Keep playing with fire…eventually you get burned.

The flame lit up on a random Saturday. Burning slow one second and engulfing her whole the next.

It was still early — after breakfast, before lunch, that sweet spot where heat hadn’t settled too thick and the wind still cared enough to throw a nice breeze. The sun was currently playing peek-a-boo, ducking behind clouds and then rising high, not taking its job serious at all. Giving a little grace, before it actually clocked in for the day. 

The typical noises that usually drifted around the neighborhood — screen doors banging shut, loud phone conversations held on porches, cars beeping as they were locked and unlocked — all ceased to exist at the moment. Slean street was quiet right now. Calm. A result of half its residents being at work, while the other half remained in bed sleep. 

Annie took full advantage of it; the weather and the stillness. She was curled up in her egg chair on the porch, smoothie on her left, pen dragging across the page in front of her, and mind far from the present — mind focused instead on yesterday morning, when Smoke had been cutting her grass. 

He walk like it’s heavy. 

I mean…they both do. 

Smoke though…shit. 

Annie glanced towards her yard, like he was still out there, strong arms flexing as he pushed the mower across her lawn. Smoke walked with a wide stance, gait steady and just a little uneven, like there was something thick hanging between his legs that got in the way. Annie’s teeth sunk into her glossed lip as she thought about it. Gaze flicked back to her page. 

He walk like…whatever he got swinging, he know how to use. Walk like he rearrange souls. He could rearrange mine, just for one night.

Cutting her grass was a chore Annie’d never asked him to take on — she shared a long porch with the brothers, but technically she had her own yard, and she’d been tending to it, or paying someone else to do so, long before she’d known the Moore’s existed. Smoke had put an end to that almost immediately after the twins moved in though. They took over the left unit of the duplex, while Annie remained on the right, and Smoke cut her grass whenever he cut his and Stack’s now. She’d fought him on it, a couple times, and then let him have his way because well…why would she stop him when he looked so fucking good doing it? 

She’d been throughly entertained yesterday — seated on the porch like she was now, except she’d had shades perched on top of her head then and a book in her lap she hadn’t bothered to read a word of. Her attention had been on him instead. He’d been dressed for the weather; grey cotton shorts, black t-shirt, durag covering the waves Annie knew were brushed deep into his hair. It made her shift right then and there  — just thinking of the way his wide chest had stretched that cotton, the grey shorts that’d left nothing to imagination. 

Yeah, it’s heavy. Probably got a curve too, one that can hit every spot I have without trying. He could’ve proved my theory yesterday if he wanted to. Could’ve fucked me right here on this porch. 

Annie sounded like music as she moved. Literally. Had Citrine and Black Tourmaline wrapped around her wrists, along with stacked copper bell bracelets that jingled in the quiet every time her pen glided across the page. Finally working out some of energy she had pent up.

That’s probably what he need. Some pussy to help ease that tension he always carrying around. 

She’d spent yesterday drinking him in like water from her spot on the porch. Studying him. Smoke’s eyes would cut in her direction occasionally, like he felt her shifting, and clenching, and watching — and Annie never bothered to look away. Had held his stare instead. Smiling too sweet, like she was daring him to do something. 

He hadn’t though. 

He’d just pinned her in place with his eyes instead, let his hands flex around the handle of the lawn mower like he’d rather be grabbing something else, and then got back to work. It’d happened more than once; the staring, the silent tension, the building of anticipation. Had left Annie just that much wetter every time.

Whatever he got pent up? He can take that all out on me. Swear I’d be so good for Smoke. As soon as I got done being bad.

 I wonder who fuck better, him or Stack? Wonder who thicker? Who longer? Who meaner? Stack probably nastier. Gotta be. I know that mouth is. 

Annie shifted again. Continued writing.

That fuckin’ mouth. I wonder what else it’s good for besides talking shit. 

Stack had been gone for most of the time her and Smoke were outside yesterday. Had arrived back home loud; music blasting, engine roaring, turning the corner fast for no reason. It’d made Smoke shake his head. Had made Annie smack her lips together. And her stomach tighten slow.

Despite the driveway they shared, the younger Moore always parked by the curb — like he wanted to be able to leave without delay, whenever he felt like it. Today was no different. He parked on the street smooth, killed his engine, and hopped out like he hadn’t just interrupted all the peace in the neighborhood. 

“Damn nigga,” Stack’s lips were curved up, voice carrying across the yard, chain around his neck glinting dangerously as it caught the sun. He had his head turned towards Smoke, even as his legs brought him to Annie. “You still out here cutting grass? Yo’ ass tryna put on a show, you ain’t slick.” 

“Fuck up,” Smoke turned the lawn mower off, head following his brother. “You get the papers?” 

“Told you I wouldn’t forget. When I ever say I’m gone do somethin’ and not do it?” 

Smoke squinted, top lip jumping up like ‘nigga please’. 

Stack’s smirk didn’t drop. Matter fact, it only grew as he finally turned his head towards her, climbing the three steps to the porch.

Annie had her lips around the rim of her glass. Was shaking her head because he was so ridiculous — and so damn fine. 

Bronze skin, dark eyes, dimples that caved so deep he didn’t even have to smile for them to pop. Stack moved like water — easy, unbothered, unassuming. It worked for him. Was how he pulled people in, before they realized what really lay under all that…easy.

“You wearin’ this for me?” His eyes were already sweeping over her; the fresh island twists she had pulled in a bun on top of her head; the pink tank she wore — with straps thick enough to support, and push up, her full chest; the denim shorts that hugged her tight — distressed at the bottom and cutting off mid-thigh. His stare stopped at her feet, at her pretty toes that were painted a soft green, pushed comfortably into her favorite pair of slides. 

Annie let her home made lemonade slide down her throat before she answered, “That’s all it take to get you started? Some shorts?” 

“Ain’t about the shorts. It’s ‘bout how you wearin’ ‘em.” 

“And how am I wearing them, Stack?” Her anklet shimmered as her foot swung lazily — back and forth and back and forth.

“Like you tryna start some shit you ain’t prepared to finish.” 

The hum that left her throat was low. Too sensual to be mistaken for amusement. Annie shifted, let her foot keep swinging, let the heat that was Elias settle over her.

“You ain’t even said good morning to me. You need to learn how to greet people.” 

“You like how I greet you jus’ fine.” 

He wasn’t wrong. 

Stack stepped in then, pushing into her space like he owned it. “What you drinking on?” His eyes jumped from her lips, to the glass in her hand, to the identical one she had sitting on the small table next to her. “This one mines?” 

He was already reaching before she answered and Annie didn’t hesitate to smack his greedy ass hand away.

“That’s not for you, that’s Smoke’s.” 

There was a shift in the air between them then. Stack pausing, Annie’s head cocking boldly. Both breathing a little deeper for different reasons.

“We hittin’ now?” His lips were still curved. Just with an edge. 

Annie’s foot swung faster. 

“Stop tryna touch stuff that don’t belong to you,” She kept her gaze locked with his. Kept a smirk on her face. “You not the one out here cutting my grass, he is.” 

“Niggas get rewards for walking back and forth across yo’ grass?” Stack’s dimples caved, gold flashed. “What I get for playing errand boy ‘den?” 

He held up the two bags he carried in his hand. Full of items she’d texted him to get when she found out he was stopping by the store. 

“Thank you for playing errand boy Stack.” She brought her glass back to her mouth. “My thanks is the reward.”

“Man–” He reached again, for her glass this time. Wrapping his hand around it and pulling it directly from her lips. 

Annie’s mouth dropped, fingers sliding from the glass, body coming forward like she was being dragged out the seat. 

Stack’s eyes stayed locked with hers. Playful. Dark. Two things that shouldn’t even mix.

He rotated the glass deliberately, placed his thick lips directly over where hers were just resting, and then sipped slow. 

Until he had his fill. ‘Till Annie’s own mouth felt dry – in a way that had nothing to do with needing something to drink. 

He never broke their stare. Not while he swallowed and not when he finally pulled the glass down. 

His lips were wet, tongue came out to clean them and Annie’s eyes followed the movement until Stack spoke, accent as thick as whatever was brewing between them, “Dat’s jus’ as sweet as you, baby. What I gotta do to get some more?” 

Annie tightened the grip on her pen, blue ink blossoming across the page as she continued writing. 

 I feel like I’m going crazy. I almost backtracked last night and texted Ra, just to give me some relief. I don’t want Rashad though. I don’t want lazy strokes and decent head. I want my soul touched. Wonna be done so nasty, I can’t even look at myself in the mirror the next day. Wonna be dropped on some dick long enough to touch the bottom. Don’t wonna be able to even move when it’s all done.

Annie’s hand glided effortlessly, tongue sliding across the sweet gloss coating her lips. 

I want Smoke. I want Stack. And I don’t know why they actin’ scared. Smoke always glaring, like he ready to punish something, but then don’t ever do shit. Stack always barking, running his mouth like he get paid for it, but then don’t ever bite. Let me find out the SmokeStack twins can’t handle nothing, outside of cutting some grass and talking some shit. That’d be…sad. 

Annie snickered to herself, bell bracelets singing as her wrist dragged. 

Almost like they were warning her to proceed with caution. 

Let me find out Smoke can’t stroke. Let me find out a joke is the only thing Stack know how to crack.

More snickering. More singing from her bracelets. 

The same warning. 

I played in my pussy again this morning. Feel like that’s all I do, since I met them. I wander if they ever hear me…moaning out they names while I fuck myself. Imagining Stack’s mouth. Smoke’s eyes. I swear he can see right through me.

“I’m ‘bout done wit’ the front. Gone get the edges and then move to the back.” 

Stack had stepped inside the house, leaving Annie to her view. One that was now coming up the stairs slow, rag thrown over his shoulder, face serious as ever.

“You know I can get Gerald to do the back right?” 

She didn’t mention the 20something year old who cut grass for the neighborhood because she actually wanted him in her backyard. She mentioned Gerald, because it would get on Smoke’s nerves. Because it would make them eyes narrow. Make that nose flare a little in the way it did whenever he got aggravated. Whenever she was playing and he didn’t allow himself to do something about it. “He just told me last week he keeps my spot open for the day I decide to start back being his client.” Annie’s voice was sugar. Warm, pointed, and petty. 

Smoke didn’t speak immediately. Took a second. Let the bees buzz and the wind whistle and the heat from the sun press down heavier. 

“You was showing off for dat nigga the way you do for me — I bet he did say that.” His eyes pierced hers. Voice rough in way that made her center heat. 

“Showing off?” She tilted her head, as if she didn’t know what he was talking about. As if her lips weren’t already quirking up. 

“Dats’ why you out here, ain’t it?” His gaze didn’t waver. “To be watched. To give me somethin’ to look at while I’m out here cuttin’ yo grass.” 

His words weren’t teasing. Weren’t playful.

They were blunt. Matter of fact. It was almost mean the way he said it. Carried an edge. One that stemmed from desire and restraint. 

One that didn’t bother Annie at all. 

She didn’t need playful from Smoke. Didn’t need teasing. 

She wanted Smoke exactly the way he was. 

“I’m sittin’ on my porch, reading my book.” Her lips were still curled up. Voice a little….breathy in a way she couldn’t, or didn’t, try to hide. “That’s not my problem if you’re distracted, Elijah.”

Elijah. 

She said it like she was tasting it.

And Stack always let that shit slide. But Smoke? His eyes narrowed. Sharpened. 

‘Cause Annie wasn’t ready for what came with Elijah. For what came with sitting pretty on the porch, showing off skin, and being a fuckin’ tease while she dropped his government like she had the right. 

“Why you lookin’ like that?” Annie blinked up at him from where she sat. “I can’t say your name? Don’t be mean, Lijah.” 

The sound that left Smoke’s mouth wasn’t really a laugh. Couldn’t be, because his lips didn’t even twitch. 

That jaw did though. 

Them hands did too. 

And when he spoke, it was in that same blunt tone. Words weighted with that same rough edge. 

“It’s Smoke. You ain’t earned Elijah. And you ain’t seen mean.” 

Annie didn’t even realize how deep she was breathing. How hard her hand gripped her pen. How her thighs pressed together even harder.

I want them to ruin me. 

One night. All night. Wherever they want me. However they want me. For as long as they can go. I wonna be able to play in my pussy and remember what they did to me. Remember how they broke me in properly.

And I want it sooner rather than later. 

-AP ❤︎

The sound of her journal closing was nearly non-existent. Her sigh though? That was louder. Impatient. Wanting. Coated with attitude.

Playing with the twins — finding reasons to knock on their door, going back and forth with Stack, pissing Smoke off just cause she could — it was all…fun. 

Having fun wasn’t getting fucked though.

And that’s what she needed. What her body needed. 

Annie reached for her smoothie, settling back into her egg chair, eyes roaming around the quiet street. 

“Sooner rather than later….” She echoed the words she’d just written on paper. “Before I actually lose my damn mind.” 

The only response she got was the wind. Blowing in the same easy way it had been all morning. 

The calm, before the storm. 

—

Sooner came later on that day. 

After her key broke off in the lock of her front door to be specific. 

One second she was turning it and the next —

“— it just broke in half. I called Leon, but you know his ‘I’ll be out that way in a hour’ really means he gon’ take four.”

Annie stood in front of Stack, island twist hanging free and long, canvas bag she’d been using at the farmers market on one shoulder, while her purse sat on the other. It was yellow, matched the sandals on her feet, and made the little white sundress she was wrapped in pop. The same dress that looked perfect on her dark skin and brushed her thighs every time she spoke, in a way that’d make anyone look twice. 

In a way that Stack was taking his time looking at right now. 

“You must want me come over and play handy man, huh?” He was leaned against the door jam — arms crossed, voice teasing, eyes dragging up her slow. 

Annie let him take his time  — shifted casually, so her dress brush her thighs again and make him look longer. 

“I want you to be a good neighbor and let me wait over here.” 

Stack’s basket ball shorts sat low and extra on his hips. White wife beater covered nothing. Cuban link glinted like it was calling for her to pull on it. 

Or maybe that was just the heart beat between her legs talking. 

“That’s you askin’ nicely?” He had that smirk on his face — the one she always pictured when she was three fingers deep in her pussy. “Where them manners you always sayin’ I don’t got?” Stack settled deeper into the door jam like he could do this all day. “Ain’t you ‘sposed to say please or somethin’?”

“Now you worried about manners? Stack you gon’ let me in whether I say please or not.” Annie sounded completely unbothered. 

Was so bothered though, that her gaze wouldn’t stop drifting. From his eyes, to his thick lips, to them arms that looked big enough to raise her in the air and keep her there. 

She liked that about the twins. How solid they were. How both of their bodies came with broad shoulders, and strong arms, and hard abs. Stack was a little slimmer than Smoke — but the point stood — they looked like they could do damage. Like they could handle her. And that’s what Annie needed. 

What’d she’d convinced herself she could handle with no problem. 

“Is ‘dat right?” The low sound that left Stack’s throat was amused. A lil dangerous too. “You prolly ain’t wrong. Can get whatever you want when you wearin’ this lil ass dress for me,” His eyes hit her body pointedly again; legs, hips, titties sitting so high they were damn near in his face. “Betta’ be careful wit’ that shit. Walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like trouble.” 

Annie’s head cocked, “Is that not your favorite thing to get into?” 

Attitude and honey. That’s what her words were coated in. 

And they gave Stack pause. Left them both standing in silence for a second — silence that went just as fast as it came. Like it always did with them. 

“You swear you funny,” His smirk sharpened. Whole body leaned in closer to her. “What chu’ gone do when its my turn to laugh?” 

Her shoulders rose then dropped, “Laugh wit’ you I guess.” And then she crossed her arms, pushing her chest up further. “Now are you gon’ let me in?” 

He let her in. Feet moving one step to the side, creating space but not so much that she could get past without brushing against him.

“Thank you, Elias,” She threw the words over her shoulder, arm grazing his chest, legs carrying her into the lions den with ease. Like she belonged there. 

She didn’t wait to be led. Didn’t glance back when he mumbled something slick under his breath. Didn’t pause to see if he was following either. Cause she already knew he would be.

There was noise coming from the living room and Annie let that be the guide to her strolling. Let it take her deeper into the unit, sandals clacking on hardwood, the same bell bracelets from this morning announcing her presence like she was a special guest. 

She saw Smoke as soon as soon as she reached the entry way. Sitting on the couch — black t-shirt, grey sweats, attention directed towards the game playing on tv. Not that it stayed there for long. 

She had all of 3 seconds to take him in before he sensed her presence. Before he turned his head in her direction and then kept it turned. He didn’t look surprised to see her. Didn’t look confused either. He looked like he always did — like he was examining her. Like she belonged to him and he was making sure everything on his property was still intact. Like he was making sure his property hadn’t gotten in no trouble while she was out of his sight.

It was sick. The way that ache between her legs was already starting and she hadn’t even been in their presence for five minutes. 

Smoke sat up slow, placing elbows on knees, as he started taking stock of Annie; her dangerous brown eyes and glossed lips, the purse that sat on one shoulder and the canvas bag on the other, the small “A” pendant of her necklace currently burying itself between her cleavage, the short ass dress that flared out around her waist but hugged her chest too fuckin’ tight up top. 

He was done with his examination in seconds.

 “Where you get ‘dat dress? And where you comin’ from?” 

It was expected. Smoke never warmed up to anything. Didn’t mince words. Didn’t bother with niceties. Didn’t see anything wrong with questioning her like that. And even though it probably shouldn’t — wouldn’t if it were anyone else — his questioning always made something twist in her belly. Something more hot than warm. A feeling completely contradicted by the way Annie playfully shook her head. “Yes, I’m doing good. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

Nothing.

No response, no laughter, not even a twitch of his cheek. He let silence sit instead. Let it stretch. Used it like his own personal weapon. His own personal warning.

One that Annie savored.

That look he was giving her — it made her throat dry and her mouth water all at once. Made a smile break out and a light airy laugh leave her mouth as she looked him dead in his face. 

“I’ve had this dress since before I even met you. It’s pretty, ain’t it?” She tugged on her hemline. Made her deep cleavage that was on display, bounce. “And I was at the farmers market.” She adjusted how the canvas bag sat on her shoulder.  “My key just broke and I’m locked out, so y’all are keeping me company until Leon gets here.” 

“It’s short,” That’s what he gave her back. But he thought the dress was pretty too. She could tell, because his eyes wouldn’t stop dragging over her. Jaw jumping a little harder than before with every pass. That was the only thing that gave him away as his stare met hers again. “And Leon gone take all day. Me or Stack’ll have yo’ door open in five minutes.” 

“Told her I’d get it open,” Stack came into the room behind her, feet keeping him there for longer than necessary.  “Think she jus’ missed us forreal.”

“And that’s where you’d be wrong,” Annie pulled her eyes away from Smoke, to glance over her shoulder. “Y’all are not damaging my door tryna break into my house. Playin’ host for a couple hours won’t kill y’all.”

“Ain’t nobody say we had a problem wit’ it, baby.” That lazy drawl hugged her ears as Stack finally passed her, heading towards the left end of the couch and sinking down into the cushions. His legs spread wide first, arm got thrown over the back, attention stayed on Annie as one of her hands landed on her hip. She did it real extra and she looked real fine. 

“Why do I gotta keep reminding you that’s not my name?” 

Stack’s head dropped to the side lazily. “That is yo’ name. You daddy’s baby. You ‘ont want me sayin’ it, put somethin’ in my mouth that’s gone shut me up.” 

The image flashed in her mind out of nowhere — her standing over him, thighs encasing his head, hips grinding her pussy against his tongue, cumming all over that gold he kept in his mouth. He would talk while he let her drown him. Say some shit like, Daddy eating that pussy good, baby? Giving you what the fuck you been wantin’? Yo’  ass need to say thank you. And she’d respond. Sliding her pussy over his face. Panting loud. Thank you daddy. Thank you so much daddy — shit Stack. 

Annie blinked. A couple times. Until her vision came back into focus and she was no longer standing over Stack but looking at him. And the slow grin stretching across his face that said he knew exactly what he was doing to her. 

Daddy’s baby. 

“You ight over there? You breathin’ a lil’ fast.” 

“And you listening a little hard.” Annie smacked her lips, sound as loud as the pulse that was thumping in her ears. “You need a filter.” 

Her words weren’t as playful as usual. Weren’t as light. Not because she was mad or offended, more so because she was caught off guard.

Annie was a grown woman. Experienced. Knew exactly what she liked and what she didn’t. Knew how much control she was willing to give and how much she wasn’t. 

Daddy’s baby. 

And for a second them two little words had her feeling like she wanted to give it all over. Had her feeling raw in a way she loved and hated? 

This was her game. Her rules. She was in control. She wanted to be ruined, yes. Wanted them to do whatever they wanted, however they wanted — on her terms.

The way that ache between her thighs grew though? Like being daddy’s baby was everything she needed no matter how much control she’d have to give up? 

It gave Annie pause. And she needed to recalibrate. 

She forced her eyes away from Stack — and immediately got trapped in Smoke’s gaze. He was still leaned up, face blank as ever, dark orbs studying her. Closely. Clocking reactions and filing them away. 

He could probably sense it — the way her clit was thumping.

“Yes, Smoke?” Her twists swung as she inclined her head. As she made her voice light.  

The older Moore tracked the movement of her hair, fingers twitching where they hung between his legs, before his eyes found hers again. He didn’t rush to respond. Took his time. Almost like he was making her wait on purpose. Like he was letting her know this wasn’t her game actually. Not really.

Annie shifted, impatient, wet, still slightly on edge. And then Smoke opened his mouth. As if that was his que.

“You gon’ wait for Leon all day, standin’,” His head just barely tilted. “Or you gon’ sit and catch yo’ breath?” 

“Nobody is out of breath.” 

Her neck moved as she spoke, pretty eyes so busy rolling she missed how the brothers glanced at each other; Stack smirking, Smoke very pointedly not, and silent understanding passing between them regardless. 

“I will sit down though.” Annie continued speaking as she finally moved from the entryway — dress swaying, hair swinging, hips switching in a way that didn’t do too much, but still caught eyes regardless. Four eyes to be specific. 

She floated around the living room, re-gaining her footing with every step she took. It was the familiar prickle settling over her skin that helped, the one that came from both twins cataloguing her every move. Annie had always liked when they stared, when they couldn’t help but stare, and today was no different.

She bypassed the wood coffee table and the couch with ease. Didn’t even glance at the entertainment system or the mounted flat screen on the wall. She headed directly for the arm chair in the corner instead and when she reached it, she did what she intended, sliding her canvas bag down off her arm and placing it in the seat. And then she was turning right back around and heading for her real destination. 

Annie’s lips turned up in the corner, eyes jumping from Smoke to Stack and back again as she came closer. 

“‘Scuse me,” She came from the left, stepping over Stack’s legs and right into the space between the couch and the coffee table. Her voice was breezy, movements unhurried as she gave them her back — setting her purse down on the wood in front of them, brushing her long twists over one shoulder, sliding her sandals off before taking a small step backwards. 

And then sinking, right into the middle cushion of the couch. 

Stack had to move his leg suddenly, Smoke had to shift his whole body over, and Annie? Didn’t care. Planted herself in that small spot between them anyways, wiggling like she was getting comfortable, thick thighs expanding like dough as her dress rose up a little. 

It encompassed her immediately; the dark scent of cedar and danger, the heat both of their bodies gave out, the tension that settled over the three of them — real thick and real delicious.

“You a trip.” That was Stack — side eyeing her, mirth in his voice. 

“Don’t be stingy with the couch,” Annie’s head turned in his direction. “Sharing is caring.” 

She blinked innocently when she said it, but she wasn’t fooling nobody. Not when that smile still sat on her face. Or when that teasing tone mixed in perfectly with her Nola accent. 

Sharing is caring. 

For a second, nobody even reacted to the words. Felt like time itself stilled as both brothers zeroed in on her  — in a way that was real twin-like.

It probably should have unnerved her. The attention. The quiet. The way the temperature in the room felt like it went from zero to a hundred. 

All it really did though was make her fight a bigger smile. Make her feel more in control than she had a few moments ago. 

And then Stack broke the silence — laughing low. Amused — but not really. 

“You heard ‘dat Smoke?” He didn’t pull his eyes away from hers when he started speaking to his brother. “Sharin’ carin’ now.” 

There was another beat of silence before eleven words disrupted all of that. 

“It’s carin’ tell it got her ass stretched wide and cryin’.”

Annie blinked and if you listened close enough you could almost hear the audible scratch of a record. 

“Excuse me?” Her head whipped from left to right. From an edged smirk to a narrowed gaze — one that said she better tread lightly. She couldn’t even clarify what’d she just heard before Stack was speaking again, grabbing her attention and making her turn back towards the left. 

“You droppin’ one liners like it’s a comedy show and you ain’t even prepared for what’s gon’ happen when the curtains close.”

“Think she ready, but she ain’t.” Smoke again. His words were short. Clipped. Nothing loud. Nothing extra. Just stating facts.

“It’s that sweet shit between her legs that got her talkin’ bold like that.” Stack’s eyes dropped down to her thighs. “Pussy been crying out for months. Hurtin’. Hungry.” 

“Too bad we can’t feed ha.” Smoke stayed focused on Annie’s face. “Not ‘till her mama learn how to fuckin’ act.” 

The reasonable response would have been to back track. Leave. De-escalate the situation. 

Annie though… Annie just let out an airy sigh that was supposed to be a laugh and then shook her head.  “This how y’all talk to guests?” She tsked like she was disappointed. Like she didn’t know what she was doing, or who she was playing with, or the fire she was feeding. Like they didn’t all know exactly where she would eventually end up — between Smoke and Stack, holes fucked, pussy punished, body used until both Moores’ were sated. 

“The next time I see mama Moore, ima let her know how y’all be actin’.” 

She did her best to watch her breathing. To look unaffected, but they caught it anyways. Stack saw them thighs pressing, heard that catch in her voice. Smoke saw the uneven rising of her chest — that break in rhythm that occurred whenever she had tension building. He saw them big eyes darken too. Saw ‘em start to glaze over, even as her mouth ran like she wasn’t feeling nothing.

“Girl –”

Annie didn’t let Stack get his words out, cutting him off and leaning forward to reach for her purse before she lost the upper hand she’d just barely gotten back. “If y’all are done discussing me — and what y’all never gone get anyways — I’m tryna mind my business.”

Her words settled over them as she did just that — digging around in her purse, applying a fresh coat of gloss, pulling out her journal and then feeling around for a pen next. She moved as if there wasn’t an insistent throbbing between her thighs. And she only bothered to spare them a glance after she’d settled back into the couch. 

“Weren’t y’all watching a game or somethin’?” She raised a brow, looking from left to right. 

Smoke didn’t respond. Not verbally. But that jaw clenched just right. Made her want to act up and behave at the same time. 

Stack shook his head, chuckled under his breath, “Think a nigga worried about a game, when you talkin’ slick and flashing them thighs every otha’ minute.” 

Annie almost laughed, ‘cause it sounded like the little brother was being pushed to his limit. And that was just a little too bad.

She repositioned herself, just to flash her thighs again. Didn’t look back at Smoke. Didn’t bother supplying Stack with a response. And for the next 10 minutes, everybody acted like they had some sense.

Smoke remained on her right, eyes on the tv, jaw still held a little too tight for anyone to believe he was thinking about basketball. 

Stack remained on her left. Leaned back, arm laid out behind her, gaze jumping from Annie to the game and back again — in a way he didn’t even try to hide. 

And Annie, herself? Remained in the middle, leg sliding against one brothers, arm sliding against the others, fake paying attention to the tv right along with them. 

It was….calm. 

If calm meant heavy and still — like the air itself had stopped flowing to see what would happen next. 

The game continued and when number 13 missed another free throw, Annie sighed, messed with the hem of her dress, and decided to occupy her time another way. With her journal. 

The pen she’d grabbed from her purse clicked, attention drifting down to the worn yellow book that held her thoughts, and dreams, and desires. 

She opened the journal to where she’d left off this morning, didn’t bother with a new page, because it wasn’t a new day. She opted to position her pen a couple lines down instead and then let the ink talk. 

I’m so wet I can feel it. 

“She ain’t prepared for what’s gone happen when the curtain close.”  

“She think she ready but she ain’t.” 

Yeah, okay. 

They swear somebody scared of them. All that barking. All that glaring. 

I wander if Smoke know my clit jump every time he start talking reckless? Every time he call himself asking questions like he somebody daddy. 

I wonna play in my pussy right here. Spread my legs and make them see what they do to me. Make them clean all this mess I’m making up. 

I want Stack’s tongue. Want his mouth sealed to me while Smoke buries his face between my titties. 

They feel so heavy right now. I need him to hold them up and feed. Need him to make me feel it. To leave a mark. And then I want them to switch. 

As Annie wrote, her lashes fluttered. Bell bracelets sang out. Breath increased just barely. 

Smoke probably take his time eating pussy. Probably take that just as serious as he does everything else.

I want him to put his whole face in it. To make me cum ‘till I forget how to breathe. And then I want him to fuck me so good that I’m not even worried about breathing. 

It wasn’t her lashes or her bracelets or the way her chest rose and fell a little faster that got her in trouble though. It was her hips that did that. She kept moving. Small shifts, to the left or the right. Thighs squeezing together. Then separating. Then squeezing together again. And every time she combined both actions at once, a small shift of her hips and a flex of her thighs? It made her grip on the pen tighten. Put pressure on that spot between her legs. Felt so good, she just….didn’t stop. Brushing against Stack when she shifted left. Then Smoke when she went right. Then Stack again. Stimulating her clit the best way she could, damn near playing with her pussy, right in front of them. 

And they noticed. Because of course they did. 

“What chu’ over there doing?” 

Smoke’s voice was harsh, cutting through the haze she’d fallen into and causing her pen to stop moving immediately. 

“Fuck is you doing actually?” Stack’s head was already turned in her direction, gaze jumping over her — from the side of her face to the bottom of her dress — like he could already see the dripping pussy that sat underneath it. 

Annie wasn’t as quick with her response as she usually was and that didn’t go unnoticed. Or unchecked. 

“You ‘ont hear me talkin’ to you?” Smoke’s words were typically wrapped in an even unyielding tone. One that drove Annie crazy when she first met the older Moore, because he never sounded affected by anything. Regardless of what was going on or what she was doing to get under his skin. There’d been some cracks lately though; the other day when she borrowed sugar or when he came over last week to mount her new tv. Or right now, this very second.

Nothing about his tone was even at the moment. He sounded impatient actually. Voice was rough. Heated. Disbelieving in way that was more pissed off than shocked. Like even though he’d asked what she was doing, he already knew. Like he’d felt her brush him the first time. And the second. And the third. Like he’d listened as her breath increased and then watched out the corner of his eye as she dragged that pussy back and forth against his couch. 

“You deaf now?” Stack sat up completely, closed in from the left, while Smoke came from the right. “My brotha’ talkin’ to you. What you over there looking at?”

Annie was still frozen — thighs no longer clenched, pen pressing down on paper in one spot, head angled towards her journal but when Stack’s head angled, trying to read what had her attention, she snapped out of all of that. Damn near slammed her journal before looking up and meeting two sets of molten eyes. 

She blinked. Tried to sound as nonchalant as she always did when she finally managed to answer, “I’m minding my business. Didn’t we just disc—”

“You humping yo’ pussy against my 3,000 dollar couch,” Smoke cut her off. “You done lost yo’ mind?” 

Annie inhaled sharply, already denying, trying to play coy in a way that wasn’t going to work right now. “I was not—”

“You humping yo’ pussy against my 3,000 dollar couch,” He stressed every word as he repeated himself, brows furrowing like he was still wrapping his head around it — how bold she was.“You sitting between me and brotha’, ‘bout to nut on yoself, like you ain’t got no fuckin’ home training.”

“Well, we know she ain’t got no training.” Stack’s voice sounded like danger wrapped in velvet when he cut in. Look on his face said he wasn’t mad. More like…darkly amused. “She come over here, flauntin’ that pretty ass body like she can’t help herself, damn near erryday. It ain’t really surprising she don’t know how to control that pussy.”

Annie couldn’t even move they had her boxed in so tight. Staring dead at her while her brain scrambled to put together words. She’d have something witty to say in a minute, but she really was caught off guard, because she hadn’t realized what’d she been doing. Her body just moved without thinking around them. It was really their fault.

The gold in Stack’s mouth flashed mean when she remained quiet. 

“You got all that mouth any otha’ day and still actin’ like you can’t talk?” His eyes didn’t let up from her face. “This why you ‘ont wanna be my baby, huh? Cause you over here actin’ like a slut instead?”

Annie’s stomach twisted so wrong it felt right. And she physically couldn’t help it — how her entire center pulsed even as her mouth opened to bark back. 

“Elias who are you—”

“You get wet on my leather, Annie?” Smoke cut through their back and forth before it could even start, drawl lined with something sharper than she’d ever heard it.  “If that pussy done leaked on my leather, you gon’ clean that shit up wit’ yo’ tongue.”

Her mouth parted, like she was surprised. Stack laughed, like he wasn’t. 

“Ohhh, you in trouble, baby.” His head cocked. “You know what me and my brotha’ do to sluts like you, right? To ones who can’t control they pussy?” 

Shit was going from 0 to 100 again. And it was moving so fast, she didn’t have time to intercept. Didn’t have time to pull them back from the edge she’d just pushed them over.

“I must be talkin’ to myself.” Smoke was shifting in a way that wasn’t like him. In a way that said he was tired of talking and not being answered. 

“Must be brudda.” Stack’s eyes dropped. “She too busy holding on to that fuckin’ book. I still wonna see what she was writin’. What got that pussy so wet we can smell it.” 

And then he was reaching. Swift, quick, bold as always. And when he moved, Annie moved with him.

“This is my journal — Stack move,” Annie tightened her grip on the journal, holding it up and away from him. He leaned in, she leaned back, and Smoke? Let her. 

Annie didn’t even realize her mistake, until it was too late. 

Because when Stack followed her, lifting off the couch, hand clasping around the journal and yanking it out her hand, there were already fingers around her throat stopping her from lurching forward and getting it back. 

Her hands went up on instinct, a little gasp born from surprise more than anything leaving her mouth, “Smo—”

“Don’t say my name. You ain’t have nun to say five seconds ago, so you gon’ sit yo’ ass still and let my brother read what got you actin’ like a bitch in heat.” The hand around her neck flexed, hold not tight enough to hurt, but not so loose that she mistook this for playing. Because Smoke wasn’t playing. Had never been playing actually. “That ain’t yo’ journal no more. That’s me and my brothas’. We own everything in this fuckin’ house.” His lips grazed her ear, chest rose and fell against her back, tight grip on control slipping. Just a little. 

‘Cause she needed to be punished. Corrected. Needed to be bent over, tied down — and then she needed that ass spanked. Raw. 

And Smoke was fuckin’ itching to do it. 

Annie was pressed against solid muscle, dress fanned out and twisted up from the 2 second tussle with Stack. Her heavy breasts were damn near spilling out the stop, red lace of her panties peeking from under the awry hemline, pulse in her neck beating against the fingers wrapped around her throat. 

She could’ve put her foot down. Fixed her dress, told them they were doing too much. Taking it too far.

But she didn’t. 

“Let me see what’s making them big ass thighs press together. What got that pussy actin’ up.” The curve of Stack’s lips cut deep into his face as he took her in. As he felt the familiar weight of his dick gettin’ heavy. 

When he opened the journal, it was right to her last page, like the Universe itself was guiding him. 

He didn’t even look down at first. Just kept staring, that same fire that was always brewing between them? Catching alight. 

“I like you like ‘dis,” That deep ass grin of his stretched. “Mouth shut, titties damn near out, pussy tryna’ say hi to a nigga. You like it too, don’t you baby?” 

Annie’s skin was burning hot. Body sprawled across the couch at an angle, pussy so wet she could feel it on her thighs now. Her big eyes blinked like she was saying ‘yes daddy’. But her mouth remained shut ‘cause she was stubborn, even with one brothers hand at her neck and the other looking crazy enough to help him squeeze. 

That stubbornness made Stack laugh low. 

Smoke on the other hand, ain’t really get the joke. 

“Read the shit, nigga,” The older Moore’s voice cut through the silence, made Stack chuckle again.

“My bad.” He blinked at her. “You ready, baby?”  

And then he was reading — to himself at first.

Random words jumped out, from her morning session and the one that’d just been interrupted, like they were begging to be read. 

Stack, Smoke, wet, nasty, same time, want them to switch, want them to ruin me, played in my pussy again, wander if they ever hear me, wonna play in it right now, don’t know why they actin’ scared, Smoke can’t stroke, a joke is the only thing Stack know how to crack, almost backtracked last night, break me in properly, make them clean all this mess up, for as long as they can go, wonder who fuck better, wonder who nastier, wonna fuck Stack’s mouth —

Annie probably felt it before both of them. The air going from thick to suffocating, as that smirk on Stack’s face dropped. Completely.

“You writin’ ‘bout me?” His head snapped back up towards her. “Bout my brother?”  

“What?” Smoke’s voice was sharp. 

“She writin’ ‘bout us,” He was talking to Smoke. And didn’t look away from her once . “Bout playin’ in her pussy. How she think about fuckin’ us while she do it.” 

The fingers around Annie’s throat flexed as Stack continued. Summarizing her words at first — 

“She say she want us break her in. Want us at the same time. She been wondering who fuck better. Who get nastier. Say she wonna play in her pussy right now cause she so wet thinkin’ ‘bout it.”

And then reading them verbatim. 

“Listen to dis’ shit.” Stack’s eyes jumped from hers back to the journal. Southern accent getting thicker the more he spoke. The more worked up he got. ‘I want ‘dem ruin me. One night. All night. Whereva’ they want me. Howeva’ they want me. For as long as ‘dey can go.’” 

White hot embarrassment rushed over Annie. It started in her cheeks and made her overheated skin grow hotter. Traveled down to her stomach and made it tighten with what felt like shame and arousal twisted together. And then ended at her pussy, made her hips flex, pushed her back further into Smoke. 

Stack’s stare met hers again. “She want us take turns on her ass. Pass her back and forth ‘till we ain’t got no more nut to give. Till she can’t move. Say she want me slurping on that pussy, while you suck them big ass titties she got, and then she want us switch. ‘Dis what she was writing, while she slid that pussy all over the couch.”

Annie whimpered as the hand at her neck tightened. As Smoke’s voice hit her ears, deep and dead calm. So calm, that it wasn’t. 

“Is ‘dat right?” 

“Mhm,” A smirk was crawling back across Stack’s face. Sharp and messy. “She got jokes too —” He still sat on the edge of the couch, whole body facing her, tensed up, like he was ready to lunge. “Said we scared of the pussy. Said we can’t handle shit but cuttin’ grass and talkin’ shit. What you write in here, baby?” He asked a question he already knew the answer to. “Smoke can’t stroke? A joke the only thing Stack know how to crack?” 

The words sounded childish when he said them. And they were, because her journaling session this morning was nothing but venting born from sexual frustration. Venting that took place in the privacy of her own journal. Whatever shit she’d talked, wasn’t even something to really be mad about. 

The breath hitting her ear? Was deeper than before though. And the laugh Stack just let out? Well — the only word Annie had to describe it was unhinged. 

“She think we some bitches. Said she almost hit some other nigga to come through and fuck ha’ since we too pussy to handle the job.” That is not what Annie had written. But that’s exactly what Stack had read. The younger Moore suddenly closed the journal, tossing it on the coffee table, letting that same low crazy ass laugh ring out. “Imagine ‘dat—” he leaned in towards her, eyes flashing, “—you givin’ anotha’ nigga some pussy that’s been dripping for me since I met you.”  

And then he moved. Upper body suddenly coming forward, two hands claiming a spot on her thighs, fingers sinking in rough as he forced them open. As he forced them to spread as wide as they could in her current position. It made Annie completely sink into the hard body behind her, left one of her legs on the ground and the other folded at the knee in Stack’s lap. Put that slick mess that’d been building between her legs, all out on display.

Her panties stretched over her center obscenely — fat lips barely covered by the delicate material. She was drenched — wet coating her thighs, a big sticky spot right in the center of her lace, panties clinging to her pussy as it contracted around nothing. 

Her voice was breathy. Thick. “Stack—”

“Look at ‘dis shit,” His eyes were focused between her legs, hands flexing around the fat of her thighs, head cocked like he was studying art. “It’s dripping for me right now. This fat, wet, bad pussy.” 

He shook his head. And then out of nowhere —

Smack. 

One of his hands came up and raised back down, right between her legs. 

His palm was heavy. Hard. Unforgiving. 

“Pussy needa learn how to act. Rememba’ who make it get like this.” 

Annie’s mouth fell open in a quiet gasp, hips pulling back instinctively, legs trying to close as a sweet stinging sensation traveled through her and stopped directly at her clit. It wasn’t nothing but a lil love tap, and her body was already trying to cave in. 

There was nowhere for her to go though. Stack was already back to keeping her legs held open, making her feel what’d he’d just done. 

“Stack—”

“Shut that shit up,” Smoke cut her off. “I ont’ wonna hear no whining. And ain’t gone be no running. Look at me.” His fingers moved to her jaw, making her neck crane awkwardly to the side as he brought his face forward until their eyes met. “You walk in here, bouncing around in this dress, smellin’ sweet, smilin’ innocent, just to sit between me and my brother and write about bein’ used like a whore.” His voice was smoke, sinking into her skin, burying its way so deep, she’d never forget it.

“You worryin’ ‘bout what you think I can’t do. Sittin’ next to me tryna figure out who dick bigger, when you ain’t ready to take either.” His face was hard, nostrils flaring, something thick and long growing in his sweats and pressing right into Annie. “But you wonna be used right? Want yo’ holes fucked so bad you was ‘bout to nut on my couch just thinkin’ ‘bout it?” His fingers pressed deeper into her jaw. “If you want it, you gone take what come wit’ it, and I don’t wonna hear shit out yo’ mouth but ‘thank you daddy.’”

His words dropped like a weight. And they brooked no room for argument. Or negotiation. She’d take it all — whatever him and Stack had to give — and this was the last out he was granting her. The last time he was letting her slide. 

Annie’s breath mixed with Smoke’s as she panted soft. As she remained pressed against him, thighs still spread, pussy drenched, heart beating faster than what was probably healthy. 

She didn’t really stop to think about the repercussions — what this would start, what it could change, what they were about to do to her. 

All she could focus on was the pulse between her legs. How close she was to finally getting what she wanted. And she let that ache, that yearning, talk for her. Let it put the final nail in her coffin. 

“I hear what you sayin’,” Annie licked her lips, spoke like she wasn’t already spread wide and hemmed up by the throat. “But why would I tell my daddies thank you, when they still aren’t doing shit???”  

Nothing happened at first. 

Nobody moved. 

Nobody blinked. 

Felt like breathing flat out stopped for all three of them. And it stayed like that.

Up until everything unpaused at once.

Stack let her thighs go, stood up from the couch. Smoke slid his hand back to her throat, practically barked out his next words, “Stand yo’ ass up!” 

Annie didn’t really get the chance to move herself, before she was being moved. Smoke was rising and she had no choice but to rise with him, legs scrambling, both feet just planting themselves on carpet before he let her neck go and spun her around. 

“Think you like pushin’ cause ain’t no nigga eva’ pushed back,” His hand was already reaching for her again, fingers re-wrapping around her neck, pulling her in until her breasts pressed firmly against his chest. He was breathing deep, eyes so dark they didn’t look brown anymore. “By the time me and my brotha’ done wit’ you? All ‘dat brat shit? Gone be out the window. You gone be takin’ dick, swallowin’ nut, and talkin’ polite, like a real good girl.” 

She couldn’t think of a response before his mouth swallowed hers. 

The kiss didn’t start off gentle. Or slow. But it wasn’t sloppy either. It was demanding. Thorough.  Entitled. His tongue stroked into her mouth like it belonged there, like he was claiming her. Like she was already claimed.

He didn’t wait for them to create a rhythm, he set it instead. Head tilting, lips forming a seal with hers until she had no choice but to breathe in him and nothing else. They weren’t really kissing so much as she was being kissed — with such nasty precision she felt it in her pussy.  It made Annie moan — a sound that was swallowed before it could even be heard. Her hands found their way to his shoulders, wet sounds ringing out louder than the bracelets on her wrists every time the two parted and came back together. Every time his tongue fucked into her mouth with purpose. Annie moaned louder. All she smelled, all she felt, all she could think of was Smoke. Heat bloomed in her stomach, nipples growing hard and achy, tongue seeking out more of him, now that his mean ass had finally cracked. Her pulse thudded hard against the hand still locked around her throat —

And then a hand wrapped around her twists, the same ones swinging long and free, and pulled.

The hand at her neck dropped as Annie’s head was yanked back, the sharp sting making her eyes fly open, vision immediately filled with the sight of Stack smirking down at her. 

“You forget about yo’ favorite twin?” 

He closed in immediately — grip around her hair firm, angling her head until it turned to the side and then kissing her from where he stood behind her. Extra, wet, and nasty. She couldn’t even catch her breath, before it was taken again. 

Because that’s what the brothers did — took, possessed, and consumed. 

That’s what they were going to do to her. 

Stack kissed rough. Slick. And he tasted like sin. Sweet, dark, and addicting. The music their lips made was loud — greedy smacking sounds born from the way his mouth moved against hers. From how he used her hair to pull her mouth deeper into his one second and then to yank her away the next.  

“That mouth so sweet —” His stare was like lava when he pulled back, the same gold in his mouth flashing like a warning she’d already decided not to heed. “‘Dis how the fuck I want you greet me from now on. Straight tongue, none of ‘dat smart mouth shit.” 

He pulled her back in quick, like he was feigning for more already. Whimpers climbed out of Annie’s throat as their mouths moved together. As their saliva mixed, Stack kissing her deeply and then sucking on her tongue, as if he wanted to bottle her taste. It felt like he was trying to fuck her mind rather than her mouth. And it was working. Annie was dizzy. Was craning her neck for more when he finally pulled away, a long strand of spit keeping them connected before it broke off.

Her mouth was kiss swollen, lips and chin wet, body leaned back into Stack’s like she was unsteady on her feet.

“Yeah, my mouth good for something else besides talking shit, huh?” Stack echoed the words he’d read in her journal, kissing her rough one last time before he let her hair go. 

And as if they’d practiced the transition, Smoke stepped right back in. 

“Get ‘dat dress off.” No please. No hesitation. Just direction. Direction she should have been quick to follow, considering this was all she’d been wanting. 

Annie never did what was expected though. Wasn’t known for making things easy. 

Instead of complying, she let her heated eyes wander, from Smoke’s piercing stare, down to them lips she’d just felt for the first time. And then further, past his stiff shoulders and wide chest and big arms. She let her gaze drag all the way, right to them grey sweats. To the cotton that was stretched, soft fabric molded around something that looked lethal. That looked so lengthy and fat she felt her throat constrict. 

Smoke hadn’t touched himself. Hadn’t readjusted nothing. Hadn’t grabbed. Hadn’t stroked. And his dick was demanding attention. Sat heavy in a way he couldn’t hide. In a way that caught Annie’s attention. And then kept it. 

Stack was still behind her, all up on her, body hot and tone instigating. “Look at ha’. Ain’t even got her breath back and she still focused on the wrong shit. She so fuckin dick hungry.”

“I ‘ont care what she is. She betta’ get that dress off, for it get ripped in half.” 

That got her attention. Made her eyes jump right up to Smoke’s face. Made her lip sink into her teeth. Because she could feel that he was on the edge of showing her exactly what she thought she wanted. 

“He mean that too, baby.” Stack’s breath hit her ear. “And if he ont’ do the honors, I will.” It was crazy encouraging crazy. 

And as she stood between all that crazy, breathless and wet, she only grew wetter. Only had a stronger urge to keep pushing. To keep taunting. 

So, what exactly did that make her?

“I can’t get the dress off if y’all don’t give me space to move,” She attempted her usual tone — defiant, sarcastic, unbothered — but her voice came out too wrecked for that. 

And she didn’t get the chance for a redo. 

One second her dress was sitting pretty on her frame and the next — Smoke moved like a solider executing an order. No hesitation and no remorse as his arm shot out, hand clasping the front of her dress and then yanking — pulling the thin material down in one strong controlled movement.

Annie gasped as the straps of her dress were forced off her shoulders, burning her arms as her breasts bounced free — full, heavy, sitting up on her chest with just the perfect amount of hang. And then came her soft stomach, her prominent hips, that fat lace covered mound that sat perfect between her thighs. Every inch of her dark ebony skin was exposed in seconds as white fabric pooled around her feet. 

She blinked, like she was surprised or something. 

“Done repeatin’ myself to yo’ hard headed ass.” Smoke met her wide stare unflinchingly. “You gon’ learn how to listen.” 

“And we gon’ have fun teachin’ you. You see ha’, Smoke?”

Stack couldn’t have gotten a full look at anything yet. 

And he still sounded like he was starving. 

Acted like he was too. 

The palm against her ass came out of nowhere — landing on the side of one of her full cheeks with so much force Annie damn near lost balance. 

“Stack —” She said his name loud. High. Hand flying back on instinct as heat spread across her skin.

“You know what me and my brotha’ ‘bout to do to this ass?” Stack’s fingers locked with hers, his hands grabbing the one that’d flown back, not to comfort, but to move her out his way.

SMACK. 

His palm rained down again. In the same spot. Harder than before, like he couldn’t help himself. 

“What chu’ even got panties on for? They not covering shit. Lace ain’t doin’ nothin’ but gettin’ swallowed by this big ass.”

He moved a step back, got a better angle. 

SMACK.

Everything on Annie jiggled when his hand made contact with her again — thighs, ass, stomach, them full breasts Smoke was currently fixated on.

“Stack —” The sound that left her throat wasn’t really a cry this time. It was a moan, followed by Annie taking a half step forward — like she didn’t know what to do with the pleasure and pain twisting together inside her body — before she was promptly pulled back. 

SMACK.

Stack’s hand came from the left, bottom lip sucked into his mouth as he watched that ass jump. Deep voice washing over Annie in a way that drove her crazy.

“Don’t run baby. You know a nigga like me, like to chase.” His palm rained down again, the loud thwack of skin against skin echoing throughout the living room. 

“‘Dis the same ass you was bending over the otha’ day right?”

SMACK.

“Now you ‘ont wonna show it off? My lil slut actin’ shy now??” 

SMACK.

Annie’s throat was dry. Mouth wide open. Things happening inside of her body that didn’t even make sense. She was overheated everywhere. Overstimulated and not stimulated enough. Pussy clenching around nothing. Mind blanking as she was forced to feel that sting wash over her repeatedly. As a bow formed in her back, only serving to push her ass out further. 

Meanwhile, something was shifting inside Stack’s chest every time his hand connected with her. Something dark and primal. 

“You was ‘bout to give anotha’ nigga this pussy?” His dimples caved in as he spoke. “Let him see this perfect ass bent over, when you know daddy right next door ready to give you what you want?” 

His palm cracked down sharp. 

“Stack -”

“You gon’ make that shit up to me, Annie. Gon’ stand on all that shit you be talkin’.”

The bow in her back deepened, titties sitting high in the air as loud pretty moans fell from her mouth.

SMACK.

SMACK.

SMACK.

Left cheek. Right cheek. Left cheek again. 

He wasn’t giving her time to warm up. Didn’t take baby steps. Didn’t pause in between hits and let her get adjusted. He just kept going, hand cracking down, eyes glittering like he was hungry. To feed. To fuck. To punish. 

And Smoke? 

Just watched.

Roamed his eyes over every dip and curve she had, studied the way her face twisted up when his brothers hand landed, the way she panted, the way them big ass titties bounced — hard chocolate nipples pointing straight at him like they was begging to be sucked. 

He eyed her soft tummy, how it moved in time with everything else on her. Took in her prominent hips next, them big thighs and long legs, that fat dripping pussy. 

Annie was moaning like it hurt. Puttin’ on a real good show. But that shine coating her thighs? The way they keep squeezing and rubbing together? 

Told a different story. 

SMACK.

“Look at ‘dat shit move. Fuck Annie.” 

Stack’s palm rained down again. And again. And again. Like she was his toy and he was entertaining himself.

“Stack — shit! Okay, daddy! Mmmm — baby, okay!” Her voice was thick, pleading. For him to keep going. For him to stop. For him to leave her ass alone and give some attention to the ache between her thighs. She went from a bow in her back to leaning forward — and that only gave him better access. Only allowed him to grip her forearm now and really lock in.

“Awe now you daddy’s baby?” He laughed at her. Dick jumped, angry and thick. Hand came crashing down again. 

“Oh my God. It feel so — !” Annie didn’t think it was possible to cum from this, but every time his hand connected with her full cheeks, the pain spread, everywhere at first and then directly to her clit. 

Stack would’ve kept going. Would’ve let her see just how possible it was. 

But Smoke put a stop to all that. On purpose. 

“Give ha’ to me.” He didn’t wait for her to be handed over. Was already reaching when Stack laid a parting smack to her ass, that loud clap mixing with Annie’s moans. 

“You gon’ drive me fuckin’ crazy girl,” Stack’s voice was guttural. He hadn’t slid inside her yet, hadn’t even tasted her, and still — he felt it. That greedy possessive feeling creeping down his spine. 

He pulled her up so she was standing straight, stepped back just as Smoke’s hands wrapped around her waist, moving in sync with his brother like they’d done this 100 times before. 

Annie was breathing like she’d ran a marathon. Skin achy, head spinning, legs unsteady. 

Smoke pulled her into him like he was ‘bout comfort her — had her titties pressed to his chest, his dick firm against her stomach, her forehead resting on his shoulder. He let her be for all of three seconds. And then he did what’d he been itching to do since she stepped into his living room. 

Her eyes flew open, a sharp hiss leaving her mouth when Smoke wrapped them twists around his hand and pulled till her head was upright where he wanted. He gripped her hair tighter than his brother had. Didn’t want her to be able to move unless he was directing it. 

He looked her dead in the face, voice hotter than a summer day in Mississippi, “You think you ready for us and you can’t even stand straight right now?” 

Annie was so busy trying to breathe, that she couldn’t answer. Smoke continued. 

“Stack playin’ wit’ you — nigga ain’t even got serious yet. I ain’t even started. And you already shakin’. Pussy damn near leaking on my floor. You ain’t ready for me lil girl.”

It was borderline condescending. 

Annie’s hips jerked anyways. Tongue came out to wet her lips. Big brown eyes glazed over, with so much want, so much need, that it made Smoke’s fingers flex. Made his grip on her hair tighten.

“And you ‘ont give a fuck. Don’t ‘een care what we do to you — long as we tend to that pussy, huh?” 

He said it like it pissed him off. Like it — she — was testing his control. And winning. 

“If you know that, stop making me wait.” Her words were drenched in lust and impatience. 

Because she’d never felt like this before. So small. So desired. So desperate. 

Annie was blessed with height that’d been intimidating people all her life. Had thick everything that only served to amplify her tall frame — soft arms, stomach, thighs, breasts. Had a mouth she let run. A stubborn streak that got on her own damn nerves. And while some men could handle it, most couldn’t. Not really.

Stack though? Smoke? Did it with ease. Handled her mouth. Her attitude. Her body. All without breaking a sweat. And it made her mouth water. Made her continue talking,  as she held Smoke’s glare. 

“Y’all supposed to be fucking me right now.”

Stack started, low and amused — “Pussy still got you talkin’ reckless.” 

And Smoke finished, eyes so dark she was damn near sinking into them. “Dat’s an order?“

The words came out so sharp they almost felt like a threat. 

And the obvious answer was to give no answer at all. 

“It can be,” Annie went a different route. Like she didn’t have a sore ass and Smoke’s hand tangled in her hair. Like her chest wasn’t still rising and falling in an unsteady rhythm. “If that ‘s what’ll finally get you to listen Elijah.” 

Smoke’s eyes narrowed immediately and Stack let out something that sounded like a laugh behind her, “I know you tryna’ let her make it brudda’ but you gon’ have to show her somethin’. She beggin’ for it.” 

She was. And she was about to get everything she was asking for. 

Smoke’s arm flexed as he used her hair to tug her face closer. As he spoke over the low moan Annie let out. 

“You think ‘dis a game. Think this ‘bout to turn into whateva’ nasty shit you been writin’ in that book.”

Her lashes fluttered, brain going fuzzy from the sharp sting traveling through her scalp. From the feeling of Smoke washing over her.

“‘Dis ain’t no fantasy, Annie.” He remained unblinking as he catalogued every one of her responses. “ And you don’t run shit wit’ me.”

She was moving. Or rather, she was being moved. Went from leaning into Smoke, body frozen in one spot to being walked, forward first and then around the coffee table. 

“Smoke —”

“You that desperate for ‘dis dick?” He ignored her saying his name. Kept her body pressed to his. Kept stepping. Kept her braids wrapped his fist. “You gon’ learn how to ask for it. Can be Stack’s slut all you want, but you gon’ be a good girl for me. A good nasty lil bitch.”

The younger Moore liked the slick shit — the attitude, the mouth, the playing hard to get. It got his blood up. Had him damn near obsessed with Annie. 

Smoke though…Smoke liked obedience. Liked manners. Respect. And Annie was gon’ give him all that. Wasn’t gon’ have no armor with him. Wasn’t gon’ show no resistance. 

The two moved, Annie’s legs working to keep up with Smoke’s, a sharp groan leaving her mouth at his unrelenting grip. 

He didn’t let go until they reached the center of the room. Only let go because unbeknownst to her, Annie was about to be on her —

“Knees.” 

He didn’t have to yell for the one word to sound like exactly what it was — a command.  

Annie’s big eyes opened slowly. Skin buzzing. Scalp tingling. Pussy so wet she felt like she was one shift away from cumming. 

Stack had just bent her over and spanked her. And Smoke had just dragged her around this room. Like it wasn’t nothing. 

“Fix yo’ face.” She had the audacity to look shocked. To look even more turned on than she had a second ago. “I let you walk wit’ me jus’ now. You gon’ be crawling by the end of the day. Now get on yo knees Annie, for I put you on them.” 

She listened. For what was probably the first time today. It could’ve been the shock that made her act right. Could’ve been the look Smoke was giving her. Could’ve just been her pussy controlling her actions. But either way, she listened. And she didn’t look away from him once. Not as her legs started to fold. Not as her breasts bounced softly in time with her movement. Not as her knees finally hit carpet. She kept her pretty eyes locked with his. Moving graceful but with an edge. Blinking slow up at him like she was asking ‘this what you want daddy?’. 

6ft, clean fade, mean eyes, permanent frown — that’s what she was looking up at. That was the view Smoke provided as he looked down on her, hands at his sides, jaw jumping. 

Jaw always jumping in her presence.

“Ain’t got no business lookin’ like ‘dat. Sweet ass face wit’ all ‘dis fuckin’ body. You see what you do to me?” 

What she did to him couldn’t be missed.

“It look so big.” 

Big. Lethal. Dangerous. 

His sweats hid nothing. She could see how wide he was. How long. How hard. And just like earlier, she was damn near entranced. 

Smoke licked his lips slow. An action he wasn’t even aware of. “You ‘bout to take all ‘dat. Gon’ keep every inch in yo’ mouth ‘till I decide you can breathe. Gon’ swallow my nut like the pretty lil bitch you is. And then you gon’ thank me.” It all flashed in his head, every time she’d bounced over here smirking like she couldn’t be touched, every time she’d pushed, every smart ass remark that’d left her mouth. “Dis’ what chu’ been wantin’ from me ain’t it? What chu’ been waitin’ on?” 

“Yes.” 

She didn’t hesitate to respond. Because it had been what she waiting on. Because she felt like she deserved the dick. Because regardless of how she’d gotten to this point, she was here now and this is all she’d been wanting. As far as Annie was concerned — some hair pulling, some spanking, was worth it, as long as she was getting her twins. 

And that was her second mistake of the day. Thinking it’d gotten as…rough as it could get. 

Smoke scoffed, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around it. How fuckin’ needy she was. “Don’t nothin’ else tame ‘dat mouth, but you get some dick in front of you and know how to act? Shit not gon’ save you Annie. Don’t make up for nothin’.” 

Annie…was getting her bearings back. Wasn’t being touched or dragged. Was able to think now. To play. 

“I’m sorry, daddy,” She looked back up at him. Almost sounded like she meant what she was saying too. Woulda’ been convincing, if not for the smirk on her lips. “You gon’ let me keep tryin’?”

Her hands moved on their own, smirk still on her face, fingers gripping the waist band of grey sweats and black briefs and then pulling slow. 

The dick popped out fast though. Had of mind of its own. Every single inch of it. 

Annie’s head moved back on instinct. Smirk dropped so fast it wasn’t even funny. Throat worked to swallow spit. Spit that she’d need in a second. 

The dick didn’t curve to the left or the right. Didn’t change shades half way down the shaft. Didn’t look like any part of it would be easer to take than the other. It was consistent — like its owner. Stood straight out. Had a wide mushroom head and an even wider base. Was thick. Heavy. Just like she’d predicted. And the tip was leaking already.

Annie just…stared. 

“Ain’t never seen her dis’ quiet, Smoke.” Stack’s voice rung out. Lazy and dark.

“Don’t need words for what she ‘bout to be doing.” Smoke. Studying her as she studied him. “Dis’ what chu’ been beggin’ for Annie. What you so sure you can take.” The older Moore laughed then. Short. Quiet. Layered with something thick and mean. “Shoulda’ jus’ stuck to playin’ in yo’ pussy lil girl.” 

-

Annie had dick in her throat. Spit running down her chin. Tears in her eyes. And Smoke didn’t even seem close to finishing.  

“Swallow dat’ shit Annie — swallow that fuckin’ dick — there you go. That’s my good fuckin’ girl.” 

Annie whimpered, peering up at him, lips wrapped tight around his shaft. It was obscene. How wide her mouth stretched. How her titties bounced freely. How every wet slurp was accompanied by a drawn out moan and some variant of, “It taste so good, daddy”, “Thank you, daddy” “This what I needed, Elijah” “I love this dick so much, Elijah.”

He’d cracked something in her. And it was written all over her face. 

When she’d started, she’d been in control — because Smoke allowed it. Had let her kiss the head, stroke him slow, work every inch inside her mouth little by little. And she’d worked it. Had been alternating between swallowing his length whole, sucking him in deep one second and then playing with just the tip the next.  Running her tongue over that big mushroom head, testing his sensitivity, and catching every drop of precum while her hands twisted around his base.

She’d been making love to the dick — wet sloppy kisses, tight sucks, controlled swallows of her throat. 

Smoke had almost forgotten that he was supposed to be teaching her something. Had gotten caught up in them big eyes and that mouth that felt like velvet. Had been swallowing down sounds, gritting his teeth, getting more and more worked up every time he thought about where she’d learned this shit. Every time she’d moaned around him, sending vibrations traveling up and down his dick. 

And Annie had been watching. Saw the way his lids started to close. They way his throat worked to swallow down a groan. It’d made her blood rush. Made her cocky. And she gotten just a little ahead of herself. Had slid her mouth off him with a loud pop, lids low, face wet, full lips splitting into a smile. And then she’d started talking. 

“Why you keep this dick from me again? Cause I can’t handle you? Or cause you can’t handle me?” 

That was all it’d taken. 

Smoke had gotten back in his body. Went from letting her suck him, to fucking her throat like it belonged to him. And he hadn’t slowed down since. 

“This throat feel like home. Think I’m gon’ keep you like dis’. On yo’ knees, hands behind yo’ back, mouth open, waitin’ for me to use everyday.”

Smoke held her head still. Grunting as her throat squeezed around him. As she took it like her breathing didn’t even matter to her no more.   

Because it really didn’t. Not when it felt so good to have Smoke carving out space in her throat. Not when she got to see his lashes flutter every time her tongue brushed one of them thick prominent veins he had running down his shaft. 

Annie’s body felt like it was on fire. And she kept her mouth wide and let Smoke continue to stroke the flame. 

He didn’t play with her. Wasn’t pulling his dick out and smacking the head against her tongue. Wasn’t making her chase it around. He was focused. Sliding every inch into her mouth, over and over and over again. With long, deep, thrusts. 

Annie gagged, a filthy helpless sound, and the hands around her wrists tightened.

“Lil slut would prolly like ‘dat. Wouldn’t you baby?” Stack’s voice fell over her and amplified everything she was feeling. Made her whine around the dick in her mouth.

The younger Moore was behind her. Bent a little at the waist, one big hand locked around both of her wrists. Pulling her arms back and away from her body. 

It left her feeling helpless. Completely out of control. And it was her fault. 

She’d tried to touch her pussy once. Had slid a hand between her parted thighs while Smoke used her mouth like a fuckin’ flashlight. Had just barely grazed her center when Stack came out of nowhere, snatching her wrists up and talking low.

“Nah, baby. Only thing you focus on right now is my brotha’. Get yo’ hands off that greedy ass pussy. That’s mine.”

He hadn’t let her wrists go since. And she’d been left with her mouth and only her mouth doing the work. 

“Answer my brotha’.” Smoke glared down at her. Almost mad at how good she was taking this shit. How good she felt. “You’d like that shit wouldn’t you?” 

He pulled out of her mouth, a loud wet sound filling the living room, long strands of spit stretching from the head of his dick to her now glossless lips.

Annie was panting. Chest just as wet as her chin. Thighs squeezing together. Every ounce of attitude in her body seemingly non-existent now. 

“Yes, daddy.” 

“Who you talkin’ to?” Stack sounded like he was smirking. “Me or him?” 

“Both of y’all.”

She was staring straight at Smoke as she spoke. Watching the way his head dropped to the side. Listening to how he grunted low. 

“Be careful what you wish for. I’ll make that shit happen for my good girl.”

Her entire center throbbed. A high needy sound climbing out of her throat. Neck stretching as she leaned forward to suck him right back up.

She didn’t know what they’d done to her — what Smoke had done to her — but all she could think about was earning that nut. Tasting it. Tasting half of the SmokeStack twins. She wasn’t even fixated on the ache between her legs anymore. Not entirely. Because all she could focus on was pleasing them. 

It was something she’d have to unpack later. When she could think clearly. 

Right now, she let her brain turn off. Let her body lead and really — it was doing that already anyways. 

Annie dragged her mouth up and down his length. Tonguing his shaft. Swallowing every time Smoke’s head hit the back of her throat. She made it sloppy — made it nasty, hands free and all. And Smoke…Smoke was damn near ready to say fuck being neighbors and move her in forreal. Was ready to bust and give her what she was working so hard for.

The twins started talking to her then, right over all that noise she was making. All that mess. 

“Yo’ mouth made for dis’.” Smoke. 

“Mouth made for suckin’ and body made for fuckin’. She need ‘dis shit.” Stack.

“You gon’ be my stress relief from now on,” Every time Smoke opened his mouth, he fucked into her mouth rougher. Controlled, mean movements. Her lips were kissing his pelvis every other second, as his nuts drew up tight. “You gon’ calm me down every time you piss me off. Gon’ do it just like this.”

“Takin’ me and my brudda’s nut. That’s yo’ job now, baby.” Stack’s thumb rubbed one of her wrist softly. Like his grip wasn’t the complete opposite of soft. Like her throat wasn’t being worked like a toy. The contrast made her see stars. “I think we gon’ keep you, Annie.”

“She already kept.” 

The words were final. So final, they should have worried her.  But her brain was clouded with Smoke. With Stack. And her mouth was busy, jaw aching, pussy so wet it felt like she could cum from this alone. 

Annie had spent the last few months wanting to be fucked. This wasn’t that. 

This was ownership. Possession. A reworking of her soul. And she wasn’t even really aware of it yet. 

“You think you deserve this nut?” Smoke watched her blink hazily, keeping all nine inches down her throat for one long beat and then forcing himself to pull out completely. The sound that left Annie’s mouth as he took his dick away, as he gripped the base of his shaft to hold that nut back, was one of pure displeasure. 

It made Stack smirk. Had Smoke that much closer to painting her throat. Had his hand sliding up and down his length in quick short movements before he could stop himself. 

If Annie was able to move forward and swallow him again she would have. Instead, she moaned out a long, pretty sounding, “Yess, Elijah.”

“You don’t.” His rebuttal was quick. Sharp. Harsh. But his eyes were heated. And his voice was tight. And his hand was still moving, stroking his member, something like a tingle starting at the base of his spine. “But you look so fuckin’ hungry for it ima give it to you. And if you spill a fuckin drop —” He shook his head, hand stopping right at the tip and twisting. “Fuck.”

He was close. Shoulders tense. Brows furrowed. Breath heavy. And something about seeing him like that — so close to losing control — woke up that impatience in Annie. The same impatience that’d gotten her in this shit in the first place. 

“I’m not gon’ spill it, Elijah. Give it to me.” 

It wasn’t a request. Wasn’t a plea. It was more of a demand than anything.

She was talking to him like she was in charge.  

Talking to him like she still hadn’t learned.

Smoke’s hand froze abruptly. With his chest heaving, and nuts drawn up tight, and dick throbbing angrily. He still stopped. Because even when he was on the verge of losing control, he still had it.

Annie frowned and behind her, Stack shook his head. Dropped her wrists. Mumbled something that sounded like, “Damn, baby. This ‘bout to be a long day for you.”

In front of her? Smoke had completely let his dick go, left it standing straight out, head leaking, shaft damn near pulsing. And then he stared at her for a second. Flexed his jaw and …smiled? 

“Stack,” He took his eyes off of Annie, to look at his brother. “Get the fuckin’ rope.”

—

—

—

A/n - If you made it to the end I hope you enjoyed 😬😬😬. I couldn’t call this a drabble cause the shit 14.3k words butttt sorry if it feels a little jumpy and inconsistent? I do notttt have the capacity to write really fleshed out stuff right now. I feel like grief permanently altered my brain and I hate it so badddd y’all because I don’t be having the stamina no more (hence me getting sooo lazy in the second half 😭😭😭) Anyways, I may spin the block on this little world in the future when I can write normally again cause this was a little fun or w/e lmao, for nowww feedback is appreciated, Thank’s for rocking w/ me even when I when I fall off the face of the earth and Happy (late) Wednesday - Lil Bitt out 🫡🫶🏾

—

—

—

Visionaries (not tagging my Smoke and Annie girlies b/c Stack all in the mix) - @lizbehave @thebumblebeesworld @shereeluvssinners @miss-spiders-sunny-patch @bananajoeclone @aellesa @atpeaceinthestars @underated345-blog @hotebonynearby @hdfen2474 @chromexbarbie @honeytoffee @mmbee675

The classroom smelled of crayon wax and disinfectant, a chaotic symphony of primary colors painted across every surface. Ocean moved through the noise with the grace of a queen surveying her kingdom, her long box braids swinging against the conservative dress that did little to hide the generous curves beneath. She knelt, bringing herself eye-level with a screaming four-year-old whose face was blotchy with tears.

"Jamal," she said, her voice a low, melodic balm that cut through the tantrum like a knife through butter. "I know you're angry that Kelsey took your blue crayon, but screaming won't make it come back. What will?"

The child hiccupped, his small chest heaving. "Tell her to give it back."

Ocean nodded, her dark eyes softening. "That's using your words. Good job." She stood and extended a hand. "Let's go talk to Kelsey together."

That's when the classroom door swung open without warning, casting a shadow across the colorful alphabet rug. The man filling the doorway didn't belong here—didn't belong anywhere near children's laughter and finger paintings. He was built like a brick shithouse, all thick muscle and simmering energy barely contained by an oversized black hoodie. His locs were pulled back from a face that had seen too much, eyes that missed nothing.

Principal Miller scurried behind him, wringing her hands. "Sir, I really must insist—"

G ignored her, his gaze fixed on Ocean as she guided the sniffling child toward another little girl clutching the coveted blue crayon. He watched how she knelt again, how she mediated the dispute with a patience that seemed supernatural in a world as rushed as theirs.

Ocean felt his eyes on her before she looked up. When she finally met his gaze across the room, something electric passed between them, an undeniable current that made the hairs on her arms stand up despite the stuffy classroom heat.

"Excuse me," she said to the children, rising slowly. She crossed the room with deliberate steps, her hips swaying with a rhythm that seemed to command attention. "Can I help you?"

G's eyes traveled from her face down her body and back again, a slow perusal that felt more intimate than a touch. "Just handling some business with the principal." He gestured with his chin toward the nervous woman behind him. "Didn't expect to find magic in here."

Ocean's brow arched. "This is a school, not a place for whatever 'business' you're handling."

He stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could smell the faint scent of weed. "Little niggas in here learning their ABCs while big niggas outside learning their R.I.P.s. You think that's fair, Ms. Ocean?" His voice dropped, a low rumble that vibrated through her bones. "Or you just got that magic pussy that makes problems disappear?"

Despite herself, Ocean gasp. No one had ever spoken to her like that, certainly not in her classroom, her sanctuary. But beneath the crude words, she heard something else. Pain. A raw honesty that disarmed her as much as his audacity.

She didn't retreat. Instead, she tilted her head, studying him with the same calm assessment she used with difficult children. "My name is Ms. Robinson. And in this classroom, we use respectful language. Something you apparently need a lesson in."

A slow grin spread across G's face, transforming it from hardened to handsome in a heartbeat. "She got claws. I like that." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But I bet they only come out when necessary."

Ocean's heart hammered against her ribs, a traitorous response to the danger radiating from this man. "I think you should leave now."

G nodded, but instead of backing away, he stepped even closer until their bodies were nearly touching. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against her ear as he spoke. "I bet you taste like heaven and sin all mixed together. And I'm a sinner who's been starving."

Then he was gone, as suddenly as he'd appeared, leaving Ocean standing in the middle of her classroom with her heart racing and her body responding in ways that felt both dangerous and delicious.

Principal Miller rushed to her side. "I'm so sorry, Ocean. That was G. He's... connected to some unsavory people."

Ocean nodded absently, her fingers touching the spot where his breath had warmed her skin. "I noticed."

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store hummed overhead, a monotonous buzz that did nothing to quiet the storm in Ocean's mind. For seven days, she'd been replaying their encounter, his audacity, the storm behind his eyes, the way her body had responded despite her mind screaming danger. She squeezed a lemon, testing its ripeness, her fingers pressing into the firm flesh with a little too much force.

"You been thinking about me, teacher?"

The voice was a low rumble directly behind her, close enough that she could feel his body heat through her thin cardigan. Ocean jumped, the lemon slipping from her grasp and rolling across the linoleum. G was already moving, his thick frame bending to retrieve it. When he straightened, he held it out to her, his fingers brushing hers in a deliberate caress.

"I can tell by how you keep squeezing them lemons like they got a dick."

Ocean's cheeks flushed hot. "You have a knack for showing up uninvited."

G grinned, that same slow, dangerous smile that had haunted her dreams. "And you have a knack for pretending you don't want me here." He stepped closer, his presence consuming the space around them. "How's that little nigga Jamal? Still stealing crayons?"

"He's learning to use his words instead of his hands," Ocean replied, turning to select another lemon. "Something you could benefit from."

G chuckled, a deep sound that vibrated through her bones. "Oh, I use my hands real well, Ms. Ocean. Real well."

From across the produce section, a man in business casual watched them openly, his gaze lingering on Ocean's curves with blatant appreciation. G's eyes narrowed his entire demeanor shifting from playful to predatory in a heartbeat.

"That nigga looking at you like he's never seen Black beauty before," G said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "He don't know you're the whole damn art gallery."

Despite herself, Ocean laughed. "You say the wildest shit like it's normal conversation."

"Normal ain't never got nobody what they really want," G responded, his eyes never leaving hers. "You want normal, Ocean? Or you want what gets you wet in the middle of the night when you're all alone?"

Her eyes rolled at his directness. "I want you to leave me alone."

"Liar." G reached out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw.

Ocean swallowed hard, her body betraying her with a rush of heat between her thighs. "You're insane."

"Maybe." G stepped back, giving her space but keeping his eyes locked on hers. "But I'm honest. Can't say the same for your man."

Ocean's eyes widened. "What do you know about Dre?"

"I know he's been sniffing around that new waitress at the strip club on Third Street," G said casually, examining a mango like he was discussing the weather. "I know he thinks you don't know. I know he thinks loyalty means not getting caught."

Ocean's carefully constructed world tilted on its axis. Dre had been distant lately, but she'd chalked it up to stress from his "business." Not this. Not another woman.

"How would you know that?" she demanded, her voice trembling slightly.

G's smile was all teeth. "Ain't much happens in this city that I don't know about." He tossed the mango in his hand. "Question is, what you gonna do about it?"

Ocean stood frozen, her mind racing. Dre's possible betrayal warred with her undeniable attraction to the dangerous man before her. She grabbed her grocery bag and turned toward the checkout, needing to escape.

"Let me help you with that," G said, falling into step beside her. He carried her groceries to her car, his presence a constant reminder of the choice she didn't know she was making.

At her car, Ocean fumbled for her keys, her hands shaking slightly. G pressed his body against hers from behind, just enough to make her pulse race without trapping her. His warmth seeped through her clothes, his breath hot against her neck.

"Every time I see you, I forget why I'm supposed to hate your man," he whispered, his lips brushing against her ear. "That's a problem for him, not me."

Ocean closed her eyes, leaning back against him for just a moment before catching herself. "I should go."

G stepped back, his expression unreadable. "You should. But you won't." He nodded toward the store entrance. "That business casual motherfucker still watching you, wondering what a man like me is doing with a woman like you."

Ocean glanced over to see the man from the produce section indeed watching them, his expression a mixture of curiosity and envy.

"Let him wonder," Ocean said, surprised by the defiance in her own voice.

G's grin returned, wider this time. "There she is. The woman beneath the teacher." He opened her car door for her, a gesture at odds with his rough exterior. "Next time I see you, you better have made up your mind what you really want."

Ocean slid into the driver's seat, her body humming with a dangerous energy she hadn't felt in years. As she drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror to see G still watching, his figure growing smaller until he disappeared from view.

She knew she should drive straight home and forget about him. But instead, she found herself taking the long way, her mind racing with possibilities she knew she shouldn't entertain.

The apartment door clicked shut behind Ocean, but the sense of G's presence followed her inside like a ghost. She leaned against the door, her heart still racing from the grocery store encounter. The air in the apartment felt heavy, thick with the familiar scent of Dre's cologne.

"Where you been?" Dre's voice cut through the darkness from the living room. He emerged from the shadows, his muscular frame outlined by the city lights through the window. "You smell different."

Ocean straightened, her teacher persona melting away to reveal the woman who'd grown up on these same streets. "I stopped at the grocery store. Ran into an old friend." She kept her voice deliberately casual, moving past him to place her bag on the kitchen counter.

Dre followed, his eyes narrowed. "What friend?" He stepped closer, invading her space, his hand reaching out to grip her chin. "You been fucking around, Ocean?"

She slapped his hand away, her movements sharp and defiant. "Don't put your hands on me." She turned to face him fully, her eyes blazing with a fire he rarely saw. "And if you're so concerned about who I'm fucking, maybe you should explain why you've been spending so much time at the strip club on Third Street."

Dre's face hardened, but Ocean didn't back down. "Yeah, I know about the waitress. Don't look so surprised."

For a moment, Dre was silent, his expression unreadable. Then he laughed, a harsh sound that held no humor. "So you heard about that, huh? And who told you? That nigga G been sniffing around you?"

Ocean's jaw tightened at the mention of G's name. "Yeah, he's the one who told me about your side piece, if you must know. But this isn't about him. This is about you acting as if you own me while you're out there sticking your dick in everything that moves."

"I'll put him in the ground before I let him touch what's mine," Dre snarled, his hand shooting out to wrap around her throat. "You belong to me, Ocean. Always have."

"I'm not yours to own, Dre," she choked out, her hands coming up to pry at his fingers. "And you're not exactly faithful yourself, so don't act like you care about my honor."

Dre released her suddenly, stepping back as if burned. "You don't know what you're talking about. Me and G got history you can't even imagine."

"Then enlighten me," Ocean challenged, rubbing her throat. "Or are you scared I'll see you for the hypocrite you are?"

Dre's face twisted with a mixture of anger and pain. "We grew up together. We was supposed to build this empire together, side by side. Then he fucked me over on a deal that cost me three years of my life and half my territory." He paced the living room, his movements restless and agitated. "He betrayed me, Ocean. Betrayal is the only sin in this world that can't be forgiven."

"And yet here you are, betraying me," she countered, her voice soft but firm. "How's that different?"

Dre stopped pacing, turning to face her with a look of disbelief. "That ain't the same and you know it. What I do with other bitches don't mean nothing. But you... You're everything. And he knows that. That's why he's coming at you sideways."

Ocean shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "You're unbelievable. You want to fuck whoever you want, but I'm supposed to remain untouched? That's not how this works, Dre. Not anymore."

Dre's eyes darkened with dangerous intent. "I'll kill him before I let him have you."

Standing her ground despite the fear coiling in her stomach. "I'm not some prize to be won between two men who can't keep their dicks in their pants."

The next day, G pulled up to one of Dre's trap spots in a black SUV that screamed money and menace. The neighborhood crackheads scattered like roaches when they saw him, sensing the violence that radiated from him like heat from pavement in August.

Dre was holding court on the corner, flanked by his crew, when G emerged from a blacked-out hellcat. He was dressed in a pair of all-black Dickie pants, a fresh white T, and his favorite beanie. He carried himself like a king coming to collect tribute. In his hand, he held a switch—thin, flexible, and menacing.

"What the fuck you doing here, G?" Dre demanded, his hand instinctively going to the weapon tucked into his waistband.

G ignored the question, his eyes fixed on Dre as he approached with a predator's grace. "Heard you had a little chat with Ocean last night. Heard you put your hands on her. One of my lil homies saw some bruises on her when he dropped his son off at school this morning."

Dre's crew shifted nervously, sensing trouble. "That's between me and my woman. Stay out of it."

"She ain't your woman no more if you touching her like that," G said, his voice dangerously calm. He moved faster than anyone expected, closing the distance between them before Dre could react.

The first crack of the switch against Dre's back echoed through the street. Dre howled, more from shock than pain, stumbling forward like his legs had forgotten how to work. Before his crew could properly react, G struck again, the switch whistling through the air with terrifying precision.

"Next time you talk to my future wife like she's property," G said, his voice dropping to a low growl as he brought the switch down again, "I'ma use this switch on your face instead of your back."

From the periphery, a choked snort escaped one of Dre's younger soldiers. He quickly clapped a hand over his mouth, but the damage was done. Another one, a lanky dude named Rico, just shook his head, a grin spreading across his face.

"Damn, boss," Rico muttered under his breath, just loud enough for G to hear. "He whooping that ass. Fight back nigga, damn."

G's lips twitched as he landed another sharp strike. "This what happen when you don't listen," he said, punctuating his words with the switch. "I tried to talk to you like a grown man, but you wanna act like a little boy." WHACK! "So I'ma treat you like one." WHACK!

Dre was bent over now, trying to protect himself with his hands, but G was too quick, too precise. He danced around him like a boxer, landing stinging blows to his thighs, his calves, his ass.

"Y'all niggas just gonna stand there and let this happen?" Dre grunted, his face flushed with embarrassment and rage.

His crew shifted uncomfortably, a few of them openly smirking. "I mean, you did put hands on Ms. Ocean," one of them offered. "And G did say she was his future wife. That's some complicated shit, boss."

G paused, leaning down to get in Dre's face. "See? Even your own crew got more sense than you. They understand. A woman like Ocean ain't meant for a little boy who still think with his dick instead of his brain."

He straightened up, tapping the switch against his leg. "You know, my grandmama used to whoop my ass with one of these. Said it builds character. Looking at you now, I think she might've been right. You ain't got no character."

Dre tried to stand up straight, but G was faster, landing a final, sharp blow to his ass that made him yelp like a kicked dog.

"Stay down," G commanded, tossing the switch aside. "And think about what you did. Think about Ocean, and how she felt when you put your hands on her. Think about how you're gonna explain these stripes to the next bitch you try to fuck."

He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Dre's crew. "Y'all make sure he gets home safe. And somebody remind him that pride ain't worth losing a queen over."

As G walked back to his car, the sounds of muffled laughter followed him. He knew this wasn't just a beating—it was a message, a public humiliation that would ripple through the streets like wildfire. And as he drove away, he couldn't help but smile, knowing that he'd just claimed his territory without firing a single shot.

The bass thumped through the floor of 'Red Room,' a high-end club where the city's elite came to pretend they weren't connected to the streets Dre and G ruled. Ocean felt naked in the dress Dre had picked out, a scrap of red fabric that clung to her curves like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination. Every time she shifted, she felt the cool air kiss skin that was usually covered.

"You look good enough to eat," Dre whispered in her ear, his hand possessively resting on her thigh. He'd been touching her all night, marking his territory like a dog pissing on a fire hydrant. "Everybody in here knows who you belong to."

Ocean forced a smile, her mind replaying the story she'd heard about G and the switch. Part of her was furious at Dre for his infidelity, but another part, darker, more dangerous, was intrigued by the man who'd dared to humiliate him so publicly.

Dre was conducting business, his voice low as he discussed shipments and territories with men who looked more like Wall Street executives than street hustlers. Ocean sat beside him, a beautiful accessory in a dangerous game, her mind miles away.

That's when the energy in the room changed. Conversations died, eyes darted toward the entrance. G entered like he owned the place, which, in a way, he did. He was dressed in black jeans and a designer hoodie that probably cost more than Dre's entire outfit; his locs hung loose around his face.

His crew fanned out behind him, moving in formation. They didn't rush to tables or flag down servers; they simply found strategic positions throughout the club, their presence a silent threat that rippled through the room.

G ignored everyone, his eyes finding Ocean immediately. He crossed the room with deliberate steps, his gaze never leaving hers. Dre noticed him too, his posture stiffening, his hand tightening on Ocean's thigh.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Dre muttered, already reaching for the weapon tucked into his waistband.

G stopped at their table, completely ignoring Dre as he spoke directly to Ocean. "You look too good to be sitting next to a man who's thinking about his next move instead of looking at you."

Ocean's pulse quickened, her body responding to his presence despite her mind's protests. "G," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Ocean," he replied, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. "Always a pleasure."

Dre stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "You got some fucking nerve showing up here after what you pulled."

G's crew moved closer, their hands resting casually on weapons hidden beneath expensive jackets. The club's security team watched nervously, clearly unsure how to handle a situation that could erupt into violence at any moment.

"I got nerve for days," G said, his eyes still locked on Ocean. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that only she could hear. "I'd kill every motherfucker in this room just to taste what's between your legs right now. Don't make me prove it."

Ocean's breath hitched, a rush of heat pooling between her thighs despite the public setting. She could feel Dre's anger radiating off him, could see the violence brewing in his eyes.

"This ain't the time or place," Dre said through gritted teeth, his hand still hovering near his weapon.

G straightened up, his expression unreadable. "You right. It ain't." He nodded toward Ocean. "But she deserves better than this. Better than you."

Before Dre could respond, the club's security team finally found their courage, moving to intervene. "Gentlemen, we're going to have to ask you to take this elsewhere."

G held up his hands in mock surrender, but as he backed away, he brushed past Ocean, his fingers trailing along her arm. Something small and cool slipped into her hand—his number and address on a piece of paper, and a key.

"When you ready to stop playing house with that boy," he whispered, his lips close enough to her ear that she could feel his breath, "come home to a man."

Then he was gone, his crew melting away as quickly as they'd appeared, leaving Dre fuming and Ocean clutching the key like it was both a lifeline and a death sentence.

The club slowly returned to normal, but the energy had shifted permanently. Ocean could feel eyes on her, could hear the whispers that followed her like shadows. She looked at Dre, at the anger and humiliation warring in his expression, and knew that everything had changed.

"What did he give you?" Dre demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Ocean closed her fingers around the key, hiding it from view. "Nothing," she lied, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Just his number."

Dre's eyes narrowed, but before he could press further, his attention was diverted by one of his associates. Ocean took the opportunity to slip away, heading toward the restroom with the key clutched in her hand like a secret she wasn't ready to share.

In the privacy of the ladies' room, she examined the key—a simple brass key. She didn't recognize the address, but she knew exactly what it represented. An invitation. A choice. A dangerous path that led away from the life she'd built with Dre.

As she stood there, the key growing warm in her palm, Ocean realized that she was standing at a crossroads, and the decision she would have to make would change everything.

The apartment was silent, but Ocean's mind was screaming. Dre had fallen asleep hours ago, his breathing heavy and even beside her, but sleep remained elusive. She lay in the darkness, the key G had given her clutched in her hand like a prayer. The metal had grown warm from her touch, almost alive, a physical reminder of the choice she didn't know she was making.

At 2:17 AM, she could bear it no longer. Slipping from the bed, she padded into the living room, her bare feet silent on the cool hardwood floors. She sank onto the sofa, the city lights painting patterns across her skin as she stared at the number scribbled on the paper beside the key.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. This was wrong, so wrong. But the pull was undeniable, a magnetic force that drew her in despite the danger.

Finally, she pressed dial. The phone rang once. Twice. Then, a voice, low, rough, and impossibly awake.

"I knew you'd call. A woman like you can't resist a man who knows what he wants."

Ocean giggled. "How did you know it was me?"

"Nobody else calls me this late unless they're dying or they owe me money," G said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And I don't think you owe me money. Yet."

Despite herself, Ocean smiled. "Cocky bastard."

"Confident," he corrected. "There's a difference. You holding that key right now?"

Ocean glanced down at the brass object in her hand. "Maybe."

" Been waiting for you to call," he said.

Ocean's pulse quickened. "How long have you had this key, G?"

"Long enough to know that I want you to use it," he replied, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through the phone. "Long enough to know that you deserve better than what you've been settling for."

They fell into a conversation that flowed as naturally as a river, G revealing pieces of himself with a candor that surprised her. He spoke of his childhood in Oakland, of a mother who worked three jobs to keep him fed, of a father he barely remembered.

"I had a dog once," he said, his voice softer than she'd heard it yet. "Pitbull named Ghost. Loved that motherfucker more than people. Got shot in a drive-by right in front of me. That's when I learned loving something just means you got something to lose."

Ocean's heart ached for the little boy who'd lost his dog, for the man who'd built walls around himself to keep from getting hurt again. "I'm sorry, G."

"Don't be," he replied. "Made me who I am. But I'd risk it all for you."

The admission hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Ocean felt a rush of emotion, fear, desire, something deeper she couldn't name.

"G," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "I don't know what to do."

“I do,” G said, his voice dropping lower, rough around the edges like gravel mixed with honey. “You gon’ take that key. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But one day, you gon’ pull up. And when you do, all that acting tough shit you do? Gone.”

Ocean laughed under her breath, the sound barely disturbing the quiet of the apartment. She could feel the ghost of his touch on her skin from the club, the way his fingers had deliberately brushed against hers.

“Boy, please.”

“Nah, for real,” G continued, and she could hear him shifting, the faint rustle of fabric suggesting he was settling in for the long haul. “You keep looking at that key for a reason. Turning it over and over in your hand like it’s some kinda puzzle you gotta solve.”

Ocean shook her head, even though he couldn’t see her, the motion a useless protest against his perception. “You talk real reckless for a nigga who got embarrassed by my ex.”

G barked out a laugh, a short, sharp sound of genuine amusement that echoed slightly, as if he were in a large, empty room. “Embarrassed?”

“That’s what happened, ain’t it?”

“Nah.” He leaned back wherever he was, the creak of leather audible through the phone. He sounded entirely too pleased with himself. “What happened was I corrected his behavior. Big difference.”

“With a switch?”

“With whatever lesson he needed that day,” G said, his voice unapologetic. “Sometimes a conversation ain’t enough. Sometimes a nigga need a visual aid to understand the message.”

Ocean snorted, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound. “You sound ridiculous.”

“You still on the phone though.”

That shut her up for half a second. The undeniable truth of it landed like a stone in the quiet room.

G caught it immediately, his voice dropping into that low, knowing register. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Ocean rolled her eyes, a pointless gesture he couldn’t see but made her feel better anyway. “Your ego is insane.”

“My ego ain’t the problem.”

“No?”

“Nah. My problem is every time I see you, I hate that nigga even more.”

The words landed heavier than she expected, stripping away the playful veneer and leaving something raw and honest beneath. Ocean felt a familiar warmth spread through her chest, a dangerous feeling she’d been trying to ignore since their first meeting.

Before she could formulate a response, G kept talking, his voice flowing like dark honey. “You know what your problem is?”

“Oh Lord, here we go.”

“You keep trying to convince yourself you don’t like me.”

Ocean laughed, a real laugh this time, full and rich. “Who said I liked you?”

“Your face.”

“You can’t see my face.”

“Don’t need to,” G replied, and the sheer confidence in his voice was infuriating and undeniably attractive. “I can hear it. The way your breath catches when I say something real. The little pause before you try to come back with something smart. That’s your face telling me the truth.”

“You always this full of yourself?”

“Nah. Just when I’m right.”

Ocean sank deeper into the couch cushions, the fabric cool against her suddenly heated skin. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet…” G said softly, the word hanging between them like a challenge. “Here you are.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Not awkward. Dangerous. The kind that made her stare at the ceiling and trace the patterns of light the streetlamps cast across it, thinking too much.

G broke it first, his voice gentler now. “Lemme ask you something.”

“What?”

“When’s the last time somebody checked on you? Not ‘where you at’ or ‘when you coming home’, but really checked on you. Asked how your day was and actually waited for the answer.”

Ocean frowned, the question catching her off guard. “What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

She opened her mouth to dismiss it, to tell him it wasn’t his business, but then closed it. Because suddenly she didn’t have an answer. Dre asked about her day, but it was always perfunctory, a prelude to talking about his own. Her mother called, but it was always with a list of needs or complaints.

G noticed her silence. “Exactly.”

The smugness was gone now. His voice sounded different. Quieter. More serious than she’d ever heard it. “Everybody always asking what you doing for everybody else. Who checking on Ocean? Who making sure you ate? Who asking if you’re happy, not just if you’re taken care of?”

She swallowed, the lump in her throat unexpected. “That’s not your business.”

“Maybe.”

“But?”

“But I still wanna know.”

For a second, she forgot they were supposed to be enemies. Forgot who he was in the streets. Forgot who she was dating. Forgot every reason this conversation shouldn’t be happening. In that moment, he was just a man asking a question no one else had bothered to.

Then G sighed, a sound heavy with exhaustion. “You know what’s crazy?”

“What now?”

“The streets got me painted like some monster. Like I’m some soulless devil just collecting bodies and stacking paper.”

Ocean smiled faintly. “You kinda are.”

“Nah. I’m serious,” G insisted, and the vulnerability in his voice was disarming. “Dre thinks he knows me. Everybody think they know me. Nobody actually do. They see the cars, the clothes, the reputation. They don’t see the nigga sitting up at 3 AM staring at the ceiling wondering how the fuck he got here.”

The admission surprised her. Because men like G weren’t supposed to sound vulnerable, they were supposed to sound dangerous. Untouchable. Not human.

“Then who are you?” she asked quietly, the question feeling more intimate than any touch.

A long pause stretched between them, filled with unspoken words. Then:

“A nigga that’s tired.”

The honesty in it hit harder than any pickup line ever could. Tired of what, she didn’t know, but she felt it in her bones, a weariness that went deeper than the body, straight to the soul.

For the first time all night, neither of them joked. Neither of them flirted. Neither of them hid. Just two people sitting in the dark, listening to each other breathe across the phone lines.

Finally, G spoke again, his voice soft but certain. “I don’t need you to love me, Ocean.”

Her chest tightened at the unexpected shift.

“I don’t even need you to pick me.”

“Then what do you want?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he finally did, his voice was almost a whisper, raw with emotion. “I want you to stop settling.”

Ocean stared at the key sitting on her coffee table, the brass glinting in the dim light. It suddenly looked less like an invitation and more like a lifeline.

G continued, his words painting a picture of a life she hadn’t even realized she was living. “I want you to stop accepting half-assed love because it’s familiar. I want you to stop shrinking yourself to fit in somebody else’s box. I want you to choose yourself for once.”

A pause.

Then:

“And if you ever do…” His voice dropped lower, intimate and knowing. “I think you’ll end up choosing me anyway.”

Ocean's heart swelled with emotion, tears pricking at her eyes. "G, I—"

"Shh," he interrupted gently. "Don't say anything you're not ready to mean. Just think about it. The key opens my front door. And my heart. If you want them."

With that, he ended the call, leaving Ocean alone in the darkness with nothing but a key, a choice, and the undeniable truth that she was standing at a crossroads, and the path she chose would change everything.

The silence in Ocean's apartment had become a living thing, growing thicker with each passing day after her midnight call to G. Dre moved through the space like a ghost, his presence a constant reminder of the chasm that had opened between them. He looked at her differently now, with suspicion and hurt, his pride wounded more deeply than G's switch had ever marked his back.

"You been distant," Dre said one evening, his voice rough with accusation. "Mind somewhere else?"

Ocean didn't look up from the lesson plans she was grading. "Just tired."

"Tired or thinking about another nigga?"

Her head snapped up, her eyes flashing with anger. "Don't start this shit again, Dre."

"Then stop giving me a reason to," he shot back, his hand slamming down on the table. "I saw how you looked at him at the club. I know you been talking to him."

Ocean stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "And what about you, Dre? What about the waitress at the strip club? What about all the other bitches you been fucking while I've been home playing the loyal girlfriend?"

Dre's face darkened, but he didn't deny it. "That's different. That don't mean nothing."

"Then neither does this," she retorted, her voice cold. "If you can fuck around, then I can talk to whoever I want."

The argument ended there, as it always did, with Dre storming out and Ocean left alone with her thoughts and the key that still sat in her nightstand, a constant temptation she hadn't yet given in to.

Two days later, Dre returned with a dangerous energy that set Ocean's teeth on edge. "I got a meeting tonight," he announced, his voice tight with excitement. "Gonna handle this G problem once and for all."

Ocean's stomach clenched. "What are you talking about?"

"Made a deal with Raheem's crew," Dre said, missing the warning in her expression. "They hate G as much as we do."

"Dre, no," Ocean said, shaking her head. "That's a bad idea. Raheem's crew is unpredictable."

"Sometimes you gotta take risks," Dre replied, his eyes gleaming with the recklessness that had always drawn her in and now terrified her. "Besides, they're meeting us on neutral ground. Warehouse district. It's all good."

He dragged her along an hour later, dressed in a tight black dress that made her feel like an accessory rather than a partner. "You need to be there to represent," he'd said, but she knew the real reason: he wanted to show her off, to prove to himself and everyone else that he still had control.

The warehouse district was deserted, the buildings looming like tombstones in the moonlight. Dre parked his car in the shadow of a particularly derelict-looking structure, cutting the engine but leaving the lights on.

"Wait here," he commanded, his hand already on the door handle. "This won't take long."

Ocean watched him walk away, his silhouette growing smaller against the vast emptiness of the industrial park. Something felt wrong, a knot of dread tightening in her stomach that she couldn't ignore.

That's when she heard it: muffled voices from behind a nearby dumpster. Two men, their conversation barely audible but clear enough to make her blood run cold.

"He's walking right into it," one voice said. "Heem got shotters on the roof. Soon as he's in position, they're lighting his ass up."

"Good," the other voice replied. "Dre's been running this shit too long. Time for new management."

Ocean's heart hammered against her ribs, panic rising like bile in her throat. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers shaking so badly she could barely type. Dre first, she thought, then immediately reconsidered. His ego wouldn't let him listen to reason. He'd see it as weakness, as her taking G's side over his.

In a moment of clarity that would change everything, she found G's number in her call history and pressed dial before she could second-guess herself.

The phone rang once. Twice. Then:

"If you calling me to save your man, I'm hanging up."

Ocean's breath caught in her throat. "They're gonna kill him," she managed, her voice trembling. "Warehouse district. Building C. It's a trap."

"Stay in the car," G said, taking a deep breath because the last thing he wanted to do was save Dre’s ass. "Lock the doors. Don't get out for anyone but me."

The line went dead, leaving Ocean alone with the sound of her own ragged breathing. She watched as Dre entered the warehouse, completely unaware of the danger lurking in the shadows above.

Minutes passed like hours, each one stretching into an eternity of fear. Then, the night exploded with violence, the sharp crack of gunfire echoing through the empty streets. Ocean screamed, covering her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound.

That's when she saw it: headlights cutting through the darkness, approaching at a speed that defied the potholed roads of the warehouse district. G's truck skidded to a halt beside her, his door already open before the vehicle had fully stopped.

"Stay here," he commanded again, his voice leaving no room for argument. He moved with a predator's grace, his gun already in hand as he disappeared into the same warehouse Dre had entered moments before.

More gunfire erupted, then screams, then silence. Ocean waited, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst from her chest. She couldn't stay in the car, not knowing what was happening, not knowing if Dre was alive or dead.

Slipping from the car, she moved toward the warehouse, her footsteps silent on the cracked pavement. The door hung open, splintered from what looked like a forced entry. Inside, the scene was chaos, bodies strewn across the concrete floor, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood.

She found them in the center of the room, Dre cornered and bleeding from a wound in his shoulder, G standing over him like a guardian angel of death. But G's eyes weren't on Dre; they were searching the shadows, scanning the room until they found her.

When their eyes met across the carnage, something passed between them, an acknowledgment, an understanding that went beyond words. G crossed the room to her, his expression unreadable.

"I'd let him die for you," he said, his voice low and rough with emotion. "But I know you'd never forgive me. Or yourself."

With that, he turned back to Dre, extending a hand that Dre hesitantly accepted. "Let's get you out of here," G said, his voice all business again. "We got a lot to talk about."

Ocean watched them, two men who had been enemies moments ago, now united by circumstance and her intervention. And as they emerged from the warehouse into the pre-dawn light.

G's safe house was the last place Ocean expected to find herself, an impeccably clean, minimalist apartment that looked more like a high-end showroom than a criminal's hideout. The floors were polished concrete, the furniture expensive but sparse, and the windows offered a panoramic view of the city they'd just barely survived.

"This is your place?" Ocean asked, her voice tight with disbelief as she helped a bleeding Dre onto the leather sofa. "I thought you'd be holed up in some trap house with bullet holes in the walls."

G shrugged as he locked the door behind them. "Even monsters need a peaceful place to rest." He turned to face her, his eyes dark and intense. "And you need to stop asking questions and start helping me save his life."

The next hour passed in a blur of activity, Ocean's teacher training forgotten as she worked alongside G to clean and dress Dre's wounds. The bullet had gone straight through his shoulder, missing the bone but leaving a messy, bleeding hole that needed immediate attention.

"You know what you're doing," G observed, his voice low and rough as he watched Ocean work with a calm efficiency that surprised him.

"First aid certification," she replied, her focus entirely on Dre. "Required for the job."

G watched her hands, steady and sure as they cleaned the wound, her touch gentle despite the gore. He could see the pulse beating in her neck, the slight furrow of her brow as she concentrated. He wanted to taste that pulse, to feel her hands on him the way they were on Dre.

Once Dre was stabilized and passed out from the painkillers G had administered, the apartment fell into a charged silence. Ocean cleaned up the medical supplies, as she avoided G's gaze.

"He'll be okay," G said, his voice breaking the silence. "For now."

Ocean nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She could feel his eyes on her, burning with an intensity that made her skin tingle and her stomach clench with a mixture of fear and desire.

"You saved him," she said finally, turning to face him. "Why?"

G stepped closer, invading her personal space until she could feel his body heat. "I saved him for you. Now you owe me. And I always collect my debts."

Ocean's breath hitched, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I don't owe you anything."

"Don't you?" G countered, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin in a gesture that was both tender and possessive. "You called me. Not him. You chose me when it mattered, Ocean."

Before she could protest, his lips were on hers, punishing and passionate all at once. It was a kiss that demanded, that took without asking. Ocean resisted for a moment, her hands pushing against his chest, but then something inside her broke, a dam of pent-up desire she hadn't even realized was holding back a flood.

She melted into him, her body betraying her mind as her hands moved from his chest to wrap around his thick neck, pulling him closer. G deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring her mouth with a thoroughness that left her breathless and trembling.

This was wrong, so wrong. Dre was passed out on the sofa just feet away, and she was kissing his enemy, his rival, the man who had humiliated him in public and now saved his life. But it felt right, more right than anything had in a long time.

A groan from the sofa broke them apart. Ocean pulled back, her lips swollen, her eyes wide with panic as she looked toward Dre. But he wasn't waking up; it was just the painkillers wearing off enough to make him restless.

G didn't release her, his grip on her waist tightening as he looked down at her, his eyes burning with a hunger that both terrified and thrilled her. "He can wake up," he said, his voice low and rough. "I don't give a fuck."

He pulled her into another kiss, deeper this time. Ocean's mind screamed at her to stop, but her body refused to listen, arching against him as his hands roamed her body, claiming what she hadn't even realized she was offering.

That's when Dre's eyes fluttered open, his vision blurry from pain and medication. He saw them—Ocean in G's arms, their lips locked in a passionate embrace that left no room for misinterpretation.

His face contorted with rage and betrayal, his hand instinctively going for the weapon he no longer carried. "Ocean," he choked out, his voice rough with disbelief and pain.

G didn't even break the kiss. He just opened his eyes, looking directly at Dre as he deepened it, his tongue exploring Ocean's mouth with a deliberate possessiveness that was as much a message to Dre as it was a claim on her.

Ocean's eyes flew open when she heard Dre's voice, panic flooding her system. She tried to pull away, but G held her firm, his eyes locked with Dre's in a silent challenge that spoke volumes.

Finally, G released her, turning to face Dre with a smirk that was all teeth and danger. "Looks like you're awake," he said, his voice casual as if he hadn't just been caught kissing the man's girlfriend. "Good. We need to talk."

The morning light hit G's spot like a snitch, cutting through the expensive blinds and laying bare all the bullshit from the night before. Dre was folded up on the leather sofa, his face ashy with pain, but his eyes still burning with that same hate from when he'd woken up and seen Ocean tongue-deep in a kiss that wasn't his.

Ocean moved through the kitchen like a ghost, all tight movements and avoiding eye contact. She hadn't slept a wink, just kept feeling G's mouth on hers, the way he'd taken it like it was his, and the pure murder in Dre's eyes when he'd come to.

"You always been a selfish motherfucker, G," Dre rasped, his voice shot through with pain and pure hate. "But this? This some new low shit, even for you."

G pushed off the counter where he'd been watching Ocean like she was the last plate of food at a family cookout. "Selfish? I dragged your stupid ass out of a warehouse last night 'fore they turned you into Swiss cheese. Or that part of the story slip your mind while you was busy feeling sorry for yourself?"

"You saved me so you could steal my girl!" Dre shot back, trying to sit up and hissing like a deflated tire when the movement pulled at his fresh bandage.

"Your girl?" G laughed, but it was all sharp edges and no joy. "Nigga, you don't have a girl. You got property. And like most dumb motherfuckers who can't tell the difference, you don't give a fuck about what's yours until somebody else comes along ready to treat it right."

Dre's face twisted up. "We was supposed to be brothers, G. Before this game fucked us up. You really gonna throw all that away over some pussy?"

G's whole vibe changed, the amusement gone and replaced with something cold enough to give you frostbite. "She ain't pussy. She's peace. And you been at war so long you forgot what the fuck that even looks like." He stepped closer to the sofa, moving like a predator. "I ain't fighting you for her no more. I'm fighting for her."

The air got thick, heavy with the kind of tension that comes right before guns get drawn. Two men who'd bled together, now ready to bleed over the woman standing between them.

Before they could start some dumb shit, Ocean stepped right in the middle of it, her hands up like she was stopping traffic. "Both of y'all in here talking 'bout love, but ain't neither one of you motherfuckers bothered to ask what I want."

Dre's face softened up, trying to pull that same sorry-ass routine he always did when he got caught. "Baby, you know I love you. I just... I fucked up. But I can fix it."

G didn't say shit, just kept his eyes on Ocean, waiting.

Ocean shook her head, her spine turning to steel right in front of them. "Nah. You don't get to fuck up whenever you feel like it and then think saying 'sorry' fixes it. You don't get to stick your dick in every bitch with a pulse and then act like I'm the one in the wrong when somebody else notices I'm alive. You don't get to treat me like I'm something you own and then call that shit love."

She turned to G, her face a mask. "And you. You don't get to pull some hero shit and think that gives you the right to me. You don't get to decide what's best for me like I'm a child. You don't get to kiss me like that and then stand there grinning like you just won the fucking lottery."

Both of them just stood there, stupid-faced, struck silent by the fire coming off her.

"I ain't choosing between two men who look at me like I'm a piece of territory to be won," Ocean said, her voice cutting through the quiet apartment. "If either of you niggas really want me, earn me. Prove you can be more than just some trigger-happy motherfuckers running around playing king."

She looked from one to the other, her eyes daring them to challenge her. "Prove you can be the kind of man I actually deserve. Then maybe—just maybe—I'll think about letting either of you back in my life."

With that, she spun around and walked to the door, her steps sure and steady. Didn't hesitate, didn't look back. Just clicked the door shut behind her.

G watched her go, a slow-ass grin spreading across his face. "She just made us both better men," he said, his voice low but impressed. "Question is, which one of us gon' actually become that man for her?"

Dre didn't say nothing back, just kept his eyes locked on the door Ocean had walked through, his face a mix of shock and regret.

For the first time in a long time, the end of their war wasn't up to them. It was up to her. And standing there in the quiet, both of them knew the rules of the game had changed for good.

October 2026

Wunmi's house looked like a storm had completely wrecked it. Drawers were pulled open, clothes spread all over the place, shoes were kicked off in random directions, and couch cushions had been tossed aside. Even the kitchen had things out of place, which never happened.

Wunmi stood in the middle of the living room with her phone pressed between her ear and shoulder while she dug through yet another bag for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I don’t understand,” she muttered tightly. “I don’t lose things like this.”

On the other end, Michael was quiet for a second, listening to the sound of things shifting and falling in the background.

“Hey, slow down,” he said, calmer than she felt. "You’re tearing the whole place up.”

She let out a sharp exhale, dropping the bag onto the floor before moving to the next thing.

“I already did tear the whole place up,” she shot back, her accent heavily slipping through. “It’s gone, Michael. I’ve looked everywhere.”

He leaned back in his chair on set, phone pressed to his ear, eyes tracking the movement around him. He ignored the faint sound of someone calling for him to be ready in a few minutes.

“It’s not gone, you just misplaced it, baby,” he said steadily.

Wunmi laughed, but there was no humor in it. She yanked open a drawer, rifling through it quickly.

“The one time I take it off and it goes missing,” she said, her voice starting to crack.

Michael’s jaw tightened slightly at that.

“When did you take it off?”

She paused, thinking, her movements slowing for a second.

“The night I washed my hair. I didn’t want it slipping off or getting caught, so I put it—” She stopped, her brows pulling together. “I put it on the counter I think.”

Her hands moved faster again, more frantic now that she was second-guessing herself.

“Wunmi, stop moving for second,” he said firmly.

She didn’t.

“I can’t stop,” she snapped, moving into the living room and dropping to her knees to check under the couch again. “It’s not here.”

He exhaled slowly through his nose, trying to stay patient.

“Aye, listen to me,” he called. "It's fine we'll find it and if we don't—"

Her movements slowed just a little.

“I don’t want another one,” she cut in quickly, sitting back on her heels, her chest rising and falling. “You paid too much money for this one, Michael.”

He shook his head, a small frown forming.

“I don’t care about that.”

“Well, I do,” she said immediately, pushing herself up and started to pace. “And it’s not even just that. You—you really thought about it and took the time to pick it out.”

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, leaning forward slightly.

“And I’ll easily do it again,” he said.

She huffed under her breath, shaking her head like he just wasn’t getting it.

“That’s not the point,” she murmured.

On his end, someone tapped his shoulder lightly. He nodded without looking at them, waving them off for a second.

“Give me a minute.”

He turned his attention fully back to her.

“Alright, listen. You probably left it at my place,” he said.

Wunmi stopped pacing immediately.

“…No, I didn’t.”

“You might’ve,” he pressed. “Think about it. Last time you were here—”

“That was a week ago,” she cut in, frustration creeping back in. “And I didn’t take it off there.”

He paused, tilting his head slightly.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “Why would I take it off there and not put it back on?”

He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it.

“I don’t know. You do a lot when you’re over here.”

That earned him a small, irritated huff.

“Michael,” she warned.

He let out a quiet breath, easing back a little.

“Alright, alright. All I’m saying is it’s somewhere. It didn’t just disappear.”

She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she turned slowly, looking over the mess of her home again. The reality of it hit her and her eyes started to burn.

“I don't like not having it on,” she admitted softly.

“Hey, don't do that,” Michael said gently.

She pressed her lips together, blinking a few times as she crouched down again, picking up a pillow just to check under it as if she hadn’t already done that ten times before.

“I just—” she started, her voice wobbling slightly. “You were so thoughtful with it. And now I’ve just lost it and you're being far too calm.”

“Because you're doing enough panicking for the both of us, baby. I'm not going to say it again but you didn't lose it, you just misplaced it." he said.

She didn’t argue, but she didn’t agree either.

“Michael—”

“I’m serious,” he cut in. “You don’t need to stress yourself out like this. It’s not worth it.”

She let out a long breath, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but not all of it.

On his end, someone called out for him again. He closed his eyes briefly, exhaling.

“I gotta go,” he told her.

Wunmi nodded even though he couldn’t see it, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of a blanket.

“…Okay.”

He didn’t hang up right away.

“You good?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“…I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t fully believe that.

“Stop tearing your house up and take a break. I'll look for it when I get back. And if we can't find it then I'll get you another one,” he spoke lightly.

“Okay,” she said finally, even though it wasn’t fully okay.

“Alright,” he replied.

“…Be careful. I love you,” she added quietly.

“I love you too.”

The call ended and wunmi stood there in the middle of the mess. Her eyes drifted back down to her bare finger. It just felt so wrong.

She swallowed, pressing her lips together before letting out a slow breath. Her gaze moved around the room one more time, then she shook her head slightly, stepping over a pile of clothes as she moved toward the couch. She sank down into it, exhaustion finally catching up to her.

Wunmi sat there for a while, staring at nothing. Her mind tried to retrace every step she’d taken over the last few days. She pressed her lips together, then pushed herself up from the couch with a quiet exhale.

If she wasn’t going to find it right now, then she at least wasn’t going to keep living in the middle of a disaster. So she started with the living room. She picked things up and put them back into place. Every now and then her eyes would flick down to her hand out of habit, but each time it annoyed her.

She cleaned the kitchen next. Then moved to her bedroom. She was haflway through folding her thrown around clothes when her phone rang from somewhere behind her. She paused, listening for a second before turning and spotting it on the bed. She was able to that it was her good friend Danielle Brooks calling her.

Wunmi blinked, then walked over, picking it up and answering as she sat down on the edge of the mattress.

“Hello?”

“Wunmi!” Danielle’s voice came through bright and warm, full of energy. “Girl, where have you been?”

A small smile pulled at Wunmi’s mouth instantly.

“I’ve been around. You're the one that's been busy,” she said lightly, tucking one leg under herself.

“Okay, that’s fair,” Danielle laughed. “But still. I feel like I haven’t seen you seen you in forever.”

“Same,” Wunmi admitted, her voice softening just a little.

“So what you doing today?” Danielle asked.

Wunmi glanced around her half-clean room

“Nothing, really. Just at home,” she said.

“Perfect. That means you can come out to lunch with me,” Danielle replied immediately.

Wunmi huffed out a quiet laugh.

“You didn't even ask me!”

“Why would I? And I'm not taking no for an answer, so don't say it,” Danielle said.

Wunmi shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I wasn’t going to say no.”

“Good, because I already have the reservations made,” Danielle said. “So you're definitely coming?”

Wunmi hesitated for half a second, her thumb brushed lightly over her ring finger without thinking.

“I’ll come,” she said.

“I'll send you the address because I’m already on the way there, so don’t take forever.”

Wunmi laughed softly. “I won’t.”

“Alright, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Okay.”

The call ended and Wunmi immediately got to work.

She stood in front of her closet for a minute, scanning her options before deciding on something simple. Once she was dressed, she moved to the mirror, smoothing her hands over her outfit, adjusting small things here and there.

Her gaze lifted to her reflection then dropped. Her bare hand came up slightly.

“…It’s fine,” she murmured to herself.

She reached for her shades, sliding them on before grabbing her purse. The sun hit her with a warmth as soon as she stepped outside. She locked her door, adjusted her bag on her shoulder, then headed to her car.

During the entire drive, Wunmi had the music on low playing softly in the background with er fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.

Eventually she pulled up to the restauraunt. She parked, grabbed her purse, and stepped out, adjusting her shades slightly as she made her way inside. The place was lively but not overwhelming. Soft chatter filled the air, the clink of glasses and silverware blending into the background. She approached the host stand, offering a small smile.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” the hostess greeted warmly. “Do you have a reservation?”

“Yes. I believe it's under Danielle Brooks?”

The hostess nodded immediately, grabbing a menu. “Right this way.”

Wunmi followed her through the restaurant, weaving past tables and people until they reached the patio doors. Danielle sat at one of the tables, sunglasses perched on the top of her face, her posture relaxed as she scrolled through her phone. She looked up just in time, her expression breaking into a wide smile as she stood up.

“Wunmi!”

They closed the distance quickly, wrapping each other in a warm hug.

“Hey,” Wunmi laughed softly against her shoulder.

“Hey, stranger,” Danielle teased, squeezing her a little tighter before pulling back to look at her.

They both took a second, really taking each other in.

“It’s been too long,” Danielle said.

“It has,” Wunmi agreed.

Danielle shook her head, smiling. “You look good.”

“So do you,” Wunmi replied easily.

They both laughed, that easy, familiar energy settling right back into place like no time had passed at all.

“Come on,” Danielle said, gesturing toward the table as they sat back down.

Wunmi slid into her seat, setting her purse down beside her, her shades still on as she leaned back slightly.

Their server approached not too long after they sat down, a polite smile on her face as she glanced between them.

“Hi, ladies. Can I start you off with something to drink?”

Danielle didn’t even look at the menu.

“Yeah, I’ll do a margarita,” she said easily, handing it back.

The server nodded, then turned to Wunmi.

“And for you?”

Wunmi glanced down briefly, then back up. “I’ll have a French 75.”

“Perfect. I’ll be right back with those.”

They both murmured a quick thank you before the server stepped away. The second she was out of earshot, Danielle leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.

“Okay, now talk to me. What's been going on with you?,” she said, eyes narrowing playfully.

Wunmi smiled, shaking her head a little as she settled back in her chair.

“Just work and life like always,” she said.

Danielle hummed like she halfway believed her, her gaze drifting casually as she listened. Her eyes dropped right to Wunmi’s hands that were resting on the table.

Wunmi didn’t even realize what Danielle was looking at until she felt her reach across the table.

Danielle grabbed her hand, lifting it, her face twisting in confusion.

“Wait, where's your ring?”

Wunmi’s stomach dropped. She let out a slow sigh, her shoulders sinking just a little.

“I lost it.”

Danielle’s head snapped up.

“Already?!” she gasped.

Wunmi let out another breath, this one heavier, her lips pressing together as she looked down at their hands.

“I’ve been looking for it for days, and I don't know where it is,” she admitted, sounding almost hurt.

“Oh, baby…” she murmured, still holding her hand.

“I turned my whole house upside down to look for it. I don't understand how I lost it…” she trailed off.

Danielle squeezed her hand gently.

“What did Michael say?”

Wunmi let out a small, humorless huff.

“He told me to calm down and we'd find it,” she said. “Or he’d just get me another one if we couldn’t.”

Danielle’s brows lifted slightly. “And you didn’t like that.”

“No,” Wunmi said immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want another one.”

Danielle nodded slowly, understanding settling in her expression.

“Mm, I get it,” she said gently. “I lost mine before.”

Wunmi blinked, looking up at her.

“You did?”

“Mhm,” Danielle nodded. “Thought I was about to pass out when I realized it too. Tore my whole house up just like you.”

Wunmi let out a small breath, something easing in her chest just a little. “Did you find it?”

Danielle smiled. “I did. It was in the most random place too. You're gonna find it, so don't stress yourself out too much.”

Right then, their server returned with their drinks, carefully placing them down in front of them.

“Margarita for you, and a French 75 for you ,” she said, setting Wunmi’s glass down gently. “Are you ladies ready to order?”

Danielle picked up her drink, taking a quick sip before nodding.

“Yes please."

They both grabbed their menus again, scanning over them briefly as they placed their orders. Danielle confidently went first, while Wunmi took a second longer. The server nodded, jotting everything down. Once she walked away again, Danielle leaned back in her chair, lifting her glass slightly.

They clinked their glasses together and fell right back into conversation. They talked about everything. From work to people to random stories. Danielle filled her in on things she had missed, little industry gossip here and there that made Wunmi laugh and shake her head. Wunmi shared her own updates of things she hadn’t realized she needed to talk about until she was saying them out loud.

Time moved quickly and they hardly even noticed. Their food came and went, plates slowly clearing as they kept talking.

Danielle tilted her head slightly, a knowing look on her face.

“So,” she started, dragging the word out just a little. “How’s wedding planning going?”

Wunmi let out a soft laugh immediately, shaking her head as she set her fork down.

"It’s…a lot.”

“I know it is,” Danielle grinned.

“It’s not even the planning itself, it's the timing,” Wunmi continued.

She reached for her glass, taking a small sip before continuing.

“Michael’s been filming, so everything has to work around his schedule. And when he does have time, it’s like we have to squeeze in ten different things at once. It’s just a lot of back and forth. All of the calls and meetings. where we have to make decisions so quick because we don't know when the next free window is,” Wunmi said.

“So do y’all have a date yet?”

Wunmi picked up her glass and took a small sip.

“Not officially, but we've been looking at spring time or maybe early summer,” she said. “But we’ve been looking at spring. Maybe early summer. I really want May, but that's only if everything lines up properly.”

Danielle raised a brow. “Oh, that's soon soon.”

Wunmi gave a small nod, setting her glass back down. her fingers brushed along the stem of her glass. All of it felt too real.

Wunmi smiled faintly, her fingers brushing along the stem of her glass. The idea of it felt real when she said it out loud like that.

Danielle studied her for a second, then asked, “Are y’all planning to go public before then?”

Wunmi shrugged, her expression easy.

“I don’t really care about that right now. It's not at the top of my list,” she said. “Michael said he’d rather wait until after we get married.”

Danielle hummed, like she was considering that, then a small smirk crept onto her face.

“Mm. Maybe he’s just trying to get his last little bit of fun in ebfore everybody really backs off,” she said casually.

Wunmi didn’t even hesitate to say, “I’m not worried about that.”

“Not even a little bit?”

Wunmi shook her head, leaning back into her seat.

“He's already learned his lesson,” she said simply.

That made Danielle laugh.

“Okay, I hear you,” she said, holding her hands up.

Wunmi just gave a small unbothered smile.

They stayed for a little longer just talking. Eventually their plates were cleared and their dreams were long finisehed.

Danielle glanced around, then back at Wunmi.

“You ready?”

Wunmi nodded. “Yeah.”

Danielle lifted her hand slightly, catching their server’s attention as she passed by.

“Whenever you get a chance, can we get the check?”

The server nodded with a polite smile.

“Of course.”

She disappeared for a moment, and Wunmi reached for her purse. It didn't take long for the server to come back. She didn't set anything on the table. Instead she gave the two women a careful look.

“Actually, your check has already been taken care of,” she said.

Wunmi frowned slightly. “By who?”

The server gave a small, knowing smile, then subtly angled her head toward the inside of the restaurant.

“The gentleman over there.”

Both Wunmi and Danielle turned, their gazes following the direction she’d indicated.

Inside, a small group of men sat at a table not too far from the patio doors. It took a second to even figure out which one she meant until they watched as one of the men leaned back slightly, his attention already on them.

His face wasn’t fully clear from where they were. The lighting inside hit at an angle, shadowing part of it, and he had on a hat that didn’t help. Wunmi narrowed her eyes just a little, trying to place him.

They both turned back toward the server.

“Well…tell him thank you,” Danielle said, still sounding unsure.

“Of course,” the server replied before she walked away.

Wunmi and Danielle exchanged a look. Then they both glanced back toward the table, but the moment had already shifted. The man wasn’t as clearly visible anymore, someone else moving in front of him briefly, the angle changing just enough to make it harder to get a good look.

Danielle leaned closer.

“Do you know him?”

“I don’t—” Wunmi started, then stopped, her eyes narrowing again slightly. “I mean, I can’t see him properly.”

They sat there for another moment, trying to piece it together, but neither of them could land on anything. And then the patio door opened. The man from inside stepped out into the sunlight, moving with an easy confidence. As he got closer, the shadows fell away from his face and Wunmi's breath caught.

Her eyes widened almost immediately in recognition. She quickly turned her head toward Danielle, surprise flickering across her face.

“What? Who is that?” Danielle asked under her breath.

Wunmi didn’t answer. She just looked back at the man as he closed the distance to their table.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly as he reached the table.

Danielle straightened slightly, already smiling out of politeness.

“Hi,” she said. “Thank you for paying for us. You didn’t have to do that.”

He waved it off with a small shrug.

“It’s nothing. I figured I'd use it as an excuse to come say hello. Hope you don't mind,” he said.

Danielle glanced at Wunmi briefly before looking back at him.

“No, not at all. That was relaly nice of you,” she said.

Wunmi hadn’t said a word. She kept her posture composed, but her gaze had shifted off to the side for a moment, like she needed a second to collect herself before fully engaging. Because standing in front of her was someone she hadn't seen in literal years. And wasn't expecting to see again.

Tyree Lawson had been someone she had been seeing before Michael even came into the picture. They hadn’t ended badly. They just ended. The distance, timing, and their careers pulled them in opposite directions. He got traded, she picked up a new acting job, and their lives moved on.

But she remembered him. And judging by the way he was looking at her now, he remembered her just as well.

His attention shifted fully to her, a slow smile pulling at his mouth.

“Hi.”

Wunmi cleared her throat softly, finally looking at him.

“Hello.”

The formality of it made his brows lift immediately. A small, amused crease formed between them as he tilted his head.

“Why you acting like you don’t know me?”

Danielle’s eyes flicked between them instantly.

Wunmi exhaled quietly, then extended her hand out.

“Hi,” she said a little less stiff.

He reached out and took it, his grip warm. His thumb brushed lightly across the back of her hand.

“How you been?” he asked.

Wunmi gave him a sharp look and he caught the meaning of it immediately. He smirked.

“I’ve been fine,” she said while pulling her hand back. “Very busy, but fine.”

“I see that. You been everywhere lately,” he nodded, leaning back slightly so he could take her in properly. “I didn’t get to tell you before, but I saw Sinners.”

Wunmi’s expression shifted just a little.

“And?” she asked.

“I liked it a lot. You did your thing in that,” he said. "I'm proud of you."

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I appreciate that.”

There was a brief pause before she shifted the focus.

“What are you doing out here? Didn't the season start?” she asked.

He nodded once. “Yeah, it did. I’ve just got some business to handle out here before I head back.”

Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly. “What business?”

“I started a winery.” A small smile tugged at his mouth.

“Congratulations. That's big,” her tone was more warm and animated now.

“Thank you. The grand opening's coming up soon,” he paused. "You should come."

Wunmi looked at him, and for a split second she let whatever was in the air sink into her. She became a little too soft and a little too open.

“I would have to see, but I think it should be fine,” she said.

Danielle sat back in her chair, watching the exchange unfold with quiet interest. Her gaze moved between them. It wasn’t hard to read the situation. There was clearly history there and it hadn't fully gone away.

He was satisfied with that answer.

“I’ll send you the details.”

“Okay,” Wunmi said.

There was another small pause before he glanced between them, stepping back just slightly.

“I won’t hold you any longer,” he added. “Just wanted to say hello.”

Wunmi nodded, pushing her chair back as she stood.

“Yeah, of course.”

She stepped around the table, closing the small distance between them. And they hugged.

This time their contact wasn't awkward. In fact it was easy and familiar. His arms wrapped around her firmly, pulling her in. They slid a little lower than they probably should have.

Wunmi inhaled softly at the contact, her body reacting before her mind could catch up. He’d always been built strong and solid. Her hands rested against him briefly, her fingers pressing lightly against his back. She let out a quiet hum without meaning to.

He dipped his head slightly, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before pulling back, his hands lingering at her waist for just a second longer.

“Good seeing you,” he murmured.

“You too,” she replied.

He gave Danielle a quick nod before turning and heading back inside.

Nobody noticed the the camera lens across the street taking pictures of them.

Wunmi sat back down, adjusting her bag at her side, and Danielle was staring at her hard. Wunmi didn’t meet her eyes right away. She just reached for her shades instead and slid them back up.

“What?” she casually asked.

Danielle leaned back, crossing her arms loosely.

“You might not be worried about Michael with other women, but he should probably be a little worried about you,” she said pointedly.

Wunmi let out a quiet hum, not denying it, but not feeding into it either. She grabbed her purse, standing up.

“You ready?” she asked simply.

Danielle stared at her for a second longer, then shook her head with a small laugh as she stood too.

“Yeah, I'm ready,” she said.

A few days had passed, and the ring still hadn’t turned up.

Wunmi had stopped tearing her house apart, but the absence hadn’t gotten any easier. If anything, it got worse. Every time she reached for things or rested her hand on her lap she was reminded of it not being there.

She was leisurely stretched out across her couch when Michael called, one leg tucked under her, and her sketchbook open beside her with loose pages scattered around it.

“Hey,” she answered, tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder as she absentmindedly flipped through one of the pages.

“Hey baby,” Michael’s voice came through low and tired. “You find it yet?”

She let out a small sigh. “…No.”

There was a brief pause on his end.

“It's fine.”

Wunmi frowned slightly, her fingers coming up to rub over her bare ring finger.

“It doesn’t feel fine,” she muttered. “My finger feels weird without it.”

That earned a quiet exhale from him, something close to a soft chuckle.

“You'll be okay. It's not permanent,” he said.

She hummed under breath, shifting a little on the couch.

“So how are you feeling about everything?” sheasked while glancing down at her sketchbook.

“About what?” he asked.

“The wedding,” she said.

There was a small pause.

“I’m good,” he answered. “Why? You not?”

“I am,” she said quickly. “It's just that there’s a lot to keep up with.”

Her hand moved across the page, tracing over one of the rough designs she’d started.

“And don’t forget we have that meeting next week with the planner coming up,” she added.

“Yeah, I remember,” he said.

She sat up a bit to reach for a pencil.

“I’ve been trying to get a head start on my dress too,” she continued. “I started sketching some ideas, but I don't know how I feel about any of them.”

On the other end, Michael was half-listening when his phone buzzed. He pulled it away from his ear just enough to glance down at the notification to see that it was a text from his publicist.

How do you want to handle this?

A twitter link followed.

His brows pulled together as he tapped it. The page loaded and his eyes instantly went to the caption.

Academy nominee Wunmi Mosaku and Dallas Cowboys defensive lineman Tyree Lawson seen pretty close at lunch.

Michael blinked once. Then he looked down at the photos. There were multiple pictures of Wunmi and Tyree hugging. His arms wrapped low around her waist and his cheek pressed against hers. There was even a picture where his lips were pressed against her cheek.

Michael was utterly confused and tense all at once.

“Aye, what is this?”

His voice cut her off mid-sentence.

“What are you talking about?”

Instead of answering, he sent the link to her. And at the exact same time, her phone buzzed against her ear. She pulled it away to see that it was a text from her own publicist.

We need to get in front of this.

Her stomach dropped. And as soon as the tweet loaded she felt her whole breath evaporate.

“Oh my God.”

Her eyes widened as she scrolled through the photos, her chest tightening.

On the other end, Michael said nothing he just waited. His silence made her pulse stutter.

“Okay, wait. When I went out with Danielle the other day someone paid for our meal. It was him,” she said quickly. "Then he came over to our table."

“Y’all look pretty close.”

The way he said it was too controlled.

Wunmi exhaled, already feeling that dangerous shift in him.

“Do you remember the guy I told you about that came before you?” she asked.

There was a beat. Then Michael hummed.

She swallowed. “That’s him.”

He remembered the conversation and the way she described how serious it could've been and how much she liked him before things fell apart. And now he was looking at pictures of that same man with his hands on her like that.

“So then what,” Michael said slowly.

Wunmi shifted on the couch, her fingers tightening slightly around her phone.

“It wasn’t like that, baby,” she said. “He just paid for our food and came to say hi. That’s it.”

Michael let out a quiet breath through his nose.

“That don’t look like just saying hi.”

Wunmi frowned, her chest tightening.

“I didn’t know what to do. It caught me off guard,” she said.

He shook his head, even though she couldn’t see it.

“You didn’t know what to do?” he echoed.

She heard the edge in his voice.

“I mean—no,” she said, her tone softening. “I wasn’t expecting to see him. And he just came up—”

“And you hugging him like that?” Michael cut in.

Her lips parted, then pressed together again.

“He did all of that,” she said, quieter now.

“That don’t change what it look like.”

Wunmi exhaled, her shoulders sinking slightly.

“It wasn’t anything. You're making it more than it was,” she insisted.

Michael didn’t respond right away because then he realized something that made this all that much worse.

“And you ain’t have your ring on. Did you at least tell him you were engaged?”

Wunmi froze. She didn't answer right away which made Michael grunt in frustration.

"Oluwunmi…"

“…No,” she admitted softly. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

Michael let out another low, frustrated grunt, dragging a hand down his face.

“Aight,” he said. "It's cool."

Wunmi sat up straight.

“It’s not—Michael, listen—”

“I said it’s cool,” he repeated.

But it didn’t sound like it was at all.

“I’ll see you later.”

Her brows pulled together immediately. And she went to ask him what he meant by that, but the line had already gone dead. She pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen for a second, confusion settling in just as fast as the panic. He wasn’t supposed to be back for another two days. So really what did he mean?

The rest of the day blurred together.

Her phone stayed in her hand. If she wasn’t on a call, she was answering a text. If she wasn’t answering a text, she was reading something she wished she hadn’t.

Her publicist called her once. Then again. Then a third time, looping her into another call but this time with Michael’s publicist.

Wunmi pressed her lips together, pacing slowly through her living room as she listened, her free hand resting against her forehead.

“It wasn’t like that,” she said for what felt like the tenth time. “He came up to us and I didn’t even know he was there until—”

“We understand that, but perception matters far more than intent right now,” her publicist cut in gently.

Wunmi closed her eyes as she took that statement in because of course it did.

They talked through options of what to do. If she wanted to make a statement and the timing of it, or if she would want to stay silent. By the time that call ended, her head was pounding. And of course, it didn’t stop there.

Danielle called her as well.

“Girl, are you okay?” she asked immediately.

“I’m fine,” Wunmi said, even though she wasn’t.

Danielle sighed. “I didn’t even notice anybody out there taking pictures like that.”

“Me either,” Wunmi muttered, dropping down onto her couch again.

“You talked to Michael?”

“I did and let's just say it didn't go too well. He hung up on me.”

“Okay, well, that's not ideal,” she said slowly.

Wunmi huffed a small, humorless breath. “No, it’s not.”

After that the calls just kept coming. From close friends to family. And they were all asking questions that she didn't really feel like answering. The only person who hadn't was Michael. And not for lack of trying on her part either.

Every time she tried to call him, it went unanswered. Every text was stuck on delivered. She even checked his location at one point, but it was off.

When evening came, her energy was completely drained.

She sat curled up on her couch, her phone resting in her lap as she stared at the screen. The tweet was still circulating, but with more comments and opinions. More people were inserting themselves into something they didn’t understand.

Her thumb hovered over Michael’s name for the fiftieth time that day. She still had nothing from him. Her chest tightened, and she swallowed hard, blinking a few times as that familiar pressure started building behind her eyes. All of this was getting to her.

She slowly moved through her nighttime routine. The house fell still the moment she turned the lights off ready to curl up and hide from the world.

She grabbed her phone one last time, glancing at it, and still nothing. Wunmi let out a quiet breath and set it down on the table. She had started to head to her bedroom when there was a knock on her door.

It was far too late for anyone to just be showing up. So she stood still for second to listen. But then another louder and more insistent knock came.

Her heart picked up slightly as she walked toward the door with cautious steps.

“Who is it?” she called out.

No verbal answer, only another knock.

She hesitated for half a second before unlocking the door and pulling it open. And her breath caught when she saw Michael standing there with a hood pulled over his head and hands tucked into his pockets.

“Michael—” she gasped in relief. “Baby, I am so—”

“Come on,” he cut in firmly. He left no room for disagreeament.

When she didn't move, Michael stared at her harder.

“Let's go,” he repeated, stepping slightly to the side and holding the door open wider.

Her breath hitched. It was something about the look in her eye that made her really not want to argue with him. She simply turned and went to grab her phone and purse off of the table. She walked past him, his presence heavy as she went by.

He stepped out right after her, pulling the door shut and locking it without a word. Wunmi looked back slightly to watch him. He slipped by her to lead the way.

Once he got to the car, Michael pulled the passenger door open for her to get into. She climbed in with her heart beating faster than normal. The door shut and a second later, he was in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.

The silence inside the car was thick during the drive.

Wunmi glanced at him. His hands were tight on the wheel and eyes forward. She opened her mouth then closed it. Whatever she was about to say didn’t feel like it would go right, so she stayed quiet.

The drive only lasted about fifteen minutes, but it felt much longer.

As soon as they pulled into his driveway, he was out of the car almost immediately, coming around to her side and opening her door before she could even reach for it.

She stepped out, watching him carefully. He led the way inside, unlocking the front door and holding it open for her. She stepped into the house, instantly being met with a comfortable familiarity. He closed the door behind them, locking it again before moving past her.

“Where were you when you took it off?” he asked roughly.

Wunmi blinked, trying to keep up.

“I was washing my hair, but that was back at my—”

She could hardly answer before he turned and headed straight for the stairs. Wunmi followed quickly behind him.

“Michael—” She called for him as they swiftly moved up the stairs.

She knew she hadn’t taken her ring off here, so she didn’t argue. At this point, she didn’t have the energy to push back on anything. Not after the day she’d had. So she just followed him into the bathroom and watched him as he immediately got to work.

He moved around the space like a man on a mission, opening drawers, shifting bottles, checking along the edges of the counter and behind things that hadn’t been touched in days. His movements were completely focused yet annoyed.

Wunmi stood in the doorway for a second before stepping in, her arms folding loosely over her chest as she watched him.

“Michael…” she started softly.

He didn’t even look at her. Instead, he crouched down instead, checking along the base of the cabinets, his fingers running along the small spaces.

Wunmi swallowed. Then slowly, she moved further in, kneeling down on the opposite side, her movements much more hesitant. She checked places she knew didn’t make sense. Behind containers and inside small trays and corners that didn’t hold anything. She wasn’t really expecting to find it, but she helped anyway.

The only sounds in the room were the soft shifting of items and Michael’s quiet, frustrated exhales every few minutes. He was getting irritated and she could not only hear it but see it as well. His shoulders were tight and his jaw flexed every time he searched and came up empty-handed.

Enough time passed for the silence between them to stretch and fill the room.

Michael was crouched low near the side of the counter, his fingers reaching into a narrow gap between the cabinet and the wall. His face was scrunched together when he pulled his hand back. And there it was in his fingers. The ring.

Wunmi let out a relieved exhale, “Oh thank God.”

Michael stood up, holding it between his fingers as he wiped it off against the side of his shirt, inspecting it briefly. Then he looked at her.

“Come here.” His voice was steady.

Wunmi carefully pushed herself up and walked over to him. He held his hand out. She reached for it, her fingers slipping into his automatically. He lifted the ring slightly between them, his gaze flicking from it to her.

“You better not lose it again.”

Wunmi’s lips parted slightly, and she nodded, her voice soft, “I won’t.”

He slid it back onto her finger, the cool metal settling into place.

Wunmi exhaled shakily, her shoulders dropping just a little as she looked down at it. Relief flooded her instantly.

Michael’s expression softened as he took her hand again, bringing it up and pressing a kiss to it. Then he stepped closer and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her into him. He pushed his lips onto hers and she melted into the kiss almost immediately. Her hands came up to rest agaisnt his chest before sliding up around his neck.

The tension from earlier simmered.

She pulled back just a little, her forehead brushing against his as she looked at him.

“I’m sorry for not really telling you,” she said softly.

“It’s alright. I get it,” he said after a second. “I guess this is my payback.”

Wunmi frowned faintly.

“Payback? For what?”

He looked at her, something protective settling back into his expression.

“I don’t like nobody thinking they can come up and be that comfortable with you,” he said. “Especially not somebody you had something with.”

Her breath caught slightly.

“I didn’t—”

“I know. But I'm saying,” he said firmly. "I'm protective over what's mine."

His hand pressed lightly against her waist.

“And I don’t want you going out without your ring so we don't have this problem again,” he added.

Wunmi nodded slowly, her fingers tightening slightly against him.

“Okay.”

He leaned in again, kissing her slower this time.

Her arms wrapped around him fully now, holding him close as she lifted her hand slightly behind his head. The ring caught the light. She smiled softly against his lips.

“I really did miss it,” she murmured.

Michael let out a quiet breath against her skin, his lips trailing from her jaw down to her neck, pressing a few soft kisses there.

Her eyes fluttered closed, her grip tightening just a little. After a moment, she pulled back slightly, catching her breath.

“What are you doing back already? I thought you weren't coming back for two more days,” she asked.

Michael looked at her for a second, then shrugged lightly.

“I had to come handle my business.”

Wunmi bit her lip, her gaze dropping for a second.

“I really am sorry, Michael,” she said again.

He shook his head, stepping back just enough to look at her fully.

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m tired.”

He moved past her, already pulling his hoodie off as he headed toward the bedroom.

Wunmi followed, watching him as he stripped down to his boxers.

They both slipped into bed without much more conversation. Wunmi settled in beside him, her hand resting against his chest, her thumb brushing lightly over the ring.

December 2026

Michael had finally wrapped filming for Miami Vice, which meant he was home more, but somehow, that hadn’t made life any less hectic. Now they had wedding stress and awards and press season.

Wunmi had already picked up several nominations. Her name was floating in conversations again. All of the hype was starting to stack on top of everything else.

The wedding planning had been intense. They officially had their date, the venue was picked, and invitations had been sent. That should've made things easier, but it didn't.

Now it was all about the details. They still had to lock a lot of things in while coordinating their schedules around two careers that clearly weren't slowing down. It was a lot.

And Michael had been on her more than usual. He was always touching her or near her. Especially after the whole Tyree thing. Even though they had moved past it, something about it had stuck with him.

They were on the couch with the TV playing something neither of them was fully paying attention to.

Wunmi sat sideways, her legs draped across Michael’s lap and her back resting against the arm of the couch. Her phone was in her hand, thumbs moving as she typed.

Michael’s hand rested on her calf, absentmindedly sliding down to her ankle before coming back up again. His other hand lifted her foot slightly, thumb pressing into the arch, working it gently.

Wunmi exhaled softly at the pressure, not even looking up from her phone.

“Mm,” she hummed.

Michael glanced at her.

“Who you texting?”

“I'm just updating the bridesmaids,” she said while typing.

“About what?”

“The dates that we agreed on for our trips. And the fittings."

Michael shook his head slightly, a quiet breath leaving him.

“This is still so crazy to me,” he muttered.

Wunmi glanced at him briefly, a small smile pulling at her lips.

“What is?”

“The fact that we're getting married.”

“I’m excited,” Wunmi's smile softened.

Michael smiled back at her, then went back to rubbing her foot.

She returned her attention to her phone. And just then a new text came in from an unknown number. Her brows pulled together in confusion as she opened it.

The first message was a picture of an invitation. Then there was a text right under it.

Can’t wait to see you.

Wunmi was utterly confused, until she scrolled up slightly, looked at the number again, then back at the image. That was when it all clicked.

“Oh.”

Michael’s hand paused slightly against her foot.

“What?”

Wunmi’s lips pressed together as she read it again.

“I just got an invitation,” she said.

“To what?”

She hesitated for a second.

“Tyree’s winery opening.”

Michael’s hand stilled completely.

“No.”

It was an immediate rejection that took Wunmi aback.

“You didn’t even let me explain.”

“Didn't have to,” he said as he leaned back against the couch.

Wunmi let out a small breath, sitting up a little.

“He just sent it to me and I don't even have his number,” she added.

“I don’t care. You're not going,” Michael said. His hand dropped from her foot, resting on her leg instead, his fingers tapping once against her skin.

Wunmi frowned, “Baby—”

“You're not going,” he repeated.

She shifted, pulling one of her legs in so she could turn toward him more.

“But I kind of want to go.”

Michael’s eyes snapped to her. “Why?”

Wunmi blinked at his tone, then exhaled.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It just doesn't feel like a big deal. It's a grand opening, so we'll be in public. And it's not like I'm sneaking off somewhere with him.”

Michael stared at her completely unmoved.

“That’s not the point, baby.”

"Then what is the point?" Wunmi tilted her head slightly.

“I don’t trust him.”

Wunmi’s brows lifted slightly.

“It sounds like you don’t trust me?”

“That's not what I said. I trust you,” he said immediately.

“Then—”

“I don’t trust him,” he repeated, slower this time. “And I don’t like the idea of you going somewhere he invited you to like that.”

Wunmi sighed softly, her shoulders dropping a little.

“It’s not like I have feelings for him. Whatever was there is gone,” she said.

Michael’s gaze stayed on her.

“That doesn’t mean it’s gone for him. Especially after how them pictures looked. Now he's inviting you out. I don't like that,” he said.

“I’d be wearing my ring,” she said quietly.

Michael let out a short breath, shaking his head, “That don’t stop nothing if somebody don’t care.”

Wunmi studied him for a second.

“So what? I just don't go?” she asked softly.

“Not unless I’m there,” he said.

Wunmi leaned back against the couch again, thinking.

“I don’t even know if you can go. You might have press,” she said.

“Then you not going,” he replied without hesitation.

She let out a quiet huff, somewhere between frustration and understanding.

“Michael…”

He reached for her leg again, pulling it back across his lap, his hand sliding up her thigh before settling there.

“I’m serious. I'm not about to have a repeat of that,” he said.

Wunmi looked at him, really looked at him this time, and she saw the tension still in his body. So she decided to concede.

“Okay,” she said after a second.

Michael’s shoulders relaxed a bit, his thumb moving against her leg.

The following weekend came quicker than Wunmi was honestly ready for. Between wedding meetings, awards conversations, and Michael attached to her to her body every second, the days just blurred together. Yet she still found time to get ready for unplanned events.

Music was playing lowly from downstairs while Michael moved around the room getting dressed.

Wunmi sat at her vanity in their bedroom, one leg crossed over the other as she leaned closer to the mirror. She had gotten her hair done a few days ago. It was in soft, full curls that fell around her shoulders. Her makeup was simple, especially since she didn't feel like going through her glam team.

She dabbed lightly beneath one eye when she heard Michael’s footsteps getting closer. A second later, he appeared in the mirror behind her with a hoodie on and cologne loud. He glanced at her reflection immediately.

“I’m about to head out,” he said.

Wunmi hummed softly. “Okay.”

But then his eyes narrowed, because she was clearly getting ready too.

“Where you going?”

Wunmi kept her expression neutral as she reached for her gloss.

“Out.”

Michael leaned one shoulder against the doorway, "Out where?"

"Just out," she shrugged.

His eyes stayed on her through the mirror for another second longer than necessary. He was clearly suspicious and she could feel it. But after a moment, he pushed off the doorway and walked over behind her instead. His hands settled warmly onto her shoulders, thumbs pressing lightly into the muscles there.

Wunmi relaxed under the touch.

“You look pretty,” he murmured.

A small smile pulled at her lips, “Thank you.”

His hands slid down slowly before he leaned down toward her face.

“Wait—” she laughed softly, turning her head slightly. “You’re gonna mess up my lip gloss.”

“I don’t care.”

Before she could protest again, his hand tilted her chin toward him and he kissed her anyway. It was only a soft quick one, but it was annoyingly affectionate.

When they pulled apart, Michael looked entirely too satisfied with himself. His hands lingered on her shoulders a second longer before he straightened back up.

“You got my card?”

“Why would I need your card?”

“Just in case.”

“I’m not going to need it.”

Michael reached over and picked up her purse from the vanity chair anyway, unzipping it and slipping the black card inside.

Wunmi rolled her eyes softly but didn’t argue.

He leaned down one more time, brushing his lips briefly against the top of her head this time.

“Text me when you get where you going.”

“Okay.”

He squeezed her shoulder once before finally heading out of the room.

Wunmi waited until she heard the front door downstairs close, then she exhaled. She walked over to her closet to get her dress for the evening. The dress was all-black, but it hugged her body absolutely perfectly.

She stepped into it carefully, pulling it up slowly, and adjusting it into place. Then she turned toward the mirror to look at herself. And honestly she looked a little too good.

She knew that Michael would hate to see her looking this good and going there. Which was exactly why she hadn't told him where she was going. She knew how her man would react, but she also knew that if she didn't go Tyree would only push harder. He was the kind of man that liked the chase. He only got more interested when someone pulled away.

Wunmi slipped on her heels, then sprayed perfume lightly along her neck and wrists. She grabbed her purse and headed downstairs.

When she made it outside the air was cooler than it had been earlier in the week. Her heels clicked softly against the driveway as she walked toward her car. Once inside, she checked herself quickly in the mirror, then started the engine.

The drive was long enough to give her time to think. Streetlights blurred past as her fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.

Her thoughts swirled with a mix of Michael and Tyree. All she could really think about is if they got caught again just like how they got caught at the restaraunt. Her hand tightened on the wheel and her ring caught the passing lights immediately. She was just glad that she had it on this time.

The venue was on the other side of town, so she ran into some thick traffic. By the time she finally pulled up it was packed. A line of cars stretched down the block. Dozens of blacked-out vehicles rolled forward one after another as valet attendants moved quickly to get them in and out.

Wunmi slowed as she pulled up, immediately spotting the entrance ahead glowing warm against the night. The building itself was gorgeous with modern architecture, dark wood accents, and huge windows revealing pieces of the event happening inside.

Before she could even fully put the car in park, a valet attendant was already stepping forward and opening her door.

“Good evening, ma’am.”

Wunmi gave him a polite smile as she grabbed her purse and phone.

“Thank you.”

The cool evening air brushing against her skin as she stepped out carefully in her heels. A few heads turned as she straightened up fully, smoothing a hand lightly over her dress before handing over her keys.

“Enjoy your evening,” the valet said.

Wunmi nodded softly before making her way toward the entrance.

As soon as she entered into the venue, the more impressed she became because it was beautiful. The lighting was dim with warm gold tones bouncing off dark interiors and polished surfaces. Music floated through the air low enough for conversation, and the entire place smelled faintly of wood and wine.

Before she could get too lost in the beauty of her surroundings, she remembered something important that she was supposed to do. Wunmi reached into her purse and pulled her phone out knowing she needed to say something before he found out another way.

Her fingers moved quickly over the screen.

I know you’re going to be mad but I’m at Tyree’s event. I’m going to let him know that I’m engaged.

She stared at the message for a quick second, then turned her phone completely off. Beccause she knew the second that he saw it, he was going to call her and she honestly didn't feel like dealing with that right now.

She slipped the phone back into her purse and exhaled slowly, squaring her shoulders before continuing further inside.

A server approached her with a tray of wine glasses.

“Would you like one?”

Wunmi glanced down briefly before taking one carefully by the stem.

“Thank you.”

She took a small sip, eyes moving around the room. A few familiar faces caught her attention here and there. Some even greeted her once they noticed her.

She smiled politely through all of the exchanges, stopping for quick conversations here and there and accepting compliments. She was also being very aware of her surroundings, because if she wasn't things could very well become a problem.

She lifted the wine glass to her lips again, taking another small sip as she continued walking through the venue. She took her time moving through the different rooms.

Every section flowed into the next seamlessly. There were private tasting areas, lounge spaces, and long wooden tables filled with bottles and small plates. The lighting stayed dim and warm throughout the entire building, giving everything this intimate feel.

She found herself near one of the display areas where rows of massive wine barrels lined the wall with engraved plaques beneath them. Wunmi lifted her glass for another sip, leaning slightly to read one of the plaques when a hand slid around her waist. Her body instantly tensed up.

She turned quickly, only to come face to face with Tyree. And he was smiling down at her.

“I’m glad you made it,” he said.

His voice was smooth and easy over the music.

Wunmi recovered quickly, giving him a small smile back.

“This place is gorgeous,” she admitted honestly, glancing around again briefly. “Like really gorgeous.”

Tyree chuckled softly, “Appreciate it.”

She lifted her glass slightly, “And the wine’s good too.”

That made him grin wider.

“Alright now, don’t gas me too much.”

Wunmi laughed softly. But then she remembered his hand that was still resting against her waist. Her eyes flicked downward briefly before she subtly stepped sideways out of his hold. The movement was smooth enough not to make a scene, but still he noticed.

Tyree’s brows pulled together as his eyes moved over her slowly.

“You look real good tonight,” he said.

“Thank you.”

He stepped toward her even more. He lifted his arm like he was about to settle it around her waist once more, but Wunmi moved before he could.

“Watch yourself,” she said lightly.

Tyree paused. Confused amusement spread across his face.

“What? Why you acting like this?” he laughed.

Wunmi didn’t verbally answer. Instead, she lifted her left hand up between them. The ring caught the warm lighting, sparkling beautifully against her skin.

Tyree’s eyes dropped to it and he looked genuinely surprised. But his expression smoothed back over.

“When that happen?” he asked.

Wunmi took another sip of her wine before answering casually, “He proposed in August.”

His brows shot up again.

“August, huh?”

She nodded.

“You ain’t have that on at lunch.”

“I lost it and got in so much trouble because of what happened,” she admitted and pointed lightly at him with her glass. “I should’ve told you then that I was happily engaged. Maybe pictures of us wouldn't have ended up all over the internet,” she said.

He briefly glanced away like he was thinking. Then he looked back at her with a dangerously confident smirk on his face.

“I guess I gotta try harder to get you to come over to the best side," he said.

Irritation immediately flashed across Wunmi's face. It was so fast Tyree almost missed it.

“I’m already on the best side,” she said plainly. “And it can’t get any better than my man.”

Tyree sucked his teeth, unconvinced.

“Yeah okay,” he muttered.

Wunmi stared at him for another second before taking another sip from her glass.

Tyree looked at her ring one more time before nodding once.

“You enjoy yourself." he said. Then his mouth curved up. “I’ll be talking to you soon.”

Wunmi narrowed her eyes at that, but she didn’t respond. She just nodded once and watched him walk away through the crowd.

The second he disappeared, she exhaled quietly.

“…Jesus Christ.”

Her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of the glass. Now she understood exactly why Michael didn’t want her there. Tyree wasn’t outright disrespectful, but he also clearly wasn’t backing down just because she had a ring on.

After that exchange, she stayed there for about another hour or so. She mingled with people and sampled more wine. But the longer she stayed, the more aware she became of the pit forming in her stomach. Eventually she had to go home where she knew Michael was waiting for her.

She handed off her empty wine glass and headed toward the exit, she already knew she was in a whole lot of trouble.

After an entire drive of Wunmi's stomach twisting knots, she finally pulled into Michael's garage. When she parked the car she noticed that Michael's car wasn't there. She hadn't seen it out front either. Relief washed over her.

She grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car, her heels echoing softly through the garage before she headed inside.

The house was completely dark. A little too dark.

Wunmi paused just inside the doorway, listening carefully. A small breath escaped her. The tension in her shoulders loosened.

She locked the door behind her and kept the lights off, moving quietly through the house before heading upstairs. The bedroom was dark too. That eased her nerves even more because it meant he hadn't even stepped foot in the home.

She set her purse down carefully and headed toward the closet, ready to get out of the dress and wash the night off her.

The closet light was dim as she slipped her heels off first with a relieved sigh. Then her jewelry. Then her dress. She wrapped her robe tight around her body and tied it securely at the waist. Her hair fell softly around her shoulders as she pushed the closet door back open and stepped into the bedroom. She casually reached toward the wall and flipped the light on.

Her breath stopped.

Michael was sitting in the corner chair near the window. Legs spread, body leaned back, arms resting on the arm of the chair, and face blank. The light caught him good, and he was just watching her.

Wunmi physically jumped, her hand flying to her chest.

“Oh my God,” she gasped. “You scared me.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she stared at him.

There had been absolutely no sign he was home. His car wasn't around, he made no sound, there was absolutely nothing.

Michael didn’t answer. He just looked at her, giving her a completely unreadable look. His silence somehow made her even more nervous.

Wunmi swallowed hard, trying to recover.

“Hi,” she said softly, attempting a small smile as she bit lightly at her lip.

Still nothing.

The room suddenly felt very warm, very quiet.

Wunmi shifted her weight under his stare.

Slowly, Michael lifted two fingers and crooked them toward himself. He had no words for her, only the simple gesture.

Wunmi’s breath hitched and her stomach tightened, but she obeyed. Her bare feet slowly moved across the carpet until she stood directly in front of him between his spread legs.

Michael leaned back in the chair, his hands settling on her thighs, fingers gripping the thick flesh through the soft fabric of her robe.

“Anything you wanna say?” he finally asked calmly.

Wunmi swallowed. Her fingers twisted lightly together at her sides.

“I’d be lying if I said I was sorry,” she admitted quietly.

Michael’s face tightened and he gave a stiff nod.

The room stayed silent for another long second.

“Get on the bed.”

Wunmi’s eyes widened and her stomach dropped. She knew exactly what kind of mood he was in. And there had only been maybe three times where she had gotten herself in enough trouble to see this side of him.

Wunmi's pulse blared in her ears as she turned toward the bed. She climbed onto the mattress slowly, knees first, then hands, positioning herself on all fours with her back arched just enough to present herself to him.

Michael rose from the chair without a sound. His footsteps were heavy as he approached the bed. He placed one hand between her shoulder blades and pressed down firmly, forcing her upper body to lay flat against the cool sheets. Her cheek pressed into the fabric, arms stretching out in front of her.

"Stay down," he commanded, voice low.

A soft whimper escaped her lips, her body trembling under the weight of his palm. She was completely at his mercy.

"You're gonna count each one," Michael said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm not telling you when it stops."

Wunmi braced herself, fingers curling into the sheets, muscles tensing as she waited for the first hit.

He gathered the hem of her robe and pushed it up over her lower back, exposing her completely. His fingers hooked into the thin straps of her panties next, tugging them up hard and wedging the fabric tight between her cheeks like a makeshift thong. The pull made her gasp, the material pinching her skin, leaving her bare and framed for him.

She had no idea what was going to happen. Her nerves were all over the place.

Then it came. A sharp smack landed on her left cheek. The hit stung like fire and jolted her entire body. It caught her so off guard that her mind blanked, and no words came out of her mouth.

Michael grunted disapprovingly. His hands clamped onto both large cheeks, gripping hard enough to make her wince.

"Count."

"One," she whispered shakily.

The next hit came down harder than the first, the force snapping her hips forward an inch across the bed.

"Two," she managed, sucking in a breath.

"Why'd you go when I told you not to?" he demanded, one hand kneading her flesh roughly.

Wunmi drew a shaky breath, her voice soft against the mattress. "I needed to. If I didn't he'd be all over me."

Michael's eyes narrowed as he processed her words. Without warning, he delivered two quick hits— one on each cheek—the slaps echoing through the room.

She whimpered, body jerking with the double sting, heat spreading fast.

"Three...four," she counted while clinging to the sheets.

"You're in so much trouble," Michael growled, his palm hovering for a beat before delivering the fifth smack, firmly across the center of her right cheek. The heat built, layering over the previous stings.

"Five," she counted, hips twitching involuntarily.

"And you're gonna make it up to Daddy," he added, his voice dropping as the sixth hit landed on the left cheek.

Another groan came from her and her thighs pressed together against the growing ache. "Six."

He didn't pause. The seventh hit was quick and the eighth followed just as quickly. Then the ninth and tenth were all rapid-fire, alternating cheeks. Each one made her skin tingle. The sensations twisted into a mix of pain and pleasure that had her toes curling and breath hitching.

She winced with the seventh, whimpered through the eighth, gasped on the ninth, and let out a shaky whine on the tenth. Her entire backside was throbbing and aching, but somehow that made it more intoxicating.

"You had enough?" Michael's hand rested on her warm skin, rubbing slow circles.

Wunmi nodded frantically, her cheek still pressed to the bed, tears at the corners of her eyes from the intensity.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking softly.

He hummed a low, skeptical sound rumbling from his chest as he shook his head.

"Nah. I don't think you are yet." His fingers tightened on her hip. "Don't move."

Wunmi stayed where she was with her forehead pressed to the sheets and ass raised high as the door to the closet clicked shut behind him. Her mind raced, trying to figure out what he was grabbing. Her breath came in shallow pants and she squeezed her eyes shut.

Then she heard the low hum starting up from somewhere behind her.

Her eyes flew open and a whimper slipped out, "Michael..."

She felt the cool, buzzing head of the vibrator wand press directly against her clit through the wedged fabric of her panties. Her whole body jumped forward on the bed, a startled yelp escaping her as pleasure shot through her like lightning.

"Hold it," he ordered.

Wunmi reached back with one trembling hand, fingers wrapping around the handle. She held it lightly, the vibrations teased her. Still it was too much.

Without giving her a warning, Michael covered her hand with his and pressed down hard. The wand felt intense against her clit. A deep moan tore from her throat, hips pushed back involuntarily.

His free hand landed a hard smack on her already tender cheeks. He kept going, each sharp spank jiggling her body and mixing with the pleasure of the wand.

She moaned loudly, head dropping to the mattress. She could feel herself dripping wet, slickness coating her inner thighs from earlier and now. The wand hummed against her clit, every pulse matching perfectly with the hits of his palm on her ass.

Wunmi felt herself starting to reach that edge quickly. Her body tensed up, mouth dropping open in a silent gasp. Her free hand clutched the sheets in a death grip while her legs trembled. She clenched and pulsed around nothing.

Michael noticed it right away, his rhythm never faltering.

"You better not come," he warned her.

She shook her head, biting her lip hard to fight it. She knew he wanted her to give him the excuse for more punishment, but holding back felt impossible. The pressure was getting worse with every second.

Her body moved on it's own, and her hand pressed wand harder against her clit.Consistent needy moans fell from her lip as she started to grind against the vibrations. She could feel herself right there, she was so close.

Michale snatched the wand from her grip, the sudden absence making a frustrated sound fall from her lips.

"You don't get to come," he stated flatly, tossing it aside.

Wunmi whimpered as every nerve in her body was screaming for release.

Michael gave her two final smacks to each cheek. Then his palms rubbed slow, drawing a soft sigh from her. Then he grabbed her hips and yanked her back toward him, pulling until her lower body pressed against his.

Wunmi felt his straining through his pants, making her throb even more. She couldn't help but to rub against him in a silent plea to be filled.

"I'm not fucking you tonight," he said firmly as his hand cracked down once more on her ass. He stepped away, leaving her empty and wanting.

Wunmi whimpered, fully collapsing onto the bed. She shifted onto her side.

A while later, Michael slid into bed behind her. He held her close, draping one arm possessively over her waist.

For the next three days, Wunmi was denied orgasm after orgasm by Michael. Every time Tyree called or texted, it put her further into trouble.

The first morning, Michael had her on top of the kitchen counter, vibrator pressed against her clit. She was gasping, thighs shaking, and so close her vision blurred. That was until her phone lit up with a "good morning" text from Tyree. Michael instantly snatched the vibrator away, leaving her desperate whining.

One afternoon, after doing some errands for the wedding, Tyree called her as they were getting intside of the car. She ignored it, but Michael noticed.

He slid his hand between her legs, and pushed his fingers so deep into her. He curled them just right and stroked her so good. She rocked against his palm, moans filling the car as she worked her way up. Then he pulled away. He built her back up, only to deny her again. And again for a third time. Each denial left her more wrrecked than the last.

And after three days of torture, Michael finally decided she'd earned a reward.

They were in bed. Him sat up against the headboard, legs spread wide with kneeling between them. Her lips were wrapped around his thick length as she took him deep down her throat.

Michael groaned as his hand gripped the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair to guide her further down, hold there, then back up.

She moaned around him, the vibrations pulling more groans from him.

They were so lost in the moment. Her tongue eagerly swirled around him as she sucked him up. And his eyes couldn't move away from the beautiful sight in front of him. That was until her phone broke the moment by ringing so loud on the nightstand.

Almost instinctively, Wunmi tried to lift her head to check, but Michael's grip tightened. He pushed her head firmly back down onto his dick, keeping her mouth full.

He snatched the phone with his free hand, glancing at the screen. Tyree's name flashed across the screen. Instantly, Michael was annoyed. The ringing stopped only to start up again seconds later.

Wunmi took Michael's brief distraction as opportunity, so she slid him out of her mouth with a soft pop and peered at the screen. She was just as frustrated as her fiancé was and couldn't help but to release the most aggravated sound along with a quick roll of her eyes.

"Just decline it," she urged.

He met her eyes. "Nah. Talk to your little boyfriend."

Before she could protest, he swiped to answer and held the phone out to her.

Wunmi's eyes went wide, panic flickering as she stared at him, trying to understand the challenge in his eyes.

"Michael—" she started, but Tyree's voice cut through.

"Wunmi?"

Michael raised an eyebrow expectantly.

She grabbed the phone with shaky fingers, putting it on speaker.

"Hello?" she said timidly, heart pounding as she knelt between his legs.

Tyree's voice came through the phone, "Hey, gorgeous. What you doing?"

Wunmi shot a quick glance at Michael, biting her lip hard.

"Um...just laying in bed," she murmured.

"Cool. I, uh, just wanted to give you a call so we could talk. It's been a while," Tyree easily replied.

"Mhm, it has," she managed, her free hand fidgeted against Michael's thigh.

Tyree started talking about how the football season was going for him, but Michael took that as his chance. He practically manhandled her. His hands gripped her hips and spun her around to face the end of the bed. He shoved her body down so that her face was buried in the sheets and her ass was in the air.

She gasped at the sudden shift in positions.

"You okay?" Tyree asked.

"I'm fine…" Wunmi swallowed. Her voice shaky as she steadied herself. "

Michael gave her ass a light smack. Wunmi bit her lip hard to stifle the gasp.

He gripped her big, round cheeks in both hands, kneading the soft flesh, spreading her wide. One finger slowly trailed through her dripping wetness, parting her folds, and she let out a breathy sigh.

Tyree kept talking through the speaker, "…I really been thinking about a lot lately and I just gotta say…"

But Wunmi barely registered it. She could only focus on the man behind her and his heated touch. Michael's fingers had found her clit, circling it with teasing pressure, then dipped low to her soaked entrance, sliding a little inside before pulling back out.

She fought to stay quiet, body tensing up, but Tyree pressed on, obliviously.

"You still there? Tell me what you up to this weekend?" It was clear he was expecting a response.

Wunmi opened her mouth to answer Tyree's question, but Michael chose that exact moment to slide deep inside her, filling her completely in one smooth thrust. She clamped down around him, stunned to silence.

He pressed one hand firm between her shoulder blades, pinning her chest flush to the bed, and leaned forward until his lips brushed her ear.

"Answer him," he whispered sending shivers down her spine.

"Uh... n-nothing really," she managed to get out.

Michael gave her a few quick love taps to her inner thigh before pulling back up onto his knees. His gaze dropped to where their bodies joined, watching intently as he slid out slowly, then thrust back in deep.

A quiet, breathy moan escaped her lips. Wunmi moved the phone away from her mouth for a second, sucking in air.

Michael started with a few slow strokes to ease them both into the rhythm, letting her feel every thick inch stretching her. He built it gradually until his pace turned consistent, her ass bouncing softly against his pelvis.

Wunmi put the phone on mute just in time to release her moans. With each bounce a needy cry spilled out.

"You should come out this way soon. When are you free?" Tyree's voice came through the speaker.

She barely processed it. Her mind was wiped blank by Michael fucking her so good, hitting that spot over and over. Nothing existed but her man. All she could think about was the grip of his hands on her hips.

Wunmi took the phone off mute just long enough to gasp out, "I don't know when," before putting it right back on as another loud moan tore free.

"...we could hit this spot I know downtown, grab drinks, see where the night goes..."

Michael smacked her ass hard then, the hit echoing.

She blurted out, "Oh baby," followed by a deep, throaty moan that she couldn't hold back.

He kept one hand planted firm on her jiggling cheek to control the pace.

When he drove especially deep, she moaned out a shaky "Okay". Her free hand shot back, grabbing his forearm tight as he kept fucking her.

Michael ramped up the speed and depth, pounding into her harder, chasing that release for both of them.

Wunmi tried to take it all—she really did—arching back to meet him, but it really overwhelmed her.

"Okay, Michael, okay," she gasped as he went a little deeper than necessary, nailing that spot right next to her cervix.

"What you keep saying okay for?" He smacked her ass , growling, "Like, come on."

He pushed his hips forward, bouncing her roughly on him, urging her to move on her own. She did, but only just enough, rolling her hips back hesitantly.

"You want me to stop?" he demanded.

"No," she moaned out desperately. At this point she'd completely forgotten about the phone in her hand.

Just then Tyree's voice came through loud and clear. "...whoever that fiance of yours is ain't watching you right. Imma come get you for real."

Michael's face twisted up into a scowl, annoyance built up in him. He leaned down over her back, roughly thrusting in in deeper.

"Michael—Michael—fuck," Wunmi moaned his name over and over.

"Looks like Daddy's gonna have to put a baby in you so they know this pussy's mine," he growled against her ear.

"It's yours. I promise."

"Take it off mute so he can hear how good i'm fucking you," he ordered.

Her hand shook as she obeyed, pressing the button on the screen.

The second the phone came off mute, Michael picked up his thrusts. Driving into her so quick and rough it made her ass bounce loud off of his pelvis. The sound of her soaked pussy filled the room.

Wunmi moaned into the sheets, her cries muffled against the fabric, but Michael wasn't having it. He gripped her hair tight, yanking her head up until her back arched deeper.

"Who this pussy get wet for?" he demanded.

"You, Daddy," she gasped.

Tyree's voice came out sounding confused. "Wunmi? What the—?"

Both of them ignored him completely.

Michael smacked her ass again. Then snatched the phone from her weakened grip and held it so Tyree could hear every moan and every slick sound of her taking him.

"Tell him not to call you anymore," Michael said, pressing the phone right to her mouth.

She moaned through the words. "Don't call me anymore."

Michael hung up then tossed the phone across the bed to thud against the pillows.

"Good girl," Michael murmured, palm rubbing soothing circles over her tender ass. "You wanna come?"

"Yes, Daddy," she whimpered. Her body was already right there. She needed this.

"You did so good with your punishment," he praised, grinding against her walls.

Wunmi felt herself clenching hard as her stomach tightened. "Can I come? Please?"

"Yeah, come for me," one of his hands slid around to rub her clit.

She crumbled almost immediately. Her orgasm crashed through her. She cried out his name as her walls pulsed around him and she soaked the sheets.

Michael kept going, chasing his own release now, groans turning guttural as pleasure tightened in his gut.

"You gonna let me put a baby in you?" his voice was rough as he thrusted harder.

Wunmi moaned, nodding into the bed.

They'd had plenty of conversations about babies. They agreed to wait until at least after the wedding, but it was clear that tonight his possessiveness had him acting different. And she melted under it.

Michael thrusted a few more times before he finally released inside her. He held there, pushing deep, feeling her pulse around him. He pulled out slowly.

Wunmi collapsed forward, breathing heavy, chest heaving as aftershocks rippled through her.

"Don't go near that man again," he said firmly, hand stroking her back. "Block him."

Wunmi nodded weakly, turning her head to meet his eyes. "Okay, baby. I'm sorry."

Late January 2027

Now, into the new year, their lives were completely overtaken. Every day belonged to somebody else. There was barely any room left for themselves in between it all.

Michael had officially started press for The Thomas Crown Affair, and his schedule had exploded. Interviews, photoshoots, appearances, magazine covers. It felt endless. Most of it was alongside Adria Arjona, which only fueled certain online conversations even more.

Meanwhile, Wunmi was deep in awards season.

The Social Reckoning had become a big conversation piece of the year, and her performance had the people talking. Every week brought another event, another panel, and another rumor about if she would end up nominated again or not.

And through all of that, they were less than four months away from getting married. May was practically right around the corner.

Earlier in the month they had finally sat down with both of their publicists to figure out how exactly they were going to reveal the relationship publicly without it becoming a circus before the wedding. The final decision had been simple. Michael would handle most of it.

Strategically, it made the most sense.

Wunmi’s team wanted all attention during awards season to stay centered on her work, not her relationship. So Michael had agreed to slowly start opening the door publicly while still keeping things vague enough to maintain some control.

He actually preferred it that way. Mostly because he was tired of hiding her.

After over a year of rumors, especially after the leaked audio, Michael was exhausted from pretending. And since she was his fiancée now, he wanted to share that with the world.

Still timing mattered…a lot. Everything had to be controlled carefully. And unfortunately, control was the one thing their schedules weren’t allowing them to have right now.

Most days they weren’t even in the same city.

There had been recent stretches where they only saw each other through FaceTime screens and blurry airport selfies. Sometimes one of them was waking up while the other was heading to sleep.

It irritated both of them more than they admitted. Especially Michael. He had been so clingy with her, and now he barely even got the chance to breathe in her direction.

Their conversations had slowly become reduced to logistics. Things like wedding updates and travel plans. They hardly talked about things of substance. It wasn't intentional though. It was just all they had time for.

One night, Wunmi was sitting in her London hotel suite while Michael was back in New York finishing another round of press. She had kicked her heels off and was curled sideways across the bed, exhaustion written all over her face as she held her phone up during their FaceTime call.

Michael was sitting in the backseat of an SUV, chain sitting against a black thermal shirt, one hand rubbing tiredly over his jaw while traffic lights flashed outside the window behind him.

“You look tired,” Wunmi murmured softly.

Michael looked at her through the screen.

“I am tired.”

She smiled faintly, “Poor baby.”

“I’m serious,” he muttered. “I done answered the same damn questions all day. I’m over it. ‘How was it working together?’ ‘Did y’all have chemistry?’”

"Well, did you?" Wunmi grinned.

"Don't start," Michael gave her a flat look through the screen.

She giggled softly, resting her cheek against the pillow, “I was just asking.”

Michael shook his head, but his expression softened while looking at her. God, he missed her. He always had this thought during the day, along with the constant irritation that she wasn't there..

“When do I see you again?” he asked suddenly.

Wunmi sighed dramatically.

“Um…” She reached for her planner nearby. “I think…after the BAFTAS?” she started slowly, flipping through pages.

Michael stared at her.

“That’s not for another week, babe.”

“I know.”

“A whole week?”

Wunmi laughed softly at his expression.

“You’ll survive.”

Michael looked unconvinced.

“You say that now,” he said. “Then you gon’ start crying the longer we're apart.”

“I do not cry.”

“You absolutely do.”

Wunmi sucked her teeth softly, “Whatever.”

Michael smiled for the first time during the call, the tiredness easing slightly from his face.

The conversation naturally shifted to the wedding. And despite how exhausted they both were, those conversations kept them intertwined.

Everywhere Michael went there were cameras waiting for him. Going form film festival to awards gala to museum benefit to private dinners. Tonight wasn't any different.

The carpet outside the event was packed shoulder to shoulder with photographers and journalists.

Michael stepped out of the SUV with his black suit perfectly tailored to his body. Confidence radiated off of him without him even trying.

He adjusted the cuff of his jacket before looking up with a calm and controlled expression.

His publicist walked beside him briefly while fixing the front of his jacket.

“She approved it,” she murmured quietly.

Michael glanced at her.

“Yeah?”

She nodded.

His mouth twitched slightly.

“Aight,” he nodded.

He moved down the carpet, stopping for photos, greeting people, and shaking hands. As he approached the press line, he relaxed himself.

Interview after interview rolled by. They asked him the typical questions about directing, balancing acting and filmmaking. Michael answered each question like he had prepped for it.

Then he reached one platform in particular.

A Black woman stood there holding the microphone, smiling brightly as he approached.

“Michael B. Jordan!” she grinned. “You look good tonight.”

Michael laughed, “Thank you.”

“Everybody's talking about your film already. But what was it like stepping into directing mode again?” she started.

“It was challenging,” he admitted. “But I think I’m at a point now where I trust myself more creatively. I know how I wanna tell stories now. And honestly, I learned a lot from the last few years. Working with different directors, producing more, it changed how I look at filmmaking.”

The interviewer nodded along.

“And you can tell,” she said. “Especially after the year you had last year. Mr. Oscar winner. How has life changed since then? Because it feels like the world has not stopped talking about you.”

Michael laughed softly.

“It's definitely gotten more chaotic,” he admitted. “But I try to stay grounded and keep moving forward.”

The interviewer tilted her head slightly.

“So what does moving forward look like for you now? More directing? Less acting?”

Michael paused for a second.

“Well…” he started slowly, “where I’m at now in my life and career I'm focused on celebrating my wins. And I got some pretty big ones that I need to make room for.”

A tiny smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"As you should," The interviewer smiled.

“I wanna spend more time focused on my family. So there’s definitely a chance I slow down a little," he said honestly. "My fiancée and I have both been incredibly busy with all that's going on in our careers and now wedding planning. But I've been trying to figure out how to even get to the point of slowing down."

The interviewer looked stunned.

“Wow, um…when—”

Michael stepped back with the biggest smirk trying to break across his face.

“You have good one,” he laughed.

“Michael!”

He pointed at her playfully, “Appreciate you though.”

Then before she could ask another question, he walked off down the carpet looking satisfied with himself. He made his way inside, barely even slowing down as he reached for his phone that was in his pocket. There was only one person he wanted to talk to right now.

He tapped Wunmi’s contact immediately. The phone rang a few times before she answered.

“Hello?”

Her voice was thick with sleep.

Michael’s face melted.

“Hey baby.”

There was rustling on the other end followed by a small sleepy hum.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

Michael smiled to himself as he ducked into a quieter hallway away from the crowd.

“Not that late. Why you sleep already?”

Wunmi sighed into the phone.

“I’m so tired.”

"You okay, Mama?" Michael’s brows pulled together.

“Mhm,” she hummed quietly.

He leaned back against the wall, listening to her breathing through the phone.

“I can’t wait for all this to be over,” she admitted sleepily.

Michael chuckled under his breath, “Me too.”

There was a quiet pause before Wunmi spoke again.

“Did you do it?”

Michael’s grin spread, “Yeah.”

He could practically hear her smiling through the phone even though she barely made a sound. Just a quiet little hum.

Michael shook his head fondly.

“That’s it?” he laughed quietly. “That’s all I get?”

“You woke me up,” she mumbled.

“You're supposed to be excited.”

“I am excited. I'm just sleepy, Mike,” she said.

Michael could picture her perfectly. She was probably curled up in a hotel robe, hair wrapped up, and half asleep with the phone pressed against her face. He missed her so much.

“You gon’ be at the honoring next week?” he asked after a moment.

There was a pause. Then Wunmi sighed.

“…Baby. It's next week with the BAFTAs and my team scheduled a bunch of press here,” she reminded him.

“Damn," He briefly closed his eyes. "So when will I see you again?”

“A week and a half maybe,” she said quietly.

Michael dragged a hand over his face dramatically.

“That's so long”

Wunmi laughed tiredly.

“You’ll survive.”

“That’s what you keep saying.”

“Because you will.”

Michael shook his head with a smile.

“Barely.”

There was another comfortable silence between them.

“Imma let you sleep.”

“Okay.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“And I miss you so much.”

Wunmi exhaled softly through the phone.

“I miss you too,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come.”

Michael’s expression softened even more.

“Don’t apologize. I’m just being needy.”

That earned another sleepy laugh from her.

“Very needy.”

“Mhm.”

“I still love you though.”

“You better.”

Wunmi smiled against her pillow.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

“Goodnight, baby.”

The hands of the grandfather clock ticked quietly in the front room of the boarding house, but to Annie it sounded like gunshots. 

It was late. 

The house had fallen into its nighttime rhythm— mostly quiet except for the random sounds of boarders stirring in their rooms. A cough from behind a closed door. The creak of a bed frame. The slow pouring of water into a basin. The smells of supper still lingered like they always did this time of night, settling into the walls like a layer of time. The fragrant aroma of clove hung over top of everything, bursting through the air every time Aunt Della parted her lips. She chewed on it slowly. Methodically. Watching Annie as her fingertips smoothed gently over the leather of the sketchbook cover. 

Annie sat on the couch across from her. Her eyes looked full of possibility as she flipped through the paper, the corners of the pages sitting crisp beneath her thumb.

Something was on Aunt Della’s mind. 

Annie could feel the warm flush of her skin cooling under the quiet intensity of her gaze.

Her voice broke through the silence. “He been comin’ ‘round a lot lately.” 

There it was. 

Annie looked up.

Aunt Della stirred her drink in her hand, ice cubes clinking against the sides of the mug. “How you feel ‘bout that?” she asked. Then she took a sip.

Annie’s head lowered. Her first instinct was to not respond. Her second was to deflect. Her third was to ask why. 

“Baby,” Aunt Della probed. “I been alive too long. I know what it means for a man to stand around tryin’ to make himself useful.” She crossed one leg over the other, her ankle bouncing with anticipation like she knew this was going to take a while.

Annie’s mouth curved despite herself. She turned a page in her sketchbook, smoothing the spine down harder than necessary with her palm. 

“You like him?” 

Annie still couldn’t look up. It was like her words got stuck in her throat. The more Aunt Della talked, the more Annie felt caught off guard.

“Annie Royal, I ain’t talkin’ to myself,” she said sternly.

Annie’s head snapped up. She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I don’t know,” she said finally, in a hushed tone.

Aunt Della rolled her eyes. She let the words sit between them long enough for Annie to hear how untrue they sounded. 

“Yes you do,” she answered back. 

Annie looked down again, her throat tightening with something she didn’t have the name for. Aunt Della watched her for a moment, admiring how softly the lamp light curved around the edge of her face. It was smooth. Innocent. There was a vulnerability in her that she wanted to protect. But as much as she wanted to shield her, she knew she needed to be ready for the day the world came knocking. 

But she was so young. Barely 18. 

She remembered herself at that age. She remembered how quickly she got swept up in her husband’s kind words and gentle eyes like it was yesterday.

It happened so quickly. Marriage. Mississippi. A son. 

She thought about the day her husband came back from town hall with the deed to their house. He painted the outside a rich buttery yellow and whitewashed the shutters with a puffed up chest. Dug out the underground storage with his bare hands, a shovel, and a strength that could only be explained by a feeling he’d never experienced before in his lifetime. Pride. Ownership.

The boarding house became a sanctuary without a steeple. They took in anybody who needed a hot meal and a place to lay their heads. Musicians, preachers, teachers, people trying to get up North. And two little boys trying to escape their father’s fists.

Elijah and Elias.

She met them young. Back when their father, Adam Moore, went door-to-door in town, strumming his guitar and sipping hooch straight from the bottle while his young sons walked around hungry. 

She knew them before they went by Smoke and Stack. Then she watched them earn those nicknames in blood, gunpowder, and grit. And now Smoke was coming around her sister’s granddaughter. Her only great-niece. 

She watched Annie nervously brush her thumb against the edge of the sketchbook and sighed. “I ain’t tryna fuss at you,” she clarified. “I just wanna know where your head’s at, and how you feel when he’s around.” 

A moment passed. Then two. 

Aware. 

That’s how Annie felt when he was around.

Aware of herself. Aware of him. Aware of the space between one breath and the next. Like something inside her had started listening before she knew that there was sound. 

Loose.

Not in the way men and women meant when they whispered about such things. 

But in a way that words just came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She couldn’t carry on with him like she could with Aunt Della right now—taking the hard parts and making them sound just right so she didn’t reveal too much too soon. He got the truth before she could dress it up. And she hadn’t taken the time to figure out why quite yet. And that scared her. But it made her feel something else, too.

Seen.

She was holding back. Aunt Della could see that with her eyes closed. She could see the wheels turning in Annie’s head like she never got a chance to sit with her feelings long enough to name them. But she already had her answer. It was in the way she held the sketchbook to her chest before remembering she wasn’t alone.

She tried a different angle.  “He good to you?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Annie could reply quickly when she could answer without thinking too hard. 

“Respectful?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“He pressure you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I feel like—” Annie paused, embarrassed by the honesty that sat right on the tip of her tongue. She was fighting to keep it to herself. Not because she didn’t want to be honest, but she felt like words couldn’t do her thoughts justice. And she felt foolish that she felt any kind of way to begin with. “He makes me feel….”

Aunt Della let out a sigh. “You ain’t gotta explain it yet. Sometimes when the feeling’s good, you can’t explain it right away. You gon’ find the right words when you ready.”

Annie nodded once. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“You intact?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Heat climbed up her neck as she held the sketchbook to her chest.

“Don’t let him take it, if that’s not what you want.”

“Yes ma’am.” 

A quiet beat passed. “If it is—” Her breath hitched when she cut herself off. 

It felt like the room held its breath. Annie, too. 

“Nevermind.” Aunt Della shook her head like she regretted saying anything.

Annie frowned, her lips poking out. “What is it?” She asked. Her voice was cautious, but not in the way it had been earlier. It was more braced than anxious. 

Aunt Della looked at Annie with a fierce protectiveness. “What you think about him?” she asked quietly.

Annie twisted her lips, searching for something that wouldn’t feel foolish the second it came out of her mouth. “At first I just thought he was quiet,” she said finally. “Not empty quiet, but the type of quiet that’s always holdin’ somethin’ back.”

Aunt Della’s eyes stayed on her.

“But when he’s with me, when he look at me…” Annie’s voice softened despite herself. “It feels like…the rest of the world disappears. And it’s just us. Just me and him. And he can let go.”

Aunt Della didn’t answer immediately, and her face didn’t change. The silence felt worse than being questioned. “And how you think he feels about you?” 

“Ummm….” Her eyes flitted around the room nervously.

“The truth do just fine.”

Aunt Della set her mug down on the coffee table with a soft thump. Then she sat back and crossed her legs again, twirling that ankle in the air in slow, deliberate circles. 

“Truth is…” Annie started. “I think he’s taken a shine to me. He got me this.” She rubbed the cover of the sketchbook, her cheeks warm flushed with warmth and a hint of embarrassment trying to explain herself. “He comes around, he sits with me, he listens–really listens–to what I say. And he don’t forget,” she said, remembering the note he left her, and the conversation that sparked the words he left.

“What’s all this?” Smoke asked, gesturing to the drawings sprawled across her quilt under the magnolia tree.

“Drawings,” she replied sarcastically.

Smoke sucked his teeth. “I know that,” he tutted. “What they for?” 

“Helps my memory. Drawin’ things. Writin’ them down.”

“So you remember what they look like?”

“Kinda. So I remember what they for.”

Annie glanced over, bracing for laughter, amusement, or even teasing. She got none of it. When she found Aunt Della’s eyes she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t laugh. She almost looked sad, but not in a way Annie fully understood. 

She simply crossed her arms across her chest and arched a brow in challenge. “So you think that means…what?” 

The bluntness felt like a physical thing. It cut sharply through the room like a knife slicing through a thick fog.

Annie blinked. “Ma’am?” 

“You think every man who buys you a little somethin’ or listens to you talk, means to do right by you?” 

Annie blinked twice this time.

All of a sudden, she felt every bit of eighteen. 

Not a child anymore, but not grown in the ways the world seemed to demand all at once. 

Smoke wasn’t the first to come around. She had a few who called on her back in New Orleans. Always respectfully, always in the proper way. 

She had a freedom up here that she didn’t have living under the roof of her very protective family, and that freedom allowed her to get to know Smoke in a way that would have been damn near impossible back home. 

But he was always respectful. Never pushed. Always made sure she felt comfortable. That meant something to her. Time. Energy. Intention.

She kept getting four when she added two and two together.

But maybe Aunt Della was trying to tell her she wasn’t too good at math.

“I’ve known the twins since they were real young. Seen ‘em grow into bright young men. Good-lookin’ young men that every woman in this town want a piece of.” She paused. “And men like Smoke…they can make a girl feel like the whole world done gone quiet around her. But that don’t mean the world ain’t there no more.” 

Annie’s ears had already perked up at the mention of his name. But now she listened even more intently. 

Aunt Della’s gaze sharpened. “Don’t assume nothin’ based on a man’s silence. You’ll get yourself in trouble fillin’ in blanks that ain’t yours.”

The flame of the oil lamp shifted behind its glass, throwing a soft tremble across the wall. “You got dreams. Hopes. You want your own shop right?”

Annie’s chin lifted with a defiant certainty. “Yes ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t you put that on hold for him, or any man. If he really likes you, he won’t keep you from it.” Her voice got lower, like she wanted to say something hard but make it sound sweet. “Smoke ain’t a man who say much unless he mean it. But if a man really wants you, he’s gonna spell it out plainly.”

The words moved through Annie slowly, crawling up her spine and down her chest where her heart thumped a little faster. She traced her thumb along the back cover, feeling the grain of the leather beneath her fingertip. 

The ceiling creaked softly above them. Another lodger, maybe. Or just the house settling into itself. Crickets chirped low in the grass while the night wrapped around them, fully aware of what truth hid behind her silence. It chose not to soften it. 

“I understand,” she finally said, quietly.

“Now gone’ to bed. I know you tired.” 

Aunt Della stood. Annie did, too. Aunt Della turned towards the kitchen, then thought better of it and turned to grab Annie’s forearm before she got too far. She grabbed her face gently, staring at Annie with warm brown eyes. “I ain’t sayin’ all this to scare you. I’m sayin’ it ‘cause I love you.” 

The tightness in her chest eased a bit. “What were you gonna say, when you stopped yourself?”

Aunt Della’s eyes softened. “It’s not for me to say,” she said softly. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”

She pulled her into a hug then released her. Annie moved slowly towards the staircase, purse slung tightly over her shoulder, sketchbook secured underneath the crook of her arm. 

“Goodnight Aunt Della,” she called out.

“Goodnight, Annie.” 

Annie started up the stairs. Halfway up she paused, her fingers tightening their grip on the banister. She looked back toward Aunt Della who was halfway to the kitchen. 

“Thank you,” she said, just loud enough so she could hear it.

The night was dark and tonight that darkness felt loaded. The sky was bare. No stars, just an endless stretch of shadow that pressed against the windows, barely softened by the faint glow of the waning moon. 

Annie laid in her bed just staring. First she counted the cracks in the ceiling. Then she traced the lines on the walls with her eyes.

The words of Aunt Della replayed in her head. That and the feeling that something laid quietly underneath their conversation. Something Aunt Della knew and refused to say. 

Two questions came to mind. 

What was Aunt Della holding back from telling her? 

What made her change her mind?

It took a while for Annie’s eyes to get heavy while her thoughts refused to shut off. Something settled in her bones at that moment. 

Somewhere beyond the boarding house, Smoke—Elijah—had come and gone and left something behind. Something more than just a pretty sketchbook and a thoughtful note. 

Morning light came soft through the windows, a pale gold that stretched across the floorboards, taking on the pattern of the lace curtains. Annie stood at her dresser with her nightgown hanging off one shoulder, a satin scarf sliding slowly down her braids. 

She counted under her breath, the silver coins plunking against the thin metal of the container where she kept her money. It was a tea tin, a small one that smelled like mint no matter how many times she tried to air it out. The last coin clinked against the others in the tin. She closed the top of it, taking a moment to write the total on the back cover of her sketchbook. She kept a running tally there, one that she copied over from a piece of scrap paper she used to keep track of her earnings before last night. 

Annie set Smoke’s note on her dresser. She traced her fingers over the words, brushing her hand over his name on the paper. The ink pooled thickest where he dotted his “i,” and when she touched it, it stained the part where flesh met fingernail. Aunt Della’s words from last night crossed her mind as she watched the ink bloom and spread across her fingertip before slowly sinking into the skin. 

Crossing the room, she knelt near the loose floorboard in the corner that lifted without a creak. She tucked the tin into the hollow space and started to fit the wood back into place. Then she hesitated. Not because she doubted herself, but because she wanted to imagine what it would be like for a spell. Her own shop. A modest house with blue paint. She’d sell and barter healing herbs and medicines that ward off sickness and bad spirits, the shelves lined top to bottom with jars, vials and bottles of them. A long table, polished smooth by her own hands, would stretch proudly across the front room where she’d serve meals to sharecroppers and passing workers. Dried roots tied in bundles would hang from the rafters in a shed off to the side. People would come to fill their bellies and stay for something more.

That was hers. 

Annie left New Orleans before dawn, dust kicking up from the soles of her shoes and darkening the hem of her dress. She kept her money folded small, eyes cast down the way she was told to when she was traveling alone. A few things she held close to her chest— her great-grandmother’s bible, some knick-knacks, and a few letters. A burlap sack hung from her shoulder, holding some other possessions she held dear. An old trunk held the rest.

The Mississippi River laid before her, wide and brown. She boarded a boat with other people heading upriver, women with their satchels, men with their hats pulled low to keep the mosquitos away. Annie hung onto the railings, watching the trees dip their roots in the water, their branches swinging heavily in the wind like they’d seen too much. The depot was next. When she boarded the train, she closed her eyes and said a prayer underneath her breath— one for the journey, one for the destination. 

She spent the night in a Colored waiting room with families piled on top of each other and solo travelers with tired eyes wearing all their possessions.

The next day was another train. Cotton fields stretched wide beyond the thick glass of the windows, the grim landscape broken only by oak trees and tiny shacks lined up in a row. They passed by another stretch of land mostly hidden behind the treeline, but she could feel it— water, soil, roots, foundation. 

An elderly man, skin the color of pralines, sat on his porch watching the train go by. Striped overalls with the clasps unbuckled, white shirt with the sleeves rolled, straw hat, heavy work boots— but what caught her attention was his eyes. One was completely covered in cataracts. The other one looked sharp enough to hold the sight of four people. The man sucked on a stick of sugarcane while a hound dog sat by his side, tongue out, panting hard under the burn of the Mississippi sun.

Then he was gone. 

All that remained were the muted shades of nature as the train trekked through the countryside.  No house. No dog. No sugarcane. But Annie could remember every detail, even the dusty blue denim of the man’s overalls. And the expectant look in his eye.

She woke up with a jolt, spine snapping straight where she was slumped over in her seat.

The train cabin was quiet. Most people were asleep, some lingering in the corners, some just starting to wake up. Nighttime was on the horizon. Shades of orange and pink swallowing what was leftover from the day. 

“How long I been out?” she asked the woman next to her.

The woman thought for a moment. “Since we got on, I reckon.” 

“I been sleep this whole time?”

“Mhmm,” she confirmed. “Must’ve had you a long day…” 

“Must’ve…” Annie frowned, rubbing the sleep from her drowsy eyes. She looked out at the land through the thick, cloudy windows of the train cabin, and the land looked back. 

Time passed and she still remembered it all. The land. The house. The way the sun slanted just right through the trees. The man. How he looked like he was waiting for something. How real he felt, even after she realized she was dreaming. When she finally pressed the floorboard back into place the room became itself again. A bed. A dresser. An altar. And a young woman kneeling on the floor daydreaming about possibilities.

One state over, the road began to flatten towards Memphis. It was bad in places, rutted deep from wagons, farming equipment, and animal hooves. Dust rose up behind the truck in low brown puffs, sparkling in the light before disappearing up into the trees.

Smoke drove with both hands steady on the wheel. Stack rode beside him, one arm hanging lazily out the window, hat tipped low against the glare.

“So you gon’ tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

Stack sucked his teeth. “Don’t do that.”

Smoke kept driving. Stack waited him out. That was the thing with twins, when one soul splits into two. Silence didn’t work on somebody who already felt it on the inside.

“Annie,” Stack blurted after a while.

Her name shifted something in the cab. Stack could tell by the way Smoke’s eyes narrowed slightly, his hands tightening around the wheel all of a sudden, the leather groaning under the force of his grip. 

“What about her?”

Stack barked out a laugh. “So, it’s like that?”

The road curved just ahead of them, pecan trees crowding close to the edge on either side of the road like they were trying to listen in on their conversation. 

“I talked to Della,” Smoke admitted. He looked over to Stack, whose smile eased a bit where he sat.

“About?”

Smoke didn’t reply.

Stack sat up fully. Back straight, slouch gone. “For real?”

Smoke shot him a look. 

Stack leaned back slightly, studying the side of Smoke’s face. “Damn,” he trailed off. “What she say?” 

It was the day before they were set to head to Memphis, and the early evening sun poured molten gold through the back windows, warming the floorboards of Della’s kitchen. Smoke stood in front of the counter watching her slice a batch of onions. Della stood on the other side, her arm moving like the wheels of a locomotive, the movement slow, methodical, and sharp because she’d done this a thousand times. 

“I been meanin’ to ask you somethin’,” he said, voice steady. 

Della kept her pace, she didn’t slow or stop. “That right?”

“That’s right.” 

“This ‘bout my girl?”

“It is.”

Della stopped what she was doing. She wiped the knife off on a kitchen towel, then set it down on the counter.

“I was hopin’ I could court Annie,” Smoke said firmly. “Proper like.” 

“What you know about courtin’ a woman proper?” Della asked. She crossed her arms. 

Smoke took his lick. He didn’t flinch.

“She ain’t just anybody,” Della said before he could respond.

“I know,” Smoke replied. Something in him leaned forward before his body did. “I wanna do it right. If she’ll have me.”

Della looked over Smoke carefully. For the lie in his eyes. For the joke tugging at the corner of his mouth. For the doubt in his posture. “You talk to her ‘bout this already?”

“Not yet.”

“You need to.”

“I will. Wanted to ask you first.” 

She eased her weight off one hip, and put it on the other. “She ain't built for no half steppin’.”

“I don’t do half.”

Della’s eyes narrowed for a second, then relaxed. “That girl want somethin’ of her own,” she said. “Don’t know if she told you that yet.”

“She did.”

“Well.” Her voice came out soft but sharp. “She got powerful hands. Hands that ain’t meant to be locked up under some man’s roof waitin’ for permission. If you wanna court her, you better not try to shrink her.”

“I won’t,” Smoke replied. 

Della picked up her knife again. She sliced into an onion slowly, the thin, methodical rhythm of metal hitting wood echoed in the otherwise quiet room. 

Lodgers started to walk in from their work shifts, heading to their rooms or back out to the porch where a few of them were squatting over a dice game. A few of them poked their heads into the kitchen to ask about supper. 

Smoke hadn’t moved an inch. He waited quietly, letting the silence sit between them, more for him than her.

“You like her,” she said. It wasn’t a question. She didn’t even need to ask. She could see it. Feel it, even. 

“Yes ma’am.”

“How much?” 

“I care about her. Wanna see her more. Respectfully.” 

Della’s nose wrinkled. “You serious?”

“I am,” he said with finality. 

Something passed through Della’s eyes as she looked him over carefully, from head to toe. It didn’t feel like judgment. It was something Smoke didn’t have a name for. He raised a brow, a silent question.

“Still seein’ other women?”

“No, ma’am.” 

“Ain’t what I heard.”

Confusion. It spread slowly across his face like the petals of a night-blooming flower before turning into something darker. Smoke flexed his hands at his sides before clasping them firmly in front of himself. “What you heard?” he asked, inclining his head.

“Little here, little there,” she admitted. She tilted her head. “May not be loud, but I can hear whispers just fine.” 

Smoke’s jaw worked. He shook his head once, firmly. “It ain’t true.”

“It ain’t?”

“I ain’t lyin’,” he stated simply. “Since I started spendin’ more time with Annie, I’ve only been seein’ her.” 

“Then why they still talkin’?”

Smoke sighed, running a hand down his face. “I don’t know,” he shrugged.

Della sucked her teeth. She looked away, then looked back. “That don’t answer my question.” 

Her eyes got a little sharper, then. Defensive. She folded her arms across her chest, pushing back.

Smoke looked like he was racking his brain for the answer. When it clicked, let out a ragged, frustrated breath through his nose. “I guess, I ain’t really end it the way I should,” he confessed.

Della’s voice went up a whole octave. “You guess?” she asked incredulously. 

“That’s on me,” Smoke said, jaw tight. “But I’ma handle it.” 

“How you tryna court Annie, when you can’t even end somethin’ proper? What happened?” 

“I stopped reachin’ out,” he explained. “Ain’t seen ‘em, none of that.” He sighed into his words. His voice tight, but firm. “Thought that was it. I moved on, figured they did, too.” 

“You figured wrong,” she corrected. “You leave one woman guessin’, don’t come over here askin’ me for permission to leave another one guessin’.” 

Smoke nodded, the muscle in his jaw fluttering. “I won't. I’ma clear it up. Before I bring anything to Annie.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Della started. 

“Miss Della—” he started. 

She searched his eyes. “Elijah,” she said, in a tone that sounded like a warning.

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. He looked at her firm, steady, unblinking. “I mean to do right by her. I wouldn’t be askin’ you if I didn’t.” 

Della sighed. “Alright.” 

Smoke’s face relaxed. 

“There’s rules.”

“Okay.” 

“Handle that business, first.” 

“Trust me, I will,” Smoke said, nodding once.

Della picked her knife back up, turning it sideways so she could start dicing the onions. “Y’all been kissin’?” 

He wasn’t about to lie. He didn’t lie anyways, not when it mattered, but especially not to a woman who could put a root on him with one hand, and chop an onion clean down the middle with the other—at the same time. “Yes ma’am,” he admitted. 

She didn’t flinch. “That it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Mhmm,” she muttered. “No funny business in my house,” she warned, pointing the tip of the knife towards him. 

“You ain’t gotta worry about that.” 

“I know,” she said warmly. “Not with you.”

“Can I leave this for her?”

Smoke held up a thin, black leather covered book.

“What is it?”

His jaw worked. “It's for her drawings,” he said simply. “So she can keep 'em all in one place.”

“I will,” she said. She could feel the tenderness in his words, even though he tried to hide it.

Smoke let out the breath he’d been holding since he walked up the steps of her porch with a gift and a question. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, sweeping the diced onions into a bowl with the edge of her blade. “That girl’s heart is her own. She gotta say yes, first.”

“Smoke.” Stack’s voice came out quiet. 

Smoke slowed without thinking. He cursed under his breath, sitting fully forward in his seat. 

Up ahead, the road dipped towards a narrow wooden bridge that laid over a stretch of shallow, muddy water. Off to the side, something rose from behind the cotton fields. 

Dust. It came from the far side of the bridge, lifting faintly through the trees along with the sound of a mule dragging something through dirt. 

Smoke eased the car to a stop beneath the shade just before the bridge. Stack moved from the passenger seat and stalked towards the edge of the field, his body loose in the way men looked when they were prepared not to be. He looked for what didn’t belong while Smoke stayed behind the wheel listening for it.

Wind rustled through the leaves, a dry, papery sound that blew through the acres of cotton plants. Sharecroppers that sang hymns and blues songs as they moved down the line. They picked cotton with tired, calloused hands, the cost of their labor paid in bright red splotches of blood that dripped from their fingers, staining the stark whiteness of the cotton bolls. A vulture circled overhead, then found its prey. It swooped down, its wings spreading menacingly slow as its talons gripped the rung of abandoned machinery.

Stack walked back to the truck with the cautious confidence he carried no matter how many times they’d taken this route. His face didn’t show it, but his eyes stayed sharp. “Just some nigga on a wagon,” he said, waving it off.

Smoke looked back, looked towards his brother, looked towards the bridge, flexed his hands on the wheel, then steadied. 

Memphis appeared thirty minutes later. 

The city smelled like hot grease and opportunity. The sound of brass instruments hung heavy in the air, cutting through all the cigar smoke and pipe exhaust. A band played on the street once they turned the corner, a crowd of people gathered around them tossing money, dancing, and singing. Vendors lined the streets selling all kinds of treats, both savory and sweet, shouting their prices above all the noise. 

There was a lightness here. 

But Stack hadn’t spoken since they crossed that bridge.

“Just say it,” Smoke muttered.

“Say what?” He spoke with his usual slick tone, toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. 

“Whatever it is.” 

Stack grinned. He rolled the toothpick around his mouth. Cleared his throat. “I’m just thinkin’.”

Smoke waited.

He rubbed a hand over his freshly lined up goatee. Smiled again, wider this time, his gold fronts shining in the late afternoon. “You ain’t seen…you know?”

Smoke didn’t even let the question linger in the air. “No.”

Stack didn’t back down. “Last I heard…”

Smoke’s brows pulled together. “It ain’t true,” he said flatly. 

“I knew she was full of shit.” He shook his head in disgust. “She gon’ be pissed, though.” 

“Who, Annie?”

Stack looked over. “Nah.” He shrugged. “I mean, maybe…” He shook his head again. “I mean...”  

“Nigga.”

Beale Street pulsed around them. A saxophone blared loudly on the sidewalk. The sultry voice of a woman floated out from the open door of a juke they passed by. 

“Look at my nigga tryna be serious,” Stack teased, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “I mean you was born serious but…” 

“Aight….” Smoke mumbled. 

“For real," he continued. Voice lighter now, but not unserious. “I’m happy for you brotha.”

Smoke didn’t answer.

Stack leaned back in his seat, arms folded behind his head as the truck slowed in front of The Monarch. The juke joint was already breathing through the walls. Music, laughter, and the smell of fried food spilled out into the street. 

“You know she good for you, right?” 

Smoke’s eyes cut over. 

Stack lifted a hand. “I’m bein’ serious,” he said with a grin.

“I ain’t ask you for all that,” Smoke grumbled. He pulled the brake and cut the engine. “I just need you to be serious ‘bout this business we ‘bout to handle.” 

Stack smoothed out his suit jacket before climbing out first. “Nigga, I’m always serious ‘bout—” He cut himself off. His grin widened. “Oh, you really like her huh.” 

Smoke stepped out after him, shutting the truck door harder than necessary. “Shut up, Stack.”

Stack only laughed as he headed towards the door of the joint. Smoke followed behind him, both brothers disappearing into the smoky mouth of the juke.

They waited until the boarding house was empty. Breakfast was long over, the kitchen back to the way it looked before the lodgers ran through it in the morning. The floors were swept, shelves dusted, dishes washed, dried, and stacked neatly in the cupboard. Flour dust hid between the cracks of the table no matter how many times it was wiped down, a chipped blue bowl full of onions and garlic hiding most of that. A heavy cast iron pan hung over the stove with something in it that would cook low and slow until supper. 

Annie stood in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled past her elbows, wiping down the edge of the table. Aunt Della watched her from across the kitchen, tending an arrangement of calla lilies in a slender glass jar. “Ready?”

Annie looked up from wiping a stubborn corner of the table. “Yes.”

“Nervous?”

Annie rung the rag out, twisting it once and dropping it in the wash basin. “A little.”

The kettle hissed softly behind them, steam reaching up towards the ceiling in white, pillowy puffs. A burst of bright, mid-morning light flooded the room through the curtains, catching the edge of a jar of dried bay leaves that sat near the windowsill and the fur of Felix who was curled up with his paws tucked under him like he was waiting on this exact moment. He purred gently, the sound a sharp contrast to the kettle whose whistle was now piercing the air.

“Come on,” Aunt Della said, leading her towards the lean-to in the backyard.

The space was narrow and dark even though the sun was high, only slivers of light peeking through the cracks in the siding. The shelves held various grooming items needed for a house full of men. Lye soap, oils and tonics, shampoos and aftershave. A galvanized tub sat in the middle of it all. Aunt Della moved two small crates aside in the corner of the room. Annie looked down, her mouth dropping open when she caught the glint of the iron ring hidden between the floorboards.

“Don’t just stand around catching flies,” Aunt Della threw over her shoulder. She was already bending over as quickly as she could for her age, hooking two fingers into the ring and pulling up. 

“What’s down there?” She bent down to help her. 

“You ‘bout to find out.”

The wood lifted from the floor with a low groan and a whistle of trapped air that escaped like the room was letting out a breath. The smell of something earthy and dark—roots, clay, old wood, and something more sharp—hit them with the first whiff that rose from beneath the ground. Aunt Della lowered herself carefully onto the first step then looked back, a lit oil lamp secure in her hands. “Mind your skirt,” she told Annie. “And close the door behind you.”

Annie gathered the length of her skirt, wrapping it twice around her hand. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, each one more narrow and steep the deeper she moved below the boarding house. The hum of the street disappeared first. Then the sounds of the backyard—chickens, birds, bees and the breeze. 

Then the daylight. 

Annie paused at the bottom to take in all that she could see from the stretch of Aunt Della’s oil lamp. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, crowded with everything from bottles to tins to roots dark and twisted that reached into the soil like fingers. 

Aunt Della led her to a door. They had to be underneath the front porch of the house, Annie thought to herself. She unlocked the room, a heavy oak door fitted with two heavy padlocks, and guided them inside.

More shelves.

Glass jars caught the flickering flame of the lamp in dull flashes. They were lined up along the walls, filled with graveyard dust, mandrake, cinquefoil, High John, and camphor. A stack of bones too small for Annie to name. A brown bag of black mustard seeds, blue glass beads, river stones smooth as polished teeth, and an assortment of other things. 

Aunt Della set the lamp on a low table in the middle marked with knife nicks and stains like old wounds. On it sat a mortar and pestle, a ledger book with a cracked spine, a fountain pen, three small bowls, and a white candle burned low in its dish. 

“This where we gon’ start.”

Annie looked around, wrapping her arms around herself. “This all yours?”

“It’s all mine,” Aunt Della confirmed. “Take a seat.” She gestured for Annie to sit on one of two cushions around the table and moved to one of the shelves. She glanced at a bundle of dried leaves, touching them lightly with two fingers before bringing it back to the table. “Some of this belonged to my mama. Some of it from women I met along the way. Women whose names don’t get spoken much anymore.” 

She opened the ledger to a blank page, then pushed it to the corner of the table. “First thing you learn ain’t gon’ be what does what, it’s gon’ be what not to touch.” 

Annie’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s stuff that heals and stuff that calls. Calling is where it gets tricky. You can call luck, love, happiness. You can call something darker. Something that settles. Something that unsettles. The thing that gives you mercy can be the same one you beg for mercy. It all depends on which hand holds it.” 

Annie absorbed as much as she could while her gaze drifted around the room. This room felt smaller, not because of its size, but because of what it held. Most things felt familiar, a few things did not. It was the few things that didn’t, that unsettled her. 

She thought of her grandmother. Of the stool in her apothecary. Sometimes she’d sit there all day, just watching. Reaching for things out of curiosity and being told ‘not yet’ so often that it became part of her rearing. 

Aunt Della must have seen something cross her face, because her voice softened. “You know more than you think,” she said. 

“Then why do I feel like I don’t know anything…all of a sudden?”

She paused. And then— “Lemme show you.” Aunt Della reached for a jar of something dried and fragrant hidden under a strip of blue fabric. She set it on the table. “Name it.”

Annie tried to peer through the glass. The leaves were green, obviously. Smooth, and curled at the edges, from what she could see. She opened the jar carefully and sniffed the fragrance that wafted through her nose. The smell was earthy. Sharp. “Sage?” she asked.

Aunt Della gave her a look.

“Not sage,” Annie winced.

Aunt Della paused a moment. “You know that ain’t no damn sage.”

Annie brought the jar to her nose again. She took a deeper whiff. It smelled different this time, something warmer and sweeter. Familiar, but not from the kitchen. “Boneset?” she guessed.

“You askin’ or tellin’?” 

“Tellin’,” she said, twisting the lid closed and setting the jar down.

Aunt Della waited a moment for Annie to second guess herself. She didn’t. “There she is.”

Annie smiled despite herself. 

“What’s it for?”

“Fevers and aches,” Annie began. “Unless you take too much.” 

Aunt Della hummed as she shuffled through the  jars, vials, and pouches littered on the shelves. “Every living thing got a spirit,” she started. “It had a spirit ‘fore it had a name.”  She continued on. “Its smell will tell you its name. But its spirit, that’ll tell you what it wants.” She looked at Annie closely, eyes narrowing. “This,” she tapped her temple, “is how you learn the spirit of a thing.” 

She reached behind her without looking, pulled another jar down, and set it on the table in front of Annie. “Name it.”

They went on like that for a while, one jar after another. Some Annie knew right away, some she hesitated on, and some that made her feel straight foolish when Aunt Della corrected her.

“Don’t just guess ‘cause you wanna be right.”

“I wasn’t!”

“You was.” 

Annie huffed softly, frustrated. 

“You gotta learn how to trust yourself, baby. Like when you close your eyes to draw.”

Aunt Della turned her back to the shelf, her eyes sweeping over her collection until she landed on a small bundle wrapped in red thread. She placed it on the table without a word.

“Gon’ head. Pick it up,” she insisted. 

Annie hesitated at first. Her fingers wrapped around it gently, something tightening low in her belly once it touched her palm. Whatever was inside the cloth was hidden, but she could feel the weight of what she held in her hands. 

“What?” Aunt Della challenged her. “Tell me how it feels.” 

Annie rubbed her thumb along the fabric. “This one feels…like it wanna be left alone,” she said breathily.

The flame of the oil lamp that sat on the low table shifted, flickering once then standing still—but it wasn’t from any wind. 

There was no wind down here.

Just darkness, soil, and walls that held their breath like lungs. 

Aunt Della watched her for a moment, then reached out and took it from her. Annie’s hands felt lighter instantly. 

“What was that?” Annie’s eyes lifted, following the bundle.

“Not today.”

“Really?”

“I said,” Della repeated. “Not today.” She sat back down. “Lesson number two. Curiosity don’t mean permission.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Power ain’t always in what you can hold. Sometimes it lies in what you know to leave alone when you ain’t ready. When it ain’t ready.” 

She looked up to the ceiling. “They know?” 

Aunt Della snorted. “Men don’t notice half of what’s goin’ on.”

Annie laughed and Aunt Della smiled back, pulling the ledger towards the edge of the table. The pages were filled with names, dates, ingredients, measurements, and notes. Some in Aunt Della’s hand, others in foreign script. Most of the entries were normal: fever, toothache, bad blood, sleeplessness. Others were less common: keep someone away, restore peace to a home, stop a tongue from speaking ill, return what was sent. Annie traced a line without touching it. Her pulse felt different as her finger hovered over the script. Slower, heavier, like something had reached up and guided her hand. 

Aunt Della flipped to the next page of the ledger, tapping a blank line on the page once with her finger. “When you open a door with your name on it, you better know what you sellin’. You ain’t just sellin’ an herb. Ain’t just sellin’ a bottle. You sellin’ a promise.”

“A promise?”

“When a woman’s hurt and she comes to you for help…she ain’t just lookin’ to buy a root. She’s lookin’ to buy trust. Silence. The hope that somebody knows what to do with what she can’t carry alone anymore.”

Annie thought about the women slipping through her grandmother’s door. Their faces covered with veils, hands holding tight onto coins, voices just above a whisper. She drew them sometimes while she sat in the corner on that stool—not just their faces, but the changes. How they came and how they left. 

Aunt Della pushed the pen, ink, and the ledger on the table right in front of Annie. “Write today’s date.”

le 31 octobre 1919

Annie wrote it in her best script. When she put the pen down she felt different somehow, like she had crossed a threshold she didn’t even know was there. 

Aunt Della moved the ledger away to let the ink dry and the moment settle. Then she stood, took down another jar from the shelves, popped off the lid, and set it in front of her. 

“Name it.”

Annie lifted the jar to her nose, but this time she didn’t rush.

She smelled first. 

Looked second. 

And listened to whatever quiet thing inside her answered third.

It took Smoke three attempts to light his cigarette.

It was later that same evening. He stood on the second-floor balcony of the Greenwood House. It sat on the corner of Hernando and Beale; the place he and Stack stayed every time they came down to Memphis. The clink of utensils and the hearty smell of andouille sausage and gumbo drifted out the open windows of the porch and floated upward to where he stood outside, making his stomach twist with hunger. 

An older woman named Mrs. Johnson owned the place and knew them well, often turning a blind eye to whatever they (Stack) got up to when they came down for business. 

“This ain’t no whorehouse! You want a whorehouse, there's plenty of them down the street! Tryna soil my good furniture. The sheets is one thing, but I catch one of them hussies on one of my couches, I’ll put you out on ya ass in the middle of the night with just ya draws on!”

Smoke held a lighter in one hand, an unlit cigarette in the other, rolled up tight with the special New Orleans blend of tobacco laced with a little grass that he got from Bo every other week.

His thumb slipped on the spark wheel on his first try.

His hand shook suddenly on the second. 

He gripped the base harder, clenching his teeth on the third try. An eruption of flint and fuel sparked a flame that burned bright and angry against the setting Memphis sun and the backdrop of Beale Street.

Smoke brought the cigarette to his mouth, its red ember heating the inside of the palm. 

He exhaled with relief. 

It felt like a betrayal. That a white man’s war was the reason his hands had a mind of their own sometimes. The lack of control that had him shook. Angry.

He took another drag to calm his nerves, his thoughts searching for somewhere soft to land.

Annie.

He’d seen her walk into some shop on Issaquena a few weeks back. Long blue dress with buttons down the middle. Curved just right over her hips and thighs. Like it was painted on. 

Smoke took another hit, blood sparking heavy with desire. He let the smoke filter through his nostrils when he exhaled. He inhaled it back through his nose, letting the fumes settle deep and spicy in his chest.

He had to think about something safer.

Like lips or eyes.

But Annie’s lips? And Annie’s eyes?

Her lips were dangerous. Soft, fluffy, inviting. Sweet.

He thought about how his name slipped out of them like it was the best thing she ever tasted.

“Smoke,” she’d drawl. It melted on the tip of her tongue like a scoop of her favorite ice cream from downtown, her Louisiana lilt drawing out the o, making her lips form a perfect circle like she was—

“You good?” 

The sound of familiar steps made him turn his head to the side. 

It was Stack. 

“Yeah,” Smoke said, flexing his hands at his sides. “Food ready yet?”

”Just about. She puttin’ dishes out and shit.” Stack turned to walk away. Then he paused. Turned back. “She made sweet potato pie, too.” 

Smoke snuffed out his cigarette and hurried his ass downstairs. 

One Week Later…

It was lunch hour. The dining area at Blackbird was packed full of hungry customers, unbridled laughter, and the smell of frying oil. Annie weaved expertly through the tables and around the booths like she belonged there. Since she started working there, she’d already found her own rhythm even though she only worked a few times a week. She was keeping up with the seasoned waitresses, the ones who didn’t write orders down and could balance two serving trays and a pot of coffee with one hand. She was doing so well that even Mr. Hightower was impressed with how she held her own, even with the sudden increase of diners from out of town.

Especially people’s relatives from up north.

There wasn’t a family in Clarksdale who didn’t have somebody who went north for better opportunities, higher wages, and more or less, more freedom. Annie heard the stories. Walk off a train, walk into a stockroom or a shipyard and find work that pays four times what you’d earn in the fields or as a domestic down south. 

And now she was looking at them sitting in the booths, laughing with their friends and family while showing off their fancy cars, shiny shoes, and new clothing. 

That ‘Northern’ polish. 

Stack had that type of polish. Always kept a waistcoat. Always wore real gold—chains, pocket watch, gold fronts. Shoes always shined like they were polished by the sun. 

Smoke didn’t dress like his brother, but he had a way about him too. His clothes weren’t flashy, but they were clean. Neat. He kept a wristwatch instead of a pocket one. One with a black leather strap, smooth bezel, and a nice engraving carved on the back. But he still had a ruggedness about him that she liked...a lot.

She wondered if their “travels” ever took them up north. Pittsburgh, Detroit, Chicago. She knew they’d been to New York. Smoke told her that. Spent some time in Harlem staying with Aunt Della’s son before they shipped off to war.

Annie didn’t know exactly what they got up to when they went out of town, but she wasn’t wet behind the ears. She didn’t need all the details to know the shape of danger. The town knew what the SmokeStack twins were; they earned those names here. Even if the town knew to not go into detail about what they did to earn them. But there were rumors.

Especially about the women they dealt with.

Stack was the womanizer. Annie knew that the minute she first met him at the train station. He had a mouth so slick, he could make a woman apologize to him for breaking her own heart. Smoke was a little different. Quieter about his, at least. But quieter didn't mean it ain’t exist. Where Stack left noise, Smoke left silence. The type of silence that was hard to measure sometimes. And with silence came people trying to fill that empty space with their own version of the truth. So they whispered. 

“So-and-so said…but you ain’t heard it from me.”

“He don’t talk as much as Stack, but he ain’t no saint.”

Aunt Della’s words came to mind. About things being spelled out plain and not assuming attention meant intention. But Annie wasn’t so sure if it was a warning, or just plain words of wisdom.

Was she just another woman in a line of quiet whispers?

“Annie!” It was Mr. Hightower.

She looked up. 

“You been wipin’ the same spot for a minute, now.”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head a little, plopping the rag in the bucket. 

“I need you to dump the coffee in the back please,” he requested, walking off.  

Annie sighed. “Yes, sir.”

She made her way to the back, coffee pots in one hand and a bucket of hot, soapy water in the other. She set the bucket by the back door and walked outside. 

The back alley smelled like cigarettes and old food. 

Annie’s nose wrinkled as she walked over to the trash receptacles before getting startled by a raccoon that darted out from under one of the trash bags. She managed to dump the coffee out without splashing it all over her shoes. The cool, brown liquid pooled on the ground for a minute before seeping into the dirt, the coffee grounds scattering across the wet surface like ash.

Fourth Street was alive. Wagons, voices, music, smoke drifting up from cigarettes and woodstoves. Smoke had finished one last piece of business near Fourth Street. He stepped out of the back room of a building and onto the street, money folded tight in his pocket, hat sitting low on his head. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street, slowing right in front of Blackbird Cafe. He stopped. Looked through the windows casually, trying to be subtle. He wasn’t. The writing and the glare from the sun made it hard to see, but he found her instantly.

Annie was behind the counter, but her head turned towards the kitchen. Probably listening to one of the cooks talking shit from the back like they always did. He saw her shoulders shake and her head dip forward like she was laughing at something one of them said. But when she turned back around, the smile on her face broke the room open. 

Something struck him low in the chest. A possessive tightening pull on his ribs. Annie’s eyes shifted. She looked around the restaurant. Through the other waitresses that darted around her, through the people in the dining area. They kept on moving until they finally found him. 

Her face went blank for a second and he thought his chest would cave in. Then it softened, then the corner of her mouth lifted slowly. Just for him. That was enough for him to walk inside before he even realized what he was doing.

The cafe got quieter when he walked in. Conversations lulled, laughter turned into low chuckles that turned into throats clearing. Men nodded to him. Either out of respect, fear, or something else. Smoke took a seat at the counter and watched as Annie made her way over with a coffee pot in her hand.

“Afternoon,” she said softly.

“Afternoon.”

“You hungry?”

“Coffee’s fine.”

She took a mug from the shelf behind the counter, placed it in front of him, and started pouring. The coffee spilled into the cup dark and hot, steam rising off the top before dissolving into the air like the things left unspoken between them. 

Smoke wrapped his hands around the mug and took a sip. Warmth settled into his palms and spread throughout his chest. And it wasn’t from the coffee. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

“My pleasure,” Annie giggled. “How was your trip?”

“Long.”

“That it?”

“Mostly.”

Annie didn’t push. She studied him for a second, topping off his coffee and wiping down the countertop while the diners went back to their own conversations and meals. She thought about saying more. She decided not to. It was too quiet now. Too many ears perked up. She reached behind the counter again, this time to pull out a clean napkin.

“Thank you,” she said as she set the napkin down next to his mug.

“For what?” His eyebrows pulled together.

“The sketchbook,” Annie said incredulously, head cocked to the side.

Smoke’s mouth twitched. “You welcome.” 

“Mhmm.” She rolled her eyes playfully.

“You been good?” His voice was rough when he asked that question. 

She tapped her fingers slowly on the counter as he set his mug down. Annie leaned forward on her hands. Smoke leaned forward on his arms. Annie looked at Smoke. Smoke looked at Annie. 

“Been great,” she said finally. Her lips were pursed in that playful way he liked. “You?”

Smoke’s eyes moved over what he could see of her from his seat at the counter. Slowly. 

“Better now.” 

She raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

“Wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said casually. He kept his eyes on hers. 

Her mouth dropped open, whatever she was fixing to say right on the tip of her tongue when Sheila’s voice from the kitchen made it snap shut. 

“Table six, order up!” Followed by two dings.

Annie turned around, quickly sliding the plates of hot food from the pass-through window onto her serving tray. She moved from behind the counter to a table with hot food and a smile brighter than the sun reflecting off the windows. Smoke watched her working, stealing glances over the rim of his mug. Every so often while she was taking an order, or refilling a coffee, she’d look over at him like she could feel his eyes on her, then quickly look away. When it started to get busier and she couldn’t steal a look at him, he felt something. Like a dull ache. 

He stood as Annie finally circled back to where he was sitting, stretching his arms above his head. 

“You leavin’?”

Smoke nodded. “Got some business to handle.” 

He put his money on the counter, their hands meeting when she reached for it before he had pulled his hand back. The contact made them both still. Their index fingers brushed against each other where they touched for a second before pulling away completely. Their eyes met again.

“I’ll see you,” Smoke said.

“Okay,” she replied. It was just above a whisper.

He wasn’t finished. “Soon.”

Their eyes held, the contact lingering for a moment like they both had something they wanted to say but knew it wasn’t the moment. 

Smoke slipped away, steps light even though he carried weight. Annie watched the door swing shut behind him, letting in a flash of air and street noise before locking it out again. She stood behind the counter still, fingers resting on the money he’d left on the table, feeling the ghost of where his finger rubbed the side of hers. She stood there for a second, letting it sink in. Two seconds went by, then three. Then she snapped out of it, pulling herself back into what she was there for— the money. 

“Felicia!” Annie called for her as she carried a tray over her shoulder. “Table four said they want two more sodas!” 

“Got it,” Felicia huffed. 

The bell above the door rang again. Annie moved quickly, sat the diners at a table, pulled out her pen and pad. She gave recommendations, talked up the specials. She even took on an extra table—a party of six that started off with a round of drinks. 

She kept herself busy. There was no such thing as a quiet moment during a lunch rush. But every time she looked out into the street, she thought of him. Coming through like he owned the place. Leaving something behind every time he walked out. 

—

Smoke was far enough away that he couldn’t see her clearly through the window anymore. Just movement and light and the shape of her passing between the tables. Blackbird stayed loud and alive behind him. Annie’s world now. Part of it, anyway. The more Smoke saw her, the more he wanted to be that other part. Not keep her waiting. Not tuck her away. 

Della was right. Just wanting her wasn’t enough. Other men wanted her, too. He saw the way their gaze would follow her around as she moved around the cafe…until they saw him. He heard about the one at the theater. And the preacher. But he knew she needed to hear it from him soon.

When they stared at each other before he left Blackbird, the look in her eyes held a question. One he didn’t have to ask to know. He knew one thing, he was gonna set shit straight before she was left guessing what kind of man had walked into her life.

The car drops her a half step past the entrance like the driver doesn’t want to block the curb too long. Zariah steps out into a slice of low overhead light and the door shuts behind her with an expensive thud. The building doesn’t announce itself. There was no line, no loud music spilling out. Just a matte black door and a man who looks like he’s part of the wall until you meet his eyes. 

Zariah gives her name. The man checks if once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door. 

Inside, things felt warmer. Thicker. Not quite music, more like a pulse under everything. Velvet seatings. Dark wood. People who speak in half-voices and don’t repeat themselves. 

Zariah pauses just inside, long enough to take it in. It was just a breath, nothing obvious. Her shoulders settle into their usual line, chin level, eyes forward. Zariah belongs in rooms. That part is muscle memory. 

A hand touches her elbow lightly, her spine goes rigid. 

“Saint-James.” 

Zariah turns. Malik. He’s familiar enough to ease the first second of it. Zariah’s seen him at fittings, at a campaign wrap, once backstage where he talked too smoothly to be anyone’s assistant. Tonight, he looked sharper, but same smile though. Same confidence that assumes a yes before it’s given. 

“You made it,” he says. 

“Mm.” A small nod. “For a minute.” 

Malik steps in beside her, hazel eyes boring into hers, not blocking, just aligning. 

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” 

Zariah lets him guide the direction not the movement. There’s a difference. He knows people here. That’s useful. He speaks in low tones as they move, greeting without stopping, names traded like small coins. When he introduces Zariah, his hand rests at the small of her back for a second too long, then lifts. 

“This is Zariah. Saint-James.” 

Heads turn. Not many. Enough. 

She offers the version of a smile that doesn’t invite questions. 

“Hi.” 

A woman in a silk slip dress made by some foreign designer studies her, then softens, “I know your face.” 

Zariah dips her chin once. “That happens.” 

A glass appears in her hand without her asking. She doesn’t drink it yet. She holds it, lets the cool settle into her palm. Malik leans in to say something near her ear. His breath brushes too close. Zariah tilts her head just enough to hear without giving him the rest of the space. 

“Good room,” he says. “Keep your face around.”

“Mm.” She takes a small step forward, easing the distance. “I’m not staying long, Malik.” 

They drift to a cluster near the bar. Four men, maybe five. Conversation tight. Phrases that loop around meaning instead of landing on it. Numbers, but not spoken like numbers. Zariah listens without looking like she’s listening. That’s a skill she learned early. One of them glances at her, then at Malik. A beat. A question that never becomes a question. 

Malik answers it anyway.

“She’s good,” he says, easy. “She with me.” 

One of the men drags their eyes over Zariah.

“This you, Malik? Whatever happened to that French model you had on your arm during fashion week?” 

“You know that was all business,” Malik leans into Zariah, placing his hand on her lower back. “This is Zariah Saint James. She’s gonna be the new face taking over the fashion industry. Ain’t that right, baby?” 

Hums of approval circulated.

Zariah stills. Not a freeze. A correction. She turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice stays light, even.

“I came by myself, actually.”

It lands clean. No edge. No apology. 

A couple of the men look away first. Malik’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners. 

“Yeah,” he says, like he meant it that way. “For a minute.” 

“For a minute,” she repeats, and lifts the glass to her lips without drinking. 

Zariah notices the details in the room now. How people stand angles instead of square. How no one laughs too loud. How eyes track movement without turning heads. This isn’t a creative room. Not really. It wears the shape as a disguise but the weight under it is something else. 

Malik introduces her again, this time to a man in a dark suit with a watch that probably costs more than what Zariah is worth. Older. White. The man’s gaze rests on her a fraction longer than it needs to. 

“Pleasure,” he says. 

Zariah meets it, steady. “Mm.” 

He smiles like that answer told him something. 

Malik’s hand returns to her waist, guiding her half a step closer to the circle as if to anchor the introduction. She lets it sit there for a second, then shifts her weight, a small turn of her hips that leaves his hand with nowhere natural to land. It falls away. 

“I’m gonna grab something,” she says, already moving. 

Stay,” Malik whispers, soft enough that it could pass for a suggestion. 

Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

At the bar, she can breath better. She sets the glass down untouched and rests her fingertips on the smooth marble of the bar top. Her reflection glides along the surface, broken by light. Zariah smoothes the line of her dress at her hip, more to ground herself than to adjust anything. 

Her phone buzzed once. Zariah glanced at it. A text from a stylist about a call time tomorrow. She types back a quick answer, then locks the screen. Behind her, the private lounge continues like it didn’t notice her stepping away. 

Malik returns, closer than before. Zariah stiffens.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.” Zariah keeps her gaze on the bar, then turns to Malik. “I’m heading out in a second.” 

“Already?” Malik smiles, but there’s something under it now. “You just got here.” 

“I said a minute.”

Malik leans in again, voice low. “Don’t do that, Zariah. It’s a good look for you to be seen here. I called some connects. Got you on the list…”

Zariah holds his gaze. 

“I’ve been seen.”

There was a pause. Malik’s eyes search her face like he’s trying to decide how far to push. It was making Zariah feel uncomfortable. 

“Come meet one more person,” he says. “Then you can go.” 

Zariah considers it. Quick. The room presses at the edges of her awareness. 

“One,” she says. 

Malik nods like he won something. They cross the floor again. This time, the path feels longer. Or maybe she’s more aware of it. The man Malik wants her to meet stands near a corner where the ambiance is softer. He looks up as they approach, already informed. 

“Saint James,” Malik says. Like he’s placing a piece on a board. “Told you.” 

The man’s eyes take her in without apology. Dark. Unreadable. A face so chiseled it could only be described as a plastic surgeon’s work. 

“I’ve seen you. That shoot with Alberto Rodriguez. Stunning. Versace.”

“Thank you.” Her tone stays even.

“I’m Westley.” He smiles. “You’re in the right room.”

Zariah meets that without returning it, “I’m in the room I walked into.” 

Malik laughs under his breath like she said something charming. The man doesn’t laugh. 

For a second, no one speaks.

“…well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Saint James. Hopefully the next time we meet, It’s us working together.”

Zariah lets it sit. Then, she inclines her head, gives Westley a faint smile, small and final.

“I’m heading out.”

Malik’s hand ghosts at her back again, then stops when she doesn’t slow. “I’ll walk you.”

“No, you’re good.” Zariah turns slightly, enough to keep it polite, not enough to invite him to follow. “I got it.”

Zadiah moves toward the door with the same pace she walked in with. Composed. The man at the door opens it before she reaches for the handle. 

Outside, Zariah exhales, a real one this time, and steps onto the curb. For a second, she stands there, looking back at the black door like it might explain itself if she gave it long enough. 

It doesn’t. 

Zariah pulls her phone out to call her driver, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, she stills. 

A small thought crosses her mind. 

I should’ve said something.

The ride back felt longer than it should have. Zariah sits angled toward the window, city lights dragging across the glass in streaks of gold and white. Her phone sat in her lap, the screen dark. She picked it up once, unlocked it, then locked it again without doing anything. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the window. Same face. Same poise. But there was something tighter around her eyes now. 

She exhales and leans back. 

By the time the car pulls up, most of the lights in the surrounding units are off. Her driver tells her goodnight. Zariah answers without thinking and steps out, her heels landing soft against pavement. Inside, the elevator ride was short. Too short. She watches the LED numbers climb, arms folded loosely, thumb brushing over her wrist. Not nervous. Just…aware. 

The elevator doors open. The hallway leading into the hall of her apartment building is dim, lined with soft recess lighting along the ceiling. Her steps are steady and cloaked by the hand-tuffted carpet runner in dark green as she walks to her door. Zariah reaches into her bag, pulls out her keys, and unlocks it. 

The door opens with a hiss. 

And the first thing she notices is the light. It’s already on. It wasn’t every light, but enough. The living room. The kitchen. 

He’s here. 

Smoke is sitting on one end of her sectional, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. No TV. No phone. Just him. And that was enough to make her pause. 

He looked up when she stepped in. Zariah pauses just past the foyer for half a second. Then, she sits her bag down on the coffee table. 

“When did you get here?” She asked, proceeding to take off her heels like everything is normal. 

Smoke doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on her. 

Then—

“Where you come from?”

Flat. No extra weight in the words. That’s what makes it land hard. Zariah slips her other shoe off, placing them beneath the coffee table. 

“Out.” 

A beat

“With who?”

Zariah straightens, smoothing her dress down at her hips before turning to face him. 

“Some people from work.” 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t break. 

“What people?” 

Zariah tilts her head slightly, studying him now. 

“Why you askin’ like that?” 

Smoke leans back just enough to rest against the sectional, but his eyes remained glued to her like he was seeing past the guard she was trying to obtain.

“Answer the question.”

Zariah’s jaw sets for a second. 

“I told you. Work people.”

Silence. It stretched just enough to be felt. 

Then—

“You was at that lounge on Mercer.” 

It wasn’t a question. Zariah’s eyes flicker once. She wasn’t surprised. Just confirmation that she knew he would be keeping an eye on her location. 

She folds her arms loosely. 

“…Yeah.”

“Who took you there?”

“My driver dropped me off. I went by myself.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “I just told you—”

“Who brought you in?”

His voice doesn’t rise. It just tightens. Zariah exhales through her nose.

“A creative I know. Malik was there.”

Smoke leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees again. 

“Malik.” 

Smoke repeats it like he’s placing it somewhere. Then, he looks back at Zariah. 

“And you thought that was somewhere you should be.” 

There was no question in it. Zariah shifts her weight onto one leg. 

“I’ve been in places like that before.” 

“No,” Smoke says, cutting through it. “You haven’t.”

That hit. Zariah’s arms drop from where they were closed. Her posture straightens. 

“You don’t know every place I’ve been,” Zariah replies, voice firmer now. 

“I know that one.” 

Zariah studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You actin’ like I walked into something crazy, Smoke.” 

He holds her gaze. “You did.” 

Zariah’s lips press together. For a second, she looks like she might push back harder. 

“I was fine,” she says instead.

Smoke’s expression doesn’t change. “No, Z. You wasn’t.”

Short. Final. 

Zariah’s breath catches slightly, more from the certainty than the words themselves. She looks away for a second, then back at him. 

“I handled myself. Like I always do.” 

The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched. Enough to part his full lips and reveal silver slugs. He watched her with a slight squint of his eyes. Because he knew. He always knew. 

“I’m sure you think you did, baby.”

That stung more than anything  else he’d said. 

Her chin lifts just a touch, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence again. This time more overbearing. Smoke leans forward more, closing some of the space between them without standing. 

“Look at me.”  

Zariah’s eyes snap back to his. She holds it. 

“I am.” 

Then, Smoke asks, calm and direct. “He put his hands on you?” 

Zariah stills. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides. 

“It wasn’t like that.” 

That’s not an answer. 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“Did he touch you.” 

Zariah exhales. “…Yeah.” 

Another pause. 

“Where.” 

Her jaw tightens. 

“At my back. My waist. He was just—guiding me.” 

Smoke nods once, slow. “Guiding you.” 

He repeats it, but it wasn’t like he agrees. 

Zariah shifts her weight again. “I moved. I corrected it.”

“I know you did.” 

That catches her off guard. Her brows lift slightly. 

“You know?” 

“I know how you move.” His tone hasn’t changed, but something underneath it has. “And you still stayed.” 

There it is. 

Zariah’s shoulders drop just a fraction. 

“I was trying to leave without making it a thing.” 

Smoke sits back again, dragging a hand over his face once before letting it fall.

“You already was a thing the second you walked in there.” 

Zariah’s gaze softens, just a little. She looks at him for a long second, then speaks quieter. 

“I didn’t know it was like that. That he…that it was more than making connections. Helping my career.”

Smoke watches her. And for the first time, something shifts in his expression. Edged with something else. A softness rarely seen.

“I know you didn’t, Z. That’s the problem.” 

Zariah exhales, slow. Her shoulders ease. She steps a little closer now, enough to close some of the distance. 

“I hear you.”

It’s quieter than anything she’s said so far. Real. Smoke holds her gaze a moment longer. Then, he leans back against the sofa, one hand resting on his jaw.

“Next time,” he says, voice steady, “you tell me where you goin’.” 

Zariah nods once. “…Okay.”

She means it, but she looks away right after she says it, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like the conversation might loosen if she doesn’t hold it. 

It doesn’t. 

The sofa creaks as Smoke Stands. He steps toward her, closing the space she left between them. Zariah’s shoulders tighten just a fraction as he stops in front of her. 

“Don’t look away.” 

Smoke’s voice stays low and firm. Her eyes lift back to his, slow and steady. Smoke studies her for a second. Then, his hand comes up, fingers settling under her chin, thumb along the side of her jaw. 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” 

Zariah’s breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. 

“Mkay,” she replies with a soft voice. 

“You walked into a space where nobody in there is who they say they are,” he says. “Not to you.” 

Zariah watches him, listening.

“…That wasn’t no industry lounge,” Smoke continues. “That’s a place people use to meet when they don’t want nothin’ traced back to ‘em. Deals get made in there that don’t got nothin’ to do with clothes or cameras.”

Zariah’s brows pull together slightly. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”

“You wasn’t supposed to,” he answers, just as even. “That’s the point.” 

Zariah’s lips part, then press together again. Smoke’s thumb shifts against her jaw, grounding her attention back to him. 

“And that nigga, Malik?” Smoke goes on. “He ain’t no creative you just ‘know’. He move with people who use faces like yours to get in rooms easier. To make things look clean.”

Zariah’s posture straightens. She exhales. 

“He didn’t do anything to me. I wouldn’t have let it get that far, Smoke. I had it under control,” she says, a little firmer. “And I didn’t even expect to see him tonight. A friend of mine put in a word. I…I just…I figured it was just some exclusive party for A listers and I could—I could walk in there and—”

“I didn’t say he did anything.” Smoke cut her off. “I said he put you somewhere you shouldn’t have been. And that friend? I wouldn’t be surprised if they a part of it. So you need to cut them off.” 

Zariah’s gaze flickers, then steadies again. 

Smoke leans in just slightly, enough to make sure she’s locked in with him. 

“I’m in this enough to know how that goes,” he says. “I seen how fast it turns. You walk in thinkin’ it’s one thing, and next thing you know you tied to somethin’ you don’t even understand yet.”

Zariah swallows lightly. Smoke’s eyes stay on hers. 

“And I don’t play about what’s mine.” 

There’s no rise to his voice. No dramatics. Just fact. Zariah feels that one’s it sits heavy on her chest. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Smoke lets that hang for a second before continuing. 

“So listen to me,” he says. His hand drops from her chin, but his presence doesn’t pull back. “When you go somewhere, you let me know first.” 

Clear.

“You don’t just show up anywhere off impulse. I don’t care who invited you.” 

Zariah nods, lips scrunched up. “Okay.” 

“If you walk into a spot and somethin’ feel off,” he continues, “you don’t stand there tryin’ to figure it out. You leave.” 

Zariah’s lips part slight like she’s about to speak but she lets him finish. 

“You call me,” he says. “I’ll come get you. I don’t care where you at.”

Certainty. 

“And if somebody put their hands on you,” Smoke adds, voice still low, “or make you feel any type of way…”

He paused, enough to let Zariah know he’s dead ass serious. 

“You tell me. And I’ll handle it. My way.” 

Zariah’s breath slows. “I will.” 

Smoke studies her, making sure. 

“Say it again.” 

Zariah’s eyes stay on his. “I’ll tell you.” 

Smoke hums, then he nods his head before leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, and ending with her lips. A soft peck that stirs her. Zariah breaks the kiss, exhales, then she looks at him. 

“I didn’t know—”

“I know, baby girl. Just…listen to me, okay? You know this shit triggers me when you go off doin’ shit that make me worried. I’m serious, Z. Don’t do this shit again.” 

She purses her lips, but ultimately gives him another kiss, falling into his big embrace that swallows her.

Correction. 

Weeks pass. At first, Zariah tells herself Smoke is just being attentive. Protective. Present. 

After the lounge incident, Smoke starts rearranging his life around hers in ways that don’t announce themselves immediately. It begins small enough to almost feel thoughtful. He starts picking her up from late shoots instead of sending a driver. He waits outside fittings in black SUVs with the engine running while she changes out of couture and campaign makeup under bright studio lights. When she lands in another city for a show, he’s already there before she reaches baggage claim, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes scanning the terminal before they settle on her. 

Smoke never makes a scene. Never acts possessive in public. That’s what makes it harder to argue with. To everyone around her, Smoke looks dependable. Solid. The type of man women brag about having.production assistants smile when he takes garment bags from their hands. Publicists relax when he quietly checks exits and entrances before an event. Designers greet him like they trust him instinctively, even when they don’t know why. 

And Zariah hates that part a little because he’s so good at it. Too good at it. 

Her world keeps moving at full speed while his begins orbiting around it with frightening precision. Editorial spreads in Paris. Beauty campaigns in New York. Fashion week dinners packed with actors, athletes, stylists, investors, people who speak in air kisses and coded conversations. Zariah is everywhere lately. Her face is in windows three stories high. Magazine covers. Digital campaigns looping across giant screens downtown. And somehow, Smoke is always there now too. 

Not beside her. Near her. Outside the room. At the car. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

The first few times, Zariah lets it go. She tells herself it’s temporary. That he’s going to go back to work doing what he does that’s so top secret and get bored of all the glitz and glam. That he’s trying to make a point after what happened with Malik and the lounge. But the weeks stretch and instead of easing up, Smoke becomes more involved. 

More structured. 

He starts asking for schedules in advance. What event. Which hotel. Who invited her. Who’s attending. What time she expects to leave. 

Not interrogations. 

Expectations. 

And that’s what starts irritating her. Because Zariah has spent her entire adult life moving independently through spaces exactly like these. She built her career on instincts, timing, reading energy, staying graceful under pressure. Men in fashion flirt. Men in entertainment hover. Wealthy people invite you places with hidden motives attached to every smile. She learned how to survive that years ago. So when Smoke starts appearing downstairs before she even calls for a car, something in her begins pushing back automatically. 

She stops texting updates as quickly. Leaves details out. Answers questions vaguely. 

“Just work.”

“A dinner.” 

“Somewhere in SoHo.” 

Nothing technically disrespectful. But it was enough for Smoke to notice she’s testing the edges of what he said in that apartment weeks ago. And Smoke noticed everything. Especially patterns. Especially when someone starts moving different on purpose. 

The irritation builds on both sides slowly, layered beneath long workdays and late nights. And the worst part is she can’t tell where protection ends and control begins anymore. 

Zariah’s up early, wrapped in a robe, hair slicked back into a bun, glass skin and fuzzy Louis Vuitton slippers on her pedicured feet. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with her phone propped against a glass of hot water with lemon and ginger. A call time gets pushed. A fitting added. A dinner penciled in. Her voice stays even, professional, the version of her that never slips. 

“Yeah, I can make that,” she says. “Send me the address.” 

She doesn’t mention it to Smoke. Not when she hangs up. Not when she toasts her sourdough bread to add slices avocado and sliced smoked salmon. Not when she walks past the living room where Smoke is sitting, reading. 

He glances up when she crosses. Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I got a dinner tonight,” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Brand people.” 

Smoke nods, “what time?”

“Eight.” 

“Where.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water. 

“I’ll text it.”

Smoke studies her for a second longer than usual. Then, nods again. 

“Aight.” 

And Zariah doesn’t text it. Not at eight. Not at nine. She’s already dressed and out the door by the time the reminder crosses her mind, heels clicking down the hallway, phone buzzing in her hand with another message that isn’t his. 

When she comes back, Smoke’s in the same spot. That’s the first thing she notices. Not the fact that he’s there. The fact that he hasn’t moved much.

Zariah steps in, sets her bag down, slips her heels off. 

“You been sittin’ there all day?” Zariah asks, light, like she’s asking about the weather. 

Smoke’s eyes lift to her. “Where you just come from, Zariah.” 

Zariah walks past him, heading toward the kitchen. That little fancy plate of French food wasn’t enough to settle her hunger. She considers ordering in some Pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant. 

“I told you,” she says. “Dinner.” 

“With who.”

Zariah opens the fridge, bends over, little cocktail dress rising up, almost revealing no panties. She scans it like she’s actually looking for something. 

“People from the brand.” 

Smoke doesn’t say anything right away. But his jaw ticks. Zariah pulls out a bottle of water, shuts the fridge, leans against the counter. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says, taking a sip.

There’s a small edge to it. A sassy little tone that reeks of an attitude that needs to be checked. 

Smoke watches her unblinking. 

“I asked you where, Zariah.” 

She shrugs one shoulder. “It was in the city.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives him. And she knows it. Something stills in Smoke. He’s locked. Smoke sets his phone down on the table beside him. Slow. Then, he stands. Zariah watches him this time. She doesn’t look away. Smoke walks toward her, closing space like an imposing shadow. Zariah straightens a little as he stops in front of her. She braces her hand on the counter behind her. Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly, orbs darkened with frustration. 

“You ain’t text me nothin’.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water, avoiding his eyes as if the vase across from her on the dining room table was more interesting. 

“I was busy.” 

Smoke tilts his head. “I told you, Z. You go somewhere, you let me know.” 

Zariah lifts her gaze, chin lifting slightly. Defiantly. 

“And I heard you.” 

There it is. That fucking tone. 

Dismissal.

Smoke’s gaze tightens just a fraction. “But you ain’t do it.” 

Zariah shrugs, “I got there, everything was fine. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

Smoke stepped in closer to where she was nearly pressed between his solid frame and the countertop behind her. Her breathing shifted but she checked it as best as she could. 

“It was to me.” 

Zariah rolls her eyes. She pushes off the counter, standing fully now. 

“You can’t expect me to check in every time I step outside, Smoke,” she argues. “That’s not how I move and you know that.” 

More edge now. More bite. Zariah knows she’s pushing. Smoke watches her for a long second. Then, he exhales once through his nose. 

“You think that’s what it is.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Zariah folds her arms. “I think you’re doing too much.” 

The silence was heavy. 

Then. “Say that again.” 

Zariah holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch. 

“I said you’re doing too much.”

Smoke’s haha comes up, firm fingers gripping her jaw, turning her face just enough so she can’t angle away. 

“Don’t do that.” Smoke said, low. Controlled yet deep.

“I’m just sayin—”

“NO,” Smoke cuts in, sharper. “You talkin’ like what I said don’t matter. And that’s a problem for me.” 

Zariah’s eyes flash. “That’s not what I—”

“That’s exactly what you doin’.” Smoke’s grip tightens. “You hear me them weeks ago. Loud and clear.” 

Zariah’s chest rises and falls a little quicker now. 

“I did.” 

“But you moved like you didn’t.” 

There’s no way around that. Zariah looks at him, really looks this time. There’s something building in her too. It wasn’t fear. It was friction. 

“I’m not one of your operations,” she says. “You don’t get to run me like that.” 

Smoke scuffs. “Aight.” 

He releases her jaw. Steps back half a step, and that almost feels worse. 

“You right,” Smoke says. And it’s too calm. “I don’t run you.” 

Zariah’s shoulders ease slightly. But only for a second. 

“Which means,” Smoke continued, “you make your own decisions.” 

Zariah watches Smoks cautiously now. 

“And you deal with whatever come with ‘em. You don’t call me. You don’t tell me where you at. You don’t move how I told you to move—”

Smoke pauses. Not long. 

“You on your own with that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “That’s not what I—”

“You wanted independence,” he says, cutting in, still calm. “I’m givin’ it to you.” 

Zariah studies him. 

This isn’t him trick to control her. This is him stepping back. And that doesn’t feel how she thought it would. 

“You serious?” She asks. 

Smoke nods. “I don’t chase grown decisions, ma. But don’t stand in my face and act like what I said ain’t carry weight.”

Zariah exhales. She folds her arms and juts that hip out. Lip poked. She looks at Smoke for a long second. Then, softer, but still holding onto herself: 

“That’s not what I was tryin’ to do.” 

Smoke cuts his eyes at her. Then, he walks off. Leaving Zariah fuming. 

Zariah spends the rest of the evening like she lives alone. That’s the first thing that gets under Smoke’s skin. 

Just…dismissal. 

She moved through the luxury apartment with that polished calm of hers, never quite looking at him, never quite acknowledging the weight sitting in the space between them. She replies to texts on the sofa with one knee tucked under her, laughing softly at something on her screen, walks past him like he’s furniture. 

Smoke says her name once. 

Zariah hears it. He knows she hears it because her shoulders tighten for half a second. But, she keeps on walking. That does more than attitude ever could because now she’s choosing it. And one trigger of Smoke’s, one thing that really ticks him off—being ignored. He watched her enter her bedroom. Smoke sits there another few seconds, jaw working once. 

Then, he stands. No rush to it. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension sitting there. Smoke reaches for the watch on his wrist and sets it on the side table. Neatly. That alone would tell her everything if she saw it. Smoke never tosses things. When he starts setting items aside with care, he’s making room for discipline. He walks to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, drinks half, sets it down. Runs both palms over his face, then drags one hand across the back of his neck. 

Collecting himself. Not cooling off. Centering. 

By the time he reaches the bedroom, the bathroom door is cracked open from the steam, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside. Zariah is standing in front of her vanity, fingers hooking the thin straps of her sleek black cocktail dress. She tugs one strap down her shoulder, exposing smooth dark skin inch by inch, the fabric whispering at her elbows while she twists to face the mirror, grabbing her hair to pile it high, pinning it loose but secure with a claw clip. 

Smoke leans against the frame, hoody heavy against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, fitted black tee stretching across his pecs. His eyes track every peel of fabric like he owns the view. Tension crackles thick from the kitchen standoff earlier, her defiance still simmering hot under her skin. 

She sees him in the mirror, and now she’s taking off her strapless lace bra and matching thong. Completely naked and glowing like her body was slathered in liquid gold. That little performance almost makes him smile.

Almost. 

“You done?” Smoke asks. 

Her voice stays light. “With what?” 

“With this act you tryna put on to piss me off.” 

Zariah grabs a plum-colored silk robe from a wall mounted hook, hiding that beautiful body. 

“I’m getting ready to shower. Then I’m going to bed. I have a busy schedule tomorrow, Smoke.” 

Smoke closes the bedroom door. The click of the latch is small but it lands. Zariah’s fingers pause over the tie of her robe. Only for a second. Then, she resumes, adjusting the front of her robe like nothing changed. Smoke walks up until he’s directly behind her, watching her reflection instead of her directly. 

“You been real busy not seein’ me tonight.” 

Zariah shrugs one shoulder. 

“I’ve been minding my business.”

“That so.” 

“You got something to say,” she says, voice even, “say it.”

“I did.” His tone is lower now. “You ignored it.” 

Her chin lifts a little in the mirror. 

“Maybe I was tired of hearing it.” 

Smoke’s hand comes to the robe knot at her waist, fingers brushing the bow but not pulling it loose. Zariah finally turns them, eyes lifting to meet his. 

There’s a challenge there. Smoke matches that, boring his eyes into hers like he was asking her telepathically ‘you really wanna take it there, baby girl?’. His gaze dropped briefly to the robe that barely hugged her frame, the one she loved to put on after her showers. The one she wore whenever her skin was slicked with body oil so it could mold to her body in ways that had Smoke dickin’ her down to put her to bed properly. 

“You been pokin’ at me all night.” 

Zariah folds her arms over her chest. 

“Maybe you’re easy to poke.” 

That earns a quiet breath through his nose. And he wasn’t amused. 

He steps closer until there’s no way for her to forget he’s there. The heat of him reaches her before contact does. Her spine straightens automatically. Smoke notices. His hand slides to her jaw, thumb settling near her chin, guiding her face up. 

“Wrong answer.” 

Zariah’s lips part.

She means to say something slick. He sees it forming.

But the words stall when his other hand reaches down,  tugs the robe knot loose in one pull, then lets it fall open on its own. He takes a small step back, eyes downcast to admire her. Take in the view like she was modeling nudity for his eyes only. Robe parted wide and framing that long, elegant frame without hiding a damn thing. 5’10 of slim-thick lines hit different up close. Her long torso stretched down to a waist he could circle with both hands and still have room, dipping into hips that curved fuller from the side, that rich brown skin glowing warm.

Her chest rose steady with each breath, full and natural, nipples tightening just from the air or maybe his stare, elegant shape softening the sharp edges of her shoulders and collarbones. He clocked the subtle give in her stomach, toned thighs long from runway miles pressed together slight, calves flexing strong as she held runway poise even now. 

Smoke’s eyes never leave hers.

“That attitude you got,” he says quietly. “I’m ‘bout done with it.”

“You ain’t my bodyguard no more, Smoke,” Zariah snaps, voice laced brat-sharp. “Stop actin’ like you run shit. I do what I want.” 

Smoke chuckles low, rumble deep from his chest rolling out gravel-thick, his hand shoots out to snag her wrist before she grabs the front of her robe, pulling her half-turn into him, cedar scent faint mixing with her floral perfume. 

“Yeah, but who you come runnin’ to when you needed help? Who handled things to make shit easier for you? Roughed niggas up that got too close? Would kill anybody that so much as try you?” Smoke drawls slow, southern thick, free hand palming the front of his joggers where his thick bulge thickens obvious. “Yeah, but you was feenin’ for this dick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you beggin’ me to fuck you in that dressing room. Remember? Or you forgot just like you forgot who the fuck I am. And when I say somethin’, you do as you told.” 

Smoke’s eyes never left yer face, unblinking and coal-dark, jaw set under stubble. 

Zariah yanks her wrist free, twisting away but stays close, turning full to shove her palm flat against his chest, pushing half-hearted, his pecs unyielding under her spore as fingers. Zariah leans in, chin high, lips curling into a smirk. 

“And wasn’t you the one that couldn’t wait to fuck me?” She fires back, hip cocked. “Ain’t never had a bitch like me in yo’ life. Soon as you got a taste, you obsessed, right? That’s why you still actin’ like a good little soldier. Now who’s in control now, big bad Smoke?” Her voice pitches taunt, one hand sliding down to trail the ridge of his abs where his tee clings, nails scraping light to test the flex. 

Zariah walks off, brushing past him. Smoke snorts  breath. 

“Control? Lil’ girl, you testin’ ropes right now.” Smoke growls. His large Pam clamps her hip, yanking her flush from behind, his hard dick against her ass. His beard grazes her cheek as his head dips. “That dressin’ room…you hiked that dress, spread your legs wide, pussy was drippin’ and beggin’ for my tongue first. Then you rode this dick cryin’ daddy til you squirted all on this dick. Obsessed? Yeah…I ain’t got a reason to deny shit. But you hooked, baby girl. Chasin’ this nut every night since.” Smoke’s fingers trail up the arch of her spine, his other hand cupping her ass cheek. 

Zariah gasps sharp, twisting her hips, bucking against him, but eventually she breaks the hold. 

“Hooked? Please. You stalkin’ my every move like a lost puppy.” She spits, laughing brittle, backing toward the bathroom door. “Body guard days over, but you still guarding this pussy like it’s yours. And I’m glad you know exactly how obsessed you are.” Her eyes flash, lips parting to rest her tongue at the corner of her mouth. 

Smoke steps forward, hands shooting out to brace the doorframe over her head, caving her without touch. 

“Mine? Damn right. Till you prove otherwise.” He rumbles. “Go ‘head, shower off that dinner, but don’t think slamming doors gon’ end this talk.” His eyes rake over her body, dick tenting the front of his joggers. Zariah places her palm flat against his chest before giving him a final shove to the ripple of muscle, the door swinging hard bang latch catching. The shower turned on beyond the door and as much as Smoke wanted to open that door, he waited. Waited until he heard that shower shut off.

Zariah is standing at the vanity in nothing but a towel, lotion bottle in hand, acting deeply interested in the label. She bends to reach for her toner in the cabinet beneath the sink. The bathroom door opens, the humidity in the bathroom turning the air chill. The fog on the glass began to disappear. The way she knows exactly where he is behind her without turning around. She just wants him to know she can ignore it. 

Zariah rises slowly, and sets her toner on the sink with careful precision. 

Still won’t turn. 

Zariah swallows. Her arms start to cross over herself instinctive. Smoke catches both her wrists and lowers them back at her sides. 

“No.” 

Zariah looks at him now, fully. Some of the bravado thinning at the edges. Because she knows this version of him. The one who gets calmer the more serious he is. He releases her wrists only after they stay where he put them. Then, he steps back half a pace and gestures toward the counter. 

Smoke steps behind her, broad hand spreading over the back of her neck for one steady second, claiming her attention. 

"Good," he says.

The steam from her shower clings to the air, thick and warm, fogging the mirror above the sink in faint swirls. Zariah stands there naked, skin dewy, water droplets tracing slow paths down her shoulders and the curve of her back. The towel lies discarded on the floor by her feet, leaving her fully exposed. Smoke’s hand lingers at her neck a beat longer, thumb pressing firm against her pulse, anchoring her in place. The heat of his palm seeps into her, carrying that familiar cedar scent that always seems to cut through everything else. Smoke's chest brushes her back as he closes the space. Zariah can feel the expansion of his black tee against her shoulder blades when he draws a controlled breath.

"Hands on the sink," he tells her, voice low and even. 

Zariah does not move right away. Her chin lifts a fraction, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror, holding his gaze there. Bold still, testing. 

“For what?” she asks, tone carrying that edge she knows gets under his skin, words clipped. 

Smoke doesn’t rise to it. His free hand slides down her side, large fingers splaying over her hip, gripping just enough. The veins in his forearm stand out as his muscles flex. 

“You know why,” he says. “All that mouth. Ignoring calls. Acting like rules don’t stick. Time to fix it.”

Zariah exhales through parted lips, a subtle shift, but her hands stay at her sides. Her posture remains upright, feet planted on the cool tile. Inside, she feels the pull, the way his presence makes the steam feel heavier, but she pushes back one more time.

 “I was busy. You act like I owe you every second.”

Smoke's grip tightens on her hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. He leans in closer, lips near her ear, breath warm against the damp shell. 

“Busy playin' games. Poking. Now I’ma show you. But that’s what you wanted, right?” His other hand lifts from her neck, trails down her spine, ending at the swell of her ass. He cups one cheek fully, squeezing hard enough to make her shift her weight.

"Hands. Sink. Now."

This time, her body responds before her mouth does. Palms flat on the cool porcelain edge, fingers splaying wide. She arches her back slightly without meaning to, ass pushing out toward him, skin prickling under the humid air. Her eyes stay on his in the mirror, defiant spark still there, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster.

“That's better. So, you do as you told then?” he says, stepping fully behind her now. His feet plant wide on the tile, knees bracketing her legs as he positions himself. One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other rears back, large palm open, veins bulging along his wrist.

The first smack lands solid across her right cheek, skin meeting skin with a sharp crack that echoes off the tiled walls. Her ass jiggles from the impact, flesh purpling instantly under his handprint. Zariah's fingers curl against the sink, a hiss escaping her teeth, but she bites down on anything louder.

 “That all?” she throws back, voice tight, trying to keep the bold front.

Smoke sees it. The way her thighs tense, pussy lips glistening between her legs from more than just the shower. He knows she’s wet, knows the defiance is her last push before she settles. His dick barely had room to grow in his joggers, that thick length pressing against the seam as he watched her in the mirror. 

“Keep talkin',” he warns, hand coming down again, harder this time, left cheek taking the full weight of his swing. The slap rings out wet in the steam, her ass bouncing, a fresh mark blooming dark against her skin.

Zariah gasps, knees buckling a touch, but his grip on her hip keeps her upright. Heat spreads across her backside, stinging deep. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes narrowing at him in the glass. “You mad at me daddy?”

Smoke doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he delivers three quick spanks in succession, alternating cheeks, each one heavier than the last. Palm cracks against flesh, her ass rippling with every strike, turning hot and swollen under his assault. Her pussy clenches visibly, slickness dripping down her inner thigh, betraying how much she needs this correction. Smoke's free hand slides between her thighs from behind, thick fingers parting her folds roughly, middle finger plunging into her soaked pussy without warning.

“This what you wanted?” Smoke growls low, pumping in and out once, twice, feeling her walls grip him tight. She moans despite herself, hips bucking back. But he pulls out just as quick, smearing her juices over her ass before landing another brutal smack right where her cheek meets thigh.

Zariah's head drops forward a second, elbows locking on the sink, but she lifts it back up, meeting his eyes again. 

“Keep goin' then,” she challenges, voice breathier now, the bold cracking at the edges.

Smoke's chest rumbles with a low sound, approval mixed with hunger. That big dick throbs, straining as he tugs his joggers down with one hand, freeing the curved shaft and wide tip. Pre-cum beads at his slit, heavy length slapping against her bruised ass. But he ain’t done punishing her yet. Smoke grabs a fistful of her wet hair, pulling her head back gently but firm, forcing her to arch deeper. 

“Count 'em,” he orders.

His hand cracks down again, full force, the loudest yet. Her ass quivers, marked deep purple, heat radiating. 

“One,” she grits out, pussy aching empty.

Another on the other side, palm stinging his own skin from the velocity. “Two.”

Smoke spreads her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her tight asshole and dripping slit, then spanks right across both, the impact jarring her whole body. 

“Three,” she moans, thighs shaking. Teeth chattering. 

Smoke leans over her, his dense midsection pressing into her back, shirt damp from the steam and her skin. His beard scraping her shoulder as he bites down lightly there, marking her while his hand rains down five more measured strikes, each one pushing her closer to breaking that last wall. Her counts come faster, voice turning needy, ass on fire, pussy clenching around nothing as viscous arousal slicks her legs. By the tenth, she is panting, body trembling in his hold, bold facade shattered into raw want.

 P-Please,” Zariah whispers finally, not begging wildly but settling, hands gripping the sink.

Smoke pauses, rubbing his palm over the abused flesh, soothing the burn while his tip nudges her entrance, thick head parting her lips. 

“Good girl,” he says, voice thick with possession. 

Then he thrusts in deep, stretching her pussy wide around his girth, filling her completely. His hips snap forward once, deep and punishing, fat dick buried to the hilt in her dripping pussy, stretching her walls tight around his thickness. 

When he eased that fat length inside her it opened her pussy with a slow burn, the girth demanding space as it sank deep. The curve to the right caught along her slick walls, dragging firm pressure against the sensitive ridge there with each inch that followed. Long and solid, bottoming out steady, filling her to the limit while her body adjusted around the thickness pulsing hot and full. Every shift would send that curve nudging the same spot over and over, building a tight coil low in her belly that made her thighs tremble without her meaning to. Zariah's breath catches sharp, body jolting against the sink, but Smoke pulls out slow, leaving her clenching empty, creamy slick coating his shaft. Not done yet. Her ass still needs more work, cheeks blazing hot under his palm prints.

Smoke's hand cracks down again, heavy and mean, right across both bruised globes. The slap echoes wet in the bathroom, her flesh rippling, thighs quivering from the sting. Zariah whimpers low, knees buckling inward, but his grip on her hip locks her straight.

“I don’t know why the fuck you act like you tough, baby,” Smoke growls, voice thick with that Mississippi drawl, low and gravel-rough, breath hot on her neck. His free hand fists her wet hair tighter, yanking her head back so her eyes lock on his in the fogged mirror. Dark brown gaze bores into hers, heavy-lidded and unblinking. “Why the fuck you keep actin’ up? Huh?”

Another smack lands harder, palm flattening her left cheek, sending fire blooming deep. Zariah’s legs shake harder, pussy leaking fresh wetness down her inner thighs, mixing with shower droplets on the tile. Zariah bites her full lip, trying to hold the sound, but a needy whine slips out anyway, body arching despite the burn.

“Why? Answer the fuckin’ question,” Smoke demands, leaning his solid chest heavier against her back, tee clinging damp to his thick torso. The weight of him pins her forward, broad shoulders eclipsing her reflection. His cream-coated dickthrobs hot against her thigh, pre-cum smearing her skin, but he holds off, rubbing her sore ass roughly with his rough palm, veins popping along his forearm whenever he would grip the flesh with his fingers. 

Zariah exhales shaky through parted lips, fingers digging into the sink edge, porcelain cool under her palms. That bold edge frays, but she pushes one last time, voice breathy and tight. “I heard you...just didn’t think…”

Crack. His hand swings full force, spanking the spot where ass meets thigh, jolting her whole frame. Her pussy clenches hard, clit twitching, inner lips trembling from the impact, visible drip falling to the floor. Her legs trembled bad now, barely holding her up.

“Didn’t think what? That I mean what I say?” Smoke presses closer, beard scraping her shoulder as he leans in to kiss the spot where his teeth was minutes ago, soothing it. He spanks again, rapid fire—three in a row, alternating sides, each crack louder, her ass swelling fuller, hot to the touch. 

“You went out there actin’ like my words ain’t shit. Ignorin’ calls. Playin’ like you run this. Nah, baby. That stops now.”

Zariah’s whimper turns into a gasp, body softening under the onslaught, shoulders dropping a fraction. She feels his control sink in deep, the dense gravity of his frame making the steam thicker, her vanilla-musk scent mixing with his cedar smoke. 

“Y-Yeah... I hear you,” she admits quieter, chin lifting less defiant, eyes holding his with that flicker—irritation yielding to the weight.

Smoke pauses, large hand soothing over the fiery flesh, squeezing possessive. But his voice stays mean, drawl dragging slow.

 “Too late for that hearin’ shit. You gonna learn tonight.” That dick nudges her slit again, thick head parting her soaked folds, teasing that creamy entry without giving it what it wants. One more spank, brutal across the fullest part of her right cheek, making her cry out soft, hips bucking back involuntary.

“Count the rest. And don’t make me ask twice.”

Her voice comes steady now, reined in, body present under him. “E-Eleven.”

Smoke’s hand lifts off her throbbing ass cheek, fingers digging into the heated flesh one last time before shoving her shoulders down firm. Enough with the slaps. Time to shut that mouth up proper. Her knees hit the wet tile with a soft smack, water slick under her shins. Zariah’s dark eyes lift to his, breath still ragged from the burn, but she don't hesitate. Her body shifts smoothly, settling low, full tits swaying as she balances on her heels.

Smoke steps up close, black tee clinging to his broad chest, sweat and shower mist beading on his deep brown skin. One thick hand wraps the base of his dick, pulling it free from where it hung thick and heavy between his muscular thighs. Almost as thick as her forearm, easy nine inches stretching out straight at first, then curving wicked at the tip like it know exactly where to hit deep. Girth thick around, veins bulging ropey along the dark shaft, skin a rich chocolate shade fading near the fat, flared head that's glossy with pre-cum leaking steady. Heavy balls swing low underneath, plump and full, hanging loose in that wrinkled sac, dark and musky from the heat. Whole thing pulses alive in his grip, smelling of clean soap mixed with his natural cedar-earth scent up close.

“See this dick right here, baby? You wanna talk back, runnin’ yo’ mouth like you run shit? Get this dick in that throat,” Smoke growls low, drawl dragging thick and mean, free hand tangling rough in her wet curls. He yanks her face forward, smearing the leaking head across her plump lips, leaving a shiny trail. “Suck big daddy’s dick. Put that mouth to work since you actin’ all tough. Throat it deep, show me you learned somethin’ tonight.”

Zariah parts her lips wide, tongue flicking out to lap the salty bead from his slit before she stretches her jaw open. Head disappears first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard around the ridge, pulling him in inch by girthy inch. Those full Saliva spills quick, dripping down her chin. She trained for this, months of him working her down slow at first, gagging her till she took every curve without choking. Now she slides forward steady, throat relaxing open, feeling that bend nudge the back of her mouth then slip past her tonsils smooth.

The soft flesh of her lips stretches wide and presses flush against his shaft as she sinks lower, creating a tight seal that drags with each slow pull. Wet suction fills the quiet with each bob of her head, the sound thick and wet as her mouth works to take more. Heat and pressure builds around Smoke from the way her lips clamp and slide, her tongue pushing up from below while her throat opens to pull him deeper with every descent.

Zariah’s face pulls tight around that thick girth filling her mouth, her cheeks drawing inward in deep hollows that frame the shaft with sharp definition as she sinks lower. She maintains a steady rhythm of long, controlled pulls, her tongue pressing firm and flat underneath while her throat opens to swallow more with each descent, creating a constant wet drag and suction that tightens on the upstroke. Her jaw works visibly with the effort, lips sealed flush and sliding in a smooth, milking motion that builds pressure without pause.

Smoke groans deep in his chest, hips bucking shallow to feed her more. “Yeah, that's it, fuckin' swallow this big dick. You know how I like it, don't play. Deeper, baby, choke on it if you gotta, but don’t stop.” His voice rumbles harsh, hand guiding her head, thick fingers pressing her nose toward his trimmed pubes. His fat nuts slap light against her chin as she bobs, throat bulging visible with his length buried fully. Zariah gags once soft, eyes watering, but pushes through, humming low around him, tongue pressing flat underneath to stroke the bulging vein.

Smoke watches her work in the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing mean. “Look at you, all that fire earlier, now you slurpin' dick like a good lil’ girl. Shoulda did this from jump, keep that ass in line and yo’ throat full. Mmm, suck harder, baby. Drain these nuts dry.” His grip tightens in her hair, fucking her face, pulling out to the tip with a wet pop before slamming back in, curve hitting her gag reflex perfect every thrust. Her hands brace his thick thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle, feeling him flex under her palms as drool strings from her stretched lips.

Zariah’s pussy aches empty between her spread knees, thighs slick with her own drip mixing on the floor, but she focuses, hollowing her cheeks tighter, swallowing around his girth to milk him. Her nose buries in his coarse hairs finally, balls snug against her chin, holding him deep till her lungs burn. She pulls off gasping, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his shining shaft, then dives back, faster, head twisting side to side for friction.

“That’s my girl, train that throat right. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I bust down yo’ neck,” Smoke grunts, free hand cupping her jaw rough, thumb smearing spit back in. His heavy balls draw up tight, dick twitching hard in her sucking mouth, but he holds off, drawing it out mean. “Keep goin’. Earn that forgiveness, baby.”

Zariah’s right hand wraps around the base of his thick dick, fingers barely meeting around the girth as she strokes up slow, twisting at the swollen head slick with her spit. She sucks deeper on the pull back, lips sealed tight around his veiny shaft, tongue swirling under the curve that presses her cheek out. Her left hand steadies on his heavy thigh, nails scraping light into the dense muscle as she bobs faster, throat opening wide to take him balls-deep again, humming vibrations along his length.

Smoke's eyes narrow sharp, watching her work from above. His big palm cracks down quick on her stroking hand, slapping it off his dick with a wet smack. 

“Nah, baby. Hands where I can see ‘em. Up behind yo head or on them thighs. This mouth mine now.”' He grabs a fistful of her wet curls tighter, yanking her head back just enough to pop his dick free, strings of saliva stretching long before snapping. Then he thrusts forward, burying every curving inch straight down her throat in one push, balls smacking her chin heavy.

Zariah gasps around the invasion, eyes watering, but puts her hands in her lap. Her throat bulges with his girth, the  bend lodging deep, cutting off her air till black spots dance. He don't let up—hips snap forward, fucking her face, pulling out to the flared head where she gasps ragged, then slamming back in, pubes grinding her nose.

“Fuckin’ tired of yo games, Zariah. All this bullshit you pullin’,” he growls low, thick and gravelly, voice echoing off the tile. Smoke picks up meaner, dick pistoning her mouth, heavy balls swinging to slap her jaw each thrust. “Back when I was yo’ bodyguard, dealin' with yo’ spoiled, uptight, prissy ass barkin' orders left and right. Actin’ like you own the world, snappin’ at me like I'm one of yo’ lil' errand boys. Had to bite my tongue, watchin' you strut ‘round thinkin’ you untouchable.”

Zariah’s knees spread wider on the slick floor, thighs quivering as drool pours down her chin, soaking her tits glossy. She gags hard on a deep plunge, throat convulsing around his pulsing shaft, but holds the position, hands laced tight in her lap, fingers twitching to grip something. That wet ass pussy throbbed neglected, juices trailing down to puddle under her.

Smoke grunts deep, free hand bracing the sink edge, muscles flexing in his thick arm as he rams harder, curve dragging her tonsils raw. “And now? Now you on this dick, slurpin’ like you starved, and still think you run shit? Nah, baby girl. I run it. Always did. Just lettin’ you play pretend till I remind this lil’ ass who in charge.” He yanks her hair sharper, holding her nose-deep, balls snug on her chin, grinding slow circles to stretch her throat wider. “Feel that? Feel daddy ownin' this mouth? You gon’ take every inch till I say stop. No more actin’ brand new.”

Zariah’s chest heaves desperate around the blockage, tears streaking her cheeks mixing with spit, but her eyes stay locked up at him, defiant spark fading to raw submission. She swallows around his girth, milking the veiny underside, tongue pressing frantic when he pulls back for air. Her hands stay put, obedient, elbows trembling from the strain as he resumes pounding, wet gurgles filling the humid air, his heavy balls tightening with each brutal thrust.

Smoke abruptly snaps his hips back, dick leaving her throat. Zariah sucked in a lung full of air, sniffling, teary eyes cloudy as she looked up at her daddy with a bite of her bottom lip. She’d sucked a few dicks in her twenty-nine years of living but she would have never thought a nine inch, veiny monster would fit down her throat. Normally, she would pat herself on the back, but right now, Smoke was pissed off. Her reward would come later. Right now, she’s a throat to fuck and nothing more. Her eyes went hazy from staring at his hard dick bobbing and twitching in her face, glossy and dripping with saliva. She knew he was close because his tip was a deep purple and it flared so wide it left the corners of lips raw. The map of veins along his shaft bulged in size, and his nut sack sat full and loaded with cum. 

“Open up.” Smoke commands.

Zariah does as she’s told, eager for more. That big dick slid in smooth and full, making her eyes roll. 

Smoke's hips jackhammer faster now, thick dick plunging her throat raw brutal snaps, the curve battering her tonsils. His balls draw up tight, slapping her chin wet and relentless, his breath turning into ragged grunts as the pressure coils low in his gut. Sweat beads down his solid chest, tee clinging damp to the full slabs of pecs heaving with each drive. He feels her throat spasm greedy around his girth, milking him closer to the edge.

“Eyes up here, Zariah. Look at me while I feed this throat,” he snarls, free hand clamping her jaw firm, thumb digging into the hinge to force her gaze up. Watery brown eyes meet his dark, heavy-lidded stare, hers wide and pleading, his burning with ownership. “Hands in yo’ lap. Fingers laced. Don't move ‘em.”

Zariah shifts quickly on her knees, pulling her elbows in to drop her hands to her thighs, palms up and fingers interlocking obediently in her lap like a proper slut. Her thighs quake wider apart on the tile, pussy clenching empty and dripping strings of arousal to the floor. Her jaw slackens under his grip, relaxing loose as he demands, lips stretched obscene around his pistoning shaft, drool bubbling out the corners to sheet down her neck and pool between her heaving tits.

“Good girl. There you go, relax that jaw. Let daddy bust,” Smoke growls deep, gravel scraping rough, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering as his dick swells thicker in her gullet. His balls contract hard, and he slams balls-deep one final time, grinding his pubes flush to her nose, holding  as ropes of hot cum erupt straight down her throat. Pulse after thick pulse floods her, warm, slightly salty jets coating her esophagus, forcing her to gulp convulsively around the buried length.

He don't budge an inch, big hand locked on her curls, the other on her jaw, keeping her pinned nose-deep while she swallows every drop—no spill, no waste. Her throat works visible under the skin, bulging swallows pulling his load down greedy, chest fluttering desperate for air around the blockage. Her eyes remain locked on his, tears carving clean tracks through the spit mask on her face, but that defiant spark's gone fully, replaced with raw, owned surrender shining back.

Smoke holds till the last twitch fades, dick softening just enough in the wet heat, then eases out slow, dragging the sensitive underside over her lolling tongue. Strings of cum-mixed saliva cling thick, snapping as the flared head pops free. She coughs hoarse, sucking air in big whoops, hands twitching in her lap but staying put, lips puffy and glossy. He strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the mess, voice dropping low and satisfied. 

“Every drop. That's how you take what’s yours. Don’t forget who run this shit.”

Smoke’s thick fingers loosen from her curls, sliding down to hook under her arms with that unyielding grip, hauling her up off the tile slow and steady. Her knees wobble jelly-soft, thighs slick from her own dripping need, but he steadies her full against his sweat-damp shirt, broad chest rising firm under her cheek. His big hand cups her elbow, the other spans low on her back, guiding her bare feet over the bathmat and out the steamy bathroom door.

He snags a clean washcloth from the sink edge first, soaking it under hot tap water till steam curls off, then presses it gentle but thorough to her chin, wiping away the glossy streaks of spit and tears. His thumb traces her swollen lips, the cloth dragging over puffy cheeks and her jaw, leaving her skin flushed warm and bare. 

“There. Clean slate, baby girl,” he rumbles low, voice that quiet thunder rolling deep from his chest.

The king bed dominated the dim space, sheets rumpled from earlier. He sinks onto the edge, thighs spreading wide like tree trunks, then tugs her forward to drape her naked body across his lap face-down. Ass up high, cheeks still blooming hot from the spanking, pussy lips peeking swollen and slick between spread thighs. His weight shifts the mattress deep, one massive palm flattening broad on her lower back to anchor her still, the other dipping into the jar of balm on the nightstand. A cool, thick shea and aloe mix he keeps stocked for nights like this.

His fingers dig in generously, spreading the cream in firm circles over her left cheek first, kneading the stinging heat away, thumb pressing into the tender underside where it meets thigh. Smoke switches to the right after a while, palms gliding slick, parting the globes slightly to smooth the balm down the cleft, grazing her puckered hole and dipping low enough to tease her soaked folds without mercy. 

“You know why that ass got lit up, Zariah,” he starts, tone even, dangerously calm wrapping each word like barbed wire, dragging vowels long and weighted. “Pushin’ me like that, testin' boundaries when I done told you how it's gone be. Mouth runnin’ reckless, darin’ me to snap. I spank you again and again if you keep triggerin’ this fire. Don’t make me prove it twice more tonight.”

His hand keeps working, the balm sinking in as her skin drinks it greedy, cooling the fire to a throb. Smoke’s palm cups one cheek full, squeezing soft, then leans down to press open-mouth kisses along the curve—lips dragging hot and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the salted balm on fevered flesh. Peck after peck trails inward, nipping the fullest swell before soothing with flat laps.

“Mmm,” he draws back, biting his bottom lip, her slick sticking to his goatee, “pussy puffy from me popping that ass,” Smoke takes two fingers, tapping her pussy lips, labia peeking through like petals. “I know you love it when daddy turns you out like a fuck doll…pussy leakin’ for it. But safety first, always. Top of my list. You play brat, defy what I say to keep you whole, that shit upsets me deep. I’d kill anybody—end ‘em slow—who so much as touches a hair on your head. Bleed ‘em dry for less.”

Smoke’s voice stays level, no rise, just that steel edge slicing through, breath ghosting her skin between kisses, one hand landing square on the sit-spot welt. Smoke pauses, hand stilling to pat her ass possessive, waiting till her breath evens soft against the sheets.

“Now, you know what I want you to do. Say it clear.”

Zariah shifts slightly across his lap, thighs clenching, posture holding upright even prone, spine straight, hands smoothing the bedspread once to ground herself. Her voice comes soft, that self-possessed edge threading through.

“…I’ll listen to what daddy says.”

“Good girl, keep goin’.”

Smoke’s palm resumes stroking the balm in, fingers parting her cheeks wider for a deep kiss right above where her puckered hole sat, his tongue circling lazy.

“…I—I’ll stop being m–mean to daddy…and understand t–that he’s trying to protect m–me, not control me,” her full lips press thin a beat, exhale parting them tense, brown eyes flicking back over her shoulder to hold his gaze steady. Even though her body couldn’t stop shaking.

“Mm. That’s my girl,” another peck lower, between the under cuff of her ass where her thighs met, “finish it.”

“H–He wants me to continue t–to be independent…but understand that m–my man w–wants and needs to step up. To provide, protect, a–and spoil me. To create a life for me w–where I can continue to be t–the phenomenal women that I am. The beautiful woman t–that I am. The sexy woman that I am.”

Her words came out even in some ways and shaky in others. No plea. Only quiet dominance and echoing his, her body relaxing fuller into his lap as the balm soaked deep. Smoke nods once, satisfaction etching his heavy-lidded stare. He gave his girl a final kiss planted firm on her tailbone, one large, calloused hand sliding up her slick spine to tangle light in her hair, tugging her head back gently for more eye contact.

“That’s my girl. Good job. Now…rest that ass here while daddy thinks up how to spoil you next.”

Smoke positions Zariah on her stomach across their bed. He spreads her thighs wide from behind and lifts her hips into the right tilt. Smoke dips his head and admires her pussy lips sitting in the shape of a heart below her ass that glistened from the balm. His tongue moves in slow strokes from the base of her pussy upward, gathering every bit of wetness. He seals his lips around the folds and sucks them clean with steady pulls before pressing soft kisses along the slick skin. His tongue dips inside to lick deeper then returns to lap and suck without rushing, working through the mess until only his mouth leaves her glistening.

Zariah’s body rocks with small shifts under his hold. “Yes daddy." Her voice comes thick. “Thank you daddy.” She pushes back a fraction as his suction holds on her clit. “I love it when you eat my pussy.”

Smoke keeps his pace while his voice rumbles low against her. “Stay open for me. Let daddy clean every drop. You taste so good when I take my time like this.” He kisses her tender entrance then sucks again, tongue circling slow. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”

Zariah shifts her hips back in a slow roll, pressing her soaked folds against Smoke's mouth. He meets each motion by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking with firm, steady pressure, drawing the swollen bud between his lips in a gentle pull before releasing. Her thighs tremble under his grip as she rocks again, grinding back for more contact.

"Oooo," she breathes out, the sound stretching long. “Fuck. Yes.” The words slip free between moans while her body keeps moving, seeking that same suction each time she pushes her pussy toward him.

Smoke's tongue works in skillful laps, flattening broad against her entrance before dragging upward to circle her clit again. His voice stays low and even, vibrating right against her skin.

 “That’s right, keep bringing it back  like that. Let me suck on this pretty pussy. You feel how wet you stay for me?” Smoke proves her opening with the tip of his tongue to catch some of that wetness. “I can taste every bit of it, so sweet and thick on my tongue. Gon’ fuck you so deep after this, stretch you open slow with every inch until you can't think straight. This pussy gon' take it all, and I'ma give it to you proper.”

Snoke sucks with more pressure on her clit as she rocks back once more, holding the pull for a beat longer before easing off to lick through her folds. “Tastes so damn good, baby. Can't get enough of how you drip down my chin.”

Zariah’s voice comes out husky between her moans. “You love this pussy, baby?”

Smoke answers without lifting his mouth, the words rumbling straight into her. “Daddy love this pussy. Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had.”

Zariah’s voice lifts soft and questioning as she rocks back once more. “Daddy?”

Smoke answers with a low hum that vibrates against her folds, the sound deep and steady while his tongue continues its work.

Zariah pushes again, her words coming clearer now. “Daddy I wanna watch you eat my pussy.”

In one smooth motion Smoke flips her onto her back, his hands guiding her body with controlled strength. He pulls the black tee over his head and drops it aside, leaving him fully naked as he settles between her open thighs. Zariah spreads wider for him, and he eases down to keep his mouth on her, licking and sucking with focused attention. She grinds her pussy into his mouth, hips rolling to meet each pull of his lips. Smoke gently pushes her thighs open further, holding them apart so he can slurp directly on her clit with wet, smacking sounds. He stays right there, working that spot alone because it builds her up fast. Her body tenses and then releases in a sudden rush as she squirts, the warm fluid spilling over his tongue and chin while he keeps sucking through every pulse.

Smoke stays locked between her thighs, refusing to ease up. His tongue drags in long, wet strokes that feel heavy and thick against her folds, each one landing with pressure that makes her hips twitch. Zariah’s pussy quivers under the attention, the sensitive skin pulsing and tightening as he circles her clit again and again. He holds her legs open wider with firm hands, keeping her spread so nothing interrupts the steady motion of his mouth. The wet sounds grow louder with every lick, and he focuses right there, building the heat until her body starts to tighten once more. She grinds down into him, chasing the sensation as the pressure coils deep inside. His tongue works without pause, thick and insistent, pushing her straight toward the edge until she breaks again, fluid spilling over his lips while he keeps sucking through the pulses.

Smoke stays locked in place, his mouth sealed over her pussy as he sucks deeper, pulling her swollen clit between his lips with steady pressure. His tongue follows in thick, wet drags that lap up every fresh trickle of her arousal, working in firm circles that make her thighs shake in the air. Zariah keeps her legs spread wide, knees bent and feet towards the ceiling, giving him full access while her hips roll in small, desperate circles against his face.

Her body reacts in waves. The muscles in her lower belly tighten and release with each pull of his mouth, sending ripples across her frame. Her rich brown skin glistens with sweat, the soft curve of her waist flexing as her back arches off the bed. Her breasts rise and fall faster, nipples tight and dark against the air. Inside, her walls pulse and flutter around nothing, clenching with every lick that drags from her entrance up to her clit. More slick heat spills out, coating his tongue and dripping down his chin as he swallows it down without pause.

“Uhuh, yeah baby.” Smoke rumbles against her, voice low and thick with command. “Keep those legs open. Let me feel you gettin' close. I want every drop this time. Right in my fucking mouth. Feed me.” His words vibrate through her core, pushing the tension higher. Smoke sucks again, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks quick and firm right on that sensitive spot, building the pressure until her moans turn ragged.

Zariah’s hands fist the sheets. Her pussy quivers harder now, the inner walls squeezing in quick spasms that grow stronger with each pass of his tongue. The heat coils low in her belly, spreading outward until her toes curl and her breath hitches in short gasps. "Haah—Fuck," a sharp inhale caught in her throat, then she breathes out, the word breaking on a moan as another rush of wetness floods his mouth. Her hips jerk upward, chasing the sensation while her thighs tremble around his shoulders.

Smoke doesn't let up. He slides two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot while his mouth keeps working her clit in wet, insistent pulls. “I know you feel it buildin’. Don't hold back on me. You gon’ give it all, you hear me?” His free hand presses her thigh wider, keeping her open as her body winds tighter. Her stomach flutters visibly, the muscles jumping under her skin. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, gripping and releasing in a steady climb toward the edge.

"I'll be your good girl—” Zariah gasps, voice cracking as the pressure peaks. Her whole frame locks up for a beat, then shatters. A hot rush pours from her, squirting in pulsing waves straight into his mouth. Smoke groans low and drinks it down, tongue still moving through the contractions that ripple through her walls. Her orgasm rolls on, body shaking as fresh slick spills over his lips and chin, her moans filling the room while he holds her through every last spasm.

Smoke lingers between her thighs after the last tremors fade, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against her slick folds. Each one lands soft, his lips brushing over the swollen heat while his tongue gives the lightest flick to catch the lingering taste. 

“That’s a good girl," he whispers low against her, the words vibrating through her sensitive skin. “Took every bit of it just like I said. Look at you, still shakin’ for me.” His praise comes steady and warm, laced with that deep southern drawl that settles right into her bones.

Zariah’s breath hitches in the aftermath, her body still sprawled open on the sheets. Her rich brown skin gleams from the vanilla oil, a fine sheen of sweat tracing the narrow dip of her waist and the soft flare of her hips. Her breasts rise and fall in quick, shallow pulls, nipples drawn tight from the rush that just tore through her. Inside, her walls continue to flutter in small, involuntary pulses, the aftershocks making her thighs twitch around his shoulders even as she keeps them parted for him.

Smoke trails those kisses upward, dragging his mouth across the smooth plane of her lower belly. Each press of his lips leaves a ticklish, wet mark that cools against her heated skin, moving higher with unhurried purpose. His hands slide along her sides, palms broad as they frame her ribcage. When he reaches her chest, he pauses at one peaked nipple, drawing it between his lips with a firm, wet pull. His tongue circles the tight bud then strokes while he sucks, the pressure sending fresh sparks straight down to her still-throbbing core.

Zariah arches into the contact, a broken moan slipping free as her fingers thread into the sheets again. The pull at her nipple feels sharper now, heightened by how raw everything still feels below. Her other breast settles against his cheek when he shifts to give it the same attention, sucking deep while his tongue works in lazy, insistent laps. 

“So damn responsive,” Smoke rumbles between pulls, voice thick with approval. “Every part of you knows who it belong to.”

Zariah’s legs ease wider on instinct, the earlier tension melting into a loose, pliant sprawl. The muscles along her stomach quiver visibly under his path, and her hips give a small, involuntary roll upward as if chasing more of the contact even though he's moved on. Smoke keeps his mouth latched, alternating between gentle suction and firmer draws that make her back bow off the bed, her full lips parting around another shaky exhale.

Smoke stays latched on her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth with sucks that make her whole chest tighten. His tongue works in firm circles, pressing and flicking against the stiff peak while his teeth graze just enough to send sharp little jolts straight through her. Zariah’s rich brown skin flushes darker across her breasts, the full weight of them rising and falling with every breath as he switches sides, sucking the other nipple just as hard, his broad hand cupping the first one to keep the wet heat from fading.

Her pussy responds fast, slick folds parting on their own as fresh wetness slips out in a steady drip that trails down toward the sheets. The sensation builds low and insistent, her clit twitching in time with each strong suck, the tiny bud swelling and pulsing without any direct touch. Her slim-thick thighs part wider on the bed, hips rolling in small, helpless circles as the throbbing between her legs grows heavier, matching the pull of his mouth.

Zariah’s long legs tremble as another rush of heat floods her core. She can feel it clearly now, the way her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping steadily while her clit jumps and aches for friction. Smoke doesn’t let up, his lips sealed tight around her nipple, sucking with that deep, focused technique hat leaves her gasping. His free hand slides down her side, palm broad against the curve of her waist, holding her steady as her back arches higher off the mattress.

“Look at that,” he says low, voice rough against her skin between pulls. “Your body tellin’ on you. Drippin’ all over just from this.” He drags his tongue across the sensitive tip one more time, then seals his mouth around it again, sucking harder until her clit twitches visibly with the next wave of wetness sliding free.

Zariah’s breath comes in short, shaky pulls, her full lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the pressure builds. Every strong draw from his mouth sends fresh heat straight down, making her pussy clench and release, more slick gathering and spilling out in warm trails. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, the empty ache growing sharper with each passing second. She rolls her hips again, seeking something, anything, but Smoke keeps her pinned with his weight and his mouth, focused entirely on working her nipples until the dripping and twitching leaves her shaking.

When he could see that pussy weeping the way he needed it to, Smoke releases her nipple with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pull leaving a shiny trail across her deep brown areolas. He rises over her, his thick frame blotting out the light above the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss lands heavy and unhurried, his tongue pushing past her parted lips to stroke deep, carrying the taste of her own sex. Zariah meets him without hesitation, her full lips pressing back while her breath hitches against his. Her hands slide up his arms, fingers curling around the dense muscle there as the kiss stretches on, turning hotter with each slow pass of his tongue.

Her body stays open beneath him, thighs spread wide on the sheets. The steady drip from her pussy continues, warm slick sliding down the curve of her ass and soaking into the sheets right along with the puddle she made from squirting. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, each pulse sending fresh heat through her core. Zariah rolls her hips upward, seeking the press of his weight, the hard length of him brushing her inner thigh as he settles closer. Smoke's hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still while the kiss turns rougher, his teeth catching her bottom lip for a brief tug before his tongue claims her mouth again.

His hand lingers tangled in her curls, thumb stroking the nape of her neck in lazy circles 

“Spoil you proper now,” Smoke rumbles that reminder, voice vibrating through her bones. His big palms slide down her sides, gripping her hips firm to flip her upright in one smooth hoist, straddling his thighs now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. That heavy and rigid, curved dick all thick-veined and standing tall from those low-hanging balls, say wedged between her pussy lips, tip glossy from pre-cum beading thick.

Zariah braces her hands on his full chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, feeling the dense muscle shift under her palms as he breathes deep. Glossy brown eyes lock on his heavy-lidded stare, lips parting on a soft exhale, posture straight even perched like this, thighs flexing to lift her hips. Zariah sinks down slowly, pussy lips parting wide around his girth, swallowing the flared head first with a wet stretch, inner walls clenching greedily as inches disappear inside. Halfway down, she pauses, breath hitching, hands smoothing over his pecs to steady herself. 

Smoke’s arms snake around her, one thick forearm banding her lower back, the other spanning shoulder blades, yanking her flush against him. Chest mashes to chest, her nipples dragging hard points over his skin, his beard scraping her jaw as he nuzzles close. “

“Ride daddy, baby girl,” Smoke growls low in her ear, hips snapping up suddenly, thrust punching deep, balls slapping her ass with a meaty smack. Zariah gasps, spine arching but Smoke holds her locked, pumping from below relentlessly now. Each buck rolls his pelvis up hard, curved dick spearing her g-spot dead-on, grinding the base against her swollen clit with every bury.

Thighs like steel pistons flex under her, driving up fast then slow, varying the rhythm to make her chase it, his arms crushing her closer, one hand fisting her ass cheek to spread her wider, fingers teasing her hole while he rails her pussy. Sweat slicks their skin, her juices coat his shaft glossy, dripping down to soak his balls. 

“Feel that? Daddy fillin’ you full, protectin’ this pussy ‘cus it's mine. Phenomenal woman takin’ every inch.” His voice stays that dangerous calm, breath tickling her neck between grunts, lips sucking marks along her collarbone.

Zariah rocks with him, hips circling intentional, walls fluttering tight around his length. Her voice was soft, edged with that self-possession. 

 “Yes, daddy...feels so good.” No begging, just owning the ride, thighs quivering as tension builds. He ramps it harder, arms vise-tight, fucking up into her like a machine, wet slaps echoing loud, her ass bouncing on his thighs, pussy creaming thick down his dick. 

Zariah’s moans spill out breathy at first, soft exhales pitching higher with each deep punch,,starting as hushed mmh's from deep in her throat, lips parting wider to let ahh's drag long and throaty, vibrating against where her mouth presses open near his collarbone. Tension coils her core tighter, breaths coming measured but ragged now, moans layering into nngh-ahh-mmh, each one punched out precisely by his upward drives, voice never cracking loud but husky-thick with need, edges fraying just enough to feel raw.

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah breathes into his neck, her hips working bolder, starting to throw it down now, lifting high to slam her ass back onto his thighs with snaps and deep grinds, pussy gripping his girth on every drop. “You fuck me so good. Fuck this pussy. Fuck me with that big dick.” Her thighs flex hard, bucking wilder to meet his thrusts, wet hole sucking him deeper, creamy froth building at the base where her pussy lips stretch taut around his veined curve. “Fuck, I love this big dick.” Her voice stays in that self-possessed tone, edged needy, no shrieks or pleas because she was owning every word as she grinds down, clit dragging his pelvis, walls pulsing greedy. 

Smoke’s grip tightens, one forearm locked across her lower back to mash her tits flush to his chest, the other palm cupping her ass full, fingers digging into the balm-slick cheek to yank her harder onto each buck. His toned hips piston up relentless, thick thighs bulging under her weight, curved length spearing her depths over and over. Those heavy balls swinging up to tap her perineum with heavy thwacks. 

“Fuck yes, baby girl, throw that pussy on daddy's dick like you ownin’ it, good girl, get your dick,” Smoke rumbles low in her ear, thick and commanding. “Look at you ridin’ this big Mississippi meat, creamin’ all over my balls. Feel how deep I'm feedin’ this wet hole? Huh? Stretchin’ you wide, hittin’ that spot ain’t I’m?” Smoke thrusts up and holds, tapping Zariah on the rump as she shakes all over. “All that boss shit disappear when I give you dick. You safe wit’ me, act like it.” 

Smoke rolls his pelvis on the upthrusts, grinding the fat base against her clit, varying the pace from slow deep grinds to three fast snaps, making her chase the friction. Sweat beads on his chest, his beard rasping her jaw as he turns her face to capture her lips in a messy suck, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. “Keep talkin’ to me, bad girl. Tell daddy how this dick rearrangin’ that tight pussy. You takin’ it perfect.” Smoke’s thumb teases her back entrance light, pressing the puckered ring while he rails her pussy, arms crushing her immobile against him, and Zariah was owning it even as she bucks wild.

Her pace picks up frantic, hips slamming down to swallow him balls-deep every time, pussy squelching loud around his girth, juices dripping warm down his sack to soak the sheets. Her moans turn into throaty-soft pleas now.

“Ahh-nngh-yes!” blending with his grunts, body trembling. Smoke feels her tighten vise-like, knows she's close, but holds back his own load, hips snapping sharper to drag it out.

Zariah’s walls clamp down vise-tight around his thick length, that deep coil snapping loose as the orgasm rips through her, body seizing rigid in his iron hold, thighs locking hard against his hips, back arching sharp but pinned flush by his forearm across her back. Her pussy floods him in hot gushes, creamy release squirting thick around his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy balls and dripping messy down to the sheets below. Zariah can’t buck anymore, stuck impaled balls-deep on his curved girth, every ridge dragging her fluttering walls as Smoke keeps snapping up relentless, his hips rolling precisely to grind that swollen spot inside her over and over, forcing wave after wave to crash harder.

Moans pour from her throat uncontrolled, delicate but fractured, starting as a long, drawn out ‘ahhhh’ vibrating deep in her chest, pitching into sharp ‘nngh-nngh’ gasps punched out by each thrust, lips trembling open against his neck where her face buries hot and slick with sweat. They layer ragged, breathy exhales fraying at the edges ‘mmh-ahh-mmh’ blending into a throaty hum that shakes her frame, her voice husky-thick and edged raw, never shrill but owning the depth of it, body quaking helpless as she creams all over his big dick.

Smoke doesn't let up, thick arms crushing her immobile against him, his biceps bulging under her sliding palms, one hand palming her ass cheek deep to spread her wider, fingers splayed to feel her hole pulse and leak around him. His pelvis snaps up in deep strokes, curved head battering that g-spot without mercy, balls wet against her perineum through her flood. That thick length gleamed with her juices and he just kept fucking her pussy straight through the peak. Smoke turns her face to lock eyes with him, his heavy-lidded gaze burning steady into hers, full lips parting on a low grunt.

“Yeah, cum on this dick, baby girl, keep cummin’ on this dick.” Smoke growls thick in her ear. “Pretty pussy grippin’ me so tight, squirtin’ all over daddy’s balls. Stuck right here takin’ every inch while I hit that spot. Keep cummin’ for me, baby, flood this big dick, bad girl. You own this nut, pussy milkin’ me deep.” He varies the drives—three short punches to her depths, then a slow grind circling her clit with his base, drawing out the spasms, her walls sucking greedily even as she trembles locked.

Zariah’s body jerks in aftershocks, pussy clenching around him, more cream bubbling out to coat his veined length shiny, her thighs quivering helpless. All Zariah can do is moan throaty into his collarbone, ‘ahh-nngh-yes’ spilling fractured as he rails her sensitive hole. He feels his own sack tighten heavy, but holds it back, hips powering through her mess to chase every drop from her. He’d continue to edge himself as long as he gives his bad bitch plenty of orgasms. 

Smoke eases out of her spasming pussy with a wet pop, Zariah’s cream clinging thick in strings to his veined shaft, glossy from tip to base where her squirt and cream mixed in slick trails down his heavy balls. Smoke wastes no time and flips her over rough but steady, large hands gripping her hips to yank her ass high at the bed's edge, face pressed flat into the rumpled sheets, knees spread wide under his direction. One palm presses firm between her shoulder blades, forcing that deep arch in her spine until her spine hollows out perfectly, ass cheeks parting naturally from the stretch, lower back dipping sharp.

Her pussy blooms open in that position, lips puffy and flushed dark from the pounding, inner folds glistening raw and swollen, stuck slightly agape from his girth, unable to close full after the stretch. Cream leaks steady from that stretched, creamy hole, thick white rivulets bubbling out slow to trail down her inner thighs, mixing with squirt sheen that soaks the sheets beneath her knees. Above it, her pretty asshole winks in the cool air, the tight ring pulsing faint with each aftershock clench from her pussy below, pink-brown rim flexing open a fraction before snapping shut, begging subtle under the exposure.

Smoke stands planted at the edge, bare feet firm on the floor, thick thighs framing her as he lines up, messy dick heavy in his fist, curved length slapping once against her leaking slit to smear her own juices back over her clit. Then, he sinks in, crown breaching her folds with a squelch, inch after girthy inch parting her walls until his pelvis meets her ass full, balls nestling heavy against her clit. Slow strokes start, pulling back to the tip so her pussy lips drag reluctant along his ridges, then driving deep again, his hips rolling weighted to bottom out each time, grinding her depths before he withdraws again. 

“Zari…you daddy’s little bratty girl, huh?” Smoke rumbles low, thick and edged mean, one hand sinking deep into her left ass cheek, fingers digging to spread her wider. He watched his curved dick emerge shiny-coated in fresh cream, veins pulsing as her hole grips and tugs. “You piss me off just so I can fuck you like this? Bend you over and drill this good pussy deep?” Smoke popped her ass. “See how sweet you get when you finally let go?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah gasps throaty into the mattress, voice husky-fractured from the stretch, ass pushing back instinctively to meet his plunge, her walls fluttering around the slow invasion. “Yes, sir, I do—want this dick so bad.”

Smoke grunts his approval, other hand claiming a full handful of her right cheek—palms rough and veined, overflowing with soft flesh, kneading hard as he pulls her onto him deeper, pace still controlled but forceful, balls tapping her clit wet on each burial. Her leaky mess coated him fresh, pussy slurping audible around the drag. 

“That’s right. Act up so daddy give you some dick, stretch this bratty hole wide. Piss me off on purpose, gettin’ that arch just right for me too. You love bein’ face down, ass up, leakin’ all over my balls while I stroke it slow like this? Huh?”

“Mmm-yes sir,” Zariah moans soft-edged, body rocking forward with each deep seat, tits dragging along the sheets, back holding that arch under his palm's pressure, thighs quaking faint as the slow grind builds the pressure anew.

 “Love it daddy, love pissin’ you off for this—fuck me deep, please sir.”

Smoke’s grip tightens on her ass, spreading her cheeks farther to stare down at the sight, thick dick disappearing into her gripping pussy, lips hugging tight on the outstroke, cream frothing at the base where her hole milks him greedy. He picks up a fraction, strokes still deep but adding a twist at the end to nudge her g-spot, heavy balls swinging to smack her clit. Sweat beads his sculpted chest, biceps flexing as he holds her steady, heavy-lidded eyes tracing the messy union.

Each withdraw dragged her puffy lips outward, clinging to his veined length before he fed it back in full, pelvis slapping her ass cheeks with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls. His large hands overflow with her flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets cheek to pry her wider, exposing the way her hole stretches taut around his girth, inner walls visible in flashes of pink and slick as cream bubbles fresh at the seam. Her asshole keeps up its subtle pulse above, ring contracting in time with her pussy's greedy squeezes, a faint sheen of her own leak trickling down to gloss it further.

Zariah twists her neck, cheek lifting off the damp sheets, eyes glassy and desperate locking onto his over her shoulder, those lips he loved so much parted on heavy breaths, kinky hair spilling wild across her back. 

“Daddy–yyy,” she pleads raw, voice cracking high as one of her hands snakes down between her spread thighs, thumb finding her swollen clit to rub frantic circles, chasing the building coil. “Please sir, harder—gimme more dick, I need it deep.” Her hips buck back insistent against his controlled pace, ass jiggling faint in his grip, pussy slurping louder on the next plunge as her walls clamp down fluttering.

“Not yet, brat,” he growls thick, voice rolling low, free hand sliding up her spine to press her chest flatter, keeping that arch locked while his hips roll weighted, grinding the curve of his dick against her front wall on every bury. “You gon’ beg pretty for daddy first. Tell me how bad this pussy want it—how you act up just to get stretched like this, leakin’ all over me, nasty girl.” He watches her fingers blur faster on her clit, the way her thighs start quaking harder. “You feel how hard you holdin’ onto me? That stress been sittin’ in your body all damn week. Use me then, go ‘head.” 

“Daddy, yes, I'm your bratty girl, piss you off for this dick every time,” Zariah whines, head turning full to hold his gaze, eyes pleading wide while her fingers grind her clit ruthlessly, body rocking violently now between his strokes and her own touch. Her eyes go cross eyed as she gushes fresh around him, walls rippling wild as the pressure crests, her back bowing deeper under his palm, ass pressing back to take him to the hilt. “Daddy, daddy—I'm squirting, oh fuck sir, it's comin’—don't stop, talk me through it please!”

Smoke leans forward slightly, chest brushing her back as one hand releases her cheek to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back gently but firm to keep those eyes on him, the other palm smacking her ass once sharp to jolt her higher. His strokes stay slow but deepen, twisting at the base to nudge her g-spot while her fingers strum. 

“Good girl, there you do, baby girl, let it go for daddy. Feel that pussy squeezin’ me tight? You squirtin’ all over this dick, you can't help it. Push back on it, rub that clit harder—gimme that mess. You like bein’ handled, huh?”

“Yes—”

“That’s my baby right there.” 

His voice stays gravel-rough, guiding her edge with words as her body seizes, thighs locking, toes curling into the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.

Her squirt hits explosive, clear jets pulsing out around his buried length to spray his pelvis and thighs, puddling hot on the sheets below as her pussy convulses violently, clenching him in waves that force more cream to froth at the base. She stares back at him wild-eyed, mouth slack on gasps, fingers slowing sloppy through the aftershocks while he holds steady inside her, hips grinding minimal to prolong the clench, watching her leak mix with the spray in rivulets down her legs.

 “Good girl, just like that—daddy got you, keep cummin’ good tonight. There you go, let all that pressure out. Ain’t nobody gon’ take care of you like me. Daddy got you. Been a mean bitch for so long ain’t nobody fuck you stupid til I cam around,” Smoke pops her on the left cheek. “Quit actin’ tough and come get this comfort. Say, yes sir.” 

“Y–yes, sir.” 

 “Now we gettin’ to the good part. I’ma move when you ready, but when I do, you gon’ feel every stroke. You with me? Say it.”

Zariah exhales, “I’m with you, daddy.” She grips the sheets. 

“Talk to me, Zari. Words. You ready or daddy gotta give you a break?” 

Zariah sucks in air and lets it out meditating slow. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Smoke's grip shifts lightning-quick from her hair to her shoulders, thick fingers clamping down over the knobs of bone there, palms splaying wide across her upper back to yank her torso up off the soaked sheets, forcing that spine into a brutal arch. Her head snaps upright, chin tucking toward her chest while her eyes glaze over fucked-out, pupils blown wide staring dead ahead at the headboard, mouth hanging slack on drooling whimpers, tongue lolling faint as spit beads at the corner. The new angle spears his dick straight down into her core, her ass cheeks spreading obscene on his pelvis with every hilt, pussy lips puffing out bloated and raw around the veined stretch, cream and squirt foaming thick at the root to splatter his heavy balls on the upstroke.

Smoke rears back tall behind her, knees digging wider into the mattress for leverage, broad shoulders rolling fluid as his dense core tightens, abs flexing solid under sweat-slick brown skin that gleams. Those rounded delts bunch heavy, veins popping along his forearms as he hauls her back onto him harder, his hips snapping forward with punishing force now, no more tease, full throttle wrecking. Each thrust lands weighted and final, his pelvis crashing her ass with claps that ripple flesh outward in waves, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs while her entire frame jolts forward violently, tits swinging beneath her to smack her ribs. The bed frame groans protest under the onslaught, pure power uncoiling from that grounded stance, thighs thick and corded pumping relentlessly.

Zariah’s body's a live wire in the pound, pussy walls seizing erratic around his plunging length, clenching desperate to hold him but fluttering loose on the withdraw, gushing fresh squirt in erratic sprays that arc down her quaking thighs to puddle wider on the sheets. Every bury shoves her forward an inch before his shoulder grip reels her back, her ass meat compressing flat against him then bouncing rebound, ripples traveling up her spine to make her curls lash wild. Her thighs attempt to lock rigid then spasm open, toes scrabbling, curling into the mattress as her belly sucks in hollow, ribs heaving under sweat-sheened skin, fucked-out stare fixed unblinking ahead, lashes fluttering half-mast while tears streak silent from the corners, jaw slack wider on guttural cries that pitch higher with each rip through her depths.

“That little mean streak disappear fast when I touch you right. You been wantin’ this all day. Nah, stay right there I wanna watch you take it—look at my girl—take this dick tearin’ you open,” he rasps, drawl thickening hot over the wet slaps, one hand sliding from shoulder to tangle back in her hair—yanking her head higher to deepen the arch while the other digs  into her shoulder, pinning her steady for the ram. His chest heaves, heavy breaths fanning her neck as he leans over partial, hips pistoning machine-like, balls swinging to batter her clit, smearing her mess back up her folds. 

“Feel daddy rearrangin’ your guts? You soaked the whole damn bed beggin’ for it—now wet this dick up  again while I pound you stupid. Arch that back deeper, push this ass on me—gimme that grip, baby. You gon’ relax for me or keep fightin’ me, baby?”

Zariah chokes out a keen, body betraying full surrender—hips grinding back frantic despite the overwhelm, pussy convulsing in fresh spasms that squeeze him vise-tight, walls undulating a massage along every vein as another squirt builds from the core. Her arms buckle, elbows to the sheets, fingers clawing fabric while her tits drag heavy across the damp cotton, nipples scraping raw. Her entire frame shudders electric with the force, ass lifting instinctively to meet his slams even as her vision blurs white-hot ahead. Sweat rivers down her cleavage, pooling in her navel before dripping off to mix with the flood below, thighs slick and trembling spread wide around his pistoning thighs.

Smoke grunts approval low, pace ratcheting inhuman, thrusts blurring to a frenzy that shakes her teeth, his solid midsection slapping her ass endless while those large hands anchor her, veins throbbing prominent down his forearms from the haul. Sweat beads thick on his brow, trickling into the heavy stubble framing his jaw that’s set hard, dark eyes locked on the destruction between her legs, watching her hole gape briefly on pulls before swallowing him balls-deep again. 

“FUCK, just like that—pussy talkin’ back to daddy, on every stroke.” His voice coaches steady through the chaos, drawl wrapping command around her haze as her body hurtles toward shatter again, the room thick with their slap-echo and her broken pleas. “Breathe through it. You can handle it. This what happen when you act like you don't need me tellin' you what to do. Next time you think about steppin’ out of line, you remember how this dick feel stretchin’ you open and makin’ you cum so hard you can't even talk.” 

Smoke yanks free with a wet pop that leaves her hole gaping, pink inner walls fluttering visible, clenching air desperate around nothing while thick strands of her cream stretch and snap between his retreating length and her wrecked folds. Frothy white coats his dick heavy from root to tip, balls glossy-slick swinging low and heavy beneath, veins pulsing prominent along his curved shaft.

 “Flip over, clean this dick spotless, baby,” Smoke orders, cutting sharp through her haze as one large hand strokes himself base-up lazy, smearing her mess while the other pats her ass firm to roll her.

Zariah twists compliant on trembling limbs, spine sinking into the drenched mattress as she sprawls supine, hair fanning wild across the pillow, belly quivering faint under the aftershocks. Her thighs splay wide, knees bending hooks toward her shoulders to bare everything, pussy on full display. Lips swollen fat and parted like it wanted to stay just like that from now on, flushed deep around the edges from the tear-up, inner pink glistening obscene under a sheen of her own squirt that drips lazy from her stretched entrance. Her clit hood peeled back partial, pearl throbbing exposed and raw, folds puffy-ridged from friction with cream beading fresh in the creases, entire slit pulsing like a heartbeat begging refill.

Smoke kneels up tall between her legs, knees bracketing her hips as he feeds his dick forward, tip bumping her lips expectant. Zariah cranes her neck, tongue darting out to lap broad from balls upward, tracing the heavy seam salty with her tang before sucking one orb full into her mouth, cheeks hollowing while her hand cups the other, rolling it. Up the shaft next, flat laps cleaning veins groove by groove, swirling the flared head to hollow her cheeks around it vacuum-tight, sucking her cream off audible with slurps that echo wet, spit mixing fresh to dribble down her chin as she moans low vibrations against him. His free hand dives between her thighs unhurried, palm cupping her mound full before thick fingers part those bloated lips wider, middle and ring sliding through the slick valley, parting her petals to expose that clenching core.

Feels like firework sparks when he rubs. Thick fingers coarse-knuckled dragging pressure perfect over her clit first, circling the hood lazy to make it twitch and swell fatter under the pad of his thumb joining in, then dipping lower to trace entrance rim where her walls suck greedy at the intrusion. That sweet pussy yields butter-soft inside, hot velvet clamping instant on the shallow probes, gushing syrupy response that coats his digits knuckle-deep. Each pass through her folds sends jolts electric up her spine. Zariah’s thighs jerked, spread while her hips buck faint to chase. Her outer lips drag sensitive along his palm skin, inner ridges fluttering as he massaged with his fingertips that scoop cream back up to smear her clit renewed, building that coil tight again with every glide.

Zariah polishes him thoroughly, tongue polishing the underside ridge before popping off clean with a gasp. Her hand wrapped around the base firm now to stroke with a upward twist, the skin gliding smooth over the cleaned glans while her gaze locks with his from below. Sultry heat simmers there, lids heavy-lidded fuck-drunk but sharp with desire, full lips curving wicked as teeth catch the bottom one, dragging slowly, holding his stare unblinking, challenge wrapped in surrender. Smoke groans deep, torso folding forward lean as his mouth crashes hers hungry—tongue thrusting his claim deep to tangle hers messy, tasting her own flavor shared while fingers keep working her pussy, two now plunging knuckle-deep to curl and hook against that front wall.

The kiss breaks on her whine, his beard rasping her chin, then his lips trail fire down her throat, nipping her collarbone before his palms scoop under her breasts heavy, thumbs flicking her chocolate nipples side-to-side to make them diamond-hard. Smoke kneads them, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh to shape and bounce them palm-to-palm, mouth latching hot over one peak to suck with a vacuum pull while his teeth graze faintly. His tongue lashes flat on her areolas before nibbling gently. Her strokes quicken on his dick, thumb swiping pre cum at his slit.

Smoke releases her nipple with a wet smack, lips glossy from the pull as his gaze lifts heavy to lock hers, dark eyes boring deep, one thumb still circling the slick peak lazy while the other hand squeezes her other titty, flesh spilling between fingers. 

“Good girl, Zariah,” Smoke rumbles faintly, voice dipping low like thunder. “Daddy proud of you…takin’ this dick so deep, stretchin’ that pussy perfect. Handlin’ yo’ punishment like a champ too, ass sore but you stayed right there, took every lick without runnin’.That's my baby.”

Zariah gasps sharp, hand tightening its stroke on his girthy dick, twisting from base to tip with precum and spit slicking the glide. Her eyes fluttered half-shut before snapping back to him.

 “Yes,” she breathes out needy, hips rolling faint into his stalled fingers still buried knuckle-deep in her folds.

Smoke chuckles low, free hand sliding up her thigh to anchor as he pulls his fingers free with a squelch, strings of her arousal snapping clear. 

“Mmm, yeah…and that's why daddy spoil you rotten. Fuck you good whenever you crave it, eat that sweet pussy till you flood my face. You mine to treat right.” His mouth brushes her earlobe feather-light, beard scraping her chin.  

“Yes, baby, you always know what I need,” Zariah moans velvety, arching her back to press her titties fuller into his palm, legs parting wider. “I love how you treat me. I'm your princess.” Her lips part on a whine, gaze sultry, locked.

Smoke nods slow approval, torso unfolding tall as he nudges her knees wider, settling heavy between her thighs, dick bobbing thick upright against her mound, tip nudging her clit. Zariah’s body's pliant now, limbs loose-jointed from the haze, so he hooks his elbows under her knees easy, folding her double with her thighs pinned to her chest, calves framing his shoulders tight. That pussy blooms upward obscenely, outer lips mashed flat from how spread open she is, inner folds splayed wide and quivering, entrance winking creamy-pink around the void, clit mashed prominent and pulsing under the weight of his dick resting heavy along her slit. Cream pools fresh in the crease, dripping backward to lube her puckered hole. 

Smoke notches his tip at her entrance, eyes never breaking hers, heavy-lidded stare pinning her soul-deep and thrusts in one long stroke, dick disappearing inch-by-thick-inch till his balls nestle snugly against her upturned ass, stretch burning visible in the way her walls bulge around all that girth. 

“Damn, princess, pussy grippin' daddy tight like I ain’t fucked you open,” Smoke praises, drawl stretching vowels lazy as his hips draw back on a slow drag, veins dragging friction along the inner ridges of her walls before snapping forward to bury fully again, pelvis slapping her ass with an audible wet sound. His Stroke pulls half-out next, her inner lips clinging reluctant to the retreat, then he plunges renewed, hitting that bottom with a grind that mashes her clit under his pubic bone. “You know who this belong to. Don't you? Say it for me.”

“Daddy’s pussy…daddy’s pussy.” Zariah whines. 

“I see you. See how you holdin'm’ on. How you lettin’ me own this. You doin’ so good for me, Zari. Real good, baby.” 

Zariah’s folded frame shudders, tits squished between her thighs as her walls clamp on the invasion, sparks exploding core-deep from the deep hits that kiss her cervix. Each thrust sends ripples through her puffy, pussy lips, cream frothing white at the seal where he bottoms out, her breaths punching out on the reentries while her eyes stay fused to his, wide and glassy with the lock, lips mouthing silent pleas. 

“All this dick, baby, take it all—daddy got you,” Smoke coos, pace building like a piston now, balls swinging tap-tap against her tailbone with every deep drive, his gaze unwavering intensely as he watches every twitch, every flutter, every jerk, every silent scream, every shake. 

Smoke's stare sharpen like a predator, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing to slits while his hands clamp on the backs of her thighs, thumbs digging meaty divots to pin her folded frame immobile. He snaps his hips downward piston-hard, big dick plummeting into her splayed pussy with a wet schlap that echoes off the walls, balls slapping her ass crack heavy before the recoil yanks him half-out only to hammer back in, burying full.

No words now, just breath hissing through his teeth, chest heaving as he tunnels, each drop stroke burying to the hilt, dick dragging brutal against her clamping walls that suck reluctantly at the retreat. His pace ratchets machine-steady, bedframe groaning under and the mattress dipping deep where his toes anchored. Sweat beads his temple and trails down, dripping onto her upturned tits that jiggle chaotic with every impact, nipples peaked tight from the frenzy.

Zariah's moans rip free raw, high-pitched keens fracturing into throaty wails that bounce off the ceiling, back arching futile against the fold as her thighs quake trapped in his hold. Her manicured acrylic nails rake fire-trails down his bulging biceps, carving pink welts into the sweat-slick skin that flexes corded under the gouge. Her calves locked rigid around his shoulders while her toes splay then curl tight, soles cramping from the building blaze. That battered pussy convulses wildly around his invading girth, cream gushing frothier at the seal with every plunge, inner muscles fluttering desperately to milk on those veins pulsing hot inside her. That curve hitting spots that make her dizzy. That tip kissing the back of her pussy, making her stomach clench. 

Tension coils her belly taut, breaths punching erratic as sparks ignite white-hot, walls seizing brutally on the next drop that kisses her spot, and she shatters. Squirt erupts forceful, clear jets arcing from her spasming slit to splatter his abs, soaking the shaft still lodged halfway as her pussy clamps and ejects, flooding the crease between her ass cheeks in hot rivulets that puddle onto the sheets, dampening it dark beneath her. Zariah’s body bucks helplessly in Smoke’s fold, eyes rolling on a scream that shreds hoarse while her nails dig crescent moons into his forearms.

Smoke grunts low once, chest rumbling the sound, before yanking free with an obscene squelch, dick springing upright glossy and throbbing, veins livid against the slick sheen of her release coating every inch from balls to tip. He unfolds her legs, thighs blooming wide as gravity settles her limp, then shoulders between them rough—head dipping low to seal his full lips hot over her quivering pussy. That thick tongue plunges flat and broad through her splayed folds, lapping the gush pooled in her entrance like a glutton, tongue flicking up to swirl her clit hood and those lips start sucking the pulsing nub vacuum-tight. Smoke smacked his lips wet, devouring every drop. His thick fingers splay her lips wider, exposing the pink inner clench still fluttering post-squirt, and he tongues deep inside to scoop the cream hollowing her out, beard scraping thighs raw as nose buries into her mound drag her scent full lungs.

Zariah stared down at him dumbfounded. She didn’t have the capacity to form words. He was eating her pussy up and even her twitching didn’t stop him from overstimulating her. 

Her vision blurred as aftershocks ripple through her, body slack against the soaked sheets, chest rising and falling shallow while her pussy throbs exposed, folds. Moans spill lazy from her throat, fracturing into his name drawn long and needy

“Smoke...Smoke…” her hips canting, rolling her slick pussy against his locked mouth, grinding her clit over his probing tongue that flicks non-stop like a propeller. Her thighs clamp his ears, heels digging into his back to pull him tighter into her drenched heat, cream smearing into his beard thick as she chases the friction through the daze, palming the top of his low cut ceasar with the deep waves.

Smoke’s growl vibrates low against her pussy before he lifts, his face slick-shined, eyes burning dark into hers, jaw set granite

“Gon’ nut so deep in this pussy, lock it down tight.” No pause, Smoke surges up fluid, knees bracketing her hips, one hand fisting the base of his dick slick-heavy to notch his tip bluntly at her fluttering hole, then he slams home in a single thrust, burying balls-deep with a meaty thwack that jolts her tits.

Silence is only broken by skin-slaps wet,  his powerful hips snapping, pulling that dick to drag slow, veins bulging against her pussy grip before dropping to grind deep with a roll of his hips. His pace builds, thighs flexing like steel under sweat rivers carving paths down his obliques, abs clenching ridge-defined with every plunge that stretches her walls around that curved dick invading her pussy. The headboard thumped the wall with dull thuds while his heavy balls swung to slap her ass cheeks spread wide, drawing creamy froth at the seal to drip down her crack.

Zariah’s moans pitch frantically while her hands claw his shoulders, gouging fresh welts into the flexing traps. Her Legs hook his waist and she locks her ankles to pull him deeper, pussy clenching, ridges pulsing hot inside, and her words tumbled desperate to coach him through. 

“This yo’ pussy, Smoke—cum in yo’ pussy, big daddy...fill this pussy up, give it all...show me who this pussy belong to. Tear it up, big daddy…stretch me out…ahhh–nnghhh–big ass dick…oh…big dick—yes, right there, right there, don’t stop, stroke it—yessss.” Her voice cracks husky, hips bucking in a counter-rhythm. 

Smoke’s groan shreds guttural, throat raw cords straining as his eyes bore into hers unblinking, heavy-lidded slits flaring wide with the lock. His muscles are cable-tight across his shoulders, biceps ballooning veins livid under her rake, traps bunching while his quads quake to brace the final drives. That big dick swells thicker mid-thrust, tip flaring to kiss her depths, and he erupts—balls drawing up tight, contracting, pulsing thick-hot ropes to flood her clenching channel and paint her walls white. His thrusts stutter shallow, grinding his thick seed deeper, damn near churning it to froth with her cream, that veiny beast jerking erratic against the flutter, that pussy milking every drop while an overflow seeps slow down her ass. His groan drags endless, chest heaving bellows against her neck, forehead dropping to hers sweat-slick as the last pulse fades, his body a heavy drape over her pinned frame. 

Smoke eases his thick, curved dick out of Zariah's soaked pussy inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge and stretch as he pulls free. The wet slide leaves her entrance fluttering, slick with their mixed fluids. He stays close, one broad hand resting on the curve of her hip while he watches her body settle.

“You took all that dick so good for me, baby. Real good. My pretty girl handled every inch. See? Ain’t gotta fight me all the time. C’mere, pretty girl.”

Smoke leans down and presses his lips to her forehead, then again just above her brow, then once more near her hairline. Three kisses that linger each time.

“Stay right there. Don’t move.”

Smoke stands, his heavy frame casting a shadow over her sprawled form. Zariah lies on her side like a goddess, long legs slightly parted, rich brown skin glowing with sweat and satisfaction, full lips curved in a lazy smile from being fucked so thoroughly. Her narrow waist and soft hips look even more inviting in the afterglow. Smoke steps away toward the bathroom first, turning on the jacuzzi tub so warm water starts filling with steady jets. The sound of bubbles fills the space. He then leaves the room entirely to head for the kitchen. 

On his way out. He glances back at her again. 

“Stay right there. I'll be back to get you in a minute.”

About ten minutes goes by and Zariah’s phone rings while she’s still sprawled on the bed, freshly fucked and glowing. She reaches for it lazily, answering with that professional tone she keeps for work. 

“Hey, it’s Z. Ellie…hey. Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on?”

Ellie, her publicist starts rattling off a packed schedule—more shoots, events, back-to-back bookings for the next month. Zariah listens, nodding along even though no one can see her, her voice calm and composed.

Smoke walks back into the room carrying the tray with her herbal tea and water. He sets it down, eyes locking on her. That look says everything without a word. He steps closer, takes the phone right out of her hand, and brings it to his ear.

“Ellie, right? Listen, she gon’ need a week off. Clear the next seven days—yes, a week. Y’all can make it happen.” His voice is final. He hangs up before the publicist can reply.

Zariah sits up a little, mouth opening to protest. “Smoke—”

He leans in and kisses her, slow and with tongue, cutting off whatever she was about to say. When he pulls back, his hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her full lower lip.

“You gon’ need some rest and relaxation. I plan to fuck you and eat that pussy in every room of this place. You hear me?”

Zariah stares at him, that familiar tension flickering between them—her independence brushing up against his weight. Smoke doesn’t move. He just waits, eyes steady on hers. Slowly, she melts, no need to fight him when truthfully she could use a little break. And seven full days of back-to-back sex with her big, bad, man? Hell yeah. 

“Say it. Yes, daddy.”

Zariah exhales, shoulders softening the way they do when she chooses to meet him. Her voice comes out quiet but clear. 

When you and Michael started dating, he knew that it’d be an interesting experience. Interesting being the fact that you were completely obsessed with horror movies, while he was too terrified to watch them. 

It was actually how you guys met. 

You did a lot of film reviews online as your side job. You were a known film nerd, but you were especially popular in the horror movie space. It was refreshing for women of color to see a woman who looked like them sharing her love of horror movies. 

You know a lot about movies. From the production to the cinematography to the screenplay. You always paid attention to those details. When Sinners was first announced, you were so hyped, especially when you found out that it was going to be a horror movie. 

You popped up on Ryan’s radar as a fellow film nerd, so he and Zinzi made the decision to invite you to an exclusive screening of Sinners with a few other film nerds and the cast. 

When you stepped into the room, Michael couldn’t take his eyes off you. From your big curly hair to the bright smile on your face. You had dressed in a Texas Chainsaw Massacre tee with a pair of jeans, and a stack of necklaces complementing the fit. Michael loved how you could make something so casual seem so unique. 

A few people who recognized you from your social media flocked to you to gush over being there. You were a radiant beacon of energy and Michael couldn’t help but gravitate to you. 

Even when Ryan stood in front to introduce the film, you kept your eyes on him. Your gaze didn’t flicker to Michael once. When the lights dimmed for the screening to begin, you chose to sit in the middle to watch the screen. It surprised Michael because he knew that everyone else would be practically salivating to sit near the cast. 

He saw an empty seat next to you and took his chance while no one else was looking. He slid in the seat and settled just as the room went completely dark. 

He turned his head to the side and flashed a smile at you. You gave him a polite smile in return, but kept your gaze on the screen in front of you. He thinks that made him fall deeper for you. You didn’t care about him being here, you were genuinely here for your love of film. 

As much as Michael hated watching himself on screen, it helped to be sitting next to you. From the corner of his eye, he watched you intensely to gauge your reactions to the movie. When the “I Lied to You” montage started, he clocked the way your breath hitched and the light that illuminated in your eyes.

Mentally, he clocked all of your reactions to each scene in the movie. The small laughs you would let out at certain lines. The way you cheered when Smoke killed the Klan members. It was fascinating to see you experience this movie. 

At the end of the movie, you clapped along with everyone else, and soon, Michael was being called back up front to do a Q & A with everyone. You didn’t ask questions, but you simply listened to everyone’s questions and answers. 

After the event ended, a few people lingered hoping to get pictures with the cast. Michael watched you from the corner of his eyes, hoping to get the chance to talk to you. He smiled dutifully for a few pictures. 

When he looked over next, you and Ryan were engrossed in a deep conversation. Whatever you had said had Ryan practically  howling with laughter. Michael took the chance to slide over in yours and Ryan’s direction. 

Ryan noticed him first, “Oh hey Mike, I gotta introduce to somebody, man. I’m a fan of her work, she’s amazing.” Ryan said your name to Michael and internally, Michael rolled the syllables of your name around in his mouth.

He really liked the sound of your name. 

You held your hand out to Michael and he gladly shook your hand. Seeing as though, Ryan knew Michael like the back of his hand, he could tell that he was interested in you. 

“It was really good seeing you. I appreciate you coming out,” Ryan said, hugging you one last time. He smirked at Michael and nodded his head at him. 

Michael turned back to you, “Did you like the movie?”

Your eyes glimmered in excitement, “Yeah, it was transcending. I don’t think I’ve felt like that in a movie for a while. You were amazing by the way. Was that intentional with the different voice inflections for Smoke and Stack?” 

Michael’s eyes widened. He was surprised that you had picked up on the subtle differences that he had crafted for the characters. 

“Yeah! Um, I actually worked a vocal coach to pull some archival footage of a people speaking from the 30s,” Michael explained. 

“That’s so cool. I could tell that you put a lot of work into showing the differences between the twins. It’s really good work. Congratulations.” Michael was about to say more when you looked past him. You gave him one of those polite smiles that signaled the end of a conversation.

“Looks like a lot of people are waiting to meet you. It was nice meeting you, Michael. Congratulations again.” You said, turning to leave. 

“Wait, don’t you want a picture?” He quickly corrected himself, “For your video?”

You pondered the suggestion over in your mind, “Sure.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket and opened the camera app. Michael grabbed the phone and noted the horror movie case adorning the phone. 

He held your phone out and snapped way more pictures than you needed. He pulled your body closer to his as you both smiled into the camera. He was tempted to ask for your number when he handed your phone back. You thanked him once last time before leaving.

The next day, Michael was stalking all of your social media pages. You had recently uploaded your official review of Sinners. At the end of the video, you had clipped in one of the pictures you and Michael. 

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You flipped it upside down to see the new notification.

@michaelbjordan is now following you..

@michaelbjordan liked your video.

You saw that your video was blowing up even more because of Michael commenting and sharing it to his story. 

@michaelbjordan: It was nice meeting you the other day. I’m glad you liked the movie♥️

You liked his comment and replied with a simple “♥️♥️.” You weren’t going to make it a big deal. Sure, you thought Michael was fine. Who didn’t? Those dimples were enough to send any woman or man spiraling. 

But you weren’t about to bet all of your cards that he was checking for you. 

However, Michael was 100% checking for you. He was always liking your videos and DM’ing you on the side. He was getting bolder and bolder with his messages, trying to toe the line between implication and directly saying it. 

He wanted you bad. 

After a few weeks of DM’ing, he had worked his way up to asking for your number. The conversation between you both is constant. You and Michael nerd out about anything from movies to music to food. It’s refreshing to have a conversation with someone, who doesn’t care that he’s Michael B. Jordan. 

Once Sinners is released, it’s a hit. You’re not surprised in the least. You already knew that the film would be on a generational run. Despite his busy press schedule, Michael still keeps in contact with you. Your texts upgrade to phone calls and FaceTimes. 

Michael is hyped when Ryan mentions that his production company, Proximity Media, is getting you to do one of the interviews with him and Ryan. He feels like it’s first time having a crush with how excited he gets to see you. 

The following day, you enter with room in a casual fit. Ryan had made it clear that he wanted this to be an informal conversation with three nerds. You were wearing a custom Sinners tee that both Ryan and Michael clocked. 

Michael pulls your frame to his. “I’m happy you’re here,” He whispers in your ear. 

You smile back, “Happy to be here.” You both stare at each other for a few seconds with Ryan in the corner with Zinzi sipping on his espresso. 

“You planned this, didn’t you?” Zinzi questions, a smirk covering her own face. 

“I mean it’s a win for us both. I wanted somebody that I know has a passion for the movie just as much as I do, and I can tell he really likes her.” Ryan explains. 

They both turn their gazes back to you and Michael. You’re explaining something and they don’t even know if Michael fully even registers what you’re talking about. The man in question is looking at you like you hung the stars. It’s literally giving the embodiment of “blah blah blah proper name backstory stuff.”

Zinzi and Ryan both laugh at how down bad Michael is for you. 

The interview starts with you introducing yourself before introducing Ryan and Michael. You didn’t let the fact that you had a personal connection to Michael dilute the interview. You were the perfect balance between funny, professional, casual, and thoughtful. 

“Okay question for you Michael. When it comes to playing characters like Smoke and Stack, I know that I’ve heard actors say that they resonate with pieces of the characters that they play. Which twin would you say you’re more like?”

Michael laughs slightly, “Stack for sure.” 

“So reckless and irresponsible?” 

Michael and Ryan both start laughing loudly. Michael shakes his head, “No, no. A little reckless sometimes, but mostly I mean that I’m goofy like Stack, I love to play around.”

Ryan looks at you, “Who do you prefer more out of Stack and Smoke?” 

You smirk, “I mean is both an option?” Ryan starts cracking up, while Michael smiles in your direction. “To be honest, younger me would be drawn to Stack. But me now, I’d pick Smoke for sure. He looks like he runs a strict program.” 

The three of you laugh in response of your question. Michael can’t take his eyes off you the entire time which the camera picks up on. By the end of the interview, you’re all making jokes like you’ve known each other for years. 

When the interview drops, your numbers jump up tremendously. Everybody comments on how chill Ryan and Michael look around you. They specifically pick up on Michael’s demeanor around you. 

@teammbj: okay but am I crazy or is the chemistry between them really good?

@mbjfanpage: Mike didn’t take his eyes off my good sis not one time 

@smokestack: did yall see how he was looking when she said she wanted Smoke and Stack. 

@whimsyblackgirl: I love the fact that we all peeped Michael looking at her, but can we talk about how good she did at this interview. The questions really showed how much of a film geek that she is. I could see them hiring her for more interviews 

Michael shares the interview on his story. He pulls up your contact. He’s done beating around the bush, he figures now is a good time to make a move. 

You pick up on the first ring, “Wow a phone call in the middle of the day. I’m starting to think you may be obsessed with me.” 

“Maybe I just like you a lot. Let me take you out on Friday.” 

The line goes silent for a while, “Sure, let’s do it.”

Michael picks you up on Friday. He takes you to a fancy restaurant with names of food that you won’t pretend to pronounce. 

He sips from his glass, “So what started your love for movies?”

“Horror movies actually. My uncle used to buy all of these bootleg DVDs from this guy in our neighborhood. He’d always let me sit and watch them with him. I think my earliest memory of a horror movie was Night of The Living Dead with Duane Jones. I remember the scene where he got killed and my uncle paused it to talk about the significance of it all. He always told me to remember that all horror is political and to always look for the meaning,” You find yourself blushing at the end of your speech.

“Sorry, I just really love horror movies,” You said, sipping from your own drink.

“No, don’t apologize for that. It’s refreshing to see someone be passionate like that,” Michael replied. 

As he paid and you left the restaurant, he held your hand as you both walked to the car. He turned to you, “I’m not ready for the night to end yet. I have one last surprise if you’re down for it.”

You smiled at the boyish look on his face. You nodded in response as he held the car door open for you. Butterflies fluttered through your stomach as you clocked that he was still holding your hand while he drove. 

Your smile widened when Michael pulled up to one of the local movie theaters. 

“You’re taking me to watch a movie?” You asked. 

“Actually, I’m taking you to watch your favorite movie. They’re playing The Thing tonight. I remember you mentioning in one of your videos that it was one of your top 4,” He explained casually. Your eyes widened a bit. 

“You watch my videos?” 

He nodded, “Yeah, they’re really good. It’s refreshing to hear you talk about movies and explain the mechanics behind the production and themes. I like to play them while I’m working out or lounging. You should start a podcast.”

A soft laugh left your lips. You started to wonder if you were dreaming or not. Michael was pleasantly surprised when you pulled his face down to yours and connected your lips. His hand found the side of your face as he deepened the kiss. 

He continue to litter soft pecks against your lips as he pulled back. You both stood there smiling at each other. You entered the theater hand in hand. 

You both chose to share a pack of sweet tart ropes along with cherry coke slushies. Fortunately, there weren’t any people in the auditorium which meant that you and Michael had the entire place to yourselves. 

As the movie began, you became engrossed almost immediately. Michael was watching but his eyes flickered to you and your reactions. You gently explained facts about the movie to him during certain scenes.

Michael had left out one detail to you. He was absolutely terrified of horror movies. Even the process of filming Sinners was a bit squeamish to him. He found himself tensing and jumping in the seat at certain parts. 

When the part came with them trying to do CPR on one of the crew members and the person’s chest opened up, Michael shrank in his chair. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, turning your head to him. 

“Huh? Oh yeah. I’m just not really a horror movie person. I’m actually kind of squeamish about gore.” 

“Oh no, I didn’t know. Do you wanna leave?” You questioned, your face showing obvious concern. 

Michael shook his head, “No, I’ll be fine. I want us to stay.”

He continued to sit through the movie, but he was doing a terrible job at not acting scared. From the corner of his eye, you looked completely unphased by the gore. You could sense that Michael was scared, so you intertwined your fingers together. You laid your head on his shoulders. 

In response, Michael wrapped his arm around you. This way it gave him semblance of comfort and feeling like he was the one protecting you. 

From that moment, it changed the trajectory of your relationship with Michael. You were now officially his nerdy horro fanatic girlfriend and he was your scarredy cat boyfriend. 

It clicked well.

_______________________

Four months later, you and Michael were still going strong. Your career in the movie space was flourishing. More production companies were calling you to come review their movies and interview their casts.

You respected the art of journalism. In a world of social media journalists, you set yourself apart by ensuring that you did your research and developed engaging questions for the cast. What people loved more about your content was how you would interview members of the production crew to talk about the technicality of their jobs. 

Naturally, you were in the spotlight more for being Michael’s girlfriend, but you were clear to not make being his girlfriend your brand. In fact, diehard fans had even started referring to Michael as your boyfriend as if he wasn’t the big movie star. 

It was the weekend, which meant that it was movie weekend for you and Michael. Each week when you both were free, you would alternate picking movies for each other. You always tried to pick horror movies that you felt like Michael could handle. On the few separate times when you picked hardcore horror, he almost fainted.

Tonight, you had picked The Exorcist. Michael had assured you that he felt confident enough to handle the movie. 

A couple of minutes in, he was already spooked. He pulled your body closer under the guise of wanting to cuddle, but actually he was scared. 

“You okay, baby?” You asked looking up at Michael. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He answered, placing a kiss on your lips. You deepened the kiss and slid your tongue in his mouth. In response, Michael let out a low groan. 

Soon, you were straddling his hips while his hands wandered up your shorts. 

Pulling back, Michael placed kisses down the column of your throat. He sucked gently at that sensitive spot while he continued grinding your hips down on his. 

“You know this is usually the part in the scary movie when the couple gets chopped up into tiny pieces,” you said, breath uneven. 

“Good thing we aren’t in a horror movie. But don’t worry baby, I’d protect you.” He said connecting your lips back together. 

You both continued to make out on the couch until you pulled back. “I gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back, baby.” You slid off Michael’s lap and walked to the bathroom. 

Michael’s gaze settled back to the tv where The Exorcist was still playing. He was half tempted to pause the movie. Six minutes passed and you still weren’t back. 

“Baby, you good?” He called out, but received no response. 

He bit his lip as the anxiety started rising in his chest. Michael stood from the couch and went to the bathroom. He gently knocked on the door and waited to hear you respond. When you didn’t, he gently opened the door and found it empty. 

The fear started to spike in his chest. 

He jumped when his phone started ringing. Your contact popped up on the phone. 

Sliding the answer button over, he placed the phone up to this ear, “Baby, where you at?” 

“Hello Michael,” a raspy voice answered back. Michael quickly pulled the phone back to confirm it was your number. 

“Who is this?” He asked.

The voice laughed, “That’s not important. But I do have one question for you. What’s your favorite scary movie, Michael?”

“Baby, this isn’t funny. You know I don’t like scary movies.”

“Cute of you to assume I’m your girlfriend. She’s rather tied up at the moment,” the voice snickered.

Michael started moving quickly through each room, but still no sign of you. “What’s wrong, Michael? You scared?” 

“Aye, I ain’t got time for this! If you did something to my girl, it’s gone be me and you,” Michael said roughly into the phone. Truthfully, he was scared out of his mind. 

“Let’s play a game first, Michael. You answer my questions and I’ll let your girlfriend go. Deal?”

“Deal.” 

“First question, who was the killer in Nightmare on Elm Street?” 

“Freddy Krueger!”

“Good! You might just win. In Jeepers Creepers, how many years until he comes back?” 

Michael ponders on the question and tries to remember. “Ummm…23 years?”

“Correct again, Michael! In the People under the Stairs, what’s the name of the couple’s daughter?” 

Michael’s eyes widen. He hadn’t watched that movie with you yet. He remembered you talking about it, but he hadn’t seen it. 

“Sarah?”

The voice chuckles on the other end of the line. “Wrong answer, Michael. Guess your girlfriend won’t make it to the sequel.” 

The call ends. Your loud scream radiates through the house before the lights pop out. The house is in complete darkness. Michael quickly turns his flash light on. His hand is shaking the entire time. Somewhere in the house, a door slams. 

Michael is silently praying the entire time. 

“Baby,” he calls out softly, hoping to catch sight of you. 

He quietly creeps up the stairs. 

He looks around the bedroom for you. Internally, his gut is telling him to high tail it from the house, but honestly, it would be a douche move to leave you in the house alone. 

As he turns, the hair rises on his arms. “Michael,” a voice whispers. 

Michael’s eyes go toward the closet which is slightly open. 

“Nope,” Michael says before turning and running down the stairs. 

Glancing behind him, he almost faints at seeing a shadow at the top of the stairs. 

He runs in the direction of the kitchen and is about to go to the door. He can hear the front door slamming in response. 

He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, heart beating erratically out of his chest. He bumps into the counter and drops his phone on the floor. When he leans down to pick it up, he quickly stands again. 

His eyes frantically search around in the dark to make out some semblance of an exit. A hand touches his shoulder and a voice whispers, “Found you.”

Michael does the only normal thing his body can think of, he starts screaming and swinging erratically. The lights turn back on and Michael is still screaming and swinging. 

He finally stops and opens his eyes. You’re standing in the middle of the room, trying to hold your laughter in. 

Michael has his arm still mid swing when you finally start laughing loudly. You actually start clutching your stomach while tears are streaming down your face. 

“Oh my god, baby, you were so scared!” You wheezed out. 

Michael lets out a deep breath, “GIRL! You scared me! What’s wrong with you?” He leans against the counter and starts to calm his heart down. 

You move to stand in front of him. Your hands come up to cradle his face, “I’m sorry baby. That was mean.” You say this with a pout on your face and start placing gentle kisses on his lips. 

Michael’s body melts into yours. He finally starts laughing, “I don’t think anyone’s ever pranked me like that before. That was good. I mean you turned the lights off and you really got me good upstairs.” 

At this, you start frowning, “What are you talking about?” 

“Upstairs. You know hiding in the closet and whispering my name. Standing at the top of the stairs almost had me peeing on myself,” Michael answers. 

You pause and your frown deepens, “Michael, I didn’t go into the bedroom. I’ve been downstairs in the kitchen the whole time.”

Michael stops laughing. He expects you to say that you’re joking and that it was you, but you don’t fix your mouth to correct it. 

“Wait, but how did you close the front door?” Both of your heads turn to the front door. 

“Baby, I promise, I’ve been in the kitchen this entire time.” You say, moving to stand closer to Michael. 

Instead of doing the typical thing of questioning it, you and Michael both look at each other. 

“Nope,” you both say before making your way outside to his car.

Assimilation (noun): the process of becoming similar to something.

June 4th, 2025 (Present Day)

You moved through the kitchen with practiced ease. You had been living in your home for over three years, so it was only natural that you were familiar with all the nooks and crannies of the home that you and your husband had purchased.

You opened the stove to observe the appearance of the baked gravy pork chops. Once you were satisfied with the progress, you closed the stove and moved on to making your mashed potatoes. You gently carved at the browned skins of the vegetables until you were satisfied with the amount. You placed the shaved potatoes in a pot of water on the stove and turned it on. 

You gently hummed a familiar tune, A Song for You, by Donny Hathaway. It was a favorite of you and your husband. He often liked to sing the song to you in bed, even though it sounded terrible coming from his mouth. You laughed every time and sang it with him to save him the embarrassment. 

Now, the song only serves as a painful reminder of the loss of your beloved husband. 

You quickly pushed the thoughts from your mind before they ventured into dangerous territory. A knock sounded throughout the house, and you quickly moved from the kitchen to your front door. The flow of your dress twisted and flared at your sides as you moved gracefully to the door. 

Grasping the knob between your hand and pulling the door open, you started to speak, “Dave, I wasn’t expecting you here so early. The food isn’t nearly do–” 

You stopped short in your sentence as the air in your chest started to become constricted. Dave wasn’t the one standing at the door as you expected.

No, your husband was standing on the other side of the door.

Your dead husband.

Your husband, who had been declared legally dead eight months ago.

You watched the man with your husband’s face scan his eyes down your frame as if refamiliarizing himself with your features again. His eyes locked on yours again.

“Hi, rabbit.”

At hearing his voice, that same deep cadence that you had grown to love the sound of, you did the only reasonable thing that a woman in your situation would do.

You fainted.

__________________

August 19th, 2023 (Two years ago–first meeting)

Sergeant Michael B. Jordan has been through a lot. Survived basic camp training. Two tours in different countries. Flew planes at speeds that no other person in the world would ever get the privilege of doing. He had survived being shot at behind enemy lines. 

But the scariest thing by far had to be the concept of having to approach you.

It started in the grocery store. An Aldi’s that he liked to come to because the groceries were more affordable. Michael spotted you first. You were tracing the lines of a watermelon and gently tapping your fingers across the skin of the fruit. He subtly stared at you from the corner of his eye as his fingers danced across the lemons. 

You were, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen. Even in a pair of biker shorts and an oversized graphic tee, he found himself drawn to you. He had been subconsciously working up the nerve to talk to you, but he talked himself down each time. 

Surely, someone as beautiful as you had someone waiting for you at home? 

But he thought to himself–he’d be a fool not to shoot his shot at you. He lightly walked over to you and stood by you. He pretended to be looking at the watermelons as well, but frankly, he had been allergic to watermelon since he was six years old. 

“How can you tell if it’s a good watermelon?” He asked.

You jumped slightly, as if you had just realized that the man was standing next to you. Your eyes tracked up and down his face, and you smiled lightly, “You see that yellow spot on the lower side?” Michael nodded as you pointed to the spot. “Yellow usually tells you that it’s a lot more ripe. But also if you tap it, and it sounds deep and hollow, that usually means that it’s ripe.”

You tested the theory by tapping on one of the watermelons. To Michael, it sounded like a regular watermelon, but then you urged him to come closer as you tapped on another watermelon. He heard the distinct sounds between the two watermelons and looked up at you in wonder. 

“If you’re thinking of buying one, you should get that one,” You said, pointing to the watermelon that you initially tapped.

Michael smiled sheepishly, “Umm..actually, I’m allergic to watermelon. I actually just came over here because I wanted to talk to you.”

You laughed and smiled at him again. Seeing your smile up close made Michael feel like the entire world had stopped. He wanted to see more of that beautiful smile. 

“I’m Michael,” he said, holding his hand out to yours.

You connected your hands with his and gave him your name. 

From that point, the two of you were connected.

___________________________

June 4th, 2025 (Present Day)

You awoke with a sharp pain threading through the front of your head. You blinked in confusion as you noted that you were lying across the couch.

“You should go slow. You fainted and almost hit your head before I caught you.”

Your head snapped in the direction of the voice. Your husband’s voice. For a moment, there was a stretch of silence as you looked in Michael’s general direction. You ran your eyes up and down his frame numerous times. It was as if you were looking for any differences in his appearance, or you were actually trying to convince yourself that he was actually here. Fear and confusion ran through the core of your being. He looked just like himself. He looked the same as when he left you for that godforsaken mission.

You stood and crossed the room with hesitation. Your movements resembled those of a frightened animal. When you made it to Michael, you kneeled in front of him. Michael could see the myriad of emotions as they played throughout your face. You reached your hand out, the one that held your wedding ring, and placed it upon his face. Soon, your other hand joined, and you moved your fingers across the expanse of his face. One of your fingers found the scar at the top of his eyebrow from a childhood accident. 

Michael reached up and placed his hands over yours. He gripped your hands that held his face. As if struck by some kind of lightning, your lip began to quiver as tears flooded your eyes. You threw your body into Michael as you wrapped your arms around his body. Sharp sobs radiated through your body as you held him close. You placed your nose in the crook of his neck and inhaled. He even smelled the same.

In return, Michael wrapped his arms around you and squeezed tightly. He kissed the crown of your head and cooed gently. 

“It’s okay, baby. I’m home now.”

An hour passed by, and you had made Michael a plate of the food that you had cooked. You sat across from him and watched as he ate. It was still so foreign to see him here when you had watched that chair stay empty for eight months. 

Michael felt your gaze, and he looked back at you, “Where did you go?”

He frowned, “I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t make sense. What do you mean that you don’t know?” You questioned, leaning forward in your chair. 

“I just don’t remember. One minute, I was on the ship with my crew, and the next, everything went bright. Then I just woke up one day and knew I needed to get back to you.” He explained. You bit at your lip, a nasty habit that you had developed since childhood, “Do you know how long you’ve been gone, Michael?”

He shook his head. “Eight months. They declared you and your entire team dead seven months ago.”

Another frown overtook Michael’s face. Eight months. Eight months missing. Eight months of being declared dead. Eight months of not being with you.

He reached across the table, “I’m sorry.”

You took his hand between yours and intertwined your fingers. “It’s okay. The only thing that matters is that you’re back.” You looked down for a second before looking up again, “Does anyone else know that you’re back? Your superiors? Did anyone from your team survive?”

“No one knows I’m here except you. I don’t….I don’t think my team made it. All I know is that I needed to get to you.”

You nodded. You brought your combined hands up and kissed the back of his hand. 

Later, when the night fell and the skies darkened, you and Michael had prepared for bed. You picked out a pair of clothes for him and handed them to him. Normally, you and Michael would shower together, but you figured that it was best to give him space to adjust to being home first. When he stepped out of the shower, you looked over at him from the mirror as he toweled off and started to slide the briefs over his hips. 

You frowned upon seeing the giant scar radiating down the middle of his chest to the top of his stomach. You walked and stood in front of him as you observed the scar. You ran your finger down the length of it and looked up, “Is this from the accident?”

He only nodded. You moved forward and placed a gentle kiss on the scar. You soon left the room to take a shower. Ten minutes later, you were back in the room in an oversized T-shirt that belonged to Michael. The two of you moved the blankets back and got into the bed. It was obvious to Michael that you wanted to embrace him, but you were choosing to respect his boundaries. He moved closer and pulled your body into his hold. He laid your head upon his chest and relaxed. You missed being held like this.

You woke up hours later to find that Michael wasn’t in the bed with you anymore. You looked over to the clock that read 3:00 AM. You moved to get out of bed in search of Michael. A part of you feared that you had simply gone crazy and imagined the entire interaction with your husband. Sharp, violent coughs radiated echoes from the bathroom. You rushed to the bathroom and saw Michael kneeling over the ceramic bowl. 

“Kari,” You called out softly, approaching him quietly.

However, when he turned his face to you, you gasped in surprise at seeing the blood coating his lips. You dropped to your knees and scrambled to his side. Michael’s body continued to lurch forward as he sputtered blood across your t-shirt. You stared in horror as his body began to convulse and white foam radiated from his mouth. You rushed to the bedroom and immediately dialed 911. 

Within minutes, the paramedics were ushering your husband into the ambulance as you sat beside him and held his hands. 

One of the EMTs began to speak, “We have an African-American male. 6’0 ft. Apparent seizures and blood loss. No determined cause.” 

You continued to hold Michael’s hands as tears swept along your face. You prayed. You prayed just as hard as when his superiors came to your door to tell you that they had lost contact with Michael’s ship and couldn’t determine their location. You couldn’t lose him. Not after you had just gotten him back mere hours ago. 

Arriving at the hospital, the EMTS immediately rushed Michael’s body from the ambulance on the gurney. You saw the doctors and nurses rushing to his side as you all ran down the hallway. One of the doctors frowned as she pressed on Michael’s wrist, “Heart rate is declining. Take him for surgery right now!” 

Your heart dropped upon hearing the words, and you were confused when one of the nurses stopped you from going back. The nurse stared at you and noted the heartbroken and fearful look in your eye, “Listen, sweetie, I know you wanna go back there, but we can’t allow you to go back there. I promise your husband is in good hands; we just need you to trust us.”

It was as if the words and the severity of the situation finally settled on you, and sobs tore through your body. Your body crumbled to the floor as sharp sobs rattled throughout the hallway. The nurse moved to join you on the floor and pulled your body into her arms. She rocked you back and forth and cooed at you. 

She ushered you to a private waiting room and brought you a blanket and a cup of tea. 

“Do you have anyone to call? I don’t think it’s good for you to be alone right now.”

You went through your brain and tried to think, “I can call my mother and my in-laws.” 

The nurse nodded her head in sympathy, “Would you like me to call them, or would you prefer to be the one to do it?” 

“You should call them,” You whispered. In your distressed state, you weren’t in your right mind to have to talk to your parents and Michael’s and let them know that he was back, along with the fact that he was now in the hospital, and you weren’t even sure that he was going to make it through the night. It was all just too much right now. You unlocked your iPhone and handed it over to the nurse, who dialed your parents’ numbers and calmly explained the situation to them. 

Within the next 45 minutes, your mother and father, along with Michael’s mother and father, burst into the waiting room. A fresh batch of tears entered your eyes before you started to cry again. Your mother and Donna rushed to your side and immediately started to console you. Seeing you in a pair of sweatpants in a bloody t-shirt with tears running down your face wasn’t the most pleasant sight. Their heart broke at seeing you like this. 

They hadn’t seen you this torn up since Michael’s superiors came to your door to announce that he and his team were now declared legally dead. ___________________________________________

September 13th, 2024 (3 Weeks Before the Mission)

Two bodies are entangled with each other. Coiled in an intimacy that doesn’t need to be named aloud. You sigh at feeling Michael’s body connecting with yours. You clutch harder at his shoulders as his thrusts deepen into your body. Michael moves his head so he can look into your eyes. He always told you that your eyes were one of his favorite features. He loved how expressive you would get when it came to your emotions, and your eyes were always a key indicator of what you were feeling. 

He moves closer so that he can connect his lips to yours. For a few seconds, you both continued to kiss and pass moans between each other. At the precipice of your combined pleasure, you brought Michael’s body closer to yours so that he lay his weight completely on you. You loved to feel his body pressing on yours when you orgasmed because you felt like it connected your souls. 

Your chests moved against each other as you caught your breath. Michael moved to lie on his side and pulled you to lie on his chest. You casually played with his chain on his neck.

“Now explain to me again, what’s this special secret mission that you’re going on?” You asked, tracing the tattoo on his chest. He had gotten your name tattooed on his chest as a wedding gift. Some cheesy line about “always keeping you close to his heart,” to which you laughed, but ultimately, you loved it.

Michael placed a kiss on your forehead, “We got a signal on one of the satellites about a possibly new planet. Baby, this could be really big for us in terms of new information and discovering if there are new habitable planets out there. Think of all of the new possibilities.”

You smiled at his excitement. Michael had always been passionate about his job and space. Michael’s love for space first started when his father took him to the local astronomy museum. He fell in love with the stars, the planets, and the thought of what was out there in place. His young mind went through all of the possibilities of what was in space that we didn’t know about, or even possible life out there that we hadn’t discovered.

From that point on, he made it his mission to be a part of NASA. His parents had catered to his dreams by getting him a telescope and numerous books that were about space. By the time that Michael was 10-years-old, he could recount any fact to you about any planet in our galaxy. It also helped that he was a genius when it came to science and math. Naturally, he enrolled in the military to be able to afford school. The path from there led him straight to being called one of NASA’s lead astronauts and scientists.

He was curious. He wanted to make a difference in the world and discover something that hadn’t been found before.

You pouted slightly, “A month in space. What am I going to do all of that time without you?” Michael chuckled slightly. You and he had never gone for extensive periods of time without each other. Sure, you still did things independently of each other, but you really just enjoyed being in each other’s company. 

“I’ll be back before you know it, baby. I’ll record videos for each day so that you never get lonely without me.” He said, running his fingers down your spine. You shivered and moved closer to him. You both sat in silence and enjoyed the feel of your bodies together. “I wanna have a baby.” 

You froze and sat up slightly to stare at Michael. The conversation of babies had come up early in your relationship, but once you got married, you both opted to wait a couple of years to enjoy your time together before introducing a child. 

“Really, Kari?” You asked, excitement filling your body. 

Even though you hadn’t mentioned it to him, you had that feeling in your body that you were ready for a baby. That was the weird thing about you and Michael. You both were always just naturally in tune with each other. You both anticipated each other’s needs without having to say it aloud. Most people found it weird when they would go out to dinner with you and Michael, and you’d wordlessly hand each other things without speaking. Even with just being married for a year, it was like you both had known each other for life. 

Michael leaned up to connect his lips to yours. His hand found the back of your head where he absentmindedly played with your curls, “Of course. I’m ready to start our family. But if you’re not ready, then of course we can wait, baby.”