’t.

Because of the way he looked at her.

That pause.

Not long. Just enough.

There had been recognition, sure. The kind that said I know you. I remember.

But behind that?

Something else.

Something heavier.

Something that made her chest tighten and her thighs shift.

It was quick. Blink-and-miss-it fast. But she caught it. She felt it.

That little flutter in her stomach?

That slow-blooming oh?

Yeah. That was real.

She moved to the mirror across the room and leaned in, studying her reflection. Gloss still intact. Hair still soft around her face. Nipples still hard beneath her shirt. She crossed her arms, then dropped them again. No point pretending now.

Her pulse was still up.

And her mind wouldn’t shut up.

“That’s Erik?”

“Since when his voice got deeper?”

“Why he look at me like that?”

“Fuck. I can’t be acting thirsty.”

She pressed her fingers to her temples and sighed.

It wasn’t just attraction. It was awareness. The kind that stretched out slow, crawling across her skin. She was aware of everything now—the way her thighs touched when she stood still, the warmth behind her knees, the hum in her chest.

She wasn’t nervous in the run-and-hide way.

She was nervous in the stay way.

The linger way.

The kind that pulled her in instead of pushing her out.

He hadn’t looked at her like she was Aaliyah’s little friend anymore. He hadn’t even spoken to her like that. He said maybe three words, and she’d felt it. That shift. That new weight to him. That quiet pull.

She walked past him on the way to her room like it was nothing. But she knew her hips had switched different. She felt the swing in them. The soft arch of her back. She knew.

Because he was watching.

And now it was stuck in her.

Every time she thought of his voice from down the hall— low, steady, effortless—she felt it all over again. That warmth between her legs. That slow pulse behind her ribs. That ache to look again. Just one more time.

Erik wasn’t just her best friend’s big brother anymore.

He was a man.

And he just became a problem.

By the time Sanaa stepped back out into the apartment, the food had arrived and the lights in the kitchen had shifted to a low, golden hum. Aaliyah was already setting out the containers, her voice light, laughter spilling from her mouth as she opened the brown paper bags one by one, the smell of oxtail and curry filling the whole space.

Sanaa’s curls were down now, wild and soft. They tumbled past her shoulders, framing her face in loose, shiny spirals. She hadn’t changed. Still in her little shorts and tee. But she had added one thing—gold hoops that caught the light every time she moved. Her lips were glossed again, this time a deeper tint. She looked relaxed, but there was a spark in her step now. Like she had quietly decided to lean in.

“Food’s here!” Aaliyah called, peeking over her shoulder, “You makin’ drinks or just bein’ cute?”

Sanaa grinned. She was already reaching into their stash cabinet above the fridge, dragging down the bottle of dark rum and the leftover fruit juice, “Let me make it nice,” she said, pulling out a tall glass pitcher.

Aaliyah watched her with a smirk and sang out in patois, playful and teasing, “Yuh a real yard gyal now, eh? Gwaan like you run dis ting!”

Sanaa laughed, the accent slipping in smooth and easy as water, “Mi nuh haffi gwaan like nothin’. Mi always run dis ting.”

Aaliyah let out a loud cackle, dancing in place as she cued up her phone. The speaker kicked to life with the bounce of Notch – Nuh Go So, bass curling up around their legs. Aaliyah started whining her waist right there in front of the counter, rolling her hips slow, over-exaggerated, dramatic as hell.

“Yuh cyah manage di wine, Aaliyah,” Sanaa teased.

“Please. Ask your Auntie who taught me.”

“You learn wrong!”

They were still laughing when he came out.

Erik.

Freshly showered, locs loose and brushing his shoulders. No retwist, no effort—just damp and wild in the best way. A white tank clung to his chest, soft from too many washes, and the grey joggers sat low on his waist. White socks. Gold Cuban chain around his neck catching the light just enough to make you look twice. He paused just outside the hallway, expression unreadable, brow lifted as he took in the scene. 

His eyes flicked to Aaliyah first—who was still mid-wine, arm up like she was in a soca video. Then to Sanaa. Briefly. But there was a shift in his gaze when it landed on her. Not obvious. Just the pause. That flicker. The weight of seeing her, standing there with her wild curls, gold hoops, rum bottle in one hand and hips cocked to the side. He didn’t say anything. Just smoothed a hand back through his locs—only for them to fall again. The move failed. He let it.

“You good?” Aaliyah asked him, still moving a little, grinning.

“I’m straight,” he replied, stepping forward to the table.

He pulled out a chair and sat, stretching his legs under the table and settling in like he’d been there the whole time. The tension that had been in his shoulders earlier seemed to loosen a little. He leaned back, arm resting on the back of the chair next to him, and scanned the food casually.

“You still don’t like plantain, huh?” Aaliyah asked, opening the styrofoam containers.

“Don’t start.” he warned, deadpan.

“I’m just asking questions, waterhead,” she teased, popping a piece into her mouth.

Sanaa giggled as she finished stirring the punch. She walked to the table, the pitcher in one hand and two glasses in the other.

“You want some?” she asked, looking at Erik.

He glanced at the pitcher. Then at her again. She had a slight tilt to her head when she asked—innocent, but not unaware. He gave a small nod.

“Yeah. I’ll try it.”

She poured him a glass first, the liquid a deep pink-red with bits of fresh lime and orange floating on top. She set it in front of him gently. The ring of the glass against the table felt louder than it should’ve been. He gave a soft “Appreciate it,” and reached for the drink without looking up.

They tucked into the food soon after.

Sanaa sat across from Erik, Aaliyah diagonal. The music still played low behind them, filling the pauses with rhythm. The kind of dinner that didn’t need too much talking. Everything smelled too good. The kind of heat that hit your mouth and made your toes curl.

About halfway through her plate, Aaliyah wiped her mouth and turned toward her brother.

“So what’s the plan?” she asked, still casual, “How long you in D.C. before you vanish again?”

Erik took a slow sip of the punch. Then set the glass down and shrugged with one shoulder.

“Got some time,” he said, “So a while.”

“That’s all we get?”

“That’s all I got.”

Aaliyah huffed but didn’t push it. She knew better. She turned her focus back to her food.

But across the table, Sanaa was watching. Not staring. Just…watching. The same way she always did. Quiet. Deep. Taking in every word, every breath, every blink. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t press. But she was already clocking the way he carried that answer.

So a while.

No date. No details.

Still a mystery.

But one that had just taken a seat at her table.

The clink of utensils had faded. Most of the food had been picked over, drinks half-finished, the music now low enough to hum in the background. Erik leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting from his near-empty plate to the woman sitting across from him. His gaze lingered longer than before. Still unreadable. But more present. More focused.

“You almost finished school?” he asked, tone even.

Sanaa looked up from her glass, surprised to hear him address her directly. She nodded once, slow, “Yeah. Senior year.”

He gave a slight tilt of his chin, like that tracked, “What you studying?”

“Psych. Pre-med track. I do research too.”

Something flickered in his eyes. He didn’t smile. Not really. But there was a small pull at the corner of his mouth. Enough to show the faintest glimpse of a dimple.

“Smart,” he said.

Sanaa gave a short huff of a laugh, her shoulders rising with it. She looked down at her drink for a beat, then took a small sip to steady herself. The warmth of the rum was already curled in her belly, but now it mixed with something else. That faint dimple? The fact that he noticed? It made her stomach flutter.

Erik glanced back at her, still curious, “When you move in with Aaliyah?”

“Couple months ago,” she replied, “I got tired of campus living. Needed peace.”

He nodded again, like he understood.

Across the table, Aaliyah stretched and groaned, “Y’all wanna play Uno or y’all boring?”

Sanaa looked over at her, then flicked her eyes back to Erik without thinking.

He caught the glance. Didn’t say anything at first. Then gave a slow nod,  “Yeah. I’m down.”

Aaliyah grinned and stood, “Bet. I got the cards in my room.”

As she walked off, Sanaa pushed her chair back to start clearing the plates. She reached for her own first, then Erik’s. He stood at the same time, moving in sync with her, and their fingers brushed—brief, unintentional, but enough to make her heart skip.

They both paused. Eyes met. Just a second. Then she looked away, stacking the containers. Erik reached for the rest without a word. They walked to the kitchen together. The silence between them wasn’t awkward. It was too full for that. Too full of glances and quiet breath. Of things not yet named but already felt.

As Sanaa opened the fridge, she caught his arm out the corner of her eye. Scarred. Not fresh—but not faint either. Stories she didn’t know. And above the neckline of his tank, just peeking near his collarbone, was a tattoo. Half-hidden. Half-bold. Something about it made her fingers twitch.

He didn’t speak.

She grabbed a clean towel and started wiping the counter. The song shifted behind them.

Then, softly, she said, “I like your hair.”

Erik looked over. Not fast. Just turned his head and studied her with that same even quiet he always carried.

“It’s nice like that,” she added, “Untamed. Rooted.”

A pause.

His hand lifted to his shoulder, fingers grazing one of the locs that had fallen forward.

“Appreciate it,” he said, voice low.

He didn’t smile this time. But he held her gaze.

Longer than before.

And this time, Sanaa didn’t look away.

Sanaa poured herself another glass of rum punch and took a long, slow sip. Her curls brushed her shoulders, gold hoops catching the light each time she moved. She was not performing. She never performed. She simply existed with a kind of quiet pull, every gesture deliberate without trying to be.

Erik leaned against the counter, forearms resting along the edge. The tank he wore clung to him in the places that mattered. Collarbones. Chest. Arms carved from work and time. His locs fell loose against his shoulders, still slightly damp.

He watched her without facing her directly. Sanaa pretended not to notice. That was her game. She always played quiet. She set her glass down. The ring of it on the counter was soft, but it cut through the stillness. She stepped closer, the fabric of her tiny shorts brushing the top of her thigh as she moved. Slow. Purposeful.

Erik stayed still.

Her eyes dropped to his inner arm. The keloid scars, raised and textured, caught her attention again. They were not loud, but they spoke in a language she did not yet know. There was history etched there. Something he had carried for a long time.

Without asking, she reached out. Two fingers. Light touch. She traced one of the raised lines down his skin. Warm. Firm. Scarred.

Erik froze.

Not in fear. Not in tension. In something else. He looked down at her hand, then at her face. His breathing changed, just a slight shift. He did not pull back. Sanaa lifted her eyes, watching him with that quiet, intentional focus she used when she wanted to understand someone. Her voice came out soft enough to make him lean in to catch the sound.

“What do they mean?”

His jaw flexed. A pause. Then his answer came low and firm.

“Nothing to concern you with, Nae Nae.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile. Not mockery. Not challenge. Something almost tender. Soft. Controlled. She gave one last slow drag of her finger along the scars, then stepped back and picked up her glass.

He did not move.

She turned toward the dining room, hips shifting with that slow rhythm she never forced. Her curls bounced lightly behind her. She did not look back. She did not need to. She walked away like her body already understood the effect she had.

Erik followed her with his eyes, then pressed his palm against the counter once she was out of sight. Quiet breath. No words.

Aaliyah returned right then, bursting into the dining room with the Uno cards held above her head. Her voice was bright. Loud. Completely unaware of the tension still clinging to the kitchen doorway.

“Alright. Who ready to get beat?”

Sanaa took another sip of her drink, her posture calm. She placed her glass down beside the  container of plantains and slid into her seat without a hint of what had just passed between her and Erik.

Erik stepped into the dining room a moment later, expression leveled out again, but his eyes found Sanaa first. Quick flick. Brief drift. Then he sat down across from her, his shoulders relaxed but his attention sharp.

The Uno deck hit the table with a snap, scattering cards and setting the tone.

Aaliyah was already talking trash before the first hand was even dealt.

“I hope y’all ready to get washed. I don’t care if you fresh off a plane or a psych lab ain’t no mercy at this table!”

Sanaa smiled into her rum punch, legs crossed, posture effortless. The ice clinked softly in her glass as she took another sip. Her lip gloss hadn’t smudged, her curls still wild and free. She wasn’t trying to be anything. That was the problem.

She just was.

Erik sat across from her again, slow and steady, legs wide under the table. His gold chain glinted faintly under the kitchen light. His expression didn’t give much away. But he shuffled the cards like a man who’d been waiting to win.

And win he did. Two rounds in, Aaliyah was yelling.

“How?! That math ain’t mathin’, Erik! There’s no way you ain’t peekin’ at the deck. I know you cheating.”

“I’m not,” he said, calm as ever.

“Please. You stacked that hand like a dealer in Vegas.”

Sanaa laughed, soft and tipsy. Her cheeks were warm. The rum had settled behind her knees. The heat made her sit looser, her posture dipped and relaxed. One leg slipped free and stretched under the table, brushing against Erik’s calf.

Accidental.

At first.

He didn’t move.

She didn’t, either.

He drew his next card with a flick of his wrist. But his eyes cut sideways to hers for just a second. Just long enough for her to raise a brow and smile.

“You quiet, Bri,” Aaliyah teased, “Plotting?”

“Always,” Sanaa replied, gaze still on her cards, “Y’all gon’ learn.”

Erik scoffed low.

Sanaa didn’t say anything.

Just slid a two Draw Four’s onto the pile like it was nothing.

Aaliyah gasped, “Oop!”

Erik glanced down at the cards, then at her.

His jaw flexed.

“Really?” he asked.

Sanaa sipped her punch, eyes soft, amused, “Play the game.”

He reached for eight cards, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Shame,” Aaliyah teased, “Big boss man taken out by some fruity rum and a Draw Four.”

Sanaa tried not to laugh, but the sound slipped anyway. A little too soft. A little too easy. Her head tipped back and her foot brushed his leg again. Still nothing too obvious. Still no apology.

She just let it happen.

The table felt smaller with each round. Elbows brushed. Cards slid back and forth. Erik’s leg stayed near hers now, their knees touching once, twice, then staying pressed just faintly in the middle. She leaned forward once to pick up a dropped card, and the hem of her shorts lifted a little higher on her thigh. Erik saw it. She knew he did. He didn’t look for long. But his hand twitched when she sat back down.

Another round.

More laughter.

Aaliyah was on her second glass now, her head resting on her arm between turns.

“You two are annoying,” she whined, “I feel like I’m in the middle of a standoff and I don’t know the rules.”

Sanaa looked at her, smiling sweetly, “We just playing Uno.”

Erik said nothing.

But when Sanaa reached across the table to place her next card, her fingers grazed his again.

That time, he looked at her full on.

And she looked right back.

Still quiet. Still smooth.

But something shifted.

The air got thick again.

No one spoke on it.

The laughter had softened.

The deck was worn and scattered across the table, edges curled from years of use. Aaliyah slumped against her chair, her glass long empty, her cheeks warm and flushed with tipsy contentment. She rubbed her temples and let out a long, dramatic groan.

“Alright,” she sighed, “I’m cooked. That last draw four took the last bit of life outta me.”

Sanaa chuckled under her breath, watching her best friend stumble to her feet with the grace of someone who thought they were sober. Aaliyah shuffled toward the fridge and filled a glass of water, sipping with lazy care.

“I hate both of y’all,” she added mid-sip.

“You just a sore loser,” Sanaa teased, rising from her chair and wrapping her arms around Aaliyah from behind.

Aaliyah whined and squirmed, “Don’t squeeze me! I’m delicate right now.”

Sanaa laughed, letting her go. Aaliyah grabbed her water and headed down the hallway, feet dragging across the hardwood.

“Night, fools,” she called, “Try not to get beat again without me.”

“Night,” Sanaa and Erik replied almost in unison, then glanced at each other. A flicker.

The hallway dimmed as Aaliyah’s door clicked shut.

Silence settled like dust.

Sanaa began collecting the cards. Her movements were unhurried, methodical. She stacked them into a neat pile and tucked the deck back in its box, then started clearing the table without being asked. Her curls bounced softly each time she turned, her hips swaying that natural rhythm she never performed for anyone—but somehow always pulled attention.

Erik remained seated, arm draped over the back of the chair, watching her in that way he had. Quiet. Focused.

Sanaa glanced up as she carried the last plate toward the sink, “Do you miss it?” she asked, “Oakland?”

Erik shifted. Sat forward slightly. His fingers tapped the edge of the table once before going still.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, “All the time.”

She turned the faucet on but kept her eyes on him.

“I think about it more than I say,” he added, “I think about the block. The people. Dumb shit I used to get into. The air even smelled different.”

Sanaa rinsed a fork slowly, “Do you ever wanna go back?”

Erik was quiet a moment. Then shook his head.

“Not to live. I couldn’t sit still there anymore. Too many ghosts. But…” He looked toward the dark hallway where Aaliyah’s door had closed, “I swore I’d watch over her. Even if she ain’t need it. Even if she think she too grown for it.”

Sanaa smiled a little, “That’s sweet.”

He huffed under his breath, “Ain’t sweet. It’s what I owe.”

She dried her hands on a towel, turning slightly toward him, “You always been that protective?”

His eyes met hers, steady and unreadable.

“Always.” Then his gaze narrowed, the slightest tilt to his head, “Any lil niggas been treatin’ her wrong?”

Sanaa blinked, surprised, then grinned, “Not unless they stupid. She got them wrapped,” Sanaa said, laughing quietly, “They ain’t got a chance.”

Erik looked at her for a beat too long. Not in a way that asked for answers. In a way that watched. That read. Then he turned his gaze away, exhaling low.

“I’ma call it a night,” he said, standing slowly, his body unfolding like a stretch of shadow, “Been a long day.”

“Yeah,” Sanaa said softly, “Get some rest.”

She stepped forward just as he turned—and without warning, without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around his neck.

It was sudden.

Not wild. Not dramatic.

Just soft. Full. Immediate.

Erik’s body stiffened for half a second, caught off guard. Then one of his hands came to her waist instinctively, palm steadying her. The contact was firm. Warm. He didn’t pull her closer, but he didn’t pull away, either. Her cheek hovered near his collarbone. Her scent—clean, faintly sweet—rose between them.

Then she let go.

No explanation. No comment.

She stepped back, her hand brushing lightly against his chest as she moved past him.

“Goodnight, E,” she said, voice like velvet. Quiet. Confident.

And then she walked away.

Bare feet. Tiny shorts. Curls dancing.

Erik stood still for a moment longer, hand still at his side where she’d touched him.

Then he left the kitchen without a word.

The air didn’t move after that. It held. Because now? There was no mistaking the tension.

It had a shape. A scent. A heartbeat.

And it wasn’t going anywhere.

@akimi-youngblood @theesmartblonde @daddysmoke @cravemyhoney @dashhoney25 @feral4youu @transparentphantomface @vibrantlymellowknight @queenofklonnie22 @lizbehave @questionable-behaviour @wakandamama @wabi-sabi1090 @brownsugarcoffy @blackamericanprincessy @othermotherchild @underated345-blog @miss-spiders-sunny-patch @5starsirl @longlivemalyce @tnychellee @shecuteforaewok @dutifullythoughtfulenthusiast @weirdwhimsicalblackgirl @og-goddesstrill @themindfulwriter16 @theogbadbitch @theebaddesttt @gtf-o-m-d @iam-whoyouwantmetobe @yassbishimvintage @thickianaaaa @thedutifulone @we-outsiiiide @kimuzostar @raysogroovy @khujiri @stevelee456 @thedondada05 @switchthecolors @headslutincharge @girlmath101 @kirayuki22 @slytherinsorcererr @passionxwrites @taurusrose96 @shereeluvssinners @overhere94 @moundbayou @kholdkill @nearsightedbaddie @kindofaintrovert @coolfancyone @starcrossedxwriter @hotebonynearby @d1gitalb4rbie @lb-xci @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @shamansha @rolemodelshit @miss-vanta-likes-to-write @bananajoeclone @h-0-n-3-yd-3-w @contentfiend @soufcakmistress @christinabae @pinkangelwing222 @biancalhurtt @notniicekay @writingsbytee

[sweeter-thejuice]

THIS STORY IS SO FUCKING GOOD! 10/10!! i looove erik so bad!! 😭

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

@sweeter-thejuice THANKS FOR READING!

Make sure you check out part two 😜

[hllywdwhre]

How They React to You Hanging Up On Them

Included: Mike, Adonis, Erik, Smoke, Stack

Warnings: Descriptions of overstimulation, spanking, face-fucking, and rough sex. As always, everything is consensual

Notes: I didn't include the part about sending the text and turning your phone off for them because I feel like you wouldn't even need to go that far. Just hanging up and not answering it when he calls you back is enough. Also, I couldn't write John for this one🥲 My man definitely has PTSD and I feel like it would just be cruel to hang up on him because his mind would immediately go to the worst.

Inspired by this post by @nayys-world 💖 Thank you allowing me to use it as inspo!!

Main Masterlist

Michael & Characters Masterlist

Mike

✨He’s admitted he went to therapy after playing Erik, so I feel like he would just communicate that he hates it when people hang up on him the first time you do it.

✨Every time after that?

✨You’re not walking the next day

✨Tbh I see there being enough ways for you to be a brat with him that you never feel the need to purposefully get him irritated like that, so when you do it, it’s during an argument.

✨He’d play it off like he was fine at first, showing up at your place to talk out whatever argument you were having that led to emotions getting so intense you hung up on him.

✨After you talk it out, he’d just look you up and down, not letting a single emotion show on his face.

✨“So do you think it’s cute to hang up on someone? Or did you just do it because I told you how much it pisses me off and you wanted to be petty?”

✨If you genuinely forgot and he could tell that you were sorry, he’ll accept your apology

✨But if he has the slightest doubt?

✨He’s fucking you halfway through the mattress and making you understand exactly why it’s called having your back “blown out”

✨He isn’t going to stop you from cumming, but he’s not stopping just because you came

✨Just go ahead and call out of work the next day

✨You wake up and your back is sore and it feels like you lost your virginity all over again

✨He’d give you a massage the next day and make sure to pamper you, but he also tells you he isn’t afraid to do it again if you ever do it again

Adonis

✨He’s leaving the gym when he calls you and you’re telling him about how your pet peeve is when someone doesn’t give you the little ‘wave’ in traffic when you let them merge when he mentions that he hates being hung up on

✨“So what would you do if I did hang up on you?”

✨“Why?”

✨“Maybe I’m curious.”

✨“Do it and find out.”

✨“Bet.” Click

✨When he shows up, all you hear is that voice in your head playing that one “It was at this moment, he knew, he fucked up” meme.

✨He doesn’t even get you to the bedroom

✨He’s bending you over the nearest flat surface

✨‘Fucking’ isn’t a strong enough word to describe what he does to you

✨Definitely got a noise complaint from your neighbors bc of the noise

✨He could not care less

✨Your legs are useless for the next two days

✨He spoils you those two days, but he’s also got a shit eating grin because he knows you loved it

✨Now you do it any time you want to make sure he doesn’t hold back

Erik

✨Are you dumb? Stupid? Both?

✨You gotta be

✨Because WHY did you play in this man’s face like that

✨This man has a kill count higher than the lead singer of an 80s band’s body count

✨*high pitch voice* And you hung up on him?

✨Your funeral, bestie

✨Fucks you in front of the mirror

✨“Since you wanna act stupid, you can watch yourself get fucked stupid”

✨No matter what position he puts you in, he makes sure you can see yourself.

✨On your back? Your head is hanging off the bed

✨On your hands and knees? His hand is in your hair forcing you to keep your head up and watch yourself

✨Doesn’t stop until the only thing you’re capable of saying is his name

✨Has to be up early the next morning and is gone before you’re up, but you wake up to a text

✨“You ever try that shit again, and you won’t be walking for a week”

Smoke

✨You think he’s fucking you after that?

✨He’s laughing in your face

✨“Since you don’t wanna use your words, get on your knees and use that mouth for something else.”

✨He fucks your mouth like he’s got something to prove

✨He’s getting off on the way you look as he forces as much of his cock down your throat as you can take

✨When you start crying and gagging, he’ll pull you off of him

✨“You ever gon’ do some stupid shit like that again?”

✨You shake your head, not trusting your voice at all

✨“Good. Now back to work.”

✨You’re convinced he’s doing everything he can to last as long as he physically can

✨Your jaw is sore, your tongue is numb, and there’s drool and tears running down your face

✨When he finally cums, he forces you to swallow it all

✨He helps clean you up, but you’re lying to yourself if you think you get to cum that night

✨Fucks you the next morning though to make up for it

Stack

✨After you hang up, you get a single text

✨“I got you”

✨Your heart is on the ground

✨You try to apologize to him when he gets home, but he just laughs

✨Your bent over his lap in record time with your pants and underwear pulled down

✨Thighs, ass, and pussy are getting spanked

✨He just laughs when you start crying, and laughs even harder when he feels how wet you are

✨Ends up fingering you in his lap so you can’t squirm away from him as he makes you cum again and again

✨Doesn’t care that you’re overstimulated

✨Still fucks you through at least two more orgasms

✨Buys you something pretty the next day

✨Makes you drink a bottle of water afterwards

[nayys-world]

Still happy about this 🥰☺️, I love me some him! Especially angry

[myheartsaysyes]

Grand Theft Helmet

a Smoke x Annie oneshot

Summary: Annie only needed the helmet for five minutes to escape a walking red flag. She didn’t plan on the owner being tall, quiet, stupidly fine, and now quietly obsessed with getting it (and her) back.

One scavenger hunt, one mechanical bull ride, and one very convincing “just for the weekend” later… Somebody’s heart is getting repo’d, and it’s not the helmet.

A/N: Based off post from @sunshinerepublic. I hope y’all enjoy this oneshot as much as I enjoyed writing it while I procrastinate finishing The Remedy series. I needed a break and Sunshine… this post came right on time. 💛🏍️

C/W: Smut, language, use of the n word.

W/C: 12k 🫣

Divider by: @firefly-graphics

Ocean Boulevard was already humming when Annie’s Uber rolled up to the resort.

Bikes lined the street in clean chrome rows, engines rumbling low, the air thick with salt, exhaust, and the sugary smell of funnel cakes. Neon signs blinked in broad daylight like they refused to be ignored.

Bree pressed her face to the window. “Beach lookin’ real mix-and-match, but we cute so I ain’t worried.”

Tiff had her phone out, already recording. “Day one of Bike Week with my emotionally unavailable bestie…”

“I’m not emotionally unavailable,” Annie muttered, shoving the door open.

The heat hit immediately, thick and clingy. She tugged her small suitcase onto the curb and fixed the strap of her crossbody bag. Her braids were pulled up into a high ponytail, gold hoops glinting whenever she moved.

Jayla slid out behind her, smoothing her sundress. “Okay, ground rules,” she said, in the tone that meant she’d already had enough of their foolishness. “No gettin’ arrested, gettin’ lost, and no wakin’ me up at three in the morning unless somebody dyin’.”

“Or unless somebody gettin’ some dick,” Bree danced while sticking out her tongue.

“There will be none of that,” Annie cut in quickly.

Three pairs of eyes swung to her.

“Bitch…” Bree folded her arms. “You in Myrtle Beach. During Bike Week. In a matching set with your titties sittin’ high, and you talkin’ about abstaining.”

“It’s not abstaining,” Annie saidqosw, tugging down her crop top. “It’s… boundaries.”

Tiff cackled. “Okay, therapist. Say you hate men and go.”

“I don’t hate men.” Annie paused. “I just don’t trust ’em.”

That quieted them for a beat. Bree’s face softened.

“Frenn, we know.” She bumped Annie’s shoulder. “But this is a fun trip. No exes, no stress, no cryin’ in the bathroom over some fuck nigga who ain’t worth the mascara. You don’t gotta fall in love—”

“Hell no,” Annie muttered.

“—you just gotta have fun. Laugh. Eat. Shake a little ass. That’s it.”

Annie exhaled, letting the sounds of the strip wash over her. Engines revving. Someone on a mic hyping up the crowd. Laughter rising from a cluster of people taking pictures on a row of bikes.

“Okay,” she said finally. “Fun. I can do fun.”

Bree grinned. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Come on, y’all. I saw a daiquiri stand with our name on it.”

They wheeled their suitcases inside the suite, immediately breaking into arguments about which bedroom was theirs and who was banned from sleeping near the snorers. Annie moved through the chaos with a smile and a knot in her chest she didn’t plan on acknowledging.

Fun. No men. No feelings. Easy.

She repeated it to herself until it started to feel possible.

Later that afternoon, the strip was hotter and louder, like someone had turned the whole beach up a notch.

They’d checked in, changed tops twice, and were finally squeezed around a high-top table outside a bar advertising TWO-FOOT DAIQUIRIS and 10 WAYS TO WING IT.

“First toast of the trip,” Bree declared, lifting her plastic cup. “To good food, good drinks, and ZERO men with audacity.”

“Cheers to peace, amen,” Annie echoed.

“And to me catching everything on camera. Content finna content,” Tiff added as they all clinked cups.

Annie took a long pull of her drink. The sugar hit first, then the rum, spreading warmth down her chest. It was nice. Loud, crowded, but nice. The music was up, the sky was clear, the ocean was right there. For a minute, she let herself imagine she really was the version of herself she kept posting about online—unbothered, healed, glowing.

“Okay, bathroom,” Tiff said, hopping off her stool. “Y’all comin’ or I’m gonna get kidnapped.”

“Comingggg,” Bree sang. 

“I’m good,” Annie said. “I’ll hold the table.”

Jayla slid off her seat with a sigh. “Come on, content queen. I’m comin’ too.”

They disappeared into the bar in a swirl of perfume and laughter, leaving Annie alone with her drink and her thoughts. She scrolled absently through her phone for a minute, enjoying the breeze.

“Hey lil mama.”

She didn’t have to look up to know the tone. She’d heard it a thousand times. But she looked anyway.

The man standing a little too close to her stool had on scuffed leather gear—a vest too small for him, patches that looked ironed on instead of earned, and boots that squeaked every time he shifted his weight. He held a half-empty beer like it was part of the outfit.

His smile hit her first—a wide flash of chunky gold teeth, badly fitted and dull, the kind that didn’t shine so much as… glare.

The kind of gold that made you think the teeth underneath probably smelled like old pennies and hot breath.

His breath moved the air around her, humid and sour-sweet, like he’d been mixing beer with cheap cinnamon gum. His cologne was doing battle with his natural scent—and losing.

He leaned in, chain swinging across his chest, grin widening, those gold slabs catching the neon lights in the worst way.

“You by yo’self,” he said, voice already assuming she was interested.

Annie fought the urge to physically recoil. Her soul tried to leave her body.

“No,” Annie said. “I’m with friends.”

“That right?” He looked toward the bar doors like he was about to audit her claims. “They left you all alone, tho’.”

“I’m good,” she said. “They’ll be right back.”

He set his beer down on their table like he’d been invited. “What’s your name?”

“Annie,” she lied smoothly. It wasn’t a lie, but it felt like one, because she sure wasn’t giving him the real version of her. “You?”

“Gator,” he said. “You from here?”

Gator? On brand.

“Visiting,” she said. “Girls’ trip.”

“Oh, you one of them hot girls,” he said, laughing like they were in on a joke together. “I see you. Let me get you a shot.”

“I’m good with this,” she said, lifting her daiquiri. “Appreciate it, tho’.”

He flagged the server anyway. “Two shots of tequila.”

She stared at him. “I said I was good.”

“C’mon, it’s Bike Week,” he insisted. “Live a little.”

He was smiling, but there was a tightness in it now, something like annoyance bleeding through. The last man she’d dealt with had smiled like that too—right up until she told him no.

Annie slid off her stool. “Actually, I gotta go find my friends.”

He reached out, fingers curling around her wrist before she could step away.

It wasn’t rough, not yet. But it was possessive. And it lit up every warning nerve she had.

“Why you actin’ like that?” he asked. “I’m just tryna to talk.”

“’Cause you in my space and I ain’t ask you to be. Let me go.” she said, low.

He didn’t. Not right away.

It was daylight. There were people everywhere. In theory, she was safe.

In practice, her pulse kicked hard, and she felt her throat go dry.

“Let. Me. Go,” she said again.

He let her go with a scoff, but when she turned toward the sidewalk, she heard his steps fall in behind hers.

“Girls’ trip, huh?” he said. “I can show you ‘round. You got a bike?”

She ignored him and walked faster, weaving through the crowd until the bar noise thinned. Up ahead, a line of those little bright-colored scooter taxis was idling at the curb, drivers leaning back like they had all day.

Relief washed through her.

She beelined for the closest one. “You drivin’? Please tell me you drivin’.”

The driver sat up, eyeing her, then flicked a glance past her shoulder at Gator. “I’m about to be off,” he said.

“I’ll tip you extra,” she offered. “I just need to get back up the strip. To—” she named her resort.

He hesitated. “You been drinking?”

“A little,” she admitted. “I’m fine, though. I just don’t want to walk.”

He looked past her again, at Gator hovering a few yards back, pretending to be interested in a T-shirt stand.

“You got a helmet?” the driver asked. “Police been on our ass out here. They see you on with a helmet, they’re gonna give me hell, not you.”

Annie’s mouth opened, then shut. No. She did not have a helmet. She had lip gloss and a portable charger and a tiny bottle of setting spray. Nothing useful.

Behind her, she heard Gator call, “You need a ride, I got chu!”

Her skin crawled.

“Nope,” she muttered, more to herself than to him.

She spun in a quick circle, scanning. The curb was lined with bikes, chrome gleaming, handlebars wide. Some had helmets looped over the grips, some resting on seats.

Her gaze snagged on one in particular—a black full-face helmet sitting solid on the seat of a big, beautiful black bike parked closest to the taxi line.

She’d seen the signs all up and down the strip: WEAR YOUR HELMET. Even the scooter stands had little paper notices taped to their poles.

Is this a bad idea? Yes.

Is staying here with “Halitosis Gator” a worse one? Absolutely.

“Be right back,” she told the driver, and before she could overthink it, she hurriedly walked straight to the bike, snatched the helmet off the seat, and came sprinting back cradling it like it had always been hers.

The weight of it in her hands made it feel suddenly, stupidly real.

“I’m good,” she said to the driver, breath a little high. “See? Helmet.”

He looked from her to the helmet to the street, then shrugged. “Get in.”

She climbed into the back, fumbling the helmet on. It was a little big, padding pressing against her cheeks, but it covered her face, and that was the point.

Gator realized what was happening right as the driver twisted the throttle.

“Whoa, whoa, hol’ up—”

“Forgive me, Jesus,” Annie said urgently, fingers gripping the side rails. “Sir, Please. Go.”

The scooter lurched forward into the flow of traffic. The wind rushed past, cool and sharp. Annie looked back once, helmet visor turned toward the curb.

Marcus stood there fuming, getting smaller with every second.

The bike she’d robbed—because there was no other word for it now—was still sitting where she’d found it. Big. Black. Beautiful.

She winced.

“I’m gonna bring it back,” she told herself under her breath. “As soon as I get my life together.”

The driver didn’t care what she muttered; he had the road to watch. The scooter hummed up the strip, weaving around slower cars, ocean glittering to their right.

Annie let out a shaky breath and pressed the helmet a little tighter to her head, mind already spinning plans.

She could drop it back by the same bar later. Leave it on the bike and disappear before whoever owned it came outside. Or find some staff person, describe where she got it, and ask them to hold it.

She hadn’t thought that far ahead when she’d grabbed it. She’d only thought: get out.

“I’ll fix it,” she promised the universe, or herself, or the unseen owner of the stolen helmet. “I just needed an exit. That’s all.”

The stolen helmet sat heavy on her head.

Heavy with guilt.

Heavy with relief.

Heavy with a promise she already dreaded keeping.

A few blocks down, Smoke rolled to a slow stop at a red light, the deep purr of his bike settling in his chest.

Ocean Boulevard stretched ahead, crowded and bright. Bikes lined both sides of the street in every color and shape, riders in vests and tees, shorts and boots, chrome catching the midday sun.

Stack pulled up beside him, visor up, grin wide.

“You can go ahead and say I was right,” Stack called over the noise. “This better than sittin’ at the crib.”

Smoke adjusted his grip on the handlebars, indifferent. “I ain’t said nothin’.”

Jinx eased to a stop behind them, his matte-black bike growling low. Ghost rolled up last, already waving at a group of girls on the corner.

“Fellas,” Ghost said, dragging the word out. “We in heaven. Praise report.”

Stack laughed. “You say that every time we leave the city.”

“‘Cause it’s true every time.”

The light flipped green. They moved as a unit, weaving down the strip, taking in the scene. It was organized chaos—bikes, cars, pedestrians, music spilling out of bars, vendors shouting about T-shirts and fried Oreos.

Smoke should’ve felt irritated. Too many people, too much noise. He wasn’t a crowd person. He liked the ride itself—the road stretching out, sky open, nothing but the engine and his thoughts.

But he’d promised Stack he’d come. And the rest of the club was meeting up with them tomorrow anyway—half the chapter riding in from Georgia, the other half from upstate—so this was the warm-up run. Just the core four getting a feel for the strip before the full crew rolled in.

Jinx tapped his bars at a stop sign. “Prez called this morning,” he said. “They hittin’ the highway at dawn. Said he want us posted up by noon so we can bring everybody in together.”

Smoke nodded once. “Aight.”

Ghost lifted his chin. “Bet. Whole boulevard gon’ hear us.”

They pulled into a lot near a bar with an outdoor patio and killed their engines. As soon as Smoke cut his, the noise of everything else rushed in.

Ghost swung off his bike, stretching. “First stop: drinks and somethin’ fried.”

Jinx glanced around, taking stock. “And a plan for if you get us kicked out of shit.”

“I’m a gentle soul,” Ghost protested.

Stack snorted. “You a liability, nigga.”

Smoke took his helmet off, setting it carefully on the seat. He wandered toward a lemonade stand near the boardwalk, content to let his boys argue.

He wasn’t thinking about his bike, or the helmet he’d just left. He wasn’t thinking about much at all.

Which was why he missed the moment the girl in the yellow crop top and high-waisted shorts snatched his helmet and took off running.

He heard the reaction though—shouts, laughter, someone yelling, “She gone!”—and he turned just in time to catch the blur of a scooter taxi disappearing into traffic.

Stack broke into loud, delighted cackles. “NAH. HELL NAH. AIN’T NO WAY. Thirty minutes into Bike Week and yo’ shit got got!”

Ghost wheezed. “She was real smooth with it, too.”

Jinx’s eyes swept the nearby crowd. A half-dozen people still held their phones up, either laughing or replaying something.

“Anybody get that on video?” Jinx called, raising his voice just enough. “Black helmet, yellow top—she ran right past y’all.”

A woman in a rhinestone tank tapped her boyfriend. “Baby, you got it, right?”

He nodded, already stepping forward. “Yeah, I caught the whole thing, bro.”

He held his phone out to Smoke.

Smoke took it, jaw ticking once as the clip started.

The girl—was weaving away from a man grabbing at her, irritation stamped across her face. She looked around fast, eyes sharp, calculating.

Then she spotted his bike.

Without hesitation, she snatched the helmet and sprinted toward the curb. The scooter driver hesitated, then let her jump in. She ducked her head, tugging the helmet on crookedly right before the taxi peeled off into traffic.

Stack nearly fell over laughing. “OH, SHE BOLD-BOLD. She stole yo’ shit like she been practicin’!”

Ghost slapped Smoke’s back. “Legend behavior. I respect her.”

Jinx folded his arms. “She moved like she meant it. Efficient.”

Smoke replayed the video once more, studying every second.

He didn’t look angry.

He looked interested.

“I’ma find her,” he said quietly.

Smoke watched the last second of the clip—Annie ducking into the scooter, helmet askew, braids flying—and the video ended with the taxi disappearing into traffic.

He didn’t move for a moment.

Didn’t blink.

Stack leaned over his shoulder, grinning like a demon.

“Ohhh she got you good. Picked YOUR bike out of all these? That’s personal.”

Ghost shook his head, laughing. “Bruh. She stole that shit like it was her birthright.”

Jinx tapped the screen where Annie had shoved the helmet on. “She didn’t even adjust the strap. That’s not theft, that’s flight instinct.”

Smoke replayed the last two seconds again, thumb dragging slowly across the screen.

Her face flashed by—brown eyes sharp, mouth set, jaw tense, breath fast.

Not reckless.

Not malicious.

Just… cornered.

And decisive.

He felt something tighten low in his jaw—a barely-there flicker of… what?

Interest?

Curiosity?

Something.

Stack slapped Smoke’s chest dramatically.

“Aye, you smilin’?”

Smoke’s expression didn’t shift. “No.”

“You definitely smilin’,” Ghost insisted. “That’s yo’ ‘I’m intrigued’ face.”

Jinx nodded. “You only look like that when somethin’ bothers you in a way you wanna understand.”

Smoke finally handed the phone back to the guy who’d recorded it.

“Good lookin’ out.”

“No problem, man,” the guy said. “She was fast. Like, Olympic fast.”

Stack threw his hands up. “She bad, too?! Look at God.”

Ghost elbowed Smoke. “You gotta admit—she smooth. Didn’t hesitate. Saw opportunity and fuckin’ took it.”

Smoke picked up his lemonade, took a slow sip, and looked at the street where the scooter had vanished minutes earlier.

“I ain’t mad,” he said simply.

“AIN’T MAD?” Stack yelled. “That helmet ain’t cheap!”

Jinx raised a brow. “So you fine-fine wit this?”

Smoke slipped the lemonade straw from between his lips and shrugged once. “I’m fine.”

Ghost stared at him. “That’s the scariest fine I ever heard.”

Stack threw an arm around Smoke’s shoulders. “So what’s the move? You want us to canvas the boulevard? Set up a sting operation? Make wanted posters?”

Smoke brushed Stack’s arm off. “Relax.”

“Relax? RELAX?” Stack gasped theatrically. “She made yo’ shit look like community property in front of all these people!”

Smoke ignored him. He looked down the strip again, scanning the heavy flow of pedestrians, then the bike rows, then the curb where the scooter lane ran.

It wasn’t anger sitting in his chest.

It wasn’t irritation.

It was something steadier.

Cooler.

Focused.

He set his lemonade down.

“I’m gon’ find her,” he said quietly.

Calm. Certain.

Stack’s jaw dropped. “Oh lawd. He activated.”

Ghost pumped a fist. “Yesss sir. Captain Save-a-Helmet.”

Jinx just nodded once like it was inevitable. “She won’t be far.”

Smoke ran a thumb across his bottom lip, eyes tracking the flow of the crowd.

She’d come back.

Or he’d find her first.

Either way…this wasn’t done.

“Okay, this is already too much,” Annie said a little later, clutching the helmet tighter to her hip.

The scooter driver had dropped her near their resort. She’d hustled upstairs, dropped off her bag, and rejoined her girls on the strip, helmet still in hand.

“You saved your own life with a petty crime,” Bree said, unbothered. “I respect it.”

“I stole a man's helmet,” Annie hissed. “During Bike Week. That’s psychotic.”

Tiff had been replaying the video on her phone, howling every time Annie snatched the helmet. “The comments already goin crazy. Somebody said you rob bikes for sport.”

“I hate it here,” Annie muttered.

The guilt was sitting heavy in her chest. Yes, “Gold Mouth” had been doing too much. Yes, she’d felt cornered. But that didn’t change the fact she’d snatched property and dipped.

She planned to find the bike—drop it back, apologize, try not to die of embarrassment. The strip was long, but there were only so many rows of sleek black bikes with matte tanks and shining chrome—

Her heart did a stupid little jump when she saw it.

“There,” she said, pointing.

The bike was parked near an outdoor bar, big and black and polished. The spot on the seat where the helmet had been was empty.

Annie swallowed and started toward it, clutching the helmet. She could leave it and run, but that felt cowardly. She wasn’t scared of men, she reminded herself. She was just sick of them.

She’d be quick. Put it down, walk away—

“You lost?”

The voice came from just behind her. Low and calm and close enough to stir the tiny hairs at the back of her neck.

She froze, fingers tightening around the helmet. Then she turned.

He was tall — stepping out of the afternoon light like he’d been carved from it. Broad shoulders filled out a fitted black T-shirt under a soft, broken-in leather riding vest, patches stitched on with the kind of wear that said earned, not bought. Ink curled up one arm in clean, sharp lines, disappearing beneath the sleeve. A heavy silver chain rested at his throat, catching the sun every time he breathed.

His skin was deep brown, smooth, warm-toned, the kind of skin light loved. His jaw was strong, beard neat, mouth full but set in a flat line that didn’t give her a damn thing to read. His eyes — measured, dark, almost bored — barely flicked over her before returning to the helmet in her hands like he already understood exactly what happened and was waiting to see what stunt she’d pull next.

And that was the worst part.

He didn’t look pissed.

He didn’t look confused.

He didn’t look impressed.

He didn’t look anything.

And somehow that made him even finer.

The leather gloves hooked in his belt, the chain on his wallet, the heavy biking boots, the soft rumble of confidence in the way he stood — all of it worked together in a way she did NOT have time for. Not today Satan. Not during Bike Week. Not while trying to be a reformed woman for at least seventy-two hours.

Her stomach dropped.

Her irritation spiked.

Because why was this man this damn beautiful while she was actively returning stolen property like a criminal on probation?

She hated that her chest tightened when he breathed.

Hated him.

Well… not him.

Just the fact he was fine as fuck while staring at her like she was a minor inconvenience.

Annie cleared her throat. “No.”

His gaze flicked to the helmet in her hands, then back to her face.

She lifted it a little. “I was bringing it back.”

“Oh.” His mouth did this slow, almost-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “How generous.”

Smart ass mouth. Of course.

“I didn’t mean to steal it,” she said quickly. “I mean, I did, but only because some nigga was all in my face and grabbed me, and I had to get away, and your bike was just there being convenient—”

She stopped herself. She was rambling, and he had the nerve to look faintly amused now.

“You done?” he asked.

She bristled. “Whatever. Look. Here.” She thrust the helmet into his chest. “You got your property back. Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” he said.

“That’s your relaxed face?”

He shrugged. “Most people don’t see it when they run off with my shit.”

She hated that her cheeks warmed. Hated it more that he noticed.

Before she could decide whether to cuss him out or sink into the pavement, Bree’s voice cut through the noise.

“ANNIEEEEEE, BITCH! HURRY UP!”

She glanced over her shoulder. Bree, Tiff, and Jayla were waving frantically at a booth where a man with a microphone was hyping something up. A small crowd had formed.

“Last call for the Bike Week Bash Scavenger Hunt!” the man shouted. “Cash prize, VIP passes, custom jacket—who’s signing up?”

Bree pointed at Annie, then at the man, then did a little dance.

Lord.

Annie turned back to Helmet Guy. “Okay. We good here?” She shoved the helmet into his hands. “Have a blessed weekend.”

He caught it easily, fingers wrapping around the edge. “You owe me.”

Her head snapped up. “For what?”

“For making me chase down a fuckin’ video to see who robbed me,” he said. “For stress. For emotional damage.”

She stared at him. “Not you tryin’ to do therapy billing.”

He just looked at her, gaze flat and unreadable, that almost-smile hovering.

Smoke barely had time to respond before footsteps approached behind him.

Stack, Ghost, and Jinx rolled up as a loose unit, each clocking Annie, the helmet, and Smoke’s expression.

Stack whistled low. “Ayeeee, is this ‘Thief Barbie’?”

Annie’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”

Ghost grinned. “My nigga here ain’t shut up since you dipped. Had us out here combing the strip lookin’ for yo’ ass.”

“LIES,” Smoke muttered.

Jinx nodded once. “Not lies.”

Stack leaned in like a messy auntie. “Mmhmm. So YOU the one who had my brother out here narratin’ trauma? Thought he was in a documentary.”

Annie glared. “Y’all real nosy.”

Stack smiled wide. “We family-oriented.”

Smoke rolled his eyes and jerked his chin at them. “Go sit down somewhere.”

Jinx shrugged. “We’ll be nearby.”

And just like that, they drifted toward the nearby patio rail — close enough to watch, far enough not to hover.

Just then Bree appeared at Annie’s side, breathless.

“GIRL!”

Annie flinched. “Oh my God, what?”

“Jayla talkin’ ’bout her stomach hurt and she sittin’ out—now we uneven! COME ON!”

“Uneven for what?” Annie demanded.

Bree pointed at a booth where a crowd was forming around a loud man with a microphone.

“The scavenger hunt! They’re closing sign-ups!”

Annie blinked. “Girl, no. I’m not—”

Bree ignored her, eyes cutting to the man with the helmet. She smiled slow. “Hi.”

He nodded once. “What’s up.”

Bree elbowed Annie. “This him?”

“This who?” Annie asked, playing stupid.

“The man whose helmet you stole off his bike like Grand Theft Auto,” Bree hissed under her breath. “Hey, King. Thank you for your service.”

Annie wanted to evaporate.

The man—he still hadn’t offered a name—watched the chaos with an air of quiet amusement. Then he shifted his grip on the helmet and looked at Annie.

“You still owe me,” he repeated. “You wanna make it right? I’ll be your partner.”

She opened her mouth to say no, but Bree heard the words “partner” and “him” in the same sentence and damn near levitated.

“YES. Yep. Yup. Perfect. Thank you, Lord!”

“Bree—” Annie hissed.

“Nope!” Bree clapped her hands. “Jayla can barely stand in the sun without complaining, Tiff is gonna get distracted by every fine nigga in a vest—you are the only reliable person left. Go.”

Annie glared at her.

Then glared at Smoke.

Then glared at the universe.

And he was watching her quietly.

“If you scared, you can say that,” he added mildly.

Annie’s spine straightened. “I’m not scared.”

“Then it’s settled,” Bree said, clapping. “Helmet Boy is in. Let’s go.”

“Helmet Boy?” he repeated.

Annie exhaled, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Don’t encourage her.”

He chuckled. It was a small sound, but she felt it in the base of her throat.

“Name’s Smoke,” he said simply.

Of course it was.

“Annie,” she offered.

“Nice to meet you, Annie,” he said. “Try not to steal anyone else’s shit today.”

“I make no promises,” she shot back.

His mouth curved a little more. “Good.”

The scavenger hunt started with a blast of feedback from a cheap microphone and a man in a neon T-shirt yelling into the crowd.

“Rule rundown, one more time! Teams of two. You’ll complete as many tasks on this list as you can in three hours. Each task is worth a certain number of points. Highest score wins five thousand dollars, two VIP passes, and a custom Harley jacket. Y’all ready?”

The crowd roared.

Annie held the laminated list between them, shoulders brushing Smoke’s. She’d insisted on social distancing when they walked from his bike to the booth; somehow, that space kept shrinking.

“First task,” she read. “Steal the giant foam shark.”

Smoke raised a brow. “That one.”

Across the way, a massive inflatable shark was zip-tied to the roof of a vendor booth, bobbing above a handwritten sign: SHARK WEEK SALE!!!

“Not ‘steal from yo’ fellow man,’” she murmured. “Look at capitalism.”

“You scared?” Smoke asked, glancing down at her.

“Of some Styrofoam animal?” She scoffed. “Please. Watch this.”

They strategized quickly—Annie would distract the vendor, Smoke would liberate the shark. It went smoother than it had any right to.

Annie leaned over the table, lashes fluttering just enough. “So, quick question. Y’all got any of that Creole seasoning that’s actually Creole? ‘Cause half y’all be callin’ everythin’ Cajun.”

The vendor blinked. “Uh—well, this mix right here—”

Stack, Jinx, and Ghost had followed at a distance, pretending to shop but very obviously watching.

Ghost whispered, “She got vendor-boy hypnotized. Look at his posture. She dangerous.”

Stack snorted. “She finna make Smoke forget his own mama name.”

Jinx nodded thoughtfully. “He’s already compromised.”

Smoke ignored all three. He walked past behind the vendor, slow and steady, reached up, and unhooked the shark from one of the zip ties. He slung it over his shoulder in one smooth motion.

The vendor didn’t notice a thing.

Tiff filmed the whole operation, giggling into her phone. Bree did a silent victory dance. Jayla shook her head.

By the time the vendor realized his shark was gone, Smoke and Annie were halfway down the boardwalk, slipping into the crowd with a five-foot foam fish bobbing over their heads.

“That was unethical,” Annie said, grinning despite herself.

Smoke adjusted the shark, not even a little out of breath. “You worried about ethics now?”

“Growth is a journey,” she replied.

His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “You got jokes.”

“You kidnapped a shark,” she pointed out. “I’m not the problem.”

Stack jogged up behind them, laughing so loud people turned.

“SMOKE. YOU A CRIMINAL. I’m callin’ Mama.”

Ghost slapped the foam shark. “This the dumbest shit we ever stolen and I love it.”

Jinx looked at Annie. “Impressive teamwork.”

She blinked. “We’ve been partners for two minutes.”

“Exactly. Next task,” Smoke said.

The second one was oddly simple and somehow worse.

“Kissing photo under the SkyWheel,” Annie read, heat crawling up her neck. “Ten points.”

Stack leaned over Jinx’s shoulder like they were sports commentators.

“Look at my brother tryna play it cool,” he whispered loudly.

Ghost nodded. “He nervous. I can smell it.”

Smoke shot them a look deadly enough to silence a choir.

They backed up immediately.

Smoke looked up at the towering Ferris wheel ahead, lights glowing even though the sun was still out. Couples clustered beneath it, some already kissing for their own hunts.

“Easy,” he said.

“For who?” she demanded.

He shrugged. “We can fake it. Don’t gotta be real.”

Her pride flared, blocking her throat. “I’m not pressed to—”

“Tiff can’t zoom in on the lips from that far,” Bree inserted helpfully. “Just get close. You ain’t kissin’ this man for real.”

“Thank you for your input, Director,” Annie snapped.

She weighed her options. Ten points was a good chunk. It would help them win. And it wasn’t like she hadn’t kissed a boy before.

This wasn’t that. This was a game.

She squared her shoulders. “Fine.”

They stepped into position under the arch of the SkyWheel, just inside the line of shadow. Tiff backed up with her phone ready.

“Okay,” Annie said briskly, trying not to look up into Smoke’s face. “We’ll put our foreheads together. You put your hands somewhere that’s not offensive. We’ll fake the rest.”

“What’s offensive?” he asked.

She colored. “Don’t worry about it. Just… waist. Shoulders. Nothing below the equator.”

His mouth twitched. “Got it.”

He stepped closer, slow enough that she could have changed her mind. She didn’t. Her heart tapped a restless rhythm against her ribs as he placed his hands at her waist, palms wide and warm through the thin fabric of her top.

She exhaled without meaning to. His thumbs shifted, just barely, in response.

She reached up and set her hands on his shoulders, then slid them a little higher to rest around his neck. He was solid under her fingers, heat radiating off him in waves.

“Y’all are stalling,” Bree called.

“Shut up, ho,” Annie muttered.

“On three,” Tiff said. “One. Two—”

Annie pressed her forehead to Smoke’s. Their noses brushed. They were close enough now that she could see the flecks of lighter brown in his eyes, could smell the faint mix of soap, cologne, and something that just felt… warm.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth for a fraction of a second. His own eyes tipped lower, following hers.

Tiff snapped the picture.

Nobody moved.

The noise of the strip dulled for a heartbeat, everything slowing. The wheel rose above them, turning steady. Engines revved in the distance. A seagull cried somewhere overhead.

Smoke’s fingers flexed just a little at her waist.

Annie realized she was staring and tore her gaze away, stepping back.

“That counts,” she said, voice a touch too bright.

“Definitely counts,” Tiff confirmed, checking the photo. “Oh, this is cute-cute. Y’all look in love.”

“In what?” Annie choked.

“In denial,” Bree added.

From somewhere behind them, Stack’s voice floated through the crowd:

“WHAT I SAW WAS CHEMISTRY!”

Ghost added, “Ten points AND a love story! Y’all so cute!”

Jinx: “They’ll deny it.”

Annie wanted to throw herself into the ocean.

Smoke didn’t even turn around. He just looked at Annie for a second longer, then nodded toward the list.

“Next task.”

The third one was what separated the bold from the foolish.

“One rider from each team has to ride the bull,” Annie read. “Whoever stays on the longest gets twenty points.”

They’d followed the painted arrows on the ground to a bar with an outdoor patio. In the center of the fenced-in space, under a canopy of string lights, a mechanical bull sat waiting, surrounded by cheering spectators and a DJ playing loud country rock.

Stack leaned against the railing, eyes lighting up when he saw the task. “Oh yeah. We got this. Who ridin’ for y’all?”

Smoke opened his mouth, but Bree was already pointing at Annie. “She is.”

Annie’s eyes flew wide. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you are,” Bree insisted. “You got the knees and the core. We need the points.”

Smoke cut in slowly. “She don’t have to do that. We can skip it.”

Annie stiffened.

He wasn’t being rude. He wasn’t laughing. He sounded serious. Protective, even.

It poked at something raw.

“I can ride a bull,” she snapped.

Stack looked delighted. “Is that right….”

Annie ignored him, facing Smoke. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do. You don’t know me.”

Smoke held up one hand. “I don’t. I just meant—”

“Well now you gon’ learn,” she said.

She handed Bree her bag before she could talk herself out of it, marched to the sign-up table, and put her name down.

The host gave her a once-over, eyed the crowd, and smirked into the mic. “Alright, we got a brave one! Give it up for… Annie from…” He glanced at the form. “Louisiana!”

Annie climbed onto the padded mat, then onto the bull. The synthetic leather was warm from the sun, the metal handle cool under her palm. She swung one leg over, settling her weight, adjusting her grip.

“You sure?” the host murmured, low enough only she could hear.

Annie set her jaw. “Turn it on.”

The machine started slow, rocking gently. She moved with it instinctively, rolling her hips to stay balanced as it picked up speed.

The crowd reacted immediately—whoops, whistles, laughter. Somebody yelled, “Okay, girl!” Another, “Don’t hurt nobody!”

From the edge of the pen, Tiff had her phone up, screeching. Bree was doubled over, hands on her knees. Jayla covered her face.

Smoke stood behind the railing, arms folded across his chest, expression carved out of stone. 

On the surface.

Inside, his mind had gone white.

Smoke’s brain:

…Lord.

Jesus.

Nope. Don’t look. Don’t you look at her.

He looked.

Of course he looked.

Like he ever stood a chance.

Smoke kept his eyes forward, jaw tight, fingers digging into the crook of his arms. He didn’t ogle; that wasn’t how he was built. But he couldn’t look away either.

She rode better than half the people he’d seen try this. No wild flailing; she moved in sync with the machine, muscles working smooth under her skin, braids whipping behind her. Her laughter, low and genuine, cut through the music.

She looked free up there. No guard, no edge, just joy. It was doing something to his chest. 

Her hips rolled with the rhythm of the bull, not jerking against it but moving with it, all fluid control and instinct. Every tilt of her body had a purpose. Every shift of her weight looked like she already knew what the machine would do before it did it.

His hands curled around the rail in front of him, knuckles flexing once, twice, like he needed something to hold on to. The crowd got louder, bodies shifting and blocking his view in flashes, and every time someone stepped in front of him he leaned just slightly to the side—never enough to look pressed, but enough to keep her in sight.

And Smoke felt that awareness hit him low.

His chest tightened. Heat crept up the back of his neck.

Smoke’s brain:

Why she movin’ like— okay. Okay. Turn around. Turn around.

(does not turn around)

He didn’t look away.

Couldn’t.

He let out a slow breath, jaw tightening as he watched her lean back just enough to counter the buck, her smile bright and wild.

“Oh she RIDIN’—” Stack leaned in close. “You good, bro? You look stressed.”

Smoke didn’t blink.

“I’m fine.”

Ghost wheezed. “Nigga holding on by prayer….literally”

Jinx, quiet as always, shook his head. “Smoke, you ain’t blinked yet.”

When she shifted forward again, gripping with her thighs, hair flying, body snapping perfectly with each jerk of the machine—Smoke’s grip on the rail tightened like he was the one fighting not to fall off.

The bull jerked harder, trying to throw her. Annie laughed out loud, tightened her grip, and leaned into the turn. Her body snapped with the motion, steady, confident.

Smoke’s brain:

Oh my God.

Stop.

STOP.

Please get off that fuckin’ bull before I embarrass myself in public.

Why she ridin’ it like she tryna prove somethin’? Girl, just fall off. FALL OFF—

(she in fact did not fall off)

The buzzer finally sounded. The host hit the controls and the bull slowed. Annie threw one arm in the air as she dismounted, landing lightly on the mat.

The patio erupted.

Smoke’s brain:

Don’t smile like that.

Not at the crowd. Not at anybody.

Lord, she dangerous.

Annie hopped down, hair a little wild, cheeks flushed from exertion and heat. She strode back to their group with her head high—

—and her friends LOST THEIR MINDS.

“OKAY BODY CONTROL!” Bree hollered, damn near bouncing out of her sandals. “Where you learn to do THAT?!”

Tiff had her phone up already. “Hold on, HOLD ON—Annie, bae, that wasn’t ridin’ the bull, that was CHOREOGRAPHY. Beyoncé who?”

Jayla clutched her chest. “You stayed on longer than that grown man with the knee brace!”

Bree grabbed her hand, spinning her in a little circle. “YOU BETTER RIDE THAT BULL LIKE IT OWE YOU MONEY!”

Tiff zoomed in dramatically. “Teach me! TEACH ME THE FORM! The hip placement! The core engagement! The—”

“Tiff, please,” Annie groaned, but she couldn’t hide the grin breaking through.

Jayla fanned her with a menu. “Girl, you ain’t got no business movin’ like that with all these men around. Half this patio about to fall in love.”

Bree pointed at Smoke behind her. “Starting with HIM.”

Annie refused to look at him at first. “Y’all want me to combust in public?”

“Yes,” Tiff answered immediately. “Content.”

Annie rolled her eyes, but her pulse kicked anyway.

Finally, she drew in a breath, turned—

—and found Smoke already watching her.

Heat crawled up her neck.

“…Well?” she managed, trying for casual and failing.

He looked at her — really looked — and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You did good,” he said.

“That’s all?” she challenged.

He held her gaze for a long, charged second.

Then leaned in, murmuring low so only she could hear:

“That’s all I’m sayin’ in public.”

Her breath hitched.

Heat shot straight through her.

Smoke finally let himself breathe.

But Stack?

Stack was losing his entire mind.

“OH MY GOD you shoulda SEEN my niggas FACE! I ain’t NEVER seen you fight God this hard!”

Ghost howled. “He had his hands on the rail like he was holdin’ onto salvation!”

Jinx sipped his drink. “He blinked one time in three minutes. Impressive.”

Annie’s smirk deepened.

She lifted the task card, voice soft.

“Next task.”

Smoke ignored all of them. 

Mostly.

Smoke’s brain, final verdict:

…yeah. Nigga you in trouble.

Time blurred after that.

They raced from one end of the strip to the other, foam shark bobbing above their heads, task lists getting marked off with frantic checks.

They got handcuffed together for a “ride or die” challenge and spent thirty minutes bumping shoulders and arguing over which stall had the cheaper funnel cakes.

They rode his bike for a “photo at the far pier” task, Annie clinging to his waist so tight he could feel every shaky breath.

They moved through the noise and lights like a two-person unit, each hour knocking another brick out of the wall she’d built around herself, each quiet glance from him driving a wedge into his usual calm.

Annie learned he didn’t talk much but listened hard. He learned she talked to fill the silence so she wouldn’t have to sit with her thoughts.

They didn’t say any of that out loud. They didn’t have to.

It showed up in the spaces between tasks—the way she’d unconsciously lean toward him when a crowd pressed in, the way his hand would hover close to her back without lingering unless she shifted closer.

By the time clouds started gathering over the ocean and the wind picked up, they were ahead on points and behind on emotional distance.

Which was why, when trouble found her again, it hit harder than before.

She separated from him for maybe five minutes.

They were at a stall selling bandanas and beaded bracelets, and Smoke had gone to check on something with Stack. The handcuffs were off by then, wrists still a little sore from where the metal had pressed skin.

Annie was arguing with Bree over colors when she heard his voice.

“Look who it is.”

Her spine locked up. Gold Mouth.

She turned slowly. The man from earlier—the grabby one from before the helmet—stood a few feet away, beer bottle in hand, smile sloppy.

He looked worse now. Sweat damp on his T-shirt, eyes glassy.

“I knew I’d see you again,” he said. “Thought you said you wasn’t from ‘round here.”

Annie’s jaw clenched. “I said I was trying to enjoy my trip.”

“Me too.” He took a step closer. “Thought maybe we could enjoy it togetha. You ran off earlier. That wasn’t nice.”

Bree shifted closer to Annie’s side, voice low. “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Annie replied, though her pulse had already jumped. “I told you no. That ain’t changed.”

He waved that off. “Don’t be like that. I’m just tryna talk.”

“You drunk,” she said. “And I ain’t interested. Move on.”

Something flickered in his expression. The charm dropped.

“You was all in my face befo,” he said. “But now you too good to talk?”

“I was never in yo’ face.” Her voice sharpened. “You stepped in mine.”

He grabbed for her wrist again.

He didn’t get to close his fingers.

A hand wrapped around his forearm from the side, grip firm but not crushing, pulling him away in one smooth motion.

Smoke.

He stepped between them without any fanfare, body angled forward just enough to block Annie from the man’s line of sight completely.

“That’s enough,” Smoke said quietly.

The man yanked his arm back. “Who the fuck is you, nigga?”

Smoke’s eyes were flat now, emptied of even the faint amusement he’d shown earlier. “She said no. You heard her the first time.”

“Oh, this yo’ bitch?” the man scoffed.

Smoke didn’t flinch.

But something behind his eyes sharpened—like a blade being turned just enough to catch the light.

“No,” he said calmly.

“But if you ever disrespect her again, I’ll make sure you never open your muthafuckin’ mouth for anything but breathin’. And even that gon’ be hard.”

The man’s jaw twitched. He took a half-step forward—

And froze.

Because Smoke wasn’t alone.

Stack moved in on his right.

Ghost slid into place on the left.

Jinx stepped up behind him, expression unreadable.

A wall.

Silent. 

Controlled. 

Unmoved.

Stack nodded once, voice low. “He meant ever word, nigga.”

Ghost folded his arms. “Try him.”

Jinx didn’t even bother speaking—his look was enough.

The moment stretched.

The man swallowed, scoffed weakly, and backed away, muttering under his breath before disappearing into the crowd.

Smoke didn’t watch him leave.

He only turned slightly, checking Annie with a glance that was quiet, calm, and entirely for her.

“You good?” he asked.

She hated that her throat felt tight. Hated that his concern didn’t feel condescending, or possessive, or anything but real.

“I had it under control,” she said, even though they both knew that wasn’t really an answer.

“I know,” he said. “Still not letting nobody grab on you.”

That sent something sharp through her, somewhere behind her ribs.

“You don’t even know me,” she blurted.

He met her gaze steadily. “I know enough.”

The rain chose that moment to start falling, big cold drops spattering against pavement and skin.

“Shit,” Bree said. “Okay, God, we get it. Break it up.”

“Y’all better get to cover,” Stack added as thunder rolled low. “The sky look like it got hands.”

Smoke glanced toward the beach, where people were already scattering. “Come on.”

He didn’t grab Annie’s hand. He didn’t have to. She followed anyway.

The underside of the pier was dimmer, cooler. Wooden beams rose around them, waves crashing just beyond the shadow line as the rain came down in sheets.

They caught their breath under the boards, the rumble of the ocean mixing with distant music and muffled shouts of people running for shelter.

Annie wrapped Smoke’s jacket closer around herself. He’d tossed it over her shoulders as they ran. It hung heavy and warm, smelling faintly of his cologne and motor oil and something that felt grounding.

“Thank you,” she said, voice low.

“For the jacket or the rescue?” he asked.

“Both,” she admitted, staring at the wet sand instead of his face. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to make you play bodyguard.”

He leaned one shoulder against a pier post, watching the water. “You didn’t make me do anythin’. I chose to.”

She shifted her weight, restless. Less than a day ago, she’d been promising herself she wouldn’t let any man get close enough to disappoint her again. That she was done hoping for basic decency.

“You don’t have to be nice to me,” she said. “I’m not… looking for all that.”

“What’s ‘all that’?” he asked gently.

“Feelings,” she said. “Plans. Expectations. Any of it.”

“Didn’t say nothin’ about expectations,” he replied. “And I didn’t help you ‘cause I wanted somethin’ back. That’s not how I move.”

She looked at him then.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“You safe with me,” he added. “Even if you never see me again after this weekend. That’s just what it is.”

The knot in her chest—resentment, hurt, bone-deep tiredness from her last situation—shifted a little.

She didn’t tell him about the messages left on read, the apologies that never came, the way she’d twisted herself into someone else’s idea of enough and still ended up discarded.

She just swallowed and nodded. “Okay.”

Thunder cracked, closer now. The rain pounded heavier.

For a moment, it was just them and the ocean and the wet wood and her heartbeat loud in her ears.

“You cold?” he asked.

“A little.”

He moved closer, careful and slow, giving her time to step away.

She didn’t.

He set one hand at the edge of his jacket, straightening it around her shoulders. His fingers brushed her collarbone, warm against her skin.

Her breath caught.

His eyes flicked to her mouth, then back.

From up the beach, Bree’s voice cut through the moment. “THE SHARK IS BLOWING AWAY!”

Annie jolted. Smoke huffed something that was almost a laugh.

“Duty calls,” he said.

“Twenty points,” she replied faintly.

They took off running again, feet kicking up sand, the almost-moment folding into something that hummed just under her skin.

They barely made it to the finish line by the end of the three hours, soaked through, edges frizzing, foam shark worse for wear.

“We got it!” Annie panted, slamming the completed checklist onto the table.

Smoke dropped the shark beside her, water slinging off its rubber skin. Stack, Bree, Tiff, Jayla, Ghost, and Jinx crowded behind them, a loud mismatch of friends and strangers now joined by shared chaos.

The judges flipped through the pages, tallying points.

“Team… ‘Grand Theft Helmet’,’” the man read, squinting. His eyes flicked to Annie. “That y’all?”

Bree lifted a hand. “That’s us.”

“You really named us after my crime?” Annie muttered.

“You’re infamous,” Bree replied. “Embrace it.”

The man tapped his pen a few more times, then raised the mic.

“All right, y’all. We got a winner,” he announced. “By ten points, first place goes to… Grand Theft Helmet!”

The cheering hit Annie in a wave.

She didn’t think. She screamed and jumped, launching herself at the nearest solid thing.

Smoke.

He caught her like it was instinct, hands finding her thighs as she wrapped her legs around his waist. For a second, the whole world shrank to the feel of his arms around her, the steady strength under her touch, the way his chest shook with his own laugh.

She realized what she’d done and hurriedly loosened her grip. He set her down, slow, hands sliding away with reluctance she pretended she didn’t feel.

The prize was a fat envelope of cash, two laminated VIP passes, and a black leather jacket with the Bike Week logo embossed on the back. Smoke held the jacket out.

“You should take it,” he said.

She shook her head. “We won ‘cause of you.”

He gave a short laugh. “You the one who rode the bull and stole the shark.”

“Okay, first of all, you stole the shark,” she said. “I was moral support.”

“Keep it,” he insisted. “Look better on you anyway.”

She swallowed, fingers brushing his as she took it. “Thank you.”

Their friends fanned out to argue over who got what cut of the prize money. Schedules were made on the fly—meet here later, hit this club tonight, don’t go anywhere alone.

At some point, the conversation shifted to showers and naps. Faces blurred as people split off in different directions.

Eventually, it was just Annie and Smoke again, on the sidewalk by her resort, the noise of the strip a steady roar around them.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You staying here?”

“Yeah.” She nodded to the glass doors. “We’re on the sixth floor.”

“Good view?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “You’d have to see it to know.”

His mouth ticked up at the corner. “That an invite?”

She shrugged lightly, ignoring the way her heart stuttered. “Consider it a… gratitude tour. Cleaning your karmic debt.”

“I got debt now?” he asked.

“You been talkin’ ‘bout emotional damages all day,” she reminded him. “Seems only right I pay you back.”

He studied her for a beat, the steady weight of his gaze doing things she didn’t have the vocabulary for.

“I’m not…” she started, then paused. “Listen. I’m not lookin’ for nothin’ serious. I don’t do vacation sneaky links.”

“Okay,” he said simply.

“I mean it,” she added. “I just got out of some bullshit, and I’m not interested in… whatever that was, ever again.”

“I hear you,” he said. “I’m not asking you for forever.”

“What are you asking for?” she asked cautiously.

He stepped closer, close enough that the crowd seemed farther away all at once.

“Tonight,” he said quietly. “Good company. Good view. No pressure.”

She searched his face, looking for the angle. The expectation. The hungry entitlement she’d come to associate with any man who wanted something from her.

It wasn’t there.

He just looked like a man who’d spent the day at her side, laughing and running and protecting her when she needed it, and now wanted to see it through to whatever ending she chose.

She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”

His eyes softened. “You sure?”

She nodded. “Come up in ten. If my friends haven’t kidnapped me by then.”

He huffed a laugh. “If they have, I’ll send a wellness check.”

“Put your number in my phone,” she said, digging it out and handing it to him. “So I know who’s violating my quiet time.”

He typed quickly, passed it back, and tapped his own pocket when his phone buzzed.

“I’ll see you in a minute, Annie,” he said.

She turned to go, jacket heavy in her arms, heart beating faster than a day of running could justify.

She’d almost made it through the doors when he called her name.

She glanced back.

He raised a hand, pointing two fingers at his eyes, then at her, a silent little promise.

She rolled hers, trying not to grin. “Nigga you corny.”

He just smiled and walked away.

Her friends descended the second she hit the room.

“What’s his social security number?” Bree demanded.

“Did y’all kiss for real?” Tiff asked.

“Is he staying the night? I need to plan my sleep,” Jayla added.

Annie dodged every question, showered fast, and changed into a soft tank top and shorts. Before they could pin her down again, she slipped onto the balcony, Bike Week jacket over her shoulders.

The view wasn’t even that special—just the strip below, wet pavement reflecting neon signs, people moving in clusters, occasional flashes of chrome as bikes rolled by.

It felt different, though, knowing he was somewhere out there.

Her phone buzzed.

Smoke: I’m downstairs.

She answered: 6th floor. End of the hall.

“Don’t do nothing I wouldn’t do,” Bree called as she eased back inside, voice sing-song.

“You wouldn’t blink,” Annie replied.

“Exactly.”

She rolled her eyes, heart thudding louder with each step toward the door.

When the knock came, it was soft. Two taps, enough to let her know it was him.

She opened it.

He stood in the hallway, hands in his pockets, T-shirt a shade darker from where rain had caught him earlier, his forehead still a little damp from the rain.

For a second, they just looked at each other.

Then he smiled a little. “View check?”

She stepped aside. “Come see.”

He followed her inside, nodding politely at the chorus of greetings and side-eyes from her friends, then stepped onto the balcony with her.

From up here, the city looked softer. The noise dulled, the lights smearing into pools of color on the wet road. The ocean was a dark stretch beyond the strip, waves rolling in steady.

“It’s nice,” he said.

“It’s okay,” she replied.

They stood in companionable silence for a beat, the cool night air wrapping around them. He saw her shiver a little and offered her his jacket.

“How you feelin’?” he asked.

“Tired,” she admitted. “But it’s the good kind. I haven’t laughed that much in… a while.”

“That so?”

“Don’t get a big head,” she warned. “You were tolerable at best.”

He chuckled under his breath. “Appreciate the review.”

She turned to face him fully, hands fidgeting with the edge of the jacket. “I meant what I said earlier,” she reminded him. “About not wanting anything serious.”

“I know,” he said.

“I’m not… I can’t do another situation where somebody tells me all the right things, then disappears as soon as I get comfortable.” She swallowed. “I promised myself I was done chasing potential.”

“I ain’t mad at that,” he replied. “You deserve somebody who shows up how they say they will.”

Her throat tightened.

“Look,” he went on, voice low and careful. “I can’t speak on whatever dumb shit the last nigga did. All I can tell you is who I am right now. I ain’t here to sell you a dream. I’m here because I like being around you. You make me laugh. You held your own all day. You look good in my jacket.” His mouth tipped. “And I want to kiss you. If you want that too.”

The directness of it… the simplicity… disarmed her more than any line could have.

No promises he couldn’t keep. No declarations he hadn’t earned.

Just want, laid out clean and honest.

She stared at him for a long second, palm pressed flat to the drum of her own heart.

Then she stepped closer, sliding her hands up his chest, fingers curling at the base of his neck.

“I want that too,” she said.

He exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since the first time she’d stolen from him.

His hands found her waist, thumbs pressing into the fabric of her tank just above her waistband.

“Good,” he murmured.

Then he kissed her.

It was nothing like the almost-kiss under the SkyWheel. That had been a snapshot, a frozen moment for a friend’s phone.

This was warm and slow and deep, his mouth fitting over hers in a way that made the rest of the world dissolve. She curled her fingers into the collar of his shirt and tugged him closer, opening easily when his tongue brushed against her bottom lip.

His hands slid up, one splaying at the small of her back, the other curling around her ribcage, holding her like he wanted to commit the shape of her to memory.

She felt herself melt, all the tight, defensive angles of her body softening as he kissed her again and again, each one a little less cautious, a little more certain.

When they finally broke apart, her forehead dropped to his chest, breath coming short.

“Okay,” she murmured. “That was… that was….”

“In a good way?” he asked, voice rough at the edges.

She smiled against his shirt. “So far.”

“Then I can live with it,” he said.

They went inside together, door closing gently behind them, the sounds of the strip fading into a distant hum.

What happened after that wasn’t wild or rushed. It wasn’t some movie montage of clothes flying and sheets tangled.

They moved from balcony to bed in a series of small, deliberate choices—her fingertips at the hem of his shirt, his quiet “this okay?” when his hands slid under her tank, the way she nodded and pulled him back down when he would’ve stopped to make sure.

The room was quiet except for the hush of the ocean far below and the low hum of the air conditioner. Moonlight spilled across the bed in silver bars, catching on the slow rise and fall of their breathing.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured at one point, lips brushing the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

Nobody had asked her that before. And meant it.

She told him. He listened.

Annie’s fingers curled around his wrist, guiding his hand lower.

“Here,” she whispered, pressing his fingers between her legs, letting him feel how slick she already was. “Start slow. Just… trace me.”

He obeyed instantly, two fingers gliding up and down her seam, learning the shape of her, the way she swelled under the lightest pressure. His touch was reverent, almost shaking.

“Like that?” he asked, voice rough.

She nodded, hips rolling into his hand. “Circles now. Firmer.”

He followed every direction. When she shivered, he paused.

“Keep going,” she breathed. “Don’t stop unless I say.”

Minutes blurred. She showed him exactly how she liked to be touched—how to flatten his fingers, how to crook them just inside her and curl until her back arched off the bed. When her thighs started trembling, she pulled his hand away, brought his soaked fingers to her mouth, licked them clean while he watched with dark, hungry eyes.

Then she pushed him onto his back.

She crawled up his body, knees bracketing his shoulders.

“I want your mouth,” she said. “Slow. Flat tongue. No sucking… yet.”

He groaned, hands sliding up her thighs to steady her—never to guide. She lowered herself onto his tongue and exhaled when he traced her exactly the way she’d taught him. She rode his face in long, lazy rolls of her hips, setting the pace, rising off him entirely when he got too eager.

“Still,” she warned, and he froze, breathing hard against her until she sank down again.

When she was close—so close—she fisted his head.

“Now,” she gasped. “Suck. Hard.”

He did. She came with a low, broken cry, thighs clamping around his head, pulsing against his tongue until the aftershocks left her boneless.

She slid down his body, kissing him deep and filthy, tasting herself on his lips.

His dick was flushed dark, leaking against his stomach. She wrapped her hand around him, stroked once, slow and firm.

He hissed, hips jerking.

“Condom,” she said against his mouth.

He didn’t answer with words. Just a low, desperate sound as he twisted, reaching down the side of the bed. His fingers scrabbled blindly over the floor, knocking aside one of his shoes, cursing under his breath when he couldn’t find the pocket fast enough.

Annie couldn’t help it—she let out a breathy little laugh against his shoulder, the sound warm and teasing.

“Fuck, fuck—”

She kissed the spot beneath his ear, voice soft but edged with a smile. “You good. I’m not going anywhere.”

Then, there they were, his jeans. He dragged them closer by the belt loop, fumbled the wallet out with one shaking hand, nearly dropping it. Leather snapped open, he found the foil square, and while leaning back on the bed, handed her the foil packet with shaking fingers. 

She tore it open with her teeth, rolled it down his length while he watched, jaw clenched so tight she could see the muscle jump.

When it was on, she straddled him again, lined him up, sank down just the head.

He groaned her name like it hurt.

She stayed there, teasing, circling her hips.

“Look at me,” she ordered.

His eyes snapped open, wild and blown.

“Don’t thrust,” she said. “Let me.”

She took him in inch by inch, slow and deliberate, until he was buried to the hilt and they both had to breathe through it. Then she started to move—long, grinding rolls that dragged her clit against his pelvis on every downstroke. His hands hovered at her waist until she guided them to her breasts.

“Touch me. Gentle… then harder when I say.”

He obeyed, thumbs brushing her nipples in slow, reverent circles, waiting for her signal.

Annie’s breath hitched. She cupped her own breast, lifted it toward his mouth.

“Suck,” she said, voice low and rough. “I want your mouth on me. Hard.”

The second the word left her lips, something feral flashed across his face like he’d been starving for permission. He surged up, spine curling, and closed his lips around her nipple with a hungry groan that vibrated straight through her. No hesitation. No gentle teasing. He sucked hard, tongue flicking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. His hand cupped the other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers in perfect, punishing rhythm with his mouth.

“Fuck—yes—like that,” she moaned, grinding down harder on his dick, chasing friction.

He switched sides without being told, latching onto the other breast like he’d been dreaming about it for years—wet, open-mouthed, desperate. The sounds he made were filthy: low growls against her skin, the wet pull of his mouth, the way he couldn’t stop himself from moaning every time she rolled her hips and took him deeper.

She was losing it now, rhythm faltering, pleasure coiling tight and hot low in her belly. She fisted his hair, yanked his head back just enough to see his face—lips swollen, eyes blown black, spit shining on his chin.

“Don’t stop,” she ordered, voice shaking. “Keep sucking while I come.”

He dove back in, relentless, and she shattered.

Her second orgasm slammed through her like a wave, back arching, thighs clamping around his hips as she clenched around his dick in hard, pulsing waves. She cried out—raw, broken, his name tangled in it while he kept his mouth sealed around her nipple, sucking her through every aftershock until she sagged against him, trembling and breathless.

Only then did she kiss him, messy and deep, tasting herself on his tongue again, and whisper against his swollen lips:

“Now. Hard as you want. I want to feel you lose it.”

The words snapped something in him.

He flipped them in one smooth move, still buried deep, and drove into her with a ragged groan. He drew back slow—so slow she felt every dragging ridge of him, then slammed home in one deep, punishing stroke that punched the air from her lungs. The bedframe cracked against the wall. Again. Again. He set a brutal, perfect rhythm—hips snapping, skin slapping, the wet sound of her taking him echoing in the quiet room.

She arched up to meet him, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper.

“More,” she gasped. “Don’t slow down.”

He growled—actually growled— and gave her exactly what she demanded. One hand shoved under her ass, tilting her hips so every thrust kissed that spot inside her that made her see stars. His other arm braced beside her head, caging her in, letting her watch the strain in his shoulders, the sweat beading at his temple, the desperate clench of his jaw as he fucked her like he’d been starving for it.

She slid a hand between them, fingers finding her clit, circling fast and sloppy. The pressure coiled again, impossibly fast, white-hot.

He felt it the second she started to tighten, groaned her name again, and sped up, relentless, chasing the squeeze of her body but refusing to tip over first.

“Cum, Annie,” he panted against her mouth. “Let me feel it. Let me—”

She broke. Her third orgasm crashed over her so hard her vision whited out, back bowing off the bed, walls clamping down on him in long, milking pulses. She sobbed his name, nails raking red lines down his back.

Only then did he let himself go.

He buried his face in her neck, hips stuttering, and came with a deep, guttural sound—long, thick pulses inside the condom that she felt even through the latex. He kept moving through it, grinding deep, riding every aftershock until they were both trembling and oversensitive.

When it finally passed, he collapsed half on top of her, breathing like he’d run miles. She could feel his heart hammering against her ribs.

He pressed a shaky kiss to her collarbone, then her throat, then the corner of her mouth.

“Jesus, Annie,” he whispered, voice raw. “You ruinin’ me, girl.”

She smiled into his sweat-damp hair, legs still wrapped tight around him, holding him exactly where he was.

“Good,” she murmured. “That was the plan.”

After a while, with their breaths steady and their bodies pressed chest to chest, Elijah finally broke the quiet.

“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse.

She nodded against his neck, fingers tracing the chain at his throat.

“More than okay.”

He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth.

“Tell me if that ever changes.”

“I will,” she whispered.

They fell asleep tangled in sheets that smelled of sex and salt air, the ocean still murmuring below.

Morning arrived with a pounding knock somewhere in the suite — not Annie’s bedroom door, but the main door leading into the shared living area.

“HEY!” a familiar voice called through the walls. “You alive, bruh? We tryna get breakfast before Ghost eats the table!”

Smoke blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the floral curtains and unfamiliar ceiling fan.

Then he felt the weight of Annie’s arm draped across his stomach and remembered everything at once.

Another knock—louder this time—followed by Bree’s irritated shout from the common area:

“WHO BANGIN’ LIKE THEY PAY RENT?!”

Smoke sighed. Annie groaned and buried her face in his side.

“Who is that?” she mumbled.

“Stack,” he said.

She made a muffled noise, something between a groan and a curse.

Out in the suite, Tiff’s voice rang out:

“HELLO? People SLEEP in here!”

“Not anymore!” Stack yelled back. “Open up before I call security!”

Annie laughed weakly. “Your people are unhinged.”

Smoke just shook his head.

Another round of knocks rattled through the suite walls.

“You can go,” she muttered. “Tell him you’re fine and let me fake my death.”

Smoke lifted the blanket and nodded toward her chest. “I’m in yo bed. Hard to pretend you weren’t here.”

She groaned. “God.”

He eased himself out of the bed, grabbed his jeans from the floor, and pulled them on. Annie sat up, braids wild, she pulled the sheets up from her lap to cover her exposed breasts.

He cracked the bedroom door just enough to peek into the shared living area.

Stack’s grinning face was RIGHT THERE, inches away.

“Took you long enough,” Stack said, trying to look past Smoke. “We got food waitin’ and—”

He leaned to the side, saw Annie sitting up in bed, and froze.

Then his whole face lit up.

“OHHH. Oh, we in LOVE.”

“Goodbye,” Smoke said and pushed the door to close it.

Stack jammed his foot in the way. “Relax, I got manners. Mornin’, Annie!”

From further in the living area, Bree gasped. “OH MY GOD, HE AIN’T GOT NO SHIRT ON.”

Tiff followed it with, “Annie, girl, you a WHORE and I support you.”

Ghost leaned into view, grinning like an idiot. “Ayeeee. Okay Annie! I see you.”

Jinx raised a hand once, respectfully. “Peace.”

Smoke exhaled. “I’ll meet y’all downstairs. Go.”

Stack finally backed up, still talking. “Don’t take too long! And wear a shirt — the aunties in the lobby can’t handle all that chest!”

Smoke shut the bedroom door firmly.

When he turned back, Annie was sitting there blinking sleepily, pillow creases on one cheek, lips swollen, hair an absolute mess.

She looked soft. Happy. Wrecked in the prettiest way.

“Well,” she said. “They’re… special.”

“That’s one word for them.”

She chewed her lip. “You gotta go.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You probably got plans with your girls too.”

“We were supposed to hit the beach,” she said. “And then a day party. They are going to COOK me alive.”

“You’ll survive,” he said. “You tough.”

She snorted. “I don’t feel tough right now.”

“Good,” he said softly. “You ain’t gotta be all the time.”

She stared at him…

“You keep sayin’ shit like that,” she warned, “I might like you.”

“Can’t have that,” he said lightly. “You allergic to feelins, remember?”

“Severely.”

He walked back to her, leaned down, and pressed a slow kiss to her forehead. Then another — soft and lingering — to her mouth.

“When you think about this trip,” he murmured, “I want it to feel good. Simple as that.”

Her breath hitched. “So far… so good.”

He grabbed his shirt and moved toward the bedroom door, hand on the knob, when she spoke again.

“Smoke?”

“Yeah?”

She hesitated. “If I text you after this weekend… you gon’ answer? Or you a ghost-er?”

He met her eyes, steady and certain.

“I don’t run from good things,” he said simply. “So if you hit my phone? I’m there. No pressure.”

Her fingers curled in the sheets. “Okay.”

He nodded once, slipped out into the hall, and closed the door softly behind him.

The girls held their ambush for exactly thirty seconds.

The moment Annie emerged from the shower, towel wrapped around her, Bree threw herself across the bed.

“You had SEX,” Bree accused, finger pointed dramatically. “On day ONE. You’re a liar, a fraud, and also my hero.”

“I didn’t say that—” Annie tried.

“You didn’t have to, bitch,” Tiff cut in, already scrolling through her phone with purpose. “We heard the PREVIEW.”

“Tiff—”

“No, because look.” Tiff turned the screen toward them. “THE WAY y’all kissed on that balcony? The way he grabbed your waist? I filmed it in cinematic mode. I got the director’s cut, the extended edition, AND the behind-the-scenes.”

Annie’s soul left her body. “Why were you filming?!”

Tiff shrugged. “Because the vibes were IMMACULATE. Criterion Collection energy. Oscars. Sundance. I’m submitting y’all to A24.”

Bree slapped her thigh. “A24 is crazy!”

Tiff kept going, wild with power.

“And if the balcony kiss was the TRAILER? Babaaaayyyy, I can only imagine what y’all did when the doors closed. That was an NC-17 fade-to-black if I ever saw one.”

Annie covered her face with both hands. “I hate y’all so much.”

“You love us,” Tiff corrected. “Even though you be lyin’ about your abstinence era.”

Jayla sat in the armchair, sipping her coffee. “Is he at least nice?” she asked.

Annie thought of the way he’d stepped between her and the drunk. The way he’d wrapped his jacket around her shoulders. The way he’d asked, Tell me what you like and meant it.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “He is.”

Bree caught the shift in her voice and softened. “Uh-oh. We in trouble.”

“We not in trouble,” Annie insisted. “He understands the assignment. We had fun. That’s it.”

“For now,” Tiff said under her breath.

Annie didn’t answer. She busied herself picking out a swimsuit, ignoring the way her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She glanced at the screen anyway.

Smoke: You eat yet?

A smile tugged at her mouth before she could stop it.

Annie: About to. You?

Smoke: Stack tried to order for us. I took his menu away.

Smoke: Y’all hittin’ the beach later?

Annie: Yeah. Why?

Smoke: Might ride by. Make sure you ain’t out here stealin’ from nobody.

She rolled her eyes, thumbs moving faster than her brain.

Annie: I only steal from men who deserve it.

Annie: You safe. For now.

The three dots appeared, blinked away, appeared again.

Smoke: I’ll take that.

Bree leaned over her shoulder to read the messages, then squealed into a pillow.

Jayla sighed. “Lord, here we go.”

Annie lay back on the bed for a moment, phone pressed to her chest, the hum of the city drifting in through the balcony door.

She’d come here swearing she was done.

Done trusting. Done hoping. Done opening up for people who didn’t know what to do with her heart.

And maybe this would just be a weekend. A bright, ridiculous, beautiful blip in a long line of days.

But as she closed her eyes, she could still feel the ghost of his hands at her waist, still hear his voice under the pier, low and steady.

You safe with me.

For the first time in a long while, that didn’t feel like a trick.

It felt like a starting point.

“Fun, huh?” Bree said, dropping down beside her.

“Fun,” Annie agreed.

She let herself smile, just a little, and didn’t try to bury it this time.

So.....what did ya'll think? 🫣 Would you be interested in a part 2? I would dive into the Biker lore of it all. See what Smoke and his club members are up too. 🤭

Tag List:

@partylikemajima @brownskincheyenne @lizbehave @anniensmoke3 @margepimpson @brownsugarcoffy @aellesa @lilblckraincloud @hdfen2474 @magnifique2be @lb-xci @loveabledovee @milkywayzard @katezy2x @nicanotnika @wakandamama @numb1smokeanniestan @sunshinerepublic @pennopencil @shereeluvssinners @chknnwffls @underated345-blog @thefutureemmywinner @shamansha @tnychellee @blue4everrsworld @girlmath101 @bananajoeclone @ayishia101 @summrsovrinterlude @mmbee675 @lestatthelioncourt @nyifly22 @storiesbyasl @thebumblebeesworld @thedutifulone @theegyal @cocoagadgetsworld @hotebonynearby @sighsrollseyes @atpeaceinthestars

[theegoldenchild]

Chapter One: The Preachers Daughter

The morning sun spilled gold over the worn wooden planks of the porch, and Seraphim stood at the screen door with her arms crossed over her white nightgown watching it rise. The year is 1920 and the July summer weather has already made everyone in Mississippi feel muggy and sticky before 8:00 AM. Cicadas had already begun their high-pitched hum, and the sweet, cloying scent of honeysuckle drifted through the air as it wrapped itself around her like the arms of a mother she’d never known.

Sera let out a small yawn while her bare feet shifted on the cool floorboards, the only relief from the suffocating warmth that clung to her deep brown mahogany skin. Scratching her head she let out a small and annoyed sigh as she contemplated if her father would let her go one more day without combing her hair. Having a head full of unruly burgundy curls and a face full of freckles, Sera didn’t look like most of her peers. And at 5’8, she was half a head taller than most girls in town, which meant she got stared at more often than she liked… especially when she wore her Sunday best and the boys from town leaned in too close during service.

But like the good preacher's daughter she is, she learned to keep her eyes low, lips tight, and her curves hidden beneath modest skirts that go past her knees. It was what was expected of her and she didn’t question it. Her body and life was not hers to own. She belonged to her father. She belonged to God.

“Seraphim!” A call for her presence from inside the house that sounded deep, gravelly, and lined with worry. The voice comes from the only person she’s ever spoken more than five words to, her father, her shepherd, the town’s chosen man of God, Pastor Samuel.

Without a second to spare, Sera turned on her heels and hastily made her way to the kitchen before trying to smooth out her ginger curls that are now framing her face like a lions mane. “Yes, Daddy?”

Seated at the kitchen table, Bible open, spectacles perched low on his nose sits a black man in his late 50’s that time hasn’t been kind to. Sera takes note of the five new gray hairs that seem to have appeared overnight on her fathers head and how he doesn’t bother to acknowledge her presence by looking up. Dressed in his typical uniform of a crisp white button up shirt Sera ironed the night before, black slacks, and black suspenders, Pastor Samuel looks like a God-fearing man that commands respect from all who gaze upon him.

“We’ll be having company for supper tonight.”

Something in his tone makes her chest tighten with nerves as she scrunches her face in confusion and immediately fixes it before her father notices. Moving slowly to the table, Sera takes a cautious seat across from her father before folding her hands like she was still a child in Sunday school.

“Who, Daddy?”

Still, he doesn’t look up. “Don’t worry bout’ the names, Seraphim. Just… men… come to talk men business.”

Her fingers curl anxiously into her palms. Sera is the picture perfect daughter and typically she doesn’t ask questions. She never does… Not since Mama left after she asked about—… But the set of her father’s jaw and the way his hands tremble slightly as he turns the page of his Bible, it told her enough.

The Klan has been circling their 5 acres of land like vultures lately. First, their sneering whispers at the general store. Then the burning cross not a mile from the chapel’s steps that sits on the western field of the land. They said the property didn’t belong to a Black man. Said God wouldn’t build His house of worship on stolen dirt with niggers dwelling on it.

But Sera knows her daddy didn't steal anything regardless of what the rumors say. After her mama left, Samuel made a deal with some mystery man and God helped him acquire the title of this lot. At least that’s the vague explanation he gives her any time she asks about it. Nevertheless, when he acquired the land the first thing he did was build a church with his own two hands. And now those hands grip the edge of the table as if it were all that kept him from crumbling.

“You’ll head down to Bo’s,” he said. “Pick up what we need. Chicken, potatoes, cabbage, buttermilk and flour for the biscuits. We’ll show them hospitality, like the Good Book says.”

Sera nodded silently and swallowed down the million questions that burn on her tongue. After three beats of tense silence her father finally looked up, and in his amber eyes that have started to develop a thin blue coating around the iris, showcases a tiredness deeper than age.

“And Seraphim?” he added gently.

“Yes, sir?”

“Comb that rats nest on your head and wear the pale blue dress. The one that don’t cling too close and goes to your ankles.”

Her cheeks heated with embarrassment as she nodded in agreement. “Yes, Daddy.”

Standing up from her seat and turning to leave, Sera’s steps are slow and heavy. As she gets dressed and stares at her reflection in the mirror she allows one singular tear to fall down her cheek before quickly wiping it away and closing her eyes to say a silent prayer. Protection for her father. Protection for the church. Protection for the land. And above all else, protect her body from overheating in this dress that was made with a little too much material.

As she adds the finishing touches to her braided updo and grabs the cash for her errands, the screen door creaks behind her like a warning. The walk to the store would be long in this heat, and every step would carry the weight of knowing that tonight underneath the fake smiles and polite prayers there’d be devils seated at her table.

And she’d be expected to serve them.

The road to Bo’s twisted like a long scar through the red dirt and brittle tall grass. Seraphim walked it alone, her steps measured with her basket swinging gently at her side. The morning sun was already fierce and burning through the brim of her hat while causing the pale blue fabric of her dress to stick to her back. No matter how conservative she wanted to appear today it seemed like the universe had other plans as dust clung to her skin like guilt.

Even with the possibility of a heatstroke on the horizon, Sera didn’t complain and instead she kept her head down and continued on her way as she let her mind roam.

Smoke and Stack have come back.

The words had been whispered like scripture behind cupped hands all across town.

It started with the undertaker’s boy, who said he saw them pull up in a shiny black car that didn’t belong to Mississippi dirt. Then the ladies at Sister Odetta’s beauty shop had gasped between hot combs and gossip and said the twins were dressed like city men, with gold chains and sharp suits. Their hands heavy with sin and the smell of Chicago money lingering on their skin.

Sera had barely known them as a child. They were already grown men when she was still being scolded for climbing trees in her Sunday shoes. Ten years her senior, they’d been the kind of men who lived in whispers and warnings. Men born on the wrong side of the tracks, raised on violence, and baptized in war before vanishing North with nothing but a reputation and a revolver.

She remembered seeing them once from the church window with their long limbs and sharp mouths, laughing at something no decent folk should laugh at. Her father had pulled the curtain closed and muttered, “Devil’s work.”

Now they are back. And no one knows the reason why.

Her steps slowed as she passed the old barn where she once caught her mother kissing a white man in the shadows. She hadn’t meant to spy. She was only seven. Her baby brother had just been born and Sera… too curious for her own good… had wandered too far from home one night looking for fireflies. What she found instead was the truth.

She remembered asking her mama, “Why’s he so pale? His hair same color as mine but he white like a peckerwood?”

Her mama had gone quiet. Two days later, she was gone.

Took her baby brother. Left the ring her father gave her in his favorite bible. And never came back.

Sera learned silence that year. How to swallow hurt without chewing. How to keep her eyes low and her voice lower. Her father never spoke her mama’s name again. Just preached harder and held her tighter.

The screen door to Bo’s creaked as she opened it, the bell above chiming like a warning. Inside, the air was thick with tobacco and the musty scent of aging wood. A few men loitered in the back as they sipped bottled pop and muttered low under their breath. They quieted when she walked in.

Sera could feel them looking. Could always feel when men’s eyes lingered too long on her like they had the ability to see beyond what she attempted to hide. She was 25 now. Unmarried, tall, full-figured and soft in the face but with too much knowing in her eyes. She tried to hide it all under cotton and decency, but men saw what they wanted. Even here. Even now.

“Mornin’, Miss Seraphim,” Bo called from behind the counter, his drawl friendly but laced with caution.

“Mornin’, Mister Bo,” she said politely, keeping her voice sweet and even. Something she mastered at a young age.

“Your daddy got you runnin’ errands today?”

“Yes, sir. Company’s comin’ for supper. Said I need ingredients to make fried chicken, mashed potatoes, sautéed cabbage… and biscuits too.”

Bo raised an eyebrow, nodding as he scribbled on a small notepad. “Hmph. Important company, I reckon.”

Sera didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

As Bo disappeared into the storeroom, she wandered toward the shelves of canned goods and piles of flour sacks as she pretended to browse. Behind her, the men began to whisper again.

“Smoke’s the one wit’ the gold tooth, right?”

“Nah. That’s Stack. Smoke’s the nigga that talk too smooth.”

“Did you hear what they did to dem boys up in Yazoo?”

Sera kept her back turned, heart thumping louder than the bell had.

“They say Stack got a scar down his side big as a muthafuckin’ butcher’s knife.”

“They say Smoke talk a man into givin’ up his mama’s land and thank him after.”

“They say they brought Hell back with ‘em, and they got money to burn it down. But I ain’t scared of them niggas.”

Sera gripped the handle of her basket tighter as she continued to listen. She knew it wasn’t proper to ease drop but she would ask God for forgiveness later. The SmokeStack twins were men of sin. Of smoke, flame, and ruin. They didn’t belong in her world of hymns dressed up in linen and bowed heads.

But for some reason… she couldn’t stop thinking about them.

Before more could be discussed, Bo returned with a paper sack filled to the brim with all the needed ingredients and a few extras. “Here you go, darlin’. Tell your daddy I said God bless him.”

Sera nodded, murmured her thanks, and stepped back out into the scorching sun. As she made her way back home, she tried not to imagine what it would mean if the SmokeStack twins crossed her path. She tried not to think about her mama and how the world could never make space for a woman torn between desire and duty. And she tried not to ask why, after all these years, something in her stirred at the sound of their names.

By the time Seraphim returned home, the sun had dropped just enough to make the sky blush. Her childhood home sat quiet on its vast land. An old two story farmhouse with peeling paint and wide porch steps that creaked like old grandma knees. She stood for a moment at the gate, looking up at it. Her home. Her father’s sanctuary. Her… prison.

Inside, she freshed up and tied on her apron and got to work. She moved through the kitchen with practiced ease and muscle memory passed down from ancestors she would never meet. She seasoned the chicken with salt, pepper, and a heavy hand of cayenne, just the way her daddy liked it. Rolled it in flour and dropped it into the cast iron skillet, where the oil hissed like a warning.

Next were the mashed potatoes she added cream and butter to until they were silk. Then she cut the cabbage thin and tossed it with smoked pork fat until it wilted. And finally she kneaded the biscuit dough, cool and soft beneath her fingers, like clouds in her palms.

Sera tried to quiet her noisy mind as she focused on making sure this meal was perfect. But her mind wandered back to the whispers in Bo’s store and to the heat in her chest that wouldn’t cool, not even with the open windows and the evening breeze coming through.

Her father was in his study, silent behind the cracked door. He hadn’t said who was coming. Just that it was “important.”

Important enough to fry a whole chicken? Important enough to cook a Sunday meal on Wednesday and be forced to comb my hair? Is Jesus coming?

Then a singular knock came just as she pulled the biscuits from the oven, golden and steaming. Pastor Samuel said nothing as he closed the book he was reading and left his study to open the door himself.

Her oven mitten covered hands froze over the skillet. Sera expected Deacon Haynes. Maybe old Mister Lockett from the train yard. But when her father opened the front door, the whole house seemed to still.

Two men stepped inside. One moved like a cautionary tale. The other, like trouble.

They were damn near impossible to tell apart at first glance. Both tall and standing at 6 '4, both dressed like Chicago royalty with midnight-black suits cut sharp enough to draw blood, gold cufflinks, shiny shoes that didn’t belong on Mississippi dirt, and different colored accessories. One dressed in a haunting blue and the other in a firecracker red. Their skin was a deep sultry brown and smooth, cheekbones high, eyes sharp beneath wide-brimmed fedoras.

But there was a difference. You didn’t see it. You felt it.

Smoke stepped in first. He moved like a closed casket… silent, heavy, and final. His expression didn’t shift. His eyes scanned the room like he was casing it. His face was like expressionless chiseled stone and Sera could’ve sworn his eyes never blinked.

Then Stack, right behind him with the same face, same build, same shine to his shoes, but grinning like he’d already kissed your sister and was thinking about your mama next. His smile was wide and wicked, white teeth decorated with gold flashing like a trap with sugar on it.

Sera’s breath caught in her throat.

“Well, well,” Stack said, tossing his red hat onto a nearby rack like he owned the place. “Didn’t know the preacher’s house came with a view.”

Pastor Samuel cut him a glare sharp enough to chip stone. “Mind your manners.”

“I am mindin’ ‘em,” Stack chuckled, eyes lingering on Sera. “Just admirin’ God’s work. Hallelujah!”

Smoke didn’t speak. He didn’t even look at Sera at first like she was a non interesting piece of furniture sitting in a corner. Instead he removed his hat and placed it on the rack next to Stacks. Something about him was fascinating to Sera. He was the kind of man who knew where a bullet might come from and how to send one back twice as fast.

Pastor Samuel cleared his throat. “Sera. Set the table.”

“Yes, sir,” she murmured, breaking herself from her trance and slipping into motion like her body was trying to protect her soul. The food went out hot and she moved quietly, with her eyes focused on her task, but she could feel Stack’s lingering stare sticking to her like honey on skin. Smoke finally looked at her. Just once and she couldn’t tell if his look was approval or disapproval of her appearance.

They all sat at the dinner table that was piled high with food as if it was thanksgiving. Pastor Samuel took a deep breath before bowing his head. “Lord, bless this table and guide our hands in the war to come.”

“Amen,” Smoke said softly. Stack said nothing due to his mouth already full of biscuit.

Dinner started civil. The knives scraped politely on china. Stack asked for seconds. Smoke barely touched his plate. And her father finally cut straight to the point. “The Klan wants this land but MY church sits on it. They plan to burn it or steal it, and I won’t have either.”

Finally getting into the grit of the meeting, Smoke leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes at Pastor Samuel before letting his hand linger over his pistol that’s tucked to the side. “You want protection?”

“I want justice,” the preacher corrected without missing a step. “But I’ll settle for peace. And peace only comes with fear, these days.”

Stack chuckled, licking the remaining food residue off his thumb. “So you brought in the big bad wolves?”

“I brought in men who make devils cross the street,” Samuel snapped.

Smoke went back to a relaxed position and finally picked up his fork again before taking another bite of cabbage. Sera didn’t mean to stare but she couldn’t help herself as she made a mental note on which food he ate the most of. “We don’t work for free.”

“I ain’t askin’ for charity… You can use the north field. Store what you want. Liquor, bodies, goods… I won’t ask what it is.”

Stack whistled low. “Damn. Preacher man got teeth.”

Samuel didn’t flinch. “I got a daughter who still believes in mercy. I’d like her to live long enough to keep believin’.”

That made Smoke pause. His eyes shifted back to Sera, who immediately dropped her gaze. She didn’t need to see the look to know it was heavy, not lustful like his brother’s, but something deeper and calculated.

Instead of sitting in the hot seat Sera busied herself with the plates. An excuse and a shield she knew would protect her during this tense moment. The dishes clinked gently as she stacked them, one by one, careful not to seem rushed, even as her hands itched to flee the room.

A quiet girl trying to make herself seem small in a world that wanted nothing more than to sing her praises like the church mothers during Sunday service. They always said she was “obedient,” “graceful,” “a woman raised right.” None of them knew how much it cost her to bite her tongue raw, how often she turned her rage into silence, her questions into prayers.

Stack leaned over the table, eyes gleaming with mischief and something darker. “Tell me, sweetheart… a girl like you ever get tired of bein’ good?”

She hesitated. Her fingers curled around the edge of a gravy bowl slick with fat. She kept her expression even and soft, almost dainty. Inside, something rattled. But she smiled faintly, like the perfect and polite southern belle her father raised her to be.

“No, sir,” she murmured, not looking at him. “Good girls sleep sounder at night.”

Stack grinned wider. “That so? Guess I wouldn’t know. Ain’t had a full night’s sleep since I lost my innocence—”

“Stack.” Smoke’s voice cut through the room like a blade dragged across glass. That single word, low and sharp, dried up all the amusement in his brother’s throat.

Pastor Samuel stood slowly. His eyes didn’t go to Sera. They never did when men looked at her too long. He spoke like a man reminded of the devil’s reach. “Dinner’s done.”

Smoke stood as well, deliberate and careful in every motion like a man who didn’t waste energy on anything unnecessary. He looked around the room once more, as if he was searching for something. “We’ll be in touch,” he said simply.

Stack bowed his head, eyes still locked onto Sera. “Thanks for the supper, pretty girl. You cook like a woman with a heavy soul. And look like a redheaded angel. Any man round’ here would be lucky to call you his wife.”

Sera didn’t respond. Just kept her eyes on the plates in her hands. She stayed quiet like a bunny cornered by a pack of wolves. Being quiet was the safest thing to do around wolves… especially wolves who smile so pretty they remind you that Satan was once an angel.

The screen door shut behind them with a lazy clap.

Only then did her shoulders fall before making her way back to the kitchen and standing in it alone as the lace curtains drifted over the open window. Outside, the twilight bled into the nearby fields, shadows stretching long like the hands of men reaching for things they didn’t deserve. Her father didn’t say a word to her, he just disappeared into his study, muttering about the Lord’s will, the price of peace and the weight of duty.

Sera washed each dish with hands that trembled just slightly. Not from fear but from curiosity.

She hated that part of herself, the part that wanted to turn around and ask Stack what it felt like to not care. The part that wanted to ask Smoke what lived behind his silence. The part that burned for something she couldn’t name without falling to her knees in shame.

She pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane and closed her eyes.

Smoke and Stack were back.

And the peace in her house was already slipping through the cracks.

.

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Well, well, well. Looks like we have another series on our hands. And guess what, chicken butt? I plan on actually finishing this one before we all die from old age. I’m a gen z boomer now so let me know if you want to be added to the tag list.

Tags:

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theethighpriestess @imagining-greatness @hearteyes-for-killmonger @blackpantherismyish

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Courtyard Bliss

Summary: Violet steps into the courtyard behind The Blackline and Smoke follows, hungry.

Warnings: SMUT

The Arkansas sun was high and swollen, spilling down like warm honey over the courtyard of The Blackline. The air clung heavy and thick with heat, scented faintly with honeysuckle and the iron tang of old brick warming in the sun. Cicadas screamed from the trees like spirits in heat, their song rising and falling in waves as languid as the breeze—what little of it stirred.

Violet moved slow through that garden, barefoot in the shade-dappled courtyard where the magnolia trees stood like sentinels in bloom. Her dress was a slip of a thing, thin and pale like lemonade satin, damp in places from sweat and clinging to the swell of her hips. The straps had slipped down her shoulders, as if too weary to hold on, leaving her collarbones bare and glowing. Her curls had given up the ghost, too, haloing her face in dark, syrupy coils that caught at her neck and temples like ivy. A ribbon the color of pomegranate wine was tied high on her thigh, just under the hem, nearly hidden unless you were looking.

And Smoke was.

He leaned in the shade of the jasmine-covered archway, arms crossed, shirt open at the throat, the rise and fall of his chest slow and deliberate. A cigarette dangled between his fingers, though he hadn’t lit it. He was watching her sip water from a jar, watching the way her lips curved around the rim, watching the drop that ran down her chin and traced the column of her throat before vanishing between her breasts. Her skin shimmered with sweat, kissed golden by the sun, and he wanted to press his mouth to every bead of it.

Violet didn’t say a word. Just walked further in, letting the stone path warm the soles of her feet. She knew he was behind her, watching. She felt it like a breath at the back of her neck. Every step she took was an invitation.

Smoke finally moved.

The gate clicked behind him.

His boots were quiet on the flagstones, but she heard the rasp of his voice just as she reached the camellia bush blooming near the fountain.

“Hot out here.”

Her back was to him, “Mmm. You ain’t even touched the heat yet.”

“You sweatin’ like you are,” he said low, deep, “Like the sun been suckin’ on your skin all day.”

Violet tilted her head, curls brushing her bare shoulder, “Maybe it has.”

Smoke crossed the courtyard in three slow steps, and when she turned, he was there. She was smaller than him, and the heat between them wasn’t just summer it was the kind of southern, wicked thing that drew in thunderclouds and stirred wind through still air. He stared at her ribbon, tied soft and sinful on her thigh. Then at the drops of sweat still sliding over her clavicle. Then at her lips.

“Don’t drink no more water,” he rasped, hand curling at her waist.

She blinked up at him, lips parted, “Why not?”

“’Cause I want to taste it off your mouth.”

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t sweet. It was thick and slow and hungry. His mouth was hot against hers, tasting of smoke and salt, and her moan curled up into the August air like steam. He cupped the back of her head, tugging her hair just enough to make her gasp, then caught her lower lip between his teeth. His other hand slid down, palm rough over her damp dress, fingers gripping the meat of her ass through the thin fabric. He pulled her flush, the hard line of his desire pressing into her belly.

She whimpered, hips shifting. Her hands gripped his shirt, twisting the linen as she kissed him back with a fever that surprised even her. When he pulled away just slightly, her lips followed.

“You taste like..” he whispered, kissing the corner of her mouth. “...Like summer and sugar and sweat. And that goddamn ribbon…”

His hand slipped down her thigh, fingers brushing the bow. She gasped, breath catching.

“Don’t untie it,” she whispered, voice hoarse, “Not yet.”

Smoke smirked, his nose brushing hers, “Then don’t run.”

“I ain’t runnin’. I came out here to burn.”

He growled at that—an honest, hungry sound—then kissed her again, deeper, his tongue demanding. His hand slid under her dress, fingers grazing skin, nails scraping just enough to leave a whisper of possession. The fountain bubbled beside them, but neither heard it. Not over the rasp of their breath, the slick heat of their kiss, the creak of the old brick wall as Smoke backed her into it.

She sighed into his mouth. “It’s too hot for this…”

“Then take it off,” he whispered against her throat.

“No.”

“No?”

“I want you to fuck me through it.”

Smoke’s head fell back, eyes closing, breath heaving like he’d been slapped. He looked at her again—sweat-streaked, flushed, hungry—and knew the sun wasn’t what had him sweating now.

The heat had found its match.

Smoke pulled back from the kiss like a man coming up for air, chest rising slow but full, eyes hooded and dark. His skin glistened now, sweat beading along his temple and jaw. Without a word, he turned and dropped onto the wide stone lip of the old courtyard fountain, the spray behind him catching the sunlight in tiny rainbow arcs.

He leaned forward, dipped both hands into the water, and let the chill bite through the heat. Then, with a sharp inhale, he splashed his face—palms dragging down over his cheeks, through his beard, over his throat. Water dripped from his chin, ran down the hollow of his collarbone, soaked into his open shirt. He sat there a moment, breathing. Gathering himself.

Violet hadn’t moved.

She watched him from where she stood, dress clinging to her like second skin, her chest heaving from the kiss and her curls catching the sun like ink poured over honey. Her thighs pressed together subtly beneath the hem of her dress—one hand ghosting over the ribbon still tied there, the other curling at her side.

Smoke looked up at her, water dripping from his lashes.

“C’mere, girl.”

She stepped toward him, already undone, and he took her by the waist and guided her into his lap like she weighed nothing. The warm stone at his back, the soft curve of her body against his chest, the heat of her skin on his. He groaned low and let his mouth find hers again, slower now, deeper, like he was memorizing the shape of her breath.

She straddled him, knees spread against the fountain’s cool edge, dress riding high. The curve of her thighs framed his hips, and her lips parted on a sigh as his wet hands gripped her waist, sliding around her back to hold her firm.

One of those hands—still slick from the water—slid down, fingers dragging under the hem of her dress, grazing warm, sweat-slick skin.

Her breath hitched.

“Shhh,” he whispered into her mouth, “let me.”

And then his hand sank between her thighs.

His fingers were cold from the fountain but her heat made them steam. He found the edge of her panties and slipped past with ease, parting her with slow yearning, then sinking a finger into her with the kind of gentleness that made her tremble.

“Oh…” she gasped, mouth falling open as she clutched his shoulders.

He watched her. Watched her eyes flutter. Watched her fall apart slow like sugar cubes melting in tea.

“Look at you,” he rasped, curling another finger inside her, thumb dragging up to circle her clit, “Drippin’ on daddy like you were made for this. Made for me.”

Violet’s hips rocked, helpless and slow, grinding down onto his hand as he kissed the side of her neck, licking away the sweat. His voice stayed low and sticky, every word like a hand dragging through honey.

“You sittin’ in my lap like that…dress damn near fallin’ off your shoulders…thighs shakin’. This what you wanted when you came out here?” His voice was velvet, full of lust, “Wanted me to touch you in the sun?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He sucked a mark into the soft spot beneath her jaw, “Say it again.”

“Yes—Elijah, I wanted—”

He groaned like the sound hit something deep, “I know, baby. I know.”

And with that, he slipped his fingers in deeper, coaxing her open with practiced patience, watching her come undone in the thick Southern heat, right there on his lap in the garden of The Blackline.

Her thighs trembled around him, muscles taut with tension and need. She clung to his shoulders like she might float away if she didn’t hold on, her dress bunched up at her waist, the bow at her thigh brushing his wrist.

Smoke’s breath dragged heavy from his nose as he watched her, soaked with sweat and desire, riding the edge of something sharp and sweet.

“Hold on to me, Violet,” he said low, like a prayer or a warning.

Then he slid in another finger.

She cried out, a soft, desperate sound swallowed into the crook of his neck. Her nails bit into his shirt, fingers curling in the thin linen as her hips instinctively rocked to meet the deeper stretch.

“Mmm,” he growled, letting his teeth graze the shell of her ear, “That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”

She looked up, dazed, lips parted, curls stuck to her cheeks. And he kissed her again—harder this time, mouth greedy and full, tasting her sighs like they were sustenance. His fingers kept moving, slow and deep, scissoring slightly, curling just so, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit every time her hips tilted.

The kiss turned molten.

She moaned into his mouth, and he drank it down like a man in a drought. The sound went straight to his thick pecker, stiff and trapped beneath her, but he didn’t care. This was her moment. This was about watching Violet lose herself, watching her body learn him, open for him.

“You feel what I’m doin’ to you, pretty girl?” he spoke with a hushed tone against her lips, “How deep I am?”

She nodded, eyes wide, voice caught in her throat.

“I want you to fall apart right here,” he whispered, “Right in the damn sun, in my lap. Let me feel it. Let me taste what this heat made you.”

Their foreheads pressed together, sweat mixing where skin touched. He kissed her again, slower now, licking into her mouth like a promise, fingers still working her—deeper, fuller—until her thighs quivered around his hips and her whimper broke into a cry.

He was losing himself in her sounds, in the clutch of her body, in the soft gasp that left her every time he curled just right.

“You close, baby?”

She nodded, breath hitching.

“Cum for me, Violet. Right here. Just like this…”

His mouth claimed hers again, sealing them in silence and sunlight, as her climax hit like thunder beneath the skin. Violet was still trembling, her body fluttering around his fingers when Smoke leaned in and pressed a soft, possessive kiss to her temple. She was limp in his lap, boneless and breathless, and still—still—he wasn’t done.

His voice rasped against her cheek, “I ain’t lettin’ you go yet.”

Violet was still shaking in his lap, chest rising and falling like she’d just run through a field barefoot. Skin slick. Dress wrinkled and bunched around her waist. Her eyes barely opened—lashes fluttering, mouth parted, legs wide and limp.

And Smoke just sat there. Breathing heavy. Watching her.

“Look at you…” he said low, his fingers easing out of her soaked pussy. They glistened in the sunlight, coated in her slick. He lifted them to his mouth and sucked—slow, then greedy—tongue sliding between each digit with a growl that rumbled through his chest.

“Damn,” he muttered, “You taste like you been sittin’ in the sun waitin’ on me.”

He shifted beneath her, lifting her easily—one arm strong under her back, the other hooked behind her knees—until she was on the fountain’s ledge. Her bare ass kissed the cool stone. Her legs fell open without protest. Her panties hung twisted at one ankle.

And Smoke dropped to his knees.

The wet brick scraped his skin, but he didn’t give a damn. His face was already pressed between her thighs, and he groaned at the sight.

“That’s mine?” he whispered, more to himself than her, “This messy little pussy all mine?”

She tried to close her legs from the intensity, from the look in his eyes.

He gripped her thighs and spread them wide again, “Nuh uh. Don’t hide that from me. I wanna see how bad I made it.”

Her folds were puffy, slick with cream, lips swollen and twitching from his earlier touch. He could see the way her release still glistened inside, like honeyed milk pooling in the heat. His mouth watered.

“Be a good girl,” he whispered, lips brushing her thigh, “and keep quiet. You hear ‘em voices from the house? All them folks? Don’t want nobody comin’ out here, right?”

Violet whimpered and nodded, teeth catching her bottom lip.

Smoke smirked, “Mmm. Remember when I fingered you under the table? That little dinner we had? People talkin’ all around us while you was grindin’ on my hand like you was starved? This the same. Bite your lip. Do whatever you need to. But don’t you make no noise I don’t let you.”

And then he went down on her.

No teasing. No slow licks.

Just mouth—wide—open.

He sucked her clit into his mouth like he’d been waiting all damn day for it. His tongue flattened against her, then lapped fast, slick, greedy. Slurping sounds echoed off the stone walls, drowned only by the distant hum of laughter and chatter from inside the house.

Violet’s head tipped back.

She clung to the fountain behind her, water splashing her spine, eyes rolling as his tongue worked side to side and up again. The stone was slippery from the fountain spray, but she held on.

Her moans were soft.

Whimpers even softer.

She didn’t want to cry out, but his tongue kept finding that spot. His lips wrapped around her clit and sucked, then licked slow right after—just to fuck with her. He groaned between her legs, the sound vibrating through her whole damn body.

Smoke’s grip got tighter.

His fingers dug into her thighs, pulling her open wider, locking her in place while his tongue dragged down, then up, then circled her clit like he was tracing a map to heaven.

“Fuck,” she gasped so softly, her voice barely there.

Smoke didn’t respond with words. Just wetter licks. Sloppier kisses. He nuzzled his face deeper between her legs, let her ride his mouth while his tongue flattened and pressed, dragged, flicked—fast and filthy.

Her thighs started to shake again.

“Mmhm,” he growled, mouth still full, “Gimme that. I feel it.”

He sucked her lips into his mouth, then licked between them, nosing up to her clit again. His face was drenched. Chin shining. Mouth messy. He didn’t care. He devoured her like the world was ending and she was the last thing worth tasting.

Violet slapped a hand over her mouth.

Her other hand flew to his head, fingers fisting in his waves, trying not to ride his face but her body was already bucking, already arching, already close.

That tongue of his flicked again. Circling. Flattening. Fast.

And then he sucked her clit hard.

Violet’s back bowed.

She shook with a cry that got swallowed into her palm.

Smoke groaned, tongue never stopping. His mouth moved with hers, licking up every drip she gave him, swallowing her pleasure like it fueled him.

He didn’t stop when she came.

He didn’t stop when she squirmed.

He just kept eating.

Spit and cream glistened down his chin as he licked her clean, tongue dragging through every fold, every crevice, until she twitched from the aftershocks and whimpered his name against her palm.

“Elijah…” she whispered.

He lifted his head, chest heaving.

His mouth was wet, his lips red, his chin glazed in her. He looked like a man who’d just survived a war and wanted to go right back into battle.

“Still ain’t lettin’ you go,” he said again, voice dark and thick as syrup.

And with that, he hooked her legs over his shoulders and went right back in.

Violet’s legs were still open, still glistening.

The fountain gurgled soft behind her, water splashing her back, cooling the sweat that slid down her spine. But nothing could cool the fire between her legs—not with the way Smoke was lookin’ at her now.

He stood.

Big and broad. His shirt was damp with sweat and fountain spray, plastered to his chest. And his slacks hung low from where he’d unfastened them, undone and open like a promise. For a second, he just watched her. Took her in. Her thighs still spread, dress hitched high, pussy messy and twitching from his mouth.

He peeked over his shoulder.

The courtyard stayed still.

Then his gaze dropped back to her—slowly. Dominant. Burning.

He unbuckled, tugged his slacks down to his thighs, and that thick, long, veiny dick bounced free—hard, dark, beautiful, veins pulsing, tip flushed and glistening. Violet’s lips parted on instinct.

Smoke gripped the base, thumb sliding slow over the slick crown. “Spit on it.”

She blinked up at him—doe-eyed, cheek dimples soft from still catching her breath—but she leaned in anyway. Opened her mouth and let a slow string of spit fall onto the tip.

Smoke hissed through his teeth. Bit his bottom lip. And then he slapped that heavy dick right on her tongue.

Slap.

Slap.

She didn’t move. Just held it there—pretty and pliant.

“You a pretty ass girl,” he said, voice thick and gritty, “always lettin’ a gangster do whatever he want to you, huh?”

She nodded slow, lips brushing the underside of his shaft. Her voice was a whisper, “Yes, papa…”

That did something to him.

His jaw clenched. His chest swelled. He grabbed her by the waist and lifted her, just like that—like she was weightless.

“C’mere. Gimme that pussy. I ain’t done wit’ you.”

He turned, still holding her, and sat right down on the fountain’s cool stone edge, planting his feet wide. Her thighs straddled him again—but this time, her pussy hovered over his dick, dripping onto the tip.

Violet whimpered. Tried to ease herself down.

But she was going too slow.

“Nah, baby,” he growled. “Don’t make me wait.”

He grabbed her hips and pulled her down—slow but strong—easing her tight, messy heat down onto his thick length.

She cried out—soft, breathless—as he stretched her open, deeper, deeper, deeper.

“Shit,” Smoke growled, voice caught in his throat. “You ridin’ daddy raw like this…drippin’ already…fuck. You feel how I’m hittin’?”

She nodded, eyes wide, hands flying to his shoulders for balance.

He grunted, grip tightening, “Bounce on it. All the way down. C’mon.”

Her hips started to move, slow at first—but Smoke wasn’t satisfied.

He grabbed her waist again, helping her find rhythm. Made her ride—up, down, slap, bounce—till she was takin’ him to the bottom. Till every stroke punched a cry from her throat.

“That’s it,” he rasped, “Just like that. Keep ridin’. I wanna feel you grip every inch.”

Her body obeyed. Her thighs shook. Her whimpers turned breathy and high as she bounced harder, faster, wetter. Skin slapping. His dick so deep it curved up against her spot. Her curls stuck to her cheeks. Her nails clawed at his shoulders.

Smoke tilted his head, eyes locked on the place they met.

“Look at this fuckin’ pussy…” he groaned, watching her cream spill down the base of his shaft, “Messy fuckin’ girl. Ridin’ dick in the damn sun like it’s yours.”

“It is,” she gasped, “It is, papa.”

That made him growl deep. Possessive.

He pulled her in close, mouth at her ear, “Then show me.”

And she did—grindin’, ridin’, whimperin’ while the fountain sang behind them and the heat swirled around like smoke from a match just struck.

Violet was ridin’ like she belonged there.

Ass clappin’ against his thighs, slick thighs flexin’, curls swingin’ with every bounce. The sun caught on her brown skin, all glazed up and glowin’ from sweat and lust, her dress bunched at her waist, tits spilling from her bodice.

Smoke was gone.

Palms gripped tight around her hips, helping her ride his dick deeper. Harder. Watching her with those low, dark, greedy eyes—eyes that didn’t miss a damn thing. His lips were parted, breath ragged, chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold back, but he couldn’t.

“Fuck on that dick,” he rasped, voice so low and gritty it sounded like gravel, “You hear me? Don’t just sit there. Fuck me.”

Violet let out a soft whimper, her rhythm faltering, his size stretching her wide, that curve inside hittin’ just right.

“Uh uh,” he grunted, dragging her down hard again, “Been on this dick long enough. Thought good girls knew how to fuck. Don’t slow up now.”

His hands gripped her ass, guiding her stroke for stroke. Up. Down. Bounce. Grind. Smack.

She moaned again—high and breathless—but her hips obeyed, rolling and bouncing like he told her to.

“That’s it…” he growled, “There she go. There my girl go. Look at this tight ass pussy takin’ every inch…”

Her eyes fluttered. Her mouth hung open.

“I love this fuckin’ pussy,” he hissed, jaw clenched, eyes locked on where they met, “I could live in this shit. Bury my dick in it every damn day. It’s wet for me right now ‘cause it know it’s mine.”

Violet cried out—soft and shaky—but it wasn’t loud enough to catch attention.

“You ridin’ so good, baby. Fuck. So fuckin’ pretty on my dick. This what you wanted when you came out here with wet panties? Hmm?”

She nodded fast, lip caught between her teeth.

His hand slipped between them, thumb finding her clit again—pressing down while she moved, makin’ her twitch and shake as she kept grinding down on that thick dick.

“Say it.”

“I wanted it,” she gasped, “Wanted you to fuck me. I wanted this dick—Papa, please…”

He grinned, all teeth and tension.

“That’s my girl,” he whispered, “Now take it. All of it. Bounce till I hit the bottom. Don’t stop. Don’t you fuckin’ stop.”

She didn’t.

Violet kept ridin’—wet, raw, deeper—bouncing on his lap with everything she had, his name caught in her throat, her body clenched around him, close to fallin’ apart again.

Smoke watched her like he was starved.

She was gasping, grinding, her moans climbing like the heat in the air, body locked in a rhythm that was all instinct and hunger. Her fingers dug into Smoke’s shoulders. Her eyes were glassy, lips swollen and parted as her breath caught.

She was close.

So close.

“Go ‘head,” Smoke said low, thumb still on her clit, his dick buried deep inside her. “Do it pretty, baby. Let me feel it.”

And Violet did—head tipping back, curls stuck to her cheeks, mouth falling open on the softest, sweetest cry as her pussy clamped down around him. Her body fluttered with that full-body quake, thighs trembling as she came hard, breath ragged and eyes rolling.

“Mmm. There it is,” he muttered, dick twitching inside her, “Knew you had another one in you.”

He let her ride it out. Let her grind through it, let her little moans melt into his neck. His hands never left her, big palms stroking her back, guiding her hips, holding her in place until her body went soft against him—boneless, whimpering, still twitchin’ from the aftershocks. And when her thighs started to tremble again, when her hands gripped his shoulders and her walls started fluttering all over his dick, that’s when he wrapped one big arm around her waist and stood the fuck up.

Lifted her like she was nothing but air.

Her gasp caught in her throat when her back left the stone. He had her up, legs dangling, arms clinging to his shoulders, eyes wide as he hooked his arms beneath her knees and spread her wide. His dick slipped out only for a second—just long enough for her to see it, fat and glistening with her slick.

Then he thrust back in so deep she could have sworn she’d seen stars in broad daylight.

“Ohfuck—” she choked, legs kicking.

Smoke didn’t pause.

Didn’t give her time to adjust.

He was plowing her from below, strong thighs rooted, thick arms holding her up and open, his hips snapping up with brutal, perfect force. She clung to him—helpless, gasping, toes curled tight as his dick pounded into her again and again.

“D-daddy,” she cried, voice breaking.

“Yeah, baby,” he groaned, face pressed against hers, his breath hot on her lips, “Say that shit again.”

“Daddy…”

Harder.

“Daddy—please—”

Faster.

“DADDY.”

He snapped.

“Fuck. That’s what I like. My name in your mouth while I tear this shit up.”

Her head dropped onto his shoulder, teeth sinking into his neck to muffle her cries. Her fingers clawed at his back, legs trembling as he wrecked her from below—balls slapping, stroke deep, dick curving up into the sweet spot over and over again.

“You feel me fuckin’ you like that?” he growled, “This what you needed, huh? That why you came out here so wet? Needed Daddy to beat that pussy up?”

“Y-yes,” she sobbed, shivering, completely gone, “Yes—yes—yes—”

Her pussy was a mess—squeezing, gushing, clinging to him with every deep stroke.

And Smoke was locked in, eyes shut tight, forehead pressed to hers, groaning every time her walls clamped down on his dick like she didn’t wanna let go.

“I got you,” he panted, thrusting harder, “I got you, baby. Just hold on. Daddy got you.”

And she did. Arms around his neck. Legs trembling in his grip. Pussy swallowing every inch like it belonged to her.

He was tearin’ her ass up, and she was takin’ all of it.

Smoke was panting.

His grip was tight beneath her knees, arms flexed, body gleaming in the thick afternoon sun. Violet was limp in his hold, moaning against his neck, still trembling from the brutal stretch of his dick slamming into her again and again.

But he wasn’t done.

He shifted, turned, and laid her down across the slick, rounded edge of the stone fountain. Water splashed behind her, warm droplets kissing her back, her thighs, her shoulders. Her curls were wild against the wet brick. Her chest rose and fell like she couldn’t catch her breath.

She looked wrecked.

Smoke hovered over her, all power and glistening muscle, body carved in sweat. His thick dick was still hard, twitching, soaked in cream, bobbing just above her soaked slit.

Then he slid back in.

All the way.

“Fuuuck,” he growled, eyes rolling for a second, then locking onto hers as his hips started to snap again—slow at first, deep, full, each thrust punching the air from her lungs.

Water licked at her sides.

His thighs slapped her ass.

The sound of it—wet, hot, relentless—echoed off the stone and trees.

Violet cried out, but Smoke was on her. One big hand came up, covering her mouth, pressing her head back against the ledge.

“Shhhh…” he hissed, breath heavy, lips parted, “Take it. Let Daddy kill this pussy.”

And he did.

Hard strokes.

Perfect rhythm.

His other hand gripped her hip tight, holding her in place while he pumped into her with that deep curve, every thrust hitting that sensitive spot inside like he’d been born to ruin her.

Violet was moaning under his palm, drooling behind it, her thighs twitching, legs falling open wider as he kept pushing, pounding, digging.

“You feel that?” he grunted, hips snapping faster, “Feel what you do to me? You got me fuckin’ crazy, baby. This pussy too damn good.”

He watched her—eyes locked, lip caught between his teeth as he felt her walls flutter again.

Then—

“Oh my—!” she tried to cry out, but it came out muffled.

Her whole body shook.

Her pussy clenched hard—and then gushed.

Hot slick sprayed between them, down his thighs, onto the stone.

Smoke’s jaw dropped.

“God damn, baby…” he groaned, never slowing, fucking her right through it, hand still over her mouth as she quaked and twitched and tried to breathe through the pleasure tearing her apart.

“You just squirted all over this dick, huh?” he growled, hips still rolling deep, still milking it out of her, “You nasty little thing…”

She was gone—legs flung wide, arms limp, body wrung out beneath him. Drool ran from the corner of her mouth, her eyes glassy, her pussy clenching again, begging for more.

Smoke’s pace faltered.

His breath hitched.

His abs tensed.

“Fuck—I’m close,” he bit out. “Fuckfuckfuck, I’m—”

He pulled out fast, hand stroking his thick, wet shaft.

“Come here.”

Violet blinked, dazed—but obeyed.

She rose up on shaky elbows, mouth open, tongue out like the good girl she was.

Smoke grabbed the back of her head and guided his dick to her lips.

“Clean it up.”

She sucked slow, wrapping her mouth around the head, swirling her tongue to catch the taste of herself, the glisten of spit and squirt. She moaned around him, looking up with wide, teary eyes, dimples soft, so fucking pretty.

Smoke groaned loud—hips jerking.

“Fuck. FUCK. There you go. That’s it. Take it. Take it, baby.”

His grip tightened.

His hips snapped once more.

And then he came—hot, thick, deep—right down her throat.

She swallowed like it was nothing. Let it paint her tongue. Licked him clean.

And when she pulled back, lips swollen and wet, Smoke was still staring down at her like she was a fever dream come to life.

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. Still breathing hard.

“Goddamn,” he muttered.

And Violet?

She just smiled—slow and wrecked—before the next splash from the fountain kissed her cheek.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[wakandas-vibranium]

Why y’all ain’t tell me Donald Trump was deep throating Bill Clinton?! LAWDDDD HAVE MERCY I DONE LOGGED OFF TWITTER ONE DAY AND MISSED THE EPSTEIN FILES UPDATE 😫😫 THROW ALL THESE MOFOS IN THE PITS OF HELL

[theethighpriestess]

WHO WAS DOING WHAT?!

[wewantsumheaad]

niggas out here suffering because he don't wanna live his truth.

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Always Calling Me

Summary: Every time something breaks in Smoke’s shotgun house—a leaky faucet, a door that won’t shut, a loose ceiling fan—he calls Annie. Not because he can’t fix it. But because watching her fix things? Seeing her bent over in those shorts with her utility belt riding her waist? That’s the kind of problem he wants to have. She’s his personal handyman. Strong, curvy, fine as hell, and never bites her tongue. But Annie knows what he’s doing. She knows damn well that toilet wasn’t really leaking. And she’s tired of pretending she don’t notice the way Smoke watches her like she’s the main course. So the next time he calls? She decides she’s gonna teach him a lesson—hands-on. That’s if he don’t teach her first…

Warnings: Gritty, slow-burn smut, full of longing, teasing, power tools, heavy glances, and weed smoke in the air.

Clarksdale heat wasn’t just heat.

It was a whole attitude.

It settled low and slow like gossip, pressed its thick weight against the back of your neck, and made your thighs slick before you even reached the porch.

Annie Carter blew out a breath as she eased her cherry-red pickup into park, the tires crunching over gravel outside the shotgun house. Smoke’s house. Same one he grew up in. One of them long, skinny homes built for one body to walk through at a time. Pale blue paint faded in patches, porch slats warped from age, but still holding on like the Delta women who raised the neighborhood.

She killed the engine and sat back for a second, letting the A/C blow once more over her skin before she faced the day proper. She reached across the seat, pulled her shades from the dashboard—matte black frames with a soft cat-eye tilt—and slid them on. The world turned a little darker, a little sexier, and she liked it that way.

Today’s fit? Showed out without trying.

A cropped black tank clung to her breasts like it owed them something, the scoop neck dipped low enough to draw stares, and one thick strap of her black sports bra peeked from underneath. Her denim shorts were frayed at the hem, hugging her thick hips and ass like a second skin. Belt loops tugged beneath the weight of her utility belt, jingling with wrenches, pliers, a box cutter, and a roll of black electrical tape. Her thighs gleamed from cocoa oil and sun, and her skin? Rich dark brown. Deep as molasses.

She wore brown cowgirl boots, dusty from work but still fly. The left boot had a scuff on the toe—she liked it that way. A cut-off red plaid flannel was tied around her waist. And her hair? Long, thick locs with copper tips, swept to the right—left side shaved down in a fresh, faded cut with designs. Her earrings were big gold hoops, and her nose ring caught the sun when she tilted her head. Annie slid from the truck and popped open the toolbox in the bed. She grabbed what she needed for the job: a screwdriver, flashlight, drill gun, and a spare pull-chain switch for the fan. Even though she already knew good and damn well…

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that damn fan.”

She muttered it low, under her breath, voice honey-sweet but laced with bite. Smoke had texted her early this morning like he always did when he was bored, horny, or just wanted to see her ass bent over something.

Fan makin’ noise. Might be loose up top. Come see bout it?

Yeah. Okay.

She clicked the back of the toolbox shut with her boot and made her way up the porch steps. The house was quiet, but the front door sat open, screen door closed behind it. The kind of invitation that wasn’t loud, just…understood. Humidity clung to her skin, glistened on her collarbones, slipped into the space between her breasts. The wood creaked beneath her steps, and she adjusted the strap of her belt, tugging it tighter around her waist as she pushed the screen door open with one hand.

“Smoke?” she called, her voice velvet and steel, like she was already annoyed but halfway smiling, “You call me out here, and you ain’t even gon’ answer the door?”

No reply. But she wasn’t surprised. He was probably inside—shirtless, high, and grinning. Her boots thudded against the old floorboards as she stepped inside. The house smelled like pine cleaner, weed smoke, and the faintest ghost of his cologne. Something with amber and tobacco, warm and heady. Her sunglasses slid lower on her nose, and she looked over them, eyes cutting slow through the dim hallway.

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed, walking deeper in, “You better be up in here somewhere, ‘cause if I drove all the way across town and risked my good tank top to fix a fan that don’t need fixin’—”

She paused when she reached the living room. The ceiling fan above was spinning slow and steady, not a single rattle in its rhythm.

“Mm. Thought so.”

But she didn’t leave.

She didn’t want to.

And maybe that was the real problem.

Annie planted a hand on her hip, smirk tugging the corner of her mouth. She bent low to unzip her bag, pulling out the flashlight even though she didn’t need it. She could feel him watching. Somewhere in this house. She could feel the weight of his stare, same way you feel thunder before it cracks.

Let him look.

She made sure to keep her back arched and her ass high while she reached down.

“You better come out before I start takin’ things apart for real,” she called, sing-song and teasing, “Next time, I’m sendin’ you an invoice just for lookin’.”

The floor creaked behind her.

But Annie didn’t turn around yet.

She just smiled slow, still bent over, lips glossy, voice syrupy:

There he go.

Smoke stood just past the kitchen threshold, half-hidden by shadow, arms folded across his chest. A slow grin cut across his face, wide and easy, that dimple deep in his cheek like trouble.

He wasn’t in no hurry. Never was.

She always came in fussin’, voice sweet like warm honey poured over something fried. And every time, he let her. Let her stomp in with them big thighs and that attitude, lips slick with gloss, ass movin’ like it knew it was bein’ watched.

Damn, woman shaped like a song…a slow one…the kind you light a blunt to…

He licked his bottom lip without thinking, eyes moving down the slope of her back to where her denim shorts hugged her like they had a secret. That utility belt sat just right, cutting her waist like she was built in a workshop, carved for curves. She was bent over, fussin’ again. Said she was gon’ send him an invoice.

He didn’t mind. He’d pay it.

Cash. Dick. Whichever she preferred.

“You gon’ keep bendin’ over like that, Annie? Smoke asked, voice low and gruff, lazily with southern heat and the remnants of the blunt he’d smoked earlier, “or you fixin’ to start some shit you ain’t ready to finish?”

Annie didn’t jump. She didn’t flinch.

She just smiled without turning around, her voice light and taunting, “Boy, I will unplug every fan in this house and leave you in here to sweat.”

Smoke chuckled under his breath, stepping into the room. His Nike slides dragged soft against the floor. He was dressed simple—gray sweatpants slung low, no shirt, just skin. Bronze, smooth, tatted down his right arm and over his chest. A thin gold chain hung against his collarbone, catching light from the window. His durag was tied neat, waves underneath laid tight enough to make a preacher backslide.

“Fan ain’t broke,” he said, dragging a finger along the edge of her utility belt, “I just like when you show up with all this on.”

She finally straightened, slow and smooth, and turned to face him. Shades still on. Lips pursed. She tilted her head, letting those auburn-tipped locs fall to one side, her shaved undercut glinting sharp in the sun.

“Then say that,” she told him, folding her arms beneath her chest, making her cleavage rise just enough to distract him, “You grown, ain’t you? Or you forget how to talk since the last time I fixed your sink?”

“Nah,” he said, eyes dragging down her chest like a slow drag of his blunt, “Just rather watch you work than run my mouth.”

She smirked. Then pulled her shades down just a touch —enough to let him see those eyes. Brown and rich and always glintin’ with fire. She took a step closer, slow, bold.

“Next time you call me,” she said, voice low, “you better have somethin’ real broke.”

“What if it’s me that’s broke?”

“Then you better hope I know how to fix you.”

She bumped her hip against him as she passed, soft and heavy, and Smoke didn’t stop the low growl that rumbled in his chest. Didn’t stop the way his eyes slid down the back of her legs, how those boots hugged her calves just right. Annie walked toward the hallway, looking over her shoulder once before disappearing into the next room.

“Come on then,” she called, “Let’s go look at this imaginary fan of yours.”

Smoke ran a hand down his face, still grinning.

She was gone be the death of him.

And he was gone die happy.

Smoke took his time walking behind her.

Annie always walked like she had a rhythm in her hips—like music followed her even in silence.

Every step of hers made his dick twitch.

That utility belt swayed low on her waist, and the hem of those frayed denim shorts crept just under the curve of her ass, threatening to reveal more than they should. Not that he hadn’t imagined what was under there. Not that he hadn’t dreamed about it. He adjusted himself real casual as he followed her down the hallway.

“Ceilin’ fan’s in the back room,” he mumbled, eyes locked on her ass, “Started clickin’ last night. Thought somethin’ came loose.”

Lie.

He’d been laying there high as hell, thinking about her mouth. Her thighs. The way her bra always peeked out under them tight tank tops like it was tryin’ to confess to him how bad it wanted to break free. Holding them heavy thangs up. So he’d reached for his phone. Texted her. Because he knew if he waited two, maybe three days, she’d show up in something like this. Annie opened the door to the back room—one of the additions Stack helped him build onto the shotgun when their grandma passed. The ceilings were high, the paint still fresh, the windows wide and letting in sunlight. The fan overhead spun slow and clean, just like the one up front.

No sound. No clicking. Not a damn thing wrong. Annie stopped dead in the doorway and tilted her head back. Then looked at him.

“You serious right now?”

“What?”

“That fan ain’t makin’ a sound.”

“It was. Last night.”

“Mmm. Must’ve been yo imagination.”

He leaned on the doorframe and shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his grin. She stood in the center of the room now, hands on her hips, lips glossy and full, locs tumbling over one shoulder. She looked good in the light. All that dark skin shining like polished stone, boots planted, thighs thick.

“You done?” she asked, raising one brow.

“Mm-mm,” he said, “I think you should still check it.”

“Why?”

“Cause I like watchin’ you work.”

Annie shook her head, but he caught the smile she tried to hide. She stepped over to the window, pulled the chain, and the fan slowed. Then she set her tools down on the little step ladder he’d dragged in before she arrived.

“You gone keep starin’ or gon’ help?”

“I’ll hold the ladder.”

“Boy, I don’t need no ladder to check a fan.”

She stepped up onto her toes instead, arms lifted, pulling her tank top a little higher, revealing more of that fluffy belly, and how those shorts hugged her waist making it all plush and soft beneath. Smoke came up behind her like a shadow—slow and deliberate—close enough to smell the oil on her skin, like shea and citrus.

“You smell good,” he said low behind her.

She didn’t answer. Just kept working. His hand brushed her waist when she shifted. Light. Barely a touch. But enough to stir something in both of them.

“You do that on purpose?” she asked, not looking back.

“Do what?”

“Stand all up on me like that.”

“It’s my house.”

“Then why you standin’ like it’s yours and mine?”

Smoke smiled slow. Deep.

“You want it to be?”

Annie paused—still reaching up—and laughed under her breath. It was that deep, full laugh of hers. The kind that rumbled low, made him want to chase the sound with his mouth.

“Boy, hush.”

“I ain’t said nothin’ wild…yet.”

He reached up, flicked the pull chain just to watch the fan start again.

Still no clicking. Still no problem.

But Annie was still there, arms lifted, stomach exposed, and that belt around her hips still making his hands itch.

“Y’know what?” she said, lowering her arms and stepping off her toes, “Since you called me out here for nothin’, I’m bout to clean you out. Replace every fixture in this room. Charge you for labor. Double.”

“Do it,” Smoke said, “Long as you stay awhile.”

She rolled her eyes. But she was still smilin’.

She should’ve known better. Should’ve known the second he texted her about that “clickin’ fan.” Smoke didn’t call her when things were broken. He called her when he was bored, horny, or feelin’ dangerous.

And today? He looked like all three.

Annie sighed as she knelt beside the wall socket under the window. Her toolbelt shifted, and she adjusted it without thinking—tightened the strap and reached into one of the side pockets for her wire tester. Her tank top clung to her back, sticky with heat and the pressure of being watched.

Because he was still there.

Leaning against the far wall. Shirtless. Sweatpants hanging too low. Dimple out. Arms crossed like he didn’t have a care in the world—just takin’ in the view like she was entertainment.

“You just gone stand there?” she muttered without looking up.

“I like the angle,” he replied smooth.

Annie smirked despite herself.

“Keep lookin’ and I’ma send you an invoice for harassment.”

“How much?”

“Depends. You want the full package?”

He chuckled, low and lazy. That sound always made her stomach flip. Always had.

She caught herself slipping.

Again.

Like the first time.

That summer she replaced his water heater—two years ago now. She’d had on navy overalls with the sides unsnapped ‘cause it was hot as hell. No bra. He came to the door fresh out the shower, towel low, lips wet, steam followin’ behind him.

And he just stood there.

Looked her up and down with that hooded stare, them lips parted, durag barely tied.

“You gone come in? Or you need a minute?” he’d asked.

She’d taken the job. Fixed the damn heater. But she remembered how close he stood when he handed her the cash. The way his fingers brushed her palm. How he lingered. She remembered the way he looked at her—like he already knew what was under them overalls.

And ever since? It’d been like this.

Calls. Jobs. Tension. That slow, dirty game.

Back in the room, Annie pulled the plate off the socket and leaned forward on her hands, squinting as she tested the wires inside. Her cleavage shifted, pressed tight in her tank, sweat curling along the top of her breasts.

She felt him move behind her. Didn’t need to see it—she felt it. The way the air changed when he got close. The way the floor creaked under his weight. The way her body got stupid warm just from the scent of him.

“That fan still soundin’ quiet,” she said, voice a little breathier than she meant.

“Mmhmm,” he whispered close. Too close, “But you don’t.”

Her head tilted at that. A slow grin spread across her face.

“You flirtin’ with me while I got my hands in a live socket?”

“Little danger keep things interestin’.”

He stepped beside her now, crouching. His knees wide. One arm rested on his thigh, and the other reached out slow—callused fingers brushing the hem of her shorts where it met skin.

“You real bold,” she whispered, still looking at the wall.

“You wearin’ these shorts and think I’m bold?” he said, voice low and slow like syrup over grits.

He didn’t touch her again. Just let the ghost of his fingers rest there. Let it hang in the air.

“Ain’t like you don’t know what you do to me,” he added.

“And what is it I do?”

“Make me wanna break somethin’ in every room so you gotta keep comin’ back.”

Her breath hitched, but she played it cool. Closed the socket, rose to her feet, and turned toward him.

“Well,” she said, smirking, “next time you better fake somethin’ better than a fan.”

“What if I fake a leak in the shower?”

“Then I’ma charge you triple. And I ain’t bringin’ no towel.”

He grinned.

Those damn dimples.

Annie had just packed up her drill gun and was re-clipping her toolbelt when she heard tires roll over the gravel outside. She glanced toward the front window, sunlight streaking across the hardwood floor as a familiar black Chevy Tahoe pulled into the yard. The engine cut. A door opened. Then another.

Lord have mercy. Here come Stack and trouble.

Sure enough, seconds later the front door swung open wide like it owned the place. Elias “Stack” Moore stepped through, gold canines glinting when he grinned, wearing a crisp white tee and cargo shorts. He carried a brown paper sack that smelled like fried okra, ribs, and somebody’s grandma’s hot sauce. Behind him floated his baby mama, Shanté—slim-thick, fine, and always dressed like the world was her runway. Today, it was short white biker shorts, matching crop top, bamboo earrings, and platinum curls kissed by the sun. She balanced their baby boy on one hip like it was nothing, hips swaying, eyes shaded behind rhinestone-laced sunglasses.

“Ayeeee, look who it is,” Stack grinned, spotting Annie, “Ain’t seen you in a minute, Miss Handy Girl.”

Annie smirked.

“Been busy fixin’ other folks’ lies.”

“Damn,” Stack laughed, setting the food on the table, “She still sharp, boy.”

He looked at Smoke, who just leaned on the counter and watched quiet, always watchin’.

“What’s up, Annie?” Shanté called, stepping inside behind Stack, “You still out here fixin’ folks houses and snatchin’ their attention?”

“Only if they call me,” Annie said, smiling as she wiped her hands with a towel, “Ain’t never been one to chase.”

“Mmhmm,” Shanté chuckled, bouncing the baby gently, “You always been ‘bout your paper.”

Annie crossed the room, unclipping her tool belt with one hand. She felt Smoke watching her—still shirtless, sweatpants riding low, lips full and wet from biting them. The heat in his eyes trailed her like smoke from a lit fuse.

She looked at him now, one brow raised.

“So what we sayin’, Smoke? You got me out here in this heat for a fan that don’t make no damn noise. You payin’ or what?”

Smoke didn’t move for a beat.

Then he pulled one arm back, reached into the side drawer of the kitchen counter, and came out with a thick rubber-banded stack of cash. Hundred-dollar bills. Worn and warm. He peeled a portion off with slow fingers, counting without breaking eye contact, and held it out to her.

“That more than covers what you did,” she said, lips twitching.

“I know,” he said, dragging his eyes down her body, voice smooth and dangerous, “But you worth more.”

He licked his bottom lip like he was tasting her name, eyes still low and filthy, locked to the dip of her waist where her shirt lifted when she reached for the money.

Annie took it, folded it, slid it into her back pocket.

“Mmhmm,” she muttered, turning to leave, “You keep flirtin’ with me like that, I’ma start taxin’ per look.”

“What if I like the cost?”

She just rolled her eyes and walked toward the door, hips swayin’ like temptation in cowgirl boots. The weight of his stare followed her all the way to the porch. She knew it. She wanted it to.

“Bye y’all,” she called behind her, waving toward Shanté and Stack.

“Don’t be a stranger, sis!” Shanté called back.

“Yeah,” Stack added, mouth full already. “Bring yo fine ass back with a wrench or somethin’.”

Smoke didn’t say goodbye.

But as the door closed behind her, Annie swore she heard him exhale sharp through his nose.

Like he was losing something he ain’t had yet.

And like he already planned on breakin’ somethin’ else just to get her back.

The ride back from Smoke’s place was a slow crawl through the sticky mouth of a Mississippi evening. Sun low, air buzzing, country roads thick with cicadas and heat. Annie drove with the windows down, one elbow hung out the side of her cherry-red pickup, locs tied up in a bun now, sweat drying on her collarbones.

She didn’t have no music playing. Just her thoughts. And every one of them? Looked like him. That thick stack of money. That look he gave her. The way his lips barely moved when he said she was worth more.

Damn him.

And damn her too for still feeling the way her stomach flipped when he said it.

You keep flirtin’ with me like that, I’ma start taxin’ per look.

What if I like the cost?

Mmm. That man was a problem.

She pulled into the gravel patch beside her duplex and turned the engine off with a sigh. The air had gone still again—Delta quiet, like the land was waitin’ on something. Annie hopped down from the truck, slammed the door shut with her hip, and made her way around to the back. Her thighs ached from the heat and the day’s work, but she still moved like she owned the ground beneath her. She popped the tailgate, grabbing her toolbox and slinging her canvas supply bag over one shoulder. The belt she’d stripped off earlier hung from the handle, heavy with socket wrenches, wire cutters, a tape measure, and that screwdriver with the cracked grip she refused to replace.

The sun dipped as she unlocked her back door and stepped inside. Her place smelled like lemongrass and wood polish. Ceiling fan humming low, little box AC chuggin’ along in the living room window. A half-finished painting leaned against one wall—Annie had picked up watercolors during quarantine and never let it go. The canvas was bold and messy. Just like her. She dropped her tools near the kitchen table and kicked off her boots, padding barefoot toward the bathroom. Shower first. Weed later.

Twenty minutes later, she was posted on her couch, damp locs wrapped in a T-shirt towel, skin dewy and soft. Her robe was loose—short, faded cotton, tied just enough to hold on. One thick thigh peeked through the slit, bouncing slow to a rhythm only she could hear.

She reached for her rolling tray on the coffee table. Pulled open the drawer beneath.

Then paused.

“Damn.”

Only a crumpled empty baggie left. No pre-roll. No loose shake. Nothing.

“Goddamn Smoke,” she muttered.

He’d given her a sample last week of that good shit—a mellow indica blend he called “Porch Breeze.” Real sticky. Smelled like honeysuckle and diesel. Hit like a weighted blanket. She liked how it slowed the world down without makin’ her too sleepy. Just enough to drift.

And now she was out. She looked at the clock.

9:13pm.

She stared at the empty tray a moment longer, then reached for her phone.

ring…ring…

“Yeah.”

His voice came in low and thick.

Like molasses on warm bread.

“What you doin’?” she asked, drawing her robe tighter.

“Not a damn thing,” he said. She could hear music faint in the background, “Why? You miss me already?”

“Mm. I’m down to nothin’. Thought you could help.”

“Help how?”

“Don’t be cute. I’m talkin’ bout that ‘Porch Breeze’.”

“Ohhh,” he drawled, “Say that then. You tryna smoke tonight?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

There was a pause. She could hear him lick his lips. Could damn near see it.

“I got some rolled already. You could come through.”

“Mm. Thought you said you was gon’ let me rest after today.”

“Ain’t say all that.”

“You ain’t never say much.”

“Don’t need to. You be hearin’ me loud anyway.”

Her mouth twitched. She leaned back on the couch, legs stretched wide now. Her free hand slid absentmindedly along the edge of her thigh. Slow.

“I ain’t tryna drive across town tonight.”

“I could pull up.”

“Nah…I’ll get it tomorrow. When I come to fix that ‘leaky shower’.”

He chuckled low on the other end.

“That what you comin’ for?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Mmhmm.”

“What?”

“Nothin’. Just know…if you show up in them same shorts from today, I might forget what was broke.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll remind you.”

Another pause. This one thicker than the last.

“Bring that robe with you,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“Annie?”

“Night, Smoke.”

He kissed his teeth, “Night.”

She hung up, slow.

And smiled.

Because they both knew good and damn well…

That shower wasn’t broke.

And neither one of them wanted it fixed.

The mimosas had been bottomless, and the laughter even deeper. Brunch ran long like it always did when she got together with Shanté and their cousin girls from Clarksdale and Helena. They met up at a new spot on Issaquena, one of them Black-owned joints that did lemon pepper catfish and peach cobbler waffles with cinnamon butter. Soul on a plate. Annie had rolled up late, but when she stepped out her truck?

Every head on that patio turned.

She was thick, soft, strong, and serving body like God had been showing off when he made her. She wore a denim romper—strapless, snug, hugging every curve from her plump hips to her soft belly, with a sweetheart neckline that framed her big, high-sitting breasts like they were offering praise. Her skin glowed, deep and oiled, kissed by the sun and spiced by a shot of rum still humming in her bloodstream. Her Fulani-style twists were fresh, scalp clean, gold cuffs decorating the plaits that framed her face. The rest flowed down over her shoulder, undercut clean and crisp on the left side. Her ears were stacked with hoops and studs—top to bottom—silver, brass, bone, and cowrie shells catching the light. Her nose ring gleamed beneath her shades. A tattoo above her left breast—a veve symbol inked just below her collarbone—peeked over the rim of her romper. Protection. A thigh tattoo curled just below her hemline: a crowned snake coiled around a crescent moon. Power.

And on her bare foot, the left one, inked along the arch:

what you touch remembers.

A conjure phrase her great-aunt used to say.

Annie had slipped on platform wedges to show off her legs. Painted her toenails gold. When she walked, her body moved like temptation had a schedule to keep.

Now the sun was dipping again.

Annie pulled up to Smoke’s place late—later than she’d meant—but still buzzed off peach syrup and good company. She parked the truck, climbed out barefoot, and opened the passenger door to reach for her cowgirl boots, slipping out of her wedges and tugging them on slow. The leather hugged her calves like they missed her. She adjusted her romper where it rode high, then grabbed her toolbelt and water bottle. The front door opened before she made it halfway up the porch.

And there he was.

Smoke, standing in the doorway, brushing his waves with a slow hand. No shirt. Just gray sweatshorts and that gold chain laying flat against his chest. His durag was untied, waves glistening like dark velvet, fresh from the brush. He looked smooth, thick, fine enough to ruin brunch.

But that look in his eyes? That wasn’t soft.

That was tight-jawed, low-eyelid, barely-holding-it-together Smoke.

“What took you so long?” he asked, voice gruff, brushing slower now.

Annie hit the porch with a boot thud and smirked up at him.

“Girls’ day.”

“Mmm.” His eyes dragged over her body like smoke curling from a flame, “Where you go dressed like that?”

“Ain’t none of your business,” she said, brushing past him with her toolbox, “You want this shower fixed or not?”

Smoke didn’t move. Didn’t answer right away. Just closed the door behind her slow, letting his eyes do all the talking. Her romper tugged tighter when she bent to set her tools down, and that thigh tattoo showed itself again.

“I don’t like when you play like that,” he murmured from behind her.

“Play how?” she tossed back, straightening and turning with a raised brow.

“Dressin’ like a dream and showin’ up late. Walkin’ in here like I ain’t been thinkin’ bout you all damn day.”

Annie rolled her eyes.

“I told you I was comin’.”

“You ain’t say you was gon’ show up drippin’ like seduction in denim. Warn a nigga next time.”

She laughed, deep and low, grabbing her water bottle and taking a long sip. Then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and let her eyes drop slow to his abs. She wasn’t blind. And that wasn’t cotton candy in her chest—that was heat.

“You always this emotional over plumbing?” she teased.

“Only when the plumber look like you.”

Annie turned away, heat crawling up her spine, thighs pressing instinctively. But she wasn’t gonna give him the satisfaction.

Not yet.

“Well,” she muttered, heading toward the bathroom, “might wanna roll up that weed you owe me.”

“It’s already lit.”

“Good,” she called over her shoulder, “I’ma need it when I’m done dealin’ with you.”

Smoke chuckled behind her.

But it wasn’t funny.

Not really.

Because if she stayed too long, if that porch breeze hit just right, if he kept lookin’ at her like that…

She wasn’t gonna be fixin’ no damn shower.

In the bathroom now, Annie was crouched in front of the old clawfoot tub, checking the water line Smoke claimed was “leakin’.” Spoiler: it wasn’t. The bathroom still smelled faintly of his soap—that creamy sandalwood one—and the heat hadn’t left either. The little window was cracked open but the fan was off. And the room was thick with a tension she’d stopped pretending to ignore.

From behind her, she heard him.

Flick.

That soft spark-pop of a lighter catching flame. Then the slow draw-in—breath deep enough to pull more than smoke. She didn’t have to look.She felt him leaning in the doorway.She could picture him: shoulder against the frame, forearm resting overhead, thick fingers cupping the blunt between them like it was precious. His eyes low. His lips full. That gold chain brushing his collarbone each time he moved.

“You done down there?” he asked, voice low, curling with heat.

“Almost,” she said, not looking up, “Still searchin’ for this imaginary leak.”

“Take your time.”

Inhale.

Exhale.

She heard the sound again—the smoke hitting the back of his throat, then pouring slow from his nostrils. It was too quiet, too intentional. He wanted her to hear it.

And when she glanced back?

God.

She hated herself a little.

Because he was too damn fine. Durag still off, waves brushed deep and glistening. He had a soft glisten to his skin too, from the shower earlier. Sweatpants riding low. Bare chest relaxed but flexed just enough. One gold ring caught the light as he lifted the blunt to his mouth again.

He hit it slow.

Let it burn between his lips.

Then parted them just enough to French inhale—the smoke rising back through his nose, curling thick and wet from his nostrils. Like steam off something sinful.

Annie bit her lip.

Tried to look away.

Failed.

Her thighs shifted. Her skin got warmer. Her mouth suddenly dry.

“You always smoke like that?” she asked, rising to her feet with her wrench in hand.

“Like what?”

“Like you fuckin’ somebody with your mouth.”

Smoke grinned—slow, wicked, full dimple showing. He exhaled another long stream, watching her through the fog of it. Let the silence stretch just enough to make her shift her weight.

“I could ask you the same,” he said, eyes dragging over her romper, “You always dress like that to fix shit?”

She smirked, “Depends on what needs fixin’.”

“My nerves,” he said, “You done wrecked ‘em.”

He held out the blunt now, two fingers extended, offering it like communion.

“Want a hit?”

Annie stepped toward him, slow. The click of her cowgirl boots against the tile was the only sound between them.

She took it.

Let their fingers brush too long. Brought the blunt to her lips.

Inhaled.

Let it roll smooth into her chest. Then exhaled slow—out her nose, just like he did. Letting the smoke pass between them like heat from a shared fire.

“You sure this strain called Porch Breeze?” she spoke soft and sultry, voice thicker now, “Why?”

“’Cause it feel like it’s about to make me do somethin’ stupid.”

Smoke stepped closer now, one hand still brushing his waves, the other dragging down his chest, “I got a few more rolled,” he said, “In case you feel like… actin’ up.”

Annie handed him the blunt back, “Lemme finish this shower first.”

“Take your time.”

“You already said that.”

“I meant it more this time.”

She turned and walked back into the bathroom, body swaying, tattoo peeking, heat curling through her chest. And behind her, Smoke smoked in silence, watching her every step like he was memorizing the rhythm.

Not too long after, Annie went to join him. Anticipation curling in her belly like ticklish knots. The screen door creaked behind her as Annie stepped out onto the porch, the heat dipping low now, sun bleeding into dusk like spilled tea. The air still held that weighty Delta hum, cicadas buzzing, the smell of cut grass and fried something two blocks down. Smoke was already out there, slouched low in the porch chair.

No shirt. That gold chain resting like sin on his collarbone. And that blunt? Rolled thick and slow-burning, cradled between two fingers like it was born for him. He nodded toward the other chair. Didn’t say a word. Just lifted the blunt to his lips and pulled. Annie sat down. Crossed one thick thigh over the other. Watched. Watched the way he inhaled—deep and lazy, like he was sipping from the tit of the earth. Watched how his cheeks hollowed, lips pressing around the paper like a kiss too deep for decency. And then—he exhaled through his nose, slow and steady.

Goddamn.

She didn’t mean to stare. But that nose? That angle?

The way it flared just a little. The slope of it.

She wanted to ride it.

Slow. Rocking.

Right there on the porch in the Mississippi twilight.

You nasty, she thought to herself.

But ain’t like he don’t know.

He passed her the blunt without looking at her, just holding it out low by her thigh. She took it, fingers brushing his.

“Ain’t say thank you yet,” she murmured, lips already parting to pull.

“Ain’t need to,” he said, “You moaned soon as I lit it.”

Annie choked on the smoke and laughed, thick and sharp.

“Boy, shut up.”

“Mmhmm,” he said, smirking, watching her now, “How brunch taste?”

“Sweet. Like syrup.”

“This what you wear there?” he asked, even though he already knew. Eyes trailing down her legs to that dangerous thigh tattoo again.

“You mad you ain’t get to see it first?”

“I saw enough.”

“You want more?”

The air shifted.

The blunt hovered between them now, a slow-burning thing held hostage in her fingers.

Smoke’s eyes didn’t flinch, “You askin’ if I want it…or you?”

She grinned. Bit her lip.

Took a long pull. Blew it in his direction.

“You actin’ like it’s a difference.”

Smoke leaned forward, elbows on his knees, that dimple deepening like trouble brewing in the belly of a storm. He stared at her like he was plotting something.

“You talk a lot,” he said, voice low, “But I bet you don’t move like you sound.”

“Oh?”

“I bet you loud till it’s time to back it up.”

“And I bet you walk like your dick big, but fuck like you shy.”

That made him chuckle—deep, raspy, evil-sweet. He licked his lips. Sat back. Took the blunt from her fingers real slow.

“You sure you ready for what come with this?” he asked.

“That what you ask all the girls?”

“I ain’t asked nobody but you.”

“You want some of this?” she asked now, voice honeyed and head tilted,

“What you gon’ do if I say yeah?”

They stared at each other.

Smoke hit the blunt again.

French inhaled it, nostrils flaring, smoke rising like temptation itself. Annie’s thighs clenched. Her breath caught. She hated herself a little.

But not enough to stop.

“You better be careful,” she warned.

“Why?”

“You might fuck around and fall in love.”

“Or you might fuck around and get folded.”

That did it.

Annie stood up.

Slow.

Boots thudding against old wood. Hips swaying. She plucked the blunt from his mouth without asking, took one last hit, and dropped it in the ashtray beside him.

“Leave the porch light on,” she said, turning toward the door, “I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come inside.”

Smoke leaned back, legs spread wide, watching her the whole way.

“Ain’t gon’ be safe for nobody when I do.”

The door clicked shut behind her like a promise. Annie stepped in first—thick hips rolling under that tight denim romper, boots clapping low against the dark wood floor, her whole body buzzing with smoke, with want, with the aftertaste of laughter still on her tongue. Twista’s voice pulsed low through the room, humming like sex:

“Yo' phatty's so accurate when I'm smackin' it

It's makin me say "What I gotta do to get with that?"

The bass hit the soles of her feet.

His room was heat.

Low amber lighting spread soft shadows across the charcoal walls. That crushed velvet comforter—deep blue, sinful—looked like it had seen stories. A candle burned slow on the dresser, thick sandalwood smoke curling through the air. Weed still hung heavy too, laced into the curtain edges and seeping from the open ashtray like a second soul.

And his scent?

Creed, sweat, something leathered and deep that she’d recognize anywhere now. It didn’t just smell like him—it was him.

She didn’t turn around. Not yet.

Just stared at that king-sized bed with all four legs standing strong like she asked.

“Ain’t nothin’ under that frame buckled yet?” she said over her shoulder, voice low and thick. “Or you just waitin’ on me to break it in?”

Smoke didn’t answer with words.

Footsteps light, body heavier—he crossed the room like he wasn’t walking, like he was claiming something. Annie finally turned when she felt him behind her. They locked eyes—his lids low, lips parted, chest rising with the weight of his breath. The heat between them wasn’t casual anymore. It was alive. He stepped up. Slow. One hand slid around her throat—not tight, just resting. Claiming. His thumb dragged along the pulse in her neck, the other fingers curling softly under her jaw. Then he leaned in, talking just against her lips, the words barely more than breath.

“You still talkin’, but your pussy been quiet all night. What’s she got to say now?”

Annie’s knees damn near gave out.

She smirked, heart thudding, “She sayin’ she hungry. And impatient.”

He pressed into her then—his whole body heat and weight, heavy against her belly. She could feel it. Him. Hard. Thick. Big enough to make her think twice.

But she didn’t back up.

Didn’t even blink.

“You gon’ feed her?” she whispered, “Or just stand there lettin’ that dick throb on me all night?”

Smoke’s lips brushed hers, and he smiled—dark and mean.

“I’ma feed her.”

They undressed each other like it was a ritual.

Smoke pulled the zipper of her romper down slow—hands rough but careful. That denim peeled off like second skin, catching on her hips, falling to the floor heavy. Her shoes were next—he knelt for those. One at a time. Hands on her calves, then her thighs. His fingers brushed the inside, knuckles grazing wet heat beneath.

She was bare underneath.

“Goddamn…” he muttered, voice caught in the back of his throat, “You came over here with no drawers on?”

Annie laughed, soft and slick, “I don’t like fabric gettin’ in my way.”

Smoke stood there—bare-chested, broad and sculpted from real work. Gym. Life. His chest was wide, dusted in hair. A gold chain rested in the dip of his collarbones. His stomach? Firm but soft in the right places. Thick arms. Veins crawling along his forearms like rope. Tattoos kissed his shoulders and trailed down his ribs—dark, faded, lived-in. A scar near his waist that looked like it had a story he never told.

Then she dropped his sweatshorts. He stepped out of them, and the bulge in his briefs made her pause. A second of silence stretched before she tugged those down too.

And then—

“Oh,” Annie breathed, eyes dragging down slow.

That dick was thick. Heavy. Long. Brown with a deep, flushed head. It hung proud, curved just enough to stroke something devastating. Veins along the sides. The kind of dick that didn’t just fuck you—it shifted your spirit.

He caught her staring.

“What?” he whispered, stepping closer. “Scared now?”

“Nah,” she said, licking her lips, “Just tryin’ to decide if I need both hands or my whole mouth first.”

Smoke’s eyes dropped.

She was standing there in nothing but jewelry—nose ring catching the light, earrings glinting, tattoo above her breast shining faint in the glow. Her thighs thick, a tattoo inked into one side. Her foot tattoo curled along the arch like something sacred. Her pussy glistened in the candlelight—lips full and flushed, already wet. Tits high and heavy, nipples dark and tight.

He took his time looking.

“Damn,” he said finally, “You been hidin’ all this?”

“Mm,” she teased, biting her lip, “You finally brought that dick out. You gon’ use it or waste time?”

He stepped even closer—chest to chest, cock brushing her belly.

“I’ma lay you down,” he said, voice low, thick with hunger, “and fuck you slow. Make you feel every damn inch. But not ‘til I taste what I been dreamin’ about.”

“And what’s that?”

He dropped his hand down between them, middle finger stroking her slit slow. Wet noises filled the space like music.

“This sweet,” he whispered, “This drippin’, fat, pretty pussy you try so hard to act like ain’t beggin’ for me.”

She gasped, breath stuttering, but she didn’t step back. Didn’t stop him.

Instead, she grinned.

“You talk a lotta shit, Smoke.”

He dipped his finger inside, slow and deep.

“And I back all that shit up, fuck you sayin’?”

Smoke didn’t waste time.

He dropped to his knees like it was ritual.

Like her pussy was church and he’d come to pray with his mouth.

“Put that leg up,” he said, voice already rough from hunger, “Let me see all that.”

Annie propped one foot up on the edge of the bed, spreading her thick thighs wide. She stood strong, barefoot now, jewelry glinting in the dim light, chest heaving. And that heat between her legs? Wet. Full. Ready. Smoke leaned in slow, eyes locked on hers like he was about to ruin something on purpose.

Then his face disappeared between her thighs.

Tongue out. Mouth open. Hands gripping the backs of her thighs like he owned ‘em. He dragged his tongue up the full length of her slit, slow, from the fat base of her lips to the swollen pearl at the top. Then back down. Then in.

And when he sucked?

Goddamn.

He moaned into her pussy like it was feeding him.

Annie gasped, her head falling back, hand flying into the back of his head—fingers gripping those soft, tight waves, “Mmm—fuuuck, Elijah…”

He was nasty with it.

Sucking. Slurping. Lips parting wide to wrap around her pussy like he was trying to swallow it whole. His nose bumped against her clit, then he’d drag his tongue back up to fuck her with it. Back and forth. Lick and slurp. No rhythm, just hunger.

And her pussy?

She was fat, swollen, lips dark and glossy—wet before he even touched her, but now? Creamy. Glazed. Dripping. The folds thick and plush, clit peeking out and pulsing, every part of her glistening with spit and slick and the heat rolling off her skin. When he pulled back just for a breath, strings of her arousal clung to his lips and chin—his beard slicked down with it.

“Damn,” he growled between licks, eyes glazed over, “This pussy couldn’t wait to sit on my tongue.”

Then he dove back in.

Annie moaned sharp, knees starting to buckle. “Shit—wait, hold on—”

Her leg gave out, but Smoke caught her, easing her down onto the edge of the bed. She spread wide without thinking—pussy open and leaking, legs draped over his shoulders now. He didn’t miss a beat. Dipped his face back in like he was starving.

“Yes, baby,” she gasped, stroking his head, her voice shaking, “That’s it. Eat this fuckin’ pussy.”

Her hips rolled. Grinding. Fucking his mouth.

“Don’t ever know how to shut up,” she groaned, hand in his waves, tugging, “But now look at you. All quiet with a mouth full of this cat.”

Smoke moaned like she was right. Didn’t argue.

He just ate.

Long strokes of tongue down her slit. Sucks to her clit that had her jumping. Kisses to her inner lips like he loved the taste. Her juices coated his chin, dripping down onto his chest. His tongue curled inside her, twisted, pulled back out, and licked up the mess.

His voice came through muffled, “Taste like you been waiting on this. Pussy so sweet I wanna bottle it.”

Annie shook, legs twitching, “You tryna make me cum quick,” she warned, breath ragged, big titties bouncing with every tremble.

Smoke just held her thighs tighter. Didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give a fuck. He buried his face deeper—tongue fast now, lips sealed around her clit like he was about to drink her soul.

Annie cried out, hips rising, “Elijah—!”

Still no mercy. He just moaned louder. Sucked harder. And then she came. A cry ripped from Annie’s throat—deep, raw, filthy. Her thighs clamped around Smoke’s head, body jerking as the orgasm slammed through her like a wave breaking hot against the shore.

“Shiiit—fuck—*Elijah—!”

He didn’t let up. Just kept his tongue pressed firm to her clit, licking through it, into it, like he needed to feel every tremor from the inside out. Her pussy pulsed, twitching around nothing, creamy and full. Then—

A small burst.

Wet warmth splashed against his chin. She squirted—not a flood, but enough to slick his lips, enough to make her gasp and shake and slap a hand over her mouth as her hips bucked again. Smoke moaned into it like it was gold. When she finally caught her breath, her eyes opened slow. She looked down at him. Face glossy. Beard soaked. Lips glistening. Chest rising fast like he came from it too. He looked up at her like he was drunk off her. Annie’s eyes burned—dark, wide, greedy.

“Get on your fuckin’ back,” she whispered, voice thick as syrup, “so I can drag this pussy across your nose like a fuckin’ snail.”

Smoke grinned. Still breathless. Still high. He licked his lips, tasting her again. Then he chuckled, low and slow, that devilish smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“You wanna fuck my face?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, chain swinging as he walked to the bed. He laid back in the center—legs spread, arms relaxed at his sides, dick standing tall.

Thick. Veined. Dark and flushed with pre-cum already beading at the tip, gleaming in the candlelight. His balls hung heavy, tight to the base. That dick twitched when she looked at it. Angry. Alive. Annie climbed up the bed like she was stalking prey. And then she turned around. Thick thighs straddling his face, reverse. Her ass high, pussy open, and glistening.

“Feed me again,” he said, voice muffled against her skin, “C’mon, baby.”

Annie lowered slow and dragged her pussy across his face.

Just like she said.

Long, slow grind across his nose, her clit bumping the ridge, her lips parting wide against his mouth. He kissed her pussy with wet, open-mouthed heat—tongue flicking, flat strokes, then curling up inside her like he was trying to taste her soul. She rode his face like she meant it. Ass bouncing in his face, pussy spreading wide with every rock of her hips. From her angle, she could see him—that dick standing straight up, leaking. His abs flexed. His fists clenched. He groaned into her like he was trying not to nut from it.

“Mmm,” she moaned, grinding down harder, “You love this nasty shit, don’t you?”

He nodded under her, tongue stiffening.

“You gon’ let me ride your fuckin’ face ‘til I melt on it,” she panted, reaching down to stroke his waves, “Make you drown in this pussy.”

And he took it.

Every filthy grind. Every sweet drag. Every drop. And his dick? It just kept twitching, standing proud, veins pulsing like it wanted to be next. Annie’s body was lava now—sweat slipping between her breasts, her thighs slick with his spit and her cream, her back hot beneath the weight of the room’s heat and his mouth. Still riding his face, she shuddered, thighs trembling around Smoke’s head, her pussy pulsing like it had its own heart. Then she leaned forward—slow, deliberate—her back arching into a deep, dirty curve. Her ass lifted high, thighs spread wide, her pussy on full display. She stayed there, breathless, spread, leaking, waiting.

“Go on then,” she said, twisting to look back at him, “You gon’ stare at it or feed again?”

Smoke didn’t speak.

Didn’t even smirk.

He rose—sat up behind her—and wrapped both hands around her hips. Big, strong hands. The kind that could hold her still if she tried to run. Then he leaned in and spread her open—slow, like unveiling a meal.

He devoured her.

Tongue flat and heavy, licking up the entire mess she’d made. Long, deep strokes from the bottom of her folds to the top, nose buried in her, beard soaking. Then he sucked her clit into his mouth like he was pulling flavor from bone. Slurping. Moaning. Grunting.

“Shit, Elijah!” Annie gasped, arms buckling. Her head dropped, locs falling around her face.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t pause. Didn’t give a single fuck about her legs shaking, or the way her hips jumped every time his tongue slipped between her lips and into her hole.

“Damn, you eatin’ like you starved,” she moaned, voice breaking into a little laugh, too wrecked to keep her shit together.

Smoke grunted in response, deep and filthy, his hands spreading her cheeks wider.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she panted, rocking back into his face, “Tear this fuckin’ pussy up. Suck it like it’s yours.”

He did.

He meant it.

And her pussy? It was soaked. Fat lips parted wide. Creamy, wet, twitching under every lash of his tongue. Her clit was swollen, standing up for attention. That wet sheen coated every inch of her folds, dripping down to her thighs. Her whole center was a mess of sound and slick and scent—sweet, hot, addictive. And when she reached down? When she grabbed that dick? Smoke groaned straight into her pussy. He was hard—heavy. Her fingers wrapped around the base, and she felt him jump in her palm. Veins thick. Pre-cum leaking. She stroked him slow, twisting her wrist on every upstroke.

“You just back there eatin’ and leakin’, huh?” she teased, her voice dark with filth, “Pussy got you moanin’ like a lil bitch.”

SMACK. His hand came down on her ass, loud and sharp.

Annie jerked, gasping.

“Ohh, so you like that?” she breathed, stroking him again.

SMACK. Another slap, this one followed by a firm squeeze.

Smoke licked deeper, tongue flattening against her clit, then curling in slow circles while he moaned like she was feeding him pieces of heaven.

“Fuck,” she whispered, eyes rolling, stroking him harder now, “That dick feel like a fuckin’ weapon. You gon’ use it or keep makin’ love to this pussy with your tongue?”

Smoke pulled back, just enough to answer, “I’m gon’ do both.”

Smoke’s mouth never left her. His head moved like it had its own rhythm—mouth opening, lips sealing, tongue flicking, drawing her in again and again. Each pull sent a shudder up Annie’s spine. He was alternating—long, slow drags of his tongue, then sudden, hungry sucks that made her hips jolt. She gripped the headboard and tried to breathe. Couldn’t. Her voice cracked every time she tried to talk.

“Eat it…eat it…eat it…fuuuckkkkkk….” she whispered, almost a chant now.

Her body trembled. Not just her thighs, but deep inside where every nerve felt lit. Her skin tingled under his hands. The bass from the speaker seemed to vibrate through the bed and into her. Sweat slid down her back. Her heartbeat was everywhere—in her ears, between her legs, in the tips of her fingers. He moaned against her, the vibration shooting up into her stomach. He wasn’t just licking her—he was drawing sounds out of her she didn’t know she could make. The room blurred around the edges. She could feel herself swelling, climbing, right at that point where she knew she was about to spill again. Her legs tried to close but his hands held her open. Her head dropped, locs falling into her face. She bit her lip.

“Oh my God—” her voice cracked into a sob of pleasure, “—how you doin’ this…”

Every suck tugged at something deep inside. Every slow lick made her belly roll with tension. She wasn’t just wet; she felt molten. Her mind flickered between floating and falling, between wanting to hold on and wanting to let go. She clutched his head, fingers in his hair, not pushing him away but holding him there, hips rolling without permission. Another wave crested. The pressure built, sharp and sweet and dizzying.

“I’m—oh God, I’m about to—”

He didn’t stop. He didn’t ease up. He kept that rhythm—lick, suck, pull—like he was trying to drink her down to the last drop.

Smoke’s mouth was relentless—wet, greedy, worshipful. He sucked her clit into the heat of his mouth like it was something he could survive on. Tugged on it with a hunger that had her gasping, her eyes rolling, her body lurching forward like she might crawl into him just to make it stop—or never stop.

“Eat it,” she moaned, the words rasping out of her like air pushed through cracked glass. “Eat it…eat it—”

Her voice broke again.

God, she was soaked.

Her pussy clenched, needy, fluttering. She could feel how sloppy it was on his tongue—how he licked through the folds and then sucked one in like he was trying to memorize the taste. He kept alternating, like he knew exactly what would keep her climbing. Not too hard, not too soft. Just the kind of sucking that curled heat up her spine and made her want to scream. He grunted into her, his fingers digging into the flesh of her ass like he couldn’t hold her close enough. Like he needed her to smother him. His nose slid against her, and the warmth of his breath on her folds only made everything wetter, messier, more raw. Annie’s hands gripped his curls tight, yanking and tugging as her hips rolled without control. She couldn’t help it. Her legs were shaking now. She was cussing—quiet at first, then louder.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck, Smoke…”

The sounds coming from her were guttural. Her belly trembled, coiled tight. Every lick, every suck, every slurp pulled her deeper into the place she only got to with him. Her skin was burning. Her chest rising so fast she couldn’t catch her breath. Her nipples scraped the air, so hard they hurt. Her toes curled in the sheets. Her whole body went taut. She could feel it coming, the way thunder rolls before lightning hits. That sweet ache behind her clit. Her pussy slick and contracting, as if it were pleading for something more. Her whole body was screaming toward release, and yet he wasn’t rushing it. He was savoring her. Letting her teeter on the edge.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, “Don’t you fucking stop.”

But he didn’t even flinch.

He just buried his face deeper. Groaned into her. Sent the vibrations of it through her.

And that was it.

Her whole body seized—hips jolting forward, a sharp cry breaking from her lips. Her mouth opened in a silent O before the sound came. A long, ragged moan that tore straight from her belly. Her eyes rolled back. Her thighs squeezed, almost suffocating him—but he didn’t care. He wanted to drown in her. Annie came hard—messy, shaking, her pussy pulsing around nothing, wishing it was around him. And still, Smoke licked her through it. Gentle now. Soothing. Like a man proud of what he’d done. Her breath hitched as she collapsed forward. Hands trembling. Legs gone. Body wrecked.

And his mouth was still on her.

Still loving.

Still licking.

Like he wasn’t finished.

Smoke licked her clean one last time, like the last bite of something sweet he hadn’t had in years, then slid from beneath her with a grunt and a smack of his lips. Annie stayed where she was, dazed—body slumped forward, arms shaking, skin slick with heat and climax. Her eyes fluttered as she felt the mattress shift. Heard his chain jingle low across his chest. The scent of sex hung heavy in the air—salt, sweat, her honey on his mouth.

Then came his voice. That voice.

Rough. Drawling. Deep.

“Look at you,” he spoke, chest rising and falling, “Can’t even sit up straight. Pussy done melted all the strength out your bones.”

She blinked slow, trying to catch her breath. But he was already crouched in front of her again—tall, brown, drenched in heat. The sight of him made her moan low, involuntarily.

He chuckled, “Don’t get quiet now.”

His dick was hard. Fat, veined, dark and dripping with his own need. He stroked it once, the head swelling with anticipation.

“You gone sit there all pretty with my cum face between your cheeks…or you gone get up and suck this daddy dick?”

Annie’s eyes flicked up, she turned and there it was.

That grin. That chain. That weight in his gaze.

And her answer?

A breathless smirk. No hesitation.

She moved like she was starved for it—mouth open, lips shining from her own wetness. Smoke stood tall, watching her every move, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. His hand slid into her locs, fingers weaving through them slow, possessive, before gripping the back of her head with a low groan.

“That’s it,” he muttered, voice breaking into gravel, “C’mere. Open that filthy mouth for me.”

And she did.

She opened wide, tongue flat, eyes up—and he fed it to her. That big, juicy, fat, dick. Heavy on her tongue. The head pushed deep, then deeper, sliding over the back of her throat.

Glk—glk—glk.

Her lips stretched wide around the shaft, drool leaking from the corners almost instantly. He pulled back and thrust again, gentle at first…then mean. Like he needed to hear it choke her.

“Suck that dick,” he growled, eyes dropping to the mess on her mouth, “Yeah, that’s right. Nasty fuckin’ girl.”

Her hands clutched his thighs for balance as he started to fuck her face slow. His hips rolling. His stomach tightening.

He looked wrecked.

Sweat gleaming on his chest, chain swinging with every grind of his hips. Jaw clenched. That beautiful, angry expression like he was holding back the beast in him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, tipping his head back, “Look at you takin’ it like a good lil slut…”

His hand tightened in her locs as he started rocking into her harder. Sloppier. Her cheeks hollowed around him, throat flexing, moans vibrating around his dick. Spit was everywhere. Glossing her lips, dripping down his shaft, making a slurping sound that filled the room. Her eyes were glossy. Nose running. She looked ruined. And Smoke? He loved it. He stared down at her like he could’ve kept her there forever.

“Goddamn, Annie,” he breathed, lips curling in lust, “You love this dick in your mouth, don’t you?”

She moaned her answer around him. Eyes rolling up. Fingers digging into the backs of his thighs.

He hissed through his teeth.

Then whispered, “Fuckin’ beautiful…”

Annie let his dick slide from her lips with a filthy pop, strings of spit still connecting them. She looked up at him with glazed eyes and a nasty smirk, then dragged the back of her hand across her mouth.

“Mm,” she moaned, tongue tracing her bottom lip, “This dick so fuckin’ pretty. So big, baby. You wanna see me ruin it?”

Smoke grunted, chest rising fast.

“Do it,” he growled, voice cracking, “Fuckin’ do it.”

She wrapped both hands around the base—tight. Fingers twisting in opposite directions. She pumped slow, then fast, then spit into the mess and swallowed him down deep again. Her lips worked with skill and filth, mouth hot and soaked, hands still stroking what her throat couldn’t take. She moaned around him on purpose. Loud. Vibrating his whole dick.

“Shiiit—” Smoke’s hips jerked. His head fell back, and he damn near choked on his own breath, “Fuccckkk—”

His abs flexed. That chain slid between his pecs, damp with sweat. His eyes fluttered, then snapped back down to her with hunger.

Annie didn’t stop.

She kept the rhythm nasty. One hand twisting, the other stroking his wet, heavy sack. Her mouth popped off with a gasp just to say, “You want me to milk it, daddy? You want me to make that nut crawl up your spine?”

Smoke growled, “Fuckin’ hell…”

He looked destroyed—brows tight, jaw clenched, lips wet from licking them raw. His voice was low, cracked, almost desperate.

“Shit…shit. Gimme that fuckin’ mouth.”

She gave it. Hard. Fast. No mercy. He could barely take it. His thighs were twitching, his stomach jumping. One more second and he would’ve exploded down her throat.

But then—

He snatched himself from her lips.

She gasped.

And before she could even ask, he had her by the arm, dragging her up like she weighed nothing. His other hand grabbed her neck—gentle but firm—turning her around. He bent her forward at the edge of the bed.

“Face down,” he hissed, “Ass up. Don’t move.”

Her elbows hit the sheets. Her back arched. Her ass perched pretty and wet and soaked from earlier. And before she could moan his name—

SLAP.

Smoke thrust into her. Deep. Heavy. Possessive.

Her scream cracked.

“Oh fuuuuckk—”

His hands gripped her shoulders like reins, dragging her back onto him, each stroke knocking the breath from her lungs.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The sound of skin meeting skin was loud and wet. Her body jerked with every thrust.

“You hear that?” he grunted, “That’s my dick tearin’ this pussy up.”

“Yesss,” she cried out, face buried in the bed, “Tear it up, daddy. Take this fuckin’ pussy. It’s yours—yours.”

Smoke lost it.

“Stay yo ass still.” His voice was all grit and filth, “Takin’ this fuckin’ pussy. Done held off long enough this shit mine.”

His hand came down hard on her ass. The jiggle made him groan. He spread her open, stared at the way she gripped him.

“You feel that? That grip?” His voice dropped to a snarl, “Pussy holdin’ on like it don’t want me to stop bussin’ her wide open.”

Annie clawed the sheets, sobbing through pleasure.

“Who pussy? Say it,” Smoke whacked her on the ass with a wide relentless attack, “Say. It.”

“It’s yours,” she whimpered, “Fuck— Daddy, this pussy yours. Been yours.”

Smoke leaned in, chest pressed to her back. His breath was hot on her neck.

“Say it louder,” he growled, “Say it while I’m in it.”

“This pussy yours, Smoke! Yours—fuck—yours!”

Clap. Clap. Clap.

The bed was creaking.

Her thighs were shaking.

He was deep. So deep.

Digging into her like he was trying to fuck the truth out of her. Smoke was buried to the hilt, hands locked tight on Annie’s waist like he dared her to run.

But she wasn’t going nowhere.

She was right there for it—back arched, face in the sheets, ass bouncing back to meet every brutal stroke.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Her voice came out ragged, high and breathless.

“Shit—! You so fuckin’ big, Smoke. Damn. You know you big, don’t you?”

Smoke snarled behind her, that deep grunt rising from his chest like a beast, “Yeah? That right?”

He grabbed a fistful of her locs and yanked her head back gently, making her arch deeper, feel every inch of him.

“That dick hittin’ all up in there, huh?” he growled.

She moaned, helpless, “Yes—fuck, yes. I can feel it in my stomach…”

That made his strokes rougher. Deeper. Slower.

He watched the way she creamed around him—white and wet, coating his length every time he pulled back. That wet sound got louder, sloppier. Her body kept twitching. Kept clenching. Kept dripping.

Splish, clap, slap.

He grunted again—low and ragged.

Voice thick like syrup and full of need.

“I been waitin’ on this pussy,” he hissed, “Fuck. You hear me?”

She whimpered.

“I been waitin’,” he growled again, fucking her harder now. Each thrust like punctuation, “To feel this tight little pussy…wrapped around me…like that.”

Annie sobbed. It was too much. Too good.

Her hand reached back blindly, palm finding his thigh. She tried to steady herself, but her body just kept jolting, clapping under him, her cheeks bouncing from every heavy stroke.

“Been thinkin’ about it,” Smoke kept going. His voice was right in her ear now. Hot. Possessive. Mean, “What it feel like…how warm you’d be. How messy. How fuckin’ good this shit must be when you cum on it.”

He reached around and slapped her pussy, fingers slick with her cream. Annie yelped—body shivering.

“You hear this shit?” he barked.

Smack. Slap. Smack.

“That’s you. Creamin’ on daddy’s dick. Bein’ bad.”

Annie cried out, “I can’t stop! You fuckin’ me too good—!”

He laughed once. Low. Dangerous. Then slammed into her deep.

“You better not stop. You better keep fuckin’ cummin’ on this dick.”

And she did.

Her moans turned to pleading—half sob, half surrender.

“Please—oh my God—Smoke, I’m—”

“Let that shit go,” he growled, “Let that pussy go. Give it here. C’mere.”

He started fucking her harder—long strokes, fast slaps, both hands locked on her waist now. No escape. No mercy. Just deep, devastating dick pounding her open until she screamed again.

Came hard. AGAIN.

Annie collapsed forward, body trembling, face flushed and lips parted. Her thighs were soaked. Her pussy twitched with aftershocks, still fluttering from the brutal climax he’d just ripped from her. Smoke pulled out slow, dick gleaming—slick with her cream—and the moment he did, Annie dropped to her knees like her bones were gone. She turned, dazed and dripping, eyes locked on his dick like it was something holy. And with no hesitation—none—she took him back into her mouth.

Slurp.

Smoke’s whole body jerked.

“Goddamn,” he hissed through his teeth. “Look atchu…”

She sucked him clean. Slow. Worshipful. Tongue circling the tip, lips sliding over every inch. She moaned around him, tasting herself on his dick, licking up every drop like it was dessert. Both hands wrapped around his thighs. Her head bobbed with sweet rhythm, eyes fluttering as she let him fill her mouth again and again.

“Shit,” he muttered, hand sliding to the back of her head. His abs clenched. His chain swung slow, “That’s it. Get all that mess up. Clean that dick, girl.”

She pulled off with a pop, spit slicking her chin, breath hot.

“Still so hard,” she smirked, voice hoarse.

Smoke looked down at her—sweaty, swollen-lipped, glowing—and something snapped in him.

He reached down, hooked his arms beneath her thighs, and stood.

Just like that.

Lifted her off the floor like she was light as breath, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, her arms gripping his shoulders.

“Oh—shit,” she gasped, clinging to him, “Wait—Smoke—fuck!”

But he wasn’t waiting.

He lined himself up, grunted once, and slammed back in.

SLAP.

Her head flew back. Toes curled in the air. Her whole body bounced with the force of it.

“OHHHHH!” she wailed, “Fuck— Smoke—oh my god—”

He held her with one arm under her ass, the other hand gripping her nape. He was fucking her standing up, balls-deep, using pure strength to lift and drop her onto his cock like he was built for this.

Her back hit the wall.

He used it for leverage.

“You feel that?” he growled into her ear, “That’s me fuckin’ the life outta you.”

“I can’t—!” she whimpered, voice breaking.

“Yes you can. Take that shit.”

He grunted with each thrust—deep, punishing strokes. Her pussy was soaked, pulsing, raw with pleasure. She was gasping now, toes curling, legs shaking around his waist.

“Look at me,” he ordered, face slick with sweat.

She tried.

His brow was furrowed, jaw clenched, teeth gritted. That chain pressed against her chest as he slammed into her over and over. He was sweating, groaning, fucking her with power. Purpose.

“You mine right now,” he breathed against her mouth. “This pussy—mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” she choked, “It’s yours.”

“Say it again.”

“This pussy yours, daddy—”

He kissed her hard. Messy. Tongue in her mouth. One final thrust deep—and he held it there.

Grunting. Growling. Cumming.

Hard.

His body jerked with it, muscles tensing, dick pulsing deep inside her while she sobbed his name.

It had been a couple weeks since Smoke first fucked the religion out of her. Since he’d lifted her off the floor like she weighed nothing and buried his dick so deep she swore she felt it behind her ribs. And Annie couldn’t lie—she hadn’t been right since. Not in her spirit. Not in her body. Not when she passed him on the street and her knees twinged from muscle memory. Not when she touched herself at night and still couldn’t come the way he made her. Not when she saw her reflection and had to admit—he put a glow on her. She didn’t chase him. Didn’t text or call. But she stayed ready. So when that phone rang and it was Smoke’s low voice on the other end saying:

“Yo. Got a faucet actin’ up. Might need your hands on it.”

…she already knew what it was.

She showed up twenty minutes later in overalls with nothing on underneath but a tank top and skin. Toolbelt slung on her hip. Locs pulled back in a loose wrap.

“Where’s the leak?” she asked, walking in like she didn’t feel the heat of his eyes all over her ass.

Smoke didn’t answer right away. Just stood there in a plain white tee, sweatpants low on his hips, chain glinting.

He pointed toward the bathroom sink.

“Might be the pipe under there. Water pressure actin’ funny.”

Annie crouched down, ignoring the ache building low in her belly. Bent over at the waist, working that wrench, trying to stay focused—but she knew what she looked like from behind. She knew how them overalls hugged. She could feel his stare.

Then came his voice.

“Why you wear that with nothin’ on under it?”

She paused, “It’s hot.”

He stepped closer. She could feel the air shift.

“You tryin’ to make me fuck you while you fix shit?”

She smirked, “I ain’t tryin’.”

Smoke grabbed her by the back of the overalls and yanked her up, the sound of the strap snapping free echoing off tile.

“You know what the fuck you do to me?”

She gasped as he turned her around and backed her into the sink. One strap fell off her shoulder. The other followed. Then his hand was down her front—fingers finding bare, soaked heat.

“Ain’t no fuckin’ drawers,” he muttered with a shake of his head, sliding two fingers between her folds, “You really showed up like this. Ready for this dick.”

“Wanted to see if the pipes needed fixin’,” she whispered with a grin.

He pulled those fingers out and shoved them into her mouth.

“Clean ‘em.”

She did. Moaning around them. Tongue swiping slow, eyes heavy.

Then?

Smoke dropped to his knees.

Pulled one side of the overalls down so her leg was free. Pushed her back against the counter. And started eating her pussy like a man who paid for the appointment in advance. And Annie? She never got around to fixing that faucet. It had happened more than once by now. He’d call. She’d come. No sweet talk. No flirty banter. Just some excuse—leaky sink, crooked shelf, loose doorknob.

She knew what it was.

So when Smoke called again on a slow Thursday evening, voice low and casual like always—

“Think the shower door off track. You still got that level?”

—Annie didn’t ask questions.

She pulled on some loose linen pants, no panties, just a ribbed tank with no bra, and stuffed a screwdriver in her bag for show. Hair tied up. Skin still warm from the shower. When she got there, Smoke barely looked at her. Just pointed toward the bathroom with a nod and went back to whatever he was doing.

She headed in.

Checked the glass door. It was fine.

She crouched anyway—pretending to adjust the lower track. Hips back. Legs spread for balance. One hand bracing against the tub as she worked the frame with her other. That’s when she heard him behind her. Didn’t feel him—heard him. The heavy footfalls. The breath in his nose. The pull of his sweatpants being dragged down. She didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak. Just stayed bent, waiting—because she already knew what came next. Smoke grabbed her hips with both hands. Gripped them like he owned ‘em. Like she was built to be held that way. Pulled those pants down slow. And without a word—

He slid in. Raw. Heavy. Deep.

“Mmmph—fuck!” she gasped, her hand slapping the wall.

Still, he didn’t say a thing. Just breathed. Just pushed deeper. Her pussy gripped him tight, wet as sin.

He leaned down, lips at her neck.

Voice a growl.

“Ain’t even dress proper for the job.”

Thrust.

“Showin’ up here with no panties on. Pussy sittin’ wet, stainin’ up your pants. tryna act like you innocent.”

Thrust.

“Bendin’ over like that. That ass pokin’ out. Lookin’ like a whole meal.”

Thrust.

CLAP.

Annie whimpered, her forehead hitting the wall.

“Y-you didn’t even say hi…”

Smoke laughed. Darkly.

“I ain’t gotta say shit to you. All I gotta do is fuck. That’s how you like it anyway.”

“Ooooo—dick so fucking big—”

His hands slapped her ass and spread her wide. The sound echoed in the bathroom, drowned only by the slick clap-clap-clap of him fucking her from behind.

“Look at this greedy fuckin’ pussy,” he hissed, watching it swallow him whole, “You came here wantin’ this dick, didn’t you?”

She nodded, “Yes…”

“Say it.”

“I wanted it.”

“Say it right.”

“I wanted this dick, Big Smoke.”

He rammed into her hard—deep enough to make her knees buckle.

“Fuckin’ right you did. And I wanted this pussy.”

“Uh-huh—”

He pulled out halfway, let the tip smack against her soaked folds, then shoved back in rough.

“Coulda said that’s what you wanted, Smoke. Stretch me out.” Annie sobbed, “fuuuuckkk—”

“Just like that,” he growled, “No talkin’. Just dick.”

Clap. Clap. Clap.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was just supposed to come through when he called—fix what was broke, take this dick, and leave. Clean. Easy. But every time she walked out his house, her pussy still leaking, her scent still lingering, Smoke found himself pacing. Hard again twenty minutes later. Staring at his phone. He’d fucked her in the kitchen, the hallway, against the wall, on the damn stairs once. And still—it wasn’t enough.

Not for him.

So when she didn’t answer his call that afternoon, something crawled under his skin. It was the third time he called. No answer. No ringback. Just voicemail. He stared at the screen, jaw flexing, thumb hovering. Then tossed the phone on the seat and grabbed his keys. He didn’t even question it—just got in the truck and drove. Didn’t say where he was goin’. Didn’t tell nobody. Just needed to see. Her building sat quiet near the end of the block. Sun was low, spilling gold over the balconies. He parked up the street and leaned back in the driver’s seat, chain glinting under his shirt, a toothpick in his mouth as he scanned the porch.

And there she was.

Annie.

Tank top. Cut-off shorts. Hair in a messy wrap. Laughing at something a tall, light-skinned man in slacks said—her neighbor, maybe. Smoke sat up straighter. Watched close. The man leaned a little too far in, all teeth and charm.Annie swatted playfully at something he said, then nodded, smiling.

Smoke felt his jaw lock. His hand curled tight on the wheel.He didn’t even know the man.Didn’t know what they were talkin’ about.But he didn’t like it. Didn’t like the way dude was lookin’ at her. Didn’t like the way Annie looked comfortable. Looked happy. Then—just like that—the man left, tipping his hat. Annie stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Smoke watched the door for a long second. Then grabbed his phone. She answered this time.

Voice soft. Sweet. Innocent.

“Hey.”

Smoke stared at her door from the truck.

“What you doin’?” he asked.

A pause, “Just got in.”

“I tried callin’ earlier.”

“Oh…yeah?” she said, “Didn’t even see it. I had some work today.”

“You fix that woman’s screen door in Greenwood?”

“Mhm. And a clogged drain right after.”

He licked his lips. His voice dropped.

“You gon’ come see me?”

Another pause. He imagined her blinking at the question.

“Not tonight,” she said, gently, “I’m beat. Tryna wind down.”

Smoke’s hand gripped the wheel tighter.

“Wind down…” he echoed, low.

She had no idea he was outside. No idea he was watchin’. And that made it worse.

“Alright,” he said after a beat. Tried to keep the edge out of his voice, “Just checkin’.”

“You good?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he lied.

Then hung up.

And sat there in the truck.

Staring at her door like it had personally offended him.

The room was dark except for the ember at the tip of his blunt. Smoke leaned back in his chair, chain resting against his bare chest, sweatpants low, one hand resting on his dick through the fabric. He was already semi-hard. Thinking about her.Thinking about that laugh. That damn smile. And the nigga she shared it with. He took another slow drag, blew the smoke through his nose. Picked up the phone. Called her. She answered on the third ring, voice low, a little sleepy.

“Hello…?”

He exhaled hard.

“Who the fuck was that?” he asked flat.

A pause, “…What?”

“That nigga you was talkin’ to outside your house.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You was outside my house, Smoke?”

He didn’t answer. Just licked his lips, eyes narrow, smoke swirling around him.

“Answer the question.”

“Boy, what the hell—” she sighed, “That was a client.”

Smoke didn’t say a word.

Annie kept going, “He was droppin’ off payment for the work I did on his mama’s porch.”

“Looked like he was tryna fuck.”

“He wasn’t.”

“He was smilin’ real hard.”

“So was I. You mad ‘cause I’m polite?”

Smoke shifted in his seat. His dick was fully hard now—half from anger, half from the sound of her voice, low and worn from sleep.

“You wearin’ them lil ass shorts when you go do jobs now?” he asked.

“I was on my porch.”

“You was bouncin’ up and down laughin’. I seen it.”

“I didn’t know I was bein’ watched,” she said slowly.

“Shit, you always bein’ watched when I’m thinkin’ about that pussy.”

She snorted a laugh. “Damn. You need some cutty, huh?”

That set him off.

Smoke sat up, voice dark.

“The fuck you just say to me?”

“I said maybe you need some cutty. You callin’ my phone all late, grillin’ me like you ain’t got no damn sense. Soundin’ jealous and needy…”

Smoke stood. Walked to the window. One hand gripping the curtain, the other palming the hard length beneath his pants.

“You think this shit funny, Annie?”

She giggled again. That light little mmm sound that made his dick twitch.

“You act like I won’t come over there right now.”

She sighed, “But you ain’t.”

He groaned, “Annie…”

Her voice got softer, breathier.

“You really want this pussy that bad?”

“You know I do.”

“Why?”

Smoke sat back down, jaw clenched, blunt resting between his fingers now.

“‘Cause it’s mine.”

“That why you mad?” she teased, “You scared somebody else gon’ try it?”

“No,” he said, “I’m scared of what I’ma do if some nigga think he touchin’ you.”

She went quiet.

He pulled his sweats down just enough and gripped himself. Started stroking slow. Slow enough to feel the tension rise.

“Say somethin’,” he muttered, “Let me hear your voice.”

“You jerkin’ off?” she asked, playful.

He grunted, “Yeah.”

“You really sittin’ in the dark, smokin’ and jackin’ that dick ‘cause you mad?”

“Hell yeah.”

Annie giggled again, “You nasty.”

“You like me nasty.”

She hummed, “I do…”

He closed his eyes.

“Wanna hear you say it.”

“What?”

“That you gon’ give me some.”

“Mmm…” she purred, “Tomorrow”

“That’s too far.”

“Then come get it now.”

Smoke stood again. Grabbed his keys. Still on the phone.

“Don’t say shit like that unless you mean it.”

“Oh, I mean it,” she whispered.

“You better open that door when I knock.”

“You better come with that same energy.”

Smoke tossed the blunt before it hit the filter. It arced in a thin orange line across the gravel, hissing out in the damp night air. He didn’t even watch it land. His hands were already flexing at his sides, palms tingling, blood running hot as he took the steps two at a time.Tank top stuck to his chest. Grey sweats slung low on his hips. Chain heavy against his collarbone. He wasn’t knocking to be polite; he was knocking because he was here to take what was already his.

And then the door cracked.

Annie was standing there like a setup.

Robe too small, too loose, barely tied. Skin glistening underneath like she’d just rubbed herself down with oil. Thick hips, thighs pressed together, breasts spilling out at the top. Her hair loose around her face. That smirk like she knew exactly why he was there.

Smoke’s jaw clenched. He stepped inside without a word, the smell of her hitting him like a punch.

“You always open the door dressed like that?” he asked, voice low, rough.

“You always show up uninvited?” she shot back.

He took another step, closing the space, “Keep talkin’ that slick shit. See what happen.”

“Maybe I’m curious.”

He chuckled once, dark, “You gon’ learn about curiosity tonight.”

She opened her mouth to say something smart but his hand was already at her throat. Not choking. Just holding. His thumb under her jaw, his palm warm and heavy over the hollow of her throat.

“Don’t talk,” he said, “Just feel.”

He walked her backward until her back hit the wall. The robe slid off one shoulder. Her lips parted. His mouth crashed down on hers —deep, wet, tongue sliding against hers, teeth scaping, both of them breathing heavy through their noses. She moaned into his mouth, hand sliding down between them until she was palming his dick through the sweats. Thick, heavy, hot. She squeezed. He grunted into the kiss, hips jerking forward.

“Yeah…” he spoke against her lips, “You like that, huh? This what you been dodgin’ my calls for?”

She smirked, “Maybe.”

That was it.

He spun her around, yanked the knot of her robe and ripped it open. The soft fabric fell from her shoulders like a dropped curtain. All that oiled, brown skin in front of him now, back arched, ass high, thick and glistening. She made a small noise, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh. Smoke’s eyes dropped to that ass. His fingers twitched. His chest rose and fell. His biceps and forearms corded as he lifted his hand high and brought it down.

SMACK.

Right on the under-curve of her ass. Sharp. Stinging. The sound cracked off the walls.

Annie yelped, hips jolting forward, “Oh—shit…”

He did it again, a little higher this time. SMACK.

His palm left a perfect print, the skin blooming warm and red under his hand. He watched it jiggle, then settle, oil catching the light.

“Look at that…” he muttered, voice like gravel, “Whole handful. And you walkin’ ‘round lettin’ other men look at it.”

SMACK.

Another strike, just beneath the first. The muscle in his arms bulged with each swing—shoulders rolling, veins standing out in his forearms. His jaw was tight, his eyes dark and low, mouth open just enough for his breath to come out in harsh little growls.

“You like showin’ off, huh?” SMACK. “Out there laughin’ like you innocent.” SMACK. “Ain’t nothin’ innocent about this ass.”

Annie moaned. Every hit stung sharp, then turned to heat spreading through her skin. Her knees trembled, her pussy slick, her breath catching at the back of her throat. She pressed her palms flat to the wall for balance, back arching deeper with each pop. Smoke leaned in close, his chest against her back, his mouth right at her ear.

“You feel that? That’s me puttin’ a map on you. So you remember who touched you last. You hear me?”

He slid his palm over the marks he’d made, rubbing slow, thumb tracing the warm sting. He looked down at her body—at that thick, shining ass, the deep curve of her waist, the way she shifted under his touch. His face was wrecked: brows knitted, lips slick from kissing her, eyes heavy-lidded and dark. Sweat beading at his temple, chain swinging as his chest rose and fell.

“Keep standin’ there,” he muttered, palm still cupping her, “Let me look at you.”

Annie shivered. Skin glowing. Ass still trembling from the last pop. Her breath coming fast.

He flexed his hand again, muscles bunching in his arm as he spread her cheeks apart with his thumb, admiring the way she glistened.

“Damn,” he breathed, “This what I been missin’?”

Her palms were still flat to the wall, arms trembling. Back arched.

Robe gone. Skin dewed in oil. Ass glistening, still blushing from the spanking. Her thick thighs were parted just enough to reveal the mess between them. He dropped to his knees slow like he was lowering himself before an altar. His breath hitched when he got his first close look. One hand on each cheek, spreading her wide.

“God…damn.”

That thick ass opened up like a gift.

Between those cheeks: everything he’d been dreaming about since the first night.

Her pussy? Glistening, slick lips parted, glowing with wet heat. The inner folds flushed, sticky with her arousal, clit twitching at the air. And just beneath it—tight, puckered, just as perfect—her asshole winked once as he spread her wider. Smoke licked his lips. Jaw clenched. Veins bulging in his forearms as he kept her open with both hands.

“You see this shit?” he muttered to himself, “This what you walkin’ ‘round with?”

She gasped when she felt the heat of his breath.

Then he dove in.

Tongue first.

Right into the pussy.

SLURPPP.

He didn’t start slow. He went in filthy. Tongue flat, long, dragging up the center before he buried it deep—licking into her like he was trying to tongue-fuck the words out of her mouth.

Annie’s head dropped, “Ohhh—shit…”

“Shut up,” he grunted into her pussy, “Take it.”

His fingers dug into the meat of her cheeks, thumbs pulling her wider so he could feast uninterrupted. His nose nudged her clit. His tongue circled inside her walls, swimming in her.

Every sound from him was wet—messy.

He moaned into her.

Slurping. Sucking.

He kissed her pussy like he was in love with it—mouth wide, lips dragging up her folds, then down again, tongue darting inside before swirling back up to her clit.

And when he got there?

He sucked it.

“Ah—fuck—Smoke!” she yelped, up on her tiptoes now, heels lifted clean off the ground.

He chased her with his mouth, holding her still. His grip was iron. Hands big enough to wrap around her ass, keeping her right where he wanted her. He kept slurping, tugging that clit into his mouth, then pulling off just to drag his tongue back down again, licking up all the cream he’d coaxed out.

“Messy ass pussy,” he growled between strokes, “Drippin’ all over my face.”

Her thighs were shaking. She was gushing now—her slick running down to his chin, her folds sticky and swollen from how deep he’d been tongue-fucking her.

Then he pulled back.

She whined at the sudden absence—but only for a second. Because Smoke spit right on her pussy—ptuh—a warm string that slid over her lips and dripped down to her hole. Then he dragged his tongue lower…

Right to her ass.

And stayed there.

He spread her again—wider, if possible. Thumbs on either side of that tight little hole, opening her up like he was studying it.

“Been thinkin’ about this shit for too long,” his eyes locked in, “Bout how sweet this ass look.”

And then?

He licked it.

One long, slow drag of his tongue from the bottom to the top, stopping to press the tip flat right against her asshole.

Annie damn near screamed.

Smoke growled deep in his chest. He didn’t give her time to think—just circled her hole with his tongue, over and over, then licked into it with purpose.

Slppp…slpppppp…

“Oh my— Smoke—what the fuck are you doing to me—”

“Shut that shit up,” he muttered, “This ass mine.”

He spit again, let it dribble right onto her puckered entrance, then licked it clean like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. He was groaning into it now. No shame. Face buried in her ass like he’d found religion.

“Keep still,” he growled, gripping her tighter as she tried to squirm, “Take this fuckin’ tongue.”

And she did.

Shaking. Moaning. Barely breathing.

Face against the wall, legs quivering, pussy throbbing.

Smoke stayed there.

Licking. Spitting. Eating her ass like he was tryna taste her soul. Smoke had her spread like a Sunday paper. Both his hands gripping the meat of her ass, thumbs pulling her wide open until he could see everything. That thick ass glistening under the low light, the dark pink of her lips glistening and swollen, the tight little pucker just below twitching with every breath she took. He dragged his tongue up one more time, slow from the bottom of her pussy to the top of her ass, then pressed his mouth right back to the wet heat. He buried his face in her, nose against her clit, tongue diving in and out, sucking, slurping, licking until the sound of it filled the room.

“Keep still,” he growled against her folds, voice low and dark, “Don’t make me say it again.”

Annie’s head dropped to the wall, palms flat, knuckles flexing. Her toes were off the floor now, up on the tips, thighs trembling. Every time he tongued her she felt it jolt through her spine.

“Smoke…” she whimpered.

He smacked her ass once with an open palm just to make her jerk, then went right back to eating her.

“Keep. Still,” he said again, licking up a long stripe between both holes, “Let me eat what’s mine.”

He spread her even wider, thumbs opening her, switching his mouth between her pussy and her ass. Tongue in her pussy, sucking her clit. Then lower, circling her tight little hole, licking it until she squirmed.

“Nasty nigga…” she moaned, voice cracking, forehead pressed to the wall.

Smoke laughed into her, deep and hungry, “You love it. Don’t even front.”

He went back to work, tongue stabbing deep into her, pulling out, then up to her clit to suck hard. His big hands never stopped gripping her, keeping her steady, holding her open for him like a meal. The wet sounds got louder —his moans, her gasps, the obscene slurp of his mouth on her. Annie tried to shift away, but he dragged her back with one hand on her hip, face still buried.

“Take this tongue,” he snarled into her, “Give me that nut. Make this pussy drip…”

She cried out then, a long, high sound. Her thighs shook. Her ass rolled back involuntarily into his face,,“Ohhh—fuck—”

“Yeah…” he groaned, sucking her clit again, “Cum on my mouth. Right now.”

She didn’t even have time to respond. Her body just broke. Pussy pulsing, slick running down her inner thighs, her whole frame shuddering as the orgasm ripped through her. She clawed at the wall, toes curling hard, tears pricking her eyes. Smoke kept licking through it, slow and heavy, drawing it out, drinking her down. He didn’t stop until she slumped against the wall, trembling, whispering curses. He finally pulled back, face wet, lips glistening, chain swinging as he sat back on his heels to look at her.

“That’s how you keep still,” he muttered, voice ragged, “Now you know.”

Smoke stood behind her, chest heaving, jaw tight, face glazed with her nectar. His hands still gripped her waist like he hadn’t decided if he was done eating or not.

But he needed more.

He needed to fuck.

He grabbed her by the hips and picked her up like nothing. Annie gasped as her feet left the ground. She clung to his shoulders instinctively, that thick ass still trembling, legs weak from how hard she came. He carried her to the couch and dropped her—not rough, but possessive. Like this was his territory now. Annie landed with a bounce, legs falling open, body sprawled, her big, plump tits rising with every shaky breath, nipples dark and tight, her belly glistening with sweat and oil, her thighs still twitching. That pussy?

Fat. Swollen. Creamy. Still clenching like it hadn’t finished talking.Smoke stepped back and stared. Didn’t say a word for a second. Just looked. He grabbed the back of his tank and pulled it off in one slow motion—up and over his head, muscles flexing, arms bulging, chest carved and slick from the heat of her house.

“Yeah…” he muttered, voice dragging like syrup. “You talk all that shit, now look at you. Shakin’. Pussy twitchin’. Body fuckin’ beggin’.”

He reached for the waistband of his sweats, yanked them down rough—briefs too. His dick dropped heavy. Thick. Long. Dark. Veins raised, head flushed and leaking. He kicked off his shoes with them, standing there now in nothing but that chain and hunger.

Annie looked up at him like a meal.

Licked her lips slow.

“Mm-mm-mmm. That dick so good, Smoke,” she breathed, eyes locked on it, “Can’t wait till you fill me back up.”

He smirked, stepping forward, gripping his shaft at the base, “Oh, I’ma fill you up alright,” he said, voice rough, “Since you wanna keep talkin’…” He stroked once, slow, letting her see the drip at the tip shine in the light, “You talk so much fuckin’ shit. Guess I gotta wreck that mouthy little pussy again.”

Annie pulled her legs wider. That creamy, sensitive cunt throbbed open for him, “I love talkin’ shit,” she grinned, voice still raspy, “’Cause every time I do, you fuck the attitude right outta me.”

That made him chuckle. Just once. Dark and low.

“Yeah?” he lined himself up, the head brushing her folds, “Then shut the fuck up and take this dick.”

Smoke gripped the base of his dick, thick and heavy in his hand, the tip already leaking with need. He stared down at her—at that swollen, glistening pussy, all creamy and parted, fluttering like it missed him already. He lined up. No teasing this time.

No games.

She wanted it? She was gonna take all of it.

“Shut that shit up,” he growled low, “and let me fuck that attitude outta you.”

He pushed forward—slow—the fat head of his dick pressing past her folds, parting them with pressure so deep it knocked the breath right out her lungs.

“Ohhh—fuck,” Annie cried, back arching, fingers clawing at the cushions.

That stretch was deep. That first slide in? Unholy. Her pussy gripped him immediately—warm, slick, snug like a fist wrapped in velvet. He was barely halfway in and already moaning under his breath, eyes squeezed shut like the feel of her was too much.

“God…damn,” Smoke hissed, hips rolling forward inch by inch, “You feel that? Feel how tight this pussy holdin’ me?”

“Y-yes—Smoke—yes,” she sobbed, body tensing as he sank deeper.

He kept going.

Thick inches filling her slow, stretching her walls around every vein, every pulse. She felt him in her stomach. Pussy spasming, squelching loud as it tried to adjust to his size. He didn’t stop until his pelvis met her ass, balls deep, dick buried to the root. Then he stilled. Just sat there. Deep in that heat. Breathing hard. Looked down at her body—laid out, belly rising, thighs trembling, her fat tits jiggling from the impact.

“You feel full yet?” he asked, voice rough as gravel.

Annie nodded quick, but her lips were still parted, gasping. He rocked his hips slow, dragging back just enough to feel her squeeze around the shaft, then slammed back in—hard.

THWAP.

She moaned loud. Fucked breathless already. Smoke grinned down at her, sweat sliding down his temple.

“I said—you feel full yet?”

“Mmhmm!” she whined, “You stretchin’ me—so fuckin’ deep—”

“Good,” he muttered, “Now take this dick.”

He grabbed her under both knees, shoved them back, and fucked into her.

Right there. On the couch. Like he was tryin’ to ruin her. His hips clapped against her ass with every stroke. Wet slaps filled the room. His chain swung between them. Her body bounced with every thrust—tits shaking, belly rippling, that pussy creaming around his dick.

“Nasty ass girl…” he grunted, watching her melt, “Love talkin’ shit, huh? That right?”

Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Still got sum’ to say?”

Annie could barely breathe now. She was moaning through her teeth, tears sliding down her temples, voice choked.

“I…I…”

He leaned in, face close, breath hot against her mouth, “That’s what I thought.”

Smoke stayed close, breath hot, cock buried. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t give her a break.

“Look at you,” he whispered against her mouth, voice thick with filth, “Eyes rollin’. Can’t even talk straight. Ain’t got nothin’ to say now, huh? Miss Big Mouth gone quiet?”

He rolled his hips slow—deep. Not a stroke. Just a grind. That slow drag of thickness shifting inside her, pressing up on that tender spot that made her legs kick. Annie sobbed. Her hands clawed at his arms, nails digging into muscle. She was coming apart under him—hips twitching, lips trembling.

“You beggin’?” he whispered, cock twitching inside that creamy pussy, “C’mon, say it. Let me hear it.”

“Nnghh—please,” she whimpered, voice high, broken, “Please, Smoke—fuck—make me cum…”

“That ain’t beggin’.” He pulled out slow, the whole length coated in white. Then slammed back in, hard enough to lift her ass off the couch, “Say it right.”

She gasped—mouth wide, body jostled, “Please, daddy!” she sobbed, “Please fuck me—please make me cum—need it so bad—please, please—”

He grinned. Evil with it, “There she go.”

He fucked her harder now. Cruel strokes. Wet, deep, devastating.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“That’s what I wanted. Nasty ass attitude talkin’ all slick earlier, now you cryin’ for dick. Can’t take it, huh? Pussy beggin’ louder than you.”

Annie couldn’t answer. Her moans turned frantic—voice ragged, breath catching. Her body jerked beneath him, legs trembling. He knew that sound. That feel.

She was close.

“Cum then,” he growled, “Go ahead. I want it. Want this pussy to cream all over me. Let me feel it.”

And she did. Annie shattered. Her pussy clenched down hard, rippling around him. She screamed—hips lifting, whole body locking up as her orgasm ripped through her. Soaked him. That creamy mess spilled out around his shaft as he fucked her through it.

“Fuuuuck…” Smoke hissed, “Look at this wet ass pussy. Damn. You squirtin’ on me, baby?”

She nodded weakly, tears spilling, breath gone. He leaned in close, dick still grinding in that soaked heat, thick and heavy.

“Good. Cuz I’m gon’ fill it.”

He didn’t stop.

One hand gripping the back of her thigh, the other holding her jaw—thumb in her mouth—he pounded her through that orgasm, chasing his own.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

His balls tightened. His back flexed. And with a guttural growl, Smoke sank deep—one last thrust—and nutted inside her. Hot. Thick. Rope after rope spilling into that quivering pussy while she was still pulsing around him, still twitching.

“Take it,” he groaned through clenched teeth, hips jerking, “Take all this fuckin’ nut.”

He stayed inside her, still twitching. Breathing heavy. Sweating. She was a mess beneath him. Fucked dumb. Creamy, leaking, moaning soft and spent.

“Next time you get to runnin’ that mouth,” he panted, pulling back to watch the mess ooze out around his dick, “remember what happened when you did.”

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Sanctified Heat

Summary: When the preacher’s wife starts protesting outside The Blackline, Stack Moore mocks her from the shadows—until her holy fire turns to something hotter. Plain and pious, Sister Marigold Baptiste hides a body made for sin, and Stack makes it his mission to break her righteousness down to the bone. Their hate burns into obsession, and soon she’s sneaking out in her Sunday whites to be devoured in the dark. He fucks the holy out of her and sends her home to her husband full of his cum, knowing she can’t bear children—but she can carry the weight of his sin.

Warnings: HARDCORE SMUT & ANGST (degration, dirty talk, BDSM, rough sex, deep throating, oral fixation, edging, cream pie, cheating, enemies to lovers)

Part Three

It had been thirteen days since she found the belt. Thirteen days of hiding it beneath folded linen. Of changing the sheets twice. Of flinching every time Obadiah came near the closet. Of praying harder, longer, more desperately. Thirteen days of trying not to dream about what it would feel like wrapped around her wrists.

Now, it rained.

A thick, slapping downpour that beat against the chapel roof and turned the walkways to slick, muddy traps. Marigold moved fast, clutching her shawl tighter, shoes slipping slightly as she crossed the edge of the gravel road, breath quick from the storm and her own lingering shame.

She didn’t expect him.

Didn’t see him.

Not until he spoke.

“You keep walkin’ like that,” came the voice behind her, smooth and low, “you gon’ end up on your knees.”

Marigold spun around, heart punching her ribs.

Stack stood beneath the shadowed eaves of the bakery, hat pulled low, collar up, rain sliding down the curve of his cheek. His eyes gleamed with mischief and menace. The kind of smile that burned scripture.

“You—” she started, voice tight, “You ought not sneak up on people like that.”

Stack stepped forward, “Ain’t sneakin’ if I been waitin’.”

“For what?” she snapped.

He tilted his head, “For you to stop pretendin’.”

Marigold scoffed, starting to turn away—but her heel slipped, and her body pitched slightly. She caught herself on a lamppost, fingers gripping the wet metal.

He chuckled low, “Careful, Sister. Streets get slick when you lie.”

“Don’t speak to me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you know me.”

Stack’s smile widened, “I do know you.”

He stepped closer, slow, deliberate.

“I saw you that night. Out front. Standin’ in the shadows with your little veil like you wasn’t watchin’.”

She stiffened, “You’re mistaken.”

“No, I ain’t.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, “You saw my dick in Mirabel’s mouth.”

Her eyes widened, “You filthy—!”

“She was workin’ it like she had rent due,” he continued, licking a raindrop off his bottom lip, “Makin’ that wet, sloppy noise you hear when somebody don’t care who see ’em.” He leaned in, heat rolling off him in waves despite the rain, “You saw how thick it was, didn’t you?”

“Stop it!” she hissed, “Let me go!”

“You sure you want that?” His eyes dropped to her mouth, then lower, “You sure you didn’t come back just hopin’ I’d notice?”

She tried to slip past him—but he shifted to block her path, arm braced against the wall beside her head. She froze beneath him, the scent of him—ash and spice— coiling into her lungs.

“Let me pass.”

“I should,” he said, mock-thoughtful, “I really should,” His voice dipped low, almost a purr, “But see…there’s somethin’ missin’ from my wardrobe lately. Somethin’ that usually sits real snug round my hips. Heavy. Worn. Leather. Brass buckle.” He looked her dead in the eye, “You wouldn’t happen to know where my favorite belt ran off to…would you, Sister?”

Marigold swallowed.

He grinned.

“You know, I been thinkin’…if I was a belt? I’d hide somewhere warm. Somewhere dark. Somewhere that smelled like rosewater and guilt.”

She slapped him.

Or tried to.

He caught her wrist mid-air. His fingers closed around her like a prayer with no exit.

“You really think I don’t see it?” he said, eyes flaring, “The way you tremble? The way you burn? Hell, I could smell your want that night across the street. Thought the rain might’ve washed it off but nah… You still stink of it.”

She was breathing hard now, lips parted, chest rising and falling beneath the soaked fabric of her dress.

“You don’t know me,” she whispered, voice cracking.

“Don’t I?”

His face was inches from hers now. The rain dripped from the brim of his hat, trailing down his jaw and onto hers like a sin passed by touch.

“You still got it, don’t you?” he murmured, “That belt.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her silence was loud.

And he knew.

The rain didn’t let up. It came down harder, now—big, round drops slapping against rooftops, soaking through cloth and bone. The street glistened like black glass. Thunder rumbled low and steady in the distance, like God holding His breath.

Stack hadn’t moved.

He still had her wrist in his hand.

Marigold stared at him, wild-eyed, lips parted. Her shawl clung to her shoulders, soaked straight through. Strands of hair stuck to her cheek. Her breath came in short, furious bursts.

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

Stack tilted his head, “Say it again. Like you mean it this time.”

“I said let me go.”

“But that ain’t what you really want, is it?” His voice was calm. Dangerous. Velvet dipped in oil,“What you really want…is for me to drag you into the back of that juke and make you scream like you been silent your whole damn life.”

Her body jolted at that. She yanked her arm from his grip.

“Who do you think you are?” she snapped, stepping back, “You think you can say filthy things to me like I’m one of those women you pass around in that hell-den of yours?”

He grinned, teeth flashing white beneath the rain, “I ain’t gotta say it. Your body already did.”

She slapped him then—this time it landed.

His head turned from the force of it.

But he didn’t retreat.

He just…laughed. A deep, dangerous laugh that made her knees threaten to buckle. He turned back slow, eyes glittering.

“Mm,” he rasped, “There she go.”

Marigold’s chest heaved. Her palms burned. She pushed at his chest with both hands—hard. But Stack didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t sway. He was all muscle and weight, heat and height—carved from something that didn’t yield. She shoved him again, more desperate this time.

Still nothing.

Like trying to move a tree.

She let out a frustrated breath and gave up, fists curling at her sides.

“Feel better?” he murmured, voice thick with smug heat, “You done?”

She hated him. She hated how her hands tingled from touching him. She hated that her body leaned forward, even when her mouth said run.

And Stack? Stack just stood there.

Smirking.

Solid.

Unbothered.

And entirely in control.

“I am a married woman.”

“Yeah, I seen your husband. Full of fire on Sunday, empty as a grave the rest of the week.”

“Don’t talk about Obadiah.”

“Then stop actin’ like he still fills your bed.”

Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Stack stepped closer.

The space between them shrank to nothing.

“Tell me the truth,” he said, voice low and searing, “Tell me who you dream about. Tell me whose belt you still got folded up in linen like it’s holy.”

“I do not want you.”

“Liar.”

“I would never let you—”

“Bend you over?” he cut in, stepping even closer, chest almost brushing hers, “Pull your drawers down? Take what you too scared to ask for?” His lips hovered near her ear now, “You’d let me.”

Her whole body trembled.

Her fists clenched at her sides.

“You’re disgusting.”

“And yet here you are. Again.”

“I should’ve never—”

He raised a hand. Just one finger. Placed it gently over her lips.

Rain dripped from the brim of his hat to her nose. His other hand ghosted the side of her throat. Not quite touching. But close enough for her to feel it.

“I ain’t gonna kiss you,” he whispered.

Her breath caught. Her heart pounded like it wanted out.

“You don’t get that yet.”

She blinked up at him, lashes wet, lips trembling.

“You’ll get it,” he said, pulling back just slightly, “But not until you ask. Not until that mouth of yours learns how to beg.”

Marigold swallowed hard.

Stack tilted his head, eyes raking over her soaked, righteous silhouette.

“You know where to find me when you’re ready to break.”

And with that, he turned.

That was two days ago.

Night settled slow over the house.

The kind of Southern dark that crept in humid, thick, and buzzing with secrets. The windows were cracked for air. A train groaned far off in the distance. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked twice and fell silent. Marigold stood in the middle of her bedroom, barefoot, her nightgown clinging to her hips and her hands trembling. The belt lay stretched across her bed, neat and straight atop the quilt her mother had sewn for her wedding. It looked so out of place there—dark, masculine, leather still warm from the heat of her body. She had kept it hidden beneath her shawl the entire walk home. Had held it close to her ribs through dinner. Through prayer.

Through Obadiah’s sermon recap.

Through bedtime scripture.

She had listened. Nodded. Folded her hands like a good wife. Let him kiss her forehead and close the door behind him to sleep in the study—something he did often these days. Said he needed quiet. Said it helped him commune with the Lord.

She didn’t argue.

But now, alone, she stood before the belt like it might speak.

Her breath slowed.

Her lips parted.

She reached out and touched it with the tips of her fingers —a gentle graze, like she was testing a wound.

The leather was warm. Soft. But dense. It felt alive beneath her hand.

She stroked it.

Slowly.

Then again.

Her breath caught.

She ran her palm across the grain, following the curve where it once hugged Stack’s waist. The shape of him lingered in it. His presence coiled into the leather like memory.

She brought it to her nose.

Closed her eyes.

It smelled of ash and skin. Sweat. Some sharp cologne, faint now, but still clinging. She inhaled too long. Too deep. A whimper nearly slipped from her lips.

She stepped closer to the bed.

Let her nightgown slide off one shoulder.

Then the other.

It pooled around her feet, leaving her bare in the lamplight.

She sat slowly on the edge of the bed and let the belt trail across her thigh. The sensation jolted her—hot, electric. Her skin prickled. Her hand twitched. She dragged the belt across her lap. Up her belly. Between her breasts.

Her thighs pressed together. She was breathing too fast. Marigold didn’t touch herself, but her head tipped back. She thought about what it would feel like if he did. She imagined his voice in her ear.

“There she go.”

The belt slipped from her fingers, landing beside her on the bed. Her hand hovered over it, shaking. Then—as if catching herself in the act—she rose abruptly, snatched it up, and opened the closet. She stuffed the belt beneath a stack of folded linen and slammed the door shut.

Her chest heaved.

Her face was flushed.

Her body ached.

She pressed her palms to her cheeks. Tried to breathe. Tried to pray. But something inside her had already shifted. Some silent line had already snapped. And when she whispered into the empty room this time, her voice didn’t tremble.

“I’m going to him.”

She turned off the lamp.

Laid down in the dark.

And didn’t dream.

She planned.

The hour was late. The Blackline had just begun its slow descent into hush.

The night’s music had dulled to a low hum behind thick velvet drapes, the girls upstairs were either drifting to sleep or tangled in company, and Stack was alone in the side parlor near the back hall—where he always went when his nerves itched. The room was dim and smoky, lit only by a single green-shaded banker’s lamp and the flicker of a cheroot burning slow between his fingers. He’d taken off his suit jacket. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms. Suspenders hung slack at his sides. The scent of bourbon, sweat, cigar smoke, and furniture polish mingled like musk. Somewhere upstairs, someone moaned behind closed doors. The air carried that heat—the kind that makes your collar stick to your neck. The kind that lingers in the wood.

That’s when she came.

Sister Marigold Baptiste.

Like thunder in white silk.

She didn’t knock.

She walked through The Blackline’s front entrance with the steadiness of a woman who had rehearsed this moment a thousand times. A woman whose soul had been gnawed hollow by silence and prayer. She didn’t flinch when the front girls peered up from their seats in the foyer. Cordelia stilled in a doorway, a cigarette halfway to her lips. Peaches blinked wide from behind the bar, her hand frozen on the bourbon.

But Marigold didn’t speak.

She just walked.

Click. Click. Click.

Her shoes were white pumps, leather soft and worn. Her dress was an ivory tea-length number, simple but hugging—something old and tailored, cinched at the waist with tiny cloth-covered buttons trailing down the center like a spine. It was tight at the bust, looser at the arms. Her sleeves brushed the inside of her elbows as she moved. Her hair—usually pinned and prim—was swept into a low, loose chignon, curls escaping along her neck and temples like the unraveling of something sacred.

She smelled of rosewater. And something warmer. Deeper.

Like sin about to blossom.

And in her hand—clutched to her chest the way a child might carry a Bible—was the belt.

Elias Moore’s belt.

The one he’d left behind in the pew. The one she’d hidden beneath her underthings for nights. The one she’d touched and trembled with.

Her fingers gripped the worn leather like a ribbon of revelation.

He felt her before he saw her.

A shift in the air.

A scent too delicate for a house like this—rosewater, maybe. Faint lavender. The kind of perfume pressed into handkerchiefs and hymn books

Stack leaned back in his leather chair, the green-glass lamp behind him casting soft shadows over his face. The parlor was dim, humid with cigar smoke and night heat. He’d poured two fingers of bourbon and let it sit, untouched.

Then—

She appeared in the doorway.

Sister Marigold Baptiste.

And the whole room bowed to her silence.

Stack didn’t move. Not right away.

He just dragged his eyes up from her ankles, slow. Real slow.

Her dress was pale cream tonight. Modest, yes—but worn like armor loosened at the seams. The buttons at her chest strained ever so slightly, as if her body no longer wanted to be contained. Her stockings were back-seamed, a faint run catching the back of her calf. Her hair was pinned, but not tight—curling soft around her temple like something sacred had unraveled.

And in her hand—

His belt.

Held like an offering. Or a question.

Stack wet his lips. Let his thumb slide across the edge of his glass but didn’t drink.

He watched her step in, slow, unsure.

The room swallowed her whole.

She didn’t speak. Not yet.

Just stood there. Clutching that belt in one hand, the other curled into her skirt. Her lips were parted, her throat trembling with whatever she couldn’t yet bring herself to say.

Stack finally shifted, spreading his legs a little wider as he sat back. The leather creaked.

“Well,” he spoke with a deep rasp, voice thick as molasses, “Ain’t this a vision.”

Her eyes fluttered. Her gaze stayed just shy of his.

He smiled—slow, hungry, “You come to throw that at my feet, or bring it to my hand?”

Marigold’s throat bobbed.

“I…” she began, voice soft, hoarse, “I shouldn’t be here.”

Stack didn’t interrupt.

“I—I tried to leave. I passed the door twice.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I prayed,” she whispered, eyes glossing, “I really did.”

Silence.

“I been tryin’ to…fix something. But I don’t even know what’s broke.” She laughed, small and cracked, like it hurt to come out, “Maybe I’m what’s broke.”

Her grip on the belt shifted. She took another step forward.

“I was lookin’ for peace, I think.” Her voice trembled. “But I don’t think peace lives where I thought it did.”

She finally glanced at him—but just a flicker of eye contact. Like it scorched.

“There’s an ache,” she said, “A kind I can’t pray away.”

Stack leaned forward now, elbows on his knees. His eyes were sharp but unreadable.

“I thought maybe you’d know what to do with it.”

Her voice dropped.

“With me.”

She wasn’t crying. But something inside her was. Her chest rose and fell with shallow, shaky breaths. The belt—her hand rose slowly, as if it weighed more than leather should. She held it out, not to give…not quite. Just show. Her fingers trembled, her shoulders stiff as though she might crumple if he moved too fast.

“Tell me what it means,” she whispered, “Tell me why I took it.”

Stack stood.

He didn’t speak as he came to her—just closed the distance like he’d known she’d appear in that doorway. His palm wrapped around the belt, brushing her fingers as he took it from her.

But his other hand…his other hand lifted gently to her jaw.

She flinched—but didn’t pull away.

His thumb ran slow over her bottom lip. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her breath caught.

Stack didn’t kiss her.

Didn’t touch her anywhere else.

Just held her there, steady, and said—

“You already know what you want, baby girl. You just scared to say it.”

A beat. Her lashes lifted. Eyes glassy, locked on his now.

“And that’s alright,” he spoke, “Cause I ain’t scared to give it to you.”

She let out a shuddered breath.

“You came to the right place. At the right hour. With the right ache.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing her temple as he whispered.

“Welcome to The Blackline, Sister Marigold.”

Then, softer—

“Now let’s see what you really came to confess.”

He reached past her, still close—so close his breath kissed the edge of her ear. His fingers found the door behind her, and with one slow, deliberate motion, he began to close it.

Creeeaaak.

The sound cut through the silence like a sermon’s last word.

Marigold didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Her body stood frozen between retreat and revelation, every inch of her aware of how near he was. How his presence filled the room like heat rising in a closed chapel. Her chest brushed his lightly with every breath. She could feel the belt now in his hand at her side—dangling. Waiting.

The door clicked.

Soft. Certain. Final.

And in that single sound—the hush of velvet shadows, the faint music down the hall, the weight of his eyes, the scent of his skin—Marigold realized She hadn’t just entered The Blackline. She had crossed something. A line between ache and answer. Between prayer and pleasure. Between the woman she was told to be—and the one Elias Moore was about to draw out of her. And she wasn’t ready.But God help her—She wanted to be.

The heat in the room was different now. Not the sultry warmth of whiskey and wood polish—but something alive. Thicker. Watching her. Sliding against her skin beneath the satin seams of her dress. She kept her eyes on the floor, on the scuff marks in the old hardwood and the belt now in Stack’s hand. Her hands—gloved and still—remained at her sides, clenched so tight her fingers ached.

She could feel him. Standing behind her now. Close. Just a breath away. His presence blanketed her spine like gravity. Like heat rising behind a stained-glass window. He didn’t speak, not at first. He just watched her. Let her tremble. Let her stand there in the quiet agony of her own restraint. Marigold blinked hard. Her lashes fluttered. The tears weren’t falling yet, but they hovered. Heavy and hot.

And then—

His voice.

Low. Firm. Patient.

“Take off your gloves.”

She froze. It wasn’t the filth she feared. It was the gentleness. The normalcy of it. The power in something so small.

“Now.”

Her breath hitched. Her hands moved without asking permission from her mind. They rose, stiff, mechanical. The right hand found the pearl button at the base of the left glove and fumbled. Her fingers wouldn’t work. Her whole body was trembling now—barely visible, but deep. Her chest rose in shallow, rapid breaths. Each one a silent gasp, trying not to become a sob.

Why is this so hard?

It’s just gloves. Just gloves.

But it wasn’t.

It was the first offering. The peeling of the thing that made her feel decent. Covered. Controlled. She unfastened the first glove. Tugged. It came off slow, turned inside out with every pull, like skin shedding off memory. She dropped it without thinking.

Then the second.

Her breathing hitched again, sharper this time. She was crying now—but only barely. A single tear rolled down the corner of her nose and fell onto the back of her hand. Stack still didn’t touch her, didn’t rush. Just stood there. Watching her undress the lie. The second glove dropped atop the first with a whisper of silk. Both lay limp on the floor between her and him. She didn’t know what to do with her hands. They floated awkwardly in the air, fingers twitching. Naked now. Tender. Exposed.

Stack stepped closer.

So close she could feel the heat of his chest against her back. But he didn’t touch her. Not yet.

“Good,” he said.

That one word slithered into her gut and curled around something buried deep. His voice dropped lower.

“Now put your hands behind your back.”

Her breath stuttered. A jolt of shame rushed up her neck like fire. She shook her head once—but her body didn’t move away. Her feet stayed rooted.

He waited.

“Ain’t gonna make you,” he said quietly, “But I wanna see how much you wanna be still.”

The ache between her thighs pulsed like a secret. Like guilt.

Like truth.

Her shoulders rolled back slowly.

Fingers trembling, she brought both bare hands behind her back and laced them together—like a sinner waiting for judgment. Her breathing was soft now. Raspy. Like she was choking on air that didn’t belong to her anymore.

Stack circled her.

Once. Slow. Like a man inspecting a painting he already knew he would buy. Her chin dipped in shame, but she didn’t move. Didn’t flee. Not even when he came to stand directly in front of her, belt still in hand, his eyes boring into hers like they could see every dirty thought she’d buried beneath gospel and godliness.

“There she go,” he spoke, “I see you now.”

She blinked, hard. Tears spilled this time—quiet, steady, without sobbing. Her lips quivered. She still hadn’t spoken.

“You standin’ right at the edge, baby,” he said, voice like velvet over gravel, “I ain’t pushin’. But I am watchin’. I need to know if you gon’ step forward…” He leaned in, his breath ghosting her cheek, “…or keep hidin’ behind that choir robe.”

Her hands tightened behind her. Her knees felt like they might buckle. Her lips parted, but no words came. Only breath. Stack smiled softly. No cruelty this time. No mockery. Just heat. And hunger. And the patience of a man who knew—He had her. Not all of her but the first piece that said:

Yes.

Without ever speaking, her hands stayed behind her back. Bare. Trembling. Like a sinner caught between two altars—the one she was raised beneath, and the one standing before her now.

Stack didn’t touch her.

He just circled—once, slow—letting the silence swell between them like heat in a closed chapel. Marigold couldn’t breathe right. Her breaths came shallow and tight, catching at the base of her throat. Her chest rose with each one, soft satin pulling taut over her ribs. Her legs were locked. Her knees buzzed with strain.

She kept her eyes down because if she looked up…

She might confess everything.

And then—his voice again. Quiet. Low. Commanding without cruelty.

“Look at me.”

Marigold blinked, lips parting. Her heart thudded loud in her ears, almost drowning him out.

“No rush,” he spoke with a measured voice, “But I need your eyes now, baby. Just your eyes.”

Her chin stayed tucked for a moment. Her lashes fluttered—wet and heavy. Another tear spilled, ran slow over the curve of her cheek, but she didn’t move to wipe it. Her shoulders trembled.

“Look at me.”

The command was gentler this time, but no less firm. It wrapped around her like a glove. Fit where it hurt.

Slowly…painfully…Marigold lifted her chin.

Her gaze traveled inch by inch up his chest, past the open collar of his shirt, over the line of his throat, the stubble at his jaw, the curve of his mouth—and finally, finally into his eyes. Stack didn’t smirk. Didn’t gloat. He just looked back. His expression unreadable—but thick with heat. Not lust. Not yet. Something deeper. Something steady.

He saw her.

All of her.

Even the parts she hadn’t admitted to herself. She held his gaze for two full heartbeats.

Then a third.

And on the fourth—her breath hitched again. Her lips quivered.

She wanted to look away, but she didn’t.

Stack nodded once.

Not praise. Not pity.

Just…acceptance.

Then he stepped away. Walked to the side table near the green-shaded lamp. Poured a finger of whiskey into a cut-glass tumbler. The bottle gave a soft glug as the liquid hit crystal. He turned and set the glass on the table closest to her. Didn’t hand it to her. Didn’t say it was hers.

Just…left it there.

Then he spoke. Soft. Certain.

“That’s enough for tonight.”

A beat.

“Go home if you want.”

Another.

“Or stay.”

His eyes met hers one more time. But only for a breath.

Then—

He turned.

Walked away with quiet steps across the wood floor. Not fast. Not lingering. Just sure. The belt still hung from his hand. He paused at a hook near the wall and hung it gently. Like it was sacred. Then disappeared into the dark hallway, his silhouette swallowed by the hush.

And Marigold—

She stayed there.

Alone.

Her hands still behind her back. Tears drying on her cheeks. Breasts rising and falling with unspent breath. Her thighs clenched with something she didn’t yet have words for.

The glass of whiskey sat on the table.

Waiting.

And so did the silence.

She could turn. She could flee. She could fall to her knees right here on the parlor floor.

It was her decision now. No scripture to consult. No husband to answer to. No choir to hide behind. Just the ache in her belly. The heat behind her eyes. And the whisper of his voice still coiled in her ear.

Look at me.

The night was still.

And the belt stayed hanging.

July 9th

1:47am

She’d written it in trembling cursive. Ink smudged near the bottom corner where her palm rested too long. The paper smells faintly of lavender, sweat, and something darker.

I didn’t drink it.

That’s the first thing I have to say.

He poured it, but I didn’t drink it.

I thought about it. The way the glass caught the light. The way the amber curled around itself like it knew my name.

But I didn’t touch it.

Not the drink.

Not the chair.

Not him.

…But I wanted to.

God help me, I wanted to.

He told me to look at him.

That’s all he said.

Look at me.

And I did.

I did it like it meant something.

Like it was more than what it was.

I think it was.

My hands were behind my back. I don’t even remember deciding to do that. I just did it because he told me. And I wanted to show him…something. That I wasn’t weak. That I could hold still. That I wasn’t afraid.

But I was. I am.

I stayed in that room for too long.

Longer than I should have.

The door was closed.

The drink was there.

He left me alone.

And still—

I felt him in that space.

Like heat that clings to the walls after the oven’s been turned off.

Like the scent of leather and smoke still sitting in my lungs.

I couldn’t move at first. My legs wouldn’t work. My chest was too tight. I cried—but quiet. Not loud enough for anyone to hear.

Not loud enough for me to admit what I was really crying about.

It’s the belt.

That was the beginning. That was the offering.

Why did I take it?

Why did I hold it like it was the Word made flesh?

I’ve been married 20 years.

I’ve been a church wife. A choir woman. A good, decent, saved woman.

But in that room…

I wasn’t anybody’s wife.

I wasn’t anybody’s example.

I was a woman.

And he saw me.

And I let him.

I walked home fast. I didn’t want to run because I didn’t want to look afraid.

But I was afraid.

My keys slipped in the lock. My hands were still shaking. My dress clung to the back of my knees with sweat. I didn’t even light the lamp when I came in—I just sat down on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor.

Obadiah was asleep.

He didn’t stir.

I’m still wearing the dress.

I’m still…wanting.

He didn’t touch me.

But it feels like he did.

He left a bruise somewhere I can’t see.

Or maybe it’s always been there, and he just pressed on it.

I don’t know what’s worse—

The shame.

Or the relief of being seen.

I can’t pray tonight.

I tried, but the words got stuck.

I said “Father” and all I could think of was his voice.

That low drawl.

The way he said “Good” when I moved my hands behind my back.

Like obedience could be sweet.

I should’ve stayed away.

I should’ve never walked through that door.

But I’m scared of what it means that I did.

That I might go back.

That I might not be able to stop myself.

That I might not want to.

Question:

If desire is a sin…

Why does it feel like worship?

The morning light slanted low through the window blinds, cutting the office in uneven stripes of gold and dust. Stack stood at the mirror in his private quarters above The Blackline—shirt open, slacks buttoned, sock feet flat on the worn rug. The air still held the scent of last night’s smoke and the faintest trace of her perfume. Rosewater and something deeper. Something warm. Like the inside of a secret. His suspenders hung at his sides. His tie sat in his hands, tangled.

And on the edge of the dresser—Two white gloves.

Folded. Neat.

Left behind.

He hadn’t touched them since she dropped them. Hadn’t let anyone else touch them either. They sat there like a question he didn’t need answered.

She didn’t stay.

He knew that. Heard the faint creak of the front door open long after the house had gone quiet. Heard the whisper of her heels across the parlor floor. He’d stayed in his chair in the hallway and let her go. Didn’t follow. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to. Because she’d already given him the part he wanted most:

Her eyes.

That look.

That look.

When she finally lifted her chin and met him full-on, wet lashes trembling and mouth open like she might cry or beg or both—

It wrecked him.

Not because it was filthy.

But because it was real.

He’d seen lust in women before. Seen need. Seen greed, want, heat. He’d had women sob on his dick, praise his name like it was gospel. But this—This was ache born from decades of denial. This was a woman starving for permission.

And when she obeyed?

When she moved her hands behind her back and stood there for him like worship?

Stack had to walk away or he would’ve ruined her. He exhaled slow, tie still hanging slack between his fingers. His dick had been half-hard all night, twitching in his sleep like it was reaching for something it didn’t get. Now, fully awake, he couldn’t keep his mind from her.

That satin dress.

Those soft trembling hands.

The little run in her stocking.

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

She didn’t even know what she was asking for.

But she would.

She would.

And he’d make sure when she gave in again—it would be full. He tried again to loop his tie.

Failed.

“Shit.”

He dropped it on the dresser and reached for his suspenders instead, sliding them over his shoulders just as the door cracked open behind him.

“You’re struggling,” came Mirabel’s voice, low and sugar-laced.

Stack didn’t turn.

“I got it.”

“Mmhm.” She stepped in anyway, silk robe swishing behind her. Hair pinned. Lipstick perfect, “Let me.”

He let her step close. Let her fingers graze his shirt collar, tug the tie into place with practiced ease. She was good at that. Helping him dress. Helping him undress. Knew how he liked his collars pinched tight and his cuffs squared.

But as she straightened the knot, her eyes drifted to the dresser.

To the gloves.

She paused.

“These ain’t Cordelia’s,” she spoke with a calculated tone, fingers brushing lightly over the white satin, “Too stiff for Odessa. Too plain for Peaches.”

Her eyes flicked to him.

“You got a new girl, Daddy?”

Stack’s eyes stayed on the mirror.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t answer.

Mirabel’s mouth curled at the corner. She stepped in closer, her hand sliding down his chest, lower, lower—until her palm ghosted over the bulge pressing against his slacks.

“Mm,” she cooed, “You want me to take care of this for you, Daddy?”

Her fingers pressed lightly.

Teased.

And for a moment, Stack’s eyes did close. Just for a breath.

But then—He reached down, took her wrist gently, and moved her hand away.

“Nah.”

One word. Final. Not cruel. But resolute. Mirabel blinked. Her lips parted. She wasn’t used to being turned down—especially not by him.

“You sure?”

Stack turned from the mirror finally. His expression wasn’t angry. It was…elsewhere.

“Yeah, baby. I’m sure.”

A beat passed. Mirabel stepped back, smoothing her robe. She didn’t pout. She didn’t push. But the air between them changed—cooling fast.

“Let me know when you’re in the mood to be taken care of,” she said with a smile too polished to be sincere.

Stack didn’t respond.

She left.

And when the door clicked shut again, it was like the room shifted back.

His eyes returned to the gloves.

Still sitting there. Still waiting.

Like she was.

Like he was.

He didn’t pick them up.

He just stared at them a while longer.

Then reached for his pocket watch, checked the time and whispered under his breath—

“She comin’ back. I know she is.”

His dick still pulsed in his slacks.

His breath still dragged a little shallow.

But he didn’t reach for relief.

Not yet.

Because some things were worth waiting for.

The soft clatter of women preparing for the church fundraiser echoed faintly down the hallway—laughter laced with command, pots being stirred in the kitchen, folding tables unfolding with metallic sighs. The scent of cornbread and boiled greens drifted under the door, mingling with something older: cedarwood polish, wax paper, the faint iron tang of ink.

Marigold stood alone in Obadiah’s office.

The door was half-shut. The light was low. Her gloved hands pressed lightly to the edges of the polished desk, as if steadying herself. Her breath came in slow, uneven pulls. She wasn’t crying—but she was near it. Somewhere between shame and heat, her body hummed with last night’s memory.

She had come here under the excuse of needing a moment.

Just a moment to fix her face.

To breathe.

To pretend.

She hadn’t meant to look at anything.

But the paper caught her eye.

A single sheet laid out on Obadiah’s desk, its edges curling ever so slightly. The writing was bold—his—a preacher’s script, sharp and clean. But what struck her most wasn’t the words.

It was the names.

A column of them. All women. First names only.

And next to most of them…

A single, deliberate black line, scratched across like a blade.

Marigold’s fingers inched closer.

She wasn’t sure why. She just…wanted to read them. Just a little closer. Just one name.

Her gloved hand hovered above the paper.

And then—

“Wife.”

The word rang out warm and heavy like a church bell.

Marigold startled. She turned fast, hand retreating, lips parted.

Obadiah stood in the doorway.

He wore his Sunday gray. A deep charcoal suit pressed to perfection, collar stiff with starch, his white pastor’s robe draped neatly over one arm. He looked at her not with anger, but with the practiced stillness of a man who never had to raise his voice to be obeyed.

“You alright?” he asked, his tone lined with concern—but his gaze flicked briefly, unmistakably, to the paper she’d been staring at.

Marigold swallowed.

“Yes, husband. Just—gathering myself.”

Obadiah stepped forward.

“The women have been askin’ for you. Said they need your hand with the tables.”

His fingers brushed invisible dust from his robe. His tone stayed kind. Light. But his words turned.

“It ain’t fitting,” he spoke with an even tone, “for a woman to tarry too long in the places where God gives his men their tasks.”

Marigold froze.

He continued, voice soft, slipping into his preacher’s cadence like water finding its groove in stone.

“For it is written—‘The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil.’ Proverbs. Thirty-one.”

His smile returned, faint but fixed.

“You remember your scripture, don’t you?”

Marigold dropped her gaze. Her fingers clutched her skirt lightly, pulling it smooth. Her voice came out softer than intended.

“Yes, husband.”

Obadiah tilted his head.

“Good.”

He stepped aside, letting the doorway open fully.

“Go on now. The people waitin’.”

She nodded. Moved past him. Her shoes tapped against the tile. Her spine straightened. She pressed her lips together to keep her face set. By the time she reached the hallway, she was smiling again.

And she did not look back.

The fellowship hall was already blooming with activity.

Rows of tables had been set with floral cloths—roses, magnolias, and soft blues to match the church’s summer theme. The air smelled of yeast rolls, lemon glaze, and heat-dampened perfume. Women in starch-pressed dresses moved like bees—fussing over cakes, arranging pies, smoothing centerpieces, pretending nothing in their world had ever gone astray.

When Marigold entered, the buzz didn’t stop.

But it shifted.

Just slightly.

Like a teacup rattling on a saucer too long.

She felt it before she saw it—the pause.

The way fans slowed.

The way conversation dipped and then picked up again, only louder.

She pasted on her practiced smile.

“Sisters,” she greeted, voice warm, measured.

She joined the nearest table, adjusting a plate of pecan tassies without touching them. Her gloves were back on—pearled, pressed. Her back was straight. No tremble in her hands now.

But Sister Hester saw it anyway.

“We were beginnin’ to wonder if you’d gotten lost,” Hester said, her voice as tight as the bun coiled at the crown of her head. She clutched her Bible like it might leap from her arms, “We know how easy it is to be led astray in dark corners.”

A few chuckles. Quiet, unsure.

Marigold didn’t rise to it.

“Just needed a moment to collect myself,” she replied. “Had a slight faintness. The heat.”

“Hmm.” Hester hummed like a judge who already had the verdict, “Well, we are women of endurance. Scripture says the righteous shall not be moved.”

“Amen,” Claudine added smoothly from across the room. She didn’t look up from the punch bowl, but her voice carried like gospel. Sister Claudine, always dignified, always observing. Her gloves today were cream-colored lace. Her brooch was gold and shaped like a lily, “And the righteous are never late.”

“I wasn’t late,” Marigold said gently, “I was present in spirit, even if not in the room.”

“Mm. Well. Presence is a slippery thing,” Hester said, fanning herself with one hand and pretending to smile.

Before the silence could sour, Sister Bernadine bustled in like a warm wind, her hips swaying in a floral-print dress that clung to curves she refused to hide.

“Now, y’all don’t scare her off with all this sanctified stiff-talk,” Bernie said, winking as she set down a tray of glazed ham biscuits, “Let the girl breathe. She got a lot on her shoulders, bein’ the preacher’s wife and all. Not everyone could hold that post without crackin’.”

That word. Crackin’.

It hit harder than she meant it to.

Bernie saw it too. She caught Marigold’s eye, gave the faintest nod.

A signal.

I see you.

I remember how it feels.

Marigold looked away.

“Sister Leona,” she said, turning toward the younger widow, who stood near the lemonade table, “Would you mind helping me fold the offering envelopes? The children’s table still needs them.”

Leona looked up quickly, startled. She nodded, brushing a curl from her cheek.

“Yes ma’am. Of course.”

But her hands trembled slightly as she picked up the basket. Marigold noticed. She didn’t say anything. They sat side by side for a moment at the edge of the room, folding envelopes in silence.

Then Leona spoke, voice barely above breath:

“They watch you, you know.”

Marigold blinked.

“What?”

“The other women. Not just today. Always.” Leona’s hands kept folding. Neat. Nervous, “Like they’re waitin’ for something.”

Marigold didn’t answer.

She folded another envelope.

Then another.

And when she finally looked up—Claudine, Hester, and Bernie were all watching from different corners of the room.

Some with pride.

Some with suspicion.

Some with recognition.

Marigold folded her final envelope slowly.

And smiled.

“Let them.”

The fundraiser had settled into soft clatter and distant laughter—pots being scraped clean, children darting between tables, folding chairs groaning beneath the weight of full bellies and heavy talk. But Marigold had slipped out long before the last deviled egg had been eaten.

She needed air.

She needed distance.

She needed not to hear her name being said with too much cheer or too much concern.

She crossed the gravel road behind the church and walked until her heels ached. Until she found herself beneath an old cedar tree at the edge of the empty lot—one of the few shaded places where no eyes followed, no mouths whispered.

From here, she could see it.

The Blackline.

Its dark silhouette stood proud just across the distance, backlit by the lazy glow of the late afternoon sun. The windows glinted gold. The wind stirred the edges of her skirt, brushing the fabric against her calves like a memory.

She sat on the bench beneath the tree and folded her hands tightly in her lap, gloves still on. Her thighs pressed together. Her mouth was dry.

It had only been a day since she stood in front of him.

Only a night since she placed her hands behind her back.

But her body remembered it like a lifetime ago.

His voice.

The belt in his hand.

The way he circled her like he already owned the skin she tried so hard to keep holy.

She shifted on the bench.

The pressure between her legs was soft and constant—an ache not loud but lingering. Shame hummed behind her ribs, but it did not burn the way it used to.

It warmed.

Does he miss me?

Did he know I ran?

Is he waiting?

Her fingers moved toward the buttons at the wrist of her glove, fumbling. She undid one. Then another.

She slid the glove halfway down.

Then stopped.

She looked again toward The Blackline.

Still. Silent.

Waiting.

She put the glove back on.

Upstairs, inside The Blackline…

Stack leaned in the window frame, shirt undone at the throat, suspenders hanging from his hips. He’d been watching for near twenty minutes now, cigarette ash building long and crooked before it dropped to the sill.

There she was.

Sitting under that tree like a verse unsung.

From this distance, she looked softer than she ever did in the front pew. More woman than saint. Her gloved hands fidgeted in her lap. Her head tilted slightly toward the house.

Toward him.

He could see her chest rise and fall in a rhythm he recognized.

The rhythm of restraint.

He dragged slow on the cigarette and let the smoke slide from his lips. His cock had been twitching all afternoon. Not with hunger—but with knowing. That some part of her would come back. Even if it was just her gaze. Just her breath in the air outside his window.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t open the door.

He wanted her to decide.

Come or don’t.

Break or bend.

But do it yourself.

His fingers twitched at his thigh. He remembered how she trembled under his voice. The way her breath hitched when he told her to look at him.

And now she sat there…

Looking.

He watched her undo her glove.

His jaw clenched.

But then—she slid it back on.

She ain’t ready. Not yet.

He whispered to himself, “But she close.”

He stepped back from the window, flicked the ash, and let the curtain fall closed.

Outside, beneath the cedar tree…

Marigold stood slowly. Smoothed her skirt. Pressed her lips together and cast one final glance toward the house.

She couldn’t tell if anyone had been watching.

But something in her gut twisted. Like her name had been spoken behind glass.

She turned back toward the church.

Her body moved with grace, with quiet discipline.

But inside—

She was thunder.

The men’s lounge was thick with cigar smoke and whiskey sweat. Low amber lamps cast everything in gold and grit, flickering against polished leather and the gleam of stacked poker chips. The floor vibrated beneath the slow crawl of a jazz number drifting in from the main room, something moody and horn-heavy.

Stack sat at the head of the table, long legs stretched out, a toothpick nestled between his lips like punctuation. His suit was cream, crisp despite the heat, his collar unfastened just enough to show a sliver of chest. Red silk glinted at his wrist beneath his cuff—he always kept a little flash near the veins. He was half-tipsy, just enough to keep him loose, not sloppy. But he was burning inside. And it wasn’t from the drink.

It was her.

That damn preacher’s wife.

Marigold with the lips that trembled and the hands that obeyed.

Marigold who looked like she’d melt if he touched her the wrong way and beg for it the second he did.

Marigold, who ran.

Marigold, who came back and sat under a tree like he didn’t already own the air she was breathing.

His hand twitched near his cards.

Across the table, Smoke sat cool as hell with Violet perched on his lap like sin dipped in sugar.

She looked like a starlet tonight—skin warm brown and glowing, her dress a silk blue so rich it nearly shimmered in the low light. A matching ribbon tied tight at her throat. Red lipstick, dimples on full display, and one hand curled delicately around Smoke’s cigar as she nursed a drink with the other. Smoke’s hand disappeared beneath her hem. She didn’t flinch—just giggled low as he whispered something filthy in her ear, her blush creeping down to the neckline of her dress.

Stack smirked. His brother was in a good mood tonight.

Then the man across the table—some out-of-town slick motherfucker with cheap cufflinks and louder opinions than sense—leaned forward.

“That ain’t four of a kind,” he muttered, glaring at Stack’s hand.

Stack didn’t blink.

“You sure you know what a king look like, or is yo’ ass just used to bein’ dealt low cards?”

The man’s face twitched.

“You cheatin’, pretty boy. I saw you swap that card.”

Silence fell like a hammer.

Even Violet stopped giggling.

One of the guards—Red, six foot four and stone-faced—took a half-step forward from the shadows. Walt, the other, shifted his hand toward his belt.

Smoke’s eyes cut toward Stack, already tense.

But Stack didn’t let the room respond.

He stood.

Smooth. Slow. Lethal.

“You callin’ me a cheater in my house?”

His voice was calm, almost bored.

The man rose too fast—anger rushing to his face like liquor.

Stack’s blade was out before he took a full breath.

The click was soft.

The gleam was deadly.

The blade pressed just beneath the man’s chin.

“Say that shit again.”

The man’s eyes widened. He tried to speak.

Stack didn’t give him the chance.

He clocked him once—jaw, sharp and fast.

The man stumbled.

Stack followed with a second hit, harder. A third.

A fourth.

Fists flying now, rage uncoiling—not just from the insult, but from everything he hadn’t touched. Everything he wanted to wreck.

Smoke was up in a flash, reaching him as Red and Walt moved in.

“Stack—enough.”

But Stack kept going.

Another blow.

Another.

The man was on the ground now, barely conscious.

“STACK,” Smoke snapped, grabbing his arm and yanking him back.

Silence.

Stack stood panting. Chest rising. Lip curled. Blood on his knuckles. On the floor. On his cuff.

His blade gleamed on the table beside the chips.

He blinked once. Straightened. Rolled his neck.

Then—like nothing had happened—he smoothed his hair back into place with both hands. Pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. Wiped his fingers. Fixed his collar.

Turned toward Red and Walt.

“Get his stupid ass outta my club.”

Walt nodded. The man was dragged away like trash, bleeding and limp. Stack poured himself another two fingers of whiskey and downed it in one smooth tilt.

Smoke was still watching.

“You good?” he asked low.

Stack licked his lip. Smirked.

“Always.”

The office was dark except for the soft glow of the lamp by the record shelf—its light low and golden, casting long shadows across the whiskey bottle and the poker chips he hadn’t cashed in. He stumbled a little, tipsy off bootleg whiskey and bloodlust. His knuckles still crusted in dried red where he’d cracked them across that nigga’s jaw. Stack dropped into the leather chair behind his desk, the cushion sighing beneath him, his knuckles still crusted with blood and sweat from the fight. The fight had lit something in him. But it wasn’t that that had him throbbing like this.

That sanctified serpent of a woman. All buttoned-up in white and pressed stiff like she ain’t never tasted sin.

She ran that night.

Ran.

Looked him right in his goddamn face and confessed her sins. That shit had his dick twitchin’ before he could even register what was happening. Stack groaned as he spread his legs wide, trousers stretched tight over his aching bulge. He palmed it, hissed, teeth flashing through a drunken smirk.

“You got me fucked up, church girl…”

His breath hadn’t evened out yet.

His chest rose slow and deep beneath his shirt. His body was still lit from the inside, pumped full of heat and ache. His jaw was tight. His brow damp. The adrenaline hadn’t left—not fully—and the hunger beneath it was louder now.

Louder than it had ever been.

He popped the button open and dragged down the zipper. The release alone had him gritting his teeth. He reached in, pulled his heavy length free, thick and already glistening at the tip. His head fell back, neck exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed down the filthy moan clawing up his throat.

“Shit…look what you done made me do…”

He licked his lips. Bit the bottom one.

He spit into his palm and wrapped it around his shaft, slow and deliberate, letting the slick sound echo through the empty room. The office was dark, only lit by the faint orange flicker of the juke sign outside bouncing off his sweaty chest. His shirt was open— buttons popped during the fight—and he didn’t bother fixin’ it. Sweat clung to him like sin.

“You walk ‘round like that pussy ain’t been itchin’ for somebody to tear it open. Come find me again, see what happen…”

Pussy always just fell in my lap. Too easy, most times. Beggin’ for it before I even finished my drink.

But Marigold?

She ran.

She returned.

She watched from under that tree like she didn’t already know who she belonged to. He hissed through his teeth as his palm slid down over the thick press in his slacks, his fingers curling around the weight of himself.

“Goddamn, girl…”

His dick throbbed hard in his grip.

He pushed his hips forward, spread his knees wide, leaned back deeper into the chair like he owned the room. His other hand flexed over the armrest—blood still drying at the knuckles, rough and raw.

“You got a man hurtin’.”

He dragged his palm slow, back and forth.

“Could’ve had my mouth on you by now. Could’ve bent you over that parlor table, had you screamin’ through them prayers you hold so tight.”

His breathing thickened. His fingers worked under the waistband, finally freeing himself. His hand moved faster now, thick veins pulsing beneath his grip. The base was so full, it almost ached. He tightened his hold and shifted his hips, letting his other hand drift lower— down to his balls. He rolled it, stroked it slow. Delicious.

He gasped softly, cursing.

He continued to talk shit. Speaking filth through his self pleasure.

“I know that cooze wet when you see me. You ain’t slick. You wanna get bent over them pews…wanna feel this big ol’ dick slammin’ up into that snatch while the choir sings ‘bout Jesus.”

His dick stood proud, flushed, twitching in the heat of the room. He spat in his palm some more, slow and wet, spit clinging to his bottom lip, then wrapped his fingers tight around the shaft. The slick slide of skin made him groan low.

He licked his lips, eyes fluttering half-shut, biting down on the corner of his mouth to keep from groaning loud. Wide-legged, drunk off lust, Stack moaned through clenched teeth as his strokes grew messier.

“I don’t even want none from them neck-stretchin’, gum-poppin’ gobblers tonight…fuck all that. I want you, Miss Baptiste. You and that trembling lip when you pray too hard…”

His strokes grew longer. Deeper. He leaned back further, damn near panting now, toes curling in his shoes. His whole body twitched, the sensation building like fire laced with honey. His blood was boiling.

“I’d have you cryin’ for it. Cryin’ while I’m splittin’ you open. You need to be punished, baby. Need somebody to pull that halo off with their teeth. That’s gon’ be me. Gon’ break you open nice and slow…”

He thumbed over the head, watching the pearl of precum smear across his slit. His belly clenched. The sight of his own filthy mess had him groaning, sweat dripping down his temples. He let his head roll to the side, teeth bared as his hand moved faster, rougher now.

“Damn, that’sss it…”

He stroked his sac again, breathed deep, his jaw locked, body seizing—

“I’d eat that holy little pussy with my tongue buried deep, one hand on your back, the other over your mouth…” His hips rocked with every stroke now. His breath came shallow, sweat curling at the edge of his hairline, “You thinkin’ ‘bout me? You sittin’ at home wet under that Sunday dress?”

His voice dropped, gravel-thick.

“I’ll wait, baby. But when you come back…I’m not lettin’ you leave without cryin’ on my dick.”

His hips stuttered.

His mouth fell open.

His eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck—”

His release hit hard—violent, thick pulses into his hand, his abs, the open air. He groaned like a man punished. One hand gripping the armrest so tight the veins in his wrist stood up. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed back the echo of her name.

Marigold.

Still not his.

But she would be.

The office was still thick with heat.

Stack slumped in the chair, shirt wrinkled, buttons askew, his chest still rising and falling in lazy, uneven pulls. Sweat clung to his collarbones. His hand rested low on his belly, knuckles crusted with blood, the other hanging limp by his side. He hadn’t moved since he came—too spent, too dazed, too wrapped in the afterglow of a woman who hadn’t even touched him.

Marigold.

Her name sat behind his eyes, pulsing.

He wiped his jaw with the back of his wrist, smearing a bit of sweat and spit across his cheek.

The door creaked open.

“Damn.”

Stack didn’t flinch.

Didn’t cover himself either.

Peaches stood in the doorway, a half-empty glass in her hand and a smirk on her face. Her sandy brown curls were piled on top of her head, a few tendrils stuck to her temple from sweat. She wore a deep red wrap dress that clung to her hips, and her gold tooth flashed as she smiled.

She closed the door behind her with her foot.

Didn’t say another word.

She crossed the room, set her drink down, and disappeared into the back with quiet grace. A moment later, she returned with a damp, warm cloth in her hands. She knelt, not in worship but in understanding. She cleaned him gently, eyes soft but amused. Her movements were slow. Familiar. The way women clean wounds, clean shame, clean heat that don’t need words.

“You bled too,” she said, nodding to his knuckles.

Stack grunted.

Peaches rinsed the cloth in the basin nearby, wrung it out, and wiped again.

“What happened?”

“Some fool in the lounge got loud,” he muttered, voice rough from drink and breathless strain, “Said I cheated.”

Peaches raised a brow. Smirked.

“You always cheat.”

He chuckled.

“Not tonight I ain’t.”

She stood, walked to the table, and poured him another drink. Whiskey and sweat still lingered in the air.

Peaches turned back, handed him the glass.

“So what was all this about?” she asked, gesturing lazily to the room, his chest, his dick now tucked away under slack fabric. “Ain’t like you to take care of yourself.”

Stack downed the drink in one go.

Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“She came to me.”

Peaches tilted her head.

He looked up, eyes unfocused, jaw tight.

“Marigold. Came to me like she was ready to fall…then ran.”

Peaches leaned her hip against the desk.

“And now you hooked.”

Stack rubbed his forehead, the heel of his hand dragging slow across his brow. His voice was quieter now. Throatier.

“I ain’t never been told no before. Not really. Puss—”

He paused.

“—Always came easy. Fell into my lap. Moanin’ before I even touched ‘em.”

Peaches raised her brows, unimpressed but entertained. Still just as cocky as the day she met him.

He leaned back again, exhaled through his teeth.

“But her…”

He shook his head, slowly.

“She different. Got me all twisted up. Got me beatin’ niggas half-dead and spillin’ on my damn self like a schoolboy.”

Peaches laughed. It was soft. Sweet. She walked behind him, ran a hand over his hair once—slow, almost maternal—then leaned down and kissed his cheek.

Her lips lingered for a moment.

Then she straightened.

“You don’t chase a woman like her, Stack.”

He looked up at her.

“You sure?”

“Positive,” Peaches said, “A woman like Marigold? She already know where to find you. And when she ready…”

She winked.

“She’ll crawl through the damn walls if she got to.”

Stack stared at her for a beat. Then nodded once.

Peaches grabbed her drink again.

“Rest up, Daddy. Don’t wear yourself out before she comes back.”

She sauntered out, hips swaying, door closing behind her like a secret.

Stack stayed in the chair a little longer.

Glass empty.

Knuckles sore.

Heart pacing slow.

He closed his eyes and whispered her name once, just to taste it in the quiet.

“Marigold.”

The sky was soaked in the indigo hush of late evening, where the air hung warm and close like a secret too heavy to speak. Marigold walked alone beneath it, her soft-heeled shoes whispering against the back road gravel behind the church. The town slept on one side of her. But ahead—The Blackline stirred with life. Music, low and filthy, bled from its bones. Bass thrummed like a pulse beneath her ribs. She kept her eyes lowered, her gloved hands fidgeting at her waist. She was buttoned up, spine stiff, every line of her body trained to behave. A high-neck blouse, starched and sealed to the throat. A long, modest skirt that brushed the floor like a whisper. Her hair was pinned back so tight, it looked like it hurt—not a single curl out of place. Shoes polished, stockings smooth and unwrinkled.

She didn’t know why she came dressed like this. Or maybe she did.

She passed the hedges. The magnolia. She saw the outline of the juke’s back door glowing faintly under a crooked porch lamp. A moth danced near it. So did her stomach. The knock barely echoed before the door creaked open. The warm hush of The Blackline spilled out—cigar smoke, laughter, perfume, and something spiced and sweet from the kitchen. At first, there was only a sliver of light, then a wide, round face framed in a floral scarf peered out.

Aunt Pearl.

She blinked in confusion, then squinted through the dim, “Evenin’. Uh…can I help you, baby?”

Marigold swallowed, her voice caught in the hollow of her throat. Her gloved hands—white tonight—twitched at her sides. “I…I’m sorry to bother. I—”

Aunt Pearl leaned in. Recognition dawned.

“Well I’ll be. Sister Baptiste?”

Marigold flinched at the name, unspoken for hours.

Aunt Pearl cracked the door wider. Her heavy frame was wrapped in a muslin apron dusted with flour, sleeves rolled to her elbows, a wooden spoon clutched in one hand.

She smiled gently, “Ain’t seen you since me and my boy switched churches. You doin’ alright?”

Marigold hesitated. Her throat felt full. She remembered Pearl from potluck Sundays, her son trailing behind in pressed corduroys and church shoes. A good man. A quiet one.

“I’m…alright,” she managed, quietly, “Just needed a bit of air.”

Aunt Pearl’s face softened, “Mm. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that. Heat thick tonight. You need to come in, sit down a minute?”

Before Marigold could answer, a voice floated in from behind.

Mirabel.

Framed like a painting in red velvet, all soft curves and sharp edges. Her lips were freshly glossed, and her dark curls pinned high with a rhinestone comb that caught the light like a blade. She didn’t flinch when she saw Marigold. Didn’t gasp. Just leaned in the doorway, one brow arched with slow, Southern amusement.

“There you are, Auntie,” Mirabel said, striding up in a silk slip the color of dark cherries, her hips swaying like she never learned to walk quiet, “Minnie said we outta honey rolls again. She needs help gettin’ the last batch in before folks start fussin’. It’s slammin’ in here.”

Pearl exhaled, clearly annoyed, “Lord. I told her not to crowd that oven with them pies.”

She turned back to Marigold, “You sure you alright, baby?”

Marigold nodded gently. “Yes, ma’am.”

Pearl gave her a final glance—curious, but not pressing—then disappeared down the hallway, her slippers making soft sounds against the floor.

The second she was gone, the air shifted.

Mirabel leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, eyes sharp. She didn’t smile. Her gaze swept Marigold like a scan. From the top of her cloache hat down to the white glove–covered hands fidgeting nervously.

“Well, well,” she drawled, “Let me guess…you lookin’ for Big Daddy?”

Mirabel tilted her head, eyes dragging over the church dress, the white gloves. “You church girls always show up after dark, huh? After all that judgment in daylight.”

Her words landed like a slap disguised as a joke. Marigold stiffened.

Mirabel’s smile didn’t touch her eyes, “You know,” she said, voice syrup-thick and laced with something sour, “I could’ve sworn I saw a pair of gloves just like those sittin’ on Stack’s dresser.”

She took a slow step forward. Not close enough to touch, just enough to make Marigold feel boxed in, “I figured maybe one of the girls left ‘em behind. But Stack don’t usually keep nothin’ that don’t matter.”

She was too close, lips curved like a snake poised to strike. Her voice dropped, syrupy and cruel, “You just keep multiples on hand…or was that your little way of markin’ your territory?”

Marigold’s jaw trembled, but she didn’t speak.

Mirabel smirked, “You ain’t the first. Won’t be the last. You want a man like him? You better learn how to crawl first, sugar. ‘Cause Stack don’t chase no one,” Then, softer, “You should go on home. Before someone sees you here and starts askin’ questions you ain’t ready to answer.”

She let the silence stretch, the weight of it sitting heavy in the doorway.

Then, slowly, Mirabel stepped back—holding the door just wide enough for Marigold to choose.

Stay.

Or flee.

A long pause hung in the air, thick with perfume and unspoken warning.

She tilted her head, eyes glinting, “I guess some things don’t wash off in one night.”

Then—from somewhere beyond The Blackline, the bell rang.

Distant. Echoing.

Rising from the direction of the church like a call too old to question.

One long, low chime.

Marigold’s shoulders stiffened. The sound echoed in her chest like a secret she’d forgotten she was keeping. She didn’t know why, but her spine went cold. Mirabel, unbothered, glanced lazily toward the sound and smiled.

“That bell always gets me,” she murmured, “Makes the skin crawl, don’t it?”

Marigold stood frozen just past the threshold, Mirabel’s words still slithering in her ears. Her cheeks burned. Her throat thickened. Her legs—always trained to carry her away from sin, from stares, from want—began to move.

She turned.

Velvet swayed behind her, ghosting over the polished wood floor. Her hand reached for the door handle, gloves trembling. One more breath and she’d be gone. Back into the dark. Back into her silence. Back into the small life she had always been told was righteous enough.

But—

“Baby?”

The voice was soft, warm as a kettle left on low. Familiar.

Aunt Pearl.

She had doubled back from the hallway, wooden spoon still in hand, eyes soft and creased with concern.

“You alright?” she asked gently, brow furrowed as she took in the sight—Marigold’s shoulders hunched with shame and her lashes wet.

Marigold blinked, stunned by the sudden reprieve. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Pearl stepped forward, her slippers whispering across the floor. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t press. She just reached out and rested a flour-dusted hand on Marigold’s shoulder. Her touch was steady. Kind.

“You came all this way. Might as well step inside.”

Behind her, Mirabel tensed. Her mouth twisted, but she didn’t speak. Not with Pearl standing there. Marigold stood still. Her pulse loud. Her pride ragged. Her whole body caught between what she was supposed to be…and what she was becoming.

GOHHHHNNNNG

The bell tolled again in the distance. Faint. From the church.

Marigold blinked. That sound—once beautiful to her—now made her chest tighten. It rang just as she was turning to run. Why?

She didn’t know.

Not yet.

But she would.

Pearl gave her shoulder a soft pat, then stepped back, “I’ll go help Minnie,” she said, turning to Mirabel with a pointed look, “Make sure folks get what they came for.”

Mirabel, lips pursed, shifted aside.

The door remained open.

And this time—Marigold walked through it.

The kitchen was softer than the rest of The Blackline—low-lit, warm, smelling of cinnamon and rising bread. Pots clinked quietly in the distance, and the oven exhaled heat like a sleeping beast. The room felt like a place out of time. Marigold sat at the edge of the worn wooden table, hands still folded in her lap, gloves clutched tight. She didn’t know what to do with herself now that her feet had stopped moving. Her hat had come slightly askew in the breeze, but she didn’t fix it. Her pulse still hadn’t settled.

“Sit, baby,” Aunt Pearl had said gently, motioning to the chair, “Let your bones rest a spell.”

And so she had. Across from her, Minnie was kneeling in front of the open oven, checking the golden tops of honey rolls with practiced eyes. Her wrap was damp with flour, cheeks glowing, and her scent—vanilla, nutmeg, a trace of cocoa butter—wrapped around the room like a lullaby. When she turned and caught sight of Marigold, her soft brown eyes lit with recognition, not judgment.

“Well hey now,” Minnie murmured, voice like velvet against the hush of the kitchen heat, “I thought that was you.”

Marigold looked up, startled. Minnie offered a smile—slow, syrupy, laced with that quiet knowing some women carried deep in their bones. She didn’t look smug, just present. Grounded. Kind.

“I never been to your church,” she added gently, “but folks talk. They say you used to sit on the front row like scripture was stitched into your spine. Always dressed like the Lord Himself might walk in and choose you.”

Marigold’s lips parted—but she didn’t speak.

“I used to wonder,” Minnie said, pulling out a chair and easing down across from her, “what it felt like to carry that kind of weight. Bein’ the example. Bein’ looked at all the time like a mirror instead of a woman.”

That landed.

Marigold blinked, slow and deliberate. Her gloves tightened in her lap. Her voice, when it came, was low. “It feels like bein’ glass. Pretty from far off. But if anybody ever touched you too hard…” She trailed off.

“…you’d crack,” Minnie finished for her, “Maybe even cut.”

Their eyes met, full of understanding that didn’t need history to explain itself. Minnie stood quietly and retrieved a fresh honey roll from the warming basket, setting it on the table between them.

“Eat somethin’ if you can,” she said gently, “Even glass gotta be held with warm hands.”

Marigold touched the edge of the roll like it might vanish. Aunt Pearl stirred a pot at the stove, giving the women their moment. Then—

“Mirabel,” she called without turning. “Go on and fetch Elias. Let him know we got company.”

The sound of the name made Marigold’s spine straighten. Mirabel leaned against the doorframe, arms still folded, lips pursed like she’d swallowed something sour. Her gaze flicked between Marigold and Minnie, then to Aunt Pearl, who didn’t bother repeating herself.

“Go on,” she said again, this time firmer, “He ain’t busy enough to leave a woman waitin’.”

Mirabel paused for one beat too long.

But then she turned.

And we follow her—

The floorboards groaned beneath Mirabel’s heels. She didn’t move fast. She moved like syrup—thick, deliberate, sweet only if you could stand the taste. Her cherry-red slip clung to her body like it had been poured on, the hem fluttering as she walked. The camera—if there was one—would’ve followed just behind her sway, the curve of her hips swaying left, right, left again, as she passed rooms dressed in heat and haze. Perfume. Bourbon. Ragtime faint and low from the jukebox. A woman’s moan behind a closed door. The click of dice hitting wood. Laughter rising, then dipping again.

The Blackline breathed all around her.

But Mirabel didn’t look back. Not at the kitchen she left behind. Not at Aunt Pearl scowling with her spoon. Not at Minnie’s soft voice cooing a hello. And certainly not at the church woman sitting stiff and out of place—white gloves trembling like the devil himself had kissed her knuckles. Mirabel’s eyes were fixed ahead. She passed Cordelia on the stairs, who raised one brow and said nothing. Just watched.

She passed Odessa powdering her chest in a cracked vanity mirror, “What you stomping for, Red?” she drawled.

Mirabel didn’t answer. Didn’t break stride. She turned the corner, down the back hallway. Lights dimmed to almost nothing. Walls narrowed. The sound of the house thinned behind her like steam leaving a bath. At the end of the hall—the last door on the left—light pooled under the crack.

Stack’s office.

She didn’t knock.

She opened it with two fingers and stepped inside. The door swung open on a room thick with tobacco and wood oil. Papers scattered across the desk, a half-empty glass of bourbon sweating beside them. An open switchblade glinted between cigar stubs in a brass tray.

Stack sat in his leather chair, half-reclined, one leg hooked over the arm, the other planted firm, toothpick in his mouth. He was shirtless under an open vest, suspenders hanging low, chest slick with the faint sheen of heat. A single gold chain caught the light. His hair was slicked back neat with pomade, parted sharp on the left—tamed like everything else he allowed the world to see. Not a strand out of place. Like he didn’t just get into a scuffle. He looked up, slow, eyes sharp and expecting.

“Mm,” Mirabel said, voice like poison spun in silk, “Your church girl came back.”

Stack didn’t blink.

“She’s in the kitchen. Lookin’ like a hymn that finally broke,” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, lips twisted, “Auntie told me to come fetch you,” she added, voice clipped with something bitter.

Stack rose. No words. Just the creak of leather, the scrape of chair legs, the weight of something shifting in the air, and grabbed his cream jacket. As he passed her, she didn’t move. Just tilted her head, daring him to gloat.

He didn’t.

Didn’t smirk. Didn’t speak.

Just brushed past her, smelling of smoke and skin, bourbon and control.

The imaginary camera lingers for a beat too long on Mirabel’s face—jaw clenched, eyes burning.

And then—

Cut to black.

The door creaked open.

Stack stepped out of his office, slow and sure, a toothpick riding the corner of his smirk like it had been there all day. He adjusted one cuff—red silk glinting just beneath it—then tugged once at the hem of his cream suit jacket, the linen crisp despite the heat. His collar was open, just enough to show a sliver of chest and that gold glint at his throat.

We follow him—not from behind, but head-on—as if the camera walks backward through The Blackline, his frame growing larger with every step. Girls glide past in silk robes, giggling and glancing over their shoulders.

“Hey, Daddy,” one purrs, trailing a cherry-red fingernail down his chest as she passes, “Don’t forget who keeps your sweet tooth satisfied.”

“Stack, baby,” another calls from the velvet-curtained hallway, hip cocked against the wall, dark lipstick smudged from her last kiss, “You owe me a slow dance and a fast night.”

He doesn’t stop—just lifts his chin in acknowledgment, grin curling lazy at the corner. The swagger stays quiet, but it’s thick in his blood. He moves like smoke and bourbon—smooth, but flammable.

A laugh rings out from the card table near the main room.

“Pretty boi Stack!” a man hollers, half-drunk, slapping the table, “You ready for another round o’ poker? Or your hands still bruised from the last whuppin’ I gave you?”

Stack smirks without looking, voice low, “You still talkin’ that lie, huh?”

More laughter. A holler of protest. The clatter of dice hitting wood.

In the corner of his eye, he catches his brother.

Smoke stands near the bar, drink in hand, sleeves pushed up. Violet’s beside him, perched on a stool in deep silk blue taking a slow sip from his glass like it was hers to begin with. Smoke’s got a hand on her thigh—just resting there—and his eyes on her mouth. He doesn’t even notice Stack passing.

But Violet does.

She watches as Stack moves through the room like a storm building under velvet sky. She doesn’t smile—but her gaze lingers. Curious.

Then we turn with him. The hallway narrows near the kitchen. The air shifts. It’s warmer here. Thick with cinnamon, flour, vanilla. The scent of something sacred.

He reaches the doorway—and stops.

The laughter from the main room fades behind him like the hush before a sermon

There she is.

Marigold.

Still in her gloves. Still in that church dress. A honey roll untouched before her. Minnie seated across, speaking low. Aunt Pearl at the stove, stirring slow, but watching too.

Marigold doesn’t look up. Not yet.

Stack exhales like he’s been holding something since she left. His jaw clenches. His eyes roam.

She’s here. Again.

And this time…she stayed.

He steps forward, slow and certain, the way a man moves when the storm’s already inside him. Minnie rises without a word. Aunt Pearl steps aside. No one speaks.

He stops in front of her chair.

She looks up.

He doesn’t ask if she’s okay. Doesn’t question why she came.

He just reaches out a hand.

Palm open. Quiet. Waiting.

She hesitates only for a breath.

Then she gives it to him—the gloved hand, trembling in his. He curls his fingers around her like a vow. Helps her stand. Then walks her out of the kitchen. Not fast. Not slow. Just forward. Through the same hall he just came from. Past laughter. Past eyes. Past the veil between the holy and the hungry.

He doesn’t speak until they’re alone again. His hand closed around hers—warm, sure, unyielding.

Marigold followed.

The hallway stretched before them in a haze of low amber light, the hum of jazz bleeding in from somewhere deeper in the house. Her steps were measured, careful, but Stack didn’t rush her. He walked like he had all the time in the world, fingers laced with hers as though he’d done it a thousand times. She didn’t dare look at him. She couldn’t. Her eyes clung to the world around her instead, trying to absorb it all.

The walls breathed color—deep wine, soft golds, old wood. A velvet curtain parted slightly to reveal the main floor beyond: a curved bar, half-shadowed patrons laughing low, the shine of lipstick on glass. A woman in a crimson slip twirled her curls around her finger and gave Stack a slow once-over. Another one, barefoot with honeyed skin and hips made of music, called out, “Evenin’, Pretty Boy.”

Marigold stiffened.

But Stack didn’t slow. He just nodded in passing, his thumb brushing lightly along the back of her hand, as if to remind her: stay here with me. She caught a glimpse of smoke curling from a cigar. A flash of sequins. The glint of gold teeth when someone laughed. Everything about this place shimmered with mischief, like sin had come home and put on perfume.

What am I doing here? she thought.

And yet…her legs kept moving. Her hand stayed in his. And beneath the iron corset of her blouse, her heart pounded something fierce. As they passed a long mirror framed in dark cherry wood, Marigold caught a flash of their reflection—his tall frame beside her own. Her face looked too pale. Her posture too tight. She looked like a mistake waiting to happen.

And yet Stack didn’t look at her like that. He looked forward, calm and certain, like he was guiding her not toward shame…but toward something true. At the end of the hall, he paused before a door. One hand still holding hers. The other reaching for the knob.

He didn’t speak.

He just looked down at her with that slow, devil-sweet grin.

Then he opened the door.

She came to him like she always did—buttoned up, spine stiff, every line of her body trained to behave. A high-neck blouse. Long skirt. Hair pinned back so tight it looked like it hurt. Shoes polished. Stockings unwrinkled. She thought she was armor, walking in starch and scripture.

Stack leaned back in his chair, a toothpick between his lips, and let his eyes run slow over her, “Mm,” he hummed low, head tilting, “look at you. Tryin’ so hard not to be seen. But I see you, Sister.”

Marigold swallowed, standing there like she was about to be tried in front of a judge. Stack rose, circling her once, close enough to make her skin prickle. He stopped behind her shoulder, his voice a low rasp:

“You know what I see when I look at you? I see them lips of yours, always pressed up tight like you afraid of what they might say if you let ‘em loose. I see them eyes, Sister, beggin’ for somebody to notice how soft they get when you ain’t watchin’.”

Her breath hitched. She didn’t look up.

“And your body…” His gaze dropped, slow and shameless, from the slope of her breasts pressing against the fabric, down to the curve of her waist and the swell of her hips beneath the skirt, “You hide it, but it don’t hide from me. That waist beggin’ for hands. Those hips? Can’t do nothin’ but sway, even when you walk like a soldier. And that ass…” He chuckled, low in his throat, “God himself put weight back there to break a man’s will. And you go ‘round tryna tuck it into pews like it ain’t sittin’ heavy as sin.”

Her hands twitched at her sides. She wanted to cover herself, but she didn’t move.

Stack stepped in front of her now, eyes fixed on her face, “You think I don’t know what’s goin’ on inside you? That mouth of yours might stay shut, but your body talks, Sister. Loud. Every time you cross your arms to hide your chest, every time you pull that skirt down over your thighs, you confess to me. You got a body that lies on you, tells all your secrets.” He reached up, brushed his knuckles against her temple, where her hair was bound tight, “Now…let’s start here. Loosen it. Let it down.”

Her hands trembled as they reached up, plucking pins free. One by one. Her stretched hair fell heavy and dark, tumbling over her shoulders until a single strand slipped across her cheek, down over one eye.

Stack exhaled, slow, “There she is,” he whispered, “Lord, you don’t even see it, do you? You look like sin and salvation both. You look like every prayer I ain’t prayed right,” He guided her toward the mirror, standing behind her, his breath warm against her ear, “Open your eyes, Sister. Look. You try so hard to be holy. But what I see?” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, “I see the woman God made to tempt me. And ain’t that the sweetest sin of all?”

The mirror threw her back at herself. Marigold stood rigid, lips pressed into a line, her hair spilling down her shoulders in soft, untamed waves. The sight alone rattled her—too raw, too exposed. Stack watched her from behind, his reflection a shadow over hers. His voice was low, steady, coaxing and cruel at once.

“Good. Now, don’t run from it. Look at you, Sister Marigold…hair fallin’ wild, mouth trembling, chest risin’ like you can’t catch your breath. That’s you. Not the mask you wear on Sundays. That’s the woman hidin’ underneath.”

Her fingers twitched against her blouse. She wanted to fold her arms, shield herself. Stack caught her wrists before she could.

“Uh-uh,” he murmured, tightening just enough to make her still, “Keep those hands down. I want you open,” He stepped closer, so close his chest brushed her back, and pointed to the row of buttons climbing her throat, “Start here. Top one.”

Marigold froze. “I—”

“Do it.” His tone was sharp now, brooking no refusal.

Her hands rose slowly, trembling, and unclasped the button at her neck. A small gap appeared, baring just a hint of collarbone.

Stack’s breath stirred the loose strands of her hair, “Mm. There you go. That tight throat of yours needed some air.”

Another button. And another. The blouse eased, loosening across her chest. He grinned when she avoided her own eyes in the mirror.

“Look at you. Afraid to see what I see. That’s a shame, Sister. ‘Cause I see heaven sittin’ in that skin.”

Her breath shuddered out of her.

“Next,” he drawled, gaze dropping, “Shoes.”

She hesitated, then bent slowly, sliding the polished heels off her feet. Her stockings stretched tight over her calves.

“Good girl,” Stack rasped, “Now the stockings. Peel ‘em off slow.”

Her hands shook as she reached beneath her skirt, tugging at the garter clasp. The stockings rolled down inch by inch, revealing soft brown flesh — her thighs bare and trembling.

Stack let out a low whistle, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world, “Goddamn. I knew you was hidin’ somethin’. Look at them legs, Sister. Tell me you don’t feel freer already.”

She clutched the rolled stockings in her fists, ashamed and aroused at once. He stepped up again, brushing her hair back so she could see herself clearer in the glass. His mouth was right at her ear.

“Now,” he said, voice a velvet growl, “shake it out. Loosen that tight neck. Move your head side to side, slow. Feel how heavy that hair is when you let it fall.”

She obeyed, hesitant at first, tilting her head until her curls swung. One lock tumbled across her face, half-covering her eye.

Stack’s lips curled into a grin, “There it is. You don’t even know how good you look like this. Not to me. Not to yourself. But you will, “His hand settled on her waist, just at the curve her blouse no longer fully concealed. He leaned down, voice low and wicked, “Tonight’s just the start, Sister. We gon’ peel you layer by layer…until you finally see what I see.”

She stood there barefoot, blouse undone at the top, curls loose and falling like a storm around her shoulders, and still—still—she looked like she wanted to run.

Not away from him.

From herself.

Stack saw it in her eyes, flickering down and darting away, trying to pretend she wasn’t coming undone in real time.

He couldn’t let her get away with that.

“Sit,” he said. Not loud. Not soft. Just a word with weight.

Marigold looked at him, startled. Her mouth parted like she might protest. But he was already pulling the chair closer to the mirror, his movements lazy and deliberate. When she didn’t move, he stepped to her side, took her hand, and guided her down. She sat stiffly, knees together, hands folded. A proper woman. Even now. Stack knelt beside her, one hand resting on her thigh—close to the knee, respectful by inches, but firm in how he held her there. His other hand came up to tilt her chin.

“Look.”

She hesitated.

“Look.”

She did.

The mirror showed her the truth she worked so hard to hide. The blouse opened just enough to reveal the top curve of her breasts. Her skin, warm and soft in the golden lamplight. Her hair, once pinned and holy, now wild and shadowing her cheek. Her lips, not pressed tight anymore, but parted—barely breathing, barely able to hold back the trembling. Stack’s reflection stayed beside hers, eyes fixed on her face like he’d been starved of it.

“You see what I see now?” he asked, voice low, like it wasn’t meant for the room, just for her ears, “You see that mouth? That mouth been quiet for so long, it forgot how to speak without prayin’. But I bet it remembers how to moan.”

Her breath caught. Her thighs twitched beneath her skirt.

He leaned closer, lips brushing her ear, “You see that neck? That soft, bare throat? Tell me that don’t feel better than all them buttons ever did.”

She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t speak. His hand smoothed across her back, his thumb slipping beneath the blouse hem. Not to touch—just to remind her how easy it would be. How close she was to falling apart.

“And them eyes, Sister…you ain’t never seen your own eyes like this, have you?” He nodded toward the mirror, “Look at ‘em. Look at how hungry they are. You look like a woman who ain’t been touched right in years. You look like a woman who been prayin’ every night just to keep her hands still.”

She shut her eyes tight. A mistake.

Stack’s voice dropped even lower, rough and silken, “Uh-uh. Open ‘em. You don’t get to hide no more. That woman in the mirror? That’s the real you. That’s the one I want. That’s the one you came here to give me.”

She shook her head, barely, tears catching at the corners of her lashes, “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

He laughed under his breath. “You don’t?”

He stood then, just enough to lean over her, his hand sliding up to cup her jaw—not hard, but steady, “You mean to tell me you ain’t in that bed every night, thigh slick, thinkin’ ‘bout a belt across your ass and my voice in your ear? You mean to tell me you ain’t dreamt about me pullin’ them holy drawers down and tellin’ you what God already know?”

She flinched, gasped—face flushing deep.

“Oh, you dream it. Don’t lie now. You been wantin’ this, Sister. You just ain’t never had a man look at you and say it out loud.”

Her hands gripped the hem of her skirt like she was clinging to salvation. Stack walked behind her again, both hands settling on her shoulders. His voice slid like smoke down her spine.

“I ain’t touched you yet. Not really. And look at you. Breathin’ heavy, legs shiftin’, eyes filled with shame and need. You got all this power in that body and you give it to guilt. But me?” He dipped closer, his mouth against her hairline, “I take it as praise.”

She let out the softest sound. A whimper. A confession.

Stack smiled, “That’s it. Let it out. Let it down.” He brushed her hair aside again, revealing her full face, “You ain’t never seen yourself like this because they never let you. Your husband don’t know what to do with you. Your church tell you to shut it down. But you walk in here, into my world, and you think I ain’t gon’ open you up?”

Silence. Hot. Trembling. Sacred.

“You ready to learn?” he asked.

She didn’t nod. She didn’t speak.

But she didn’t run.

And that was enough.

@lilchubbs @melaninbabyboo @cocochannelmoi @bombshellbre95 @brownsugarcoffy @queenofklonnie22 @lb-xci @chromehoney @anniensmoke3 @lizbehave @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @shereeluvssinners @nyifly22 @itsspixiedusst56 @d1gitalb4rbie @theereinawrites @moundbayou @ehniki @longlivemalyce @ebonezerscrooge @tnychellee @sk1121-blog1 @loveabledovee @sharpaysbestfriend @brownsuugahh @mirathebookworm @og-goddesstrill @thatonecarebear @thickianaaaa @merranerra @amethyst09 @cleo92bitch-i-am-old @questionable-behaviour @theddofc @desire4ella @destinio1 @midnightmemoirsofher @blk-afrodite @honeytoffee @thethethe3210 @jaeflair @j0ysyndr0m3 @shinywrites @blackchickinthedesert @hdfen2474 @omgffs @mmbee675 @althegreat33 @fairysoulja

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Shave ‘Em Dry

Annalise ‘Annie’ Moreau Moore x Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

Warnings: Smut, Knife play, sensory deprivation kink, crime, dirty talk, spanking, cruel!Smoke, rough sex, sassy!Annie, NSFW 18+ CONTENT, mentions of Hoodoo. AU Sinners.

Summary: the Smoke–Stack Twins are rising to the heights of the southern gangway after murdering an OG they worked for in Clarksdale. The Twins decided to rob a known bank in Arkansas, and things turn bloody. Meanwhile, Smoke’s new wife, Annie, is left wondering when her husband will return home. She knows he’s safe, but his criminal behavior already put him in jail for seven years! She’s sick and tired of it! Ain’t no pearls and bags of money enough to make her happy.

Part One

Annie was born into a line of powerful women. Her grandmother, Miss Letha, was known in Baton Rouge as a midwife and seer. Her mother, Celestine Moreau, was a traveling healer and conjure woman, moving through the river towns and Deep South communities offering her skills. Celestine didn’t just pass down tools—she passed down the memory of power, oral traditions, and spirit-led work.

Annie learned rootwork in childhood, helping grind herbs, fold petitions, tend crossroads altars, and gather graveyard dirt respectfully. After her mother died when Annie was in her late teens, Annie traveled for several years, learning from different practitioners in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. She returned seasoned, powerful, and revered—a woman people now call ‘priestess,’ though Annie doesn’t claim the title herself.

Smoke is Annie’s first.

Not just sexually—but spiritually tied. She grew up watching him from a distance, knowing he was dangerous and fine and not meant for her, until one day he became hers anyway.

Their love is carved in survival and fire. She held him when he came back from war, shaking and hollow. When the world felt like ash in his mouth, she was the one who reminded him how to breathe again.

Smoke had his twin brother, Stack—blood, bone, ride-or-die.

But Annie?

She was the home he came back to.

The place no man, no battlefield, no ghost could take from him.

Their bond runs deep but not smooth. They fight. A lot. But every word flung is a tether. Every wound bleeds red, but it binds them tighter.

“I hate how much I love you.”

“Then love me harder.”

Annie knew Elijah Moore before he became Smoke. Before the war, before the blood, before the prison. She knew him when they were both just poor Black Southern kids, raised hard and fast, picking cotton under the sun, running wild in the same dirt fields.

He had that quiet fire even then—the kind of stare that made grown men nervous, and women lean closer without knowing why.

She loved him before he had anything.

Before the guns.

Before the name.

Before the ghosts.

They married before he went away, ensuring to remain bound. He’d kissed her hand in the sugarcane rows and whispered:

“You wait for me, Annie. I’ll come back different.”

Elijah and Elias got locked up in 1925 for robbing a bootlegger, pistol-whipping him, and stealing crates of liquor meant for white hands only. They were twenty-five. Poor. Desperate. Tired of being broke and owned.

Annie had lost hope.

They went down for seven years—hard labor, chain gang, Red River stone quarries. The prison work that killed men slowly.

But Annie never stopped waiting.

And she didn’t just wait, she worked. To get that hope back. Even when she felt their love slipping through the floorboards beneath her feet.

She lit candles every Thursday. The day they were sentenced.

She made him a mojo bag and kept them in her drawer, feeding them with oil, tears, and blood on the new moon.

She buried a lock of Elijah’s hair in her backyard, tied to a coffin nail and a red thread, chanting:

“He ain’t gon’ break. He ain’t gon’ bow.

My man’s comin’ back whole somehow.”

She paid conjure women from Memphis for bone dust, war water, and secret psalms. She left food at crossroads. She carried the burden of belief every time no letter came, no word arrived.

And when she dreamed of blood, she’d burn sulfur and scream his name at the river.

“Don’t you die in that place, Elijah Moore. You don’t leave me here in this world alone.”

When the twins stepped off that prison bus, Annie could sense a change. Especially in Elijah. He was still her man, but he wasn’t the same.

He smiled when he saw her. He kissed her like nothing else mattered. But his eyes were sharper. His hands twitched more. He slept with a revolver under the mattress and didn’t talk about the nights he didn’t sleep at all.

He was happy to be free, yes.

But he was hungry—not just for her body, but for power.

“I ain’t goin’ back to the fields,” he said, “Ain’t breakin’ my back for pennies while somebody else eats.”

She understood. She did.

But she felt it, too—something new growing in him. Something wild. Something cold.

Smoke refused to return to sharecropping. He didn’t give a damn about quotas.

“I did time already. I ain’t gon’ do no more for a white man with a whip made of math.”

He’d rather run numbers. Hustle dice. Take money instead of beg for it.

And Stack?

Stack was the dreamer. The smooth talker. The one who’d sit on the porch at sundown and say:

“We could be kings, Eli. I’m talkin’ juke joints, backroom whiskey, heat in our pockets. We don’t gotta stay broke. We just gotta be bold.”

Smoke believed him.

And Annie?

She saw the road rising ahead of them like a snake stretched out in sunlight.

As their lives turned sharper, Annie’s magic deepened.

She started pulling cards more often.

Worked candle divinations.

Slept with a bowl of water at her bedside to catch visions.

She saw Smoke’s shadow stretching too far. She saw Stack’s eyes turning toward her in moments he didn’t mean to. Her own face, caught between love and sacrifice.

She asked the spirits, “Can I keep him safe and still love him right?”

They answered only with smoke and silence.

Smoke began to believe that money was the only real magic.

“Ain’t no root in the world stronger than a fistful of green,” he argued, “Money make men live longer. Make cops look away. Make white folks call you ‘sir.’”

Annie disagreed.

“Money don’t stop bullets. Don’t stop curses. Don’t stop grief.”

She never backed down. Not once.

“But I do,” she whispered, “Me and the spirits.”

And so began the quiet rift—not a betrayal, but a difference in faith.

Smoke chased control.

Annie conjured protection.

They loved each other with their whole bodies. But they were walking parallel paths, barely keeping touch at the fingertips.

The OG: Clifton “Cleve” Ray.

Born in 1882 in the swamps near Yazoo, Mississippi. His mother was a seamstress. His father, a violent gambler who vanished after a card game gone bad. Cleve grew up in juke joints and gambling houses, running whiskey before he could shave. He watched white bootleggers get rich and vowed to carve his own piece of the underworld, no matter the blood price.

Came to Clarksdale in his twenties. Cleve started small. Dice games in alleys, cheap moonshine in tin cups, a stolen pistol under his coat. By 1915, he had three businesses laundering his income, two women fronting brothels for him, and lawmen on his payroll.

“Rule one,” he told his men, “Don’t get caught without money for bail. Rule two: Don’t get caught twice.”

He earned the name ‘Cleve’ from how he ‘cleaved’ his enemies: split men open with his switchblade before he could afford a gun.

Cleve wasn’t flashy. He was strategic and calculating.

When Prohibition hit, he expanded his territory. Speakeasies, bootlegging routes, moonshine stills out in Lyon and Rosedale. Had a silver-handled cane he took off a white banker he pistol-whipped after the man tried to short him on a real estate deal. Kept it ever since. He survived gang wars with rival crews in Memphis and Greenville by outsmarting, not outgunning. Paid conjure women for luck. Hired thugs for everything else.

“I ain’t spiritual, but I don’t play with spirits.”

Cleve first heard of the Moore boys while they were still in prison.

Word came through his contacts. Two brothers, sharp as blades, fresh from a seven-year stretch for robbing a bootlegger. When they were released, he kept tabs on them. Watched how Smoke moved in silence, and Stack smiled like sin and gold.

Their first interaction came at one of Cleve’s backroom dice games. Stack cleaned the table with loaded charm. Smoke stayed near the door, back to the wall, watching everything. When one of Cleve’s men accused Stack of cheating, Smoke broke the man’s wrist in a single move.

Cleve just laughed.

“That kind of loyalty’s hard to come by. You young bloods lookin’ for work?”

He offered them muscle and money. Said he’d teach them the game if they kept their heads down. Gave Stack a job running books and ledgers, laundering Cleve’s bootlegging profits through a dry goods store. Gave Smoke control over collections and enforcement —his “left hand” as he called it.

“I made this town,” Cleve spat egotistical, “I’m lookin’ for the ones who’ll inherit it after I’m dead. Not before.”

But it was a lie.

Cleve never intended to share his throne. He believed the twins were tools—young, hungry, and eager. Replaceable.

He underestimated them both.

Stack started getting too slick with the numbers. Made side deals. Took meetings Cleve didn’t authorize. Smoke started earning a reputation of his own— feared, admired. Even the police spoke his name in whispers. Worst of all: a woman. A young, light-skinned Black girl Cleve kept as both his mistress and his prisoner. Annie never knew her—but Smoke saw her.

One night, Smoke helped her escape. Gave her train fare and told her to run fast and far.

Cleve found out days later. Didn’t say a word.

But his smile soured.

Cleve sent the boys to ‘handle a job’—collect from a man who owed him for crates of shine. But it was a trap. The man was already dead. Blood on the walls. A planted pistol with Smoke’s fingerprints. If the law got there first, Smoke would hang.

They left fast.

“You feel that?” Stack asked, “That was a funeral Cleve just wrote for us.”

Smoke said nothing. Just clenched his fists and lit a cigarette.

That night, they cleaned their guns, and they don’t wait.

The next night, they show up at Cleve’s juke joint like nothing’s wrong—dressed sharp, clean, cool.

Stack buys drinks. Laughs with the musicians. Smiles at the bartender.

Smoke disappears into the back with Cleve, supposedly to talk business.

Five minutes later, a single gunshot cracks through the music.

He died the way he lived: with a smirk on his lips and a hole in his chest.

“You boys think you runnin’ this town?” he gasped before he bled out.

Smoke leaned close, voice cold.

“We don’t think. We know.”

When Stack pushes through the door, he finds Smoke standing over Cleve’s body — the silver cane in one hand, the bloody pistol in the other.

“He was gonna kill us,” Smoke says simply, “So I killed him first.”

“You sure?” Stack asks.

“Ain’t gotta be sure. Just gotta live.”

They dump Cleve’s body in the river—cut his face, so no one can ID it too fast.

They take his books, his contacts, his stash. Some of Cleve’s men stay loyal out of fear. Others vanish. The Moore twins move fast—clean up the mess, take over the rackets, and quiet the town with violence.

But Stack knows something’s shifting in Smoke.

He’s not just hungry now. He’s blood-fed.

Cleve’s death didn’t just make space, it created monsters. The Moore twins took the empire, but the violence it took to get it never left them.

And Cleve? His name still hangs over Clarksdale like a ghostly whisper.

Some say his ghost haunts the juke joint they killed him in.

Some say he left a buried stash no one’s found.

Some say he watches from Hell, proud as hellfire of the boys who took his crown.

Meanwhile, Annie feels all of it.

The moment Cleve dies, her altar goes cold. She dreams of smoke, blood, and fire on the riverbank. When Smoke comes home afterward—silent, lips tight, jaw twitching—she knows something’s ended…and something worse has begun.

She works a ritual that night, alone in the kitchen.

“Don’t let my man get drunk on blood. Don’t let him turn into the thing he’s fightin’.”

But the spirits whisper.

You ain’t just holdin’ him. You feedin’ him. You love the fire too…

Even with Cleve’s operation in their hands, they need real capital to grow, to pay bribes, arm up, expand beyond Clarksdale.

Stack says it first.

“We get in, get out. Arkansas bank. Payroll day. No one’s expectin’ us.”

Smoke doesn’t blink.

“Long as I get to pull the trigger if someone flinches.”

Stack studies his brother a long time.

“You gonna like this too much.” Stack said.

“Already do.” Smoke replied.

August 1932. First National Bank. Little Rock, Arkansas.

The country’s neck-deep in the Depression. Banks are failing. Working folks are desperate.

Stack got the location and routine from a woman he seduced—a teller who worked the early shift. He charmed her, watched her movements, and learned the layout. The Plan: Hit the bank just after closing on a Friday. Fewer people, limited staff. They’d come in from out of town dressed as a traveling jazz duo: Stack with his guitar, Smoke carrying a horn case loaded with weapons.

The black Ford Coupe rumbled into Little Rock just past noon, heat shimmering off the pavement. Inside, Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore lit a cigarette off the car lighter, dark shades over his eyes, jaw tight. Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore adjusted his cuffs and checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair back into place.

“You ready?” Stack asked, voice smooth as a psalm.

“Always,” Smoke replied, blowing a thin stream of smoke through his nose.

They pulled around the side of First National Bank, nestled between a tailor and a tobacco shop downtown. Stack climbed out first, dressed like a traveling bluesman—double-breasted linen suit, guitar case slung over his back. He didn’t give his twin a backwards glance, wanting to get this shit going to avoid getting caught. Stack entered the bank and he tipped his hat at the pretty clerk inside, flashing gold-capped teeth.

“Afternoon, sweetheart. Y’all still takin’ deposits from the Lord’s musicians?”

The teller giggled. He always had a way of making women forget their job. As she chatted him up, Stack’s eyes danced around the lobby. He clocked two guards, an old white banker in the glass office, a sleepy-looking manager, and just three civilians.

Exactly what the girl had described.

Outside, Smoke exited the car with a horn case slung at his side. Not a note of music inside—just a sawed-off shotgun, two pistols, and a soft velvet bag for the cash.

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

“Ain’t no music today,” he growled. “Just business.”

The guards reached, but Smoke moved faster, shotgun raised.

BOOM!

One caught a blast to the shoulder, sent spinning into the marble wall. The other froze, dropped his weapon.

Stack pulled his pistol from his jacket and pointed it at the manager’s head.

“Don’t be stupid. We don’t want your blood. Just your goddamn money.”

Smoke hurled a satchel over the teller counter.

“Fill it. Big bills. No tricks.”

The room fell silent except for the shaky rustle of money being packed into bags.

The vault opened—a stroke of luck, or fear. Inside:

$42,000 in cash. A lockbox of private jewelry, heirloom wedding sets, pearls, uncut stones. Two gold watches, war bonds, silver dollars. Stack lifted a silver cigarette case with engraved initials and smirked.

“Somebody’s daddy gon’ miss this.”

Smoke tossed in a handful of rings and chains, then moved to the front door—watching.

“Two minutes,” he barked, “Clock’s runnin’.”

A new face emerged—a rookie guard, young and dumb, probably just stepped out of the back.

“Freeze!”

He raised a revolver and fired. The bullet clipped Stack’s shoulder—not deep, but enough to piss him off.

Smoke turned and fired once—clean and fast. The guard dropped like a bag of rocks, head against the teller’s counter, blood already spreading across the floor.

“Fuck,” Stack hissed, clutching his shoulder.

Blood seeped between his thick fingers. He hissed with pain and a furrow of his sweaty brows.

“He moved first,” Smoke muttered, “He chose.”

The mood shifted. The civilians whimpered. The banker pissed himself.

“We done here,” Smoke snapped, “Load it up.”

Smoke snatched the bag full of the stolen goods, finding it heavier than he expected. Stack glanced over at the Bank Teller, winking at her before rushing out the door behind his twin.

They burst out the back, climbed into the Coupe, and peeled off down 7th Street, tires shrieking.

They didn’t speed at first. Stack insisted on blending in until they hit the outskirts. Once clear of town, Smoke floored it, roaring through the backroads of Arkansas, headed toward Mississippi.

Little Rock to Helena then they crossed the Mississippi River, straight Into Clarksdale by backroads.

They burned their clothes behind an old shack near Tunica, tossed the horn case into the river. Stack’s shoulder was bandaged in silence. Smoke didn’t say much—just kept stroking the mojo bag Annie gave him, the weight of blood settling in his chest.

“We did it,” Stack said finally, exhaling.

“Yeah,” Smoke replied, “Ain’t nobody gon’ stop us now.”

The shack outside Tunica reeked of mildew, soot, and sin. The inside was lit only by the golden hush of late afternoon. Dust floated thick in the still air. Stack sat shirtless on an overturned crate, teeth gritted, a clean bullet hole in his upper shoulder. Not deep. Not fatal. But it burned like hell.

He poured moonshine over it and hissed through his teeth.

“Son of a bitch got lucky. Shoulda aimed lower. Might’ve earned himself another breath.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He was pacing the length of the room, gun still clutched in his hand, knuckles bared. His shirt was streaked with blood—not his own—and his eyes were somewhere else.

“You hear me?” Stack called, “I said I’m fine.”

Smoke didn’t stop pacing. Just grunted.

Stack pulled the bandage tighter, hissing again. He watched his twin from beneath furrowed brows.

“You still mad about the kid?”

Smoke stopped. Looked up. His jaw was clenched, the cigarette dangling from his lips barely smoked.

“He raised his gun,” Smoke said flatly.

“I ain’t sayin’ you was wrong,” Stack replied, “I’m sayin’ you liked it.”

A beat passed. Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“You ain’t never killed someone and felt a piece of yourself go quiet? Like you don’t hear the guilt, just the silence after?”

Smoke looked at him then—really looked. And something flickered behind his eyes. Not regret. Not remorse.

“No,” he said, voice low, “When I kill, I feel alive.”

Stack leaned back, eyes narrowed.

“That’s what scares me.”

Smoke flicked his cigarette out. Turned away. Began peeling off his blood-soaked shirt.

“Don’t get soft on me now.”

“Ain’t soft,” Stack spoke, “I just ain’t ready to burn up with you.”

They didn’t speak again. The silence between them wasn’t peace. It was weight. Blood. The slow slide toward a line they wouldn’t be able to uncross.

Annie sits in the living room of their Delta cottage as dusk settles in, the blues of the evening sky filtering through lace curtains. The quiet is thick and quiet enough that she can hear a cicada’s buzz deep in the swamp. She settles into a straight-backed chair by the fireplace, her hands wrapped around a tin cup of bittersweet tea flavored with moonflower and honeysuckle. The room hums with roots such as ginger, cedar, and willow, bursting from jars plus the scent of amber and tobacco smoke she’s kept simmering in a small iron bowl.

Years of rootwork have tuned her senses to her husband Elijah and his brother Elias. As she takes a slow sip, she closes her eyes, sinking into a trance. Her breath lengthens, her nostrils flare, and she inhales deeply into the aroma of cedar and smoke. The essence of their presence lives here, in the air she breathed when they were home, the dim corners where they exchanged silent glances, the old oak floorboards that still carry the echo of their boots.

She reaches for a small oyster shell on the table, tracing its edge, and sprinkles a mix of honey, fine ash, and valerian root from a small glass phial. It smolders and curls into smoke. With each rising wisp, she whispers their names.

“Elijah…Elias…” Her voice is soft, barely more than a wind through reeds, “Where are you now? Are you safe?”

In her mind’s eye, she sees two silhouettes creeping low through a moonlit field. Elijah’s broad shoulders leading the way while Elias glided not too far behind. The smoke in the room thickens, shifting like fog on the water. Creepily. Annie watched the swirling vapor, feeling every beat of their hearts, every calculated step, the sound of gunmetal in their fists echoing in her chest. Heavy. Exhausting.

She breathes in their heartbeat, feeling its steady rhythm, not frantic. That alone tells her they made it back, that they’re together and safe…for now. A wave of relief floods her, followed by gratitude and a sharp sting of pride. They’d planned this bank job for weeks, she’d helped them in her own way, crossing their paths with root-barns and honey-jars to dull suspicion, layering spells to keep luck on their side.

The room empties of tension, and for a moment, memory and flame flicker across the walls. The risk, the adrenaline, all of it melted away, and yet the ache for Elijah is fresh and raw. She stands, sets the cup down, and moves to the front window. In the distance, the old bayou whispers secrets against the hush of her house.

She whispers again, a blessing this time, brushing a single, feather-soft dandelion seed across the sill. She knows they’ll find it when they cross the threshold, her silent signal that she felt them home. That she carried them in her bones.

And just like that, she waits. She’s attentive, full of love and lingering fear, but anchored by one unshakeable truth.

they’re alive, they’re together, and in her place of roots and spells, she held them safe.

But then something else stirred within her.

Suddenly, her breath stills. Annie’s hands hover midair, eyes half-lidded. She feels it. That tug. That ache of longing. It’s not on her dress. Not on her skin. It burns deeply, right between her ribs. Like someone’s trying to call her by name but can’t speak.

Her lips part, slowly, “He thinkin’ on me…”

She walks to the front porch, standing in the doorway, moonlight draping her like a second skin. Her hips shift, her hand rests just above her belly, and she closes her eyes. The connection flares again. It’s searing hot and steady. Annie knows in her mind’s eye that Elijah’s holding something of hers. Probably that folded black and white photograph with a permanent crease in the center that she gave him the night before his last run, her laughing in her garden, a headscarf tied up high, lips painted beet red. Or maybe it’s more than that.

Something more salacious.

A pair of her bloomers. All silk, soft, still faintly holding her scent or a little strip of textured paper with her name written in his hand, three times over, blood pricked on the corner. Sometimes, when he’s alone, holed up after a job, Smoke’ll light a cigarette and pull out that keepsake bundle. He’ll press her panties to his face, eyes closed, breathing her in deep like she’s gospel and ghost. His hands would shake, not from fear, but want. Ached-up longing. Deep desire. He can’t be away from Annie for too long. It makes him primal. Animalistic.

Each time he touches those things, especially the mojo bag or her panties, Annie feels it. It’s in the curl of her spine. The warmth that spreads low in her belly. The way her heart skips a beat just before the wind kicks up out of nowhere. Sometimes she’ll hum a tune she doesn’t remember choosing. Sometimes her nipples harden without cause.

Sometimes she stands in the garden, barefoot in the dirt, and whispers soft and strong, “Come home to me, Smoke.”

And somewhere out there many miles away, he shifts in his seat or where he stands, rubbing the pouch and swears he can smell jasmine on the air. Because love like theirs? It don’t fade. Not when it’s rooted in hoodoo, blood, and breath.

Tunica was a rural area—mostly cotton fields, juke joints, dirt roads, and poverty, but also rich with blues culture and river trade. It sat in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, soaked in the same heat, ghosts, and gospel Annie knows. Folks might pass through there on the run, looking for work, laying low, or meeting with dangerous people under cover of night.

Fifty miles north of Clarksdale, the house ain’t much. It’s just one long room, patched with old boards, walls damp with river air and regret. A crooked screen door hangs open to the wind. Smoke sits on the edge of a thin mattress, elbows on his knees, his whole body humming with restlessness. Stack is in a different room, sleeping off the exhaustion of hiding out.

A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting shadows across his face like ghosts still lingerin’. His suit jacket hangs from a nail by the door, dripping wet from river water. He’s peeled off everything else but his slacks, sweat slicking his chest, the scent of blackpowder and steel still clinging to his skin.

Laid out in front of him are a bundle of keepsakes, careful as scripture. A pair of Annie’s bloomers, soft, silken, folded like a prayer. A photo of her, creased at the corners and the center, worn thin from being touched too often. Her smile in the picture got sunlight in it. She’s barefoot, garden behind her, one hand on her hip like she owns the whole damn world. Smoke picks up the bloomers first. Brings ’em to his face. Inhales.

Lavender. Honey. All Annie.

His fingers tremble. He ain’t afraid of no lawman, no devil in the swamp. But that feeling in his chest? That’s different. That’s missing her so bad it makes his ribs ache. He leans back, lays flat. One arm drapes across his forehead. The other clutches the mojo bag around his neck, stitched by Annie herself.

Inside that bag is dirt from under their bed, her hair twined with his, dried violet, his name written in red ink three times. Bound magic. Bound love. And he can feel it now. He can feel her. His woman. His wife. Not just memory. Not just longing. Her spirit presses against him like warm breath on his skin.

“You callin’ me, baby?” Smoke whispered low and hoarse.

He swears he hears her hum, all soft like she do when she’s makin’ salve or sweepin’ the front porch at sundown. He closes his eyes, and there she is in his mind, standing under their magnolia tree, arms crossed under her heavy breasts, lips pursed and sheened with lemon balm.

Then her voice, whispered and bold, drifts into the stillness all distant and aching.

Come home to me, Smoke…

He jolts upright, heart slammin’ like a drum. That wasn’t just his imagination. That was her spirit hand reachin’ through miles of swamp and field, tugging on his chest. He grabs the bloomers, kisses them rough, almost angry.

His voice cracked, “You got me out here losin’ my damn mind, woman.”

He presses her photo to his lips next. Then tucks both deep into the inner pocket of his suit jacket like something sacred. Heavy rain pellets hit harder outside. The wind whistles low through the cracks in the boards. He reaches for his pistol, checking the chamber out of habit, not fear. Ain’t no ghost or man could touch him while he carries her.

“I’m comin’, Annie. I ain’t stayin’ out here no more.” He spoke in a hushed voice soft and steady with a deep rasp.

Smoke lights a blunt with shaking hands, watching the smoke curl up like her scent might ride it all the way back to Clarksdale. Every breath he draws tastes like memory. He stays up the rest of the night, eyes wide, waiting for dawn and the road to carry him home to their porch, her blade, her hips, her arms.

All of it.

The screen door creaks as Annie steps out, her hands dusted with flour, apron tied snug around her waist. Morning light breaks across the field, gold and pink streaking the sky like bruises healing.

She sees them coming up the dirt road in Stack’s car—two dark silhouettes against the mist. The car rolls to a stop beneath the dirt of The Delta, and then they both open their doors in unison. Elijah walks steady, but his eyes are tired. Elias—Stack—has a hand clutched tight to his upper arm, a dark smear running through his shirt sleeve.

Annie’s heart kicks in her chest.

They make it to the porch before either speaks. Elijah’s taller in this light, jaw clenched. Stack is limping slightly, face unreadable behind those sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

Annie spoke stern but soft, “Y’all look like hell froze over and spit you back out.”

Stack grunted, “Ain’t far off.”

Smoke was quiet for a beat, then he parted his lips to speak with a low rasp.

“We made it home.”

She steps forward, holding the screen open with one arm. They cross the threshold like weary soldiers, boots tracking in Delta mud.

Smoke kisses her first—slow, deliberate. His lips land on her cheek but linger far too long, the corner of his mouth sliding near hers like he forgot where it was supposed to stop.

Annie stood half-smiling, pushing at his chest.

“Boy, don’t be actin’ needy soon as you cross my porch.”

Then Stack leans in, brushes her opposite cheek with rough lips—shorter, less weight to it.

“Thank you, Annie.”

She studies the blood on his sleeve, her smile fading. She places her hands on her hips, eyes sharp.

“Elijah Moore, you gon’ let your brother bleed out so you can get handsy?”

Smoke grinned low, “Ain’t like he dyin’. It’s a graze. Man caught a whisper of a bullet, and now I can’t even kiss on my wife?”

“Your what?” Annie sassed.

“You mine, Annie. You know that.” He whispered.

Annie narrows her eyes. The air between them tightens. She pulls Stack gently by the elbow and guides him to the kitchen table.

“Sit down ‘fore I tie you to the chair myself.”

Stack smirked through the pain. Annie removed her apron, nothing but a fitted haint blue dress underneath that left little to the imagination. She could feel Smoke’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.

“That supposed to be a threat or a promise?”

“Hush. Ain’t got time for neither.” Annie said.

She moves fast—pulling out a jar of pine gum salve, a tin of cayenne soaked in vinegar, and clean cloth. Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every move. He’s itching, twitching. His fingers run along the edge of the table, eyes glued to her hips as she leans over Stack.

She rips the sleeve with a practiced motion. Stack winces.

“Mmhm. Just a graze, but y’all always act like you done fought the war again.”

He spoke low and rough, “Ain’t fought no war, but I fought the devil himself to get back here.”

Annie doesn’t answer. Just wipes blood, applies salve, wraps Stack tight. But her movements slow when Smoke steps behind her, hands grazing her waist. His fingers slide around her hips, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips. His mouth dips close to her ear.

Smoke spoke, voice husky, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout your skin every night. Smellin’ you in my dreams. Had your bloomers in my damn pocket like a fool.”

Stack snorts behind them, shaking his head.

“Lord. I’ll leave y’all two alone ‘fore this kitchen catch fire.”

Annie turns just as Smoke’s lips brush her neck. She slaps his hand—firm but not unkind.

Smoke wouldn’t move. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deep. Annie chewed on her bottom lip to fight the tremble that fought to break through.

Annie elbowed him, “He still bleedin’, fool.”

Smoke growled, not backing off, “Then let him bleed outside. I’m tryna taste what’s mine.”

Annie looks over her shoulder, chin lifted, a slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“You taste me after you sweep this mess and clean your brother’s blood off my floor.”

Stack stands, nodding once.

“Thank you, Annie. You a good woman. Smoke, I’ma bow out. I’ll catch you later. I need a bath and my bed.”

He leaves without another word, the screen door clattering shut behind him.

Now it’s just them. Smoke steps in closer, arms sliding around her waist from behind. She leans into him, just for a second, then pulls away, smirking.

“Don’t think just ‘cause I missed you I’m gonna make it easy.”

Smoke spoke low, “I don’t want it easy.”

She turns to face him, and the heat between them ignites like the kindling of old sin and older love. Her hands rest on his chest, his heartbeat pounding like it’s tryna tell her something true.

“Then close the door, Elijah.”

And he does—slow, like he’s sealing in something sacred.

Annie stands with her back to the table, arms folded tight under her breasts, lips pursed. Her eyes lock on Smoke, who stands there like he owns the air she’s breathing.

He starts to speak, but she cuts him off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t even open that mouth, Elijah Moore.” Annie spoke low and sharp.

Smoke grinned, “Ain’t even said nothin’ yet.”

“And you don’t need to. ‘Cause I already know how it go. You vanish for two nights. You come back slick with sin and smellin’ like gunpowder. Got your brother damn near shot, and you lookin’ at me like I’m supposed to fall in your arms just ‘cause you brought your fine ass home in one piece.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets her talk. Let’s her feel it.

Annie spoke, voice rising, “I waited, Smoke. I sat up every night, watchin’ that road, fingers itchin’ for that blade, heart poundin’ like it was gonna give out. You out here makin’ moves and leavin’ me in the dark.”

Smoke spoke slow and low, “You done?”

“No, I ain’t done. You don’t get to disappear and then think you can just roll up, kiss on me, and—”

He crosses the space in two strides, grabbing her face in his palms—rough and warm—and tilts her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

He spoke, voice like thunder, “Hush all that gahdamn complainin’, woman.”

Annie’s breath hitches. He’s so close she can smell herself on him—how long he’s carried her scent. The pulse between her thighs throbs against her will.

“I know you mad. You got every right. But I ain’t out there chasin’ nothin’ that don’t belong to us. Every risk I take, every mile I run—it’s for you. For this house. For that fire in your eyes that’s burnin’ me up right now.”

She tries to pull back, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

He continued, voice dipped in honey and iron, “I need you, Annie. Not just your mouth. Not just your hips. I need that peace you carry in your chest and that hell you stir in my bed. So go ‘head and fuss. Let it out. But when you done? You gon’ come over here…” His hands slide down to her waist, pulling her into him, hard, “…and take what you want too.”

Her hands push at his chest, weakly now.

Annie’s breath is still ragged, her palms pressed to Smoke’s broad chest. His voice is in her ear, his hands claiming her hips like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he don’t hold tight.

But she narrows her eyes, not letting him have all the power—not yet.

Annie’s voice was low, dangerous sweet, “You keep runnin’ off and comin’ back bold…you gon’ find I’ve replaced you with my own peace and a clean blade.”

That makes Smoke pause. His mouth twitches—not in fear, but in pleasure.

He steps back slightly, reaching into the inner lining of his suit jacket, slick and damp from the rain. He pulls something long and narrow, wrapped in an oilcloth stained with soot.

“That right? Then maybe I oughta give you what I found…somethin’ to remember me by if I don’t make it home next time.”

He unwraps it slow—like a man offering something sacred.

It’s a knife. Not just any knife.

The handle is carved bone, smoothed by time and use, shaped to fit perfectly in a woman’s hand. There’s a faint rose motif etched along the base, and the blade gleams like silver lightning.

But it’s the engraving that stops Annie cold.

Right near the base, small and clean and wicked as sin, it reads

For a good boy.

Annie inhales sharply, lips parting. Her whole body tenses, thighs pressing together without thinking.

“Lord have mercy…” Her fingers twitch, needing to touch it. She reaches out slow, runs her thumb across the hilt, then the blade, “Where’d you find this?”

“In a drawer ‘longside some man’s wedding band and two stacks of dirty money. He ain’t need it no more. Figured…you would.”

He watches her eyes darken as she lifts the blade up to the light, admiring the craftsmanship, the weight, the message.

“You know what this say?”

“I know exactly what it say, baby,” Smoke leans in, voice low, “And I ain’t never been nobody’s good boy…but I’d be yours, if you ask right.”

Her lip curls, smile wicked now

“That so?”

Smoke spoke stern and hungry, “I brought you blood, money, and steel. All I want is you.”

She turns the blade in her hand once more, then looks him over slow—up and down, eyes heavy with want and mischief.

“Then you best act like it.”

That’s when he moves—fast, strong, scooping her clean off the floor. She lets out a soft, breathless yelp but doesn’t fight it this time. The knife remains in her hand as he carries her through the narrow hall to the bedroom.

Smoke spoke gruff and possessive, “Keep that knife close. You might need it…case you wanna mark me as yours while I’m underneath you.”

She laughs—low, dangerous, aroused.

“You already marked, Elijah Moore. I ain’t gotta carve nothin’. You carry me in your bones,” Annie spoke low and breathless, “You think you just gon’ sweet-talk me and I’ll melt like sugar in ya’ hands, Elijah?”

Smoke smiled slow, “Ain’t gotta think. I know.”

Annie spoke firm, but softening, “You ain’t gon’ disappear again, Smoke. Not without tellin’ me.”

“No, ma’am. I done learned my lesson.” Smoke said, voice thick.

“And you still owe me for them sleepless nights, nigga.”

“Oh, I’ma pay. In full. With interest.”

Smoke drops her on the bed like an offering. She lands with a soft gasp, dress bunched at her hips. He stands over her, dark eyes sweeping her from curls to toes.

“Now quit all that fussin’ and come get what you been missin’.” Smoke barked out.

Smoke just looked at her. Slow. From head to heel. Then back up. His chest rose with a deep breath, the kind that came before trouble. He reached up and undid the top buttons of his shirt with rough fingers, not rushing—not one bit.

“Take it off,” he rasped.

Annie didn’t move.

He let his shirt hang open, exposing a chest broad and scarred, with thick muscle carved from war and work. Sweat glistened in the dips of his collarbone, his skin the color of polished bronze kissed by dust and sun. A trail of hair led down past his navel, to where his slacks hung low, heavy at the crotch.

“I said, take off that goddamn dress.” Smoke barked out.

Annie sucked her teeth but obeyed, slow and deliberate. Letting the straps fall one at a time, baring thick, heavy breasts with dark nipples that jutted out like a challenge. Her belly curved soft and round, hips wide enough to birth a kingdom. That dress hit the floor, pooling at her feet like spilled conjure soap.

“Mmm…mmm…”

Smoke dropped his shirt. Undid his belt with one pull. His dick sprang free when he shoved his slacks down—thick, veined, already hard and twitching. Bobbing up and down in her face. Annie’s tongue poked out at the sight.

“Damn, Smoke…”

Smoke cocked his head as he stared her down, “You miss this big dick but wanna yell my fuckin’ ear off ‘bout me bringin’ bread home for us. I’m ’bout to tear your ass up, Annie.”

Her breath hitched but her eyes remained cold.

He stepped out of his boots, bare now, looming, his chest rising with short, deep breaths.

“I ain’t come home for no talk,” he growled, “Ain’t come back for no damn backtalk or bedtime stories. I came home for my wife. And I came home to bury myself between them thick thighs and take what’s mine.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed, lips parting to speak—but he cut her off.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, voice low and mean, “Don’t say a word. Not a sound ‘less it’s a moan. Or a cry. Or my name. ‘Less you want me to shove this dick down your throat to quiet you.”

He stepped closer, fingers curling around her jaw, rough and hot.

“You know what I been doin’, girl?” he whispered against her mouth, “I been sniffin’ them bloomers you left me. Lickin’ the crotch like a goddamn dog. I could taste you. Damn near lost my mind in that room, strokin’ my pole with your scent all over me.”

Annie whimpered—soft, defiant.

“I need the real thing. Need it wet. Need it wide. Need it now.”

He pushed her back—rough—onto the bed. She bounced against the mattress, thick thighs parting without him having to ask. But he still did.

“Wider,” he growled.

Annie spread for him, mouth parted, hands clutching the sheets.

“That’s it,” he muttered, climbing over her, “Just like that. Look at you—look at what you give me. Goddamn, you always open up so sweet.”

Smoke got down on his knees and used his tongue to slither between Annie’s pussy lips. Annie’s hips bucked. Smoke wasted no time using his long, thick tongue to suck and lick his wife’s neglected pussy. Annie kept her legs wide and her knees to her ears but Smoke applied a firm hand to keep her open. He wanted to see that pink. He wanted to see her open so wide with nowhere to go.

He slurped up her clit between his plush lips, making sure to keep it sloppy with his spit mixed with her arousal. He would close his eyes whenever the tip of his tongue slipped inside of her, tasting what spilled, then he would open his eyes to watch her face. He had her clit stiff and folds flushed and throbbing with a type of horny she’d been trying her best to satisfy in his absence.

Annie watched her husband suck her pussy up with a gaping mouth and shimmering eyes. Her breath would hitch and a choked up moan would escape each time his tongue flicked her clit.

“Fuck, Elijah.”

“Found ya’ voice? Eating this phat puss so good got you quiet now, huh?”

Annie gripped the back of his head.

“Elijahhhhhh—”

“Nuh uh…shut up.”

She was dripping so much it sounded like a stream between her thighs. Annie felt the beginning flutters of release. Smoke slowed down his feasting to give her open mouth slurps. His bottom lip would glide while his top lip remained flush against her clit. His tongue flicked up and down at a torturous pace.

Annie rolled her head from side to side, bringing her hands up to hold both fat tits. From Smoke’s position, all he could see was two big ‘ol titties with jutted out nipples swaying back and forth. He groaned so deep Annie shuttered. Smoke reached up to roll her nipples between his fingers.

“Smoke…I’m a cum…”

He didn’t speak. He continued with his slow eating. Lips smacking. Tongue flicking.

“Unhhhhhhhhhh—”

With a final flick of his thumb on her nipples and a graze of his tongue Annie fell apart. Smoke continued to eat her through her release.

Annie felt another creeping up. She couldn’t move. Smoke had her pinned and open.

“Fuck you, Smokeeeeee—”

Annie’s entire body writhed beneath his tongue.

Smoke gave her a final kiss to her clit that made her hips jerk. He stood and hooked his hand on the underside of his shaft, raising it up a little before releasing it, watching it collapse between her pussy lips with an obscene noise.

He pressed the tip of his dick against her wet folds, teasing the slick heat but not sliding in yet. He wanted her squirming. Wanted her needy. Wanted her ruined.

“You miss this dick?” he asked, grinding slow against her slit, “You miss me stretchin’ you out? Poundin’ you till your eyes roll?”

Annie didn’t answer. Just moaned—head thrown back, hands gripping the bedframe now.

Usually he would make her speak but the way her wet pussy felt on his dick he couldn’t take it.

So Smoke slammed in with one hard stroke.

“Goddamn—” he cursed, choking on the feel of her.

The bed groaned. Then rocked.

Annie groaned so deep. She gripped him tight.

Smoke pulled out to the tip and then drove into her again. Harder. Deeper. The slap of skin echoed through the room, rhythmic and filthy. He grabbed her thigh, bent it high over his shoulder, splitting her open and fucking her rough, unforgiving.

“You feel that?” he growled, “Ain’t no man ever gone fuck you like this. Ain’t nobody else ever gonna touch this pussy. You hear me?”

Annie tried to nod. Tried to breathe. Titties swaying and slapping into each other.

Smoke leaned in, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. He sucked on her nipples, unable to control himself because they were sitting erect and begging to be played with. He drilled with a roll of his hips. Never breaking aim at her spot.

“I’ll fuck you till you can’t walk. Till you limp for days. So everybody know you mine.”

She clawed at his back, mouth open in a silent scream. Her body shook, thighs trembling.

He didn’t stop. Not till he felt her break apart beneath him, her back arching like a bow, her climax rippling around his dick like a vice.

Smoke braces himself on her thighs, got up on his toes, and slammed down into her. Annie took it all like she always did, pussy so used to his big dick.

“Fuck your pussy, Papa!”

“Where am I?” Smoke growled.

“On Papa’s spot! On Papa’s spot!” She cried.

“Fuckin’ that attitude out real quick.”

Smoke slowed down. He buried himself deep, then his let his hips withdraw slow and steady, all the way to the tip. Then he would sink back in slow and with a roll of his hips. Over and over on his spot. Annie was at a lost for words.

She looked down and saw cream and whimpered.

“You gushing, baby…tell Papa how good he make this fat pussy cream.”

“Oooh–Papa…shiiit…you–fuuuuck…you makin’ it creamy…so damn good…”

Annie reached between and cuffed his balls. Heavy and tight. She rolled them in her palm while he stroked.

“I can feel it…”

Her voice was faint but Smoke knew. He knew his wife’s pussy. She was ready to let go.

“Keep that hand on my nuts…and keep this puss open.”

Annie used her free hand to spread her left cheek. Smoke increased momentum. The iron headboard banged louder and louder and louder the faster he went.

Sweat droplets flew from his body.

His balls sat warm in her hand.

His dick twitched against her walls.

“I’m ready to fuckin’ cum….gahdamn, Annie…”

Annie let go of his balls and felt them slap against her ass. The sensation mixed with the way he was claiming that pussy had her eyes crossing. Smoke leaned in and sucked on her jaw. Hard muscle surrounded plush flesh. Annie’s finger nails dragged down his arms, but his skin was so sweaty it didn’t mark him. Smoke peppered his kisses down her neck, over her nipples, and back to up until his lips founds hers. He buried his tongue in her mouth to quiet her.

When he broke the kiss, only then did he grunt, spill deep, and grind slow, letting every drop mark her as his.

When it was done, he hovered over her, chest heaving, voice thick with worship.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby,” he whispered, “This home. You my home.”

And the bed rocked one last time beneath the weight of his love.

The week after the heist rolls in hot and heavy, thick with summer heat and the kind of need that don’t fade with morning light.

Smoke’s been on Annie like a man starved.

He fucks her in the hallway before she can reach the kitchen, backs her against the pantry door with one hand up her dress and the other wrapped tight around her hair. He bends her over the table in the front room, knocks over her candle jars, and don’t even flinch.

He takes her in the rootroom, too—up against the shelves where she keeps her oils and dried herbs, her dress hiked high and her moans swallowed in the crook of his neck. The scent of sage, pine, and sex lingers in the walls now like incense that won’t lift.

They don’t talk about it much.

But it’s clear—ever since he came back, ever since he brought that blade and dropped his guard—he’s been claiming her over and over, body and breath, like a man afraid she might slip away.

And Annie lets him.

She lets him because every time he touches her, it’s with the heat of guilt and something deeper—like he’s trying to make up for every hour he left her wondering. When he kisses the inside of her thigh, it feels like an apology, slow and aching. And when he whispers “you mine” against her skin, he don’t mean it as a threat.

He means it as a prayer.

Outside, the house hums with life.

Smoke’s out back, hammer in hand, rebuilding the porch steps that have been threatening to give way all summer. He’s shirtless, sweat slick across his chest and shoulders, broad back flexing with every movement. The Mississippi sun glows off his bronze skin, the slope of his collarbone catching light like a blade.

He’s wearing coveralls, but the top half’s tied around his waist, hanging low on his hips, dirt smudged across the knees. A red rag’s tucked in the waistband. His boots are unlaced. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a thin streak of sawdust across his stomach.

Annie watches him from the kitchen window, one hip cocked, apron tied tight, her arms folded under her chest.

He don’t even know how good he look.

She turns back to the stove, stirring a pot of smothered pork chops. Collards simmer on the back burner, seasoned with smoked turkey neck and a little sassafras. Cornbread’s cooling on the counter. Sweet tea’s sweating in a glass jar near the sink.

She don’t say it out loud, but it feels good to take care of him like this. To feed a man who’s put so much fire in her and left so much ash in his own mouth.

And yet…

He ain’t hers all day. Not with what’s rising in Clarksdale.

Word travels fast in the Delta. Since Clifton “Cleve” Ray’s blood soaked the dirt behind the juke joint, Smoke and Stack been pulling in power like a high tide.

Bootleggers, gamblers, brothel owners—they all checking in with the twins now. Asking permission. Paying tribute. Some out of respect. Most out of fear.

Smoke’s been gone more and more—meetings in backrooms, shady deals behind barns, handshakes soaked in blood and whiskey. He leaves in the morning with a pistol tucked under his arm and comes back smelling like other men’s sweat and dirt and long silence. But every time he steps through that door and finds Annie barefoot in the kitchen, curls wild and her eyes watching like she sees straight through him?

He softens.

At least, for a while.

The screen door creaks. Smoke steps inside, shirt still off, rag now wiping his brow. He smells the food before he sees her.

Smoke spoke low and smiling, “You tryna feed me or fuck me?”

Annie didn’t look back as she spoke, “Both.”

She spoons gravy over his plate, still in her house dress, nothing under it but skin. Her thigh glints where the slit parts. The same garter he loves still wrapped high.

Smoke steps behind her, crowding her space. He pressed his body against hers, her backside against his crotch. He smelled like sweat and whatever his natural musk was.

“Goddamn, woman. You tryna kill me in my own home.”

“Just remindin’ you where you supposed to rest.”

He kisses her neck, lips hot and slow.

And Annie—despite her worries, despite the ache in her chest every time he’s gone too long—leans back into him and lets herself be held.

Because for now?

He’s home.

He’s hers.

And the rest of the world can wait.

The kitchen is thick with warmth—sweet tea sweating on the table, the smell of smothered pork chops hanging in the air like memory. The screen door still swings gently from where Smoke came in, carrying the heat of the Delta and something heavier on his shoulders.

He’s halfway through his plate when the silence between them grows too thick to ignore. Annie’s at the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel, but she’s watching him with that look—the one that sees through bone.

“Me and Stack…we settlin’ in. But this thing? It’s bigger than we thought.”

Annie turns, leans back against the counter, arms crossed beneath her breasts.

“You mean takin’ over after you two buried Cleve in the dirt like a dog?”

“He earned that dirt,” Smoke spoke with a gruff tone.

“Didn’t say he didn’t.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Just wonderin’ what y’all thought was gonna happen after you cut the head off the beast.”

Smoke sets his fork down, eyes low, jaw ticking.

“Didn’t expect it to go smooth. But now everybody sniffin’ ‘round. Out-of-towners. Folks that used to bow to Cleve tryna decide whether to bow to us—or test us.

“So now you gotta bark louder. Carry bigger guns. Sleep lighter.” Annie said.

“Stack’s tryin’ to build structure. Numbers. Runners. I’m handlin’ the ones that need handlin’.”

Another pause.

Smoke continued, “We ain’t just fillin’ Cleve’s shoes. We burnin’ ‘em and makin’ our own.”

Annie watches him a long moment.

“You makin’ money. Keepin’ your name in men’s mouths. That what you want?”

“I want control. So nobody ever gets to pull strings on us again. Not like Cleve did. Not like anybody did.”

Annie walks over slow, holding her hand out.

“Then give me that mojo bag.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He slips the worn leather mojo bag from around his neck and drops it in her palm like a weight he’s ready to surrender.

“It still holdin’?” Smoke questioned.

“It’s tired. Like you.”

She closes her fingers around it, and without another word, walks out of the room.

In the front room, the altar is quiet, glowing with low candlelight and the hush of old spirits. Annie kneels, legs folded beneath her, white cotton robe brushing the floor. She unwraps the mojo bag, empties it into her palm. Dirt from under their bed. His hair. A sliver of bone. A small square of red flannel tied with black thread.

She breathes in deep, lips barely moving.

“Keep him grounded. Keep him safe. Keep his mind sharp, his hands clean, his body whole. And keep him mine.”

Annie adds crushed bay leaf, fresh snips of his hair, a pinch of red pepper. She smears it with a dab of her oil—one she made herself, heavy with patchouli and iron filings.

She ties it back up, wraps it tight.

Smoke’s still at the table, shirtless, chewing slow. His eyes drift toward the front room. One hand rests on the table; the other rubs at the space where the charm used to hang.

He don’t like how it feels—being without it, even just for a while. He finishes his plate but doesn’t move, like his body knows she’ll be back before long.

Annie steps back into the kitchen, bare feet silent against the floorboards. She places the recharged mojo bag in his palm.

“Wear it. Keep it close.”

“I will.” Smoke spoke softly.

He slips it back over his head, lets it fall against his chest, skin to skin.

“You built yourself a kingdom outta Cleve’s ashes. But don’t forget—power can feed you or eat you whole.”

Smoke replied sincere, “I ain’t forgettin’. That’s why I come home to you.”

She brushes past him, and he watches her move—hips swaying under her cotton robe, soft strength in every step.

And in that moment, Smoke knows the truth:

He might rule outside these walls…

But inside this house?

Annie is the crown.

It’s deep in the night. The kind of stillness that feels pressed down by the weight of the Delta heat, everything hushed but the distant sound of cicadas and a soft drip of water from the bath.

Smoke steps into their bedroom, steam still clinging to his skin. The towel around his hips hangs low—too low—riding the line of temptation. His chest glistens, water beading along the hard lines of his torso. Wide shoulders, arms thick and veined, torso carved by work and war. There’s strength in him—but also softness in the belly, just above the dip of his navel, where Annie loves to press her lips. His skin is the color of dark bronze left out in the sun—rich, warm, and glimmering where droplets trail down from his collarbone to the dark hair on his chest. He’s toweling his head, slow and lazy, and he hasn’t even noticed her watching.

Annie sits at her vanity in a silk slip the color of cream. Her full thighs spill over the seat, legs crossed, coils wild and haloed around her face. Her eyes are locked on him through the mirror—hungry. She picks up a small bottle of oil she blended herself—infused with cinnamon bark, orange blossom, and a drop of sweet almond to keep it soft on the skin. It smells like fire and sugar.

She spoke softly, “Come here.”

Smoke lifts his head, towel slung over his shoulder now. A smirk plays across his mouth.

“What you plannin’, woman?”

“I’m plannin’ to oil what belongs to me,” Annie paused, eyes dragging up and down his body, “Before the streets take another piece of you.”

He doesn’t argue. He steps closer and stands before her like an offering—barefoot, tall, solid, heat rolling off his skin. Her eyes travel over him, slow. She uncaps the bottle, pours a little into her palm, rubs her hands together until they glisten.

Then she begins.

First, she oils his neck, thumbs pressing into the tension at the base of his skull, rubbing slow circles down the cords of muscle. His head tilts back with a low groan. Then his shoulders—broad and thick beneath her hands. She kneads deep, slow strokes gliding over scars and strength.

“Mmm…Lord…you tryna make me beg, baby?”

“Not yet.” She teased.

Annie moves to his chest, spreading oil across muscle and bone, letting her fingers linger at the rise of his pecs, the thick muscle beneath the soft that only she’s ever touched tender. Then his abdomen, slow strokes across the ripple and dip—her nails scrape lightly just above his hip, and he shudders. She turns him and does his back next—broad, strong, the kind of back that’s carried burdens and bodies. She takes her time, sliding her palms from his shoulders to the small of his spine, then down again, oiling every inch like he’s hers to preserve.

When she’s satisfied, she turns him around to face her.

“Sit down, baby.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. Legs wide. Breathing heavier now.

Annie kneels.

Her hands glide over his feet, ankles, shins, up to his thighs—slow and measured. She doesn’t rush. The towel’s barely hanging on now, the shape of him pressing full and heavy beneath it.

She rests her palms on his knees, then slips the towel aside.

He’s already hard—thick, long, dark, and pulsing.

Annie pours a little more oil into her palm. Then she wraps her hand around him—slow, smooth, twisting at the top with practiced ease.

She spoke low and filthy, “Look at you. So full. So hard. You been carryin’ all that weight out there in them streets, and still come home heavy for me.”

Smoke grits his teeth, jaw clenching, his thighs tensing under her.

“You know this dick don’t belong to nobody but me, right?”

Smoke growled, “Yes ma’am.”

She strokes him slow, base to tip, letting the oil glide as her other hand cups his balls, squeezing gently. Smoke groans, tilting back. His dick reminded Annie of a steel rod covered with flesh. The sensation of his veins, the girth stretching her fingers, the crown of his dick wide and purplish from arousal. Smoke teased her with his full lips.

“You kill men. You run Clarksdale. You sit on a throne made of fear and blood. But right now?” She squeezes tighter, speeds her stroke just a little, eyes locked on his face, “You just my good boy.”

Smoke moans—deep and hoarse, one hand bracing on the bedframe, the other sliding into her curls.

“Goddamn…Annie…”

“That’s right. Give it to me. Let me take it.”

Ain’t nobody gon’ hold you down like I do. Stroke this dick like I do,” Annie held him at the base and slapped his dick against the palm of her other hand.

“So heavy and thick…”

Annie lowered the straps to her slip and her heavy breasts spilled out. She slapped her cleavage with his tip. Smoke furrowed his brows and groaned.

She let go of him and watched how his dick pointed up on its own like a stick in the mud. Annie grabbed each heavy breast and circled his dick with both, gliding up and down. Smoke rocked his head back, revealing his neck that glistened from the oil. Each time her breasts would come down they would smack against his thighs.

“Fuck, just like that, baby, fuck…”

Annie continued titty-fucking him, licking her lips as he starts loft his hips to chase that feeling.

His tip would disappear and reappear and each time Annie would flick her tongue in his slit. Smoke fisted the quilt beneath him and flexed his thighs. He was about to fall apart under her big titties, hips jerking, breath ragged.

“Annie,” Smoke reaches down to grab both tits, releasing his dick, watching it bounce free, “Time to give me my pussy, girl. You done fucked ‘round and woke Papa up.”

Smoke didn’t give Annie a chance to stand up. He lifted her himself and yanked that slip the rest of the way down.

“Got me goin’ crazy since I been back in this damn house, shit,” Smoke circled behind her and double cuffed both her ass cheeks. That motion brought Annie on her tip toes as she tilted forward against the bed.

“This body don’t make no sense, woman…be having my Johnson achin’ for you.”

Annie loved when he spoke like that—filthy, desperate, greedy—it made her pussy wetter and her body more pliable.

“On ya’ knees. Open up.”

Annie stared at herself in the vanity mirror. Smoke caught her eye. She arched her back and when her ass pointed up Smoke drew back a wide open palm and whacked her so hard on both cheeks. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a sensual dance.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack

“Spankin’ this big ass good, huh?”

Annie leaned into the strikes. That sting had her pussy dripping.

Smoke was pointed straight out like a flag pole. He was ready. Annie scooted further to the edge. She knew to bring both arms up, hook them around Smoke’s neck with her hands cradled. Smoke dipped his hips. He lined himself up and then pushed up into her wet pussy with one stroke.

Annie moaned beautifully.

Smoke rest his hands on her love handles and stares straight ahead in that mirror.

Breasts hanging.

Belly sitting low.

Big thighs spread open.

Then his eyes fell to her back.

Spine arched.

Ass sitting wide.

He wasted no time banging her back in. Each stroke was like a tidal wave, slamming into her and creating ripples across her brown flesh. Smoke dug his fingers into her flesh and drove his dick in deep and shallow. Annie had this defeated, ‘fucked out’ look in her eyes.

Dick drunk.

Annie couldn’t hold on anymore. She let go of his neck and reached back for his hands. Smoke interlocked his fingers with hers and Annie fell forward, cheek hitting the quit.

“FUCK ME, PAPA!” Annie shouted with ecstasy.

Smoke did just that. Handling her good. Rough. Tender.

Had that bed rocking.

The quilt was warm beneath her hands, her breath ragged from the momentous heat. Her body is arched, hips tilted back, the soft weight of her breasts swaying with every thrust. Behind her, Smoke moves slow and deep, hands gripping her wide hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Her eyes flick up—and there it is.

The reflection.

Her full figure bathed in low lamp light, skin glowing and slick with sweat. Her ass bounces with every push of his hips, jiggling beneath the force, the garter belt still clinging to her thighs like a vice. Her back is arched into a perfect curve, spine dipping down to where they meet—where he’s buried deep, stretching her full, making her cry out in time with every roll of his hips.

His body gleams. Chest and stomach sheened with the oil she rubbed into him earlier. Muscles flexing under bronze skin, veins thick in his forearms. And his eyes—Lord, those eyes—locked on the mirror, locked on her, face smoldering, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his temple to her back.

“You feel that? How deep I am?” He spoke low with a gravel.

She moans, mouth parted, watching herself gasp. She looks beautiful like this—undone but powerful. Her hair wild, her lips trembling, her body being worshipped through motion and rhythm.

She spoke, breathless, “God, yes…You in my stomach, Elijah.”

He grunts, hips slapping harder now, the sound filthy, wet, possessed.

And all she can do is stare at the mirror, watching the way her body blooms around him, how good she looks being taken—owned—and how gone he looks inside her.

The mirror ain’t never lied.

It told her the truth—

She was made for this. And he was made to take her.

“Elijah, you thick in me, Papa!”

“You don’t want me to go, do you?”

“No!”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Where you want me to stay?”

“Deep in your pussy!”

“Why you like for me to fuck you like this? Say it.”

“‘Cause you deep and in my stomach, Papa!”

“You ready to cum?”

“Yessssssss—”

“Paint this dick!”

Annie stilled, body frozen with her release. Smoke kept stroking. Annie’s toes curled, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands fisted the quilt.

Smoke wasn’t far behind. Hisses spilled from his thick lips and repeated grunts bubbled in his throat.

Annie rolled her hips as she threw it back on his tip and his tip only. Smoke poked out his bottom lip and shut his eyes. His fingers twitched on her hips.

“You on my tip…Annie…fuuuck…I love this pussy…fuckin’ my tip good…Annie…fuck, woman…pussy wet…ughhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

And when he came, it was with her name in his mouth and his eyes locked on hers—like she’s the only altar he’s ever knelt before.

The room is quiet now—just the soft tick of the wall clock and their breathing, slowing in rhythm.

Smoke is still inside her, hips pressed flush to the curve of her ass, his chest blanketing her back. His arms are wrapped around her middle, hands splayed wide—one over her belly, the other slipping higher to rest just beneath her breast. Their bodies are slick, skin sticking slightly with sweat and oil. The scent of sex clings to the air, warm and heady.

Annie’s cheek rests against the quilt, her eyes half-lidded. Her lashes flutter. She’s boneless, breathless, lips parted in a soft moan that never fully left her throat.

Smoke spoke lowly behind her, “You still with me, baby?”

Annie hums. Doesn’t speak. Just presses her hips back into him the smallest bit, as if to say Don’t move. Stay.

And he does.

He nuzzles into her shoulder, lips brushing the skin right where neck meets collarbone.

“Ain’t never seen anything as pretty as the way you look when I’m inside you.”

There was a comfortable pause.

Smoke continued, “Like your body know me better than I know myself.”

His voice is thick, worn at the edges. Tender.

She shifts slightly, the motion pulling another soft gasp from both of them. Her voice comes out quiet but sure.

“You feel so good…still fillin’ me up.” Annie whispers.

“I ain’t ready to let go,” He tightens his grip, arms firm around her belly, anchoring her there, “We don’t get peace like this out there. World full of enemies, snakes, men grinnin’ while they plottin’. But right here? This the only place I trust to breathe.”

Annie closes her eyes. Her hand reaches back, fingertips brushing his thigh. A silent I hear you. I got you.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. Then another, softer. Slower.

Smoke whispers, “I wanna grow old with you, Annie.”

She lets that settle. Lets the ache in her legs remind her she’s alive. Lets his weight sink into her. And finally, she speaks—barely above a whisper.

“Then stop disappearin’.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll try.”

A pause between words settled.

“…God help me, I’ll try. I’ll try, baby.”

They stay like that for a while—joined, pressed together, her wrapped in his arms, him wrapped in her body, in her scent, in her strength.

And outside, the Delta wind shifts—but inside?

They are still.

Held.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[aronyflo]

Elijah,you put that cigarette out,you can hold her.

[lovertm]

body paintings by anahitacreates

[theculture]

Megan Thee Stallion - B.I.T.C.H [Official Video] | @theculture​

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

I Need You…

Imagine: Elias needs comfort. Craves comfort. A bosom to rest his head and a delicate hand to stroke his back.

Warnings: Fluff, Angst, short

Knock knock knock

“Effie…”

Stack’s whiskey colored eyes swept the front porch of her home, eye lids rapidly blinking to keep the blood from a gash on his forehead from blinding him. He swayed backward slightly, body consumed with intoxication and the beginnings of lost consciousness.

“Shit,” Stack fumbles, head colliding with her front door, producing a loud thump.

The sound of a door being unlocked caused Stack to brace himself against the doorway. The door swung open, the smell of a cooked meal wafting his nose.

It smelled like black eyed peas.

“Stack?”

Effie Daniels. School Teacher.

Effie removed her reading glasses, a look of immense concern clouding her features. Stack heaves, squinting his eyes against the pain in his head.

“Effie…can…can I come in?”

Effie paused. Her fingers nervously fiddled with the edge of the door painted a forest green. She cast her wary eyes left and right before settling on the gangster before her.

Beaten. Bloody. Drunk.

No surprise there.

That’s Elias for you.

“Why you here, Stack? Where Smoke?” Effie questioned with a faint voice.

“Don’t wanna bother Annie and the baby…”

Effie’s eyelashes fluttered with remorse. She always had remorse for Elias. That ain’t changing.

“Come on,” Effie fisted the front of Stack’s blood–stained button shirt, “Pick up your feet, Stack!”

He obeyed.

Stack almost fell into Effie. She quickly shoved him into an arm chair before hastily shutting her front door and locking it up.

“Wait…wait…”

Stack held up a hand.

“What?” Effie asked with a frustrated crease in her brow.

“Gotcha sum real nice…”

Stack elevated his hips to dig into his back pocket. Effie shifted her stance and her arms slowly came up, folding over her chest.

A tickle formed behind her navel.

Stack flashed Effie a dimpled smile, his chipmunk cheeks highlighting his youthful glow. The golds on his top teeth sparkled.

In his hand was a diamond tennis necklace.

“Saw this and thought about ya’. Figured my girl could use some diamonds. Princess cut ring next on that finger.”

“Stack,” Effie exhaled, shutting her eyes, “I ain’t your woman.”

“Says which?”

Effie’s dejected eyes were glued to Stack’s face.

He had the beginnings of a black eye.

“Effie…C’mere. Let me decorate my angel.”

Stack pushed himself up from the arm chair, wincing in pain. He clutched his ribs on the left side before staring down at his fingers. He focused as much as he could on unclamping the diamond necklace. As soon as he did that, he held it up, locking his eyes with Effie.

“Effie.” Stack called to her with a pleading voice.

Effie released her arms and held them firmly at her sides. She beat her fists against the sides of her thighs, a nervous tick of hers. Effie faced the opposite way, and Stack brought the necklace up and over her head. The diamonds felt cold against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

“There,” Stack used his thick fingers to evenly place the necklace around her, situating it higher over her collarbones, “Turn so I can see you.”

Effie shuffled around until she was staring Stack in the face.

His knees buckled slightly. Stack reached behind him and when his hands felt the arms of the chair, he flopped down. There was a mirror on the wall above the loveseat. Effie walked over steadily, staring at her reflection.

She trailed her fingers over the diamonds.

Stack breathed deeply.

“Where did you get this?”

Stack creased his brows, the action causing his skin to feel tight from the dried blood.

“Don’t matter. It’s yours.”

“It does matter, Elias. You stole them.”

“Behind every successful fortune, there’s a crime, darling.” Stack said.

“I don’t want it,” Effie reached up to take it off, “I don’t want your gifts.”

“Effie, stop it now…”

Stack stood, rushing over to her and gripping her hands before pinning them at her sides. He stared at her through the mirror. He was the vision of a rough character and a frequent brawler. He was a hot-headed, quick-tempered man who seemed to fight his way through life.

“Baby,” Stack licked his lips, “I know I ain’t the best nigga to ever enter ya’ life, but I luv ya’ and I think about ya’ erryday. Ya’ the best thang to ever happen for me. Coming back to ya’, baby…I feel safe. I feel sure of this shit, feel me?”

Effie bowed her head as tears streamed from her eyes. Stack snaked his arms around her waist. Effie fell back against him, releasing a silent sob.

“Baby, baby…”

Stack turned her around and drew Effie into him tightly. He rested his chin atop her curly hair and rubbed her back. Effie cried a while, unable to shake the love she had for Elias. Even knowing his lifestyle was different and dangerous, she adored him. Stack is a sensitive man. Beneath all that darkness was a man that craved love and affection. Adoration.

Effie rubbed her tears away and looked up into Stack’s eyes. He grabbed her face from both sides and pecked her lips softly. Repeatedly.

“I love you, Stack. Even when I shouldn’t.”

Stack blinked at her.

“The fact that ya’ do, baby, shows just how much I don’t deserve ya’. Ya’ a good woman.”

Stack tilted his head down in shame.

“Why you keep getting yourself beat on?”

Stack glanced sideways at her.

“Nigga stepped on my gators…”

Effie scuffed, “Over some shoes, Elias?”

Elias flashed his hysterical eyes at Effie, “These special made, Effie. Ain’t just some shoes.”

Effie stroked Elias' biceps, chuckling softly at his rebuttal.

“C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Effie tugged Stack down the hall of her cottage home towards the bathroom. His gaze fell on her office where she was in the middle of grading schoolwork before he showed up. Effie pointed to the toilet and Stack took a seat. Effie opened her medicine cabinet and retrieved the items she needed to get Stack patched up.

Silenced settled between them. Effie cleaned Stack’s wound above his right brow with soap and water first before using hydrogen peroxide. Afterwards she dabbed on a tiny bit of antiseptic before using sterile strips to keep the gash closed, giving it time to heal properly.

Effie went to fill her tub with water and soap so Stack could take a bath. He undressed, placing his gold watch on the sink. Effie gathered his clothes to wash, and Stack got into the bath. She disappeared and placed his clothes in a laundry bag, planning to clean them properly the next day. He had clean clothes with in her closet folded.

She left to her kitchen and scooped out a bowl of black eyed peas with a thick buttermilk biscuit. Effie made her way down the hall again with Stack’s food on a tray with some water. She entered her bedroom, finding Stack naked and rubbing some cold cream into his brown skin. Effie raked her eyes over his body, unsteady hands gently placing the tray onto her end table.

Stack threw a white T-shirt on that cut into his biceps and stretched across his chest. He then slipped on a pair of boxer shorts. Effie left stack to eat his meal while she disappeared into her office to finish grading the last few papers. While she scribbled A’s and B’s, her mind couldn’t help but drift to Stack.

He mentioned putting a ring on her finger.

How would that look? A respected teacher marrying a known gangster?

Effie wondered if Stack would ever stop. Stop his gambling. Stop his scheming. Stop talking slick and getting stomped on when Smoke wasn’t there to protect him. Just stop and settle.

And she knew deep down, that’s what he wanted.

He wanted to start a family and marry.

Just like Annie and Smoke.

And it’s not like Effie couldn’t give him that. He just had an addiction.

Effie wanted to be Stack’s only addiction.

She turned off her lamp and entered her bedroom. Stack wasn’t there. She could hear him in the kitchen, cleaning his dishes. Effie tied a scarf around her curly updo and sat at her vanity to remove her earrings.

“Keep the necklace on…”

Effie locked eyes with Stack while he was perched in her doorway.

He pushed himself off and reached to take a sip of water. Effie lifted from her bench and went to her closet to grab extra pillows.

“Let me grab these for you—”

Stack reached for Effie’s hand, water in hand, “C’mon over here. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon. Have a seat for a second.”

Effie flashes Stack a smile before rolling her eyes.

“What?”

Stack smoothed a curl from Effie’s brow and adjusted the straps on her dress, “Kick ya’ feet up now.”

Stack handed Effie his glass of cold water, “Take a sip.”

Effie rolled her eyes heavenward before nudging Stack. She accepted the glass, unable to hid her giggle from the way he was staring at her. He looked a little silly with his cut all bandaged up over his brow.

“It’s nice right…hm?” Stack leaned in to Effie with a grin, “I’m a take care of you…see you run ‘round taking care of errbody else…huh? Who take care of Effie?”

Stack tilted her chin up with his finger. Effie’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. He stroked her bottom lip with his thump and then pointer finger, memorizing the shape of it.

“Me. I do…”

“You take care of me, huh?” Effie blinked away tears, “Not when you got a lot of women.”

“I ain’t got a lot of women. I got you. I know—I know I’m a monfucker…I know ain’t enough sorry in the world to make it up to ya’…but I just…I can’t help myself wit’ ya’, baby…”

Effie lowered her gaze to her lap. Her fingers twitched.

“Elias…ain’t enough gifts in the fucking world gon’ prove it to me. Ya’ gotta show up. Not just on my stoop for a patch up. Be there fa’ me. My happiness…”

Stack snatched up Effie’s hands and held them together with his, peering into her eyes, “I just want ya’ happiness. I’m a ain’t shit, nigga. I know, darling…but I wanna be better wit’ ya. Angel, please…”

Stack dropped his forehead against Effie’s bosom. He rubbed his face between her cleavage, breathing in the scent of almond oil, witch hazel, and glycerin. His strong fists gathered the material of her nightgown, afraid that she’d slip away.

Effie stroked his slicked hair, staring down at him with soft eyes. He shot up, pressing his nose against her cheek.

“Come wit’ me. Come wit’ me to Miami.”

Effie frowned her face, “What?”

“I was thinkin’ to get into real estate. After the collapse in 1925 and the Hurricane in ‘26, I can buy a beach home outright.”

“Stack,” Effie pushed herself up, “I got family here in the Delta. A job. Lessons to teach and a mama to look after. I can’t just pack up and go.”

Effie tossed a pair of pantyhose in her drawer. Stack shot up, wrapping his arms around her from behind. He pressed his lips against the shell of her ear.

“Ya’ can teach down there. We can build a home…have babies…get married on the beach.”

“Stack…”

Effie went to move Stack’s arms, but he was strong.

“Let me go.”

“Ain’t that what you want? A life wit’ me.”

“STOP!”

Stack was paralyzed. His arms slowly dropped away from Effie. She created distance between them, wiping tears from her cheeks.

Between cries, Effie spoke, “Elias! when you gonna get ya’ head outta the clouds!”

Stack cocked his head back, eyes swimming with melancholy.

“You lie to me, you tell me you gon’ stop doing this illegal shit but you don’t. I’m not packing up and skipping town on a dream! I need to know that you mean what you say! Love me! Love ME!”

Effie rammed a finger into her chest for emphasis.

Enraged. Hysterical. Pained.

Stack cut his eyes away, thumbing a single tear that had drifted from his left eye.

“I just wanna be the best version of myself when I’m wit’ ya…I wanna give ya’ the world. Even if that mean taking it.”

“Stack…”

Effie molded her body against his, cuffing his face, forcing him to look at her.

“I don’t know how else to do it, Effie…being a gangster all I know…”

Effie’s lower lip trembled.

“Smoke took care of me…I’m the reason my momma dead…what else I got goin’ for myself? I’m a fuck up…I blow on in like a tornado wreaking havoc, Effie…when I’m wit’ ya…I wanna…I wanna impress ya’. But I know ya’ ain’t like them other gals…ya’ special.”

Effie hugged Stack. He pressed his face into her neck.

“Sorry, Angel…”

“…let’s get some sleep, okay?”

Stack went to grab an extra pillow while Effie pulled the sheets back. They both settled into bed, the lamp light out and cloaking the room in darkness. Stack faced Effie, circling an arm around her waist and drawing her closer. His plump lips kissed along her neck and down to the tops of her breasts.

“No tail tonight, Stack,” Effie told him with a laugh.

“I ain’t asking for pussy. I just wanna hold ya’ close. Cuddle wit’ ya’ til’ I fall asleep. That’s all baby,” Stack gave her a pout with puppy dog eyes, “I promise.”

Effie arched a brow, “Mhm…do ya’ even deserve that, Mr. Moore?”

“I apologize a million times, Angel…”

“You’re forgiven…for now.” Effie whispered before pecking him on the forehead.

Stack drew circles into her back with his thumb.

“I ain’t perfect, Effie. Sinner through and through.”

“Didn’t say ya’ had to be perfect, Stack. Just present.”

Stack trailed his eyes toward Effie’s lips. He leaned in and captured her lips with his. They kissed passionately, Effie bringing her leg over his hip. They rolled over until Effie was beneath him. Stack stared down at her. He stroked her cheek softly.

“I meant what I said…I wanna make ya’ my wife.”

“We got time for proper proposals, Elias.” Effie says with a smile.

Stack chuckled, “And I got time to figure out ya’ ring size for that princess cut,” Stack grabbed Effie’s left hand, admiring her ring finger, “Ya’ gonna be shining, baby. Effie Moore.”

Effie bat her lashes at him and heat crept up her face. He made her feel giddy.

“Got a ring to it,” Effie said.

They kissed again.

Stack snuggled against her, resting his head on her chest. Effie stroked his hair to sleep, his soft snores coming out and blowing cool air against her. She extended her neck to plant a kiss to his head.

“I love you, Elias Moore…everything about you.”

The End.

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